Bottles and box sets

Saturday the 12th of January 2013 was a big day for me. There was nothing particularly exciting about it. No events. No occasions. In fact, I didn’t even leave the house. The only reason it was vaguely ‘big’ in any way was solely down to the fact I was being left in charge of my own child for the first time.
Ka was going out on the town with her girlfriends and leaving me in charge.
I was flying solo. Going it alone. Nappies, clothing, bottles, medication, entertainment, it was all down to me. Not only was Ka dragging herself away from Sophie for the first time, she was going out and drinking for the first time in approximately eight months. Vicki, Yvonne and the rest of the girls from her room in the ELU nursery (I can’t remember if it’s the Caterpillar room, the Butterfly room or the Pushmi-Pullyu room) were heading into Glasgow for the day and taking Ka out of the house with them.
“On you go!” I insisted. “It’ll be good for you!”
The words had left my mouth before I’d even seriously contemplated the consequences of my verbalizations.
As it happens, it was a bit of a walk in the park. Sophie, who was just approaching the eight week mark of existence on this miserable little rock, was great company. After Ka left with Amy and Kirsty, Sophie ate her lunch quite happily and then lay back in her deck chair to relax and take in the sights.
No, it’s not really a deck chair, but that’s what I call it. It’s like a soft padded slope on a wooden frame, not unlike a deck chair, but probably usually called some along the lines of a ‘baby rocker’. It had been Claire’s little one, Olivia’s, when she had been wee, and Claire had popped round and donated it a few weeks ago.
Sophie had been getting a little irritable in her jungle seat what with the dangling parrots, butterflies and monkey music and had not been settling. Her frustrated boxing would start within around ten minutes of sitting, but in Olivia’s deck chair, she seems far happier. Sophie will gurgle away quite happily on it until she either gets vaguely frustrated for a few minutes, has another quick boxing match with an invisible opponent and then falls asleep or, even better, simply falls asleep without the boxing match. It’s great for watching the room too. Sophie just kicks back in it and surveys her surroundings, finding constant interest in mirrors, windows and blank white spaces of wall. Sophie often prefers to watch the walls rather than the tv with it’s moving images and light.
So whilst Sophie lounged and relaxed after her latest intake of milk, I lounged and relaxed on the couch and watched a few episodes of the rather wonderful Breaking Bad.
Colin and Jillian bought me the first three series of the American, award winning, drama series for my Christmas and I’ve been watching it whenever I get the chance.
Just in case you’re not aware it’s all centred around a struggling high school chemistry teacher named Walter White played by Bryan Cranston, the Dad from Malcolm in the Middle, who, after being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer turns to a life of crime in order to ensure his families financial well being after he leaves his mortal coil. White is aided in his drug making efforts by a former student and known local bum Jesse who, with his contacts to the shady underworld, helps his former teacher make his money.

It’s brilliant, dark, funny, intelligent and well acted, particularly by the two main characters (who have some great chemistry…) and great for a Saturday afternoon’s entertainment.
In fact, throughout the day, in between breaks for feeding, changing nappies, bathtime and general baby chit chat, I managed to finish the first season of Breaking Bad off, something it would have been impossible to manage had Ka been in the house.
As it happens, Ka has now not only lost interest in the series but banned me from watching the 18/15 rated drama whilst Sophie is in the living room, which makes watching the box sets remaining seasons even more difficult. I now have to wait on a completely empty house before I can watch it, which will be virtually impossible as I can’t see Sophie heading out into town with her pals for cocktails anytime soon.
Ka probably has a point though. The last episode Ka watched with me involved someone being melted in a bathtub with hydrofluoric acid…
Anyway, before the Breaking Bad ban, I sat that Saturday night and finished season 1 whilst drinking lots of coke and gobbling mini toblerones. Just a flavour of my wild life, and my Saturday nights, getting all the more electrifyingly crazy as time goes on.
Ka eventually called informing me of her missed train and her intentions on the next, so I then bathed baby Sophie and ordered dinner for the night, a take away from the local Indian restaurant (not for Sophie, obviously). Moments before the dinner turned up, Ka tumbled through the door, surprisingly only moderately drunk, and we settled down on the couch to a bhuna whilst Sophie snored away upstairs, her snores growling out of the small baby monitor plugged in at the end of the couch. The light dial goes from blue lights to red on the small monitor, depending on the volume of the child being picked up at the other end, a larger, white, glowing dome presently situated at the side of the moses basket. A great wee device for keeping an ear on Sophie whilst she’s parked in a different room. Just maybe not so great when she’s having one of her louder half hours and you’re trying to get through season 2.

Supersensitive Christmas trees

December arrived and disappeared just as quickly in a blur of visitors, bottles, baubles and disappointing television.
Never before has my life changed so much in such a short space of time following the arrival of baby Sophie Reid on the 19th November. Life as I knew it was turned upside down, spun sideways and then given a hefty slap from an overgrown halibut and sent flailing into a nearby canal.
Sophie has now been here for 6 weeks and we're just about getting used to it all now. I don't just mean the feeding, the nappy changing, the crying, the taking half an hour to leave the house, the boxing (yes, boxing) and the now seeming inability to watch television or read a book in peace and quiet. I also mean the simple fact that there's now a third person living in our house. A very small, occasionally noisy, occasionally troublesome, but always perfect, third person.
Sometimes I get up in the morning and wonder where the extra snoring is coming from. I'm used to Ka's snoring, but when I wake up on a morning and hear the quieter, more sniffly snoring from the moses basket, at the side of the bed, it sometimes takes me a few seconds to register.
Sleeping. One of those things I used to completely take for granted. If I had a mere six hours I would consider myself half asleep and incapable of having a fully conscious day. Now six hours is something I crave. The only hindrance to my potential beauty sleep used to be Ka's snoring, but now I have Sophie's snoring, not to mention her waking up at half past four in the morning demanding nourishment by way of a heavy shuffling from the innards of the afore mentioned moses basket before the wailing and squawking from inside it.
Why she can't wait another couple of hours or so until breakfast time I don't know? It's not as if she'll fade away! (I hope nobody from the RSPCC is reading..?) Hopefully she'll catch on eventually.
My two weeks paternity started on the morning of Sophie's birth, those first two sleepless weeks followed by another two weeks off on holiday, to 'enjoy the arrival' of the new baby in the household, apparently. Ka also required a decent couple of weeks help to recover as Sophie had been born via caesarean section which meant Ka had to relax for six weeks. No exercise, no lifting heavy objects, no sudden movements, no tidying, no polishing and no hoovering. I think the latter was enough to break her out into a cold sweat on more than one occasion especially after I bought a slightly cheaper Christmas tree this year.
The first Christmas tree in a good couple of years that didn't cost over £30 but which also, unfortunately, did not have the word 'needlelast' in it's title. As a result the tree now showers the living room floor with a barrage of needles when someone so much as walks past it.
Last week, on my first week back at work, I arrived home to find our Christmas tree half bald.
Now that Ka has recovered enough to get back to her usual hoovering routine she'd been doing some housework. Apparently, at some point, whilst hoovering around the Christmas tree, (one of those great traditions Kim Wilde never sang about), Ka managed to drop the hoover into the tree, thus completely shedding it of a large portion of needles up one side. The tree now looks balder than me after a trip to Shaky Shugs in the Village.
I'm sure Ka's telling the truth though and wasn't at all getting carried away with her reacquainted hoovering abilities. You just have to adjust a bauble and a whole pile of needles will shower to the ground underneath.
The fact we've had one of our busiest Decembers for visitors also didn't help matters. Visitors are great. They're brilliant. I love visitors popping by. Especially when they bring presents.
However, when there's a highly sensitive Christmas tree in the room things get a bit tiresome.
A good proportion of the family members and friends that dropped by to say hello, to give us their wonderful wishes and presents and see our precious new bundle of joy, all managed to give the tree a good inadvertent shake while they were in. Some would sweep their jackets from their backs, swinging them round their bodies, in the general direction of the dining table chairs, apparently not noticing the Christmas tree standing proudly at their back and the needle carnage they were causing behind them as their large coats and jackets attacked the baubled branches. As soon as the guests were out the front door and on their way home, after perhaps commenting on the needle loss of our tree, it would be another trip to the cupboard under the stairs for the J. Edgar.
Still, it's New Year now, so it doesn't have long to go.
In fact as soon as the bells finish striking twelve tonight both Ka and myself will be fighting the urge to immediately disassemble the whole thing.
We'll keep the tree up for the families visitation tomorrow afternoon for our New Year's Day gathering but we have no doubt the last of it's super sensitive needles won't last long during that onslaught.
Still, it had been a nice tree.
Sophie's first Christmas tree.
Up until Tuesday morning Sophie had a hefty pile of presents underneath, even though she has no idea what Christmas Day even is.
In fact she probably doesn't even have a clear idea what a day is, come to think of it.
Since Sophie has, as yet, no idea of the concept of Christmas, Santa, presents, the birth of Jesus Christ, getting up at a reasonable time in the morning, (etc, etc), there was no need to buy her anything this year so Ka and myself enjoyed one last year of buying for each other. We couldn't let Christmas go buy without buying our new born daughter anything, of course, so we did buy her a few toys and books which, again, were all vaguely pointless as she can barely rattle a rattle yet. So on Christmas morning Ka started unwrapping presents with one hand, presents that 'she only just wrapped not twelve hours before, holding a permanently disinterested Sophie in the other arm, who seemed to be more interested on where the milk was coming from.

