Scores on the Doors, please!

 So Advent is finally here.  All across the land families are opening Door 1 on the calendar and rejoicing in the wholesome Christmas-related images that lie behind it (unless you're my sister,  who is currently wondering what on earth a pig on a skateboard has to do with the Holiday Season, but that's a story for another post).

I'm a fan of an old-fashioned advent calendar myself, loving the nostalgia of the process.  Who doesn't enjoy the hunt for the right number hidden in an overly-crowded design, the subsequent battle with the inadequate perforations around each door, or the jolt of recognition as you discover a candy cane or a toy train pictured behind it?  (Both of which still seem to look the same as they did 45 years ago, which shouldn't be a shock, because how many ways are there to draw a wrapped present, after all?)  And let's not forget the joyful surprise of the inevitable discovery, a couple of hours later, that the glitter from the calendar has somehow transferred itself to your cheek.  Twelve year old me liked to pretend it was make-up.  I always have loved a bit of sparkle.

Consequently I've been fighting a rear-guard action against the inevitable march of chocolate advent calendars since the Boys were tiny.  Mainly this was down to my reluctance to give them a sugar rush before breakfast each day, (what's the point of making them eat Weetabix rather than sugared cereal if they've already been snacking on milk chocolate or, nowadays, Percy Pigs?).  But this year?  This year I couldn't be that cruel.  This year, after all, is 2020.  Normal service is currently suspended.

This, it turns out, is the year I finally caved and bought each of my sons a chocolate advent calendar.

I didn't tell them in advance, simply presenting them with their calendars when they came down for breakfast this morning.  Boy #1 - the junk food king - was delighted, and had ripped open the card and gobbled down the milk chocolate bunny behind Door 1 in 2 seconds flat. 

Boy #2, however, doesn't like milk chocolate.  Do you know how difficult it is to find a dark chocolate advent calendar at the end of November?  Or at least, how hard it is to find one that doesn't cost £40?  (I love him, but there are limits).  Nevertheless I managed it eventually, returning home in triumph with a 70 percenter for less than five quid, only to find - after he tried what lay behind his Door 1 this morning - that there is yet another brand of chocolate for us to add to the list of those to which he is allergic.

Oh well.  My intention is that my Husband will benefit from his younger son's misfortune.  But I'm home alone, and you know what they say; the road to hell and all that...

Today's Task: Write a Blog Post in 10 minutes...

I'm putting together my writing cv.  It is, shall we say, a little 'thin'.  It's not that I don't have any experience in writing, you understand - over a thousand posts written on here alone are testament to that - it's just that I don't have so much experience in writing for publications that actually pay.

As I reached the end of this still-as-yet unfinished cv I realised that perhaps, if I'm going to refer to this blog, I probably should write something.  You know, like, a post.  It's been another month, after all...

So here I am.  With the ten minutes before I have to leave to collect the Boys from school the only time I'm likely to find in the near future.  What to tell you?

Well, Boys #1 and #2 are now ten and twelve years old.  How did that happen?  I was reminded of how far we've come today when I took them both to our local - excellent - hospital for their first allergy test in seven years.  It went smoothly, no problems (and yes, they are still allergic to nuts, dammit).  Now, the last time we did this was in London and it was something of a seminal experience for the three of us.  Boy #2 - three years old at the time, still chubby and toddling around - handled the whole experience with aplomb and dignity, whimpering a little as they scratched his arm, but generally behaving well.

His older brother?  Not so much.  There was a visit to the paediatric ward 'Quiet Room' involved, I remember, to allow him to calm down.  There were chocolate buttons (well - I can't remember the chocolate buttons, but since there were usually chocolate buttons or smarties involved in times of stress, I'm thinking I'm pretty safe in assuming they made an appearance here).  There would also have been wailing and gnashing of teeth, no doubt - obviously, since we were banished to the Quiet Room, I suppose.

But the thing is, I actually don't remember that many of the details.  I guess that may be due to having blanked it out as not having been our finest hour, who can say?  But whatever the reason, it's interesting to realise that however awful a parenting experience might be at the time (and I do remember that at least; it was awful), you actually are unlikely to remember the details in the future.

Which is a comfort, I suppose.  Especially as I look the teenage years squarely in the face.

And of course the other comfort is that whatever happens, and whatever the years ahead hold, there will, of course, still be this blog to refer to, to remind me that there were some difficult times before, and that we made it through those.  And there will still be smarties and chocolate buttons.  Or Green &; Blacks.  Whatever comes to hand, really...

There you go - a blog post in 10 (no, 12, actually) minutes.

This started out as post about Weetabix and ended as one about the media reporting of Sochi 2014...

