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.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Bite-size Pemberley is complete
Friday, May 29 ‘09
Mrs Bennet took off her sky blue Crocs and let the new carpet caress her feet. The carpet fitters were still on their knees but for once she was off hers. She seemed only to have prayed one recurring prayer over the past few months - for grace and humour to get her through to this point. It had worked and today marked the start of a new era. The old and the new parts of the Bennet home were finally joined together with a rolling field of beige – opening it up into the spacious place they so needed. The building project had taken as long as Miss Megan and Miss Emily Bennet’s pregnancies and 10 days short of Spag and Bol’s. Mrs Bennet had felt the growing pains, the heartburn, the cravings, and the discomfort of the house gestation and labour. Like in her four pregnancies, she had born the brunt of it, although Mr Bennet had been there at the birth and beyond. Before bite-size Pemberley even began, Mrs Bennet had told him very firmly that if he wanted a wife at the end of it, then they would have to move out while the Darcys in the Dirt moved in. They didn’t move out and after eight months of dust and disruption, Mrs Bennet was still Mr Bennet’s wife.
Leaving Mr Bennet to put up cots and pay the carpet men, she escaped to celebrate in her own quiet way. It couldn’t be a bottle of chilled rose thanks to a dose of antibiotics to get rid of a nasty infection which set in after that problem tooth had been removed. Incidentally Mrs Bennet had now forgiven the tooth fairy, who apparently had relented and left a pound coin underneath her pillow. It wasn’t quite enough to pay for a stool so Mrs Bennet could reach the chutney and chocolate, but it did help pay for her celebratory drink.
Steaming hot Mr Latte after all had become quite a friend during this whole process of change. He didn’t give her any answers, he didn’t judge and he didn’t give her direction. But he did give her time out from Miss Bennet demands and made her sit down, take stock and more importantly escape when there was just no room to run too.
As the big 4-0 was now approaching, Mrs Bennet had wondered if she had experienced some kind of “I-don’t-want-to-be-forty” moment, or whether it was just the pressure of having five children, a major building extension and grappling with her own anger at her dear mother’s cancer issue. As much as she enjoyed having the Darcys in the Dirt around, she was looking forward to enjoying the spaciousness and places to hide when it all got too much. For a while bite-size Pemberley would look a bit odd, as they didn’t have enough money to buy the furniture needed to fill it. But a few cushions would do for now. Her shed was to be called The Space. It would be hers to go whenever she wanted. There was the problem of finding a desk, but as she’d earmarked an old piece of lounge carpet, which the carpet fitters had kindly laid for her, and the battered futon, all she needed was her laptop, some classical music, her laptop, sketchbook and Mr Latte and she would be in her own world for a few minutes – a world where she could just be and dream again. Having five children was such a privilege, but if she was honest at times, it could be a little too much. Her octopus had never arrived, so she did her best to provide a loving arm to which ever Miss Bennet needed it at the time. It did mean that Miss Kezia or Bol was forever hanging in monkey-fashion around her shin while she did so, but although she didn’t like it even Bol knew Mrs Bennet’s love had to go around.
During the whole Pemberley episode, Mrs Bennet had learnt a valuable lesson. That it was vital, while she was attending to the needs of her growing brood, she had to attend to her own needs too. In recent weeks having written about the plethora of artists and creative people living in her area, she had succumbed to her own long-forgotten painting cravings, and gone out and bought some canvases and paints. Now the Darcys in the Dirt were gone and the drilling had stopped, Mrs Bennet could concentrate on being a mother, a friend, a lover and the creative being she knew she was. Life in bite-sized Pemberley would no doubt have its moments of excitement and frustrations, but it would be a house of laughter and life, providing volumes and volumes of memories for her to capture with her pen. So long as she kept off the spicy olives, she could concentrate on bringing up her Bennet production line and not add to it any further.
