Drain-Pipe Dreams

Hiya, 

I suppose, as it is for most engaged couples another weekend in paradise and another wedding fayre Mr Warehouse and I are off to! What with having to call out breakdown yet again for no less than a third time in less than six weeks for my little Vivienne who was unable to start because of battery troubles and Mr warehouse encountering at very much a similar scenario with his motorbike stuck on a building site, outside our new home in the middle of the Bedfordshire countryside for nearly five hours as he awaited to be recovered back home we were certainly ready to have a relaxing couple of days off. After the week me and my Fiance (still love saying that) have endured we were more than excited to wander round wedding fayres at overly priced venues, sipping champagne to pass our time despite the miserable weather outside. 

Although I came crashing down to reality this morning when I received a phone call from the housing association. Answering I heard a familiar although melancholy voice on the other end of the line. Over the last few months the house had slowly ground to a halt in terms of any updates. After jumping through several hoops and bending over backwards in order to get our Mortgage Offer back in July of this year, Mr Warehouse and I was told that our initial handover date when the builders would have fully completed the property, inside and out, ready to hand over to the housing association that we were purchasing half of the property with would be mid-August. With this in mind we hoped that we would have a completion date and moving in prior to Mr Warehouse's birthday, plenty of time to move our stuff in and get settled with even a few moments to steal in our new garden before the sun eventually made its departure for the winter. Handover Date Move Number One! I was told that it would be another couple of weeks or so and with that Mr Warehouse and I prepared for a move around or even on the Bank Holiday Weekend in August!

However after hearing nothing and following the long weekend off, I spoke to the gentleman who had initially sold us our new home but sadly he did not have the news that we were hoping for and that the properties had not been handed over. Handover Date Move Number Two! In fact, what had happened that morning was a rather important and integral meeting between the builders and developers of the plots and the housing association. The local housing association had basically said that they were not happy with the standard of homes they were being given and that given the amount of snagging that needed to be done it may be some time before they would accept any sort of property from the builders and developers. Unfortunately the estate agents were not privy as to what the snagging was or how long it could potentially be. The reality was that it was all internal and nothing structurally was wrong with the build, theoretically meaning that the snagging could simply be down to the fact that the paint job isn't done to a high enough standard or that a screw isn't screwed in properly to a door handle. 

I asked for a new handover date so our little family could try and calculate a rough idea of a completion / exchange date and therefore a move date so we could organise things like TV, broadband and get some quotes or book a removal company for the big day. Again, I was told that it would be about a week and with that crap news returned to my desk and emailed the Boyf the bad news and although Mr. Warehouse and I had a few things planned on the run up to my birthday weekend we were still looking forward to moving into our new home shortly. 

However as we neared our third provisional handover date from the builders and developers to the housing association I had another phone call. Handover Date Move Number Three! It was at this point I nearly dropped the milk as the new handover date was being pushed until the end of December 2018. Frustrated and angry I had to keep calm and remember that I was in a lucky position that I would be one day able to afford my own place of safety, tranquillity and warmth; something that many people across the globe even tonight will not have. 

The following morning I checked my emails only to see a reply from the housing association, apologising profusely for the fact that they would have to postpone the handover date although with this came a small silver lining. Handover Date Move Number Four! The email did go on to say the new handover date was to be expected on the 28th of September 2018, three-months earlier than anticipated the day before. Mr Warehouse and I were assured that this would be the final change and hopefully everything would be handed over and we would be in our home just in time for Halloween! 

But sure as sure can be, as the date grew closer I had another dreaded phone call. Handover Date Move Number Five! As before I was told our new handover date would be would be postponed another week due to snagging and lack in quality that the Housing Association were expecting. Trying to hammer down an exact reason as to why the snagging was still continuing to be an issue and so I tried a softer approach in order to try and get a definitive handover date that would not move - Friday 5th of October 2018. 

As the next few days passed in a blur of meetings, I had a frantic phone call from Mr Warehouse asking if I had seen the most recent email from the housing association. I had not. On opening up my emails I could see what he was so upset and angry about. Handover Date Move Number Six! With less than 48 hours to go until we were expecting handover to take place, I was now reading an email that stated this would not be the case. Our new handover date? Over a fortnight away on Friday 19th of October 2018. Fuming and almost on the brink of losing my rag with everyone involved in our house buying process I called my contact at the housing association and asked her what gives. She basically told me in not so many words what I was reading between the lines of her email to me and the other future-neighbours on the street in that the list of snagging issues that had been brought to the attention of the builders had not actioned appropriately. Nothing more to say or do I ended the phone call and informed Mr Warehouse to keep him in the loop.

