Journal Entries
Time to take a deep breath
Posted May 5, 2009
...and Do Something about mother, I think. She phoned me this afternoon absolutely convinced that I had gone into her bank account and paid her electricity bill without her knowledge or permission.
Apart from the obvious - that I have more than enough trouble in keeping up with *my electricity bills and wouldn't have enough left over to be able to do anything like that, the accusition is daft.
Firstly I wouldn't be so crass to take over her bank account, secondly I - like she, as it happens - don't know who her Electricity supplier is, and thirdly her bills don't come to me. More to the point, we live a good 60 miles away, and I am more likely to be told I've won the lottery than to be told the whereabouts of that holiest of grails mum's bank details are kept.
Which is fine by me; she doesn't trust me as far as she can spit (I was accused last time I visited of going thru her private papers when her back was turned, which did hurt a bit, as well as being offensive) and, despite her belief I'm untrustworthy and only after her money (of which she has lots), I really am not.
I wish she'd be a bit wiser with what she has, I admit; the local kitchen fitters charged her over £3,000 for just replacing her kitchen cupboard doors (AND did a shoddy job I might add
which she "didn't like to complain about")
And a neighbour who repainted the inside of her house for her took 5 weeks (25 working days) to paint the interior of her very small 3 bedroomed house; he painted the hall, the stairs' wall and bannisters, the landing, one bedroom, the kitchen walls (which are mainly covered with very expensively doored cabinets) and a small living room.
And charged her £100 per day cash in hand. She won't tell me how much she spent out exra on paint, but I wouldn't say it would be cheap stuff.
That's an awful lot of money for doing your neighbour a job. And as slow a worker as I am, it surely can't take THAT long. It's not an old house, and I know for a certain there wasn't a lot of making good to do
As I remarked before, my poor old mum has definately got the word "Victim" stencilled accross her forehead for any tradesman with an eye to the Main Chance to see.
She phoned me, as I've said, this afternoon in a panic; it appears her bank account is being tampered with and bills are being paid without her knowledge - money is being taken from her account by an Electricity Company.
*AN* electricity company? It only needs one to supply a house, surely? She doesn't know which company she's with; Salesmen call around and she can't find the courage not to sign up and agree to be with whichever company they're representing. If it's a salesMAN, then if he were to tell her black was white and it was a bargain she'd believe him simply because he's a man. Men have deep authoritive voices and know what they're talking about.
Women?
Nah... woman are just plain stoopid. Women don't know what they're talking about.
I tried to help her untangle her problem over the phone, but in order to really be able to help I'd need to see the paperwork, and also see a bank statement to see what and whom she is paying by Direct Debiting Mandate and whom by Standing Order, just for a start. I don't particually *want to know her financial details, but if I'm to help, I *need to know.
There is a difference, honestly
And as
(a) I'm a woman (and therefore stoopid)
(b) I'm the worst daughter in the world
(c) poor ("What would *you* know about managing money, eh? You ain't got any")
and
(d) usually right, (which she really doesn't like!)
she's not letting me see anything!
I have been quietly concerned about mum's state of mental health for a good while now. Everything is an enormous effort for her to do now, and if she can ignore a problem or just allow herself to get ripped off so the problem goes away, then thats what she'll do. She is not looking after herself properly. She's taken to cutting her own hair very badly, wearing clothes several sizes too big for her and generally looking like a sad old scarecrow. Her diet is appauling - a combination of bread and butter, cigarettes, alcohol and possibly one half decent square meal a day.
She'll not quibble over £500 taken from her bank account for apparent electricity bills, but spend more than a pound on food? You're joking!
Her dog is under exercised and over active, and therefore more than a little neurotic. Mum won't go out for more than 2 hours at a time because she refuses to leave the dog on its own, and its so badly trained she cannot take it with her in a car journey, let alone take the poor creature to the local shops and leave her with the other dogs outside the shop for a few minutes.
And when I go and visit I am not allowed to take the dog for a decent walk because I tire the "poor little (so and so) out and she sleeps all the time and what company is THAT for me?"
I think you get the picture. I could fill so many pages of her odd behaviour, but it boiils down to this: My mum has lost the plot a bit and refuses to let me help her because she doesn't like or trust me a jot.
So... what to do?
I rang her solicitor this afternoon and explained the situation. Yes: I'm in a rather difficult position she agreed, but no, unfortunately, solicitors may not volunteer to take power of attorney for their clients. They have to be asked.
Had we any other familly who could talk to her? Brothers? Sisters? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles?
Not a one.
There's me and her 2 grandchildren. Oh yes, and a sister in law and a brother in law she doesn't like an awful lot living about 500 miles away. And who wouldn't get involved for love nor money.