Mrs Bennet took off her sky blue Crocs and let the new carpet caress her feet. The carpet fitters were still on their knees but for once she was off hers. She seemed only to have prayed one recurring prayer over the past few months - for grace and humour to get her through to this point. It had worked and today marked the start of a new era. The old and the new parts of the Bennet home were finally joined together with a rolling field of beige – opening it up into the spacious place they so needed. The building project had taken as long as Miss Megan and Miss Emily Bennet’s pregnancies and 10 days short of Spag and Bol’s. Mrs Bennet had felt the growing pains, the heartburn, the cravings, and the discomfort of the house gestation and labour. Like in her four pregnancies, she had born the brunt of it, although Mr Bennet had been there at the birth and beyond. Before bite-size Pemberley even began, Mrs Bennet had told him very firmly that if he wanted a wife at the end of it, then they would have to move out while the Darcys in the Dirt moved in. They didn’t move out and after eight months of dust and disruption, Mrs Bennet was still Mr Bennet’s wife.
Leaving Mr Bennet to put up cots and pay the carpet men, she escaped to celebrate in her own quiet way. It couldn’t be a bottle of chilled rose thanks to a dose of antibiotics to get rid of a nasty infection which set in after that problem tooth had been removed. Incidentally Mrs Bennet had now forgiven the tooth fairy, who apparently had relented and left a pound coin underneath her pillow. It wasn’t quite enough to pay for a stool so Mrs Bennet could reach the chutney and chocolate, but it did help pay for her celebratory drink.
Steaming hot Mr Latte after all had become quite a friend during this whole process of change. He didn’t give her any answers, he didn’t judge and he didn’t give her direction. But he did give her time out from Miss Bennet demands and made her sit down, take stock and more importantly escape when there was just no room to run too.
As the big 4-0 was now approaching, Mrs Bennet had wondered if she had experienced some kind of “I-don’t-want-to-be-forty” moment, or whether it was just the pressure of having five children, a major building extension and grappling with her own anger at her dear mother’s cancer issue. As much as she enjoyed having the Darcys in the Dirt around, she was looking forward to enjoying the spaciousness and places to hide when it all got too much. For a while bite-size Pemberley would look a bit odd, as they didn’t have enough money to buy the furniture needed to fill it. But a few cushions would do for now. Her shed was to be called The Space. It would be hers to go whenever she wanted. There was the problem of finding a desk, but as she’d earmarked an old piece of lounge carpet, which the carpet fitters had kindly laid for her, and the battered futon, all she needed was her laptop, some classical music, her laptop, sketchbook and Mr Latte and she would be in her own world for a few minutes – a world where she could just be and dream again. Having five children was such a privilege, but if she was honest at times, it could be a little too much. Her octopus had never arrived, so she did her best to provide a loving arm to which ever Miss Bennet needed it at the time. It did mean that Miss Kezia or Bol was forever hanging in monkey-fashion around her shin while she did so, but although she didn’t like it even Bol knew Mrs Bennet’s love had to go around.
During the whole Pemberley episode, Mrs Bennet had learnt a valuable lesson. That it was vital, while she was attending to the needs of her growing brood, she had to attend to her own needs too. In recent weeks having written about the plethora of artists and creative people living in her area, she had succumbed to her own long-forgotten painting cravings, and gone out and bought some canvases and paints. Now the Darcys in the Dirt were gone and the drilling had stopped, Mrs Bennet could concentrate on being a mother, a friend, a lover and the creative being she knew she was. Life in bite-sized Pemberley would no doubt have its moments of excitement and frustrations, but it would be a house of laughter and life, providing volumes and volumes of memories for her to capture with her pen. So long as she kept off the spicy olives, she could concentrate on bringing up her Bennet production line and not add to it any further.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
Forget fainting Mrs Bennet gets knocked out instead
Thursday, May 21 ‘09
Mrs Bennet did not faint again in the dentist’s chair as she feared she might. Instead she faced her fear and went anyway, after eating a good breakfast and stuffing a banana in her mouth 15 minutes before her appointment. Having consulted a laughter book she had by her bed, she had found a quote from the Bible which said “you will run and not faint.” Well that morning she ran four miles, and she didn’t faint whilst having a tooth out either – despite the fact she had it removed, while serenaded to Abba’s “SOS!” The tooth’s life had ended, but so too had the abscess. With all the pressure off the nerve ending, the dentist informed her she should start feeling better as her body wouldn’t have to fight off any more poison. That was reassuring anyway.
