HIIT Workout

Just a bit of advice. When embarking on a new fitness regime to combat excesses of cheese, wine and scones you may wish to consider HIIT workouts. I would recommend, however, that when googling for said workout you do not put "beginner HIIT workout" into google. There is clearly something wrong with the search engine. The Youtube video it returned for me was obviously made for some kind of fitness expert. I might complain if I can ever get my breath back.

'The Body Coach' introduced the warm up, after which I felt quite tired. At this point he was pretending to be out of breath. I thought perhaps it was just him being nice to indicate his empathy for the beginner predicament. I am now wondering whether he was actually out of breath.

He launched into 8 minutes of frenzied activity the like of which I have never seen, let alone engaged in. It started with 30 seconds of running on the spot with high knees then 30 seconds rest. He suggested kindly that I could rest for 45 seconds if that was better for me. "Don't be ridiculous" I thought, "it'll be fine, besides I can't work out how to pause the video in the right places". 30 seconds of burpees, oh dear God. 30 seconds rest. Have a drink he says - damn I didn't think of that. I raced to the bathroom to slurp from the tap and was back just in time to do 30 seconds of low to high squats. Another 30 seconds "rest". Finally 30 seconds of hill climbers.  Phew, I thought it must be over. Maybe now we do some yoga.

Then said I needed to do it all again. And again.

By round three I was bright red and sweating like mad. Everything felt wobbly. I couldn't make it to the tap and back inside a minute let alone half of one, thus rendering myself completely out of sync with what he was telling me to do. He was climbing a hill and I was still squatting, it was chaos. Before the last exercise I had given up and collapsed in a heap on the floor. I spent the next 8 minutes practically passed out listening to Joe "The Body Coach" doing it all again and telling me it was "hard work". No kidding matey.

Once I had eaten a chocolate digestive and calmed down I read the comments beneath the video. Apparently I should have put the term "low impact" into Google rather than "beginner". This is literally the only time it would have been advisable to read the comments, ever.

HIIT is apparently the way forward. "20 minutes, no equipment, no excuses". Yeah thanks Joe but I dispute that. I now have four very good excuses - exercise my body is not designed to carry out.

Oh and if in spite of my feedback above you still fancy giving it a go, please ensure you do the workout while no-one is in (in your house or any others on the street), and that you choose a room with solid floorboards. And don't forget a water bottle.

West Side Story at Abbeydale Picture House

I was surprised last night that there weren't more children in the audience, but I guess not everyone wanted to pass on their childhood of Sunday afternoon watching musicals like I did. Plus it was an evening film so was destined to be a late one, although when I booked the ticket I hadn't recalled that the film is 152 minutes long so it was destined to be rather later even than I had anticipated.

Ah well, parenting for me involves throwing in a few unusual experiences for the kids and this was one.

I love Abbeydale Picture House and in particular the passion of the volunteers working so hard to bring it back to life. The cafe (open Friday and Saturdays 10-5 at the moment) is beautiful, with excellent drinks and food and the thoughtful provision of blankets - it is a little nippy. The building itself is stunning and hopefully one day will be restored to it's former glory.So I couldn't pass up a night then of watching West Side Story with my lovely family in such brilliant surroundings, helping them raise a little money in the process.

West Side Story with children requires a little groundwork. In particular we talked about Romeo and Juliet and braced them both for people dying. We discussed racial tensions and the different meanings of the word 'gay". Other than that it's brilliant songs and cracking dancing so I didn't anticipate further problems.

Things we didn't think of explaining:

• That Shakespeare didn't exist in 1961
• Where Puerto Rico is
• Why people burst into song when they are supposed to be keeping the noise down
• That "Daddio" does not mean Daddy. This particular confusion made character relationships a little confusing - no one person can be a girl's brother and father at the same time surely?
• How the men's teeth got so shiny
• How unlikely it is to fall in love on the spot or indeed to forgive someone who has just killed your brother, even if he was cross at the time.

"What on earth was happening in that scene in a garage? They were already cool, why were they singing about keeping cool?" They know all about homonyms really.

Then we came to the crux - the problem with all Shakespeare tragedies. Tony is told that Maria is dead and goes into emotional meltdown at which point my eldest said "you'd think he'd have checked first". Absolutely, you will go far.