With the whirlwind of family dramas, wedding planning and my mounting workload I was looking forward to potentially having a week off to move into our new home, although cutting it fine for the spooky season of Halloween and "Trick-Or-Treat-ers". Only this morning I answered a phone call I had been hoping wouldn't come. Handover Date Move Number Seven! As with the last times the postponing was as a result of poor quality of work, although this time my Housing Association contact was not so coy with her responses. She blatantly admitted that the list of snagging given to the builder the last time over two-weeks ago had not been done at all and now we were to be expecting a provisional new Handover of 31st October 2018. But wait - There was more ... 

Continuing our conversation I could sense that the person on the other end of the phone line was nervous and anxious about something. It was then that she dropped the bombshell! Turns out that the floor plans that we were initially shown at the point of sale with the building specifications and dimensions were wrong. And not by a little either. The plan that my Fiance and I were sold was that upstairs on the first floor following on from the stairs positioned on the right-hand side of the property, we were expecting to have the main bathroom right in front of us with a large privacy window so as to allow for natural light, followed by the two double bedrooms to the front and the back of the property. Although this had changed from our initial plans and now will be the main bathroom sandwiched between the two double bedrooms and will not include a privacy window potentially making it dark and unnaturally lit.

On the ground floor as you come in the front door you would be greeted by the staircase on your right hand side as before. To your left would be the kitchen in a horse shoe shape with the door facing the oven on the exact opposite wall. Next door on the left hand side would be the downstairs bathroom which would include a privacy window facing out to our driveway. Entering through the door at the other end of the hallway to the front door would be rectangular Lounge/Diner, stretching the length of the property and leading out into our large garden through a patio door which would also have an adjacent window. Whilst the layout of the ground floor still contains the staircase on your right hand side and the same horse shoe shaped kitchen with the door facing the oven on the exact opposite wall, the downstairs bathroom was now to be positioned under the stairs on the right rather than the left meaning that a privacy window would not exist. Continuing through the door at the other end of the hallway to the front door would be a now "L-shaped" Lounge/Diner, stretching the length of the property and eating into the area where the downstairs bathroom was supposed to be. 

Shocked and Gobsmacked I asked about the reasons why this had happened and how out had only been now, several months down the line into buying our first time that we were finding these details out. Furious I was ready to call the builders and rip them a new arsehole. That was until my Housing Association contact explained that in actual fact the floor plans, initial dimensions and specifications for the house had changed in the very early days of the build process. The house builders and developers themselves had actually been very upfront with their decisions and had explained fully to the housing association the builders change in plans and layout. Unfortunately it would have appeared that this information was not passed through to the sales people within the housing association itself and that our property and our Semi'd neighbour were sold the properties on the basis of the homes being a completely different layout to what they were being built as. 

Taking it all in I ended the phone call and called Mr Warehouse immediately to try and discuss our options. The contact at the housing association of was sincerely apologetic for the fact that there had been a huge fuck up and had explained that because of all of this that we would be well within our right to withdraw from our contract to buy going on to state that the responsibility would also live with the housing association in order to make payments to our solicitors, mortgage lender and mortgage broker, reimbursing us totally for our cost and making us at ground zero again. 

The other option we have is to suck it up and live with it, literally. The fact of the matter was that Mr Warehouse and I were already highly committed to this purchase and with such a huge investment of most if not every penny of our savings we will have not much choice. Obviously in a way it is nice to see a housing association company as large as this one looking out its future customers, making sure that the homes are up to scratch and safe (even if it is on selfish terms as if anything was to go wrong we would be calling up the housing association to come and put it right rather than the builders or developers) but quite frankly selling us a house that was completely built not in the specified way we were told it would be is not on. 

And there I was saying that buying a house was not stressful at all. Where we go from here I don't know but one thing is for certain and that is that me and Mr Warehouse will need to view the property in person before we make any snap decisions. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

An Amicus Curiae

Hello, 

Sat waiting for my appointment at the doctors Saturday morning I was I was anxious to say the least about what the doctor's and medical professionals would say. After my most recent appointment with them they had advised to continue my medication whilst I awaited an appointment where I can be seen through the NHS for counselling but this seems to be harder than you would have initially thought. 

After a few counselling sessions earlier on in my treatment process, I was unable to continue with them due to the high cost of the sessions themselves. They certainly helped but at £70.00 for an hour long session it was certainly not something I could afford right now or keep up, although that being said I was and still am eternally grateful for the help received. During those early therapy sessions, I finally opened up to the realisation that maybe medication is just what I needed at that point and with that I went to the doctors in order to get a quick fix. 

