I was chatting to a friend the other day and I told her that 65% of the time I feel that there is nothing wrong and life is just carrying on. The regular blood tests have become part of my new norm, as have the discussions around what Chemosaturation is and why I haven’t lost my hair and even the weekly post procedure questionnaires that ask me to rate if ‘I am losing hope in my illness’ from 1-5 have formed part of my everyday life. I’m back at work which brings a sense of normality, the kids are still leaving their shit everywhere and still nobody in my house can change the toilet paper…

But then there are times when it catches me unaware and it is like a punch in the gut.

I was chatting to the teenager last week (a rare occurrence these days unless she wants something) and we randomly started to talk about weddings. She was asking about different types of weddings and if there was a certain way to get married. I promptly replied that she can marry whoever she wants, wherever she wants, but she could just give me and Mr-Me-Myself-And-Eye a heads up first that would be great… As soon as the words left my mouth, the gut punch came. A proper left hook straight into the stomach. The likelihood is that I am not going to be alive to be at or even hear about her wedding. Even if this treatment prolongs my life for 3,4 or 5 years, I am most likely going to die before either of my kids marry or have kids or even reach 21….that really, really sucks.

These types of reality are the ones that hit hard and make me really sad. Sad for me yes, but more sad for the kids and Mr-Me-Myself-And-Eye having to relive the pain every time they celebrate something. I have started to put together boxes for the kids with significant birthday cards and notes/photos for them, but I also have thought about whether that is selfish of me? Will they want to be reminded of what they have lost at significant times? Will I be putting a dampener on their celebrations? It’s a difficult thought and feeling to navigate but I and we can only do what feels right for our family… it really REALLY sucks though.

I try not to dwell on these thoughts, or I hide them away until I’m on my own and have a really good cry and then I just try to get on with the new normal and creating memories… like teaching the family how to change the toilet paper…. a lasting memory and legacy from me to them.

Hx

So where were we? Oh yes, the decision had been made that I was going to have Chemosaturation treatment and so on the 4th August 2024 on a blistering hot day (I only remember it as a hot day as we didn’t have very many of them this summer) me and Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye headed down to Southampton. Now I know that it is obvious but flipping heck it is a long way from Leeds. Nearly six hours of anticipation of what was to come, stress as we met slow traffic after slow traffic and Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye bleating on about MPG and what car he would like to buy if he could. (yawn)

We arrived at the Spire hospital, which is strangly nestled in a housing estate behind the HUGE Southampton General hospital, to an eerily quiet car park. We were one of three cars there and walking in to the hospital it felt empty, very different to the hustle and bustle of the Leeds General Infirmary and St James’s Hospital (incidentally, does anyone remember the programme ‘Jimmy’s’ that was on in the 90’s that followed the staff at St James’s Hospital? It was a cracking show, I used to watch it with my mum and we loved it!) We checked in almost like we were checking into a hotel but with more empathy behind the eyes of the receptionist and met some of the staff (my Clinical Nurse Specialist Vicky even popped in to see me on her day off which was so lovely – she is an absolute legend btw) My arms then became a pin cushion for the unbelievable amount of bloods that they had to take for testing, but luckily for me I have ‘superb veins’ really great for sticking sharp needles in to repeatedly… yey…. go me….! The rest of the day was pretty boring really, I escaped the ward for a quick walk around the block and then filled the rest of it watching the Olympics. Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye was kicked out at 2030 and I fell into very restless sleep not helped by the MOST uncomfortable pillows ever (note to self, take own pillow next time.)

