Chez Moi

Couple of weekends back, hubby and I decided to go on the hospital’s birthing unit tour. We did this the last time around too and though it scared the pants off us, it was useful to get a mental picture of where we (er, I) might end up. Dropping P off at a friend’s place, on we went, to join a crowd of expectant parents waiting in the Maternity Unit’s lounge for the tour to begin. It was unnerving, to say the least, to be amongst a gazillion women in different stages of pregnancy. Brought it home to you, the whole deal and what lay in store.

Soon enough, a pretty midwife named Laura joined us and led us around. Unbeknown, the phrase “lambs to slaughter” entered my feeble brain and as I turned to catch the eye of one of the other mums-to-be, I could see a similar expression of panic writ large on her face. Somehow that calmed me and I followed Laura in a steadier frame of mind. First we visited the midwife-led unit. As I am keen to deliver here, I asked hubby to concentrate. The midwives run the show here, in the “low risk ward”, and there are only gas & air (Entonox - laughing gas) and pethidine injections available here for pain relief. Anything stronger, you’ll be taken to the higher risk zone.

We walked around the ward - the brightly lit lounge with a flat screen telly and lots of comfortable chairs and the odd birthing ball or two. Even here the walls had the protruding gas & air nozzles, which made all of us breathe a big sigh of relief though none could envision us sat here in this calm area on D-Day.

Next came the labour room - it was tiny, to say the least. We all peeked in as there wasn’t enough space for the whole lot of us to troop in. For the first time, I realised what it means to say “no space to swing a cat in”. Well, cat swinging aside, the room had a reclining heavy-duty bed, gas & air nozzle, monitoring equipment, bassinet, a telly and a spare armchair, for the birth partner to pass out in. That was it.

As we were standing outside, peering in, Laura chirpily asked us if we had any questions. Deciding to test SilentOne’s claim that she was home six hours after giving birth, I asked L if that was so. L went “no no…”, and before I could finish thinking “gotcha, SilentO…”, the midwife continued, “… you could leave in four hours if you want. As long as there are no complications with you or the baby and you are happy, you could just go after four hours.” It was time for me to test another of famous english phrases - slack jawed. ‘Cos that is exactly how I felt. Go home a mere four hours after giving birth*?! Wow!

_______________

Next we went down the stairs to the regular labour ward. All the wards follow the same layout, we were told. Good thing too as by the time we had finished wandering around the place, hubby was well and truly lost. As we were following L, he whispered, “maybe we should leave a breadcrumb trail or something.” Knowing his penchant for going around in circles (especially around the roundabouts), I sincerely wish he was joking!

The high risk ward was pretty much the same - the labour rooms had more high tech gizmos to monitor mum and baby and other nameless machines. As the rooms were larger, we could all troop in to one. As we all formed a ring around a bed, every face registered mild to severe panic. I am sure everyone’s thought bubble read the same as mine: “next time we are here, we’ll be on the bed - screaming!” Only Hubby seemed unconcerned and quite chilled out. Well why wouldn’t he be?

__________________

Once we got home, I went online to update my friends on what I had been upto that morning. When I mentioned the back-home-in-4 deal to my friends, I got a whole wide spectrum of feedback. Boo, Mags, (I stand corrected!) however, took the cake for the best quip:

“Imagine, DG, you could drop P at school, go to the hospital, give birth and be back at the school gates by home time!” Jokers, every single one of them.

Gorgeous berries

“Easy does it!”

Mission accomplished!

After a hard day’s work, some down time

“This is a job interview from hell!” - the dour voice intoning this stale statement has gone beyond getting on my nerves. It has gone to the stage where I can only watch Surallan’s rants when the telly is on mute. And the contestants - boy, if these are the brightest and best business minds in Britain today, then Lord help us all!

What the hell am I going on about? The latest installment of Apprentice, of course. The show that started off with so much promise. Week after week, we watched it to see what new task will be given to the bright sparks and what they do with it. The wide variety, the ideas that came thick and fast and of course, the discussion we had about it all made it unmissable telly.

Well that was then.

Now, ratings greed have swallowed the Unique Boss from Hell and spat out an irascible man, whom I wouldn’t work for, not even for the much vaunted six-figure salary. Hell, if he shouted and spat at me like that, I’ll be happy to chuck the job straight back in his face, thanks very much and exit with my head held high. Which is probably what the former winners have all done - not one of them seem to stick around for longer than the stipulated year.