Had I considered calling in a Social Worker?
I know for a fact that if I even *suggested a social worker mum would throw a tantrum that would register 8.5 on the Richter Scale. And to be honest, Social Services are so overstretched and tied up with red tape and stupidity that they can't manage the really obvious tradgedies such as the recent "Baby P" case, let alone a grumpy anti social and insecure old biddy.
They don't do damage control. They can't even pick up the pieces after damage has been done.
I've come to the conclusion that I will make a point of going to see her local vicar. She's a regular church goer, and I have asked him in the past to keep an eye on mum when she had been so awful with me I decided I wanted a bit of "Time out".
Perhaps if I explain the situation to him, *he might go and visit her and talk her around into getting proper financial advice and offer her a bit of practical aid - like getting her down to the GPs to sort out her many and varied ailments that have gone on far too long, which she has complained about repeatedly and done nothing about and finding people she really *does feel comfortable with to go with her, and keep an eye that she speaks up for herself at the right times. And ensure that she attends the damned appointments, too!
Maybe I can persuade him to go with her to the solicitors, so that he or they take Power of Attorney, to safeguard what she has against being persuaded into being conned yet again. It doesn't worry me that she's spending her money hand over fist - it's hers to do what she wants with.
What worries me is that she's getting damn all value for money and is becoming increasingly more confused and pressured and puzzled, and isn't stable enough to fight her own corner efficiently.
When dad was alive, he was about the only person who could get thru to her, who would humour her stubborness and quietly do what was necessary and presented her with a financial fait accompli. Dad was the only one who could curb the worst of her bad humour and hysteria - he tried reasoning at first, but we all knew that eventually he would lose his temper with her, roar at her to just shut up and leave be, which is what she always wanted him to do (for some reason she thinks anger and shouting equals love and security - go figure!) and she became sweet as a lamb; butter wouldn't melt, etc etc.
And at what cost? He died, about 13 years ago of heart failiure, probably exacerbated by the stress of dealing with a difficult woman. He was 67; no age to die atall. He'd have been 80 today, so happy birthday dad, wherever you are.
I'm not going to take over from where he left off. Mum is just going to have to learn to be treated in a civilised manner and accept that.
Because I'm not going to sink down to Shouting level. I really can't be asked.
I just hope to god the vicar will at least talk to her and persuade her to accept the help that will benefit her the most, and reassure her that my dirty little hands aren't going anywhere near her money.
I'm not saying a few bob wouldn't come in handy. I'd be liar if I said that was the case; money is invariably useful.
But I'd far sooner see mum spend every penny she has and mortgage her house to the hilt and spend the lot on having fun and being healthy and *enjoying* her life.
Can I get that through to her?
Can I hell as like!
Discuss this Journal entry [26]
Latest reply: May 5, 2009
Dead or at least, on it's last legs, anyway
Posted Apr 20, 2009
No... not me
The PC is slowly dying - it's been gradually getting slower and slower and more and more clanky for quite a while really; the friend who visited over Easter must have spent the best part of 2 days doing Technical Things to it, and running diagnostics and all-sorts, and he came to the conclusion that some anti-social personage has been hacking their way into the system over a period of time. I did wonder when one site warned me of a hacker and insisted I alter my passwords a couple of months ago.
They must lead incrediably boring lives to find much entertainment hacking into my PC, but there ya go. I wish 'em joy of my trips to H2, and E Bay and the sites I use to do a bit of research for whatever I'm currently interested in.
Or perhaps they just enjoy peeing over the Lads' shoulders when they pass the time looking at naked young ladies, which of course, I'm not supposed to know about.
ANYWAY; the upshot is that getting onto the PC (and it not cutting out during the inordinate amount of time it takes to get the PC started) is becoming more and more complicated and less frequent, and the time has come to get a new Computer.
Enter one 20 year old Knight in Shining Armour. Son no2.
He has offered to buy the family a brand new PC, with plasma screen, packed lunches and all singing, all dancing and - if we pay an extra £30.00, - comes in all sorts of wonderful colours.
Unfortunately, he refuses to believe me that a Cyclamen Pink one would be perfect, so I think we'll be staying with plain utilitarian Black. A shame. I really do fancy a pink PC somehow. It's just so kitsch and silly and downright fun
Currently he's been working all the hours god sends and has enough in his account to be able to make the initial purchase, and not break into his fare to New York where he wants to spend his 21st Birthday in October.
I've undertaken to ensure that the price of the PC will be paid to him by then, but Son No 1 and I have been offered Easy Terms - as long as it's paid by October 15th he's happy to buy for us upfront.
