Archive for the ‘Keeb’ Category

Last week I took my 13yo son to see our GP and get his prescriptions updated for our trip to the USA, just to make sure we had enough Epipens, Piriton, steroids, inhalers… all the kit and kaboodle a child with serious allergies has to drag around with them.

I was a bit worried at that stage that I hadn’t managed to find a bottle of liquid Piriton any smaller than 140ml because the limit for liquids is 90ml for travelling to the USA.  Just a bit worried since we are flying BA and they carry Epipens onboard and all flight attendants are trained in their administration. Only a tiny bit worried since we will have a full set of all his medicine in our checked luggage for when we’re over there. But for total peace of mind I like to take one of everything he could possibly need in my hand luggage too.

So I asked the GP if she would write a covering letter to smooth the path of all these pointy sharp bits, liquids, gases and pills onto the plane…. like they have done every year we’ve travelled by air. “Sure”, she said, “no problem pick it up next week”.

Today is next week and when MrW went to pick it up the receptionist said he had to pay £12 before she would release it.

WTF?

Since all our cash is now in crisp dollars he asked if they took Visa. And they don’t. So now what?

I phoned them to explain that this wasn’t a passport form, it wasn’t something I could get the local postmaster or a school teacher to do. Only my son’s GP can confirm that he needs these drugs and he’s a minor for crying out loud – since when did doctors charge minors for anything? Since it’s not covered by the NHS according to the receptionist.

Obviously I’m not taking massive risks here, Andrew will only eat snacks on the plane that I have bought in advance. In all probability he won’t need his drugs. We are flying BA because they are trained and because their transatlantic flights are nut free.

Our £100k+ a year GPs can take their letter and shove it where the sun don’t shine. I am damned if I am going to pay them to provide a 1 page print of a proforma letter they have graciously stuck their signature on. They should be utterly ashamed of themselves charging a child for a piece of paper that could assure his safety when travelling.

Yesterday I found a 70ml bottle of Piriteze. The Epipens are 0.3ml and the pills will hopefully not be too soggy so I’m sure we’ll be fine. It’s too late for me to contact his consultant now anyway so we’ll just have to cross our fingers and take enough crisps and Maltesers to keep him going for nine hours.

I can get QUINCY’S autograph for 99 PENCE!

And my GPs want £12?!?!  FFS!

For £12 I can get JESUS’S signature.

I phoned the Anaphylaxis Campaign to check if this was normal. They advised that whilst doctors CAN charge for these letters since they are not covered by the NHS, many don’t. And I’d like to think in the case of children many more don’t. It seems my GP surgery is just especially stinking. I look forward to telling them exactly what I think of them when we get back.

I spoke

“Get your haircut”

I said

You think it’s worth having a go at bed making next week?

This was originally posted on 1st July 2009 and has been recycled for Tara’s Gallery over at Sticky FIngers. This week the theme is The 7 Deadly Sins, and if you read on I’m sure you’ll get the gist of my entry. Normality will be returning just as soon as I get over the NINETEEN DAYS my darling offspring have just had off school. Actually, this post is timely since I do need reminded of a few things after NINETEEN DAYS at home with them!

As if I wasn’t proud enough with their 9 Merit Awards between them… see my daughter?

My daughter’s something else.

We found out the day before Prize Giving that Brian Soutar, that well know homophobic, pseudo-christian bigot was the invited guest speaker. The homophobic, pseudo-christian multi-millionaire bigot who bankrolled a private campaign against the Scottish Executive’s decision to overturn Clause 28.

The main argument used in support of Clause 28 was the claim that it protected children from ‘predatory homosexuals’ and advocates seeking to ‘indoctrinate’ vulnerable young people ‘into’ homosexuality (thanks Wikipedia).

As it was solely aimed at restricting what could and could not be taught and discussed in state school the “predatory homosexuals”  referred to could only be teachers.  Obviously homoexuals need to be watched, after all there are no straight sexual predators.

What a crazy choice of person to invite to a school prize giving.

Up until 4:30 I’d been under the impression I was going to be taking photos of the awards ceremony for my OH to make available for teachers to use, or the school video feeds, or to print off for any of the children who wanted their photo.  This was kaiboshed at 3:30 under some “child protection” issue. Don’t even get me started on that. By this stage I was all for not going  but was assured that Soutar would only be presenting the senior awards.  And that the bar would be open. Small compensation for having my first offer to take free photos cancelled… without a police disclosure I am clearly a predatory lesbian paedophile incapable of not posting every photo I take on the interwebtubes. Clearly.

Back to my daughter.