But this morning she was annoyed. The tooth fairy, obviously not very impressed with Mrs Bennet, who had left a note for her instead of the tooth in question, didn’t leave her anything. Not wishing to look at her poorly tooth, Mrs Bennet had left it with the dentist. Therefore there hadn't been a proper offering to give the fairy. So she didn't leave a proper offering for Mrs Bennet. It meant Mrs Bennet couldn’t buy the stool she needed for the kitchen, so instead she took the children’s plastic step, once part of a potty in a previous life, from the bathroom.
Twenty-four hours after the extraction event, Mrs Bennet still couldn’t feel her tongue and her right cheek was starting to throb. She didn’t feel the best, but mothers always soldier on, don’t they?
And so she arrived at school later that day to pick up the older three Bennets who had stayed late for various cooking and library clubs. As usual the three of them walked up to the school gate, with a member of staff to where Mrs Bennet was waiting on non-yellow lines to greet them. As the Scooby Doo van only had one door, which needed a certain strength to slide open, Mrs Bennet got out to walk round and let them in. Two of them climbed in. But then hearing a gasp of horror from one of them, Mrs Bennet turned and realised the car was moving forward. Being an automatic car, instead of being in park mode, Mrs Bennet had left it in drive mode, and it obeyed. It was going very slowly forward so Mrs Bennet ran round to see if she could get to the handbrake in time. Unfortunately in trying to open the door, she somehow managed to hit her head on the door and fell backwards into the road, while the car crashed into a Cotswold stone wall and came to a halt. Two of the children inside were upset, the poor child outside watching was upset, while the twins were chatting away, oblivious to what was going on. Mrs Bennet went white as a mum and teacher ran to her aid. Her head hurt and all she could think about was the children. She was just so thankful the car had been on a flat road and not on a hill. It could have been a lot lot worse.
Half an hour later she went into shock, shook for quite a while and ran Mr Bennet and told him to keep talking to her until she felt better. With five children on board, she was not going to put them at risk and drive until she was ready. Thankfully she had been wise enough to call a close friend for help, who came and kept her company. Relieved their mum was going to be OK, the Miss Bennets forgave her for not driving them to their friends’ house, where they were due to go for tea. Amazingly there were no paddies or displays of disappointment. Instead shocked by the runaway car and their mum’s attempt at head butting the door, they, like Mrs Bennet were just glad to get home. Mrs Bennet wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. She took a dose of pain killers and went to bed, hoping tomorrow would be better. Perhaps the tooth fairy might think again and make a return visit to her pillow.
Mrs Bennet did not faint again in the dentist’s chair as she feared she might. Instead she faced her fear and went anyway, after eating a good breakfast and stuffing a banana in her mouth 15 minutes before her appointment. Having consulted a laughter book she had by her bed, she had found a quote from the Bible which said “you will run and not faint.” Well that morning she ran four miles, and she didn’t faint whilst having a tooth out either – despite the fact she had it removed, while serenaded to Abba’s “SOS!” The tooth’s life had ended, but so too had the abscess. With all the pressure off the nerve ending, the dentist informed her she should start feeling better as her body wouldn’t have to fight off any more poison. That was reassuring anyway.
But this morning she was annoyed. The tooth fairy, obviously not very impressed with Mrs Bennet, who had left a note for her instead of the tooth in question, didn’t leave her anything. Not wishing to look at her poorly tooth, Mrs Bennet had left it with the dentist. Therefore there hadn't been a proper offering to give the fairy. So she didn't leave a proper offering for Mrs Bennet. It meant Mrs Bennet couldn’t buy the stool she needed for the kitchen, so instead she took the children’s plastic step, once part of a potty in a previous life, from the bathroom.
Twenty-four hours after the extraction event, Mrs Bennet still couldn’t feel her tongue and her right cheek was starting to throb. She didn’t feel the best, but mothers always soldier on, don’t they?
