The Daily Grind

It’s all money money money at the moment.

Or rather I’ve got no money money money.

I’ve just returned from a trip to the friendly neighbourhood dentist – the gloriously toothy Dr Hassan – who has given my molars and canines the once over with her hooked implements of stainless steel. The diagnosis is not good. They’re clean – yes – but I’m apparently grinding my teeth while I sleep with the result that they’re beginning to resemble Neolithic grindstones.

The solution is a night guard. It’s like a gum shield but far more expensive.

So what is causing me to grind my teeth, Dr Hassan asks me pleasantly.

Oh the usual I reply: money worries – mortgage, fuel prices, child care costs – all money that I haven’t got.

I know the feeling, she replies with a fragrant sigh, but the night guard should prevent your teeth from wearing away to nothing. In the meantime you must do what you can to cut down on the amount of stress that you are under (I nod obediently). By the way the night guard will probably cost about £200...

Grind grind gnash gnash... cue the sound of enamel splintering in my mouth.

Ooh, don’t worry I can fix that says Dr Hassan... but it’ll cost you...

*Sigh*

And as for all my efforts to alleviate my money worries by getting an additional job... out of all the vacancies I’ve applied for only one has actually bothered to ring me back and dangle the promise of an imminent interview before me...

But that was over a week ago and I’ve heard absolutely nothing since; the mooted day for the possible interview has now long since lapsed and I’ve basically given up ever hearing from them again.

I can’t believe how hard it’s proving to pick up a simple part-time job. We’re talking menial labour here for God’s sake. It shouldn’t be this difficult! Should it?

I’ve come the conclusion that I am just eminently unemployable. Which is worrying. I’m “unemployable” but am employed full time by the local council.

Hmm.

I’m trying not to read too much into that...

Cough Drop

I’m having a weird day today, probably aided and abetted by the fact I had a crap night’s sleep last night...

Baby Tom was fine, I can’t blame him at all – the sleep training has really paid off and any night time disturbance now tends to be very minimal. Instead, despite having eyes as heavy as John Prescott’s sick bag, I just lay awake into the small hours, wearing myself out with my many fruitless attempts to drop off.

The knock-on effect today is that I feel out of kilter with the rest of the world and totally benumbed. I feel like a cheap pair of 3D glasses – things aren’t quite lining up properly but I can still tell what they’re supposed to be.

If I was at home I could cope with that quite well. But I’m not. I’m at work and am required to be “on the ball” and capable.

None of which is actually in my job description but I feel too drippy to point that out.

So I’ve had a painful morning dealing with complaints of sexual harassment levelled against our cleaner (sorry, Hygiene Technician), meeting a lighting rep who has totally exhausted my fake interest in light bulbs, dichroics and barn-door shutters, running around trying to catch up on the paperwork that has been flapping around my desk since my day off on Friday and I have just shambled through the most bizarre office conversation ever which started off on the subject of new local authority gumf warning us about the dangers of the “employee terrorist” (the office bully by any other name), leapt onto the John Prescott bulimia bandwagon about halfway through and then finished off on the delightful subject of condensed milk sandwiches as eaten by Lenny Henry on Tiswas back in the early eighties.

My brain feels warped.

I feel like I’ve just coughed it out of my mouth like a dropped bollock in a fashion rather reminiscent of the Ood on Doctor Who on Saturday.

None of which bodes well for the afternoon...

Of Doorbells And Telephones

I’m sure that my irascibility this week has been caused by lack of sleep pure and simple but it’s curious to note that it has had some positive effects.

I’ve noticed that during any R&R time that I’ve managed to claw to myself over the last few days I’ve been more reluctant than usual to answer the doorbell or the telephone.

In fact “reluctant” is an understatement.

I’ve just refused outright to do it. And it’s felt absolutely great.

Not that I’m shutting out friends or neighbours you understand – I’m 99.9% positive that most of these would be intruders were cold callers, charity workers and salesmen. You can always tell. Usually I at least open the door and give them a polite no thanks but this week I’ve just ignored them completely – and taken great delight in the fact that the TV and any ambient household conversations were all perfectly audible.

On the occasion that the telephone has rung and I haven’t recognized the number I haven’t answered it. Sorry. Too bad. Not interested. Even if you are Keeley Hawes begging me for a pint, a curry and a tongue sarnie.

It feels wonderful to be free of the slavery to the ring tone.

I’ll communicate when I’m ready to, thanks.

And when I want new windows I’ll do my own research and make my own decision in my own free time.

Until then the drawbridge is pulled up and there are sharks in the moat. Attempt to cross at your peril.

Blurgh

5 hours sleep.

5 hours sleep.

And possibly that will be considered a good night at some not too distant point in the future.

Yes Tom’s sleep training has begun in earnest. He’s well recovered from his recent bout of gastro-nastiness and so Karen and I have decided that it’s high time we stopped pegging our eyes open with matchsticks and started getting a decent night’s sleep. We can’t go on as we are – lumbering about like one legged dinosaurs with absinthe hangovers. We’re lurching from one illness to the next due to the fact our batteries are not so much run down as slumped into a state of negative energy.

