Category Archives: Work and Studying

Jun 17 2015
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Work and Studying

Austria, Here We Come

AustriaMy boss. He doesn’t do the usual Dress Down Fridays (bit difficult as we wear paint-splattered gear every day – maybe we should have Dress Up Fridays?) or debauched Christmas parties, the meanie.

Last year, he held a festive bash for one. Him. On his own in a luxury restaurant with a 10-course tasting menu, a wonky paper hat, a bottle of bubbly and one straw.

This year however, he’s decided to splash out on a company outing. It started something like this:

‘Oi, Half-Shift! You speak German, don’t you? Didn’t you used to live in Austria? Can you ask for a hot-dog in the lingo?’

‘Erm, yup? Ja? Boss. Jawohl? Wurst?’

‘Excellent. We’re going to Austria.’

‘Oh. wunderbar! Are we going to tour the majestic beauty of the mountains and the breath-taking winding roads? Perhaps stopping in a charming Gasthof with carved wooden balconies? Wiener Schnitzel every evening?’

‘Nah, nothing like that. Grand Prix. In Graz.’

‘Oh.’

‘You in?’

Well. What could I say? It just so happens The Teenager is with his dad at the same time. Blimey. A road trip from Cardiff to Graz. To watch some souped-up cars racing round in a loop, over and over again. What’s not to like?

Of course I’m in. I might not understand what it’s all about – apparently he’s booked Grandstand seats – but I’m sure I can take my Inspirational Thoughts notebook and jot down some literary musings, sipping a strong coffee.

Actually, I can’t wait. My own four walls are closing in on me and the chance of escape is enticing.

We leave tomorrow morning and I’m still not packed. Being pale, fat and frumpy, my wardrobe choices are somewhat limited. I have a couple of pairs of cropped trousers but when I tried them on, my white legs blinded me and should Lewis Hamilton need one, I have a spare tyre or two around my waist.

Gut, ja?

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Apr 21 2015
14 Comments
Work and Studying

Live to Work? Work to Live?

workI was having a chat with the boss the other day over Hob Nobs and coffee.

After my exploding (and very icky) skin condition brought on by the sun and a healthy dose of Herr Uhthoff, he seemed quite surprised at my eagerness to return to work.

My arms are still covered in the rash despite steroids, ice packs and much lamenting.

Thinking about it, I was surprised too. I said to him, ‘isn’t it weird that I know I’m going to feel rotten again coming to work, but I still want to? Does that make me strange?’

I guess it’s something all of us with MS who work will face at some point. It’s 50/50. In work, I know I’ll be tired, I know I’ll trip over, I know I’ll garble my words and flare up in the sun, but I still do  it. Why?

Perhaps because the alternative is too frightening to contemplate.

For me, it would be all too easy to make MS into a full-time job. I’ve been there, done that, way back in the bad old days. Hospital appointments, blood tests, a fatigue management course, support groups. They all take up time. Fitting them all around a job, a Teenager, a kitten and just running the house all takes its toll.

But at the moment, work is my personal statement and a yah-boo-sucks to MS – it’s something I’m clinging on to. It gives me routine and pride in myself, and I’m planning to do it as long as possible. Of course, if I had a hunky, tall, chiselled-jawed, sensitive and caring significant other who earned shed-loads in hedge-funds, I may think differently. But I’m the only source of income in our little cottage – The Teenager needs pizza and the kitten needs her Dreamies.

So, in reality, I will still stumble out of bed and get ready for work. Some days I might want to crawl back under the duvet and hide. Believe me, it’s very, very tempting. But there’s always Hob Nobs …

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Nov 15 2014
4 Comments
Work and Studying

Off Work, On The Ball

meThe boss is away soon (Abu Dhabi, Grand Prix, tsk)  so I now find myself with a lot of spare time on my hands.

I’m not back in work for ten days (*stumbles for joy*).

But.

I’m useless with time. I can sit/lie/sprawl on the sofa for hours on end, waste entire days contemplating hoovering the house and generally loll about doing nothing much apart from de-fleaing the cat.

With this in mind, I have drawn up a timetable. In these ten days I have to: go to the doctor’s twice (thyroid), write two 2.000 word essays, write a collection of short stories totalling 3,000 words, edit my blog ready for publishing, stop shoving dust balls under the rugs and hoover the house, finish Christmas shopping, clear all the leaves from the garden and make a banana cake.

Sadly, I’m useless at timetables. I work far better under pressure, and with the lure of downloading addictive trash TV, I will have to be strict with myself. And this is where I come unstuck.

I’m toying with the idea of the donkey and stick. Maybe I should hold off that first cup of wondrous coffee until I at least write one tiny paragraph of an essay. Or until I pick up the hoover. But I tried that before. I simply opened the coffee jar and inhaled deeply then picked the blasted hoover up and half-heartedly sucked up the bits of cat food around the bowls. Exhausting. And Housewives of Somewhere or Other was ready to watch and calling to me.