Sophie's day consists of eating, sitting, greeting and then sleeping on an ever spinning cycle. A bit like some of the folk I used to work with.
The only activity Sophie gets up to at the moment is a little bit of foot kicking in her bathtub and the boxing. She will sit on her bouncer quite happily following a feed, for around half an hour at the most, and then start to get bored. Her arms will then start moving, then the legs will kick until the moaning then commences. The arms' movements will take on a more determined movement until it look as if Sophie's boxing a small, invisible opponent, from the comfort of her sloping chair.
The quietest, and the longest time she's lasted in her bouncy chair, had to be Boxing day when we watched a whole seven hours of animation. Pixar's Cars, followed by the dancing penguins of Happy Feet, swiftly followed by Dreamwork's How to train your Dragon. Okay, by the time the dragons were on she was boxing again, and I think it was myself that was watching Cars more than Sophie, but the dancing penguins certainly kept her eyes on the tv. Again, she's no idea what a penguin is, and I'm not even sure she can focus on the tv properly yet, but the movement and singing was obviously keeping her interested.
More than I was anyway. I lost interest in Happy Feet. Dancing penguins singing Prince songs? Give me a break.
Talking cars, now that's fare more sensible.
It's been quite an eventful year really.
Outside my own little life there's been some pretty major and spectacular events this year. The Olympics is the most obvious event which pretty much blew everything else out of the park. Bradley Wiggins became the first Brit to win the Tour de France. The Queen's Jubilee was commemorated with a procession down the Thames in the miserable pouring rain. Gary Barlow gifted the Queen a large concert on the doorstep of Buckingham Palace with varying degrees of quality acts from the past 60 years including the crazy skeletal dance of Cliff Richard and the spinning hula hoops of Grace Jones (thanks for that Gary). The re-election of Obama turned out easier than predicted, the death of Rangers caused Scottish football to begin its slow, painful death, Whitney Houston, Frank Carson, Jack Duckworth, JR, Neil Armstrong and the Gamesmaster himself, Patrick Moore also died (to name but a few). On the edge of space, Felix Baumgartner jumped down to Earth from 24 miles high. James Bond's 50th anniversary dominated the cinema. Chris Moyles left the Breakfast show, finally. A dog won a British Television talent contest. A shoddily written book made lots of Britain's middle aged women go a bit faint and unintentionally admit how desperate they all are. Another two nutjobs in America decided to go on a shooting spree making lots of other Americans rush out and buy more guns. Jimmy Saville was suddenly exposed as a child molester but escaped conviction on account of the fact he's long dead and nobody actually said anything when he was around. A loony dance from South Korea dominated the youtube channels and became a big hit at kids parties even though the dance moves are more than highly inappropriate. All hell broke out in Syria, the Euro collapsed a little more, and the Levenson Enquiry finally came to an end with some kind of result that nobody is now paying the least of attention to.
Personally, my little life continued too. The work's move (finally!) from Hamilton to the Glasgow Clydeside has now seen S&UN officially merge with the rest of Scotland's Trinity Mirror meaning the integration and merging of teams under one roof. What this means in the long term still remains uncertain but I'm optimistic.
Ka and myself bought our first, and perhaps only, house in June/July. With Ka once more up the duff we bit the bullet and bought ourselves our new home, moving on up the property ladder, leaving Your 'Manoeuvre' to continue to come up with excuses regarding our wee beloved flat.
Ka and myself took part in more fun runs for Sands, myself taking part in my very first 10k (okay, I know it's only 10k, but I thought it was an achievement anyway) and we had the great Charity Hat Disco Night with DJ William Rae which ended up raising over £1000 for Sands and Cancer Research UK.
Ka and myself enjoyed a trip to London before the chaos of the Jubilee, to visit Auntie Ann around her 'big' birthday, and took Adventure Ted, from Ka's nursery, along for the ride. That was the last time I remember the sun being out and it was in April, and in England.
It was in London that we learnt of Sophie's existence, whilst standing in the middle of Charing Cross train station.
We enjoyed another trip to the Edinburgh Fringe where I ended up on stage with Tim Vine and gaining another wife.
There was a family reunion style picnic on Elie beach in August, at which the sun was out, (so I was wrong about the last time being in London), and I managed to burn my forehead a rather spectacular primrose red.
We flitted a few weeks later, enjoyed a giant bouncy castle and a few house warmings, and then settled down to prepare for the imminent arrival of a certain Sophie Reid.
Blog writing time became suddenly scarce, pint drinking time even more so and sleep became the new nightly goal.
Now, two years after the birth and passing of our first daughter Lucy, things are perilously close to becoming a little brighter again.
What will 2013 hold in store?
There's only one way to find out...
Happy New Year to you all.

Sophie Reid

Apologies for the absence.
I have a good excuse though.
Baby Reid number 2, Sophie Reid was born at 9.33am on Monday 19th November 2012.

As you can see, she was pulled out into the world with a bit of a grumpy expression on her face, but she was forced to arrive three weeks early I suppose.

Mum is fine and recovering whilst Sophie is... well, hard work.
I'm off to bed to try and catch up with some more sleep.

A lovely machine

A week today.
One week. Not even 7 days away now.
Baby Reid number 2 will be born.
Ka and myself are having kittens.
No, not kittens, a baby.
We’re nervous, we’re excited. We’re sad, we’re brooding. We’re scared, we’re fearful. We’re optimistic, we’re struggling. We’re just feeling flamin’ everything at the moment and we’ve got another 6 and a bit days to go!
Baby Reid has been keeping us busy though and constantly reminding us of her presence.
On one of the first days of noises from the car's undersides, discussed in the last post, we had our 34 week scan, at which baby number two was bouncing around, quite the norm, inside Ka's not inconsiderate bump. The consultant was to give us our date for the birth at the end of the appointment but realised she'd forgotten her diary making us wait until Ka's midwife appointment the next Tuesday. It was then that it was decided that it was to be the 19th of November that Baby Reid number 2 will be helped out of her little cocoon and pulled into the world and, all going well, we'll be celebrating the birth of another baby girl.
Baby’s certainly making herself known, even before she’s made an appearance.
She's going to be a lively little blighter by the looks of things.
She's been jumping, kicking and moving around in there quite a lot in the past months, freaking people out, fascinating the kids in Ka's nursery class and keeping me occupied on an evening.
Baby communicates with me via punches or kicks from within the womb (obviously taking after her mother). I'll lean over Ka's big belly bump and talk to her only to get a near immediate response on most instances with a kick. Baby will also push a little limb out, causing the perfect ball shape of Ka's bump to grow small, lumpy shapes which bob up and down over the round surface like Clangers popping their heads out from within their moon.
Baby likes apples too. Moments after Ka has eaten an apple, Baby will move joyfully around, inside her wee shell, as if hyped up on juicy, applely goodness (Perhaps when Baby eats an apple, an amazing transformation will occur – she doesn’t get any bananas though, Ka’s went off them).
On the day of her 32 week scan the consultant began, as usual, by squirting the thick, ultrasound jelly over Ka's bump and placed the wired scanning device down on to it. Almost instantly the instrument was very nearly knocked completely from the consultant’s hand as baby gave it a damn good kick from inside giving the consultant a little fright.
On Saturday there we were sitting in the cinema, waiting to see Argo with Ka’s brother, Colin, (a pretty damn good movie, quite tense, almost inducing) when Baby started shuffling around again.
We pondered what baby was up to in there. Colin suggested Baby was tidying up. Giving the place a wee clean around, like mother like daughter, which would also explain why the wee baby can’t sit at peace for two minutes.
Colin placed his hand ever so gently on to the ball of Ka’s bump, barely touching it, as if scared of disturbing Baby in her housework, or womb work. Ka huffed taking a hold of Colin’s hand and told him that he wasn’t going to feel anything touching the bump like that and placed it more firmly down upon the belly mound. Once more, almost immediately, Baby gave her Uncle Colin a good kick at which Colin yelped, his bawl echoing throughout the dark waiting cinema.
Friday's scan marked week 36 and we now only have one more week of freedom, sorry, waiting, remaining.
Preparations are at a busy, non stop, high. After painting the newly fitted doors in the upstairs hall throughout the previous days, I spent the entirety of last Thursday building nursery furniture, a nice, bright, white, and fairly solid, Mamas and Papas wardrobe, chest of drawers and cot. Obviously the cot wasn’t vital at the present time but once I’d successfully completed the other two I thought I’d better just get on with it. As a result I woke up on the Friday morning aching, after effects from all the twisting, screwing and lifting. I also finished painting all the upstairs hall’s doors over the weekend, all of which are now nicely finished with a neat gloss white, with only a few wee dried drips here and there (hopefully no one will notice them).
Obviously Ka’s been busy too, organising her bags for the hospital, baby’s bags for the hospital and other bags for the hospital, although I’m not sure who the other bags are for? As soon as I’d finished the furniture on Thursday, Ka got to work folding away the few clothes we have already, into the large drawers, waiting on an owner.
There’s a whole drawer, of the new chest, dedicated to Mum’s knitting. My Mum’s been knitting since the summer. Cardigans, bonnets, wee jackets, skirts, blankets, teddy bears with floppy heads and even a mouse. No matter how much I insist she still hasn’t set up an etsy account to make herself a couple of quid out of her fantastic talents.
Baby is going to have plenty of cardigans even if she doesn’t have a name.
We have no idea what her name's going to be.
Lucy was one in a million.
Not only was she our first child but she also symbolised the first time Ka and myself have ever 100% agreed upon anything together. Her name. The only name. We had a boy's name in mind for the other instance, of course, but no second girl's name. And we still don't.
At the moment Baby is called Bertha.
At first it was a joke.