.... if you can believe that.  Because after 4 years living in Moscow, this week I finally found plain Weetabix available in my preferred reasonably-priced supermarket (rather than at the rather less reasonably-priced alternatives), and was so excited that I bought 5 packets of the stuff.  

You UK and US based readers may laugh, but healthy breakfast cereal for nut-allergic children can be hard to come by here, so whilst I may have gone just a little over the top, I now have Weetabix that will last us until the summer and - I hope - have encouraged Auchan to continue stocking it.

Result.

Of course, I now have no space left for any other cereals in our cupboard, but that's beside the point, I'm sure you'll agree.

Anyway, I planned to write a post on how things are slowly but surely changing in a country which, if you were to take your view of it from what you read in the Western press, is still stuck in the dark ages.  Funnily enough, Weetabix didn't feature in that.  What actually came out was the following rant about the Olympics which, it seems, could no longer be suppressed...


Ah, Russia.  So much has changed in this country, not only in the 22 years since the USSR was dissolved, (because yes, it was that long ago), not just in the 19 years since I first visited (Christ, has it been that long?), and not even in the 4 years since we first moved over here as a family.

From the outside, of course, from the fabled Free West, you might be forgiven for thinking not much - if anything - has evolved.  Russia is apparently still a nation of grey brutalist architecture, a land of snow and ice, inward-looking, jingoistic and uninterested in taking note of progressions taking place elsewhere.  Admittedly, Russia doesn't help itself in this by many of it's political processes and decisions and by being what is still a hard-to-get-to (and indeed, often hard-to-get) destination, making it difficult to obtain visas and having been less welcoming to tourists than it might have.

But leaving that aside, I would put a sizeable share of the blame for Russia's poor image abroad squarely at the door of the Western Meeja, and an experience I had in the 90's has not seemed so far from the tone of what was going on recently in the reporting of the run-up to the Sochi Olympics.  Back then, I believed what I saw on-screen.  The news was the news, right?  If you couldn't trust the news, then...  But one day in 1996, whilst calling Husband in Moscow, from London, I commented on the snow I had just seen behind the BBC reporter as he stood with the Kremlin as a backdrop.  I mention this incident to illustrate how what you see in the press is subject to manipulation in ways you would not imagine; the snowy day I had commented on was in fact a reasonably mild +14degC and the reporter had been standing in front a blue screen.  The producers in London had simply called up their stock-backdrop for Moscow - cold and snowy - without actually checking the reality in Russia.

Sometimes, especially when looking at photographs of culled wild dogs purporting to be taken in Sochi but which can actually be traced to a news story from Kiev three years ago, it seems that not much has changed.

I sat back and watched the media feeding frenzy that preceded the Sochi Olympics with disbelief.  Certainly, from the reports we received from friends and acquaintances who were on the spot, things were not going smoothly in the run-up to the event itself.  Billions of dollars were wasted, disappearing who-knows-where, and the authorities were working up until the last minute to make sure that the facilities were ready.  Individuals from non-ethnic Russian backgrounds were ruthlessly exploited, whilst during the Games themselves, security was incredibly tight (I was going to write 'ridiculously', but when peoples' lives are at stake...), and travel around the venues - particularly out to the ski-hills - was apparently time consuming and difficult.

Gosh, Russia is just so damned different to all the other Olympic venues, isn't it?  I mean, it's just so Russian, boo hiss.  These things would never happen elsewhere.  Only in Russia, right?

Hmmm.  Wasn't it amazing that none of these things happened at previous Olympics?  I mean, we had no problems in the run-up to London 2012, did we?  It's not as if the streets of London were ever made impassable by the extensive network of roadworks, line extensions, or building sites that were worked on until the very last minute.  There were no scare-stories in the UK press about the possibilities of Olympic venues not being ready, or over-spends on the budgets*, were there?  There was no need to put soldiers on the streets to ensure the safety and security of locals and visitors when the company hired to do just that proved unequal to the task, or anything like that.

And there were no suggestions that in Canada in 2010 there was anything other than fair play in the minds of the organising authorities, thank goodness.  There was no difficulty in scheduling track or training time at the venues for visiting countries teams was there?  Heavens, no.

And in China, 2 years before that, wasn't it great that the 2008 Games were being held in a country with such a fantastic human rights record?  There were no missed deadlines or last minute work on the venues there - at least, not that the press ever had the access to, to report.  And there was certainly no slave labour or below-minimum wages in THAT nation, no sirree.  And isn't it great how China at that time allowed individuals of all faiths, persuasions and beliefs to live their lives as they wished?

Now.  I am not for one moment suggesting that all is right with the world here.  Or even that very much is right with the world here.  But the biased, dog-in-the-manger, looking for the downside of everything approach in all forms of media to what was happening in Russia in the few months coming up to Sochi 2014 had to be seen from the inside to be believed.

