I think it’s fair to say that it’s been a shit week so far.
Yesterday really was the pits, it kicked off as usual with me walking barefoot over a mouldy puddle in our carpet which is there as a result of the water tank leaking all over the place while we were away.
At work, I was so knackered from the weekend that I was unable to use the correct words when talking to people. Plus I found out that a letter I’d sent out to about 1000 people had the wrong information in it.
But my greatest personal achievement of the day was writing a letter to a woman whose baby had died chasing her up over what is, to my mind (but not to some people I work with) a trivial bureaucratic matter. That kind of stuff makes you feel great on a Monday.
Needless to say, things carried on in the same manner, the absolute triumph of which was the daughter demonstrating to all and sundry her singleminded… ah… creativity and resourcefulness by forcing a bead all the way up her left nostril when she was supposed to be asleep.
That bead was not coming out, much to everyone’s alarm. So we all piled down to the, now somewhat familiar, Homerton Hospital at 8 o’clock. Our luck really being in, it turns out that half the kids in Hackney have decided to do something crazy as well, though unfortunately there was nobody there with a saucepan stuck on their head.
“Oh yes, you were here a year ago because she swallowed a penny?”
You laugh nervously because – hey, kids are crazy, innit? But also so you don’t scream out “It’s OK!!! I’m a good parent really! Don’t put me on some kind of orwellian Register! Have YOU got kids, eh? Have you?”
The daughter’s great contribution to medical science so far is a perfect x-ray of her perfect round tummy, with a perfect little round 1p piece showing through her rib cage. So good, they use for teaching, apparently. No doubt with a picture of me off Hopstial CCTV with “BAD DAD” captioned underneath it.
So it’s off to the waiting room for 3 HOURS and obviously we’ve packed all of the daughter’s favourite books and toys in a frenzy, but nothing for us, so we are lumbered with a dozen magazines which all turn out to be either about weddings (in the A&E children’s ward?! wtf?) or ski-ing.
The bridal mags are kind of pornographic in a commodity-fetish sort of way. Like, one of them has about 30 pages of tea cups and saucers, in garish full colour close up. Weird shit.
Every other parent there is texting furiously, despite all the signs saying “please turn off your mobile phone”. Because what else are you going to do at 10:00pm on a Monday night?
It takes hours, but we got the bead back with the aid of some uber dextrous lady and her special tweezers. I doubt the daughter will do that again, anyway.
Out into the carpark, relieved, desperate to get home at last. “Babycakes” is blaring out of a car stereo…