The Doldrums

I don't suppose, given the title, that I need to preface this post by stating the bleeding obvious: this week has been a little bit sh*t.

It's always the same after Ex departs.  I try not to pre-empt the situation, but the correlation between Daddy leaving and the boys morphing into children that I barely recognise is beyond any form of reasonable doubt.

The week started with Captain Underpants breaking his glasses during playtime.  The school called me.  I had that heart-in-your-mouth moment, where I thought, "Oh God, please don't say that one of them is sick and needs to be picked up early?"  No.  Apparently there had been a playful kerfuffle and CU's glasses bore the brunt of it.  I wasn't even slightly irritated, these things are to be expected with boys.  Truth be told, I am surprised the glasses have lasted this long without being smashed to smithereens, given the amount of rough and tumble that goes on.

However, turns out it wasn't just larks that got a bit out of hand.  The next day the teacher informed me, in the gravest of tones, that Captain Underpants, typically a cautious, less physical child, had initiated a fight with one of his friends.  Lunged at him in anger.  Snapped and retaliated violently when a boy teased him one too many times.  I cannot begin to tell you just how unlike him this is.  How out of character.  His brother?  Totally.  But Captain Underpants?  Instigating a fight?  I was stunned into speechlessness, which, believe me, only happens on the rarest of occasions.

At the time I was on my way to pick the boys up from after school football club.  I was a little pre-occupied, following my conversation with the teacher.  The football coach, upon seeing me, pulled me to one side.  Captain Underpants had been causing such a rukkus throughout class, apparently, that he won't be allowed to attend football club if that type of behaviour continues.  Endless shouting.  Constant loud fake burping into other children's faces.  Repeatedly pulling his shirt up and his shorts down whenever a goal was scored.  Totally blanking the Ref/football coach and carrying on regardless.

I was completely and utterly mortified.  And my heart breaks for Captain Underpants, just a little.

Oh, this situation is so hard on him.  On both of them.

When Daddy leaves both boys are bereft and sorrowful.  All they want in life is for their mum and dad to be together.  And if not together, then preferably on the same continent.  Emotionally, they can't tell their arse from their elbow when they are seemingly wrenched from their Daddy.  It's so hard to witness them acting out their emotional struggle with it - and harder still to know how to help them, apart from cutting them a bit more slack than usual and making sure they quickly get back into their regular routine.

I know that this belligerent, hyper, uncooperative behaviour will fade after a few days.  We just have to weather the storm and soon enough things will be back on track.  The over-excited, ADD traits will fade and my sweet, loving, generally sensible-ish boys will return.

But bloody hell, getting through those days is no fun at all.  For any of us.

Thankfully, today was actually a turning point.

This morning I was to attend an Inspire Day! at school with Captain Underpants.  Unfortunately, the only thing I felt possibly inspired about, upon waking, was another 8 hours of sleep.  I seem to have given myself a fake variation of jet lag, by staying up until 2 or 3am while Ex was here and waking mid-morning.

My body has not adjusted well to this abnormal sleep pattern.

It expects me to be on the way to the land of nod by 10pm, or thereabouts - possibly 11pm if I am truly living life on the edge.  Any variation to the norm is greeted with a distinct lack of humour I have discovered, much to my chagrin.  I won't be repeating that again in a hurry, let me assure you.  In my experience, jet lag is only mildly preferable to severe sea sickness, and that is hardly a condition described as a barrel of laughs, is it?

I turn up at school looking distinctly green around the gills and with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being cajoled into conversation about personal hygiene with a parent.  We are tasked with being Inspired! to make a board game, revolving around the theme of Transport, with our children.  Two hours later and all is back on the road to being well with the world, with Captain Underpants.

The activity reminds me - and not in a good way - that I rarely, if ever, spend 2 hours of quality one-on-one time with either of my children...and that doing so is so much fun.  Captain Underpants and I are not the best of teammates, admittedly.  I am slightly too rash and impatient, impetus for his liking.  He is a little too considered and thoughtful, verging on a daydreamer, for mine.  I would like to say that I allowed him to take the lead on, what is after all, his project.  And I can say that.  But it would be a giant big fib.  Thankfully, Captain Underpants is, at the age of 7, still tolerant of his (slightly) overbearing mother, plus a tad lazy, which worked to our advantage today.