Bertha as in 'Big Bertha', following a sudden burst in growth at around week 30. Nothing at all to do with the large German war guns used in World War One or the big green, factory machine from the animated kids tv series that produced farting noises and cuckoo clocks.
Unfortunately family members are now calling her Bertha, the kids in Ka's nursery expect her to be called Bertha, and now Ka insists I call her Bertha.
We're going to have to think of a better name and quick.
Anyone got any suggestions?

Popcorn, treasure hunts and the furry pencil case

“Papa’s juice, papa’s juice!”
“No Joshua, this is my house, so this is Michael’s juice”
“Papa’s juice!”
My nephew, Joshua, and myself had this argument a few times over the weekend. Robinsons fruit juice apparently has a pseudonym of ‘Papa’s juice’, a name that is not known, at least not yet, in the Reid household. Joshua’s only allowed a certain amount of Robinsons juice as he follows a strict diet of as little sugary drinks as possible even though he had a more than healthy helping of the massive bag of popcorn I purchased for his sister, Morgan and myself at the cinema a few hours before.
Ka and myself picked the two terrors up at around 2 on Saturday afternoon for a trip to the cinema to see Madagascar 3 and Alex the Lion, Marty the Zebra, Gloria the Hippo, and Melman the Giraffe. We were then heading back to ours to house the niece and nephew for the night whilst Angela and Steven went out to a friend’s 40th birthday party.
As it was mid Saturday afternoon by the time we got there, the cinema was busy and crowded with families buying tickets for the latest Dreamworks animation. Ka and myself both had our cineworld unlimited cards at the ready but it somehow still managed to cost us £12? £12 for two kids to see a cartoon? Unbelievable.
It must be a flamin’ fortune to go to the cinema as a family these days.
We proceeded upstairs via the great glass elevator which moves up the corner of the building, looking out over the northern end of the city centre. Port Dundas Street stretching out ahead, leading up through the bustling crowds of buses, cars and shoppers towards the quieter streets beyond and the joys of the M8. On reaching the fourth floor, the four of us piled out into the foyer where we joined the queue for some sweet popcorn. The last time Ka and myself took Morgan to the flicks I’d tempted Morgan with a bag of Butterkist from the kitchen cupboard which she quickly rejected as her Dad apparently bought her the special cinema popcorn every time she went. So, with this in mind, I joined the queue and upon reaching the counter, asked for a bag of popcorn from the baseball capped foyer attendant.
Regular or large, I was asked. First I wondered what happened to the small. Perhaps management had rejected it as they could slap as big a price on it. I asked the becapped girl what the difference in size was.
“Well” the girl shrugged, lifting the two paperbags, holding up the small, purple paper bag and the large, A4 sized, yellow bag. “The regular is £4.45 and the large is £4.95, it’s only a difference of 50p”. I’m glad she pointed that last snippet out as I would have been there all day working that one out. Upon hearing the prices being verbalized before me, I asked her to repeat herself suspecting I had misheard.
I was wrong I hadn’t misheard her reply. £4.95 for a bag of cinema popcorn. I almost asked her to repeat herself again but then decided against it, seeing Ka, Joshua and Morgan waiting patiently for me at the side of the queue. If it’s a fiver for a bag of popcorn how much is it for one of those ludicrous looking hotdogs or those plates of Doritos and guacamole?
Why do people eat this stuff in cinemas anyway?
Doritos, okay, that’s fine, I suppose. But why guacamole? Could there be a blander condiment on the planet? And why those stinking hot dogs with the completely ridiculous amount of tomato sauce zig zagged over them? I can’t imagine anything worse than sitting through the duration of a movie having one of those giant sausages squirming about in your stomach in a pool of red sauce.
You see some people walking up the cinema aisle to their seats, hands and arms laden with hotdogs, plates of doritos, bags of popcorns and giant cokes. How can they sit and each that much stuff, never mind pay for it?
Anyway, Madagascar 3 was great. Well, for kids anyway… or if you like listening to Chris Rock for an hour and a half…

Unfortunately I don’t, but the film did have some other things going for it. Full of fantastic colour and craziness the story was like a speeding circus train, racing through it’s scenes and landscapes. Much to the kids amusement. Especially Joshua, whose favourite toys and tv shows just happen to be “choo-choos!”.
After the cinema we headed off home, to East Kilbride making a quick stop at the Fort Morrisons for pizza, another of Joshua’s favourites. We hunted the store for the freshly made variety, circling the entirety of the store before ending back up in the fruit and veg aisle, not two meters from where we started out.
Getting home we unpacked the boot, lifting the various backpacks, bags, guitars, teddy beds, Thomas the tanks and teddy bears into the house, reminding the kids of the last time they had visited when the place was a mess of chairs and relations, not to mention the giant bouncy castle in the back garden. Needless to say there wasn’t a bouncy castle this time around, although there was a treasure hunt which I put together in my last half hour of work on the Friday evening.
Before the treasure hunt, and as time was marching relentlessly on, we decided to ready Joshua’s bed and build the Dream N’Play travel cot borrowed from the McGarva household. Ka and myself worked at it for around half an hour, whilst Joshua continuously circled us, telling us how Papa could do it. After some struggle we ended up phoning Dougie, who informed us it was Steven who built it in their house. Not wanting to disturb Steven on his first night off for a long time we worked at it a little longer before I ended up on google and read of how a pregnant woman with a baby in one arm, could erect the folding cot with a heavy flick of the one free wrist. Needless to say we then found ourselves on the phone to Steven and just as he was about to leave the house in Bothwell to travel over and give us a hand, the cot seemed to suddenly coalesce, almost as if the thing had a mind of it’s own and had been having us on the whole time just like that moment when the Delorean’s engine roared to life when Marty headbutted the steering wheel. Almost collapsing back on to the spare room’s floor, like Doc at the end of Back to the Futrue 2, we all celebrated, high fives all round and we quickly called Steven back to tell him to continue to ready himself for the party.
So, the treasure hunt could begin. This hunt basically consisted of eight rhyming clues and a treasure map with which I led the kids around the house, on a hopefully exciting, but needlessly tiring, journey to find two bags of gold coins Ka had bought the previous week. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the most bountiful of treasures, but it did work in keeping them entertained, whilst the pizzas were baking in the oven.
After having run up and down the stairs a few times, visiting various rooms, getting our feet muddy in the garden, getting the bedroom carpet dirty from the garden, getting Ka to shout at us about it, and almost smashing the living room clock, the kids eventually ended up at the base of our dying yukka plant, digging down into it’s soil with their hands and pulling out a bag of gold coins each. A bag of gold coins and more than a few dollops of dry, crumbly soil which successfully exploded over the surrounding living room carpet. Fortunately Ka was in the kitchen and missed this. I quickly instructed the kids to run through to the kitchen and demand their coins to be cleaned, keeping her occupied, whilst I dived into the kitchen cupboard for our tall, trusty white plastic friend, the J. Edgar.
Following the treasure hunt we all sat down to watch the last ten minutes of Strictly Come Dancing and eat our pizza, the quietest the kids had been all day, and that included the cinema. Joshua was then put to his bed, the now fully functioning, or at least fully standing, Dream N’Play travel cot and Morgan set up the Snakes and Ladders interrupted by Ka giving the supposedly sleeping Joshua a quick check upstairs. He was awake and needing changed.
Oh my god.
I had never known such a smell existed. I called the army and warned them of a suspected toxic blast in the Calderwood area after I quickly disposed of the heavy white, padded bag given over to me. I had to put it straight into the wheelie bin outside. Regretting my actions almost instantly I then feared for my wheelie bin’s life. I’d probably go out the next morning to find a sizzling mound of melted green plastic that used to be our two wheeled, refuge collecting, green friend.
And there it would be sitting. Joshua’s nappy perched on top, still steaming.
On the past Wednesday mornings since moving in, when we’ve put the bin out for collection, it’s always been full to bursting and as a result the birds have been circling it, pecking at the bags exposed by the half open lid. Gawd helped any bird that dared to have a peck at that blighter.
What about the bin men themselves? They’d have to put that in their lorry? Do they get paid danger money?
If it gets out I could wake up one morning with the whole street in quarantine! Dustin Hoffman talking to me from behind the mask of a protective suit.

Anyway, whilst the nappy lay in the wheelie outside, the smell safely contained upstairs, unfortunately in the room where I was to spend the night in the futon alongside the travel cot, our Saturday night continued.
Pictionary with the furry pencil case followed the snakes and ladders.
Not two days before, whilst rummaging through some more boxes in my Mum and Dad’s loft, I found my trusty furry pencil case. Mum recognized it immediately after I’d brought it down. Mum had designed and created this furry pencil case when I was around seven or eight, for all my many coloured pencils, pens and other various drawing implements. Upon inspecting it’s innards I discovered it still held functioning felt pens so I brought it home for the weekend and for my niece to use for her drawings.
Unfortunately Morgan wasn’t too impressed and insisted on using her own black pen to draw her stories which we were obviously supposed to know. Ka used her illustrative skills to depict Blackpool as a steep pyramid built by the blind Egyptians with Christmas lights and I attempted the old woman that lived in the shoe.
That old woman had so many children she didn’t know what to do. We were looking after two for the night and we didn’t know what to do. We were knackered. Cinemas, treasure hunts, pizzas and snakes and ladders all seemed to work though. The old woman in the shoe obviously wasn’t that creative, she just whipped them all and put them to bed. If the old woman were around today she more than likely find herself getting reported to the RSPCC.
Still, it was all good practice.