I was woken up by a very spritely nurse at 0530 taking my observations and informing me that I was 3rd on the list that day which meant a 1300 start. Once the nurse had gone, I took my opportunity and snuck out for another little power walk around the block. I literally felt like James Bond as I was sneaking out, short of a commando roll and a dinner jacket, I practically was… and then it was back to waiting and watching the Olympics punctuated with Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye showing me random pictures of lampshades that he liked (we do have a bedroom reno underway so maybe not that random!) My Anaesthetist and Consultant came to visit me to chat through the procedure (forever know as Mr Laid Back and Mr Relaxed – I mean, I think I am glad that they both were so chilled, it might not have filled me with much confidence had they been an anxious mess saying things like ‘I’m 85% sure that the procedure will go ok…’) and then it was time to walk to the operating theatre, clutching the back of my hospital gown together incase my arse decided to escape through the gap (why do the hospital gowns never quite fit across your behind?!)

To be honest, I don’t remember much more after that, I had to lay down on a very small bed with what looked like a huge X-ray machine overhead and about a zillion people busy sticking needles into me and asking me what I did for a job but before I could reply with a lengthy answer about how I championed communities and encouraged businesses and Philanthropists to support local charities I was out of it (lucky escape for them I think!)

So here we go with the science bit (caveat, no one is shocked to hear that I am neither a Scientist or a Doctor so bare with..) Two catheters are inserted into the two central veins in your groin (one either side) and another one is inserted into the right side of your neck. Through the power of magic they isolate the liver from the rest of the organs (a bit like sending it for detention) and pump the Chemosat through one of groin catheters to nuke the f*** out of the tumours for a period of time and then your blood comes out of the catheter in your neck and goes into a super cleaning machine (think a VAX carpet cleaner) which takes all of the subsidiary chemo out of the blood which is then pumped back into you leaving the chemo behind (like all of the dirt after you have washed your carpets with the VAX) The whole process takes about 4 hours I think. I have added a handy picture of the process below:

After the procedure I came round in the recovery room with some very lovely nurses using my Sunday name (Mrs Corne) but I didn’t have the energy to call out indigently that I was indeed a Ms NOT a Mrs. I must have stayed there for about 2 hours whilst they checked my bloods and then took out the catheters (I won’t go into the details of the process but it was terribly unpleasant and painful) and then I was wheeled back to my room (no arse hanging out in the way back!) to stay flat on my back for 12 hours.

Once back in my room and delighted that the procedure was over, I informed Mr Myself-And-Eye that all I wanted to do was watch the Olympic track cycling as it was what I had been looking forward to all Olympics so far. Diligently he put it on, turned to me to ask me a question and saw that I was completely out for the count, sparko, and didn’t come back around until after the cycling was over.

The next few days were a bit of a blur really, lots more bloods taken, lots of injections, feeling incredibly sick, very low blood pressure which made the sickness worse, a small internal bleed at one of the catheter sites and generally feeling pretty unwell. On the 2nd day after the procedure I made it up to shuffle around the ward – nothing that I could add to my Strava streak unfortunately and both Mr Laid Back and Mr Relaxed came to see me to say that the procedure had gone as expected and they were happy. All that I need to do now was to get home and recover, get myself back to fitness ready for the next round in 6 weeks.

Hx

I’ve never been a huge fan of the dark, stories when I was young that depicted monsters hiding in dark places meant that I never let my family sleep without the landing light on and as a teenager I actively avoided watching scary films (apart from that one night where my friends and I all watched Nightmare on Elm Street on quite possibly the darkest night of the year and then got zero sleep afterwards as we were paranoid that the twig scratching at the window was Freddy coming to get us – Bude 9, you KNOW what I am talking about!)

I always get a sense of sadness when the longest day of the year comes around and I know that we are heading towards those dark days again. I think that is one of the reasons that I have always got up so early, to make sure that I was awake for when the daylight started, not wanting to waste any of the glorious light (that and the immense smugness that comes from being an early riser… 😛 )

After my Ocular Melanoma diagnosis, I really struggled at night, my overactive brain imagining the worst and wondering what we would do if the worst news was given to us. Those thoughts were often dulled by falling asleep on the sofa to reruns of Luther or some other crime drama which brought out some really crazy dreams and left me wondering about my choice of late night watching due to my perpetual hatred of the dark.