I'm sad and almost ashamed to admit that my work was suffering  and with a House move in the works I couldn't loose this job. As my social life dwindled also because of everything that was going on, I had, stupidly really, tried for the last few months (because the weeks of cloudiness beforehand had now turned into months) to not succumb to the need for medication in order to treat my mental health issues. Truth be told is that I needed a fairly instant result in improving my mood and therefore my performance, both at and away from my desk. The tablets used to make me feel quite queasy and nauseous most of the time but I knew they were good for me and what I needed would come soon. I needed, still do really, therapy and counselling and I need to talk about it, not medicate it away.

I have spoken before about how I was shocked that the doctor handed them out so easily, asking me very little questions about what is going on in my life to make me feel like this and how I am feeling. Unlike before there were no silly questionnaire about how depressed I am or the likeliness that I might top myself on a scale of one to ten.Every other time I have been to the doctors (not that there have been many, gosh makes me sound like a right nut case, but there have been a few occasions) there has always been a lengthy conversation about how I feel and how I have become to feel this way. Strangely I feel as though there should have been at least a little bit more push and pull. Then again maybe it was obvious and looking at my medical history it seemed the best thing for me. Initially when I went to the doctors in May of this year I was told that I will be placed on a waiting list for free counselling through the NHS and was told it would be roughly a three-month time slot from when I was referred. 

Obviously I continued with my therapy sessions and when they came to an end I went back to the doctor in order to have a check-up generally on the medication that I was on and it just so happened that it was coming up close to the three-month mark in July. I was told that it would probably be better if I went to speak to the Bedfordshire Well-Being team which were based outside of the doctors surgery and whilst part of the NHS were a different entity that could help. It was here that I learnt that it can be anywhere between eighteen-months and two-years. Certainly not the three-month time slot I was given when I first started back in April / May. 

After a meeting with a lady at the Bedfordshire Well-Being team, it was suggested by several mental health practitioners that I undertake what I thought was going to be a group therapy counselling session lasting 5 weeks. I thought that we all walk into the room sit down in a circle and say "Hi, my name is blah blah blah and I have a problem with abandonment issues particularly to do with my parents". Unfortunately this was far from the case and in actual fact it was a rather patronising lesson in what depression is and how it will make you feel. 
"No surprised that I have found it completely unhelpful as I am here because I have relapsed" I thought during my first two sessions. I am already my own well-being expert. I know the issues I have and ways I can slip back under the darkness. I already know how it feels to be depressed and I know what I need to do in order to get out. As narcissistic as it sounds I know what I am on about as I am already, at the grand old age of nearly 27, an expert of my own mental health issues.  

It was at this point that I spoke with the doctor and she confirmed that it would not be wise to stop medication and advised that in most circumstances medication is taken for a minimum of six-months, however with everything still quite unstable in my life in terms of my housing situation as well as my issues with family members, by the time the six-month anniversary comes around in October I probably will not be cured. I know that this is something I need to continue in order to build up it's effect, regardless of how I felt much better. I know that coupled with counselling and therapy I will get better it will just maybe take a little bit longer. 

Struggling I took the decision after talking with the Bedfordshire Well-Being team and several of the staff there I ended the patronising group lessons and have since then been in vainly trying to find anywhere locally that will be able to see me at such a short period of time that are not grossly expensive is almost nigh on Impossible. After a long sit in the doctors waiting room last Saturday morning, I saw the doctor (a different one every time I have been I must admit) I expressed my concerns to the them who promptly told me that it was a difficult position to be in for everyone involved. On the one hand going to my GP and seeking medical attention for my mental health was and continually is a great step in making myself better. As a result of that directly I have been put on medication to treat and improve my "chemical mood", something in which I feel is benefiting me greatly. Whilst awaiting it be one-to-one counselling via the NHS, there is very little that anyone can actually offer that will be of any use or help. 

Whilst I appreciate that the NHS in England is definitely under a huge strain, it is fundamentally wrong and critically important to increase the waiting times to a better standard.The thing is, if I broke my leg on the other hand they would try to operate as soon as immediately possible, having me in and out of that specific treatment quickly and efficiently so as to move on to the next patient. And yet for mental health it appears as though there is a lack of understanding in terms of how life threatening and dangerous it is for patients to wait to seek treatment. As with a broken leg mental health can become infected very quickly and easily causing more and more damage, and yet despite all of this the waiting list in the UK, at least for England anyway, is minimum of eighteen months and two years. 

