As from this morning there is a new rule in our house. It's a very necessary rule as due to the apparent inability of my children to focus on a damn word I say to them in the mornings, I was well on the way to turning into something rather unpleasant. Think half human, half sheepdog but without the winning displays of affection or the lovely waggy tail.
Sick of the sound of my own voice endlessly repeating tedious missives like "time to brush your teeth" or "ties, jumpers and shoes on NOW please" and observing said children wafting about engaging in push-shove-screech 'games' or simply just wafting, aimlessly around the place, the stress of simply trying to leave the house on time for school was just too much.
"For goodness SAKE" I'd hear myself cry, "it's the same routine every BLIPPING morning! You KNOW what to do to get ready for school!" And so it would continue, often culminating in me frantically herding them out the door, one eye on the clock and forgetting that vital envelope containing something so important that if it wasn't handed into the school office TODAY the world will surely end.
So at around 0732, I informed them, in a slightly detached, non-confrontational manner, about the new rule. "Oh kids? I have something to tell you actually, about this morning, in fact every morning from now on." They pricked up their little ears and I suddenly had their full attention. "You see the thing is, Mummy is only going to tell you to do something one time. I'll make sure you've heard me" (it would be a bit unsporting to whisper it) "and then if you don't do it straight away, well, I won't be shouting at you or chasing you around anymore, no. I'm just going to get myself totally ready and wait by the front door for you. If you make us late then you'll have to go in, on your own and explain to the teacher why you're late and if it happens more than once, well, the headmaster will probably get involved too".
Reader, you should have seen their little faces. And it worked - a treat. I didn't raise my voice once, the only moment of doubt was when delightful daughter - DD - tried to test me by not coming to have her hair plaited when I asked her to. I simply put the brush down and told DD that she'd be going to school resembling a scarecrow. She complied immediately and the hair got done. The best bit was when super son - SS - allowed me to kiss him goodbye on the top of his head (I'm not allowed to make kiss-contact with any other part of his face anymore sadly) and said "Mummy, it was really good this morning. Can we do that all the time?".
Tuesday 27 November 2012
Monday 26 November 2012
Mummy I feel sick
The words that every working mum dreads to hear, first thing on a Monday morning are probably along the lines of "mummy I feel sick". Now I've written before about acting in a cowardly fashion and to my shame I'm about to do it again. When my delightful daughter - DD - uttered those fateful words a week ago today, I'm afraid that my survival instinct not only took over, it firmly elbowed any maternal ones out of the way and it may even have launched a sly kick to the stomach as it raced on by in an effort to get me out of the house as quickly as possible before I would have to take responsibility and deal with the situation by not going to work.
DD said she felt sick at 07.14 and yes, as I risked a sideways glance, she did look a tad pale. By 07.16 there was a something of a tense standoff in the kitchen as handsome hubby - HH- and I circled each other warily, neither of us daring to speak in case a weakness was shown or an inch of ground involuntarily given. The stakes were high, who would blink first? I calmly took my porridge out of the microwave and stirred it, pretending to be engrossed in an item on Today.
HH took a bite of his toast and said...nothing. We ate. In silence. My stock rose a little as the realisation dawned that as I had got up before him and was in fact, fully dressed, I therefore had more right than he, still in his bathrobe, to go to work. HH's chances drooped still further as he was also down to do the school drop-off that morning anyway. I inwardly cursed the fact that I hadn't got up and left the house even earlier, thus avoiding being in this situation at all.
Both of us desperately hoped of course, that DD would suddenly declare that she felt better and could, in fact, manage some breakfast. She didn't. Super son - SS - munched his cereal and described to us, in detail, how he planned to modify his Lego Star Wars space ship thing into a B52 bomber. He must have sensed a lack of interest from his audience. DD sat on a bar stool, shoulders slumped, and said again in a very small voice "mummy I really do feel sick now".
I swiftly ran through the various scenarios in my head, acknowledging and then dismissing them like flicking empty tin cans off a wall. Childminder - no - she won't be able to have any other children so no income. My dad - no - too risky as it might be the start of the noro-virus which could all but finish off a man in his seventies and I don't want that on my conscience just before Christmas. Me - no way - I can't let the BBC down as I'm only there a few days this month and I've pushed hard for these shifts! But it was starting to look as if I had no choice and as I put my empty bowl in the dishwasher I resigned myself to being a good mother, but a bad employee.