It was a lovely night. Retro snacks, comfy seats, a live intro from two lovely singers from Easy Street Theatre, a great view and a wonderful setting - they are truly putting heart back into a beautiful building. Add to that the craziness of explaining the world of the 1960s to an 8 and a 10 year old and you feel really alive.

As we walked out my daughter was discussing who the baddies were. She said she thought the Sharks from Puerto Rico were less bad because they'd had such a tough time already. Wow. There was me thinking we were the ones was teaching her not the other way round.

Rabbit Peril

As I write this my 3 year old rabbit is sitting in her hutch looking absolutely fine. I know she's fine because she spent the morning trying to eat the sucker off Tilly's arrow and eating hosepipe.

Two weeks ago things were different. Two weeks ago I thought she'd died. I refer you to this blog entry where I discussed how bad I am with dead animals. Or even animals that look like they are dead. Well Petal looked dead from the two metres away where I stood and squealed at Paul. It turns out she was just extremely poorly.

It was a Sunday evening. Of course it was. No-one's rabbit gets perilously close to death on a week day when the vets are open. Oh no it had to be a Sunday and hence an emergency trip to the pet hospital in Attercliffe. Who knew there was a pet hospital so near a large number of brothels.

I am, of course, exaggerating about how easy it was to ascertain that Petal was near to death. She looked dead, then when we lifted her into the pet carrier she hopped out of it like there was nothing flipping wrong with her. We drove across Sheffield well aware that the appointment alone was going to cost £125 and thinking she looked a lot better really. We didn't have long in the waiting room during which we very nearly decided to go home to avoid the cost. The short consideration time turned out to be a good thing.

Apparently because rabbits are prey animals they will do anything other than show they are poorly, because then something might eat them. So with her last ounce of willpower she tried to leap off the examination table and gave the vet the run around. Then she flopped over and looked, well, nearly dead.

I won't go into details about the examination. Sufficed to say there was more flopping over, some scurrying, the insertion of a thermometer somewhere unpleasant and a blood test which confirmed that she was very nearly dead. At one point there was even talk of diabetes. Had I not had pet insurance i might very well have flopped onto my side panting too. The expected cost was £450.

£450 to keep her overnight, give her medicine and fluids and try and get her to eat.

In the morning I had to drive back to Attercliffe and pick her up, terrorising her further by driving her back across town. If rabbits hate having thermometers stuck up their bottoms it's nothing compared to how much they hate car journeys. I then left her at our vets for the additional sum of £120.

To say my flabber was ghasted would be an understatement.

£580.

I mean I do like her but £580 would be enough to fly her to Amsterdam first class to visit her ancestors (she's a Dutch rabbit). You'd at least expect five star treatment. The hospital she was in was nice I'm sure but she didn't mention anything about chocolate coins on the pillow.

Just as a point of note, three weeks ago we called our pet insurance to cancel it because £12 per month per bunny seemed expensive. It was a Saturday and they were shut. Thanks be to the god of pets. Otherwise Petal would have been joining the great rabbit warren in the sky.

So now we are back to normal. Two rabbits who can't seem to stand each other and eat anything and everything they lay their teeth into. And one rabbit who isn't keen on us going anywhere near her bottom...

Grade 1

It was T's first guitar exam today. It took me back if I'm honest. Although I seem to remember crossing a huge floor clutching my music in a dramatic fashion, rather than sitting in someone's living room - someone who judging by her cabinet has a penchant for Terry Pratchett novels. This is how they do it these days apparently.

She wanted to do Grade 1 and I didn't see any harm. Until I found out how much it was. Then I noticed the significant upper cut to my finances. We paid for the exam, and the required music book. Then I found out it was in the middle of a working/school day. Brilliant. It also clashed with a school trip which was irritating but saved me £7.50 there - every cloud - but I'm still somewhat in deficit. It would have been even more money if she needed an accompanist (I'm rethinking P's desire to play clarinet...).

We arrived at a terraced house in Sheffield nearly bursting into some poor boy's violin exam by accident. We entered a room with about ten chairs in it (along with a table and cabinet full of Pratchett novels).

