Friday 4 May 2012

Mystified.com


On reflection, this blog is a pretty accurate reflection of my own personality.....rambling, self indulgent, haphazard, inconsistent and a bit flabby.

People claim that dog owners often resemble their pets. If I had a dog, it would probably be short, round and ginger with bark like 'Nanny' from Count Duckula. It would also collapse in a pathetic heap if asked to chase a ball. 

It also occurred to me this week that I do seem to spend my life a bit mystified. Not quite advance Alzheimers levels of confusion but certainly a few double shots on a revolving dance floor kind of baffled. I spend my days with two 2 year olds and two four year olds. Conversations, behaviours, eating habits, continence patterns and entertainment choices frequently leave me baffled. Take today's little gem:

Four year old #1: “Mummy, I don't want to eat breakfast today because it will spoil my lunch”

Four year old #2, distressed: “But I don't like spoiled lunch. I like it normal. It's not fair. Gods sake”.

Four year old #1: “It's OK. You'll like spoiled lunch. It tastes like old socks covered in jam but it's OK. Peppa (pig) eats it all the time”

Four year old #2: * Tears *

Two year old #1: “I want pudding. Had 'nuff choccie toast now. Where pudding?”

(I point out that breakfast seldom is accompanied by pudding)

Two year old #2: “Where my pudding. I been good boy. Where is it?”

(I reiterate that there will be an absence of pudding at 8am)

Two year old #1: “Waaaaaaaaaant pudding. * Tears *

Two year old #2: “(Looks smug) You been naughty boy. I good. I have my pudding now peeeez”

(I impress upon them that pudding will not be forthcoming. It is 8am)

Two year old #2: * Tears *

Four year old # 1: * Look of complete innocence * “Mummy, why are all the boys crying. I'm eating my breakfast like a good girl, look”.

(I lose the will to live. It is 8am)

Before entering the world of full-time professional childcare, I was a Social Worker. With teenagers. Nuff said. I cannot describe how much I loved this job. I did Child Protection work, Family support work, I was the allocated worker for young people in the Looked After (Care) system and for the last 6 years, I was the assistant manager of a team which supported 15-24 year olds who were Care Leavers. There was never, every a dull moment. There was also never a day when I hadn't been told to 'F**k off'. It became a term of endearment. There are many therapy- worthy moments in this 10 years of chaos but let me offer you the top 10:

1) My Waterloo. I am fairly newly qualified and naiive. I have been given one of the MOST 'challenging' young women on our books as one of my (numerous) cases. We are at Waterloo in rush hour and I have to get her on a train to a destination that she is not keen to go to. We have been there an hour. We have already missed 2 trains due to her need to 'debate' her destination. She is pulling out every tool in her (considerable) arsenal to delay getting on that train. I am at my wits end and, foolishly, tell her that I must go and that she needs to get on the train or make her own way back to our place of origin. We are beneath the big clock in the centre of the station. Approximately 50% of London is within a 10 metre vicinity. I start to walk away. My ears and those of every one of the 4 million commuters are assaulted by a 90,000 decibel screech........ "F**k off you useless ginger c**t"............ The only thing I have in common with Robbie Williams in that I know what it's like to be stared at by thousands of people.......although I doubt that his audience were tutting........

2) Planes, trains and heels. I am transporting a very unhappy and damaged young woman in my car, on my own. She thinks we are going to a certain location. We are not. Due to all sorts of factors, I have been advised not to tell her where we are going because she is a massive flight risk. She is in the back of the car in my 2 door car. Everything is very urgent and very stressful. I am also in heels as I have just been to court to get everything sorted regarding her care. We are travelling at 70 miles an hour on a motorway. We pass the exit which would take us where she thinks we're going. She cottons on to the fact that she's not going where she thinks she is. In one move, she breaks the passenger seat, grabs the door and tries to get out. I skid to a halt on the hard shoulder. She legs it. I leg it after her in heels and a suit................I feel like I should have some sort of radio........I try to channel my inner Buffy but all I find is my inner voice which is shouting "YOU SHOULD GO TO THE GYM MORE YOU LOLLOPING MOOSE". Helicopters are scrambled. She gets away. It takes 4 days to find her. For years, you could see my tyre marks in the hard shoulder...........

3) Anglo-Afghan relations. I was sometimes required to help undertake age determination interviews for young people who arrived in our area as Asylum Seekers. If these poor little buggers weren't traumatised enough from their experiences, imagine their confusion at being greeted by a disorganised, portly ginger woman in ill fitting clothes. Add to this a few lapses in my cultural awareness........I spent 4 hours with 4 Afghan lads and their interpreter. Our direct communication was all through pictures, drawings and hand gestures. Most of those gestures were the 'thumbs up' OK gesture. After 4 hours of this, we all left the office. The kindly interpreter took me to one side and explained that 'thunbs up' here in the UK is the equivalent of flipping the bird in Afganistan. He told me that he hadn't wanted to offend me during the interviews by telling me this.  I had been pretty much non-stop swearing at these poor, traumatised lads for over 4 hours. To add to their confusion, I smiled broadly at them the whole time.

4) The student will do it. I was 21 and doing my training at a HUGE Local Authority children's home in South Yorkshire. Kids there were aged 2 years (I know, I still cry when I think of the smallest ones there) to 18 years. It was a weekend. The staff were knackered and the kids were bored. Before I got my coat off, I was told that I was taking a group of 8 (!!) kids aged 6-9 years, on my own, shoe shopping at the local Asda followed by a swimming trip. I have managed to block most of that afternoon out. I am sure that when I am in the nursing home, I'll be rocking back and forth muttering "Do you have it in a size 4? Have you got your towel" on repeat........I still get flashbacks involving verruca socks......