So I’m a little bit anxious about the days stretching ahead in front of me, but when I think back to my last day in work, today, I’m kind of relived to have a little break.

The Boss thought it would be hilarious to play the Christmas radio station. I endured five hours of back-to-back Christmas hits, with his favourites turned up loud. By the end of the day I was a gibbering wreck, with trumpets, drummer boys and halls decked with holly careering around my brain.

My first proper day off is tomorrow. I will visit the Uni library, take The Teenager to rugby training, make a banana cake and dust the telly. In readiness.

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Oct 27 2014
2 Comments
Work and Studying

Disabled, Moi?

StumblingI had a strange time in work today.

It was my second day back after two weeks of illness, which had left me huddled and snivelling under my favourite Blankie on The Sofa (TM), catching up with True Movies.

The Chicken Slice (with Real Chicken! as opposed to Fake Chicken!) and latte from Greggs before work helped a little.

But then a very annoying/weird/pesky thing happened.
I suddenly couldn’t speak properly, which for me, Miss Gobby, is pretty dire.

Words flew in the wrong direction. I was channelling Yoda – ‘like it, I do, what you achieved, you have.’

Then, I couldn’t walk properly, and held on to the walls at the same time as talking to the client about taps and shower accessories.

I tried to look interested, but was, thank goodness, distracted by their kids who did what kids do at Half Term and created a timely distraction in the other room (she/he took Peppa Pig off me). I left the Victoria Plumb catalogue on the table.

The weirdness continued. My feet felt loose, as if they were detached from my legs and dangling helplessly. So walking was entertaining, as I stomped around, clinging to the nearest loose electrical wire and looking like an evil puppet. ‘Oi, boss? Is this one live?’

The labourer turned up (late, meh) and I passed the entire morning planning where the boiler would go. I sketched out plans for the lights and plug sockets (yes, my job is that exciting). The labourer had a few things to do, and undertook each one with a fag and numerous sighs. I took my book of short stories out at lunchtime and ate my Mexican baguette, one beady eye on him as he wandered up and down the site, calling his Missus.

And then he left. He had ‘things to’ and he had a dodgy leg. Well. I mean. Really.

That was it.Before he fled to his car, I gave him the full ‘Stumbling’ repertoire. The Boss came out shortly after and found me wedged between a plastic chair and the back wall.

‘But…’
‘Meh…’
S’not fair…’

But then, an epiphany. Despite my lack of speech, the dodgy legs and all-round nerve pain, I was A OK. Disabled, yuk, horrible legal term. My legs did their own thing. But truly disabled? I don’t think so, but maybe, yes? Hmm.

The Boss tidied up and we got in the van to go home. He asked me to ‘pop out four painkillers, yeah? My neck’s killing and I’m going to throw up.’
And I’m the disabled one?

Oct 24 2014
20 Comments
Work and Studying

It’s A Hard Life, Being a Student…

studentIt truly is.

Especially the evening lectures, when The Teenager cranks up the guilt:

Can you bring me back some sweets?
Nope, there’s carrot sticks in the fridge.
Can you bring me back a drink?
Nope, there’s Council Pop in the tap.
I need help with my homework.
Welsh isn’t one of my languages.
I’m calling Childline.

And with that, he strops off upstairs and turns his music up. When I get back later, he’s slumped on the sofa chucking the carrot sticks at re-runs of Countdown.

Anyway, apart from that, it’s the essays that are my main challenge right now. I had imagined, when signing up for a Masters in Creative Writing, I would be stumbling around in artistically-put-together clothes (garments?), staring at the clouds then scribbling long words and my meaningful impressions of life in a shiny new notebook.

There were two problems with this. First, MS brain has reduced my observations to, ‘the clouds were pink. And white. And a little bit fluffy’. And, ‘the cat ran away. And then came back.’

Second, I hadn’t expected to write essays about writing essays. I had no idea there were so many theories and ‘-isms’ in writing. I am currently staring at a stack of books about ethnography as a research method. Out of the eight books, I have found five quotes, and two of them say pretty much the same thing.

The university library is a scary place, full of very young intelligent-looking people. And it’s very, very quiet. They can hear me scanning and dropping my piles of books a mile away. The machine hates me and the librarians at the desk tut.

I also have to write a portfolio of short stories by the end of December. This is going ok, but I seem to be writing very dark stuff. Ho hum. No idea why. But, as with everything over the last three years, I am nothing if not determined. My putty brain is being stretched to capacity. And I have decided to, gulp, publish the last two years of my blog as a book. At least I can then call myself a writer/author/deluded. I think.

I told The Teenager about my grand literary plans and he stared at me aghast. However, he quickly recovered and suggested ideas for new blog posts I could write about him. I interrupted him and told him the blog wasn’t fiction. He muttered something under his breath in Welsh, swiped the last scone and disappeared.

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