Now the worst was happening and I feared that the night time doom was going to rear its ugly head again. I was semi prepared for it this time as peri menopause was already robbing me of a good nights sleep by introducing crippling anxiety and restless legs. So strangely as I was adapting to the news of my life limiting diagnosis and thinking about how to break the news to the kids and the awful impact it would bring, I felt strangely calm about the fact that I wasn’t sleeping. Without sounding wanky, I was grateful for every morning that came, every sunrise, every early morning coffee in complete silence. It didn’t stop me feeling grumpy and crazy tired from the lack of sleep but somehow it was different this time around. I was facing the worst of the worst. My family was facing the worst of the worst and there was nothing else that could match it so there was little else to worry about.

The lack of sleep did allow me to think through my options. At this point it was mid July (nearing 2 months since my initial MRI scan which showed the spread of the cancer) we had been given an option that wasn’t an option from Doogie Howser in Leeds and now, after meeting Dr Sacco in Liverpool we had others. The trial that was starting in the Autumn did sound promising and the initial results that had been published from round 1 were positive. However, there was a 2:1 chance that in this blind trial, I wouldn’t receive the trial drug and there was no guarantee that it would begin in the autumn. So it would be at least 4 months from initial diagnosis and possibly longer with the risk of not getting the trial drug.

The other option was Chemosaturation or Delcath as it is known. A surgical procedure where they isolate the liver and saturate it with high doses of Chemo and then flush it out of your body (it is much more complicated than that’s it in simple terms) you have the procedure up to 4 times and the results have been very positive at sending the liver tumours to sleep (again, not the technical term!) for a period of time. This treatment was pioneered by the team in Southampton and currently this is the only place you can have the procedure in the UK (there is the option to go to Europe or the USA but in all of our research – clearly not mine but Mr Me-Myself and Eye’s, the team at Southampton were the Manchester City of Chemosat, no one else even comes close – I am laughing as I write that last reference as I have no idea about football but thought the comparison was relatable!) None of the options would fully stop the inevitable, but Chemosaturation had the best option in slowing it down and giving me more time.

The other HUGE potential block to having this procedure is the cost. As I previously mentioned, Chemosaturation is not currently offered on the NHS and so has to be self funded. I know that there has to be hard decisions by the powers that be about what can and can’t be funded, but when it is literally your life on the line, it makes you question why your life isn’t worth it. It makes an already crappy situation even more stressful, it doesn’t give equity to all and divides society even more. I have friends in my Ocular Melanoma groups that have tried to raise the money for Chemosaturation but haven’t been able to and have died prematurely. IT’S JUST SO UNFAIR. There is also a guilt that comes with being able to access and fund the treatment that I can’t put into words.

I don’t feel that this is the space to talk about how we managed to get the funding together for the Chemosaturation, but I do want to say a huge thank you to everyone who offered their hard earned money and offers of fundraising (as long as it didn’t include running a marathon!) I am overwhelmed and truly grateful to my whole community ❤️ your love and support has not gone noticed, I just sometimes struggle in getting my words of gratitude across.

So on the 5th August 2024, I checked into Southampton Spire Hospital ready to meet the team and get my first round of Chemosaturation underway. Nearly 3 months of stress and sleepless nights trying to work out what to do but also optimistic about the dark nights drawing in as we headed towards winter.

Hx

I have a terrible habit of mimicking anyone who has a strong accent. Not in a ‘I’m taking the piss’ kinda way, it comes from a place of love and respect. I have a lovely colleague who has a beautiful Birmingham accent and I just can’t help copying how she speaks, even down to the way she says ’mom’ instead of ‘mum’ Rach, if you are reading this, I’m really sorry Bab. :-p

So you can only imagine my accent as I arrived at Clatterbridge Cancer centre in early July, faced with a barrage of Scousers chatting away to me as if I was an old friend (side note, I went to university in Liverpool and I think I pretty much was scouse after 3 years of ‘study!’)