A lady bustled in and said "Right then. Get your instrument out and tune it." A little optimistic surely for a 9 year old to tune her own guitar adequately. The woman bustled out of the room and someone's dad said it sounded alright to him, which I took to be positive enough. I told Tilly I thought she should be warming up and another mum said she could go in the kitchen (which had a keyboard in it, as you do) and shut the door. A little harsh surely. She hadn't even heard her play.

After a while the bustling lady reappeared and Tilly tried out a number of chairs in a style reminiscent of Goldilocks. The first one was too high. The second, well I pointed out that having wheels wasn't a great plan. The third was actually a rocking stool. I can't imagine that ever being useful especially during a music exam. She plumped for the too high one.

I had decided that the bustling lady was clearly something to do with the exam. She asked "Are we on pitch?" Tilly hadn't got a clue what she was going on about and I lost myself for a moment imagining guitar playing in the goal at Bramall Lane.

Bustling lady, who still hadn't actually introduced herself, then retrieved a tuning fork from her handbag. She told me she was once stopped at airport security for carrying it in her hand luggage.

The tuning process took quite some minutes and for once in my life I found myself wishing I'd brought the iPad with me to use an app.

Tilly was asked to play her pieces but was highly confused and started to wonder if she was being examined already. She was still sitting on the wheelie chair and it wasn't helping her performance.

Eventually she went into the examiner and I had a nice chat with bustling woman. She asked me for help finding a postcode of (according to Zoopla) a very expensive house in Surrey. She recalled her own guitar exam experience from years ago. And she listened to her answer phone message - apparently her friend has a dentist appointment and can't meet her for lunch this week. All the time I could hear Tilly playing, clapping and singing through the living room wall. Which presumably means Tilly knows all about her lunch plans too.

I asked how long the results would be and was told anywhere between 5 days and 6 weeks. I don't even know where to begin with this statement.

Tilly was fine when she came out. She thinks she's passed and wonders if we can go out for dinner if she gets full marks (she doesn't think this is likely). I said we could go out to dinner whatever but the size of the ice cream is dependent on the mark she gets. She knows I'm joking.

So. Expensive, inconvenient, a bit bonkers. I wonder if we'll have to do another one...

Too much to do

I've been awake since 5am. I woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of a dream where I was late to watch the girls in a show, Dad couldn't park and we'd all missed the best bit. There were also people picking up toys from the grass and people everywhere (quite a lot of them arguing with me) making me feel somewhat squished in the brain department. Not exactly hard to work out what's going on there then. I'm not at all struggling with the incessant round of child related things that are happening and feeling the pressure to a) turn up on time with all the correct children and their accoutrements and b) have a clue what's going on.

This week so far:
Monday - After work visit Decathlon and Go Outdoors in an attempt to buy relevant items for Brownie camp. Fail to buy a 'sitter' and feel frustrated that nowadays for camp cutlery it's a Spork or nothing. Mustn't forget to bring the extra child home after school (specified one). First child being picked up by a friend. Hand over extra child at 5.15. Pick 3 children up from choir and deliver to respective homes. Make tea. Insist first child finishes homework. Listen to second child's buggering sponsored read bobbins (don't get me started). Read extremely long chapter of Hetty Feather to children. Wrestle children into bed. Collapse.

Tuesday - Mustn't forget to bring extra child home after school. Second child at a friend's house. On return of second child feed all children and myself to avoid vomiting at bootcamp. Repeat homework and reading as before. Go to bootcamp. Sit sweatily on bed and read extremely long chapter of Hetty Feather to children. Repeat wrestling and collapsing.

Wednesday - Leave work early to watch Sports Day. Remember to buy cake. End up adding up scores for Panther team for Sports Day which leaves me with feeling of slight guilt in case I gave them too many points. They came second which I think is a perfect result. I don't look like I exaggerated the points and yet daughter's team very happy. Walk to fields and have a picnic for a friend's daughter and eat cake and strawberries (Hooray!). Pick up child number one from yoga. Frantically try to glue in photos, cuttings and various things that were stuck to the fridge into Arts Award portfolio with eldest daughter as it's a week late, while cooking dinner badly and trying to ignore the carnage that is my house. Have a rant about the mess and no-one picking up socks from kitchen floor. This includes me. Insist child number one does guitar practice (twice a week is fine right?). Read, wrestle, go singing. We skipped the school disco thankfully. There's only so much Gangnam Style I can take.