5) Send her in first. Police raid on a suspected paedophile's flat. I am the social worker accompanying the police. It is 6am. I am given a stab vest which does not do up over my boobs. I am essentially wearing a large, unattractive but impenetrable necklace. Ace. The police use a battering ram on the door. It caves in. 6 large policemen (whose vests fit) stand to one side and push me in first. I am unsure how to proceed so I try to look intimidating but what comes out of my mouth is "Hellooooooo. Anyone home?".........................I am never asked to go on a raid again........

6) Send her in first #2: I am social worker for a lad who is classed by the local courts as Britain's most dangerous young person (genuinely). I have known him for years and we get on pretty well. The only thorn in our working relationship is his complete and total inability to stop breaking the law or indeed breaking other people. He is over 6ft 4 inches tall and weighs in excess of 19 stone. He has been arrested and I have been called to the police station to be his appropriate adult. I arrive and immediately sense that all is not well. There are lights flashing. People are running. There is a noise. It sounds like somebody has caught a rhino, drugged it, stuck it in a giant metal can and have just woken it up by poking it with a sharp stick. I sense that the rhino might belong to me. It does. My rhino has become so agitated in his cell due to the refusal to serve him KFC for lunch that the officers cannot go in to get him out for his interview. They have been in this situation for 2 hours. My rhino is not tiring. I end up at the cell door talking to him. He calms a bit (I promise KFC at the earliest opportunity- he has simple needs). I am able to get into his cell at which point, the trainee guard locks me in the cell with him. We spend a while chatting and eventually leave the cell calmly and complete the interview. He never got his KFC though. He was in custody from that day until the day I left my job, some 4 years later. In 30 years time, a large hungry rhino will be knocking on my door looking for a KFC.

7) Pimps and Posts. I am working at the large children's home. One of the older girls is sadly in the snare of a deeply unpleasant gentleman who makes a living from her. Police are involved, she is safe, he is out on bail. We are at Defcon 5 in terms of security. It is however handover time and all the other staff are in the staffroom. I am alone with the kids in the TV room. There is a knock at the door and I answer it.

I am greeted by a slightly narked looking gentleman of dubious appearance who appears to be brandishing a fence post. I am stumped. What to say? He appears unsure about how to proceed- I look very young. Perhaps I am a resident? I am similarly mystified. We look at each other.

"Has the wind brought it down?" I ask.

"No". He says.

"Can I help you with anything?" I ask.

"No. I've come to f**king kick off and kill that little *****",  he explains.

Adopting my haughtiest and most no-nonsense tone, I bark, "Right. Well, everyone's in handover at the minute so can I ask you to come back later when there'll be more people around?" 

He nods and walks off, gently placing the fence post by the wall. I sense that perhaps he might have missed a few classes in pimp school as I've had more intimidating double glazing salesmen.

Sadly later that day, as nobody thought to move the sodding post, one of the teenage boys living at the home went nuts and used it to smash all of the windows and one member of staff........never dull.......

8) I'm going to kick off. Teenagers in a rage generally give you a warning. They always, very considerately, tell you that they are going to 'kick off'. I am 9 months pregnant and the size of a house. One of my boys is in a very bad way and sadly, my declining one of his requests for cash is the straw that broke the camel's back. He flips. He is going to stab/kill/kick off/burn down he claims. Frankly, if he is going to do all that he says then he'll be kept busy for weeks.

I am hungry however and as he is 10th 'kick off' of the day, I've had enough. I draw myself up to my full 5ft 3 inches (he is 6ft +) and point out that I have got at least 4 stone on him and that if he wants the humiliation of being sat on and suffocated by an overweight, pregnant social worker then he can carry on. If he wishes to hold onto his dignity, he should bugger off for the day. He stops raging. He notes the pulsing vein on my forehead and surveys my rotund enormousness. He retreats. I head to Marks and Sparks for a sandwich. I might need an extra stone or two if he comes back so I double up on the carrot cake.

9) Things I've ducked. Over the years I have had numerous things thrown at me by clients: Bin bags of possessions, toasters, broom, cutlery, tins of food, child's bike, various bits of paperwork, handbags (including my own), christmas pudding (in the pot), fence post, bricks.....I might be big but I'm agile.......

10) I've got a problem. An older client with a heroin habit arrives at the office door, looking uncomfortable and clearly under the influence of his most recent hit. We have a bit of a chat and it's clear that he is in some significant pain. I ask him if he's OK. He says that he thinks he's got a scratch that's gone a bit funny on his leg. I invite him in and say that he's in luck as the nurse is visiting the project and I'll go and see if she can see him. I go upstairs but the nurse has sadly already gone. I go back to the kitchen to tell him but to my surprise, I am greeted by the sight of him stark naked from the waist down, high as kite with seemingly gangrenous genitals.

It later transpires that no fewer than 7 injection sites in his groin and penis (!!) had become infected and gangrene had started to take hold. He needed blood transfusions and skin grafts. The reports I had to write about the incident caused such hilarity that I believe that somewhere in an outreach office in South Yorkshire, they are framed. I still can't look at Toulouse Sausages in the supermarket without shuddering.

I visited a Nutritional Therapist this week to help with getting more healthy and her questionnaire asked me if there are any traumatic life events which might have led to issues for me with my diet. I sloped up to her receptionists desk,


"Excuse me, do you have an extra sheet of paper?"