Before I continue with my day at Clatterbridge, I should talk about how I got to this point (i hope you have cleared your schedule for this…)

Last time, myself and Mr Me-Myself and Eye had just received the devastating prognosis of terminal metastatic cancer of the liver from Ocular Melanoma (btw, I am never sure if I have the exact medical terminology right, so apologies to anyone remotely medical reading this!) I was offered immunotherapy with the average life expectancy of 12 months (cue sucker punch to the stomach) but I was so sure that there must be other options. I wasn’t ready to write myself off just yet and endure months of awful treatment if the outcome was that I was going to die soon anyway.

Now this type of thing is where Mr Me-Myself and Eye truly comes into his own. Faced with what seems like an impossible challenge or problem, his hypo-focus and need for an answer takes over. Imagine one of those cartoons where an evil character (bare with me) is creating a weapon that will destroy the heroine and there are words and numbers dancing above their heads as they calculate and devise the downfall of the heroine (obviously ignore the ‘taking down the heroine’ bit, Mr Me -Myself and Eye wasn’t trying to plot my demise… but you get my drift)

His dedicated research found Mr Sacco, an Ocular Melanoma specialist based in Clatterbridge Cancer centre in Liverpool. He not only specialised in Ocular Melanoma but also in the metastasis of the disease and is at the forefront of trials which have been successful (but are not available on the NHS), treatments and knocking on the door of NICE to get treatments approved. Mr Me – Myself and Eye also researched a treatment called Chemosaturation which was pioneered in the UK in Southampton and has had good results in extending life from ocular melanoma liver metastasis (not currently available on the NHS – there is a theme developing with the most successful treatments being approved by NICE but not available on the NHS…)

Now at this point, I want to acknowledge the support that I have from my friends and family, as soon as they heard what was happening to us as a family, without fail everyone said ‘as long as it doesn’t involve running a marathon, what can I do?’ I’m not very good at accepting help and I was overwhelmed by the support offered but I am so utterly grateful to everyone who has reached out, sent a random message and who has offered help. As for my friends running a marathon on my behalf…. There is still time 🙂

At this point, I knew that I needed to talk to Mr Sacco but I wasn’t 100% confident that the referral would be a speedy one from Doogie Howser to Liverpool (no offence…) so at this point I called in a favour. One of my good friends, I’m going to call her Mrs Brenning, had connections at Clatterbridge and incredibly she managed to connect me with the team there and have a phone consultation arranged within a week.

Anyone who knows me knows the internal conflict that I have with the privilege that I have to be able to call in a favour of a well connected friend compared to others in the same situation and I don’t take the opportunity lightly. It highlights the unfairness of the systems in this country but I feel that this subject could be a blog all on its own.

Our meeting with Mr Sacco felt positive, he told us that Ocular Melanoma liver metastasis acts differently to Melanoma metastasis and in their studies, the immunotherapy offered had an 11% chance of having any impact on the cancer. He spoke about different types of treatment available (depending on HLA levels – all a bit technical!) a trial that was starting in the autumn and Chemosaturation. It was almost like we went from no options to too many options! He also booked me into Clatterbridge for blood tests, MRI and CT scans (apparently when Clatterbridge tried to retrieve my scans from Leeds, they couldn’t be found!)

So fast forward a couple of weeks later and there I was, sitting in Clatterbridge Cancer centre being offered free tea and coffee from the lovely tea lady and her cart (Mr Me – Myself and Eye was delighted and even took the biscuits!) When I mentioned that we don’t get free tea and coffee in Leeds, the tea lady promptly replied in a thick, wonderful scouse accent “don’t worry love, you’re in Liverpool now, we’ll look after you.” My reply (in an equally thick scouse accent) “Ahhhhhh ta very much love… ta-rah!”