Thursday - Wake up ludicrously early and instead of doing housework, having a shower or making packed lunches use time effectively by finishing Bridget Jones - Mad About the Boy. Ah that's why I'm writing in this weird stilted style with no joining words. It was good though - cried a lot.

In a minute I have to start properly: not forget to send child to school with guitar, do the usual and then end the day watching eldest child get yet another award for attending extra curricular activities. Must remember to buy her another folder for more certificates. Must also fit in exercise as I can't go to bootcamp tonight. Which is tricky because my stomach hurts when I cough. Or move.

Two weeks two days to go until the holidays, and counting. Not that I'm off work much but at least I can leave everyone in pyjamas watching Little Princess with a bagel. Until at least 1.30.

Happy Stuff

This week had it's up and downs. Here are some ups.

My nearly eight year old has got up every morning this week, got dressed, made her own breakfast, made her and her sister's packed lunch and on one occasion emptied the dishwasher. She has not been bribed and as far as I can tell has not been bewitched. She is truly astonishing.

David O'Doherty. Sheer hilarious, adorable brilliance. Plus he answered my tweet. 

I really like babysitting other people's children. It's fascinating and amusing. And getting them to go to bed is great for your self esteem. Babysitting circles are genius. 

I know I've already mentioned it but I love where I work. I'm doing more hours for a couple of months and this coupled with my body being a bit stupid means I'm completely knackered but I actually like going to work and don't watch the clock ever. Sometimes the right things just happen.

We went to the oddest school assembly I have ever seen in my life. There was dancing to Aqua, a number of, as far as I could tell, unrelated poems chanted in unison and a Tina Turner song. The kids were wearing PE kit. I don't know why. They were all flipping brilliant though but I'm not sure the director would make it in the cut throat world of the West End.

And better than everything? I made a difference to someone's life. A small difference but a difference nevertheless. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. Someone else is making a change because of me wittering on and sharing too much information. I might have had a hand in making someone happier. What is better than that?

So not a bad week and it's being finished with my Mum and Dad coming to stay and a trip away to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary. Nice hotel, shopping for things we can't afford, lovely food and probably lots and lots of rain. It'll be like Iceland just with less horseriding and the added benefit of going to see a play with Hayley Cropper in it. Life is good.

Shopping

Never let it be said that I don't write profound and thought provoking blog articles. So then..

Aldi.

I don't know about you but I have a love hate relationship with Aldi. On the plus side it's cheap. Ridiculously so really. Of course part of the reason why my bill is so much smaller when I shop there is actually because they don't stock a large portion of the stuff I really want but we'll put that to one side. I mean if I didn't enter at least two supermarkets in a week the world might spin off it's axis.

The second reason for loving it is the speed I can do my shopping. I can be out of there in twenty minutes flat with a following wind, provided I go at 9am and I don't get distracted by bird feeders and bargain de-icer. Of course the reason for the speed it is mainly...well see above. They don't have everything I want. But I still think speed is a definite plus.

And finally there's all that stuff that they sell that sees to be a complete bargain. But you don't need it and rarely buy it which is another win. Which makes you feel like you've saved money by not even trying. It's a clear win.

So any other negatives apart from the lack of choice and cafe selling toasted tea cakes? Oh there are just one or two.

Let's get this straight from the off, I am an intelligent woman. Well at least I used to be. But I have yet to have an experience in there that went to plan. Each time I have emerged feeling more like a dimwit than ever before.

Twice I have turned up without the required pound coin for the trolley. An innocent mistake you might think.Thankfully I was helped out on both occasions, but not before an eyes skyward motion and an audible sigh. Clearly they have been before and never go anywhere on a bus.

Actually selecting the goods is fairly straightforward if you can weave your way through all the cages waiting to be unloaded. This morning I managed to not buy a £2 gingerbread house and a £10 bird feeding station but I was enticed by extremely cheap seeds. At least this year I will fail to grow things that only cost 39p.