After school we hang out with a new set of friends.  I have to be honest and say that the behaviour I witnessed, during that 2 hour time frame, resembled more your average moshe pit than a play date with 5 and 7 year olds.  I find myself being catapulted into a parallel universe, inadvertently taking on a professional alter ego as a bullish referee for this unexpected vertically challenged cage fight.

It.  Was.  Madness.

You rarely witness such mayhem, this close at hand, involving just a trampoline, 3 laser guns and a light sabre.  I am pretty confident this chaos would not have ensued had the 'players' involved been a group of girls labouring over a book of Barbie stickers.  I have not seen this many tears, tantrums and hysterics since watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey (if you're a fan, you'll know exactly what I am talking about).

The only saving grace for this particular play date was that my sons, by and large, behaved immaculately.  This time it was Captain Underpant's buddy's turn to be the out-of-control, truculent, abhorent little shit monster.

I felt for his mum.

As I heaved a big sigh of relief.

Phew.  Not just me and my boys then.

Looks like we are over the worst of it.  Until next time.

Just Call Me Imelda

Good evening everyone.  My name is Nicola.  And I am an addict.

A shoe addict.

This addiction reached fairly ridiculous heights this week, when in a single day I bought 7 pairs of shoes.  Most of which are highly impractical and aren't going to last more than 20 paces on the school run through the woods.

What was I thinking?

In all honesty, I don't think that the brain was completely engaged in any of the purchases, which happened rapidly in the space of approximately 75 minutes.  I certainly wasn't thinking, "What I desperately need, more than anything else on this planet, is 7 new pairs of 3 inch heels...to accompany the mountain of neglected and rarely worn 3 inch heels that I have stuffed in special shoe storage bags, under my bed."

Could it be that I was a millipede in a past life?  Does this explain the urge to own more shoes than I can possibly wear in this lifetime?

So I took it upon myself to photograph my new purchases - to illustrate quite clearly, to potential disbelievers, why these shoes were purchases of the Absolute Necessity variety.  Then I thought...hey, there's an extension on that great idea!  Why not photograph all the pairs of shoes that I have bought this year alone and OUT myself in spectacular fashion?  Reveal myself to the world as the frivolous shoe spendthrift that I truly am.

That was not a particularly easy feat.  First, there was the challenge of actually remembering, then finding all the shoes I have bought this year.  Second, there were so many of them that it took me a while to recover from the shortness of breath and dizziness that set in.  Once I'd had my little lie down, with a sweetened cup of tea and a couple of custard creams, I found I didn't actually have sufficient floor space in my bedroom to lay out all the shoes to photograph them.  Unthwarted in my mission, I did manage to fit them all onto my king size bed.

28 pairs of shoes.

In 6 months.

And I love and am deeply attached to every single pair of them.  No, really.  Even the pair of black sequin Converse that haven't made it into the photograph (because I had quite simply forgotten all about them until mere seconds ago and have absolutely no recollection to their whereabouts).

In my (slightly insane and desperate) defence, I will stand tall and say very loudly 23 PAIRS OF THESE SHOES WERE ON SALE, YOUR HONOUR!  In fact, many of them were half price...which means I have effectively only brought in the region of 17 pairs of shoes.  Quite a sensible, justifiable number of new shoes in the space of 6 months, I am sure you will agree.

When I was photographing the shoes (it took a little time, with all the breaks to breathe into the brown paper bag) it did occur to me that, whilst the money spent might not have stretched to a 5* holiday in Mauritius...it could possibly have afforded me a 4 day yoga treat.  In India.  Where I could have meditated all day, every day on the answer to why I innately believe that the hole in my heart can be successfully filled with shoes.  Ah well.  I am guessing that is a question that will remain unanswered, for the time being at least.

As for the timing of the purchases, well that couldn't have been more awkward.  Ex arrived in town last Wednesday and has commandeered my house till Monday.  (Yes, I can see that there is probably some Cause and Effect relationship here - these recent years of therapy have not been a complete waste of time and money I can assure you.)  I was therefore in a situation where I was still trying to smuggle the evidence of my purchases into the house, without his knowledge, yet again.

Why I couldn't just waltz brazenly in, swinging the bags containing multiple shoe boxes, I have no idea. I was tempted to parade my very own shoe fashion show during tea time, which surely would have garnered much appreciative applause, quickly followed by praise in my economic ability to 'save' myself £280 in shoes, in one day alone.   But no.  Instead I sneaked in while the house was empty and, quickly and quietly, shamefully hid all evidence.