Nowadays, the show has become a farce of the highest order. Project managers, who seem to think shouting, intimidating and bullying the rest of the team is the best way forward. A bunch of twats in power suits, who seem not to know what the word “team” means but somehow consider grim looks and bitchy attitudes are just the ticket. If this is the job interview from hell, then we have the perfect candidates!

Two things that are annoying the hell out of me this year - the gross ineptitude of the candidates and the amount of bullying that is going on, unchecked.

Task after task, we have these idiots running around like headless chickens, not knowing which way to go. Cooking task? The head chef is someone who eats out a lot but cooks shite. Photography? How about a chap who cannot take a decent photo and a lady who doesn’t know one end of a computer from another, in charge of the technical details. Laundry? We have ninnies who haven’t got a clue how much it costs to wash and clean clothes and pitch ridiculous amounts and even lose a few garments in the process.

And the bullying? The girls team has got Lucinda or Ladyribenaberet, as Ann Pickard of the Guardian has named her, as the pet scapegoat and generally piss on this weepy woman week after week. In the boys’ side, Simon was sniggered at cos he was common, I suppose and even Claire saw fit to treat him like shit. And she got away with it! That’s the way, Surallan!

None of these clowns seems to have a single redeeming quality amongst the whole lot of them - and that is saying something. Cliques, backstabbing and walking over a few heads to grab that trophy seems to be sufficient. This ain’t no all for one and one for all gig - it is every man for himself and woe betide any of you if you actually possess a heart.

Nice to know this is the kind of workplace attitude and ethics that are being promoted by one of Britain’s top employers. Maybe it ain’t just the interview that is from Hell - it may well be the blessed workplace too!

I have a biggo rant on the show coming up but I need to get this outta my system before I pop so here it is. This week the twats were given the task of coming up with a whole new ‘day’ for people to send greeting cards to. One gang of nitwits had their leader, the Sophocles chap, coming up with a “hey you’ve just had plastic surgery - many happies” card (or Happy Boob Job Day, as the Guardian’s Organ Grinder blog colourfully puts it) while the others come up with - wait for it - Save the Planet week.

How do they propose to do it? Oh by sending cards to one and all. The most hilarious bit is, it doesn’t occur to NOBODY what a self-defeating purpose it is to print CARDS (made, one thinks, by CUTTING TREES), put STAMPS on it, get  it delivered from POINT A to POINT B… well, you get my drift. And these, ladies and gentlemen, are the ‘finest business minds in Britain’ today. God save Britain.

Sophocles’ team finally decide on National Singles Day but are blown if they can figure out if there is an apostrophe in Singles and if yes, where it comes. They spend about 4 hours thrashing this about.

What neither team have stopped to consider - among other things - is the market. Who is going to buy the blessed cards? Who, for example, would buy a card that says “happy s’ingle’s’ day” and send it to their single friends? From one single friend to another? And then you’d hope to be alive after that?

And who would like to be the first chump to BUY a CARD that says “don’t waste water - take a shower” and GIVE it to someone.

Finest minds in Britain today people. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Just got back from our holiday last night. Nightmare, food-wise. Being preg and a proper veggie is a hellish combo as far as Disneyland food is concerned. See leaves, stuff your face, seems to be the thinking. I shall get into that later.

But for now, I am steaming. I had some coleslaw one night and have been worrying ever since about the ‘eat no raw eggy product’ preggie rule ever since. This morning has been spent in trying to speak to a midwife who can appease my mind and essentially say ‘you had just a couple of spoonfuls? now quit worrying!’ to me. So far, I have drawn a blank.

I live in, let’s say, Booville and have decided to have my baby in the nearby Bashville. But my GP surgery, when giving me the choice of hosps between the one in Bashville and another in nearer Rroomville (ah jeez!) didn’t tell me that their midwife supports only those that chose to have their babies at the latter hosp. Now, I rang my hosp who said the antenatal appointments are the GP’s concern. GP says as I am going to have my baby at the Bashville hosp, their midwife cannot help me as she cares for those deliverables at Rroomville. So I am stuck in some sort of ante-natal no man’s land. Just peachy, eh?

I wonder why people act surprised when I say I want to leave this brilliant place for the shores of home, where at least I can be assured of some decent medical care as long as they know my money’s solid! *sigh*