Googling garden sheds

At half past nine last Saturday morning I was standing in a very quiet Argos. Yes, Argos. The shop for lazy people. The shop for folk who can’t be bothered going looking for something but can be bothered standing and flicking through a gargantuan catalogue, writing out a number from the big book, handing it over the till and then proceeding to a waiting area where they then go on to another desk but only after your number has been called. Surely the only shop that still operates with not only catalogues but also pencils. Short, neatly sharpened pencils.
Whatever happened to the bookie pens? They must have been too expensive. Maybe they were too old fashioned? We are now back to the lead and wood.
That Saturday morning had been dry since we awoke so I had decided, since it was the day of the grand house warming, to run up to the retail park and purchase a lawnmower and get the lawns cut, just in time for the visitors arriving at three in the afternoon.
Along with having our own staircase, we now have our own gardens. Something else that is currently a novelty.
Unfortunately we haven’t yet been gifted with good enough weather to enjoy the gardens but as the grass had needed a cut and there was a distinct lack of rain in the air for a change I zoomed straight up to the local catalogue shop after having spotted the lawnmower at a good price on one of my web meanderings during the week's lunch hours in work.
Due to the busy workload of recent weeks I've found my break times changing from day to day so have completely lost track with everyone else's tea times and have found myself eating my sandwiches at the desk, all alone. Spending my lunchbreaks googling lawnmowers is not how I'd imagined things to change after my move to the Glasgow offices.
The other day I found myself googling Garden Sheds!
Is this how it all starts? Middle age? Googling garden sheds?
Surely it's too soon for all of that... but then I do need somewhere to put a lawnmower now. The garden shed idea has been temporarily knocked on the head anyway as they seem to be far more expensive than I'd first envisioned. Even in our trusty local catalogue store.
Ka and myself had visited the same Argos the previous weekend after seeing a baby bouncer chair online for a good price. We’d went along to investigate and found the item unavailable. The helpful, slightly over enthusiastic, wee woman behind the desk that served us asked if there was any way we’d been interested in a store card. We turned the opportunity down. The Argos lady then asked if there was any particular time we could accept its delivery from another store further afield. We decided against it after finding that the bouncy chair would have to be delivered on a work day. The Argos lady wandered whether we’d consider travelling to pick the item up. We shrugged and then told her it didn’t matter that much, we would pick up another bouncy chair elsewhere.
Obviously this was the wrong thing to say. The woman asked if there was any other bouncy chair of interest to us. We said no. She asked if there was any other item of interest to us. Anything at all in the massive catalogue. Again we insisted it was fine, there was nothing else. Now with a hint of desperation in her voice, the Argos lady asked if there was anything else she could look up for us, anything else she could do.
I had no idea Argos employees were on a commission. I wonder how much she would have got for a bouncy chair.
The same lady was behind the checkout desk when I bought the lawnmower on Saturday morning. A Flymo Easimo, complete with grass trimmer.
I have no idea about lawnmowers. This one had wheels, a blade and a collection box so it looked fine to me and my Dad also confirmed it seemed like a reasonable price when he phoned me up that morning. Being the green fingered expert my Dad is the guy to ask when any gardening advice.
Thankfully the lawnmower was available to pick up, there and then so half of the wee Argos lady’s questions from the previous week were not needed making her look a little disappointed as she started the payment procedure. The lady did try and talk me into some monthly cover payments but after some quick, fraudulent, consideration from myself, involving some unconvincing humming and hawing, I was off to the pick up point in the deserted store. It was obviously too early for all the usual Argos customers so I had the pick of the plastic blue/green seats at pick up point B. Clasping my massively long receipt, for my one item, I looked up at the television screen to see at which position my number stood at.
I was second. There was literally no other customer in the store so how I was second in the queue I don't know.
Still it was only a matter of minutes until the lawnmower was delivered. One of the young employees shouted my number out, even though I, the only person standing waiting on an item, was already making my way up to the pick up point.
And it was the wrong pick up point. The girl had planted the lawnmower down blatantly under the ‘A’ sign. My receipt told me I would be picking my lawnmower up under the ‘B’ sign.
Obviously I couldn't be bothered hanging around any longer than I had to so let them off with this, grabbed the large box and ran for the car, ready to cut up some serious greenery.
After a quick unpacking of various orange and black metal pieces and a short ten minutes or so of construction, a quick cup of tea, a piece and sausage and a conversation with Dad over the phone who was now warning me of the dangers of cutting wet grass. I’d never really heard of anyone electrocuting themselves whilst mowing a wet lawn but Dad insisted it happens quite often. Surely there’d be health warning about cutting lawns then? Would lawnmowers come with safety gear or a license if they were that dangerous?
Whilst Ka prepared the food for the housewarming guests I tackled the back lawn only pausing to empty the collection box hitched on to the mower’s back and to talk to the wee neighbour whose head appeared over the hedge at one point. Betty chatted away for around five minutes, introducing herself and eventually her husband, Malcy, (not sure of the spelling there!) who ventured out into their garden when he heard his name mentioned. Ka introduced herself from the back door, still in her pyjamas and polka dot dressing gown. After the giving us the lowdown on the surrounding neighbourhood Betty and Malky disappeared back indoors and let me finish the back lawn before I headed out to the front. Dad turned up halfway through my frontal assault to either find out if I needed a hand or to make sure I wasn’t electrocuting myself.
Whilst cutting the front I met the neighbour on the other side. An smartly dressed old gent by the name of Leslie whose getting his windows replaced by the council shortly, has a son and a daughter and an alsation dog whose getting a bit long in the tooth and will have to be put down. I didn’t quite understand everything the old guy said but managed to translate most of it. Ka introduced herself from the front door, still moaning about being in her pyjamas and polka dot dressing gown.
After Leslie had gone back inside I quickly finished the front lawn, neatly strimming the edges, Dad disappeared off to get on with his various gardening jobs dotted around East Kilbride and Ka got herself ready after finishing her work in the kitchen, finally taking of her polka dot dressing gown.
Before long everybody started arriving. Cherly and Roslyn were the first to arrive, with Cherly’s two kids, Eilidh and Orla. Orla, being a small baby, was immediately dumped into my arms, for practice.
Around half an hour later the front door didn’t seem to close. Coats were taken, drinks were given out and the washing hanging out on the lines in the back garden, which included my space invader boxing shorts, quickly taken in. There were more babies and kids than predicted and soon babies were being tripped over, wiped up after, kept entertained, fed or generally watched like a hawk and all within the confines of the living room and kitchen.
Nobody went outside.
The rain was off, I kept telling everyone, it’s not rained all day, let’s go out and sit in the garden. I’d spent half the day mowing the lawns and making the gardens acceptable for guests so it was the perfect opportunity to show them off, not to mention my hard graft from behind the spinning blade.
“It’s too cold” David, the nursery teacher from Ka’s work, shook his head, to which everyone else seemed to silently agree and chat on among themselves. All the hard work had been for nothing.
Tony and Suzanne could see my plight but after Milo got his boots a little muddy from running over the grass, they decided against it.
At least Milo appreciated the freshly cut lawns.
Resigning myself to the fact that no one was going to be sitting out on the lawn anytime soon I went into the fridge and got out another beer.
Around ten or eleven hours later, and more than ten or eleven beers later, Ka and myself seen off the last of the evening guests. Chaz and Pauline sauntered out into the street to jump into their taxi and we shut the front door for the last time and got to our bed.