Hx

I’ve been in two minds whether to write or not to write. It feels like such a long time ago since I was in the depths of Eye Lady (not her real name) and seeing the wonderful Mr Salvi at Sheffield and grappling with the depth perception of steps.

I got some verifocals which bring about a whole new challenge when walking on uneven ground. The biggest child started high school and and is basically the spitting image of myself when I was that age, dressing like she walked straight out of the 90’s (although apparently telling a teenager that they look like a younger version of yourself is not ‘cap’ ‘bruv’) All was going well and life was… well… living… until it wasn’t. It all turned a bit serious tbh.

They say that once you have had cancer, you live with a loaded gun against your head, you crack on with everything, go back to work, make tea, do the washing, argue about shoes being left in the hallway and generally don’t really think about it, yet there is always something in the back of your mind wondering if the trigger will ever be pulled. unfortunately for me the trigger has well and truly gone off.

16th May was a beautiful morning as I made my way to Sheffield for my regular 6 monthly MRI scan. The sky was blue, the roads were clear AND I got a car parking space in the Hallamshire hospital multi story car park (if you know, you know!) it was my 5year scan after my ocular melanoma diagnosis and eye extraction and I was feeling very relaxed. Everyone says that if you get past your 5 year scan, you’ve nailed it, it’s the big milestone for anyone who has had cancer. I was feeling pretty ok and confident.

It was all pretty straight forwards, the MRI machine played its funky rhythm which makes you feel like you are in a 90’s disco and I had the standard snooze after all the ‘breath in, breath out, now hold your breath……………………….. resume breathing’ malarkey that goes on. I continued on with my day without giving it a second thought.

Fast forward a week and I had a phone call from the delightful Mr Salvi from Sheffield – remember, he was the consultant who had an amazing collection of socks! At the time I thought it was a bit strange as usually you either don’t get a phone call (a good sign) or a random radiologist rings you within two weeks to say everything is ok. Mr Salvi said that he wanted to ring me himself as I was his favourite patient (I swear I didn’t pay him to say that!) He then had the absolutely horrible task of telling me that he was really sorry but my latest MRI had shown metastasis of the disease into my liver.

For those who don’t know, this is the phone call you definitely don’t want to have. If ocular melanoma cancer has spread to your liver, it’s essentially game over. It’s classed as stage four secondary cancer with a pretty poor outcome (you can guess what that is)

Reeling from this news, I proceeded to thank Mr Salvi, apologises for the inconvenience and ask how his family were (WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!!!!) He told me that Leeds (my local hospital) would be in touch about further tests and potential treatment plans and that he hoped that they would throw everything that they had at me to try and slow down the growth of the cancer.

So much was going through my mind at that point, the most pressing was about the kids. The smallest was just weeks away from finishing primary school and the eldest was just becoming a teenager, how the hell could I tell them what was happening and completely turn their world upside down?

I don’t think anything prepares you for that phone call or how you react to it. There is also not a right or wrong way to react to it. We decided to f**k off to the Lake District to climb up big shit and deal with it all in a week or so. We were waiting for Leeds to get in touch and I couldn’t wallow in my own self pity, I needed to do something to make me know that I was still alive… walking up mountains and pretending everything was ok ticked that box. There is nothing like getting lost on the trails and climbing up what felt like a cliff face (I kid you not) to make you 1 – question your marriage (#jokes) and 2 – make you feel like you are not dying.

There is so much more to write which I will get to, we are two and a bit months into this ‘journey’ (gah, I hate that phrase) but I’ll leave it there for now. I’ll probably continue to write as it is quite helpful, I never expect anyone to read it!

Laters,

HC

Before I get into this cryptic title, I want to start by reassuring everyone that I am not ‘back’ writing this pretty dull and boring blog and you won’t have to put up with my rants and ramblings every week.* I just had the urge to write something and remembering that I had this blog from ‘eyegate’ I thought that I would put it to good use!

