Saturday, June 27 ‘09
Mrs Bennet didn’t have enough stress in her life. The nurses at her local hospital decided she needed a career in the National Health Service. Her blood pressure was too low and obviously needed a boost.
“How do I get it to go up then?” Mrs Bennet asked the sister.
“We don’t get asked that very often. You need to work here, that’ll make it soar!” she replied.
Mrs Bennet was in Casualty, being checked over for a bruised rib cage. Every time she laughed, she winced. She had tripped over an object in the road in the small hours of the morning – as you do – and had fallen awkwardly on her chest. As the Bust Fairy hadn’t visited her for some time, she didn’t have much padding, and crushed what little assets she had. Obviously sore, she had decided to get herself checked out – despite the embarrassment. Mrs Bennet hadn’t been drinking. Instead, she had been on a very special ladies night out; night being the operative word. She, along with 1,700 other women had, that morning walked 10 miles through and round a nearby town, starting at the stroke of midnight in aid of the local hospice, Cotswold Care. Striding out, the impressive snake of white t-shirts, was anything but silent as it meandered its way through dimly lit streets and parkland. Mrs Bennet had clocked up hundreds of miles over the years in terms of running and not once had she tripped up and fallen over. But then she had never had cause to run at one or two o’clock in the morning. Why would she? Surely being in a comfy bed was much more sensible. The ladies thought so too as they passed a shop selling mattresses and luxury single and double beds, which teased them as they marched by. Mrs Bennet had thought the idea of having a ladies night out and some undisturbed adult time had been a good one at the time. This was before her own lovely mum had been diagnosed with the C word, so now the walk had even more significance. For once, she and her friends could speak in whole sentences, while their legs obediently worked hard. The night air was cool but not cold and unlike 10 o’clock that morning, there wasn’t a drop of rain in sight. However for Mrs Bennet there were other obstacles. She narrowly avoided getting winded by a bollard as it suddenly appeared in the centre of the pavement. Thankfully a friend pulled her away just in time. But at mile three, she failed to see an obstacle in the road, and completely lost her balance, tumbled and fell with a thud – her sternum taking the brunt of the fall. Shaken up, Mrs Bennet fought back the emotion, brushed herself down and kept going. Her chest tight and painful, she wished she had more padding, but vowed to keep on going. She wanted her medal, she wanted to finish and she looked forward to her coffee and croissant at the end.
Hence why she was here at the hospital at a more civilised time. It hurt to laugh and inhale. But apart from popping pain killers and getting some rest, there wasn’t a lot more she could do. As her life wasn’t stressful – according to her blood pressure measurements – rest was easy! Five children weren’t obviously enough for her. In jest, her mother-in-law suggested maybe six or seven might do it. But if that ever happened, it would be the NHS which would be in trouble. And so would Mrs Bennet. It would be Mr Bennet’s blood pressure which would rise for fear his wife had gone off with Mr Darcy.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Monday, 8 June 2009
High price for spending a penny
Monday, June 8 ‘09
Trying to spend a penny with two little people, or even five as was often the case, was no easy task. When nature called, it was a costly trip for Mrs Bennet. Negotiating a double buggy through the toilet door was one thing, trying to entertain two impatient children while she did her business, was another. And when all five little Miss Bennets were with her, it was almost impossible, especially when they decided they needed to go at different intervals and at the most inconvenient moment. A double dose of potty training was looming on the horizon and Mrs Bennet was approaching the prospect with fear and trepidation.
Toilet trips were therefore not expeditions to take lightly. And this one had a heavy price. Mrs Bennet was in her favourite supermarket, precariously balancing Spag and Bol on a grown-up café seat because they refused to swing their legs into a high chair. As the call of nature was pressing, and Jannie, having recently undergone surgery for breast cancer, couldn’t lift a toddler if required, Mrs Bennet opted for the best solution – hopping into the disabled toilet immediately next to her mother, so she could get back within minutes to resolve any lifting crisis.