Messed up

It’s all kicking off. The Olympics have started already and Danny Boyle hasn’t even had a chance to complain about the BBC yet. The Olympic football games have started ahead of the official opening ceremony this Friday night in Stratford.
Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium hosted Team GB’s win over New Zealand yesterday afternoon whilst Scotland hosted France, USA, Colombia and North Korea at Hampden Park, in Mount Florida. Let’s hope the USA weren’t expecting theme parks and Mickey Mouse.
Saying that, there must have been some kind of Mickey Mouse outfit in charge of the Hampden graphics as the North Korean Women’s football team stormed off the pitch in a huff tonight after the South Korean flag was shown alongside pictures of the team’s players on the big screens. Not a great start.
Still, what did they expect going to Glasgow for a game of football? Of course it was going to end up in a fight.
My disappearing fourth year Art School tutor suddenly reappeared on a STV news report about the whole affair claiming he didn’t have a clue what was going on. That’s not great considering the man’s a graphic designer.
On the way home the motorway yesterday signals warned of Olympic traffic and instructed which turn off to take to head for the Olympic football. I didn’t notice any Olympic traffic. In fact the traffic seemed it’s usual mundane self, quieter than usual if anything. Throughout the day there had been emails going around the work giving Olympic football tickets away. One of the guy’s in the daily record marketing department was giving a large bundle away for free. Graeme, who works opposite me in the office, had tickets and almost seemed desperate to get rid of them.
Earlier, on the company’s intranet, I found out I was one of 10 lucky winners to receive the new Rolling stones 50 book, a tome detailing the Rolling Stones’ lifetime through photographs taken by the newspaper company throughout the many long years. It was a staff only competition and one which didn’t require much effort, only the ability to type your name and address which I just about managed.
And yes, my address is still the same. We’re still waiting to hear back with regards to our mortgage for our potential new house but are not much further forward since the last time I wrote on this blog. Phonecalls have been made, emails have been sent and solicitor forms have been filled out and posted but still no news. Perhaps by the end of this week we’ll know something. Considering house buying is possibly one of the biggest decisions of your life, not to mention one of the most costly, these solicitors and mortgage companies just leave you hanging. Probably sneering at you on the other end of the phone as you sit and stress about the upcoming deadlines, cash worries and form filling.
As a short break away from it all we’re off to Leven at the weekend. Aunt Anne decided it was about time we had another family trip so this time we’re all meeting up for a family BBQ on a beach somewhere around the Crail, Fife region on Sunday. Tom and Linda are camping with Jim and James up in Crail. Laurence and Maria are also camping somewhere with Megan and Lauren. Anne and Ian are staying in a fancy hotel whilst Ka, Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann and myself are staying at a hotel in Leven throughout the Saturday before travelling up to the yet to be disclosed location on the Sunday.
All this money talk and the signing of lives away is getting a little tiring so a brief respite may revitalise us a little.
Bump is growing too. We took another trip to Hairmyres Hospital last Friday morning for another scan and Baby Reid wouldn’t sit still for two minutes. Jumping about all over the place, she was, making it more than a little difficult for the Registrar and the Consultant, Dr. Ferguson, to get proper measurements of baby’s various body parts.
Notice how I said ‘she’ there?
Yes, after we asked the question once more, the registrar looked into the shadowy depths of the computer screen before him and mumbled a reply of female. Dr. Ferguson agreed having hummed and hawed and then eventually coming to that conclusion the last time. Another little girl.
A rather energetic, crazy, non stop little girl. Much like her mother I suspect as when Lucy was still in her mummy’s tummy she’d been more like myself. Lying back, relaxing in it’s womby waters, albeit with the occasional Blockbusters hand jive spotted more than once on the scan monitors.
This new little one won’t sit at peace for two minutes.
On Sunday Ka jumped on more than one occasion whilst sitting in the cinema and it wasn’t down to the break in any tense action sequence or sudden fright.
Either the loud voices, echoing bangs or roaring engines from the surrounding cinema were disturbing baby or she was just enjoying herself in there just as much as her mother was, sitting watching Christian Bale in the leather bat outfit.
Earlier in the week Ka had awoken from a dream in which she had been having an affair with Christian Bale. Not only that, but Christian Bale was her Dad’s brother.
“Wouldn’t that make him your Uncle?” I frowned, over my orange juice that morning.
“Yes” Ka nodded. “But in my dream, it didn’t matter”.
“Sleeping with your Uncle?” I continued to frown. “That’s just messed up”.
What was even more messed up, and unfortunately far more real, was what was to follow on the Friday night at a midnight showing of the new Batman movie, over in Aurora, Colorado.
A horrendous nightmare as yet another crazy person with a couple of guns, dressed and, quite obviously, disturbed, walked into a cinema, intent on killing.
For some reason.
12 people dead and 58 injured.
And yet, what do the people of Colorado do? Go out and buy more guns. According to the BBC website, in the days following the Colorado shooting, applications for the purchase of a gun were 43% higher than the previous week.
Is this the answer? Does this make people feel better?
I’m not so sure.

Strawberries, T and Snow Patrol sleepiness

Last Wednesday, a week ago tonight, on July 4th, Ka and myself celebrated our third year Wedding anniversary. We didn’t celebrate with anything particularly special. A Chinese carry out from the Jasmine Inn and the exchange of a couple of small presents followed by a couple of bowl of strawberries.
For some reason we both went out and bought each other strawberries to celebrate. I’m not sure what the relevance of strawberries was, and even why we both intuitively thought they would make a great surprise present on a Wedding anniversary? Perhaps it was the Wimbledon influence?
A David Guetta album too. Ka liked the ‘Titanium’ single so I got her the French DJ and producer’s album.
Or David Ghetto as Ka calls him.
He was just one of the acts we missed at the weekend.
We had tickets to T in the Park this year but decided against it after Ka got pregnant. Now that she’s getting a little bigger, a little more uncomfortable and a lot more intolerant to the idea of camping, we thought best of it, but did manage to sell the tickets on to a couple of guys in Andy’s football team. Looking at the news reports and pictures from the festival over the weekend I am now very glad we made that decision. It would have been a nightmare putting up with Ka in those rivers of brown. Colin and Jillian were there and posting on facebook, mud up to their shins. Colin text me on Friday night, raving about how wonderful Florence and the Machine were but no matter how much he may want to go on about it I’d rather wait and see Florence in the SECC at a semi ludicrous price than in the mud of Balado.
I have wanted to see Florence for a long time though and I suppose I was secretly jealous. In fact, I’m not sure Pauline’s ever forgiven me for calling her a b*tch, at Christmas time, when she revealed she’d bought herself and a pal some tickets to see Florence and her band at the SECC when they played back in March.

No, instead of Balado, Ka and myself watched from the comfort of the couch on Friday night, occasionally getting up to dance when the mood took us, jumping about like loons to Olly Murs. He did ask us to dance with him so who were we to refuse?
Afterwards Snow Patrol took to the stage and so we swiftly fell asleep.
Nothing against Snow Patrol. I quite like Snow Patrol.
They do make you awfully sleepy though. Unless you’ve got a lighter, at least then you’d have something to do to keep you awake, keep your attention focused... but even that could be dangerous. You may inadvertently end up setting yourself on fire by falling asleep in mid lighter sway. The alcohol fuelled mud underfoot at T in the Park wouldn’t do you any favours either. A burning Snow Patrol fan stumbling through the mud, ablaze, screaming, confusing others into thinking they’d accidentally taken a wrong turn and dropped by the Wickerman festival. The screaming Snow Patrol fan being commended by passers by for his Edward Woodward tribute.
Anyway, on Saturday night we went out to dinner to Viva Pizzeria Ristorante, on Bothwell Street where we enjoyed a slap up meal involving meatballs, veal ravioli and chicken, washed down with a healthy glass of wine, or soda water and lime, in Ka’s case. Afterwards we walked up West Campbell Street, up on to Sauchiehall Street heading to the flicks to see Jason Segal and Emily Blunt in ‘The Five Year Engagement’, a film that’s been advertised and reviewed as a very strange, odd, occurrence. A half decent romcom.
Unfortunately, as we stood in the queue, a flash of red on screen alerted us to the fact that it was sold out so we ended up donning the 3D glasses again for the new Spiderman movie starring Britain’s very own Andrew Garfield.
Even though it’s barely been five years since the end of the last trilogy with timid Toby McGuire, it seemed a little strange for a new trilogy to start all over again and for that reason I wasn’t that fussed about seeing it. Even so, the new movie was surprisingly enjoyable with Garfield suitably impressing as the geeky, awkward Peter Parker with the spider bug and Rhys Ifans as the villain of the piece, a villain with heart and reason. There’s only one scene in particular towards the end which lets the film down a little, veering into American cheese, but, on the whole, a pretty good piece of escapism with a great moment involving Stan Lee in headphones.
Earlier that day, on the Saturday morning, Ka and myself took a trip along Calderwood to see a house. A house that’s been sitting on the market since the turn of the year.
The rain was peeing down and we arrived in the slightly crowded street early, barely able to see the property’s front door through the pellets of rain bouncing off the windscreen. Getting soaked in the short run to the front door we were greeted by one of the sisters leading the efforts to sell her parents’ home. My Aunt Anne knew the family and had been insisting that we go and view the property from as far back as February and we were only now getting round to it. With baby number two growing well, we thought we’d better start making a move, literally.
The short trip was worth it.
We liked it. It was a blank canvas and I like a blank canvas.
I like a blank canvas because it’s there for the taking. It’s empty and waiting for you to begin to create something wonderful with.
Ka likes a blank canvas because it is clean.
Plain and simple.
Clean, pristine and white. Perfect for the taking.
As soon as I got into work on Monday morning, whilst everyone mourned Andy Murray’s loss, I made sure I made a quick phonecall to the sellers’ solicitors and requested the Home Report.
By Tuesday morning, we’d made an offer.
Fingers crossed we may have a result by this time tomorrow.