Whilst the medicine I am on made me feel queasy and nauseous in the beginning, that has now subsided and I am now left feeling quite positive and happy in myself and my life generally although this doesn't stop the pressure that I feel from loved ones and frankly it is becoming a little too much to bear sometimes. I know that people mean well and that in reality I am of the knowledge that I need to sort out these issues but first and foremost, I need to sort myself out. Trust me when I say that it is simply a long story that I may share with you another time, but for the meantime I am doing as well as can be and battling it through to make the best out of what I have. I have been in touch recently with a couple of charities local to Bedford, one of them called the Amicus Trust which have said that they are able to give me some help with free counselling sessions in order to work through my problems as quickly as possible so that life can get back on track. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Ahh The Youth Of Today!

Hello, 

I can certainly say that the last week has been much better than before. Whilst I am still stressed up to my eyeballs what with trying to find a solicitor that will actually communicate with me, source some little bits and pieces for our home and get a handle on my fluctuating depression, I have certainly found the last few days a little bit easier to deal with. Therapy this week was helpful and whilst I feel as though we are going over old ground with my mother and brother and that whole scenario, I feel as though this is a key component in trying to work out where I go from now and how best I go forward with my life and those in it. Life was just about manageable until Saturday morning happened. 

We had a new girl, maybe in her early twenties move in a couple of weeks ago, a lovely lass who seemingly appears to scrub up well when going on a night out and apparently had a toddler daughter that was due to be moving in with her soon. We hadn't spoken much to her if anything at all but seemed like she was a responsible and caring person, although sometimes the types of characters and people coming and going in and out of her flat were questionable sometimes. With most of her guests being young men or in their 20's and spending roughly about 20 minutes in her flat and then leaving, Mr Warehouse and I had our own ideas about what potentially they may be getting up to in such a short amount of time and I am sure you will make your own mind up also!

Saturday Morning however I was awoken at 6:45am by the iron gate at the side of our Alley-walk-way we shared with our new Neighbour being forcibly banged against the wall, clattering and clanging every time. Hoping it might have been the wind or rain bashing it against the wall periodically I rolled over, enjoying the free space that Mr Warehouse had given me when he went to work in the small hours of that morning. Not long after the clattering I heard a massive argument ensue which included grown men, about our age, yelling and shouting at each other. Getting up and out of bed to see what was going on I peered out of my bedroom window only to see fighting. 
"I've just buried my fucking Dad man and if your not careful I'll fucking bury you too" one lad shouted at another before storming off down the street, continuing the fight and even pushing and shoving each other on to the parked cars on the street. I heard the neighbours from upstairs shout down for them to pack it in. To be fair to them they did shut up for a short while before it erupted again, this time leading to glass bottles being thrown and smashed on the street outside our bedroom window. I could only assume that this was a drunken fuelled argument or spat that has happened between our new neighbours and/or her friends. 

Now honestly I don't mind the parties or even the copious amounts of lads that are in and out of that flat on a weekly basis, I am not bothered or fazed by this at all. However I am, I think, understandably pissed when I am awoken so early on a weekend morning to World War III kicking off outside my bedroom window. Thinking that there wasn't much left to do apart from just simply get up and have a coffee and maybe breakfast, I called Mr Warehouse and spoke to him about Jeremy Kyle Live that has just started outside our flat. Mr. Warehouse continued to explain that this had apparently been going since the very early hours over the morning when at three in the morning when he was awoken by our upstairs neighbours yelling down to the rowdy youths in order to keep the noise down as it was a quiet family street and we were all trying to sleep. When the Bae then went to work just a couple of hours later at 5 o'clock it was still going and whilst the music was quiet there was quite a lot of loud talking and running back and forth along the side of our Alley-walk-way. 

After the glass bottles were smashed outside on the street, there seemed to be a bit of a clean up operation in which the debris was cleared as best as possible, but with what appeared to be a spliff in one hand holding a red Cup probably containing a good measure of alcohol and the other hand in a desperate attempt to try and Sweep up what glass they could see with their beer Goggles on there is certainly a lot left to be desired. Flicking the kettle and rubbing my eyes I thank my lucky stars that I had my dressing gown on as two police officers were also called to the incident, I can only assume from the other residents on the street that were also awoken. Sipping my coffee as I watched some shit Saturday morning TV, all of which with one eye on the garden gate leading into our new neighbours flat of course. 

After summoning all my might to get dressed, I took the Pooch for a walk only to find that the glass was scarcely cleaned up and was still a bit of a mess, something which could also cause other children or other pets on the street harm not to mention possibly even puncturing Mr. Warehouse's bike when he comes home. I also noticed that because of the constant banging and slamming of the gate that our little sign is broken which welcomed visitors and warned them of our pup. Now whilst it cost under a fiver I still didn't appreciate that our property was being treated in this way and with such disrespect as well. 