I’d given her a bit of background on Soutar and whilst she was keen to attend she was a bit outraged a man like that had been invited. How could she let that be known? Most of her friends didn’t know who the guest was and even when they found out they didn’t know anything about him. We toyed with wearing pink triangle badges but thought it might be a bit too “in yer face”, so I suggested she wear rainbows. You don’t have to be gay to fight gay prejudice. So she rainbowed it up good style.

From top

To toe

Soutar might not have got the point but I’m sure some people did.

I did, and I was so very very proud of her.

Ready, steady, ink those eggs

I have to say, the older they get the more ghoulish the eggs get

Well the boys do

We drove around looking for a hill… or at the least a parking place close to a hill

After going in circles and narrowly missing a little lamb enter the world

(if there had only been a parking place!)

we ended up at our old haunt, Scone Palace

Our favorite posing ground

Running, climbing and stomping ground

We found a grassy hill to roll the eggs down… then chuck the eggs from

Still they refused to crack, so we bounced them down the steps

Resulting in satisfyingly smashed eggs which we washed off and devoured salty

And that was Easter

How was yours?

I wonder if this photo captures the “drama” of the moment? Which mainly involved me pleading, “Will you get down from there, for crying out loud be careful!”

More drama over at iHeartFaces.

This week iHeartFaces jumps for joy so here’s Andrew jumping for joy since we’re done looking at boring scenery.

Which puts me in mind of his first visit to Disney World in Florida. He was little, like 4 months. Huddled together with the tired masses on the ferry over the sea back to the real word a big boy of 4 spotted him grinning in my arms. He tugged at his Mum and pointed at my son asking “Why is the baby smiling Mommy?”…. “Because he’s leaving honey, he’s happy cos he’s leaving”.

On Friday 13th December 1996, without any inkling and little in the way of preparation, a boy was born. Coming from a household of girls myself, surrounded by girl cousins (the only boys being one who lived in Edinburgh and one more than a decade younger than me), a mum with 2 sisters and an unmarried brother, a daughter of my own and a niece, I gazed on this baby boy creature experiencing a mixture of love shock and awe.

Then the diamorphine kicked in and I wandered out of the delivery suite for a shower.

I’m still not convinced he wasn’t swapped with some maternity goblin’s baby whilst I was stotting around on my own, feeling no pain.

On the occasion of the goblin changeling’s thirteenth birthday we (me and he) headed off Saturday on the train for a daunder round Edinburgh. He’s not daft is he? Given the choice of a party, a day out with his mates or anything else he could think of he followed the cash cow. Schweet.

I’ve always had difficulty finding the perfect gift for Andrew. Every year, especially when I was single-working-Mum, I’d try toys, toys he’d shown interest in, toys he’d begged for or toys I thought possessed a modicum of shelf life. We have a room full of MWMT and MIB toys… well we did until Paul came along.

Although he was always politely thankful for clothes, now he has a bit more interest in them…. especially shoes. Of all things. I abhor with every fibre of my being shopping for shoes. Especially for myself but extra especially with bells on for Andrew. Particularly school shoes. Birthday shoes, however, are immeasurably more bearable to shop for.

Once we had a bag of our own to lug round, once we considered ourselves “out shopping”, we headed to South Bridge Street and Blackwells book shop. I heard about The Children’s Book Tree over at John Connell’s blog and was keen to get me some book shop action.

I love scouring for books for my children, trying to find something they will enjoy, and thought it would be an interesting challenge for Andrew to try the same thing for a stranger. It wasn’t that easy. We tried to pick a free choice book for a boy around Andrew’s age from the books he’s read himself but unfortunately much of Andrew’s reading involves series. In the end we opted for David Almond’s Skellig. I sent Andrew back for another tag and we got some help from a member of staff picking a book for another boy. The tree will be there until 20th December so I think I’ll try to get back there with my (far better read) daughter. We then headed off to Forbidden Planet where he found six manga books for himself – cos that’s all we could carry.

Down Candlemaker Row to the Grassmarket….

Despite the fact I can’t make him cut that fringe I can assure you I did make him try all those hats on. He refused, point blank, to buy the pirate hat tho…. spoilsport.

Across the Royal Mile and down The Mound to the German Christmas Market. We would have taken photos if we could but scratching one’s nose in the melee was challenge enough.

Edinburgh is quite lovely at Christmas, if a tad busy on a Saturday. I’m not sure the train was the best option, although having a jinky wee son who can duck and weave through the crowd to grab a seat helps muchly.

Next day there were more gifts, haggis, Irn Bru and cake and finally…

… finally after 23 years of trying and failing, I enjoyed a whisky.

Thank you Mr Schweppes.

I feel whole now.