Something to smile about

Well thank goodness that’s all over. Back to normality (well, as normal as normality gets). Just as well this Jubilee malarky only happens once in a while. As nice as it was to watch all the barges and boats on the Thames on Sunday it was far more entertaining watching the Royal College of Music Chamber Choir gaining ‘hypothermia’ whilst singing Rule Britannia at the top of their voices. Apparently the girls in the company had just had their hair done especially. Certainly looked like they’d just stepped out of a salon, even though they were only halfway through the rinse.
A wee bit of rain and everybody in England thinks they’re hard because they went out in the bad weather to see their Queen. The London Ambulance Service told of how they treated around 560 people who, because of the bad weather conditions, said they were cold. Bless.
At least it was dry for the concert on Monday.
A concert which veered from the rubbish to the surreal, to the rubbish, to the half entertaining, to the actually quite good, to the, wow, lots of fireworks.
In all, pretty entertaining, if you were drinking, and that was without Rolf even getting to finish his song. Scary Grace Jones’ skills with a hula hoop were particularly impressive. I’m lucky if I can manage ten seconds nevermind the length of ‘Slave to the Rhythm’.
We had been standing at the foot of that statue, the Victoria Memorial, in the sunshine, only a few months ago with Ann holding Adventure Ted aloft in order to get a decent picture of her before Buckingham Palace (the bear that is, not Ann).
Little did we know that by that time, the next afternoon, things would be a little bit different.
It was a cloudy Saturday March morning in London. Grey, unlike the previous days, and and as the rain had slowly started to fall, Ka and myself hurriedly took shelter from the Strand and ran through the large archway entrance into Charing Cross Railway Station. Not only were we after temporary shelter from the gathering rainclouds above but we were also after a loo and since this was a railway station this would mean digging into the pockets and coming up with 10 and 20p pieces. At least I was hoping it was only 10 and 20p pieces - this was London after all. I wouldn't have been surprised if the railway stations of the capital ventured into the 50p regions. After a brief scout around we found the required restroom archway and Ka ventured forth, leaving me sitting on a plastic bench outside, before a small card and souvenir shop. Even back in March there seemed to be more Union Jacks knocking about than usual. I sat waiting whilst eyeless members of the Royal family smiled at me from the circling stand in the shop's doorway opposite me. The Queen’s eyeless mask was particularly freaky. Without eyes behind them, these masks looked like a Royal version of Village of the Damned or, with the light of the shop behind, like Nicholas Fisk’s ‘Grinny’.
“I hate that Grinny book!” Chaz shouts at the top of his voice, his shout echoing up the corridor behind the short, striding form of Mrs. Boyd.
The teacher had laughed on previous, probably quieter, occasions in the school corridors, but this time we were walking in the vicinity of the Head Master’s office and she wasn’t amused by the echoing shout that had burst out from the corner of the corridor behind her. Mrs. Boyd spun on her heels, in mid chew of what looked like a particularly chewy piece of chewing gum, and flew at Chaz with pointed finger. Mrs. Boyd had been championing Fisk’s ‘Grinny’ for the past few weeks in her English class, much to our displeasure as we slumbered and struggled to stay awake over it’s pages, listening to the unfortunate that had been chosen to read on that particular day. Chaz had took it upon himself to voice his opinions on the chosen literature on more than one occasion in the corridors of Saint brides High School. Mrs. Boyd had always replied with a smile and a warning of how he’d be the next lucky reader, but on this particular occasion she’d obviously grown weary of the joke. As Mrs. Boyd closed in, Chaz couldn’t seem to move, frozen to the spot by that twisted, pointed finger, but the rest of us managed and darted to the safety of the nearest common room, leaving him to his fate.
The Queen grinned at me the same way the Alien Granny of that book used to grin, easily dominating the adults’ minds but unable to infiltrate the kids’ which eventually led to her downfall.
A busker strummed at a guitar in the corner of the Railway Station. A cleaner was sauntering around, lazily sweeping at the odd piece of rubbish, either mumbling, grumbling or humming to himself under his cap. A couple of guys, obviously on their way out to the Saturday of some kind of drunken weekend break, ambled up the to shop and spun the mask stand as an old couple picked a birthday card from the shelves in the small shop behind them.
We were heading to the Ambassadors Theatre in the West End to see the matinee performance of Stomp that afternoon and Ka had voiced an interest in seeing Russell Grant in ‘The Wizard of Oz’, an interest I chose to not hear. We still had more than an hour or so to while away, just as well really considering the time Ka was taking in the Station’s loo.
The guys decided on a freaky Royal each, fighting over who was to be Kate. One of the guys was verbally bullied into it and took the other guys’ masks of Philip, William and Charles up to the small counter where a bored looking girl took them off him. The old couple chuckled over a card and then nodded in agreement, handing it over the counter to the lady behind the till once the guys had moved back out into the Station and immediately started unwrapping the cellophane.
Ka eventually appeared through the shadows underneath the archway leading down to the toilets. Looking a little pale, she walked over the train station waiting area towards me and produced the short white stick she had been harbouring from somewhere within her jacket.
“I’m pregnant!” Ka handed the white plastic stick to me with a shaky hand. Looking down at the small screen on the pregnancy test I seen a feint but definite indication of lines in certain positions and compared them with the details on the crumpled up instructions Ka handed to me in my other hand.
“Are you finished with that?” the Railway station cleaner suddenly interrupted us, almost moving between the two of us gesturing with his pick-up stick.
“What?” I almost blurted at him as he continued to edge forward.
“Are you finished with that?” he asked again nodding at my hands. Confounded I was about to give an answer when Ka confirmed we had indeed finished with it and told the guy to go ahead. The cleaner then moved in and just as I thought he was about to swipe the crumpled paper and test from my hands, extended his pick-up stick and lifted a rolled up McDonalds bag that had been lying behind my feet. I quickly agreed we had finished with it and then corrected myself for taking responsibility for someone’s rubbish and informed the man the McDonalds wasn’t even ours. I don’t eat in McDonalds and I never discard litter in such a fashion even if there is a distinct lack of bins in London Railway stations. When we arrived in London on the Thursday I had to trail a whole carrier bag full of rubbish from the train around Euston with me until I eventually found a bin in the Shaftesbury Paddington Hotel. Okay, bins are maybe handy for bombers but it’s not an ideal situation when you’ve got some rubbish to dispose of and there are no weird cleaners hanging about.
Anyway, Ka’s latest bombshell was enough to make my head spin, without any form of explosives, and as the Railway Station cleaner leaned in and picked up the obvious emergency situation that was his crumpled up McDonalds paperbag I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d noticed what was going on before him.
Had he realised he had disturbed a teary eyed woman revealing to her husband, after coming out of the loo, in the middle of Charing Cross Train Station, that she was pregnant? Surely the white stick, the urgent quiet discussion and the look of bewilderment, confusion and then mixed emotions on our faces was enough to illustrate the point.
He could have at least congratulated us to ease the tension. He could have grabbed us at each side and happily shouted a massive ‘Alleluia!’, turned and told the shop keeper, the blokes behind the Royal ‘Grinny’ masks and the old, chuckling couple with the funny card. They could have replied with smiles and happily waved over to us. The volume of the busker’s guitar could have suddenly became much louder. A passing brass band could have joined him with a nod, a smile and a wink. The cleaner would then start up a song and dance routine, skipping and jumping with his pick-up stick, and all the passing pedestrians, who suddenly all seemed far more brightly dressed, could have suddenly started dancing transforming Charing Cross Railway Station into a floor of colour, dancing, waving and smiles. Grace Jones could have appeared with her hula hoop, a helmeted Russell Grant could then have been shot out of a nearby steam train’s chimney in a shower of glitter and stars whilst Flavia circled underneath on the platform and the Station announcer could have made the announcement over the tannoy.
Obviously that would have been asking too much, of course. The cleaner didn’t give us any congratulations. He was far more interested in the dropped McDonalds wrappers at our feet, mumbled something under his breath and then slouched on with his slow trail around Charing Cross.
That was thirteen weeks ago and Baby Reid 2 is growing well. Obviously it is quite early and happy thoughts are always going to be tinged with sadness as we think of Baby’s big sister, Lucy but fingers crossed things work out a little better this time around.

Raffles, races and a great cause

Raffle tickets for sale! Lot's of prizes to be won! £1 a strip! I may as well advertise it here on my blog too.
Ka's work, the Early Learning Unit Nursery in Hamilton, have organised a charity race/games night to raise funds for Wishaw Hospital's Neonatal Ward in memory of our Baby Lucy. All proceeds will go towards the care of all the sick or premature babies that pass through the Ward's doors, the general upkeep of the Ward and all that goes with it, including the many machines and operations it has to fund in order to care for and save the lives of all these very young children.
The race/games night takes place on the 10th June at the Raploch Bowling Club in Larkhall and all are welcome.
The ELU's race nights are always good fun and always a good laugh once the races get going. There's no boring old horse races on tv screens at these race nights though. It's all down to wrist action.
Taking part in these races, your sat, facing the wall, on one side of the room with a line of string tied around a stick. The line of string runs down between your legs under your chair and over the floor behind you, to the other side of the room where the other end is tied to a vertical, flat wooden horse on a small platform. Once the whistle blows, or the horn toots, or a New Zealander bellows,
the race begins, and you've got to wind the string up, around the mid section of your stick and that's when the wrist action kicks in. Winding the stick around in your hands, pulling the string up and around as speedily as you can all the while pulling the small wooden horse behind you, in towards the back of your chair. Obviously the first horse to reach and get pulled under it's pullers chair wins the race. Before each race small bets are placed on each puller and obviously if you've bet on the winner, you're in the money.
On one of the first race nights that we attended, Ka and myself brought the two sets of Mums and Dads along with us. After I successfully managed to win one of the first races, my Mum, suitably impressed, turned and asked Ka how my wrist action was. Ka, a little perplexed by the question, was not sure how to respond. Our relationship was at an earlier stage back then so it's probably understandable that she was not aware of what my wrist action was like. It's obviously deteriorated since back then anyway as I've never won a race since.
The last charity night also had a game of bingo at which I apparently got quite competitive, scanning my card, listening intently to the numbers being called, refusing to speak to anyone, merely giving the occasional grunt in response to questions or chat.
Prizes for the raffles and bingo have included signed footballs and strips from various old firm and Motherwell football players, bottles, chocolates, baskets of fruit, remote control cars, vouchers, bath salts and various other soapy delights.
As that last game of bingo drew to a close I finally stamped the last number on my card. I won a woman's umbrella and Dougie, Ka's Dad, not long afterwards, won an exfoliating glove - not great prizes from the bingo admittedly, but we were among the last to shout 'House!'.
I'm not sure this charity night will be as happy or care free as the last race nights, especially for Ka and myself, but I'm sure I'll end up pulling a horse's string at some point. I'll try and win a race for Lucy.