A fair, free, and balanced approach by our media.  It's what we expect, or at the very least, hope for.  But are we getting it?


*And no, I am not for a moment suggesting there was anything shady about the money spent on London 2012.  Although the people who compiled the original budgets in order to get backing for the bid back in 2005 might be accused of being just a little optimistic when they pulled out their calculators first time around...

Dear Heathrow Terminal 5 Customer Service...

I love Heathrow Terminal 5.  I do.  The open spaces, the tranquil atmosphere (pre-check in, anyway), the cleanliness, the still-bright-as-a-new-penny surfaces everywhere.  Travelling through it should be a pleasure, really it should.

Funnily enough however, (although I can tell you, I'm not laughing that much), it isn't.  Not for the Potski family, anyway.  Long term readers of this site may be aware that both my sons are highly allergic to nuts.  We're fortunate that Boys #1 and #2 don't have atmospheric allergies - which would preclude air travel - but they can't eat or touch nuts and if they do, we have to resort firstly to anti-histamine and secondly, if that doesn't work and their airways start to close up, to epi-pens to give them a shot of adrenaline.  Thankfully, because the Piriton (our anti-histamine of choice) works, I've never had to use the latter, but I carry one with me always, just in case.  I know it's just a matter of time before we need to use it on one or other of my children - we've been lucky so far, but that can't last for ever.

For now, though, I am never - NEVER - without either form of medication in my handbag.  Well - not unless I've just come through Security at Heathrow Terminal 5, anyway.

I think I may have form with the bods who work at Security in this terminal.  I certainly never seem to have the same problem at any other terminal or airport.  At Heathrow T5, however,  I have had the bottle of Piriton in my handbag confiscated no less than 3 times so far.  It's almost as if they're looking out for me as I queue up with my children, juggling bags, coats, rucksacks and sweatshirts whilst trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as I hunt through my pockets for the paper clip I'm currently using to undo the zip on my boots.  (The pull came off.  What can I say?  They're my favourite boots, and no-one notices as long as I remember to take the paper clip out once I've done them up...)

However, it seems as if every time we reach the other side of the x-ray machine, there is one of our trays on the other side of the glass, just out of reach.  So near and yet so far.  My heart sinks - and the Boys look up at me worriedly; they know what's coming next as the person on duty sighs heavily and extracts the battered but still clear plastic bag from the tray, tutting at me disappointedly.  'It's antihistamine for my children' I explain.  'They're highly allergic to nuts.  I've tried to buy it in bottles of 100ml or less, but they don't sell it in that format.'  'I'm sorry madam.  I can't let it through.  The bottle size is 150ml, see?  Those are the rules...'

And no matter how much I point out that it is accompanied by a prescribed epi-pen so is clearly part of an approved medical procedure, and that it's almost half empty with what is obviously less than 100ml of liquid even in the bottle, they won't be moved.  'Don't worry madam' they say placatingly.  'There's a Boots just over there.  You can replace it straight away.'

Which is, I think you would agree, hardly the point when a) you have a perfectly good partly-used bottle right in front of you,  b) aren't we supposed to be taking care of our resources and c) you're catching a flight with two children so the chances you have an extra few minutes to spare to pop into Boots are quite slim...

So I decided to try and box clever this time.  I went into a pharmacy and bought a 100ml medicine bottle into which I decanted my half bottle of Piriton before going anywhere near the airport.  Then, this morning the Boys and I travelled to Heathrow T5 to head back to Moscow.

This is what happened after we came through the metal detector.

Boy #2:  "Mum - is that our tray over there?  On the belt we can't reach?"

My heart sank.  "Yes, it is.  OK, let's get everything together - Boy #1, can you hold my bag whilst I fish out the paper clip to do my boot up - and go and wait at the end."

We gathered our kit and caboodle and stood at the end of the of the Conveyor Belt of Shame.  I fixed my friendly but firm face on - because I KNEW, for god's sake, that the bottle of Piriton was less than 100ml, the chemist in the pharmacy had told me that - and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Finally, just as the technician in charge of the x-ray machine was getting up to come and talk to us, a cross-looking female officer stomped over.

Her:  "Is this your tray, madam?"

Me:  "Yes, it is.  Is the piriton the problem?  Because if it is -"

Her:  "No.  Do you have any electronics in this rucksack?  Because you're really supposed to take them out, you know."

Me:  "I don't think so, no.  Oh wait - it could be my son's DS - would that do it?"

Her, sighing heavily:  "Yes.  May I open the bag?"  She proceeded to unzip the front pocket.

Me:  "Sorry about that.  I thought it was just computers and suchlike.  It's not in the front pocket, by the way, it's -"

Her: "IF you don't mind madam, I will just do my job."