Mr. Warehouse came home a few hours later and was the most angriest I have ever seen him. Seething, he ranted loudly about how disrespectful, rude and inconsiderate they were being. But what could we do? I had contacted my landlord a couple of hours after it had all kicked off and within minutes he had come storming round to the property, fuming that he was being taken for a ride and seemingly being made out to look like a mug. But now there were just as many people as before coming and going and coming back again, now even just standing around and having conversations in our garden. I felt quite uncomfortable and judging from the amount of alcohol that was going into the flat and comings and goings, I very much doubted that this would be ending anytime soon. 

Messaging my landlord again in one last ditch attempt to try and get something sorted before it's all got out of hand again. As before, within a few moments of me sending the message there was a car screeching to a halt and parking up outside. Not thinking much of that I saw my landlord storm right through past our flat and into the our new neighbours garden, banging on the glass and ushering for the lass to come out. 
"Woah who the fuck are you mate!" one bloke yelled obviously upset that his potential Beau had another older man banging at her window. 
"I'm the landlord of this place"  he answered as he marched the girl to the front of the property where they had a heated discussion, I can only assume (because I did not have my window open - Silly me) that she was being read the riot act and as a result would have to be on her best behaviour in order to keep a roof over her head. 

I think all of that had happened on Saturday without my Approval In Principle / AIP and Mr Warehouse and buy in the process of moving soon, it's almost certainly would have made my mood even worse. Not long now!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Overcast With a Chance of Sun

Heyy All, 

Another Bank Holiday in the UK rules around and yet more of our DIY and general redecoration of our small flat gets postponed. I swear that by the time that we end up getting around to doing something it will probably be time to move into our own home. Finger Crossed 'eh?! As last week I explained that our Landlord, whilst slightly slow at getting anything of necessity done quickly is now in the process of remodelling a kitchen and bathroom so that we have brand new tiles and flooring. With the renovation works due to start next week I am slightly putting off our plans to paint, decorate and generally get on with our own little projects. It seems as though I endlessly talked about the fact that I am nowhere near owning my own home anytime soon and it is a subject matter that most of my friends outside of work also are struggling with due to the fact that there is very little affordable housing being built and what is in existence is very far and few between and hardly affordable when the average wage is in the region of £22,500 per annum. Whilst I spoke of last week about our fifty-something-year-old parents reaping the benefits of having plentiful and affordable housing, a lower cost of living and stable employment with good earning potential I can become frustrated and angry at my situation as I know that there is absolutely no way that I know anyone around me or in fact that of government or higher powers can change anything and the latter to have at the very least made the situation worse. 

This coupled with how low and upset I have been feeling over the last few weeks I have sought to find some help in the form of a therapist or counselling. In general my mood has not been great and if anything I have felt extremely cloudy probably since the funeral or maybe even beforehand, what with stress masking my true feelings. I really have not been feeling myself at all lately. I don't feel as sunshine-y anymore and instead I find myself a bit lost all round. I am worried about how quickly this has all come about and as a result I am not waiting for doctor's for a appointment in order to diagnose me with what I think I already have. Depression. Not going to lie I am able to fully function with this going on in the background and I know that there will be the light at the end of the tunnel soon, but Depression is taking away every little bit of happiness or joy that I have left in my life I feel at the moment and I know that it is me and only me that can help get out of the Black Hole I find myself in. 

On it's own any of the issues that I spoke about last week would be probably something I could handle fairly well normally, however, I don't suppose that having several massive life-changing events happening all within a couple of months is ever going to be easy to both process and deal with on top of normal day to day life. I know what it feels like and I have been here before, a few times at least. I don't want to seem so blase, but  I know that this is just a phase of sorts and that the clouds will soon pass making way for my true self to blossom once again, brightening your days, making you laugh and even cracking a joke or two. 

I know not to throw the word depression around like it is nothing. It is. Somehow breaking your leg and clearly having it in plaster makes it easier for people to talk about a illness or injury, but with disorders such as anxiety, depression and other mentally debilitating conditions it is not so easy. You have those that care and ask how you are everyday obviously wanting to hear that you are doing well. But then there are others that don't quite understand just how difficult it is. These types of people will not understand and simply asked you to pull yourself together or to pick yourself up and get on with it. Phrases like this anger me no end as if that was as easy as you are saying then I would simply not be where I am now and comments like this to people suffering from mental illness are detrimentally dangerous to their recovery, infecting the brain with all sorts of thoughts that are unnecessary and unwanted for someone that simply needs your love and support in what can be a very scary and lonely time in their life. 