“I’ll be quick, I promise,” she yelled. And quick she was. But the getting out process was by no means swift. Somehow in between locking herself in, and turning the lock to get out, the mechanism went limp and got stuck. Mrs Bennet couldn’t get out, and anyone outside, couldn’t get in. She was trapped.
“I suppose this is one way to get away from children,” she thought grimly. Confined in what must be a 200m square box, with a pungent nappy bin for company and not a window in sight, Mrs Bennet was steadily getting hotter as time elapsed. She knew there was no point in shouting, “Help!” as no one would hear her. Besides the door holding her captive, a heavy double door separated the toilet from the café.
She just hoped Spag and Bol were behaving themselves. They were at an age where sitting still was a foreign concept unless an apple or an orange – something which required effort and a long period of time to eat – was in their sticky paws. And Mrs Bennet knew they weren’t armed.
She noticed an emergency cord in the corner of her prison. It was the sort of thing Mr Bean would have pulled, simply because he wanted to know what happened if he did. It wasn’t the sort of thing a grown woman did just to see “what if?” But now she had an excuse. She really did need help.
She felt embarrassed she wasn’t a disabled person. But in a sense she was really glad it was herself and not an old lady trapped inside. She was feeling claustrophobic, although she knew from the sound of activity outside that someone had come to her rescue.
“We’re just getting the manager. Are you alright in there?” asked a familiar voice. Mrs Bennet used the café so much as a refuge and writing place with her trusted friend Mr Latte, that she was known by all staff. There was a struggle with the lock, but nothing was happening.
“I ran in here so I didn’t leave my mum with the twins too long. She can’t lift them. Please tell her I’m stuck in here,” Mrs Bennet shouted.
“It’s OK, she says you can stay in there as long as you like! She knows you need a break!”
Jannie had a point. It was a break of sorts. It just wasn't a venue she would have chosen. “Please don’t let the fire brigade get involved. I really don’t want my five minutes of fame in this scenario!” she silently prayed. Although who could complain having a Darcy in uniform running to their aid?
What seemed like hours later, the manager finally unscrewed the lock and let her out. Embarrassed, Mrs Bennet walked free. So many times she had used this tiny cubicle to change a nappy. Today she had only used it to avoid being longer than necessary for her mum’s sake. Spending a penny had proved a lot dearer than she anticipated.
Trying to spend a penny with two little people, or even five as was often the case, was no easy task. When nature called, it was a costly trip for Mrs Bennet. Negotiating a double buggy through the toilet door was one thing, trying to entertain two impatient children while she did her business, was another. And when all five little Miss Bennets were with her, it was almost impossible, especially when they decided they needed to go at different intervals and at the most inconvenient moment. A double dose of potty training was looming on the horizon and Mrs Bennet was approaching the prospect with fear and trepidation.
Toilet trips were therefore not expeditions to take lightly. And this one had a heavy price. Mrs Bennet was in her favourite supermarket, precariously balancing Spag and Bol on a grown-up café seat because they refused to swing their legs into a high chair. As the call of nature was pressing, and Jannie, having recently undergone surgery for breast cancer, couldn’t lift a toddler if required, Mrs Bennet opted for the best solution – hopping into the disabled toilet immediately next to her mother, so she could get back within minutes to resolve any lifting crisis.
“I’ll be quick, I promise,” she yelled. And quick she was. But the getting out process was by no means swift. Somehow in between locking herself in, and turning the lock to get out, the mechanism went limp and got stuck. Mrs Bennet couldn’t get out, and anyone outside, couldn’t get in. She was trapped.
“I suppose this is one way to get away from children,” she thought grimly. Confined in what must be a 200m square box, with a pungent nappy bin for company and not a window in sight, Mrs Bennet was steadily getting hotter as time elapsed. She knew there was no point in shouting, “Help!” as no one would hear her. Besides the door holding her captive, a heavy double door separated the toilet from the café.