Then without warning, like the sun appearing from behind a cloud, HH finished his toast and said, "actually don't worry, I can probably work from home today, I'll do my meetings via conference calls instead". Honestly in my head the Allelujah Chorus sung by a heavenly choir was in full, glorious flow. I didn't need telling twice. I grabbed my coat and bag and ran for the hills.
DD said she felt sick at 07.14 and yes, as I risked a sideways glance, she did look a tad pale. By 07.16 there was a something of a tense standoff in the kitchen as handsome hubby - HH- and I circled each other warily, neither of us daring to speak in case a weakness was shown or an inch of ground involuntarily given. The stakes were high, who would blink first? I calmly took my porridge out of the microwave and stirred it, pretending to be engrossed in an item on Today.
HH took a bite of his toast and said...nothing. We ate. In silence. My stock rose a little as the realisation dawned that as I had got up before him and was in fact, fully dressed, I therefore had more right than he, still in his bathrobe, to go to work. HH's chances drooped still further as he was also down to do the school drop-off that morning anyway. I inwardly cursed the fact that I hadn't got up and left the house even earlier, thus avoiding being in this situation at all.
Both of us desperately hoped of course, that DD would suddenly declare that she felt better and could, in fact, manage some breakfast. She didn't. Super son - SS - munched his cereal and described to us, in detail, how he planned to modify his Lego Star Wars space ship thing into a B52 bomber. He must have sensed a lack of interest from his audience. DD sat on a bar stool, shoulders slumped, and said again in a very small voice "mummy I really do feel sick now".
I swiftly ran through the various scenarios in my head, acknowledging and then dismissing them like flicking empty tin cans off a wall. Childminder - no - she won't be able to have any other children so no income. My dad - no - too risky as it might be the start of the noro-virus which could all but finish off a man in his seventies and I don't want that on my conscience just before Christmas. Me - no way - I can't let the BBC down as I'm only there a few days this month and I've pushed hard for these shifts! But it was starting to look as if I had no choice and as I put my empty bowl in the dishwasher I resigned myself to being a good mother, but a bad employee.
Then without warning, like the sun appearing from behind a cloud, HH finished his toast and said, "actually don't worry, I can probably work from home today, I'll do my meetings via conference calls instead". Honestly in my head the Allelujah Chorus sung by a heavenly choir was in full, glorious flow. I didn't need telling twice. I grabbed my coat and bag and ran for the hills.
Friday 16 November 2012
Hell is other people - and their children
I came away from our local leisure centre last night feeling traumatised and abused. Not in the Jimmy Savile way thank goodness, but aurally. Another mum was sitting, in the row behind me, watching all the kids take part in their usual Thursday night class. This mum also had a toddler who was, shall we say, going through the 'terrible twos' with a vengeance.
This child was not behaving well, but so far so typical with a toddler. God knows I have had my own fair share of brattish children screaming and generally behaving like they've got three sixes transcribed on their skull, but when they did kick off in public I would always try to remove them so as not to let it impact on those around us.
Apparently this toddler kept hitting his mother so her response was to pick him up and put him on the floor about six feet away and say to him repeatedly in a loud voice "no hitting mummy!". The child's response was to open his adorable little rosebud mouth and screech and yell with the intensity of a police or air raid siren for about five minutes until his mother picked him up again.
This pattern continued, without a break, for the duration of the class which was an agonising 45 minutes. I turned to look at the screaming child on the floor and then to the mother who strangely, was not making eye contact with anyone. I then turned to look at the other mums with a "WTF?" expression on my face which they all returned some with stifled giggles others with barely concealed irritation.
What I should have done of course, but was too cowardly to do so, was to go up to this woman and say "madam whilst I applaud your efforts to discipline your son, could you not take him elsewhere when he starts to scream and yell so that we, who are effectively trapped here in this area, do not have to listen to the racket?"
Next time, next time, next time dear reader. Watch this space!
This child was not behaving well, but so far so typical with a toddler. God knows I have had my own fair share of brattish children screaming and generally behaving like they've got three sixes transcribed on their skull, but when they did kick off in public I would always try to remove them so as not to let it impact on those around us.
Apparently this toddler kept hitting his mother so her response was to pick him up and put him on the floor about six feet away and say to him repeatedly in a loud voice "no hitting mummy!". The child's response was to open his adorable little rosebud mouth and screech and yell with the intensity of a police or air raid siren for about five minutes until his mother picked him up again.