I really think that therapy and counselling will help me as it did last time. I just need to really try and immerse myself in things that made me happy before. Spending time with friends and with family always help improve my mood and lift my spirit when I am down. Talking to someone about the grief and hurt that I have been through the last few weeks and months especially can only help. And who knows what's around the corner maybe I'll have a big Lotto win and be able to have the cars, holidays and house I have always dreamt of. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

A Regular Pupdate ...

Hiya, 

I was nervous as I walked back into the Vets to collect Mr. Warehouse's pooch. What condition was she going to be in? Was she going to recover quickly? Had she peed on the floor in fear after the last time we arrived? But more importantly ... How much is it going to cost our little family financially?

Several weeks ago as I am sure you regulars to my blog will know, the pup got poorly and after seeing several vets at several different surgeries, Mr. Warehouse and I were faced with the decision no pet owner wants to consider. Our little one had been sick for some time now, constantly licking her downstairs and numerous eye infections we decided that we should get a professional opinion as to what was making her ill. We were told by the Veterinarian that o dog could have what was called a Pyometra which is where the womb fills up with pus and as a result is extremely dangerous and life-threatening without treatment. An open-Pyo is where the cervix has opened up just enough to let the pus seep out which is still serious but can wait for an appointment, however a closed-Pyo will mean it is essentially a ticking time-bomb, getting bigger and bigger and with no-where to go could burst at any moment, killing her. After a few weeks on antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medication resulting in her being off her food almost permanently asides a few handfuls of plain cooked pasta, she had made very little improvement. 

Within twenty-four hours after coming off the meds, returning from the Peak District just hours earlier our fluffy got poorly again, signature eye infection and constantly licking her privates. Taking her to the Vets they again couldn't determine as to what was causing her upset. Asking to consult with colleagues we were left to discuss our financial options which were dwindling with every visit we seemed to make to the rubber-floored rooms. With the prospects of a £1,500.00 bill for the operation alone we were nervous of what the Veterinary surgery had to say. Although leaving that night, no closer to an answer we were determined not to give up on her. 

We would find a way, surely there must be a way to get through this and out the other side relevantly unscathed. Every lunch break I called over one-hundred local vets, even as far as Cambridge and St. Albans, forty miles from where we called home. Mr. Warehouse never knew the sleepless nights or evenings I would spend researching charities or funding pages that may be able to help. I must admit though that I did look into the horrific alternative and the costs that it would incur. Every night I was left alone with the TV I would open up my laptop / tablet, pooch sat beside me, and nearly cry my heart out for the lack of help around. 

It had been a stressful few weeks leading up to that moment but the second the little student nurse brought out our furry baby we knew the decision to operate was the right one. She was so happy, the happiest we had seen her in some time. Her belly wasn't anywhere near as swollen as it once was and in its place was a shaved belly and a six-inch-scar, held together with little stitches. She had a bandage on her paw where she had her IV drip and fluids. Looked like some child had just been playing Doctors and Nurses with her to be honest. But she was defiantly feeling much better it would have seemed. And I suppose you would have felt better too if you saw what was removed. 

The infected womb that was removed was full, bulging and resembled haggis. The Pyometra had got to the point of bursting and had even developed a small rupture which was found when the Vet's operated. Mr. Warehouse had been ever-so close to loosing our pup and we were sure to make the most of life once she was back on her paws. Already booked we had an adventure to the seaside for the first Spring Bank Holiday in the May, all three amigo's heading off to Great Yarmouth to allow Pooch a run along the shore, sand in between her paws and lots of new sights and smells to explore. But Shhh ... Its a secret - Although I am sure you won't tell her!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

The Big JCB in the Sky ...

Hi There, 

So after weeks of dread and anxiety on not making Mr Warehouse look like a complete fool in front of his entire family by wearing something wholly inappropriate for a funeral, the day was finally upon us to lay to rest Mr. Warehouse's Second Cousin. An untimely death and gone all far too soon for my liking, I donned a black jumper, tights and skirt complete with heels and a grey waterfall jacket to complete the look I waited patiently for Mr. Warehouse to get ready, looking ever so smart in his black suit and tie. If it had not have been a funeral I could have been happy. It was not even one of my own and already getting in the car and ready to go I was welling up with sadness. God only knows what sadness I had to endure yet ... 

After leaving in plenty enough time to get a drive-thru breakfast, manage the Black Cat Roundabout and have a pit-stop for a toilet break we arrived at the address I had been Google-Mapping and researching for weeks. After confirming and doublely-doubley confirming with Momma Warehouse in the few weeks leading up to the sombre occasion over Christmas and New Year I had made sure we were going to the right place and with plenty of time to allow for mingling an getting a seat, especially since he was a well-known and well-loved character who would easily pack out any church in the area. Pulling into the car park however I did not recognise or see any number plates or cars I knew of. Putting my doubts aside, I got out and shoved on my heels before having a cheeky cigarette whilst Mr. Warehouse went to look for the rest of the mourners whom seemed in short supply. 