She just hoped Spag and Bol were behaving themselves. They were at an age where sitting still was a foreign concept unless an apple or an orange – something which required effort and a long period of time to eat – was in their sticky paws. And Mrs Bennet knew they weren’t armed.
She noticed an emergency cord in the corner of her prison. It was the sort of thing Mr Bean would have pulled, simply because he wanted to know what happened if he did. It wasn’t the sort of thing a grown woman did just to see “what if?” But now she had an excuse. She really did need help.
She felt embarrassed she wasn’t a disabled person. But in a sense she was really glad it was herself and not an old lady trapped inside. She was feeling claustrophobic, although she knew from the sound of activity outside that someone had come to her rescue.
“We’re just getting the manager. Are you alright in there?” asked a familiar voice. Mrs Bennet used the café so much as a refuge and writing place with her trusted friend Mr Latte, that she was known by all staff. There was a struggle with the lock, but nothing was happening.
“I ran in here so I didn’t leave my mum with the twins too long. She can’t lift them. Please tell her I’m stuck in here,” Mrs Bennet shouted.
“It’s OK, she says you can stay in there as long as you like! She knows you need a break!”
Jannie had a point. It was a break of sorts. It just wasn't a venue she would have chosen. “Please don’t let the fire brigade get involved. I really don’t want my five minutes of fame in this scenario!” she silently prayed. Although who could complain having a Darcy in uniform running to their aid?
What seemed like hours later, the manager finally unscrewed the lock and let her out. Embarrassed, Mrs Bennet walked free. So many times she had used this tiny cubicle to change a nappy. Today she had only used it to avoid being longer than necessary for her mum’s sake. Spending a penny had proved a lot dearer than she anticipated.
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Words hurt sometimes
Friday, June 5 ‘09
“Could you move?” An officious headmistress-like voice boomed above the moans Spag and Bol were making from their chariot. The tone wasn’t polite, it was an order. It implied,” you are invading my space,” “you have no right to be here,” and “take those vile children away from me.”
Mrs Bennet felt like a two-year-old herself, being told off for smearing yoghurt in her hair or flicking peas at her sister. Only her sister was some 30 miles away in Bristol filming and she couldn’t flick her peas that far.
Mrs Bennet was in the local public library looking for a suitable DVD for a girly night in. Mr Bennet was flying off to Iran that afternoon until late Tuesday evening so she had invited a friend round for company. In ten minutes time Miss Kezia Bennet had an appointment with the doctors, a mere 100 yards away. But knowing they always ran late, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to get there any earlier than she needed to. With two little girls to entertain, for what could be 40 minutes in a confined space with sick people, she needed somewhere to go to kill a bit of time. Instead she was killed by words. Spag and Bol started moaning in the children’s section of the library. Note, the children’s section. The lady who came from the ilk of children shouldn’t be seen or heard, was sitting at the far end at a computer with head phones on.
Mrs Bennet had visited this library since she had been in nappies herself, some four decades ago, and had never been spoken to like this. How powerful words were. In the wrong hands they could so easily wound and pull down. Mrs Bennet felt ashamed sometimes to be part of the media. She’d been in the “press” brigade for 22 years, yet what she endeavoured to do was use words to inspire and encourage. It felt like swimming against a tide. She had been told when leaving school, “we don’t think you’re tough enough to be a journalist.” But she had no intention of being tough. You could write truthful stories without upsetting people. Not everyone thought that way. With the spoken word though, it wasn’t so much what was said, it was the way it was said. And here in the library, the three words fired at Mrs Bennet, hurt. Granted, not as much as her head which was still battling infection and feeling the side effects of antibiotics. But surprisingly it brought tears to Mrs Bennet’s eyes. And she did not cry in public. She walked away before her anger rose any higher and produced words she didn’t normally utter. But Mrs Bennet’s anger didn’t last. She was more in shock. It was the “could-you-move” lady who was angry. Angry at little children for being children and conveniently forgetting she had been one once. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time she’d told a mother off or ordered her away from the space she was working in. But in her experience, Mrs Bennet knew there was always a story behind a story. She wasn’t about to use words to cause any greater wounds. Instead she just wondered what the lady’s story was. Three words may not offer much insight into a soul, but they conveyed a deep-felt annoyance towards little people. Mrs Bennet looked affectionately at Spag and Bol, who were unaware they were victims of such wrath. Annoying as they were sometimes, these fearfully-and-wonderfully-made twins – different as day and night – were an endless source of amazement and wonder. Mrs Bennet learnt more about herself through them than any self-help book could offer. She vowed never to become an irritable old woman. She would grow old disgracefully, but she wouldn’t learn to spit or speak rude words to anyone. She’d eat the red hat covering her purple hair if she ever did.