We need to sleep.

Enough’s enough.

And at nearly 6 months Tom is old enough now to go through the night. He just needs to be persuaded.

Sadly PowerPoint presentations leave him cold at the moment so all we can offer him is cold turkey. Last night he woke just after 11.00 – just as Karen and I were dropping off to sleep in fact – and then proceeded to howl and kick his cot like a miniature Hulk for a good 2 hours until exhaustion finally transported him to the state of beatific sleep.

No food is bad! Hulk smash! Oh alright then I’ll go to sleep. Zzzz...

He then slept through until 6.45am – a minor miracle in our house and then proceeded to chow down on his breakfast bottle like a good ‘un with not even a frown let alone a grudge. Ah bless him. So forgiving.

Karen and I estimate (possibly over optimistically) that it should take 2 weeks at the most to train him to sleep through the night. 2 weeks of sitting head heavy in the small hours of the night listening to our little marvel pitch his will against our own. 2 weeks of thinking that it might actually be worth our while booking a hotel room for the night or even flashing a police man just for a quiet night in the cells just to get some much needed sleep.

If I’m desperate I suppose I could always tie several rolls of plastecine to my waist and get myself held under the prevention of terrorism act. 28 days of howl free sleep sounds mighty fine to me. I could even cope with the plastic bag over my head and the greasy truncheon poked about my nether regions...

I’ll do whatever you want Mr Hunt, just let me sleep...!

Sleep Training

A slight pause from the scintillating TV reviews and time to dip my toes once again into the ever present waters of domesticity...

Karen and I are both gritty eyed this morning – so much so if there’d been a frost last night we could have cleared the roads this morning just by looking at them.

Tom woke at 3 am and then 5 am and then stayed awake, screaming for a full hour until I eventually gave in and took him downstairs. We’re desperately trying to dissuade him from waking twice in the night so, although he got fed at 3, he got nada at 5. A nappy change and words of comfort didn’t help at all. Not one iota. He’s a very determined, very focused little boy.

Training a baby to sleep through the night is surprisingly tough. We want to break one habit without kick-starting another hence although he gets a hug it’s kept to a minimum... we don’t want him screaming the place down in the middle of the night for the next 3 months just because he wants some social interaction. It’s difficult letting him cry though. It’s impossible not to feel mean – though as soon as he was picked up he was full of beaming smiles and giggles. Little tyke.

There’s something about a baby’s scream in the small hours that does something to your brain. It’s like having your frontal lobes lanced with a light sabre. A big purple one like Mace Windu’s. I have to say (almost with a sense of pride) that Tom’s lungs have an awe inspiring capacity. People in the street – were there any at that time in the morning and in the gales that were buffeting the little cul-de-sacs of Little Whinging – would have thought that foulest murder was being committed in our house. I’m sure that blue whales out in the Pacific were picking up Tom’s cries and were whistling back for him to be quiet! He even out-galed the gale.

Bless him.

Anyway, it’s ironic that sleep training at the moment seems to mean that nobody gets any sleep at all. All of us are looking sandy eyed and rather “blurgh” this morning – even Tom.

It’s nice to know he so much wants to be part of the family...!

Sleeplessness

The baby’s not even born yet and I’m suffering sleepless nights!

For well over a fortnight now I’ve been waking up around 5am and just lying there, absolutely exhausted but nevertheless wide-eyed and awake and as far from sleep as it’s possible to get. The cumulative effect is that I am now practically a zombie (though hopefully with less offensive BO) and have the ability to fudge up the most basic of physical actions. Weirdly my thought processes don’t seem to be diminished one iota but then, if you’re already at rock bottom, there is no where else left to fall.

Anyway there are number of external factors which are no doubt exacerbating this state of sleeplessness: my neighbour is a postman and leaves the house around 5.30am every morning and seems unable to do so without stomping down his stairs and slamming the door like Marsha’s enigmatic daughter from Spaced. I’m not yet in a position to confirm or deny that he wears the same stripy stockings as well. My boy is also waking up pre-5.30am and as quiet as he tries to be there’s a vast difference between a 6 year old’s idea of quiet and quiet per se. Anyone with kids will know what I mean.

But in all honesty I think I’m just waking up early due to internal factors. When Karen and I lost the baby last year the experience was pretty horrific and although it turned out that Karen was perfectly safe I nevertheless went through the classic “pacing of the hospital corridors at 4.0am” while Karen was carted off to the operating theatre and for 90 minutes I had no idea what the hell was going on. Since then my love of hospitals and all things medical – always pretty ropey at the best of times – has waned rather drastically to the point I get hives at the mere thought of us having to undergo yet another hospital experience.

And of course, now that the date for the caesarean has been set the clock is ticking and so are my facial muscles.

I know, I know, it’ll all be fine.

But I worry.