It strikes me as a little odd that I am no longer married to the man, yet I am still participating in this little charade.  Funny how some habits (particularly the bad ones) are hard to shake.

Anyway, before I delight you with photographic evidence of my truly superficial and slightly unhinged addiction, I will just say this about shoes:

• Shoes are the easiest thing in the world to try on, because they do not require a changing room and the removal of several layers of clothes
• When you try on shoes, you are rarely in danger of horrifying yourself with close up images of your own dimpled bottom and/or thighs in a 3-way mirror
• If a shoe is too small, it doesn't provoke an emotional "God, I knew I shouldn't have eaten half the contents of the kid's treat tin!" reaction...you simply get the next size up
• Similarly, if a shoe makes your foot look less than attractive your brain very rarely asks the question "Does my foot look fat in this?"  It is purely an ugly bloody shoe and can be instantly cast aside  

The Four Man Method - yet more dating disaster stories

Dating.  It’s not an activity I thought I would have to endure in my 40s, whilst in the midst of trying to raise the next generation of men myself.  

I’m not proving to be very good at it.

I was always much better being a one man girl, so the modern approach of dating several prospects simultaneously seems a sure fire recipe for guaranteeing that you are about to get yourself a ‘reputatation’.  And not one of being a pillar of the community.

If, like me, you become obsessed with the romantic activities of celebrity single mums, you might be fooled into thinking that bagging a new man following a relationship implosion is a piece of cake.  I’m surprised I have any molars left and haven’t ground them into stubs, when being subjected to tabloid images of my celebrity peers, holding hands blissfully with their new beau's.  Like it really is that simple.  

Yes, I’m talking about you Halle.  The front door had barely shut on Gabriel’s behind and there you were, gazing blissfully at Oliver Martinez.  Not fair.  Elizabeth Hurley, you’re no better, getting instantly bowled over by that hunky cricketer bloke.  And don’t even get me started on Rachel Weiz, who found consolation in the arms of Daniel Craig no less, when her marriage fell apart.  There are others.  Many others.  Including a plethora of Kates (Hudson, Price, Winslet) and the elfin Anna Friel.  

So this is how I spend my days.  Spitting toast at the source of the latest celebrity single mum’s love tryst in agitation (then grinding my molars into stubs with - let’s face it - raw envy).  And my reaction is always the same....This is Not Real Life!  

At least, it’s not my real life. 

More’s the pity.

Not that there hasn’t been some small flurries of potential romantic activity in my life over the past few months.  

Here’s a brief run down:

Mr eHarmony

The only man I met up with, following a knee jerk 3 month stint on eHarmony (the membership of which is now cancelled - FOREVER).  Now, this is a guy who knows how to treat a lay-dee.  He took me out to dinner, to the theatre and even to Ladies Day at Ascot.  He was well travelled, well read, engaging, thoughtful and had a good sense of humour.  On paper he ticked boxes, and lots of them.  In real life, there was just no sexual chemistry (well on my part at least).  I tried to muster up the enthusiasm for a good ol’ tongue thrashing snog, because God knows I could do with the practice, but even two powerful Mojitos and half a bottle of Chablis couldn’t get that party started.  

We’re now just friends.

Italian Stallion

This tall sexy hunk has been swinging me around the dance floor for weeks, while I practice my Ceroc moves and try to out-Britney Ms Spears.  I have to admit, I’m a little bit shameless when I am dancing.  I don’t set out to be - but the right music can trigger an almost Pavlov response in my celibate pelvis, which starts wiggling and jiggling with blatant abandon.  Most men regard me with abject fear in their eyes - but the Italian Stallion has no such fears.  “I am tempted by you”, he tells me seductively, in his wildly attractive Italian accent on the dance floor, and then later, over pizza.  

I was a little bit tempted, I’ll confess.  I’m only human.  These nether regions were never intended for a nunnery.  

But I’m taking a pass.  It’s only going to be a shag at the end of the day - and that’s just not what I am looking for.  It’s not going to stop me dancing like a wanton freak with him on a Tuesday night tho...after all, I am only human.

Sexy Single Dad

It doesn’t seem very politically correct to be scouring the playground for potentially available men, but in the single mum world it’s best to leave no stone unturned. One of the dads in Johnny Drama’s class caught my eye.  Nice looking, great smile.  A little bit of a Harry Hill Lookee-likee. I have never seen such a perfectly spherical head.  It was a happy day when I found out he was a single dad.  A slightly less happy day when he dropped into conversation that he had a girlfriend.  Drats.  