It's the till where it all goes a bit awry. You have to unload on the conveyor belt fast. And I mean really fast if there isn't a queue in front of you.

Then there's the means of payment. The first time I ever went I caused untold chaos by a) trying to pay with a credit card then b) realising I didn't even have my debit card with me. The result was an aggravated cashier and an extremely fast run to Sainsburys to take cash out on my credit card. Plus all this was post op. It just wasn't funny.

And the packing? I learnt the hard way that you are under no circumstances allowed to try and pack your goods into bags. No you have to throw all goods, irrespective of break-ability, into your trolley like it's an episode of supermarket sweep.

There was that other time when I didn't remember to take any bags with me and, too embarrassed to pay for any, ended up unloading every item I had bought individually into my boot. Unpacking at home was a laugh a minute.

So this morning I was ready. I had learnt my lesson.  I had limbered up suitably. I loaded the goods onto the belt like a demon. I was so fast I even had time to remove my debit card from my purse and put it in the most convenient pocket so I could shove it in the machine like lightening. I had bags. What could go wrong? I swung the trolley round the end to catch the items in the confident manner of a woman who has been to Aldi before more than once.

The trolley was instantly manhandled into the correct position butted up to the till end by a cashier who was probably wondering how I managed to be so stupid when it had all seemed so promising.

"Oh sorry", I laughed nervously. "I always get that bit wrong". (Yeah just that bit). "It's like Jenga isn't it?" No you divot it's not like Jenga. You mean Tetris. You complete plank.

The cashier smiled at me. It might have been a smirk.

So I set off to the car feeling yet again like I had failed. It's so unfair.

As I reached the boot to pack all the shopping into bags I got a text. Could I buy hay. Bugger. I went back in the shop. They don't sell it.

I went to Sainsburys.

Fish

Well this post has been a long time coming, since we actually bought the beloved fish tank back in May last year. Make of this delay what you will, but I think it's because it hasn't exactly been my favourite thing in the world.

Let's be honest, when you think of a tropical fish tank you think 'calming and relaxing'. I have yet to find any of our pets calming and relaxing. What they have added to our lives compared with the stress, cost and inconvenience they cause, pretty much leaves us with negative equity.

So fish then.

Firstly you have to spend a lot of money and several days of your life that you won't get back researching the right tank, the right equipment and the right fish.

Then you take your daughter to the pet shop excited with the possibility of buying fish, only to find that it's not allowed yet. Instead you let her buy a number of gaudy tank ornaments that make the empty tank, as my husband put it, "look like a unicorn vomited in it".

For a week you can watch an empty tank while your five year old pretty much loses interest in the whole idea.

The tank buzzes. This is not a calming noise but an irritating one and suggests we should have bought a different tank, for which you curse Google. The buzzing volume increases at 10pm every night and you can find no reason for this. You cannot send it back because it is now full of water and if you start again it will be Christmas by the time you actually own a fish.

Eventually you are allowed to buy fish, but inevitably the internet was wrong and you choose the wrong ones. You let your children name them. The fish bully each other and quite quickly die. Apart from one miserable unattractive one (sorry fish) who sits on the bottom of the gravel and doesn't move much. He will live on past any more beautiful fish you try to purchase. You feel guilty.

You buy more fish and wisely decide not to name them this time. Some live, some die - you find one sticking out of the filter (so you stand in the way of the tank while you ask your daughter to check on the rabbits instead).

You work hard changing the water (which is frankly much more of a faff than Google suggested) and cleaning the tank. You mess with pH levels and water temperatures. You use holiday blocks for weekends away but daren't leave the house too long in case they don't work and more fish die, this time of starvation.

Eventually everything seems right. More fish are purchased and they stay alive and make the tank look attractive. Well if you ignore the multicoloured rainbow, beach bar and pink gravel.

One of the new fish takes the post of barman at the beach bar and two move into the castle. Apart from the buzzing all is well.

Then begins the curse of the snails. You didn't buy snails and yet they appear everywhere. Teeny tiny ones that you remove with difficulty and yet they multiply when you next look round.