This pattern continued, without a break, for the duration of the class which was an agonising 45 minutes. I turned to look at the screaming child on the floor and then to the mother who strangely, was not making eye contact with anyone. I then turned to look at the other mums with a "WTF?" expression on my face which they all returned some with stifled giggles others with barely concealed irritation.
What I should have done of course, but was too cowardly to do so, was to go up to this woman and say "madam whilst I applaud your efforts to discipline your son, could you not take him elsewhere when he starts to scream and yell so that we, who are effectively trapped here in this area, do not have to listen to the racket?"
Next time, next time, next time dear reader. Watch this space!
Wednesday 14 November 2012
What is happiness?
This morning I caught an interview on the Today Programme with George Vallient, the director of a study into happiness at the Harvard Medical School, http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_9769000/9769443.stm
who was talking about what is happiness or rather, the things that make people feel happy. In his own words "true life fulfilment is about relationships....... happiness is the wrong word as it's too close to hedonism". Apparently having a loving family is far more important than being in the possession of a huge trust fund - so far so obvious you might say. One only has to glance around at all the 'poor little rich kids' prancing around clad head to toe in designer whatever, on the surface full of confidence, entitlement and poise, but underneath? A bit of a mess in most cases. But what I found intruiging is that he went on to stress that even for someone who grew up without emotional stability and loving parents, it's never too late.
I concur with this because my own upbringing was pretty messy: two parents who stayed married for 28 years, but were perpetually at war, a war mostly of the cold variety but with episodes that could 'go nuclear'. I had a father who would go silent for weeks or sometimes months on end. He would be there but not be there if you get my drift. A great hulking presence would lurk around the house, at night sleeping on the sofa, by day not looking or speaking to any member of the family until he began to 'thaw' a bit and then would gradually resume family life and we'd all breathe a sigh of relief - until the next time. It wasn't always clear what set these great sulks off; sometimes one of us kids would kick off and that might get the blame. Other times it was an argument with mother over something so tiny, you'd be forgiven for not associating the act with the enormous strop that followed.
Looking back it's slightly ludicrous that an adult and father of 4 could regularly behave in such a way and still expect his kids to respect his views and authority - when he was communicating with us that is. My mother kind of soldiered on, sometimes trying to get through to him, sometimes not. For most of those years she was quite probably clinically depressed of course, but 30-odd years ago, depression didn't get the attention that it does now. She did an admirable job in many ways, being the constant loving parental figure in such a dysfunctional household, but with hindsight, the fact that she always pathetically and gratefully 'took back' my father when he emerged from a super-sulk didn't really set a great example about self-respect or boundaries. She also used me as a sympathetic pair of ears - well let's face it with such a sulker of a husband there often wasn't anyone else for her to talk to! But it meant that I knew way too much about adult stuff way too early.
On the ghastly occasions when their war went 'hot' and violence erupted, as the eldest of the 4, I took it upon myself to try and shield the younger ones as much as possible. I remember herding them into my bedroom and turning up the music on my stereo to drown out the fighting coming through the thin walls. Like most kids trapped in abusive households, we didn't really discuss the situation. My dream was to pass my driving test and get a little car so that I could quickly bundle my siblings up and literally spirit them away to spare them the sight of their parents slugging it out - again.
Anyway I digress. I really think George Vallient has hit the nail on the head about relationships equalling happiness as he says that emotional intelligence is actually the key. Having witnessed first hand the gamut of human emotions during my formative years, I reckon my emotional intelligence is quite well developed. I guess it was sheer survival that at a very young age I learned to 'read' people and 'know' their personality type pretty much within the first few minutes of meeting them. I can't describe how it happens but I'm not often wrong about how someone will behave.
I also agree with George Vallient when he states that a dodgy start in life is in no way a guarantee of disaster. Thankfully I do not seem, thus far, to have repeated my parents' mistakes although I'm sure to make new ones all of my own. I have found and married a wonderful man and together we are concentrating on bringing up our own children in a unified and peaceful environment. I aim to give my son and daughter something I never had: a rock-solid foundation from which they can go out and discover the world. I know from experience that shifting sands are no place from which to launch children upon the world and expect them to thrive.
But to those readers who had similarly disturbed beginnings, remember - what doesn't kill you definitely makes you stronger.
who was talking about what is happiness or rather, the things that make people feel happy. In his own words "true life fulfilment is about relationships....... happiness is the wrong word as it's too close to hedonism". Apparently having a loving family is far more important than being in the possession of a huge trust fund - so far so obvious you might say. One only has to glance around at all the 'poor little rich kids' prancing around clad head to toe in designer whatever, on the surface full of confidence, entitlement and poise, but underneath? A bit of a mess in most cases. But what I found intruiging is that he went on to stress that even for someone who grew up without emotional stability and loving parents, it's never too late.
