In light of last year's crisis at Christmas (see only other blog entry), this year the family hope to enjoy a more relaxed affair.
The Autumnal months have been full, so we have reached December 1st with Advent calendars at the ready, and that's all thus far for the festive season. Yet again, my children rest assured in the knowledge that they are the only people in Somerset, nay Britain, perhaps the western world, not to have a chocolate filled piece of card. Call me Bah Humbug, but I don't need zippy little ones pumped up on choc and firing on all cylinders over the cereal; besides which I'm the traditional type and I'm not sure how a Barbie pink calendar with corresponding chocolates corroborates the Christmas story.
Building works in the early Autumn began with a burst pipe flooding the appropriate floor. I hadn't appreciated how many stopcocks could be located in hedges and under sinks before the new water feature fountain could be persuaded to slow to a trickle. The joy continued with a humourless door-fitter with the charm of a toad. He shouted, was rude, insulted anyone within a 5 metre radius - and then left with the frame propped with pieces of plastic, the door certainly not the one I ordered, and a seething monologue about the height of the floor. His offensive barrage was effective, it took me twenty four hours to realise that the entire farce had been of his making and not mine.
Hit and run accidents no doubt happen all the time. Being a victim (albeit unharmed) of one is no fun. Over two months after an unthinking and unrepentant teen decided to drive into my car and continue on her journey without stopping (leaving me hopping up and down on the pavement like a demented banshee), the insurance issues have still not been resolved. The inter-dependence of this multi-faceted industry left me reeling. My breakdown service of choice were unable to help, a third party was sent at vast expense. Familiarity with our local garage paid dividends, they stayed open for me to arrive on the back of a vast lorry and soothed appropriately. The police are efficient, take all details and dispatch you. Your insurers are not who you think they are - but you tell them the story in second-by-second detail anyway. Repeat this performance with the underwriters, aka your real insurance company; and in case you haven't got a sore ear from being on the 'phone all morning, repeat the process yet again with the firm delegated to provide you with a courtesy car. Except it isn't a courtesy car, it's a replacement car which, let me tell you, is an entirely different kettle of fish. Should you so much as think of driving near a falling leaf, woe betide you, all blemishes are charged for. Efficient people, but they make their money that way. Deal with local school to try and ensure said hit-&-run driver knows that you, the injured party, is distinctly unamused and insurance companies will be in touch. But that takes weeks. Estimates for car damage have to be agreed, faxes (yes they're still used!) went missing, as did e-mails. It's too boring to continue. I have my car back, but my faith in the system is somewhat jaundiced. The happy teen is still driving her undamaged car each and every day. I don't wave.
November was NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - a sign-on-if-you're-mad scheme that challenges the writer to write 50,000 words between 1st and 30th November. I made an early calculation that the days I had available would mean 2,300 words per day. And then a child was ill. And a far-flung relation came to visit. Oh, and there's an inset day at school. The car insurance problems rumbled on. Building work finally finished, my supply of tea bags exhausted. Other half assumed that a visiting work mate coming to stay with 24 hours notice was no problem. Cleaning showers, making up beds, finding something in the fridge and cupboards to cook, whilst writing my now 4,000 words per day made for an interesting start to this week. And then the strike and all children at home! Someone was conspiring against me.
However, 50,252 words later, I stuttered to a halt on Tuesday afternoon, too tired to think and wondering how the hell I'd got there. I begin again on Monday, this time back to my pen and paper and a more modest daily word count.
No comments:
Post a Comment