So a lot has happened since I last wrote. Covid came and went and then came and went and then came again and then it was all alright and we could all go to the pub again (before the kids went back to school – am I bitter about this? Marginally…) We’ve had more Prime Ministers than I’ve had hot dinners and unfortunately the Tories still seem to be in ‘power.’ Energy prices have gone through the roof, Cadbury buttons have gone up to £1.50 a bag – disgraceful! I’ve had a few different jobs and I have thyroid cancer. So it’s no surprise really that either everyone has Peter Pan complexes or they want to live their lives to the max.

I am well aware that I have slipped into one of these categories. There’s the outside swimming for a start – the need to be in cold water and challenge my brain to overcome the ‘Jaws’ fear (I am a child of the 80’s after all!) The regular emails and texts to those friends who always say ‘yeah why not’ with hair brained ideas like swimming across giant lakes, camping in essentially flooded fields, swimming for 24 hours to raise money for a local swimming pool, or dragging them across moorlands and mountains as a birthday celebration. To the most recent adventure of randomly ‘wild’ camping on a Friday night in a spot that not only didn’t deliver the promised sunrise (couldn’t have been foggier if it was a Victorian night in London and Sherlock Holmes was investigating a crime) but treated us both with midge bites from hell on the Saturday morning as we packed up the tents.

It was as I was in my very small, barely big enough to stretch out tent on Friday and after both my friend and I questioned ourselves as to why we were camping out in the middle of a moorland when we had perfectly acceptable beds at home or even a perfectly acceptable campsite down the road, that I thought – ‘Why am I doing all of these things?’

Is it an inevitable part of reaching my mid 40’s when I am needed a bit less at home by the kids and I am trying to plug a gap? Am I trying to fulfil a long lost desire to be an explorer (I distinctly remember being about 9 or 10 and wanting to go and rescue Orang-utans in Borneo and swim with the giant turtles somewhere exotic) – A note on this point. I do not remember seeing any programmes about explorers getting bitten by midges quite as dramatically as I did on my one night wild camping. I might write to the Nat Geographic channel and lodge a complaint – Or am I subconsciously testing myself to see what might break me as I feel like I have been through a lot over the last 4 years? Trying to prove a point that I am not scared about what might happen because nothing can be worse than having your face ravished by midges on Ilkley Moor on a random Saturday in September…

I’m not sure I will 100% know, but what I do know is that I will keep on keeping on, fake eye in one hand and a whole lot of scars to prove that I lived a life.

Hx

* or I might write every week, I haven’t decided yet!

I’ve been thinking a lot about ageing recently. Maybe because I have just turned 40, maybe because I am aware of the current situation and the vulnerability of the older community, maybe because of what happened last year (eye gate), or maybe just because I have really noticed the grey hairs!

Reflecting on 2020 and as we reach the end of what can only be described as a ‘challenging’ year for everybody, I find my resilience slowly ebbing away each day as I watch the news or hear of more families torn apart. I popped onto Twitter to express my current feelings and quite a few people suggested to explore my gratitude and thanks for the year. This is something that I do practice but it always helps to have a gentle reminder when you are struggling in the fog. So THANK YOU Twitter (words I never thought that I would say) for the reminder.

Gratitude (the shortened list!):

Friends and family and their health. Although we can’t be close, you guys are at the core of my gratitude. Whether it is a thoughtful text message, joining in with an impromptu (socially distant) disco at the climbing wall, responding and liking a tweet, sending enough cheese to keep me in cheese toasties until the middle of 2021, reminding me to not wear trousers that look like PJ’s, or being there to listen whilst I moan, THANK YOU.

A safe and warm home. Never have I felt more grateful for a place that provides laughs, tears, arguments, dens and crap EVERYWHERE.

Fresh air and fields, and the occasional wild swim. The chance to be outside surrounded by nature, bringing into perspective our own significance.