Me:  "Of course.... I was just trying to be helpful and -"

Her:  "We DO have procedure to follow, you know."

Me (at this stage thinking it might be wise to stay quiet about the other DS and my Kindle, both of which had gone through undetected and lay in bags that had escaped the slash and burn approach now being applied to Boy #2's rucksack):  "OK."  After a few moments of prodding around, and checking the little cloth on the stick in her special detector thingy (this is a technical term) she looked at me.

Her:  "Alright."

Me:  "So, is it OK for us to go?"

Her:  "I just need to check this bottle with my supervisor."

Me:  "I thought it was the DS that was the problem?"

Her:  "No, now I need to check to the bottle.  I don't hold out much hope, though."

Me:  "But the bottle size is 100ml."

Her:  "Doesn't say that, though, does it?"

Me:  "That's because I bought an empty bottle from the pharmacy.  It doesn't have a label on it because it had nothing in it when I bought it at Boots in Smalltown, Somerset."

Her:  "It's made of glass.  Boots don't sell un-labelled glass bottles."

Me:  "Actually, they do - when you can't find 100ml bottles anywhere else and they're trying to be helpful..."

She looked at me, eyebrows raised.  "Well, I'll check with the supervisor.  But I don't think he'll say yes."

Two minutes later she returned.  "Sorry madam.  I can't let you take it."

Our departure time was getting closer by now; I should have just left it but as you can imagine, I found it hard to walk away.  "Seriously?  Because this is vital for my sons' well-being and I really thought I'd done it all right this time.  I mean, this will be the fourth time I've had a bottle of Piriton confiscated at Terminal 5."

There is only way to describe the smile she gave me at that point; nasty.  "Well then, next time I suggest you buy a bottle that is clearly labelled '100ml'.  I would think you would have learned that by now.  Don't worry though - you can pick up a new bottle in the Boots just over there..."

Free Ticket Offer for the Allergy Show

It’s the Allergy Show at Olympia this month. ‘Allergy’. It’s an emotive word. If you read this blog regularly you'll probably have picked up that my Boys can't eat nuts.

It wasn't supposed to be that way, of course. I’m one of the lucky ones, never affected by so much as hayfever, and for much of my life I rather arrogantly thought that was more of an act of will –‘ I’m not sissy enough to suffer from allergies! ‘- than what it actually is; a gift from the gods. And I certainly never imagined that one would affect my children.

Famous last words; at 8 months pregnant with Boy #2 I discovered that pride comes before a fall when one evening Boy #1 asked for – and was given - a brazil nut. I had been advised not to give him any nuts before his second birthday, but that had just passed so I thought, why not? He was my son; of course he wouldn’t be allergic.

He started to chew. The next moment, my smug preconceptions shattered as he spat the nut out and started to cry. Two minutes later his hands had turned bright red, white pin-pricks appearing all over them.

Trying not to panic I dropped everything, rushed him out to the car, and we made it to the paediatric emergency department of Chelsea & Westminster Hospital in 5 minutes flat. By the time we got there he was unrecognisable, the top of his face swollen like a punch-drunk boxer’s. Whilst we were ‘lucky’, and this time the puffiness stopped just below his eyes - meaning that his airways were left clear – his was a fairly serious reaction and the normal treatment (Piriton) didn’t work; he had to be admitted overnight and given steroids.

It was a chastening experience for one so blithely certain that allergies were for sissies.

Since then we have been fortunate, experiencing only one or two ‘incidents’. We carry Piriton and an epi-pen with us everywhere we go, and since nuts appear in more processed food than you might imagine, home-baking now features heavily in my culinary repertoire. (Not great for my figure, but it would be a crime to make a cake and not taste it yourself, don’t you agree?) And I have had to overcome my natural English reticence, becoming a complete pain when eating out and at children's parties, questioning lists of ingredients and carrying back-up supplies of snacks in case the answers don’t come up to scratch. Which is scarily often.

Nowadays, allergy is an inconvenience rather than something that has blighted our lives. Both Boys are matter of fact about it and understand that nuts are off-limits. There is the slight chance that they may grow out of this (only 10% of nut allergy sufferers do, however), or that modern medicine might find a cure, but right now we just tell them it is something that they will always have. They seem to accept it, for the moment at least.

Sadly, it does mean that peanut butter and satay – to which Husband and I were previously both addicted – are forbidden fruit. Which, I suppose, at least balances out some of the damage done to my waistline by all that home-baking...

I wrote this piece for a local magazine, and they've given me 2 pairs of free tickets for the Allergy & Gluten Free Show at Earls Court Olympia in June. If you're interested in going, drop me a line with your address at pottymummy(at)gmail(dot)com and I will pass them on to the first two people who do so...