SiMBA, Sands and Tricia's Poem

The night before Lucy's funeral my Auntie Tricia, Auntie Ann and Uncle Tommy popped round to see us. Over tea, crackers and cheese we shared our grief.
During tea, Tricia gave Ka and myself a rolled up sheet of card tied with ribbon. Tricia had been working hard the previous night on a memorial poem which she gave to us as a contribution to Lucy's SiMBA Memory Box. The week following the death of little Lucy this Memorial Box had been shown to all visitors and well wishers to our flat.
We received the SiMBA Memory Box after the passing of Lucy in hospital. It is a small, white chest of mementos put together following a baby's passing in the care unit as a gift to the bereaved parents and an item to remember their child by. In our box was placed the small blanket upon which Lucy lay in the incubator, a small teddy from the SiMBA charity, a small collection of photographs taken by the hospital, prints of Lucy's hand and footprints, her hospital tags, her small, colourful little New testament bible she received upon Baptism and cards of sympathy from both the hospital's Neonatal unit and SiMBA itself along with various leaflets offering help in coming to terms with these sad events.
Sands, the Stillbirth & Neonatal Death Society is another charity featured in the reading material given in the Memory Box, which helps bereaved parents after the passing of a young baby. The Sands organisation offers guidance, support and help and is run by volunteers from all over the country who all give time from their own lives up following similar experiences in losing their own young babies, in order to help parents in similar circumstances come to terms with their own tragic events.
Both great charities and both more than worthy of any support.
Support which some family and friends have already offered and given in the form of donations. Alongside the donations towards Wishaw's Neonatal unit Ka and myself have also received we would like to say a great big thank you, on behalf of the charities and in memory of Lucy.

Lucy Reid - Our Angel Baby by Patricia Taylor

A Little Angel, lent not given
Taken too soon, to be in heaven

We just don't understand
And we'll never know
why God chose you for his Angel
And we had to let you go

One thing we know for certain
You are loved beyond compare
God picks his Angels wisely
Though our pain is hard to bear

You touched so many hearts
Many tears have been shed too
We know that you'll be with us
to ease the pain we're going through

Goodnight our darling Lucy
You will be our guiding light
A special bright and shining star
Looking down on us each night

xx

Times like these

For a wee lassie that was only around on the planet for just over 26 hours, Lucy Reid certainly made an impression. A large crowd of family, friends, colleagues and aquaintances gathered in St. Leonards Chruch, East Kilbride for our wee Lucy's Funeral on Saturday morning.
John Donnelly, of the Heritage Funeral Services, picked Ka and myself up in his large limo which struggled, climbing out of our street, over the freshly fallen snow from the night before under the bright blue winters sky, and took us round the corner to the chapel at the top of the hill to meet Father Mac at the doors.
Not a moment has went past when Ka and myself have not shivered with sadness and disbelief at the situation we have found ourselves in. We'd spent an unbelievable week organising and preparing for our newborn daughter's funeral after her birth, a week early on the 29th before her due date.
We had the joy of an early birth for Baby Reid on the Wednesday night only to be replaced, not half an hour later, by the horror of having our baby whipped away from us and placed in an incubator as she struggled to breathe for herself. On the Thursday morning we were faced with the horrendous decision given to us by the specialists of the Neonatal ward in the Wishaw hospital. We could continue to keep Lucy alive on machines, in the hope of her surviving to some extent but never to have a life of her own to speak of, or to switch off the life support and say goodbye. We made the heart-rending decision and over the course of the Thursday evening, watched little Lucy slowly slip away until her final breathes in my arms at twenty to one on the Friday morning.
The image of that little baby, shivering her last, her breathes fading to a quietening whisper will be ingrained in my mind for the rest of my life. Her last shiver of breathe shook out from her body shaking my arms which cradled her small form. I knew exactly when my wee Baby passed away before the doctors even began inspecting her. Lucy passed approximately eight minutes before the doctors finally decided, with tears in their eyes, that she'd gone.
Afterwards, I pointed out to Ka, on more than one occasion, that I didn't need the doctors to tell me. Even though the death certificate says 00.50am, it's wrong. I felt Lucy slip away in my arms just after twenty minutes to one and I don't need no stethoscope to tell me otherwise. Lucy came into the world, going straight into her Mum's arms, and left in her Daddy's.
Needless to say the pain and grief was unbearable but Ka and myself managed to stay strong thanks to the gathered family around us. The two sets of Mums and Dads, the two brothers and the two sisters along with Steven and Jillian were almost at the hospital through the whole ordeal just as long as Ka and myself were. The families were our rock and without them I'm not sure Ka and I would have made it through at all.
On the Saturday morning we stepped from the limo, the undertaker giving Lucy over to me and together we followed Father Mac into the church. As I walked I couldn't bring myself to look up at the gathered crowd as I stared down at my little girl's pristine white coffin, clenched in my hands. I tried to make out that I was being respectful, head bowed as I walked up the aisle, or perhaps that I was concentrating on carrying the case, making sure of it not slipping under my trembling grip. In reality I dared not look up on fear of breaking down into tears as the sympathetic faces of everyone gathered watched us move through the church. As a result I had no idea the church had been so busy till after the mass.
Ka, the Mums and Dads and myself sat in the back of the Undertaker's Limo, Lucy's coffin perched on my lap as the gathered congregation poured out from the church behind us.
A terrible, horrible situation to find yourself in but one made slightly bearable by the people that had shown up on that snowy, Saturday morning to show their grief and give Ka, myself and the family their support, prayers and sympathies.
Family, friends, colleagues and aquaintances have all been fantastic in the past few weeks. Without their visits, cards, texts, words and support I'm not sure Ka and myself would have been so strong to face the challenging past weeks. It's in times like these you realise how fantastic your families are, what friends you can really count on and how generous of heart people can be.
Lucy Reid would have been a very lucky wee girl to have such a massive, loving family.

I wasn't looking forward to writing this blog.
Ever again in fact.
But surprisingly, it still helps.

Lucy Reid

Our beautiful Lucy Reid
Born Wednesday 29th December 2010 23.22pm
Died Friday 31st December 2010 00.42am

Like butterfly wings so fragile and new
I never knew my days with you
Would number so few
So many dreams of sharing a new life
Yet to unfold
Has left only memories of you
To hold

We love you Lucy Reid and will never forget you

The three boxes

The date draws near - and I ain't talking about Christmas.
Ka is growing by the minute and as if that wasn't scarey enough, I'm now filling out forms at work entitled 'Becoming a parent'.
Becoming a parent? When did all this happen? What happened to the last thirty weeks. A short while back I was lounging about at home gassing on the phone about how Ka was preggers and how exciting it all was. Exciting ain't the word I would choose now. Now the word terrifying springs to mind!
All three boxes on this rather official looking form must be ticked by myself in order to qualify for Paterntiy pay.
The first box states that I am the baby's biological father or that I am married to the mother or that I'm living with the mother in an enduring relationship. The word 'enduring' seems quite apt. So, that's a yes to all. I am indeed the baby's father as far as I know. Hopefully there's not going to be any soap like revelations, perhaps as a tram crashes through my living room ceiling whilst I'm reaching for the bon bons.
The second box, 'I will have responsibility for the child's upbringing'. Now that just strikes you with absolute fear. Responsibility? Of a child? Wait a minute here. I struggle to look after myself at the best of times! I went to work the other day wearing odd socks and Ka has already told me that if I ever did that to Baby Reid I'd be for the high jump.
The high jump just for getting some socks mixed up?!
What's going to happen to me if I dress the child in mismatching top and bottoms? The shot putt?
The third box states that the time off work will be to 'support the mother or care for the child'. So even though your getting two weeks out the office, they still expect you to work for a living, and for less pay. Here was me thinking I'd be taking it easy, taking a breather after the hassles of rushing to hospitals, getting my eardrums battered and my hands crushed by a mad, screaming woman.
Anyway, I've been supporting Ka all the way through her pregnancy so that's no big deal. The loyal, helpful husband. When housework duties have been called for, I've been a good helping hand. I've been going into the cupboard and getting the hoover out for her instead of making her get it herself. I've been patiently handing boxes up to her in the kitchen when she's been packing things away, balancing on one of the two legged breakfast stools. I've even helped her off the couch a few times when she's been going to the fridge to get me a beer. Now you can't ask for any better support than that! Surely I deserve paternity pay, just for all that?

The call of fatherly duty

"Phew, Ka's got her work cut out for her", I sighed, talking to Grace on the phone on Wednesday night after our first trip to the Hunter Health Centre.
We went along to our first antenatal class, or 'parent crafting' class as it's now called, for some reason, on Wednesday night, and Ka found herself kneeling against a chair, sitting facing the back of a chair, bent over a bed, balancing on gym balls and cuddling whilst standing. All different positions to be in when handling the pains of contractions. It's all very different to how I'd imagined it. Apparently there shouldn't be any tensing of the muscles, struggling for breathe, shouting, swearing, cursing or breaking of the fingers. I'm not convinced but I'm sure I'll find out when January comes around.
Breathe. Breathe. Ka and myself were in a large wooden panelled office, littered with desks with computers and treatment beds. We were shown in with around ten other pregnant couples and all sat in a semi circle of chairs before the nurse started teaching us how to breathe, stretch and exercise our pelvic floor which is to help make your pelvic muscles stronger and thusly help lessen the chance of requiring a colostomy bag in later life.
We learnt that labour should, apparently, all be stress free with no rushing to the hospital at the first sign of labour contractions. All midwives should be perfectly helpful and the whole process should be naturally timed. It should be clearly and easily defined by a timetable of events involving various mucus' and liquids being dispersed from the pregnant woman's nether regions.
The midwife stressed the point of insisting you stay at home for as long as possible so as not to waste the time of our hospital staff and beds. That's what they must have told my Auntie Maria who very nearly ended up delivering Lauren on the hall staircase before making it to the bathroom to pop her out. Ka is considering a pool birth at the moment. I'm pretty sure a bathroom birth is not on the cards.
It's now seven weeks away till the due date and some of the hints, tips and information we were getting on wednesday night may have been more useful twenty weeks ago. How to cope with a growing lifeform in your body, how to exercise your body whilst pregnant, how to stop him or her punching your ribcage etc. It would have certainly made Ka's life a little easier if we'd have been told how to deal with these things more than a few weeks ago. The midwife even stressed the fact that the mothers may get a little tetchy in the next few weeks. The next few weeks? That started ages ago! And 'a little tetchy' doesn't quite cover it. I'm glad we've got midwives to point these things out, I would have never of realised.
The midwife also made it clear that besides driving the mother to the hospital there was nothing a partner/husband could do to help and may as well relax, look after themselves and go home and have their dinner. One of the future Dad's, a heavily tattooed bloke with thick black glasses, mumbled at this from under his woollen hat saying that he would go home and play Xbox. His partner snorted at this, insisting she was taking the Xbox to the hospital with her. Nevermind the nighties, the nappies and the sleep suits, this couple have a case packed with games console and Call of Duty. I wonder what their house will be like when their baby pops into the world if they already spend their time fighting over who gets the Xbox on a night?
Another future Dad asked if it was just like the movies and you have the right to bomb down the A721 at great speeds using the excuse of their wife being pregnant. Is this the reason he got his wife up the duff? So he could drive through Wishaw at a stupid speed?
Then again, once the baby is here these small moments of unadulterated pleasure for a Dad, will be few and far between so I suppose all fathers should take them while they've got the chance.