I concur with this because my own upbringing was pretty messy: two parents who stayed married for 28 years, but were perpetually at war, a war mostly of the cold variety but with episodes that could 'go nuclear'. I had a father who would go silent for weeks or sometimes months on end. He would be there but not be there if you get my drift. A great hulking presence would lurk around the house, at night sleeping on the sofa, by day not looking or speaking to any member of the family until he began to 'thaw' a bit and then would gradually resume family life and we'd all breathe a sigh of relief - until the next time. It wasn't always clear what set these great sulks off; sometimes one of us kids would kick off and that might get the blame. Other times it was an argument with mother over something so tiny, you'd be forgiven for not associating the act with the enormous strop that followed.
Looking back it's slightly ludicrous that an adult and father of 4 could regularly behave in such a way and still expect his kids to respect his views and authority - when he was communicating with us that is. My mother kind of soldiered on, sometimes trying to get through to him, sometimes not. For most of those years she was quite probably clinically depressed of course, but 30-odd years ago, depression didn't get the attention that it does now. She did an admirable job in many ways, being the constant loving parental figure in such a dysfunctional household, but with hindsight, the fact that she always pathetically and gratefully 'took back' my father when he emerged from a super-sulk didn't really set a great example about self-respect or boundaries. She also used me as a sympathetic pair of ears - well let's face it with such a sulker of a husband there often wasn't anyone else for her to talk to! But it meant that I knew way too much about adult stuff way too early.
On the ghastly occasions when their war went 'hot' and violence erupted, as the eldest of the 4, I took it upon myself to try and shield the younger ones as much as possible. I remember herding them into my bedroom and turning up the music on my stereo to drown out the fighting coming through the thin walls. Like most kids trapped in abusive households, we didn't really discuss the situation. My dream was to pass my driving test and get a little car so that I could quickly bundle my siblings up and literally spirit them away to spare them the sight of their parents slugging it out - again.
Anyway I digress. I really think George Vallient has hit the nail on the head about relationships equalling happiness as he says that emotional intelligence is actually the key. Having witnessed first hand the gamut of human emotions during my formative years, I reckon my emotional intelligence is quite well developed. I guess it was sheer survival that at a very young age I learned to 'read' people and 'know' their personality type pretty much within the first few minutes of meeting them. I can't describe how it happens but I'm not often wrong about how someone will behave.
I also agree with George Vallient when he states that a dodgy start in life is in no way a guarantee of disaster. Thankfully I do not seem, thus far, to have repeated my parents' mistakes although I'm sure to make new ones all of my own. I have found and married a wonderful man and together we are concentrating on bringing up our own children in a unified and peaceful environment. I aim to give my son and daughter something I never had: a rock-solid foundation from which they can go out and discover the world. I know from experience that shifting sands are no place from which to launch children upon the world and expect them to thrive.
But to those readers who had similarly disturbed beginnings, remember - what doesn't kill you definitely makes you stronger.
Sunday 11 November 2012
Another DG bites the dust
For the second time in my 14-and-a-half year association with the BBC, the Director General has been forced to step down from his post, very publicly and following weeks of damaging criticism from the wider media about how he has, or rather hasn't, handled the latest crisis. I hasten to add that neither resignation had anything to do with me directly!
I didn't know George Entwistle personally, my opinions were formed purely from the round-robin emails he sent to every member of staff announcing his appointment etc, and his various appearances in the media following the Savile allegations. He seemed perfectly pleasant; other colleagues who worked with him in the past when he edited Newsnight swear that he was "razor sharp" and completely on top of his brief. I wonder what happened? He seems to have lost his edge. The job of being in charge of the entire BBC was perhaps a bit beyond his capabilities.
Greg Dyke, the other DG forced from his post following the Hutton enquiry into the death of Dr David Kelly and the alleged 'sexing up' of the government dossier, was a completely different beast. I met him briefly a few times in the newsroom as he liked to be very 'hands on', famously handing out yellow cards that you could hold up in a meeting if the bullshit level threatened to sap you of the will to live. Those 'cut the crap' cards epitomised his style of leadership: robust and to the point.