Grey hair and wrinkles. Yep, I get that not everyone welcomes them but I am particular grateful this year to show I am still here, fighting the fight and living life. Who knows what the future will bring, but I hope with all my heart that it brings more grey hair and wrinkles.

I hope you all have a peaceful Christmas and a happy new year.

Hx

Mummy had been awake for half the night, worried about how she was going to juggle everything that she needed to do… and the potential embarrassment at not being able to do yr 3 maths. The small child, and self isolated one, clearly couldn’t give a flying f**k though as he slept like someone without a care in the world and emerged from his pit just as mummy was about to take the slightly larger child to school,

“Mums, can we go to the skate park today?” (He clearly had no concept of what ‘self isolation’ actually was.) Not wanting to invoke World War Three as she was just about to walk out of the door with an already resentful slightly larger child, Mummy replied, “We’ll discuss it when I get back, ok?”

The ride/scoot to school was actually really lovely with only the slightly larger child. There was no immediate danger of anyone riding into pedestrians or pretending that they were Hans Rey and mummy started to reminisce about when she only took the slightly larger child to school and they had laughs and conversations that didn’t involve, farts, beasts or ‘would you rather’ conversations.

Legging it back home, because the incredibly amazing school that the kids went to had decided in their wisdom to conduct an online meeting for the self isolating ones at 9am to explain everything about the fancy pants new learning platform, and seeing as mummy had dropped the slightly larger child off at 0855 (scraping in just before the bell) and they lived 15 minutes away, the chances of her being on time for the meeting was zero… making Les (her anxiety buddy) sit even heavier in her stomach. Arriving at home, a stinky sweaty mess, the small child was pumped and ready to go to the skate park,

“Errrr… lets talk about that later buds” said mummy. “You’ve got a very exciting school meeting to go to ONLINE!” – I mean, no matter how she tried to dress that up, it was never going to be exciting.

So after swearing at the computer and aimlessly tapping at the keyboard for 5 minutes, mummy figured out how to get into the fancy pants new online learning portal that the school had provided, only to find the meeting drawing to a close,

“Does anyone have any questions?” said the very important and knowledgable teacher. Mummy started to talk, at which point the very important and knowledgable teacher sighed, “You have to take your microphone off mute mum.” Blushing a very deep shade of red, mummy asked the small child to unmute her, “Oh I’m sorry about that” stumbled mummy, “I’m just not used to this fancy pants platform…. in my very important job, we use a completely different system….” trailing off, mummy could see that the very important and knowledgable teacher didn’t believe a word she was saying, “errr, I’m so sorry” continued mummy, “We actually didn’t hear any of the meeting as we were late…” Mummy could feel the very important and knowledgable teacher wishing that he could expel parents, but as he was very important and knowledgeable, he let mummy and the small child stay behind to explain AGAIN the very fancy pants and complicated new learning portal.

Although mummy didn’t understand much of what was being said, she did gleam, that by having this new fancy pants learning portal, it meant that the children (which meant the parents) were accountable for handing in the work that had been set, which basically meant that mummy had to give over her computer, time, life, and her chances of ever leaving the small child’s side for 11 days.

So 5 1/2 hours later (despite the very important and knowledgable teacher claiming that the maths would ONLY take 40 minutes, reading 15 minutes, English 40 minutes and Topic ‘for as long as you wanted it to, let your imaginations run wild’….which mummy read as sticking on a 5 minute YouTube video about the world’s largest river… it’s the Amazon FYI…) and mummy was cheering to herself and patting herself on the back for not losing it when the small child insisted that every one of his pencils were sharpened before he could possibly start writing anything or asking every two seconds “what would you do here mums?” followed by “Can I have a snack?”

“Only 10 more days to go” thought mummy to herself as she crawled into bed at 0830, exhausted, ready for another night battling Les (her resident anxiety) at which point the small child bounced into her bedroom,

“Mums, we forgot to go to the skate park today, can we go tomorrow?”

“ffs”

Stay tuned for Day Two of Self Isolation….

CC x