Anyway, all is not lost.  I now have a new buddy to coordinate the odd weekend play date with and that really is a bonus.

The Tall American

On my last night in Chicago in April I bumped into The Tall American and had that kind of swoony experience which doesn’t happen very often.  That tantalising combination of instant attraction and sexual chemistry, accompanied by an intuitive sense that you’ve met before.  I knew it was pointless and there could be no future in it, but I was smitten.  After a 15 minute conversation and no snogging action whatsoever, I was hooked.  

I then found out, following a succession of emails and even a couple of phone calls, TTA is dad to two children and that his wife was tragically killed last summer.  How heartbreaking is that?  It sent me into a bit of a tailspin and I couldn’t get him or his children out of my mind.  To me, there really can be no worse case scenario.  The thought of my own boys growing up, without me there screwing them up every step of the way, is unimaginable.  I ached for her and for their children.  

Not that I got to tell him that.  It appears that TTA has unwittingly got trapped under something very heavy and I haven’t heard from him for weeks.  There could be any number of reasons.  I tell myself that it’s definitely better this way.  Far less complicated all round.  After all, I didn’t really want to even contemplate moving back to Chicago again, did I?  No, I did not.  

Such a lovely man.  I hope he finds happiness again.  

Such a shame I didn’t get at least a kiss out of him, all the same.

How Is It Nearly July Already?

At last.  A near perfect weekend.  About bloody time.  The previous 3 weekends have all involved tears (mine) in one form or another - from muffled sobs into a tea towel while curled up by the washing machine on a Saturday morning, to full out hysterical sobs at a child's birthday party, on a bright Sunday afternoon - so this has to be progress.

June, for some reason, has been a tough month.

Maybe it's simply down to the fact that tomorrow I will have been living in the UK for 6 months.

6 months?

Doesn't seem possible.  Time is moving way too quickly and it's hard to see how my life is truly moving on, how I am actually making progress, now that I have nothing to complain about, finally being home.

The past four weeks have been pretty...well, challenging.  I say that although, of course, good things are happening all around me.  The boys are great.  I am out and about, meeting new people, doing fun things.  However, in spite of this, in spite of the fact that I am spending an abundance of energy getting myself out there, none of it appears to be tipping the balance on my 'general happiness and well being' meter.

At times I feel just as lost as I have ever been.  Just as angry, exhausted, disappointed and scared.  I aim  barbed arrows of judgement at people all around me, but in truth it's myself that I am disgusted with.  My inability to be a motivated, optimistic person 100% of the time.  The fact that some days I am just so sad, for no reason at all.  Why can I not just trust that it is all really okay?

Maybe I'm just not drinking enough alcohol.

Nah.

I'm pretty sure that I am.

Ex and AG were here for half term and, obviously, had a gay old time with the boys and various friends and family.  God, that still rankles, though I so wish it didn't.  When I think about it all rationally, the situation couldn't be much better for the boys.  (Actually, not true...the situation would be much better if I was the one in the fantastic new relationship, while the gitbag who actually dessimated this family was alone and bereft...but I digress.)  Friends who haven't been in this situation find it hard to understand. Surely I should have let it all go by now?  After all, it's fairly amicable, isn't it?  It all could be so much worse.

And I agree.

But this isn't about the rational, is it?  How can you be rational about the person that you planned on loving and spending the rest of your life with, loving someone else?  And that being okay?  I struggle day to day with my little torn apart family, dealing with boys who cry heartbrokenly because they miss their dad.  I did everything I could to keep this family together and it wasn't enough.  I had no idea I was so disposable.  That my replacement would not even be born until I was 13 years old and lived on the continent that I, stupidly, dragged us to over 10 years ago.

I want to find it in my heart to be the bigger person and just 'let it go'.  I don't want to be petty and mean spirited, because I know I am no longer in love with my Ex.  By allowing my vulnerability to override my common sense, I continue to disappoint and frustrate myself.  I feel I am on the verge of losing friendships due to the fact that this situation still paralyses me, impacting me to physical nausea.  Rationally it's all so unnecessary, but in truth it's how I still feel.

One day I am going to read this and not be able to equate with it at all.  That's a comforting thought at least.  How I long for that day - and may it just hurry up and get here.