It must have been back in 2002/3 when the word came to me from on high (yes, from one of the many layers of middle management that surrounds the newsroom like bubblewrap) that Greg Dyke urgently needed a briefing paper on the man who was about to become First Sea Lord (head of the Royal Navy in normal speak) before an introductory lunch between the two of them the next day. At the time I was the BBC Defence Producer, the resident so-called 'expert' in all things military who provided analysis and more importantly, the line of clear communication between the two behemoths that are the BBC and the MOD.
I made a few calls to trusted military sources and discovered a few surprising facts to include in my brief along with all the usual boring stuff. One was that the Britain's new 'Top Sailor' was allergic to egg - or something like that - come on it was a long time ago!, and the other was that he had been court martialled, not once but twice, in his career. I wrote it all up with a slightly tongue in cheek ending and sent it off to Dyke's office. The word came back that he was mightily pleased to have had such a thorough document and it had made the meeting go well. Job done, brownie points in the bag.
I was sad when Greg Dyke decided to quit following the outcome of the Hutton report. I felt that we had lost a leader who was feisty, but more importantly really cared about his journalists and what was going on in the newsroom. He was prepared to put up a fight for what was broadcast on his output. Wrongly, as it turned out as the reporter in question, Andrew Gilligan, was well known for his, shall we say, unorthodox research and reporting habits.
I remember a conversation I had at a party with Adrian Van Klaveren, the then Head of Newsgathering in July 2003, just as the David Kelly affair was gathering pace. "What if we're in the wrong? What if Gilligan's facts aren't as they appear" I asked him. "What do you want us to do?" he replied testily, "just give in to Alastair Campbell?"
Well, no, the BBC should never give in to goverment pressure, but it should acknowledge when it's got it wrong, so horribly wrong, and someone has to pay the price for that by falling on their sword. I just wonder where it will stop.
I didn't know George Entwistle personally, my opinions were formed purely from the round-robin emails he sent to every member of staff announcing his appointment etc, and his various appearances in the media following the Savile allegations. He seemed perfectly pleasant; other colleagues who worked with him in the past when he edited Newsnight swear that he was "razor sharp" and completely on top of his brief. I wonder what happened? He seems to have lost his edge. The job of being in charge of the entire BBC was perhaps a bit beyond his capabilities.
Greg Dyke, the other DG forced from his post following the Hutton enquiry into the death of Dr David Kelly and the alleged 'sexing up' of the government dossier, was a completely different beast. I met him briefly a few times in the newsroom as he liked to be very 'hands on', famously handing out yellow cards that you could hold up in a meeting if the bullshit level threatened to sap you of the will to live. Those 'cut the crap' cards epitomised his style of leadership: robust and to the point.
It must have been back in 2002/3 when the word came to me from on high (yes, from one of the many layers of middle management that surrounds the newsroom like bubblewrap) that Greg Dyke urgently needed a briefing paper on the man who was about to become First Sea Lord (head of the Royal Navy in normal speak) before an introductory lunch between the two of them the next day. At the time I was the BBC Defence Producer, the resident so-called 'expert' in all things military who provided analysis and more importantly, the line of clear communication between the two behemoths that are the BBC and the MOD.
I made a few calls to trusted military sources and discovered a few surprising facts to include in my brief along with all the usual boring stuff. One was that the Britain's new 'Top Sailor' was allergic to egg - or something like that - come on it was a long time ago!, and the other was that he had been court martialled, not once but twice, in his career. I wrote it all up with a slightly tongue in cheek ending and sent it off to Dyke's office. The word came back that he was mightily pleased to have had such a thorough document and it had made the meeting go well. Job done, brownie points in the bag.
I was sad when Greg Dyke decided to quit following the outcome of the Hutton report. I felt that we had lost a leader who was feisty, but more importantly really cared about his journalists and what was going on in the newsroom. He was prepared to put up a fight for what was broadcast on his output. Wrongly, as it turned out as the reporter in question, Andrew Gilligan, was well known for his, shall we say, unorthodox research and reporting habits.
I remember a conversation I had at a party with Adrian Van Klaveren, the then Head of Newsgathering in July 2003, just as the David Kelly affair was gathering pace. "What if we're in the wrong? What if Gilligan's facts aren't as they appear" I asked him. "What do you want us to do?" he replied testily, "just give in to Alastair Campbell?"
Well, no, the BBC should never give in to goverment pressure, but it should acknowledge when it's got it wrong, so horribly wrong, and someone has to pay the price for that by falling on their sword. I just wonder where it will stop.
Tuesday 6 November 2012
No x-rays please, I'm British
So I'm lying in the dentist's chair and she's having a good old poke around in my mouth. So far, so normal. I even had to sit and wait for 40 minutes to be seen which proved depressingly normal. In fact the only time in the past 5 years that she's been running bang on time is the one time I was 5 minutes late. But that's another story.
It's a routine checkup so for once I'm feeling fairly calm and managing not to get the dreaded prickly, sweaty palm syndrome that makes me want to push her aside and run for the hills. As she moves onto my molars, I risk a quick look at her face which although close, is slightly out of focus thanks to the plastic, mysteriously shaded safety specs that they make you don before any mouth action gets going. It must be ok, she's smiling.
"Beautiful" she croons, digging that little metal pointed thing into my gum. Still I do not wince. "Lovely" she purrs, pulling down on my bottom lip and inspecting my off-side lower canine or whatever it's called. "You 'aff flossed very well and ze brushing is vehry goood". I'm paraphrasing and emphasisng here for effect as she's from Greece so speaks in a pleasingly soft way.
"Now we'll just do an x-ray to see if everything is as it should be". I shake my head now that her hands are out of my mouth. No thanks, I say in a firm voice. I've decided that I'm not having any more x-rays now unless I really have to - anywhere on my body. She recoils and looks shocked, the smile dropping from her face. I've had too many in my lifetime already, I explain as the dental nurse turns to stare at me too.
She says to me slowly and clearly, as if to a rather difficult child, that an x-ray will just check that there is nothing wrong, but rather rudely I cut her off and say again - sorry but it's my policy not to have a radiation shower, especially on my head, unless there's absolutely a good reason. I start to get off the chair even before she's lowered it and end up sitting sideways, legs swinging awkwardly, waiting as she presses the pedal and returns me to terra firma, looking for all the world like a naughty toddler about to leg it.
As soon as Timberland touches floor I'm heading across to where my coat and scarf are. She's still relating the benefits of x-rays to highlight hidden nasties in the dental area and hoping that maybe next time I'll change my mind and will agree to have one.
No chance. Reader, I then did leg it, not in a rude way you understand, with a smile and a thank you and a see-you-next-time cheery wave. But I'm holding firm on this one - no more unecessary x-rays. Better go easy on the Christmas choccies as really don't want to be back in her chair come January with mysterious toothache issues!
It's a routine checkup so for once I'm feeling fairly calm and managing not to get the dreaded prickly, sweaty palm syndrome that makes me want to push her aside and run for the hills. As she moves onto my molars, I risk a quick look at her face which although close, is slightly out of focus thanks to the plastic, mysteriously shaded safety specs that they make you don before any mouth action gets going. It must be ok, she's smiling.
"Beautiful" she croons, digging that little metal pointed thing into my gum. Still I do not wince. "Lovely" she purrs, pulling down on my bottom lip and inspecting my off-side lower canine or whatever it's called. "You 'aff flossed very well and ze brushing is vehry goood". I'm paraphrasing and emphasisng here for effect as she's from Greece so speaks in a pleasingly soft way.
"Now we'll just do an x-ray to see if everything is as it should be". I shake my head now that her hands are out of my mouth. No thanks, I say in a firm voice. I've decided that I'm not having any more x-rays now unless I really have to - anywhere on my body. She recoils and looks shocked, the smile dropping from her face. I've had too many in my lifetime already, I explain as the dental nurse turns to stare at me too.
She says to me slowly and clearly, as if to a rather difficult child, that an x-ray will just check that there is nothing wrong, but rather rudely I cut her off and say again - sorry but it's my policy not to have a radiation shower, especially on my head, unless there's absolutely a good reason. I start to get off the chair even before she's lowered it and end up sitting sideways, legs swinging awkwardly, waiting as she presses the pedal and returns me to terra firma, looking for all the world like a naughty toddler about to leg it.
As soon as Timberland touches floor I'm heading across to where my coat and scarf are. She's still relating the benefits of x-rays to highlight hidden nasties in the dental area and hoping that maybe next time I'll change my mind and will agree to have one.
No chance. Reader, I then did leg it, not in a rude way you understand, with a smile and a thank you and a see-you-next-time cheery wave. But I'm holding firm on this one - no more unecessary x-rays. Better go easy on the Christmas choccies as really don't want to be back in her chair come January with mysterious toothache issues!
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