And so she arrived at school later that day to pick up the older three Bennets who had stayed late for various cooking and library clubs. As usual the three of them walked up to the school gate, with a member of staff to where Mrs Bennet was waiting on non-yellow lines to greet them. As the Scooby Doo van only had one door, which needed a certain strength to slide open, Mrs Bennet got out to walk round and let them in. Two of them climbed in. But then hearing a gasp of horror from one of them, Mrs Bennet turned and realised the car was moving forward. Being an automatic car, instead of being in park mode, Mrs Bennet had left it in drive mode, and it obeyed. It was going very slowly forward so Mrs Bennet ran round to see if she could get to the handbrake in time. Unfortunately in trying to open the door, she somehow managed to hit her head on the door and fell backwards into the road, while the car crashed into a Cotswold stone wall and came to a halt. Two of the children inside were upset, the poor child outside watching was upset, while the twins were chatting away, oblivious to what was going on. Mrs Bennet went white as a mum and teacher ran to her aid. Her head hurt and all she could think about was the children. She was just so thankful the car had been on a flat road and not on a hill. It could have been a lot lot worse.
Half an hour later she went into shock, shook for quite a while and ran Mr Bennet and told him to keep talking to her until she felt better. With five children on board, she was not going to put them at risk and drive until she was ready. Thankfully she had been wise enough to call a close friend for help, who came and kept her company. Relieved their mum was going to be OK, the Miss Bennets forgave her for not driving them to their friends’ house, where they were due to go for tea. Amazingly there were no paddies or displays of disappointment. Instead shocked by the runaway car and their mum’s attempt at head butting the door, they, like Mrs Bennet were just glad to get home. Mrs Bennet wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. She took a dose of pain killers and went to bed, hoping tomorrow would be better. Perhaps the tooth fairy might think again and make a return visit to her pillow.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
With gritted teeth…..
Tuesday, May 19 ‘09
Mrs Bennet was feeling nervous. Tomorrow she was going back to have that dreaded tooth removed. She hadn’t felt right since her passing out saga. The thought of returning didn’t exactly fill her with much joy. It may well be a break from children but she could think of nicer places to go. Would she faint again? Could she go through with the procedure? Could she manage to stop thinking about what the dentist was doing? Would she be able to block out the horrible noise factor and think positive thoughts? The trouble was she had seen the torturous instrument responsible for extraction and it looked too similar to the contraption the builders had just used to pull up some tiles from the Bennets old kitchen floor. It was not a kind looking instrument. It looked like it could inflict pain and Mrs Bennet knew its relation would be back in her mouth tomorrow lunchtime.
She tried to take her mind off the matter. But every time she tried to eat something, it only reminded her that all was not well in her mouth. However the Darcys in the Dirt were getting on well now. With just three days left before every tool – including the macabre-looking instrument – walked out with their owners, bite-size Pemberley was a centre of noise and activity. The old kitchen was now part bathroom, part walk-in cupboard; the new kitchen was almost complete as Chief Mr Darcy grouted the tiles and secured wooden doors. And finally six months after the shed men had built her office, the electricity had been connected. The problem was, as the Bennets hadn’t been able to borrow all the money they had wanted, there were now no spare pounds to buy Mrs Bennet a desk or the additional luxury of her Mr Latte machine which she had so dreamed about. She would just have to wait a little bit longer.
The sound of drills echoed in her head as she tried to edit a radio piece on breastfeeding. It was a sound she did not want to hear in light of tomorrow.
Instead she tried to concentrate on the voice in her headphones. She was facilitating a radio project, whereby a group of ladies were being trained – by her – to interview lots of different people about the myths, difficulties, funny stories and attitudes concerning breastfeeding. The myth she was editing related to size. The question was: did it matter how large you were when it came to breast feeding your baby? The answer the midwife gave was so funny it made her roar with laughter.
“Whether you have two gnats on the end of an ironing board or you have a trombone to deal with, every mother will have more than enough milk to feed one baby, or two or three!”
Mrs Bennet had proved the fact that gnats did very well when it came to feeding two hungry twins. She looked back at the milk bar days with fondness. Seeing Spag and Bol running round with oodles of energy, giggling and bumping into each other with their new pushchairs, it was hard to imagine them ever being the tiny vulnerable bundles they once were.
“I would so love to make time stop sometimes. They just grow up so quickly, like sand slipping through your fingers,” she thought.