I think the cat being released from quarantine marked the passage of time that I have been home for quite a while.  Bert arrived home, looking none the worse for wear.  For the first few days he seemed to have had a personality transplant following his ordeal, to the point where he even sought and tolerated the boys affections.  Then he stopped eating cat food and started a new diet, consisting mainly of his own fur.  Bald patches started appearing with alarming frequency.  He succeeded in scratching most of the fur off his ears and his face.  His tummy, instead of featuring silky black hair, became predominantly pink.  The hair that remained attached to his skinny frame became greasy and lank.  In my usual slack Alice fashion, I ignored it for the first week thinking I could simply stroke him back to health.  When that failed I conceded defeat and rushed him to the vet.

Good God, I thought mercilessly, if you pop your clogs now after I paid out thousands from my divorce fund to get you through quarantine, I am going to be a teensy, weensy bit annoyed.

Turns out that it is anxiety.  Must be contagious.  This is the effect I have on animate objects, apparently.  Even the cat is now stressed to the eyeballs after a few days of living with me.

No sooner did the cat move back in...then my sister moved out.  She found a great place to live, just over a mile away.  I have mixed feelings about the move.  I miss having her here, even though I know it was the right time for both of us.  The fact that we survived going from hardly seeing each other for 10 years, to living in each others pockets for the past 6 months, pretty much reflects the strength of our friendship.

It feels strange not to see her on a daily basis though.  And my eating habits have gone completely down hill since she left.  Funny how it was so easy to motivate myself to prepare a healthy meal each night, when there was someone else to cook for, who appreciated it so much.  For the past week I have lazily forfeited preparing salad and protein for my alternative nutritious combo of kettle chips and Haagen Daaz.  Not really food for the mind, is it?  Or the thighs, come to think of it.  Still.  It does taste bloody delicious.

Anyway, rather than let this general malaise lead me down the inevitable rocky road of a permanent sugar coma, I have decided to try to face this period of my life head on and booked myself some therapy.  Rather than keep this simple and also boost the local economy, I have begged the therapist I used to see in Chicago, to help me out via Skype.  Sounds a little pretentious I know, but I just couldn't bare the thought of having to go through my recent history yet again.  All the details of the dead baby, then the high risk pregnancies, premature births, infant surgeries, marital breakdown, separation, divorce and transatlantic move - and everything else in between.  I don't have the time or inclination.

Luckily for me, my therapist said You Betcha! in that optimistic, American way and so now, at last, help is at hand.  There's hope for me yet.  Although apparently, tears are like burps and farts.  Better out than in.  And while I'm not aiming to cry me a river any time soon, I am mildly regretting not having shares in Kleenex at this point in time.

A Day With Friends

When you're going through a rough patch, there's nothing better than spending time with friends, people that genuinely care.

And that's just what I did today.  At Cybermummy.

Now I have the amazing Tattie Weasle to thank for passing along her ticket, as she had a conflicting family engagement.  How fortuitous.  How generous.  I am very, very grateful.  Apparently her boys thought I could do with the break from my own rambunctious monkeys - and I have no shame in readily admitting that it couldn't have been better timed.

The conference itself was meticulously planned.  I wouldn't really class myself as a 'serious' blogger - I am not seeking marketing partnerships or revenue, would prefer to avoid sponsored posts, am not focused on increasing readership and have no intention of using the blog as a jump start to a business venture.  Therefore the value of some of the workshop content was a little wasted on me.

But oh, what a day.  What a productive and inspiring day.

It really brought home the reason why I continue to, somewhat haphazardly, blog.  Because I have met some remarkable women.  Women who have supported me over the past 2 years and provided such a wealth of advice and comfort.  Women who have spurred me on, again and again and again.  Women who have inspired me with stories from their own lives.  Women who, if I had tripped over them on the high street,  I wouldn't recognise from Adam.

Until today.

Today I got to meet these lovely ladies.  I got to hang with these funky mamas.  I don't have to regard myself as one of their cyber stalkers any longer.  (Now I can be officially upgraded to Real Life Stalker...I have real names, phone numbers, can provide a pretty accurate police fotofit description if ever called upon.  It's all pretty heady stuff, I can tell you.)

So a big THANK YOU to Home Office Mum, Expat Mum, Not Wrong Just Different, Potty Mummy, NotSupermum, MoreThanJustAMother, Jo Beaufoix, Family Affairs, London City Mum, Nixdminx, Muddling Along Mummy.  I had a fantastic day - but the best part, by far, was getting to meet you all in person.