I remember, a few years ago being almost speechless with both pride and a feeling of feeling I'd somehow failed when Son No 1 dipped into his wages and bought the household a desparately needed vacuum cleaner. Pride because a young lad had been prepared to sacrifice hard earned wages and buy something (for him, anyway) that was very boring but needed, and a sense of failiure that I couldn't provide it for us in the first place.
Now, all I feel is a sense of pride and a great deal of pleasure that I have 2 sons who are willing to do what's needed without fuss, fanfare or resentment, and who are willing to trust me to pay them back.
I said it then and I say it again now.
I am so very lucky to have such great sons. I've got 2 little diamonds with them.
(Well, OK, 2 6 foot diamonds, but you get the idea
I think, even if they weren't mine I'd like them and be proud to know them both
Discuss this Journal entry [18]
Latest reply: Apr 20, 2009
On Being Side Tracked
Posted Mar 27, 2009
It's been a Medical themed last 6 weeks - I've had at least one Out Patients Appointment for varying bits of my body which seems to be breaking up daily, which is thoroughly boring, time consuming and ultimately frustrating. One department is waiting on another departments results so we seem to be going around in ever decreasing and non productive circles.
Is it Back Week? Throat Week? Standard Check up week? Oh pur-lees!
Thank gawd I have a calender with enough space to write times, places and departments on it. I've gone to Margate hospital when I should have gone to Canterbury before now.
Anyhow, this week was a double whammy - I had to go and see Mr Snooty, the Sleep Clinic Consultant because it appears I have Sleep Apnoea
(loosely translated I snore like a pig and sort of stop breathing every so often which doesn't half give a woman some strange Anxiety Dreams)
....and I was given a bit of apparatus to take home that you strap around ones wrist, plug in a finger to something shaped like a finger stool, thats wired in, and by some miracle of modern science and jiggery pokery it records how much oxygen is in the blood stream and gives the Sleep Clinic an idea of how many decibels I produce per night.
(When I went to Belgium with June and we shared a room in late January she said it sounded to her like I was drowning in my own mucus a lot of the time
I'm amazed she still wants to talk to me, as the description sounds quite disgusting - and I'm not normally squeamish)
I also had to go and see Mr Ear Nose and Throat the same day, a couple of hours later. I've had a fair amount of trouble swallowing,lately, my voice has gone very husky, and as soon as I lie down my nose feels like it has cotton wool stuffed into it. The aim of all this palava is to see which is causing what - is the Apnoea causing the throat symptoms... or vice versa? I know I usually purr a bit when I'm asleep, but the noisy stuff has only been going on for a comparitively short while.
Well, I assume thats the aim. The other one I can think of (and having been ghoulish enough to check up the symptoms which worryingly enough sort of fit quite well) I don't want to contemplate.
ANYWAY, Mr E N T is a man of action - I had lights down my throat, up my nose and in each ear before I could move, and the next thing I knew he'd squirted local anesthetic up a nostril without so much as an "Excuse Me". Object of the exercise was to bung a fibre optic camera up my nose and down the back of my throat to have a proper look-see, but either I've got very small nasal cavities, the fibre optic light was the Giant Economy Size or the local anesthetic wasn't playing but I wimped out after 3 attempts on the grounds that it was more than just a bit painful.
Birth with no anesthetic? No Problem! A fairy light dangling from a wire up my hooter? You can forget it.
So the up shot is I get called in and knocked out so they can have a good rummage around without me gagging.
I can hardly wait
Anyway, going back to the Sleep Clinic's devise, I strapped it on and plugged my finger in for 2 consecutive nights, and I had to drive back to the hospital today to return it so they can make an executive decision as to what to do next. (Strangulation might be an option, because I keep myself awake making a racket, never mind anyone else)
So job done, I drove back into Canterbury and decided to go to Waterstones to get another volume of His Dark Materials. I've borrowed the story and like it enough to want to have my own copies. A nice modest expenditure.
Unfortunately, the path to Waterstones is strewn with temptation...and my favourite clothes shop had a 50% sale on today.
I had to go and check this out. It's compulsory enjoyment and I can't afford anything from the place unless it's marked down to manageable amounts of money.
So in I went.
It's always unwise to give a monkey a key to the banana plantation, but there you go; I have their store card
And I couldn't make my mind up between 2 jumper-y type garments which will match and mix with oh-so-many other items in my wardrobe.
Honestly.
One is grey cotton, lambswool and angora, and can be worn about 6 different ways depending on where you pin it, or belt it, and its like wearing a soft grey hug
.... and the other is navy, (silk, cotton and angora) square cut, and almost batwing - long enough to wear as a short dress, and short enough to wear as a tunic, depending on where I decide the neckline ought to be. I can dress it up or dress it down and they're both Classics - I'll get loads of wear out of them.