But then there were moments like those in the dentist chair that seemed to last forever and didn’t go quick enough. Purees were a thing of the past for the little Miss Bennets, but not so for Mrs Bennet. She would be on the organic baby food tomorrow. Baby rice pudding had always been her favourite.
Mrs Bennet was feeling nervous. Tomorrow she was going back to have that dreaded tooth removed. She hadn’t felt right since her passing out saga. The thought of returning didn’t exactly fill her with much joy. It may well be a break from children but she could think of nicer places to go. Would she faint again? Could she go through with the procedure? Could she manage to stop thinking about what the dentist was doing? Would she be able to block out the horrible noise factor and think positive thoughts? The trouble was she had seen the torturous instrument responsible for extraction and it looked too similar to the contraption the builders had just used to pull up some tiles from the Bennets old kitchen floor. It was not a kind looking instrument. It looked like it could inflict pain and Mrs Bennet knew its relation would be back in her mouth tomorrow lunchtime.
She tried to take her mind off the matter. But every time she tried to eat something, it only reminded her that all was not well in her mouth. However the Darcys in the Dirt were getting on well now. With just three days left before every tool – including the macabre-looking instrument – walked out with their owners, bite-size Pemberley was a centre of noise and activity. The old kitchen was now part bathroom, part walk-in cupboard; the new kitchen was almost complete as Chief Mr Darcy grouted the tiles and secured wooden doors. And finally six months after the shed men had built her office, the electricity had been connected. The problem was, as the Bennets hadn’t been able to borrow all the money they had wanted, there were now no spare pounds to buy Mrs Bennet a desk or the additional luxury of her Mr Latte machine which she had so dreamed about. She would just have to wait a little bit longer.
The sound of drills echoed in her head as she tried to edit a radio piece on breastfeeding. It was a sound she did not want to hear in light of tomorrow.
Instead she tried to concentrate on the voice in her headphones. She was facilitating a radio project, whereby a group of ladies were being trained – by her – to interview lots of different people about the myths, difficulties, funny stories and attitudes concerning breastfeeding. The myth she was editing related to size. The question was: did it matter how large you were when it came to breast feeding your baby? The answer the midwife gave was so funny it made her roar with laughter.
“Whether you have two gnats on the end of an ironing board or you have a trombone to deal with, every mother will have more than enough milk to feed one baby, or two or three!”
Mrs Bennet had proved the fact that gnats did very well when it came to feeding two hungry twins. She looked back at the milk bar days with fondness. Seeing Spag and Bol running round with oodles of energy, giggling and bumping into each other with their new pushchairs, it was hard to imagine them ever being the tiny vulnerable bundles they once were.
“I would so love to make time stop sometimes. They just grow up so quickly, like sand slipping through your fingers,” she thought.
But then there were moments like those in the dentist chair that seemed to last forever and didn’t go quick enough. Purees were a thing of the past for the little Miss Bennets, but not so for Mrs Bennet. She would be on the organic baby food tomorrow. Baby rice pudding had always been her favourite.
Friday, 15 May 2009
Passing out in style
Thursday, May 14 09
Mrs Bennet needn’t have worried about having an emotional torrent in the dentist's chair. She did much worse. Seven weeks ago, as she sat in the reclining position, to her horror she cried. Jannie had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having held the tears back like a dam, to protect the children, unfortunately the only time there wasn’t a small person around, was in the dentist’s chair. And as the dentist pressed the button to tilt her backwards, he must have unlocked the floodgate. And the floods came, preventing him from removing the poorly tooth which had caused Mrs Bennet grief for almost 10 months, due to a festering abscess. Seven weeks later, Mrs Bennet was back, feeling calm and ready for pain. She’d given birth to five children without pain relief, so she could surely manage a tooth extraction.