Another bonus?  The four bags of swag that I unashamedly pilfered from every sponsors stand and workshop table.  It's been quite a while since I have attended an event that featured an abundance of Free Stuff.  I think I might have embarrassed myself a little with my enthusiasm to bag every freebie going, regardless of whether or not I could actually make use of it.  It was like being a contestant on Supermarket Sweep.  Quite what I am going to do with the 3 tubes of nipple cream, the sippy cup and feeding bottle I haven't quite figured out yet.

But oh boy, am I going to get brownie points tomorrow when the boys get their sticky little mitts on the soft toys, the dvds, note books, Crocs.  Even the spaghetti will probably raise a cheer.  (You can tell we don't get out much.)

So thank you gorgeous fellow bloggers.  I count myself as very lucky to be one of your peers.

And thank you to the organisers of Cybermummy.  A very worthwhile day - and a truly great day with friends.

The Art Of Positive Thinking

Captain Underpants, "Mum...I think it's going to rain..."

Me, "C'mon on now, Captain Underpants...let's think positive shall we?"

(Short pause)

Captain Underpants, "Okay mum.  I'm positive it's going to rain."

NHS: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

This morning my sister and I should be waking up to this:

Instead we are still ensconced in North London.  Not fair.  But at least it's not rainy.  GOT to look for the glass half full, got to look for the glass half full...(said through fairly gritted teeth).


We were due to fly to Malta yesterday for a 4 day break.  Ex and AG are over to stay with the boys for 5 days and I had planned to gallivant off to the island where I was born and lived until I was 3 years old.  I don't have personal memories of living there, but watched so many cine films growing up and saw so many baby pics, that those 2D snapshots created perfect memories for me to adopt as my own.  For some reason I have never got around to revisiting before, although always planned to.  Now was perfect timing.  Or so I thought.

The universe thought otherwise.

Goddamn you universe and your wicked, wicked ways.

Last week the household shared a communal cold.  No big deal.  Happens all the time in a generous, sharing household such as ours.  None of us thought anything of it.  Maybe it did cross my mind that diving might not be an option if my sinuses continued to play up, but I dismissed that thought as too negative to even contemplate.  Of course I would be going diving.  Positive thinking Nicola! This cold is going to clear in no time.

On Thursday I noticed my eyesight was a little blurry, as though I was trying to peer through a permanent fog.  Odd and a little disconcerting.  Friday morning I was woken by the boys at 5.15am and it was as though my eyeballs had been doused in acid.  The pain made me want to physically scratch them both out with my fingernails.  I could barely make out my own hand in front of my face.  Needless to say, I panicked.  Just a little.

Thank God for my sister - Florence Nightingale reincarnated in a pair of Gap pajamas.  She called NHSDirect while I lay on my bed, crying in pain and fear.  She coraled the boys into clothes, called a cab and we hotfooted our way to the nearest A&E department at the Whittington Hospital.

Nicola's Public Health Service Advice #1: If you are ever in need of emergency medical assistance DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT bother with the A&E department at the Whittington Hospital.

For a start, the place was deserted except for a couple of security guards having a cup of tea in a side office and a homeless man curled up asleep/comatose on 3 chairs in one corner.  I was in full panic mode at this point.  The pain was excruciating and I was terrified I was losing my sight.  My sister was desperately trying to source some help, while I moaned and sobbed in a heap on a chair, but nobody appeared.  The boys were leaping around the waiting room as though it was their own personal race course/play centre, which didn't help to create the aura of calm, medical professional efficiency we were seeking.

We were there for nearly 30 minutes before a nurse deigned to turn up.  Thirty minutes of me carrying on like a woman semi-possessed and my sister banging on glass partitions and striding about corridors screetching "What is it going to take to get some bloody emergency help around here???  For God sake, my sister is in agony and needs someone to help her NOW!".

The nurse, when she arrived, was worse than useless.  Hardly spoke any English.  Led me, blindly, to a room down the corridor and then left me there, alone and unable to see a bloody thing, for another 15 minutes.  She returned with a saline drip to rinse out my eyes, which became a farcical exercise.  She disappeared again.  After another 10 minutes I stumbled down the corridor, practically on my hands and knees, to find my sister and the boys.  "Use the iPhone - let's find a specialist or something and get out of here.  Find someone that can actually help me."  I begged her.  Moorfields Eye Hospital.  Of course!  And they had an A&E department.  Perfect.  We told the nurse sitting at another reception desk around the corner that we were leaving to try to find specialist help and she barely registered our existence.  "Whatever", was her only response.  Her abundant care and concern was reflected by the casual and dismissive manner in which she turned the page of her Grazia magazine.