This is our life

A week ago there was an announcement in work. There was an announcement that there would be an announcement on Wednesday. Organised announcements in our week can only mean one thing - bad news.
Wednesday came and at one o'clock the Big Boss, GD, arrived with the Human Resources Manager, adorned in black, and wasted no time in gathering everyone at the back of the office. The axe was going to fall, but by how much?
Basically, 33 were to become 12. Liverpool were taking the Ad Creation side of the business away from Scottish & Universal, leaving only the planning, outputting and studio departments, in a vast, sweeping move to streamline the business, and, of course, make it cheaper to run. Scottish & Universal Newspapers, top of the charts for accuracy and skills in Trinity Mirror for so long, has become yet another victim of the all consuming recession and it's aftershocks and obliterated by it's english relatives. It happened to the Welsh in Cardiff and now it's happening to us, up in Scotland.
At the end of March we are all to be made redundant with the exception of 12. These twelve will work on, in the Hamilton office, in the newly formed, shrunken version of the prepress department.
In the next few weeks those in the office interested in applying have to hand their forms into the Boss' office, placing their application into the big red folder, waiting on his desk. This red folder, sitting patiently, like a new twisted version of 'This is Your Life'.
The interviews are to proceed shortly and the lucky 12 will know by Christmas who they are. Which, I'm sure, will make the Christmas Day lunch and outing very enjoyable assuming some of the successful candidates go to the dinner. Who'll be the first to bitch? Who'll be the first to walk out? Who'll be the first to wear their drink?
Then there's the three months following Christmas. What will the atmosphere be like in the office then? Half the employees not giving a rat's ass how they do their job whilst the other 12 sweat over their stations trying to meet the usual deadlines...
Yes, the next few months are going to be great fun in the office. March will be the end of an era and a sad month for all of us concerned. I have enjoyed working at S&UN. I've had a great time and will be sad to see it go. The job has paid for my life for the past five and a half years (well, some of it anyway) and the cheesecake has been great.
There's the usual resigned sighs going round the office now. "We knew something was going to happen", being the main comment, and the rather odd, "maybe this is the kick up the arse we need".
Sorry, but I wasn't aware I needed anything up the arse. I've got a baby and, hopefully, a new pad on the way. If this is a kick up the arse, I'd hate to get a kick in the balls!
Then again, that may be yet to come after I apply for any of these jobs - whether I'm lucky or not!

Sleep suits and snow suits

Excuse my ignorance here but, how do you know you're leaving hospital with the right baby? This has been troubling me for around four days now. How do you know your baby hasn't been mixed up with somebody else's after it has popped out? There is no way of telling! All babies look the same for around three months after their birth. How do you know your going home with the right one? It'll be three months till you know for sure! This is concerning me.
Also, what's with the buying of snow suits? Apparently we need to buy the expected Baby Reid snow suits. Snow suits? I wasn't aware we were eskimos? Will we be travelling home from Wishaw General in a sledge pulled by huskies? Me, standing at the back of the sledge cracking the whip, whilst Ka and baby cower from the cold in furry suits at my feet, our huskies racing forward, pulling us, their breath puffing out in swirling clouds before their frozen maws as they pant their way through the white, frozen wastelands of Wishaw and Craigneuk.
Sleep suits too. Sleep suits, sleep suits, we don't have enough sleep suits, and apparently we never will. This baby is going to have more suits than Hugo Boss.
Hats, bibs, boots and scratch mittens. Scratch mittens? Apparently babies have a habit of trying to scratch their face off? First I'd heard. Surely they can't be that fully aware to look in the mirror and hate their god given mug at that age? I thought that all didn't kick off till the teens and forever after? (Certainly didn't with me anyway). Then again maybe that's a good way of knowing it is indeed my child - if it sees itself in the mirror and immediately goes for it's own face screaming horribly.
Nesting. The suit buying is all part of the nesting process apparently. A word for what an expectant mother does in and around the home to prepare. Moving things around. Throwing things out. Making way for piles of sleep suits. Buying baby lotions, talcum powder and cotton wool.
Spending money when it's not yet quite needed to be spent, that's what I call it. I've had to empty two of my bookshelves already and the poor wee tyke is not even here yet. All in the name of sleep suits. Who would have thought such tiny garments could take up so much space?
We need a house and quick. Anything bigger than a one bedroom anyway.
I'm sure some of those eskimos must have more room in those igloos than we've got. They always have loads of kids running about. You never seen eskimos on the Michael Palin programmes shouting about how little room they've got in their igloos because of all the sleep suits. Bet the huskies have even got their own room!

Listening in

"Is it a train or a galloping horse then?" I asked, standing up from my chair at the other side of the room.
"Oh, I don't know, what do you think?", Ann-Marie, the fill in Midwife, tutted with a smile, as she moved the stethoscope like doppler machine around Ka's tummy bump. The weird, echoing like noises breathed out from the small machine the midwife held as she moved the doppler pad, interupted with the occasional crackle, like a radio station transmitting on a slightly off frequency.
I'm getting quite infuriated now with not knowing the gender of Baby Reid, although Ka is determined to keep it a surprise.
The whole speed of the heart beat is an old wives tale anyway. Surely you're not able to rush out and buy little blue sleep suits on the evidence of a heart beat sounding like a speeding locomotive. The wee Baby might just be having a wee swim around in there or something? Surely that would be enough to speed it up? Being nudged continually by a doppler must be pretty aggravating too. If you were floating about in a big bubble and had someone poking at you with a large rounded pad your heartbeat would surely increase, purely out of irritation?
These nurses never give anything away, no matter how you try and coax some information out of them. The coolest person in the hospital, the 'Ultrasound' woman was just the same. When we were getting the scans done, the ultrasound nurse was stubbornly remaining tight-lipped and non suggestive at my inquistive baiting.
Still, at least we heard the heart beat. Pumping away clear as day. It did actually sound like a train. A locomotive, steam pouring from it's chimney, the pistons and valves rotating over the steel wheels, only muffled, like you were listening from underwater, submergered in a swimming pool alongside the tracks.
Linda, from work, lent us a DIY Fetal Doppler a month or so ago which we tried. We followed the instructions, smothering Ka's belly in baby oil, putting on the earphones and rubbing the doppler over the bump. Most of the sounds we could hear resembled the gloops and squelches you'd usually hear from a swamp or from pushing an empty fruit juice carton into a basin fully of soapy water. We did manage to find a heart beat eventually but after a while realised it was Ka's so, in short, we didn't have much luck and were relying on the midwife visit on Thursday.
Thursday is midwife day in the local doctors surgery and it would seem all expectant mothers from all round the neighbourhood gather to see the baby doctor. Unfortunately it would seem Thursday is also the day that the receptionist with the loudest receptionist voice, ever, works. Admitting us with a:
"YOUR NAME?", and a "THAT'S FINE, JUST TAKE A SEAT". This receptionist smiles and her manner is pleasant enough but the volume of voice is a bit much for a visiting patient with reasonable hearing. After we sat down to wait, alongside the other pregnant couples, a few other 'normal' patients visited, some taking their seats in the waiting room, others picking up prescriptions. One lady patient phoned up about her prescription, us waiting patients surrounding the desk, hearing the whole 50% of the conversation. The receptionist's voice reverberated around the small room.
"MRS. WHITE.... YES. YES... HOW DO YOU SPELL THAT?". Ka and myself frowned at each other disapprovingly as we twiddled our thumbs. "NO, NOT THE WHITE, ESMAE? EZMEE? ESMAY".
For some reason I considered picking up one of the issues of 'Hello' sitting on the piled high on the magazine rack at the end of the long cushion seat that runs around the wall of the claustrophobic waiting room.
"I'M NEVER SURE HOW TO SPELL THAT!" the receptionist chortled, loudly from behind her desk.
"RIGHT, ESMAE, WHITE... RIGHT..." she nodded. "ADDRESS? ...23 SUCHANDSUCH AVENUE, RIGHT...". I sighed.
The receptionist went on nodding as she 'spoke' over the phone.
"YES, QUITE UNCOMFORTABLE, YES... SO YOU JUST WANT THE ITRACONAZOLE FOR YOUR THRUSH AGAIN THEN?".
My head spun round to look at Ka with incredulity, who replied with one of her "shut up" warning looks. She only just managed to disguise the slight smirk on her face, the same smirk which broke out over the face of the pregnant woman on the seat across from us.
Did we need to know that? Do medical surgeries not have some sort of privacy policies with regards to patient's information? I hope I don't get that receptionist the next time I'm on the phone giving any details. Poor Mrs. White... or Whyte, however she spells it.