But it's ok. I've said "you" a lot in this entry, when in fact I mean "my husband". He had tropical fish as a child and he has very kindly taken on the whole thing. He has the patience of some kind of fish tolerant saint.

I feel a little guilty about my lack of involvement. But not guilty enough to go and fill a bucket.

So Paul, thank you honey. You are doing a sterling job. It's quite pretty really. And at least fish don't require injections and operations and aren't gnawing their tank to pieces...

Brownie Holiday

Well I'm not sure I would have been as enthusiastic about the idea of staying in Whiteley Woods in the pouring January rain, but maybe that's the ravages of age making me negative. Certainly Tilly seems to have been fairly taken with her first Brownie weekend away. The details are a bit sketchy but, from anecdotal and physical evidence, we have established the following:

1. I needn't have eaten the yoghurt as the yoghurt pot met an untimely demise early on in proceedings so she was given a new one. It was a Petit Filous.

2. I should have searched harder for the date she had a tetanus jab since she managed to be the only child to hurt herself on a barbed wire fence. She cried but was relieved the horse had sneezed in someone else's face and not hers.

3. She was the first to go to sleep on both nights, at 10pm and 9pm respectively. Which may be why she was asleep tonight by 6.55.

4. The £5 was spent "unwisely" by some on nothing but sweets, and "wisely" by Tilly on a packet of Flumps, a pottery squirrel and a cuddly toy. Yet another cuddly toy. I think I'd have preferred her to buy flying saucers.

5. The thoughtful panda book I so lovingly hid in her pyjamas as a treat confused her entirely and she didn't think it was hers. It's currently in lost property.

6. She had a banana for breakfast. Which is odd because she doesn't like bananas. Mind you I used to like Weetabix on Guide camp and it didn't taste the same at home.

7. It's tricky to make conkers and grass stick on paper plates.

8. She can be a effective waitress, cook and washer upper. I'm currently writing the kids a rota.

9. Reverse tie dying neckerchiefs is harder than you think.

10. It is inadvisable to try roasting marshmallows over a candle.

11. They walked, they played and they ate ice cream in January. Which she thought was barmy.

12. Brownie leaders still do inspection. I'm thinking of introducing bedroom inspection as a way to earn pudding.

So overall she had a good time I think. She managed to come home with almost everything that she took with her (apart from the book obviously) and a sleeping bag that belongs to someone else.

The negatives? She was a bit stressed that she still has homework to do, and has spent some time lamenting how she doesn't feel like she's had a weekend. Which is pretty much how grown ups feel all the time but I'm not sure saying that would have been helpful.

Since coming home she has played Lego with her dad, done some cartwheels, played cuddly woodland animal tea parties with her sister, eaten carbonara, watched The Voice (she was too tired to press her cushion button) and fallen asleep in five minutes flat, after a huge number of hugs and reassurances that she will see me more from now on.

It's quite nice to be appreciated and to know that, despite her enthusiasm, she isn't in too much of a hurry to grow up just yet. I'm proud of my independent girl but next time she goes away I'm going to come too.

Packing

It's 7.30 in the evening and I have just been to the supermarket to buy a single Longley Farm yoghurt and a box of cornflakes. I am a committed mother.

At home we have located most of what we need including a pair of waterproof trousers (somewhat short in the leg), an old top (that really isn't that old but what is when you are seven and grow out of clothes after about three months),  a working torch (miracle), a purse containing £5 to spend on sweets and crisps (seriously £5 - I'd buy fruit salads...500 of them), and the ingredients to make fairy cakes tomorrow (because apparently shop bought ones won't cut it).

And why? Because it's brownie holiday this weekend. And my eldest daughter is going away from home for two nights. Don't, I might cry.

They are travelling to the wilds of...well Sheffield. And indulging in activities that include the need for a yoghurt pot of specific proportions and a cereal box. No I don't know either. I only know I need to eat a rhubarb yoghurt at some point this evening.

The whole going away from home thing is freaking me out a bit. She is extremely enthusiastic which manages to be a hugely positive thing (isn't she grown up and brave) and at the same time wholly unacceptable (since she was only born about five minutes ago).

Despite her enthusiasm she has encountered "future home sickness" twice this week already. This is a phenomenon that most people would refer to as "worrying" or perhaps "butterflies", but she does like to make up her own medical conditions.