I was past the point of despair at this point and could scarcely believe that this had been our experience.  I was desperate to get some help, having never been in this much pain before and, in typical Nicola Drama Queen fashion, was truly terrified that my eyesight was going to be permanently damaged.  I stood on Archway Road with the sensation that my eyes were trying to burn their way out of my skull, while my sister tried to hail a cab to no avail.  We staggered to the Tube, while my sister did her best to both guide me and keep both boys under control.  At this point it is rush hour.  Hundreds of people jostle past us, although once on the train a very kind man leads me into his seat and I pull Captain Underpants onto my lap and bury my head into the back of his sweatshirt.  God knows what all the commuters thought of me, moaning and crying.  I must have looked quite deranged.  I didn't care.  I felt deranged.  I just wanted to get some help to make the pain go away and couldn't believe we were having to go to such lengths to get it.

We finally stagger into Moorfields Eye Hospital and our experience is instantly transformed into one of infinite medical care and efficiency.  I am seen within seconds of a walking through the door, even though the waiting room is full to the brim at 8am in the morning.  Anaesthetic eye drops are administered immediately.  The relief from the constant pain is indescribable.  I could snog the nurse in gratitude.  She is an angel.  Within another few minutes my eyes are assessed for potential chemical damage, which is negative.  I am assessed by three different nurses, who are calm and incredibly sympathetic, yet reassuring.  A very kind friend, with two boys of her own, offers to look after the boys (who, at this point, are leapfrogging the waiting room chairs then running sprint relays up and down the hospital hallway, blatantly disobeying repeated orders from my sister to behave in anything resembling a calm and orderly manner).  They depart and I wait to see the consultant, still half convinced that my eyesight (or lack of it) is damaged beyond repair.

It's not.  It's all going to be fine.  I had a severe viral infection which spread from my sinuses to my eyes. I have various lotions, potions and eyedrops to lubricate my eyes for the next 4-8 weeks, which is how long it is going to take the infection to heal.  48 hours later and my eyes feel relatively fine.  Certainly fine enough to be sitting on a sun lounger or mooching around historic relics on a Meditarranean get-away.  *sigh*   The timing of my most recent of medical escapades was poor, to say the least.

But not as poor as my experience at the Whittington Hospital.  Which pains me a little, because I have always been a great defender of the NHS.

When I lived in Birmingham for 6 months, in 2006, I received excellent care from my local doctors surgery.  It was beyond anything that I had experienced in Chicago, from the time and attention I was given to the knowledge and care I benefited from.  In addition, Captain Underpants has a mild blood clotting condition called Von Willebrand Type 1.  This was diagnosed in Chicago, however the specialist in Birmingham was the first to insist that the whole family was tested and Captain Underpants was added to a national database, to ensure his medical condition is on the record in the whole of the UK.  Yet again, the level of care and efficiency was impressive and beyond that which we received in the US.

When I returned to the UK in December I registered with the local practice and passed on the medical notes concerning my Melanoma diagnosis and treatment.  I was referred to  a specialist dermatalogist at the Whittington Hospital and an appointment was set up within 2 weeks.  The consultant I saw was amazing.  My case was going to be referred to two other consultants in the hospital, including an oncologist, and I would be seen and assessed every 3 months for a minimum of two years to ensure I remained cancer free.  Yet again, this surpassed the medical care and treatment that I had paid through the nose for in Chicago.  When the consultant was closely scanning my body for other suspicious mutant beauty spots, she discovered a lump in my groin, which I was pretty certain had been there for a year or so and, as it was painless, I had thought nothing of it.  I was referred for an ultrasound scan.

I went for the scan within a matter of weeks and yet again, was impressed with the diligence and expertise of the radiologist I encountered.  He performed a multitude of scans, then took the time to talk me through his findings, reassuring me that he found nothing out of the ordinary.

Overall my experience has been that the level of care available in this country is definitely on a par - if not exceeding - that which I enjoyed in the US.  Even given the dismissive - verging on negligent - nature of medical assistance I received at the Whittington's A&E department, I remain a huge fan of the NHS.

Although the gaps in the system are a little more apparent through my rose tinted spectacles (...the contact lenses are unfortunately out of commission for at least the next 2-4 weeks).