“Could you move?” An officious headmistress-like voice boomed above the moans Spag and Bol were making from their chariot. The tone wasn’t polite, it was an order. It implied,” you are invading my space,” “you have no right to be here,” and “take those vile children away from me.”
Mrs Bennet felt like a two-year-old herself, being told off for smearing yoghurt in her hair or flicking peas at her sister. Only her sister was some 30 miles away in Bristol filming and she couldn’t flick her peas that far.
Mrs Bennet was in the local public library looking for a suitable DVD for a girly night in. Mr Bennet was flying off to Iran that afternoon until late Tuesday evening so she had invited a friend round for company. In ten minutes time Miss Kezia Bennet had an appointment with the doctors, a mere 100 yards away. But knowing they always ran late, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to get there any earlier than she needed to. With two little girls to entertain, for what could be 40 minutes in a confined space with sick people, she needed somewhere to go to kill a bit of time. Instead she was killed by words. Spag and Bol started moaning in the children’s section of the library. Note, the children’s section. The lady who came from the ilk of children shouldn’t be seen or heard, was sitting at the far end at a computer with head phones on.
Mrs Bennet had visited this library since she had been in nappies herself, some four decades ago, and had never been spoken to like this. How powerful words were. In the wrong hands they could so easily wound and pull down. Mrs Bennet felt ashamed sometimes to be part of the media. She’d been in the “press” brigade for 22 years, yet what she endeavoured to do was use words to inspire and encourage. It felt like swimming against a tide. She had been told when leaving school, “we don’t think you’re tough enough to be a journalist.” But she had no intention of being tough. You could write truthful stories without upsetting people. Not everyone thought that way. With the spoken word though, it wasn’t so much what was said, it was the way it was said. And here in the library, the three words fired at Mrs Bennet, hurt. Granted, not as much as her head which was still battling infection and feeling the side effects of antibiotics. But surprisingly it brought tears to Mrs Bennet’s eyes. And she did not cry in public. She walked away before her anger rose any higher and produced words she didn’t normally utter. But Mrs Bennet’s anger didn’t last. She was more in shock. It was the “could-you-move” lady who was angry. Angry at little children for being children and conveniently forgetting she had been one once. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time she’d told a mother off or ordered her away from the space she was working in. But in her experience, Mrs Bennet knew there was always a story behind a story. She wasn’t about to use words to cause any greater wounds. Instead she just wondered what the lady’s story was. Three words may not offer much insight into a soul, but they conveyed a deep-felt annoyance towards little people. Mrs Bennet looked affectionately at Spag and Bol, who were unaware they were victims of such wrath. Annoying as they were sometimes, these fearfully-and-wonderfully-made twins – different as day and night – were an endless source of amazement and wonder. Mrs Bennet learnt more about herself through them than any self-help book could offer. She vowed never to become an irritable old woman. She would grow old disgracefully, but she wouldn’t learn to spit or speak rude words to anyone. She’d eat the red hat covering her purple hair if she ever did.
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