Returning in a flap I knew what Mr. Warehouse was about to say, 
"Where is it?" I asked, anxious of the response. 
"Its the wrong fucking Church!" Mr. Warehouse fumed. And so, flipping my heels off we headed to the second postal code Momma Warehouse had given us. In search for St Paul's or Peter's Church we headed fifteen minutes down the road, still arriving, but just in the nick of time. The only problem was that there was no parking, and the Church appeared to be locked up for the day. 'This can not be the right Church' I thought to myself, knowing from my days as a Sunday-School-Sucker that a vicar would never leave it this late at less than forty-five minutes before the service began. Pacing round the small chapel we headed back to the car, again frantically calling around to see where we actually needed to be. 

Becoming frustrated I put my foot down as Mr. Warehouse and I headed back to the first Church we went to all in good faith that Momma Warehouse had it right this time. Fifteen minutes later we arrive back in the first car park we encountered in Wisbech. No familiar cars. No mourners. No Hurst. it is now midday and with less than quarter-of-an-hour until the service starts we finally have a phone call from Mr. Warehouse brother. Finally someone who knows what they are talking about! Message pinging through on a text I punch it into my phone, SatNav now draining my battery so much so I wonder if I can find my way home that day. Jumping back into Vivienne again I race through the streets of Wisbech and finally pull up at a small village church, parking up and wiggling through grave plots in order to reach the church steps on time. With seconds to spare we heard the procession music slow and the service begin. 

Myself and Mr. Warehouse were standing outside and after all the fuck ups and screwing around of this morning I wasn't going to have him stand out here when he was a deserved family member of at least a standing space inside the holy building, let alone a seat. Gently taking his hand I guided him through the mourners and bystanders to the back of the Church. There I found Momma Warehouse, obviously too late for a seat herself. What I felt as an undignified service followed with mistakes being made on names of relevant people, the Lords Prayer being recited incorrectly and even messing up the Hymns, I felt the vicar was unprofessional and it thoroughly grated on me that in someones final moments they did not even have the respect or grace to practice some of the readings and scriptures in advance. Obviously there may have been a reason why she was so poor at leading the proceedings however in my eyes you should be professional in all aspects, and even more-so at a funeral, but of course, that's just my opinion and otherwise it was a beautiful send-off. 

As the ceremony came to an end, I left with Mr. Warehouse, holding his hand and trying where possible to be helpful. Tissues, cuddles and gentle hand holding, but nothing would appease the tears rolling over my beloved boyfriends cheeks. Sharp slices hit my heart as I genuinely looked around for someone to help. But no-one did. We were all mourning and I honestly have never felt so out of place or at a loss on what to do or how to help. Truth be told though there was nothing I could do. I was not a miracle worker and I had no powers to take away Mr. Warehouse's nor his families pain and grief. All I could hope and wish for is that it would be all over soon enough and that they could all learn to live with what has happened. 

What I experienced that day has left me with thoughts of my own mortality and what I will do if anyone close to me should pass. What would I do? The thing is I don't know. I suppose no-body does, but one thing I can tell you is that I have told everyone I love them and when I do it is with utter truth and meaningfulness, as though it may be the last time I speak to them, for we know not how long we have left, but definitely on how we should use the time we are given.

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Ugly, Disgusting and Foul Smelling!

Hiya, How Do?

I like the Northern approach to life, it so friendly and non-threatening. I think sometimes I would pass right good for a Northernern. Ooooh, Whippets and Pies!

Nevertheless I am here to talk of my week in a less than warm Blighty. I mean whilst I did not appreciate all of the heat and humidity of last weekend I certainly did not ask for overcast skies and rainclouds for the rest of Summer 2016! Please change soon, I want to get my hopefully not so peely legs out. I suppose I experienced some of the heat this weekend since I spent most of late last week in the kitchen attempting to bake a beautiful Pool and Darts cake for an upcoming event. 

Three years ago now, Mr. Warehouse and his family suffered a huge loss to their family - The Matriarch was gone. Mr. Warehouse's Grandfather AKA Momma Warehouse's Dad had passed away and had left the family in a grief I still see in my boyfriends eyes when he talks of his memories with his grandpops. Nevertheless so as to keep the tradition going and in order to help preserve his memory for generations to come, every year in the village he resided in, Marston Mortaine, They hold a special Pool and Darts afternoon followed by drinks at one of Mr. Warehouse's Uncles house across the road from the venue. I had attended last year but not brought anything but myself and after being introduced to everyone it was a bit overwhelming anyway. With a wedding only passing the weekend before we had plenty of cake to go around and as such I thought it would be a wonderful idea to make a cake myself to present to the table of honouring what would have been an amazing man to meet.