Could I choose between them? No I couldn't.
So I proffered my card, signed on the dotted line and strode out feeling like a million dollars.
And I nearly made it to the car park, but as I happened to walk past Marks and Spencers I just happened to notice that they, too had a sale....
Very naughty of me, of course. And a woman can never have too many pairs of drawers
And oh... it was fun!
Discuss this Journal entry [12]
Latest reply: Mar 27, 2009
Tis
Posted Mar 17, 2009
... Paddys Day. No parades in this country, just marketing opportunities. A shame, really, as the parades were great craic.
The lads are out celebrating. They are going to absolutely HATE themselves tomorrow, but them's the breaks when you're young, stoopid and in your early twenties.
Me?
I'm raising a glass to the nice publishers what like my work.
It'd be nicer to raise a glass to a decent consultant who could make a decision as to which bit to sort out first but I guess a woman can't have everything.
Discuss this Journal entry [11]
Latest reply: Mar 17, 2009
Huh????
Posted Nov 16, 2008
My life has always seemed to have Dramatic Pauses.
Or strange coincidences and whathaveyous that usually only happen in novels.
I've never done normal, or conventional or even dull. I tried it for a short while whilst I was married, thirty years ago and frankly it was the worst and most least memorable time - or at least a time that I've mercifully blanked out of my memeory -I've had.
Which is why I seldom if ever mention I've been married. I was, though. For three years three months and a few days.
He wasn't a beater, nor a drinker; he was just an insensitive dopey 20 something year old who married another dopey twentysomething year old because That was What You Did.
And besides, I could get us a cheap mortgage, working in a Financial Institution as I was doing at the time. Even as dopey and insensitive as he was, he was always good at sums.
Fast forward over 25 years.
I had to drive No 1 son up to his nans today; he's staying with her for a week (
to him, as well; I've already had a text complaining about the pausity of supper)so he can commute more easilly to do his City and Guild practical exams.
And The Mother wanted to give me her birthday present; it turned out to be a lambswool pad that a person can sit on if they want to when driving. Wildly useful and as I remarked "Wow, that's an amazing thing to have" Something tells me I am getting old. Or at least, being perceived as becoming old, by certain sectors of the community, anyway. Or possibly they suspect I may have haemmoroids; I don't know.
Anyway, just as I was escaping - sorry - taking my leave, mum remembered I had received a card addressed to me, care of her address.
It was postmarked Manchester, which puzzled me a bit, because, fine, upstanding folk that they may be, I don't think I know anyone who lives in that particular city.
It was from my ex husband, wishing me a happy 50th birthday (close, but no cigar. I was 50 last year) with a nice little note wishing me well and asking me to get in touch if I received the card. And a mobile phone number.
In the words of the prophet, you could have knocked me down with a feather.
I neither like nor dislike the guy. In fact I think if I passed him in the street I probably wouldn't even recognise him. In my mind he's stayed at a flabby wispy blond 25 year old with a suspect goatee and the need to learn about aftershave, deodorant, and conversational skills.
(And to him I shall probably remain an aggressive, neurotic insecure 23 year old with multi coloured hair and a hareem of stray cats. I became a cat lady very early on in life to save time)
Why in gods name has he chosen to get in touch NOW of all times?
Because he (mistakenly) thought I'd hit 50?
Unless he's changed an awful lot, it's not terribly likely.
Because he's suddenly realised he loved me really and wants to re establish a conection?
(Fat chance matey, far as I'm concerned. One can never cross the same bit of water twice)
Or is it - as I suspect - something a bit more pragmatic, like Pension Rights?
He was always a career man, and always very good with money. By the time we had been married 3 years we were in a position to buy a house in Kingston upon Thames (which is/was very posh and pricey) without raising a financial sweat.... and the thought of having to share his pension with an ex missus must be gauling to him.
Its too good an opportunity to NOT get in touch, just to see how life has treated him. I don't bear him any ill will, as I've already stated.
But I wonder how far into the conversation it will be before Pension is raised?
He needn't be worried, anyway. Pride alone would prevent me from making a claim. Apparently I *am entitled to, but hell - if I couldn't be bothered to stay married to him, nor have a family with him, why on earth would I even consider parasiting on him in my older years, simply because we legally slept together for 3 years when we were too young and too stupid to know any better?
He's just a bit of past. I don't expect to be paid for sharing that, for heavens sake.
Discuss this Journal entry [17]
Latest reply: Nov 16, 2008
Moving On
Researcher U226093
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