Well to counter the overwhelming sense of guilt I feel at letting her go (in-spite of the fact that she actually wants to) I bought other things in the supermarket. Including a new pair of age 7-8 pyjamas, some stripey socks and a twee novel with a panda on the front to hide in her suitcase. It doesn't make me feel much better but at least I won't be worrying about her wondering naked through the room having had a onesie popper malfunction. And it might just make her smile....or cry. Oh shit I didn't think of that. Maybe I'll show her the book in advance.

Ok, I'm off to eat a yoghurt. And some cornflakes.

Rabbit Trauma - Continued

Well it's two days post op, give or take, and things have moved on slightly.

Betsy and I have become close having lived in each other's pockets for 15 hours. I have learnt that rabbits never close their eyes and they "sleep" (with eyes open) for approximately ten minutes at a time. Usually waking up the instant you stop looking at them. I also have a strong feeling you cannot train a rabbit to do much. Certainly not to stop licking their stitches.

The nurse rang again yesterday to check she was alright. I regaled her with tales of 'bunny watch' whether she was interested or not. She suggested finding a dolls t-shirt which we all found hysterical, but clearly we tried anyway. What the heck.

The girls agreed to give up an old dolls t-shirt which does up with velcro. We wrestled her into it. She jumped out with quite alarming speed. Perhaps it was a bit dull for her. Tilly suggested drawing a basketball on the front.

Paul pointed out it was miles too big so then the tailoring began. I can only say Peter Rabbit's mother must have had excellent sewing skills. I don't have paws and I found it hard to fashion a coat that the rabbit couldn't get out of. It's no wonder she was cheesed off when he didn't come back wearing it.

We cut bits off, inserted darts (sort of) and ended up with something that looked like a cross between a Michael Jackson outfit (cue Tilly breaking into "Heal the World" for the billionth time), and Matthew Wilder's leather jacket ("Nobody gonna breaka my stride..."). It was on and it looked natty. I didn't bother with brass buttons.

Then we went about our business and eventually went to bed.

This morning Paul went to check on her and...drum roll...she was just in process of taking it off. It was like she'd waited all night to reveal her escapology skills in front of an audience. I'm worried all this attention is going to her head.

So I've sewn it up again and added bits on. She's been back to the nurse who basically seemed impressed with our efforts and said to try and keep it on her for five days. We have not a hope. I think she'll get faster at removing it as she gets more practiced. I suspect I'll need several on rotation.

On the upside by the end of the week my sewing skills will have improved and she will have moved on in sartorial elegance to be wearing some patchwork garment made out of colourful offcuts. Like Betsy and her amazing technicolour dreamcoat. I can hardly wait.

Rabbit Trauma

My coffee has gone cold. Just like when the girls were tiny and you never got a hot cup of anything. Today is a bit intense.

So to catch you up, in case you are interested in rabbit issues, Betsy's lump seems to have been a reaction to the vaccine. She was prescribed antibiotics initially in case it wasn't - apparently the same sort you get for children (banana flavour). Funny then that it cost £8.90 for about 140ml.

Getting her to take it wasn't easy. The vet suggested one of us hold her lower back down to the table and the other give the medicine by syringe. It worked once or twice but overall I wouldn't recommend this method. Unless you want a) biting, b) kicking and c) a great sense of frustration. At one point she jumped out of my arms and onto my shoulder like a parrot. I couldn't use my tried and tested child medicine method and give her a Chewit afterwards. She isn't allowed.

Google advised wrapping her in a towel and holding her legs under and forward which was more successful. By the end of the week we had the method down which was typical because of course the antibiotics did nothing whatsoever.

So yesterday it was back to the vets and he decided it was necessary to remove the lump (at the cost of the people who make the vaccine apparently, which is a good job taking into account the cost of the medicine). So I left her there. I felt like a bad mother on all sorts of levels and spent the day achieving little and fretting a lot.

At 3.30 we picked her up. The girls did well I thought - they didn't seem horrified by the large bald patch and sewn up wound. The nurse told us we have to keep an eye on her to ensure she eats and drinks, and to keep her apart from Petal as her sister might try and bite her wound. She assured us Betsy couldn't reach her own wound to bother her stitches.