Sitting here last week I added myself to a group discussion about the memorial afternoon.evening and asked if anyone was bringing cakes or sweet treats. When no-one replied I thought I had been ignored but the following morning I had a few supporters and even more requests for different flavours. So I set to work, pottering about ideas and spending my morning commutes looking up videos and tutorials to make sure my cake blew the family away. Unfortunately I did leave it slightly late and after researching for more time than I should have been baking I set to work on Thursday night to bake the cakes needed for Saturday to come. Three batter mixes, twenty-four cupcakes cooling and three loaf tins baking I thought I had it all under control. That was until Mr. Warehouse came into the kitchen. 

"Eww, whats that smell?!" he said sniffing the air surrounding the hard-at-work cooker. Joining in with the Smell-a-thon I exclaimed that my boyfriends comments were rude and unappreciated. My baking goods smelt fine and would be ready to come out of the oven soon. However some time later, the other half arrived back in the kitchen and proceeds to tel me that my baked, marble cake-loaves looked ugly and disgusting, going on to say that he, neither the seventy-odd guests would be eating 'that'. Absolutely broken I burst into tears. It was one step too far and the criticism from myself was bad enough without Mr. Warehouse jabbing the knife in and twisting it once more. Crying as I fell asleep that night my dearest Beau had eventually realised what he had said was cruel and unkind, apologising and making it up by saying that we both would have another go tomorrow. But it didn't make me feel any better about myself and with another day lost for preparation I was worried what I wanted would not be what I got. 

The following morning I got up bright and early along with Mr. Warehouse and the dog, opting for making coloured icing as opposed to having a lay-in. Heading out to work I took with me the rejects of the cake party yesterday in the hope that my hungry work colleagues would go to town on them before 11am and everything would be forgotten. When asked why I had brought in such a copious amount of cake I explained to everyone that their ex-colleague and my boyfriends comments the previous evening were a result of them getting the outcasts telling them in detail about how he had called my cakes ugly, disgusting and foul smelling. Fits of laughter erupted as I was told that they smelled fine and tasted even better with one colleague even stating that maybe Mr. Warehouse was upset as it was him that was ugly, disgusting and foul smelling. This cheered me up but I did worry about the non-existent cake I was due to present the following afternoon. I had a list as long as my arm to try and get done as well as pick up a few bits before heading back to our home for the weekend at Momma Warehouse's, also in Marston Mortaine. After some much needed after works drinks and a few cigarettes over some gossip with Mr. Warehouse's Mother I set to work with Mr. Warehouse barely sticking to his promise and instead shouting a mixture of heavy criticism and basic instructions from the living room. I did not take kindly and after four hours it was finally over. I was done and the cake was finished. Not to my liking though. The details were missing such as the change slots on the side, ball viewer not to mention the cue and triangle thingymibob. I felt like a complete failure yet when Momma Warehouse saw it she welled up with tears and told me how wonderful it looked. I didn't want to upset her so became quiet with self-doubt and loathing the fact that I had only done what I had thought was a mediocre job. 

Still as encouraging as ever, I woke on the morning of the memorial and hoped my driving lesson would go well enough I could come back and start on some of the features. I was lucky enough to have a fairly good lesson but with weeks to go before my Driving Exam in September I am more than bricking it, especially when I take more than a few times trying to Bay park before my driving instructor gives up and asks me to drive off somewhere else. Beating myself up about not only my inability to Bay park but also to bake and decorate a cake that doesn't look like Prince George had an input, I was certainly feeling far from great. Battling through though I dressed up and we all headed down to the venue. Presenting the Three-storey Pool Table cake and Cupcakes with mini dart boards adoring them I was pleased it was all over and as I watched people flock around it I knew I must have done something right. Noticing as the afternoon progressed that in fact they had obviously gone down a right treat, cupcakes all gone and so was the cake. Much a success. Although Mary Berry I am not. 

Alls well that ends well, eh?! And I can tell you what else is worth while cracking out some cake for - Mr. Warehouse only went and bagged himself a full time permanent job earning just as much as me! Working where he is now at the Pharmaceutical Distribution place on the outskirts of town I think he is the happiest career wise he has ever been in the time I have known him. I am so pleased. Finally this means that Chrismas wont be as much of a stretch as last year and that we could finally head off to a cosy Christmas Market somewhere in Europe. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx