Odd Socks

As I search through my sock drawer, I realise that I will have to wear odd socks, today. I bought 10 pairs, a few months ago, from Boots on a 2 for 1 offer. I bought them to wear with my jeans, to replace my old, black ones, which were beginning to wear thin. The new ones were all dark colours, but distinctly different. Some were black with grey toes and heels, some were grey, with a black pattern, some were black with a grey pattern. Even my husband would have noticed, if I'd mixed them up with his dark, plain man socks. Somehow, 2 of my distinctive socks have gone missing and today, I will have to wear a black one with a grey toe and heel and a grey one with a black pattern. I've been able to manage without wearing my odd socks, up until now, but my youngest son has gone back to university again, and without his dark clothes, I don't have enough dark washing to make up a load. I haven't got used to the idea, yet.

It's a sad time of year for a lot of mothers, whose sons or daughters are going off to university, leaving a gap behind them, which, somehow, can never be filled. It is my youngest son's second year at university, but I am finding his absence harder to deal with this year. My eldest son moved out 3 weeks ago and my middle son, as well as working 7 days a week, is now spending most of his time at his new girlfriend's house.

I always assumed that my 3 sons would leave home one at a time, over a period of a few years, as there is a gap of 6 years between the eldest and youngest, but, instead, they have gone over a period of a few weeks. Middle son and youngest son haven't moved out totally, of course, but it certainly feels that way, at the moment.

My husband and I helped my eldest son and his girlfriend to move into their rented house, which is about 30 minutes' travelling distance away from us, but we've heard very little from them since. They came over when we had a barbecue, a couple of weeks ago and we've taken some of eldest son's belongings over on a couple of occasions, but that's all that we've seen of them, so far. Eldest son became less and less comunicative when he reached adolescence, about 12 years ago, so, in recent years, I began to realise that, when he did finally move out, it was unlikely that he would bother too much about keeping in touch.

Suddenly, we have 3 spare bedrooms and the house, which was once full to overflowing with people and voices, is now mainly empty and still. When darkness falls, only a solitary room is illuminated in a house which once exploded with light, on the skyline.

I pull on my odd socks, go downstairs to the kitchen and switch on the radio. I turn the volume up a little louder than it needs to be, whilst I half fill the washing machine with dark clothing. I must go to Boots, later, to buy some more socks.

The Empty Nest

The traffic was heavy and fast-moving along the busy road, as we slowed to turn into the arboretum. The gravel crunched beneath the tyres, as we drove through the tall, black, wrought iron, double gates into a contrasting world of peace and tranquility. It had been several years since we had last visited the arboretum and the large, stately cedar, situated close to the entrance was a forgotten, but welcome sight.

We parked the car and then headed in the direction of the old cedar tree, looking forward to the first sightings of peacocks and bluebells. I watched our 3 young sons, running ahead, chasing each other around the cedar's ample trunk. The peacocks' calls echoed all around us, as we walked towards the bluebell dell, and the boys continued to run in front, laughing and calling to one another. They bent down low, to run in and out of the accommodating, natural dens, formed by numerous, spreading, glossy-leaved rhododendrons. They hid behind large, reddish-brown, velvety trunks of giant sequoia and jumped out, in eager anticipation, whilst we were still nowhere near.

Eventually, in a grassy, sunny clearing, we came across a peacock, displaying its bejewelled tail, and even our young, excited sons stopped short, in awe of the exotic bird, slowly turning and shaking its glorious feathers. When we reached the magical, bluebell dell they were, once again, brought to a halt, by the enchanting sea of brilliant blue, which lay before them, still and undisturbed, bathed in dappled shade. We sat, for a few short minutes, on a nearby bench, whilst our 3 young boys ran to and fro, along the path in front of us, marvelling at their inexhaustible supplies of energy. Slowly, we walked back towards the large cedar, with the boys still running in front, stopping only occasionally, to pick up the odd fir cone from the ground.

In the car, once more, as we neared the wrought iron gates, I opened the window, to gaze past the large cedar. In the distance, I caught glimpses of our 3 young sons, still chasing each other around the tall, imposing trees. Their laughter was drowned by the mournful cries of the peacocks, cries which rose above the tallest branches, to escape into the clear, blue, vacant skies. I glanced into the empty back seat of the car, as we approached the busy main road, and I knew, in my heart, that my young family was lost to me, forever.

Open Wide!

When a new dentist took over at my former NHS dental practice, last year, and I was persuaded to switch to Denplan, I noticed a big improvement in my dental treatment. My new dentist explained that I had a problem with one of my teeth, however, and that she wanted to refer me to a dental hospital. I was outraged to discover that the problem had been detailed in my notes, but I had never been informed and no treatment had ever been suggested. Apparently, I was now in danger of losing the tooth.

I needed to travel into the city to go to the dental hospital, so my husband kindly decided to take the day off and accompany me, for moral support. Appointments were few and far between, meaning that I would need to get up at 6am, on the day of the appointment and we would both be forced to travel during the 'peak' period. We each sold a kidney, on a dodgy website, to pay for the return train fare and, on Thursday of last week, we found ourselves boarding a fairly crowded train, heading for the city.

It appeared, from a distance of a few feet away, that there were 3 single seats available, in the compartment we had chosen. On closer examination, however, it seemed possible that one male commuter might have paid for a double seat, in order to avoid having his own coffee cup, on a pull-down tray, in front of him. It appeared that one lady passenger might have paid for a second seat, out of concern for her coat's comfort. Another male passenger appeared to have splashed out on a double seat, for his empty packet of Hula Hoops, but, on reflection, we didn't feel that any of those scenarios were likely.

I challenged Coffeecupman, who admitted that the seat next to him was available, even though he had attempted to make it appear otherwise. He moved his coffee cup after I flicked him lightly, on both facial cheeks, with my leather gloves. My husband tackled Coatwoman, who obviously felt that my husband should stand, rather than disturb her precious companion. He capitulated and, fortunately, Hulahoopman remembered his manners in the nick of time. He coerced his empty Hula Hoop packet into, reluctantly, surrendering its seat and it stood, somewhat gracelessly, in the aisle, for the remainder of the long journey into the city. Coatwoman smiled at this result and patted her coat indulgently, as it lay, smugly, on the seat beside her.

We crossed the city, after getting off the train, arriving at the hospital in plenty of time for my appointment. We wandered about for a while, in the hospital, before discovering the lift and travelling up to the floor specified in my letter. I approached one of the receptionists, and handed her my letter, explaining that I was a new patient. She returned my polite smile with all the charm of Medusa, spent a couple of minutes entering my details on the computer and then drew a little diagram to show me where I had to go next. Undaunted, I smiled again and thanked her. I imagined the comment she was adding to my patient notes, as I walked away.(Note 1)

We headed back towards the entrance hall, down 5 miles of endless corridors, past someone up a ladder, painting the walls, through some double doors and into another reception area. There were no other patients waiting. Several members of staff stood by, and behind, the reception desk, but only the receptionist knew how to use the computer, apparently, and she became rather tense, as she coped with patients, coming in and out, and the telephones. I slowly came to realise that there was more than one 'Prof' on duty and, the one I was supposed to see, was running late.

When I was eventually led into the consulting room, I gasped at the size of it. There were at least 20 treatment areas, with different staff assigned to each. There were partitions, but they didn't reach the ceiling, so the atmosphere was bustling and noisy. A charming, female, student dentist examined me, in the presence of a dental nurse. She kept smiling, sweeping her palm under my chin and reminding me to relax! I was reminded of numerous, internal examinations, when the focus was on a totally different part of my body. I pictured the doctor at the end of the bed, as he pulled on his latex gloves and gazed determinedly towards his intended destination, demanding that I should relax, in a similar tone to the student dentist. I wanted to shout 'RELAX? ARE YOU JOKING?', but instead, I cried, 'Violation! Remove your probing fingers from my inner recesses!' Fortunately, I didn't say anything out loud.

'Clench your teeth, firmly and move the bottom ones to the left' said the student dentist. I tried, but nothing happened. She repeated the instruction and I tried again, with the same result. She had her fingers clamped firmly in, and around, my mouth. 'Grind your teeth' she said persistently, glancing meaningfully at the nurse, who repeated the instruction. Finally, I managed to move my lower teeth a little to the left. I imagined a further comment being added to my patient notes. (Note 2)

Prof eventually arrived and carried out his own examination. He gazed at me intently and explained that they were going to try and save my tooth, but that they might not succeed. My weakest eye chose that moment to sting and water, due to the bright light shining straight into my face, and a 'tear' ran down my cheek. 'Mrs Mean Mom' said Prof, gently. 'Do you understand? You may still lose the tooth.'

'Yes, yes. I understand' I said quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed my watery eye. He swept out of the cubicle. 'Pass the patient a tissue!' he called over his shoulder to the dental nurse. I imagined another comment being added to my notes.(Note 3)

The nurse accompanied me to x-ray and we picked up my husband on the way. We walked through the double doors, past the painter, along 5 miles of endless corridors, back to the entrance hall, and down a flight of stairs into the gloomy basement. The technician took my x-rays, but we waited 20 minutes for the results. He said that there had been a processing problem. We made our way back, up the flight of stairs, through the entrance hall, down the 5 miles of endless corridors, past the painter, through the double doors and back to clinic reception. It was empty, except for a few members of staff. One of the dental nurses took my x-rays and accompanied me to the consulting room. 'You've been a long time' she remarked. 'There was a processing problem' I explained.

I was the only patient in the consulting room. Some of the staff were already eating their sandwiches and breaking open bottles of mineral water. 'Yay! All the patients have gone!' cried one young dental nurse, her voice tailing off, as she noticed me. I watched as some of the staff wiped down the dental apparatus and I imagined another comment being added to my patient notes.(Note 4)

The student dentist informed me that I would have to return to the hospital on 4 or 5 occasions, for treatment. I gaped in horror. 'Is the travelling a problem?' she asked. 'I don't have any more body parts to sell for my train fare' I explained and it takes hours to get here.' She pointed out that the treatment was free and that I could consider buying a railcard. I finally agreed, feeling that I had no alternative. I imagined yet another comment being added to my patient notes.(Note 5)

The dental nurse walked back with me to reception, where the receptionist was catching up with her work. 'Can we make an appointment?' she asked. 'No' replied the receptionist, not until I have finished this.' We stood rooted to the spot, for a moment, shocked by her abrupt manner. She relented to a certain extent and passed over a folder to the nurse, so that she could enter the appointment herself. I provided my hospital number from my own documents and the receptionist suddenly appeared to see the funny side of things and relaxed. She began laughing and joking, exclaiming that I wouldn't be looking forward to returning to their clinic.

I'd been up since 6am, suffered a long and difficult journey to the hospital, been pushed from pillar to post, my body had been violated, it was well past my lunch time and I'd been waiting in the hospital for hours. I tried to smile, as we headed for the door, but somehow I remained stony faced. I imagined the final comment being added to my patient notes.(Note 6)

We walked in the direction of the hospital entrance hall, through the double doors, walking 5 miles down the wrong corridor, before realising that we had missed the correct corridor, as the painter had gone to lunch. We eventually found our way out of the hospital and headed for the nearest cafe, which was situated just over the road, and named after a vegetable. I was surprised to see that they were selling danish pastries and we decided to treat ourselves to the same, after we had both eaten a sandwich. I had my toothbrush and toothpaste in my handbag, so I didn't feel too guilty.

I bit into the danish pastry, glancing over towards the hospital entrance. I half expected the dental police to come bursting out of the hospital doors and bound down the hospital steps, armed with drills, floss, interdental brushes and bottles of mouthwash, but the building remained surprisingly quiet. We each drank a welcome mug of caffeine, as I shared with my husband, the comments I had imagined the hospital staff adding to my patient notes.

1. Smiles inanely, for no apparent reason. Obviously one tooth short of a full set.
2. Dim. Unable to follow simple instructions.
3. Over-emotional, possibly due to middle-age and menopause.
4. Loiters in x-ray and hospital corridors to ensure that staff suffer a diminished lunch break after morning clinic.
5. Ungracious and undeserving of free NHS dental treatment.
6. Suffers a sense of humour failure if she happens to be the first patient in the clinic and the last one out.

We decided that I should try to make a better impression on my next visit. Can't wait!

For Maggie May

I've not been well, you know. It was definitely something more than a cold, which struck me down so ferociously just before Christmas. It was more of a devastating mystery illness. I was so tired that I could not stay awake and I was stricken by a depression which seemed endless.

I didn't see my doctor. What do these youngsters know anyway? My doctor is not much older than my youngest son. What could he have learned in his 5 years at medical school to compare with my lifetime's experience of illness?? He would not have known what was wrong with me. I knew that I had something terminal. I acknowledged that I would be lucky to last until Christmas!

I was most grateful for the sympathy and support I received from my family throughout the period of my suffering, however.

On one occasion, as I lay on the sofa, weak and sweating profusely, my middle son murmured sympathetically 'Mom, could you iron this shirt, ready for tomorrow, please?'

A few days later, as I lay prostrate on the kitchen floor, where I had collapsed on my way to the kettle, my eldest son stepped over me, on his way to the cereal cupboard. 'Have we really run out of cereal?' he asked in a voice full of tenderness and concern.

A few seconds after my son's kind enquiry, I struggled to make myself a cup of tea and dragged myself back across the living room carpet, on one elbow, in the general direction of my temporary invalid's retreat. Clutching the remains of my tea in my trembling hand, I lowered my ravaged body to the refuge of the sofa's soft and all-enveloping embrace. 'They'll miss me when I'm gone' I muttered darkly, as I ruefully surveyed the telling trail of tea stains I had left in my wake, on the neutral-coloured carpet.

Magic Mirror

I have a wonderful full-length mirror in my hallway.

I check my reflection every day, before I leave the house. I am slim and of medium height. My tummy has a slight curve to it, but it's bordering on the acceptable, for a middle-aged mother of 3 grown-up children. I leave the house feeling elegant; confident that I am looking my best. Female friends and family catch sight of their own reflection in my mirror and remark "What a wonderful mirror!"

I recently went shopping for a wedding outfit, but I hate shopping, so I have to confess that it was a desperate, last minute affair. In fact, the wedding was only 2 days away, and to make matters worse, I was a bit short of money.

I travelled into the nearest city, heading straight for the only department store. My intention was to get this painful experience over and done with as quickly as possible. I wasn't very impressed with the selection of clothes on offer. It was mostly dresses and loose tops with large swirly patterns. They resembled those that women of my age had given away to charity shops in the 70s. There were lots of black leggings on sale which I remembered from the late 80s, early 90s. I was still gardening in my old ones.

I gathered together a half-acceptable selection of clothing, and threw back the changing room curtain. I shrank back, apologetically, as I realised that there was a short lady, with a thickening waistline, and a rather large tummy, already occupying the changing room. She reminded me of someone. I realised with growing horror that I was looking at my own reflection. At 5'1", I weighed a few pounds less than 8 stone. How could I look like that? Were my legs that short? Shouldn't my bottom be a little higher up? Had it always been so close to the floor? Was my tummy so large? Could that really be an accurate reflection of me?

I mopped up my tears with an old tissue I found in the bottom of my handbag, and eventually managed to choose an outfit. I picked up a splint, for my broken spirit, from the pile in the corner of the changing room, and limped to the counter to pay. The rest of the day was spent in a fruitless search for a suitable jacket, sandals and handbag. In the end, I decided that I would have to manage with those I already had.

On returning home, I tried on my new wedding outfit, and came downstairs. I gazed into the full-length mirror in my hall and smiled. The department store in the city would increase its sales considerably if it fitted full-length mirrors similiar to mine.

I have a wonderful full-length mirror in my hallway......

Growing Old Disgracefully

I returned home, today, from my walk into town, with 2 fairly heavy carrier bags. I walked along the public footpath, running parallel to the strip of garden at the side of our house, through the small garden gate, and approached the side door. I was hidden by the high hedge, as I struggled to unlock the door with my key. Once more the key refused to turn in the temperamental lock.

I could have walked a few extra feet around to the front of the house, via the 6 foot square of grass lying between our house and our neighbours', if it hadn't been for the picket fence, forming a barrier between the square of grass and the top of our shared drive. Somewhere in the house, there was a key to the small gate incorporated in the fence, but its whereabouts remained a well-kept secret.

Our back garden was totally enclosed by a 6 foot fence, in addition to a padlocked gate, so I picked up my carrier bags, resigning myself to the extra long walk along the remainder of the public footpath, and down another road, before I could reach the front door. I smiled to myself, as I remembered being in the same situation a few months ago, during the dark days of winter.

I was running a bit late, back then, so I was quite frustrated at the thought of wasting precious minutes, trekking around to the front of the house, by way of the public footpath. I sized up the picket fence between the houses, in the darkness, and decided that I could scramble over it with ease. My lack of length in the leg department, would easily be made up for by my determination. I walked softly across the grass, glancing at my neighbours' window, as I passed. The light was on, but the curtains were closed.

I was able to position the inside edge of the sole of my shoe, on the piece of wood positioned towards the bottom of the fence, even though my foothold was a mere fraction of an inch in width. I quickly flung my left leg over the fence, only to find that there was no corressponding foothold on the other side, resulting in my left leg flailing about wildly, a few inches short of the ground. I clung to the top of the fence, trapped momentarily by one of the pickets, which had lodged itself between my buttocks.

I prayed, for an instant, that my neighbours had not been disturbed by the rattling of the fence, and that my neighbour-who-did-not-like-me would not choose this moment to sweep up the shared drive in his 4 x 4, capturing me, with his headlights, in startled pose astride the picket fence. I quickly pulled myself together, and somehow managed to flex my right knee, thereby thrusting myself upwards, and clear of the wicked picket, which had temporarily immobilised me.

I sized up the fence for a second time, and made a last-ditch attempt. I gripped the fence with both hands, found the foothold and lifted myself upwards, positioned, between the pickets, on this occasion. My left foot landed on terra firma, and with a couple of quick hops, I was able to lift my right leg over the fence, so that both feet were now firmly planted on the ground. I straightened up, adjusted my clothing and headed triumphantly for the front door.

At 5' 1" and 54 years of age, I had managed to climb over a picket fence, with the speed, agility and recklessness of a 14 year old boy, whilst maintaining my dignity at all times. I hadn't 'put out' my back, or even broken a brittle bone. There really was some life in the old dog, yet.

Sleeplessness and University Angst

I couldn't sleep, in bed, last night, as I had already slept on the sofa, in front of the television. I have learnt from sad experience, that 30 minutes' sleep, on the sofa, equals up to 4 hours' wakefulness in bed, so I accepted that I had turned into my mother, and attempted to embrace my punishment.

I knew, absolutely, that I was the only person awake in the whole of the universe, as I disciplined my thoughts and penned the following:

Our youngest son informed me, yesterday, that he would not be taking up his university place, unless he passed his driving test, which he is due to re-take a little later in the month. My jaw dropped, as I remembered multiple zoomings, up and down the motorway, to take him to interviews, in various parts of the country. My mind flashed back to overnight stays, early breakfasts, when it was still dark outside, and the destruction wrought upon my only umbrella, on a particularly wet and windy day in Chester.

The visit to the uni, with the grubby canteen, and the local in-bred students, in the place-I-dare-not-name, was an experience I definitely would have chosen to have lived without, had I realised that we were simply involved in an exercise of futility.

Further questioning of my son, in a somewhat strangled voice, revealed that the son, who wanted to attend a university as far away from his parents as it was possible to be, had now decided that he wanted to come home every weekend, and could not suffer the inconvenience of public transport.

Aaaah! He is my little innocent! He imagines that his tank will always be overflowing with petrol, that his key will still fit the lock, on his return, and, even that, we will still be living here, 5 days after he has moved away.........