I’ve had one of those weeks where I should have been excused from life. For my safety and the safety of those around me. I should’ve clicked ‘pause’ and skipped the week altogether. It all started when I made my husband take a day off work. Which if you know my husband or his work, is not an easy feat to achieve. It’s like pulling that wobbly tooth when you were six and desperate for one of those big shiny one rand coins. No matter how hard you wriggled or twisted or fiddled…the little bastard tooth remained attached. You didn’t have the balls to sever the tooth from the gum in one swift and final tug. There’d undoubtedly be blood and pain. And it was all a little too feral for your taste.
This should’ve been my first hint at the carnage to come. Wife does not mess with a man and his work. Wife will be punished. Karma will mete out appropriate punishment. In my case punishment will be epic. I only do epic failure. There’s no middle gear for me and my stuff-ups. It’s fifth gear all the way baby. The reason for the day off was to drag reluctant husband and sprogs to the visa offices in central London to an appointment for our Schengen visas. Visas are required for a family holiday to Spain in August. Husband did not need to attend as he was not applying. His company is arranging his visa. For work trips. Naturally. I begged him to accompany me to help with the wild ones. He kindly agreed after the begging turned to blackmail. This happens sometimes in marriage. It’s not uncommon. No cause for concern. The day’s leave took weeks of planning, schedules were drawn up, train times consulted; it was a bloody mission and a half. And that was before we’d even left the house. On visa day, after my son finished school, we bolted for the station and arrived 90 minutes later at our destination with the panicked crazy eyed and dishevelled look familiar only to families with young children. We all recognise it. It’s code for. “Thank **ck we got here alive. It was close though.”
Except we weren’t allowed into the building. Why? Well for good reason. And no it wasn’t as a result of the mammoth poo we both pretended not to notice festering in our daughter’s nappy since Ealing station five stops before we arrived. It wasn’t the dinosaur that my son refused to remove from underneath his hoodie that he pretended was a bazooka and periodically and with horrifically accurate sound effects used to gun down anyone we passed. All suitable grounds for disbarment, I concede. We were barred simply because the appointment date I’d been issued a month previously was in fact the following day. I was a day early. I’d worked as frenetic and tirelessly as the Obama army okes trekking Bin Laden to convince my husband he needed a day’s leave. We’d completed a leg of The Amazing Race equivalent. We had a small tree’s worth of paperwork. We were there on the wrong day. Come back another day. The next day. Rinse and repeat. There was nothing we could do. So we turned around and made our way back to Windsor. We caught two trains and lugged our baggage (literal and figurative) and attachments (literal and figurative) back to the car park where we loaded aforementioned baggage and attachments into the car and headed home. I even joked that at least I’d chosen the day before and not the day after. I commiserated that evening over a goblet of Pinotage and contemplated taking wine with me for Dutch courage on my solo mission. The next morning, I realised with horror that the wheel attachment which allows my son to stand up against the pram was missing. Not in the car. Not in the garage. I even checked the nappy bag. When you’re panicking, you do stupid things. We’ve all been there. I called my husband 16 times. This procedure is our code for emergencies. He curtly informed me he had no idea where the wheels were. This is the censored version of our conversation. Apparently he’d excused himself from a conference call to Russia with the head of something or other for fear that his family were burning alive in their terraced house. So frantic was his wife’s efforts to get hold of him. He’s ever the calm Noah though. He figured I’d left the wheels in the parking lot while I was loading the pram into the boot and he was loading the kids. He imparted this wisdom and then promptly hung up. I figured he was right. Not something I do lightly. Or often. Or with any kind of grace.
I called the parking management to see if the wheels were perhaps handed in to the office. Nope. They had a pair of wellies, a dog leash and a trike. But no pram wheels. The frustrating thing about the loss of the wheels is the fact that they’re completely useless without the attachment that’s on the pram. You simply can’t use them. Also they cost me 60 pounds. That afternoon en route to the station for Visa Mission Part Deux, I scoured through every bush in the parking lot for those wheels. I opened bins and dug in the trash. My kids helped. Not a good sight I’m sure. Woman and her children ferreting in trash. But I was desperate. A desperate mother supercedes all levels of desperation. And they cost me 60 pounds. Without the wheels, my son would have to walk the three kilometres through Paddington station to the visa offices. I’m not a wussie mom. My kids are tough too. My son especially. He had spinal surgery when he was 10 months old. He’s a tough little cookie. I’ve even made him go to school after he puked the same morning. I’m that kind of Mom. I’m not scared of a little discomfort. Mine or theirs. But that’s a long way with no wheels for a 4 year old’s legs that when you measure are only really the length of two rulers. I had no option though. With AWOL wheels and a looming appointment in the city, we had to go. Did I mention the wheels cost me 60 pounds?
Long story short. We got to the visa office. Without police escourt or in an ambulance. Our appointment was two hours delayed and there were some tense moments. We all had a little cry, but we left having made an application for the visas. My son was a superstar. We walked at a snail’s pace and stopped for more breaks than there are adverts in an MNET screening of Grey’s Anatomy, but the oke walked the entire way. There and back. I bribed him with a Burger King Happy Meal and two toys of his choice from the charity shop. I even agreed he could have a machine gun if they had one in stock. Fair play. The oke is crafty. He knows when I’m in a weak spot. And more to the point, when he’s in a strong one.