Two injections later, all was well - until Mrs Bennet could see the instruments and started imagining what the dentist was doing. It was like watching a gardener attacking the roots of stubborn vegetables; only it was her roots he was dealing with. Her jaw felt like it was being yanked from its socket. She suddenly felt hot, her ears seemed to block out sound and the voices in the room were scarily quiet. She managed an “I don’t feel right,” and the next thing she knew her pulse was being taken, the seat lowered and the operation stopped. Mrs Bennet was horrified. How embarrassing. The procedure would have to continue next week. In the meantime her tooth was now slightly dislodged and as she drove home, a glucose tablet and glass of water later, bits of it started falling off. This was not going to be a fun week. A week of throbbing gums and anxious waiting for yet another visit to the dentist's chair. It was also going to be a week of Darcys in the Dirt ripping up tiles, plastering, plumbing, drilling and banging for all they were worth in order to finish their deadline, which was next Friday. Mr Bennet had ordered the carpet fitters to come the week after, so the Darcys had to finish all the major building work. Mr No Personality surveyor was due to visit the bite-size Pemberley in the coming weeks and unless he was satisfied, the money needed to pay for the work, would stay sitting in the building society. It had felt like Changing Rooms in the past few days and Mrs Bennet half expected Carole Smilie to pop into the kitchen for a much-needed cuppa. Mrs Bennet needed vodka or something similar right now. But thought better of it. Alcohol mixed with anaesthetic might not be such a good idea.
Instead she dosed herself up with paracetamol and spent the next three hours writing. It was the only thing which took her mind off into a different world. It provided a window into a space that was her own. Mrs Bennet was surrounded by chaos, but once she started tapping at the computer keys, she could block out dust, muddle and mess and write something which had a beginning, middle and an end. She knew bite-size Pemberley was almost there, but like her half extracted tooth, it wasn’t there yet. And she suspected it would get worse before it got better. Once done though, the space and the relief of coming through nine months of mayhem would be great. Would it be worth it? Yes. Would she go through it again? Definitely not.
Mrs Bennet needn’t have worried about having an emotional torrent in the dentist's chair. She did much worse. Seven weeks ago, as she sat in the reclining position, to her horror she cried. Jannie had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having held the tears back like a dam, to protect the children, unfortunately the only time there wasn’t a small person around, was in the dentist’s chair. And as the dentist pressed the button to tilt her backwards, he must have unlocked the floodgate. And the floods came, preventing him from removing the poorly tooth which had caused Mrs Bennet grief for almost 10 months, due to a festering abscess. Seven weeks later, Mrs Bennet was back, feeling calm and ready for pain. She’d given birth to five children without pain relief, so she could surely manage a tooth extraction.
Two injections later, all was well - until Mrs Bennet could see the instruments and started imagining what the dentist was doing. It was like watching a gardener attacking the roots of stubborn vegetables; only it was her roots he was dealing with. Her jaw felt like it was being yanked from its socket. She suddenly felt hot, her ears seemed to block out sound and the voices in the room were scarily quiet. She managed an “I don’t feel right,” and the next thing she knew her pulse was being taken, the seat lowered and the operation stopped. Mrs Bennet was horrified. How embarrassing. The procedure would have to continue next week. In the meantime her tooth was now slightly dislodged and as she drove home, a glucose tablet and glass of water later, bits of it started falling off. This was not going to be a fun week. A week of throbbing gums and anxious waiting for yet another visit to the dentist's chair. It was also going to be a week of Darcys in the Dirt ripping up tiles, plastering, plumbing, drilling and banging for all they were worth in order to finish their deadline, which was next Friday. Mr Bennet had ordered the carpet fitters to come the week after, so the Darcys had to finish all the major building work. Mr No Personality surveyor was due to visit the bite-size Pemberley in the coming weeks and unless he was satisfied, the money needed to pay for the work, would stay sitting in the building society. It had felt like Changing Rooms in the past few days and Mrs Bennet half expected Carole Smilie to pop into the kitchen for a much-needed cuppa. Mrs Bennet needed vodka or something similar right now. But thought better of it. Alcohol mixed with anaesthetic might not be such a good idea.
Instead she dosed herself up with paracetamol and spent the next three hours writing. It was the only thing which took her mind off into a different world. It provided a window into a space that was her own. Mrs Bennet was surrounded by chaos, but once she started tapping at the computer keys, she could block out dust, muddle and mess and write something which had a beginning, middle and an end. She knew bite-size Pemberley was almost there, but like her half extracted tooth, it wasn’t there yet. And she suspected it would get worse before it got better. Once done though, the space and the relief of coming through nine months of mayhem would be great. Would it be worth it? Yes. Would she go through it again? Definitely not.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
