Ok, it’s just gone 4.30 and I could really do with a large glass of something cold and alcoholic. Preferably something with vodka in it. Hell, just the vodka would do.
Today’s unique brand of chaos actually started yesterday afternoon with a phonecall from the hospital, telling me there’d been a cancellation and there was an MRI appointment free at ten to ten. Did I want it?
Hmm, swap an 8am appointment for a 10am one? No need to think that one over. So it was up, shower, dress, round the children up and head out of the door early.
That was the theory. Instead, I had what has become the norm these days - slow as molasses kids, missing lunchboxes that were there the night before, single shoes (ditto), a baby that refuses to have his nappy changed and offspring that go ‘oh, I need xy and z today’ at 8.30am. I decided I needed a slice of toast, though. I’d had to put the bread machine on last night as we didn’t have any for sandwiches etc, so I cut myself a slice of lovely fresh bread and crammed it into the toaster. On reflecton, I should have just put butter and jam straight onto thebread.
The toaster fused all the electrics whilst I was fighting with RJ’s nappy. Once I’d dressed him, I removed the lukewarm bread and put it under the grill. Cue Myf looking for violin music. Result? Burned toast. I managed to rescue it before it became completely charcoaled, slammed the grill pan back into the cooker and shut the little door on it, all the time keeping up my morning mantra ‘whereareyourshoesfindyourjumperwhere’syourbookbaghaveyoubrushedyourhairlookatthetimewe’regoingtobelate’.
Pile out of the house to the van, have to remove the oil filled radiator that’s sat on the driver’s seat defrosting the machine as the ice is so thick you could build igloos out of it. Heave kids into car. Start engine, run back in house for hospital paperwork. Back out of house, lock door, climb in van, realise radiator is sat on doorstep. Back in house, through kitchen, out of back door, through alley, open front alley door, retrieve radiator, do it in reverse.
In car, halfway down street, pull over, jump out with can of deicer, liberally squirt mirrors, jump back in and pray that I don’t get snuck up on by an emergency vehicle because it’s unlikely that I’ll spot anything smaller than a ladder truck.
Arrive at school, evict protesting children, decide not to remove RJ from seat and send Myf into school with the other two under orders to deliver them to their respective classrooms. I didn’t have the wherewithal to start hauling pushchair out of the back, etc.
Put Linkin Park into stereo and try to chill during the traffic jam into town.
Collect James, drive to hospital, find parking space (!), on time for appointment, do the swallowed-alive-by-giant-donut thing, meet James in cafe for cup of tea and some (unburnt) toast. Drop James off back at shop and make fateful decision to make my yearly trek to Meadowhell in Sheffield.
RJ falls asleep on motorway, I turn up Linkin Park and fatefully start to actually enjoy the journey. At the end of the M18, I slide into the left hand lane for the filter onto the M1 north and put my foot down to overtake a wagon.
Nothing happens.
Well, actually, something happens, but it wasn’t what I was expecting. The revs go through the roof and we continue at the same pace as before. Black BMW behind gets so close I can’t actually see him in any of my mirrors. I put my foot down again and the engine reaches a pitch that’s actually painful to human ears. Speed increases from 65 to 68.
Give up and pull back in behind wagon. BMW zips past before I’m even halfway across the line. I continue to limp along the slip road, testing the throttle every few hundred yards. It appears we’ve lost top gear. By the time we get onto the M1, we’ve lost third gear as well. I managed 50mph all the way to the Meadowhell junction. Stop at the roundabout, praying I don’t grind to a halt never to move again, lights change and we set off as normal. Auto box slips nicely into second - and doesn’t go any further.
Park in normal spot behind Debenhams and ponder removing number plates and never setting eyes on the damned thing again.
Go shopping. Realise by 2pm that it was a wasted journey as I didn’t buy anything from any shop that wasn’t in Doncaster. That’s the last time I go to Meadowhell. Trepidatiously head back to van.
Load shopping and RJ. Start engine. So far so good. Put into Drive. Van starts to move. 5mph to traffic lights. Pull onto circular road bit and van drops into second gear and stays there. Bugger.
One hour and twenty minutes, and lots of phonecalls later, I limp up my street and back onto the drive. Miriam, bless her, collected the kids from school. James abandoned his deliveries on the other side of town to fetch them from her. I did stop half way home to check the fluid level in the auto box but it was fine.
I open the front door of the house, walk in and find the place filled with a smoky haze.
I’d left the grill on.
Turn grill off, open all the doors and windows, light half a dozen nag champa incense sticks and decide that somebody listened when I was praying earlier but decided that they’d do something more important than worry about the Chevy.
Make a few phonecalls, and present James with the bad news that it’s going to be in the region of £1700 plus VAT to fix.
Start writing eBay advert ‘1996 Chevrolet Astro Day Van, spares or repair’
Decide on spaghetti for tea and wonder how early I could decently make a Black Russian.
Only 12 more days until Christmas.
