Thursday, 16 August 2007

The Wrong Pair of Trousers

It's hot, hot, HOT here this weekend. We got back from Guide Camp on Friday afternoon and collapsed in a woodsmoke-scented heap, emerging at intervals to throw another load of washing into the machine. Now I'm drowning in clean laundry, and the woodsmoke is gradually diminishing for another year.

Saturday morning the heat drove us out of bed early, but apathy led us to stay in PJs until finally caffeine withdrawal drove me to Tesco's. I hate running out of coffee. My morning cup of coffee wakes me up and kickstarts my brain; without it I find myself walking from room to room forgetting what I was supposed to be doing and hunting desperately for clues. Picture the scene. Mog has been calling out for a while, hinting that it's time to get up. I go to her, open up the side of her bed, turn around for clothing and realise everything she posesses is in the laundry mountain in the sunroom. Meander over to the sunroom, pick up ribbons, put them back in the cupboard, throw another pile of laundry off the clothes horse onto the mountain, stroll back into the kitchen and look longingly at the kettle. A gentle hint from Mog and I'm back in her room, investigate the wardrobe, return to the sunroom, sift through the laundry mountain and find a set of clothes for her. Drape it on her wheelchair in the kitchen, go through the cupboard (again) in the desperate hope of finding more coffee. Mog gives a less gentle hint that she's still waiting to be dressed. Grab her clothes, head back to her room, change her nappy and take the wet one into the bathroom. Throw it away and find myself brushing my own teeth and hair, washing the shower bench, listening out for Little Fish until finally Mog makes it very clear that my job is to GET HER IN HER CHAIR RIGHT NOW. Which I finally manage to do, before repeating the process for Little Fish, her own morning routine taking three times as long as usual as I manage to forget her tube feed, do her feed but forget her medicines, manage her medicines but lose the syringe, brush her hair but lose her glasses, and so on.

Finally time to throw clothes on myself and we're off. Unable to face sifting the laundry mountain for a third time this morning, I instead reach for the cluster of rejected clothing at the back of my wardrobe and am somewhat suprised to discover a relatively new pair of trousers and a Tshirt which doesn't clash horribly and also doesn't need ironing (I am such an elegant dresser). Clean underwear also miraculously appears, not quite sure what it's doing on Mog's standing frame rather than in the cupboard but hey, it's clean, it fits, I'm dressed.

So, about 3 hours after waking up we are finally ready to hit Tesco's. By now it's nearly lunchtime, and the entire world appears to have had the same idea. Busy does not describe it. Not that I'm complaining, on this the hottest weekend of the year so far, Tesco's is air conditioned and so the longer it takes us to go round the better. But first we need to unload the van. As I bend down to unfold our ramp, I notice an unexpected breeze between my legs. Looking down I realise that the reason my trousers were lying in the reject pile was a nice 2 inch rip in the crotch seam. Fetching. I adjust my Tshirt in the hope it'll hide it, and kneel down to unclamp Mog's wheelchair. Rrrrripppppp and 2 inches has become 4. Nevermind; I'll walk carefully - if we go home again without coffee there's a strong possibility I'll become so mindless we'll never manage to coordinate leaving the house again.

So, Mog in her chair, Little Fish planted in a shopping trolley, we do the Push-one,pull-one shuffle across the carpark and into the shop. Ah blessed breeze and finally we can breathe properly. We manage to prolong the shop by hunting through the sales rails where I find some wellies and sandals for Little Fish and some pullovers for both girls. A little dress for Little Fish completes our clothing haul and we head for the shop proper. Mog is deeply unimpressed about the lack of new shoes in her size, and spends the next 20 minutes kicking her socks off in protest. After they are returned by the 4th passerby I give up, whip them off her feet and let her wiggle her toes in the breeze. She spends the rest of the shop trying to knock the displays over and kicking fellow shoppers. Toad. Little Fish contributes her mite by grabbing random items from our trolley and feeding them into any passing trolley she can reach. Marvellous.

Coffee aisle at last, I stock up on a couple of jars and some decent filter coffee (Cafe Direct Machu Picchu if you're interested) and can finally relax into the rest of the shop. I relax too much, bend down to pick up the latest item Little Fish has reorganised onto the floor, and rrippppp again, 4 inch hole is now 8 inches and I'm forced to walk as though I've wet my pants for the rest of the shop. Not unnaturally, this proves somewhat distracting, and on going through the checkout I realise I have forgotten most of the things we need whilst at the same time for some reason managing to fill the trolley with non-essential yummies; doughnuts, potato skins and chicken fajitas. Ah well, at least I have the coffee.

We waddle back to the carpark, Little Fish doing her level best to empty the trolley completely whilst Mog tries her hardest to set car alarms off by kicking out as I push her past them. OK van open, CLANG and the ramp is down, trundle trundle trundle and Mog is inside and clamped in, screech screech screech and Little Fish is also strapped down, protesting all the way. Shopping thrown in behind them, I bend down to fold the ramp back up again and Rrrippppp the hole is now right down to my knee. Definitely time to go home!



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