Wrong again. This rabbit is like Houdini. She is stretchy and bendy and on returning home I realised she was not going to leave them alone. When she started pulling at her back with her teeth I rang the vet and he advised trying to stick a plaster over the wound. This advice, it turned out, was not wholly sound. I managed to scare the living daylights out of Betsy chasing her round her hutch trying to stick plaster after plaster to the patch of skin. Each one I put on she tore off in seconds. Eventually I built up a sort of plaster patchwork - I used everything I had. Tiny round ones to hold on massive big ones, joined together by normal long ones. She ripped them all off. I hoped the kids didn't choose that moment to fall over as our supplies were running low.

Then she managed to rip a stitch and I stuck the final plaster over the bleed while I checked the opening times and rang the vet again. By the time I was back downstairs she had ripped it off and there was no sign of it. So now I was  panicking about the stitches and the fact that she has clearly eaten a Boots plaster. Which I'm sure doesn't fit into the category of only hay, grass and nuggets.

The nurse was amazing. She agreed to come over on her way home, bringing with her a cone even though they don't normally put them on rabbits. Apparently the situation she has had is extremely unusual being so little and she has to leave the stitches alone. She explained everything, chatted to us and put the cone on Betsy, then went home.

At this point everything got a bit out of hand. Betsy, as predicted, hated it. She threw herself about and generally looked extremely stressed. The kids got upset. It was awful.

Eventually the girls went to sleep and we decided to trim the cone down so she could drink and eat properly. This we did and we left her for a while to get used to it, feeling extremely guilty.

When we went back outside before bed we discovered she had managed to push the cone up so her mouth was sticking out, but the cone was over her eyes and ears. It was a bit of a surprise (I told you she was like Houdini) and the approach did have it's merits. She couldn't reach her stitches but could eat and drink. Of course it was stuck around her eyes so she couldn't see and it was still fastened round her neck so we decided her plan wasn't a great one. The decision was made to bring her indoors and take off the cone. Not least because we'd worked out we might have to hand feed her her own poo. 

Paul stayed up until 2am working next to her, with a window open on his laptop showing a webcam. Everytime she went for her stitches he stopped her, until he came to bed exhausted. At 4am I came downstairs and took over. I've never slept on the kitchen floor before. It reminded me of camping. What with the sound of the pouring rain on the roof and me wearing more clothes than I had worn in the day including a pair of hiking socks. I'm not sure being down here helped much with the stitches but it did at least make me feel like I was trying to help.

And today? Well today I still can't bring myself to put the cone back on. It's too distressing. So instead I am doing things that take place in the kitchen. Blogging and minute writing, cleaning, I might even stretch to a bit of ironing. Interspersed of course with telling Betsy off every three minutes for biting her stitches. And for eating the carpet. She really hasn't a clue about this restricted diet for junior rabbits things. Deep joy. I'm hoping the sound of the washing machine will make her fall asleep like it used to for Tilly, although so far it's not looking promising.

Oh well it's only for a couple of days until she will apparently lose interest in the stitches as they start to properly heal.

It's just as well I like a bit of camping. 

aaargh

I feel ill. Again. Just a cold but grrrrr it's annoying. I've had a day of looking after my youngest child, who was ill this morning for about thirty minutes before school and then perfectly fine all day demanding attention. By four o'clock I was struggling and a bit flat. My beloved youngest daughter laughed at me.

"That's not nice to laugh at me. Mummy's not feeling very well" I said.

"It's not that Mummy. It's just when you pull that face you have a maze on your forehead".

Shoot me now...

Tilly on...minstrels

Tilly and I were talking about musical instruments, specifically the lute. I explained what they look like and was moving on to their appearance in history.

Me: Have you heard of minstrels?

Tilly: I've heard of mints...and nostrils

Me: Ha! No minstrels.

Tilly: Ooh yes the sweets.

Me: No minstrels. They were men in medieval times who entertained kings and queens and their guests by playing music for them. Because of course in those days they didn't have (I was about to say CDs)...

Tilly: Bagpipes!

Me: Erm you are probably right. I give up. Sausages for tea?