And so began my relentless pursuit to crack the case of the missing wheels. I pretty much stalked the parking office. They got to know my name. They started to sigh when I approached. I suggested they use the CCTV camera footage to track the wheel’s last movements. “Not going to happen in this lifetime Mam” was the attendant’s reply. I wasn't even offended by the matronly 'Mam'. My only concern was for the wheels. He suggested that as the wheels were clearly important to me I go to the police station up the road, report them missing and see if perhaps they hadn’t been handed in. I perked up. A new lead. It was a Saturday afternoon by this time after two days of solid search. I asked long-suffering spouse to accompany me to the police station to catch a wheel thief. He refused. I tried a different tack and asked long-suffering spouse to drive me to the police station and wait in the car. He agreed. With conditions. When I arrived at the station, it was closed. Not a soul in sight closed. My first thought was that there was a drug bust or some kind of terror attack on the Castle. Yes my mind goes there. Until I peered closer and noticed a sign on the door with the opening hours. I nearly fell over. And no not because the doors opened. The police station operates on standard weekly business working hours. Can you believe it? Ok so yes the irony is not lost on me that a thirty something woman wants to report her pram wheels missing. To a police station that only opens from 9am-5pm on the weekdays. It's closed on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s one case of ridiculous after another. But c’mon. Do criminals in this country commit crime in working hours only? I think not. Crime is taken very seriously here. They even name and shame people in the local newspaper by printing their misdemeanours and their sentences. It’s my favourite part of the paper. I love it. Most people get cuffed for driving without car insurance, which is illegal here. That’s seriously as hardcore as it gets. Ok so sometimes someone tries a bit of cheque fraud or starts a brawl outside the pub. Be still my beating heart. My case of the missing pram wheels would fit right in. I can’t help but contrast this to the many times I visited the Hillcrest Police station to report my garden furniture or Weber stolen for insurance claims. Or my son’s stolen bike, or his second bike, or his third. There was queue each time. A long queue. With some serious unsavouries in attendance. And I’m not just talking about the policemen. The condition of my husband driving me to the police station was that once he did; I’d agree to drop the case of the missing pram wheels. Not talk about it. Not think about it. Give it up. Accept defeat. And move on.
So in the spirit of moving on (but not necessarily forward) since we’ve arrived in the UK, I’ve become a different person. I forget things and orchestrate all manner of cockups in my own little choir of chaos. Visa day/s and wheels aside. My track record of disaster is growing at an alarming rate. I lost my hand/nappy bag at the local Tesco. Inside were my purse and all four of our passports. It was handed in to customer services. Not a pound or document missing. Apparently I left it in the baby changing room. I joked that I could’ve left my baby and taken the bag. Didn’t go down well. I gained no laughs. I did lose something though. My pride was lost that day. It’s on the floor at the exact spot I noticed the bag was missing and proceeded to go into public meltdown. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest public meltdown. I locked my daughter in our house for over an hour while my son and I lurked outside in our PJs and no shoes in freezing cold weather waiting for the locksmith to let us in. There are still neighbours who won’t look me in the eye. I posted my son’s school application without a stamp. I then cried like a baby in front of the entire post office. I dropped a brand new i-phone 5 into the toilet. Yip. Submerged piece of Apple technology that gushed water like the gutters after those floods we had in Durbs a couple of years ago. You know the floods where the Wimpy on the Beachfront joked they were serving burgers and ships, not burgers and chips. It was cheesy, but so apt.
On Wednesday, I reversed into a parked car in our street. I was late to fetch my husband from the station. I had already reached the end of the cul de sac when I realised that I had left something in the oven. And the oven was on. I debated risking it. But I figured the neighbours would be a damnside more pissed at me if I burned the block down than they were when I locked my kid inside my house. My conscience and efforts to avoid being a social pariah got the better of me and I decided to nip back home and turn it off. I hit reverse and it was all fine until it wasn’t. There’s nothing like the sound of metal crunching metal. My kids were in the backseat and they were both fine. In fact my son asked me to do it again. He even pointed to a blue Ford Mondeo parked alongside us and said “Now get that one Mom!” No one came running. Not a soul came out when I got out of my car (yes in my PJs….it was 7pm at night), but I could feel the eyes. Those judgy eyes. I sprinted home, turned the oven off and grabbed a pen and paper. I proceeded to write a note that I wish had read like this: "Dear Sir. Your stupid black car got in the way of mine. Black cars are so difficult to see. For reasoning that completely eludes me, they were apparently cool about a decade ago when everyone suddenly got one. But now they’re just difficult to see for those approaching middle age. I couldn’t help hitting it. But you can help where you park. And it’s not good to park on the side of a road where you can get in the way of other cars. Especially mine. Let’s call it quits. You park like a tool and drive a black car. I smashed into it. Reckon we’re even.” My note actually read: "Sorry for being such a twat. Here’s my number. I live at 6 Ellison Close. I am so sorry. I will pay. So very sorry. I am South African. Only been here 3 months. So sorry. ”
I keep thinking that when my family and I packed, sold and donated our possessions before we embarked on this crazy journey, I put my brain into one of the boxes. I probably bubble-wrapped it. It's most likely stored in my Mom's garage with my wedding photos and Matric certificate. Thing is. I want it back. Just like those pram wheels. I fear though that I’ve sadly lost both. Forever. Gone, but not forgotten.
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My exhausted son on the floor of the train after Visa Mission Part Deux.  |
