As per my previous post, we are back in the housing market.  Between the previous search and this one, our viewing total has reached something in the range of over 40 properties.  Luckily, there seems to be better stuff on the market this time around, and we found a few places we really like: one being a three bedroom house right across from a great primary school.

This little house was one my faves because it had an outdoor garden, three bedrooms, and was in a great location. The school, literally directly opposite, has fantastic ratings and would be a great place for Maddie.  The house is well kept and would require little upon moving in.  And the location was close to local shops. Mark and I went to see it, and we scheduled a second viewing for his dad just four days later.

On a separate property viewing excursion myself, my mom (who is in town for 3 weeks!) and my stepmother-in-law Brigid drove by to have a look at the outside of the property.  Brigid’s only concern, and rightfully so, was what was going to happen to the unused shop next to the house.  As she pointed out, it wouldn’t be very desirable if something like a liquor store were to go in there and be open into the wee hours of the morning, selling booze to late night patrons.  Jokingly, I added “or a porn shop.”

Yesterday my mom, Simon, and I went to view the property for the 2nd time.  Simon noted the drawn curtains above the shop and the possibility that someone rented the space.  He then made his way over to the local video store to inquire about the neighborhood.

The 30 something year old guy behind the counter was very helpful, he described bits of the neighborhood, what it was like, and what could be expected.  Then, Simon asked what the unused shop across the way used to be.

“It’s a brothel.” The store clerk replied, unphased.

Mom and I laughed, thinking it was a joke.  Apparently not.  Apparently, the “unused shop” and the flat space above it has been and continues to be a house of ill repute.  The clerk knew the guy who ran the brothel as well, as he was a patron of the video rental store.  Apparently, pimps also enjoy renting movies when they are not… you know… pimping.

The clerk even knew the couple who owned the prospective property on a first name basis, and knew that they knew about the hookers next door as well.  This was infuriating.  How dare they let me fall in love with their house, only to simply forget the fact of mentioning “oh, by the way, there is a whore house next door.”  What the fuck?

My question was how could such a thing exist across from a primary school?  The clerk replied that occasionally new people move into the neighborhood, find out what it is, and bring around a petition to be signed in order to try to get rid of the brothel, but nothing ever becomes of it. So there it stays.

We humored the estate agent by looking a second time nonetheless and, when prompted about the unused shop, he claimed the planning permission stated it was to become a “washing machine repair shop.”

Cue eyeroll.  He knows, how could you not?

At the end of the day the place was in a great location and right across from a school that would’ve served Maddie well. But, in raising a child and especially a daughter, it was all moot thanks to the whore house operating right next door.  And as Simon pointed out, it wasn’t so much the girls and the sex but the types of men the place would attract, as well as the other things that tend to go along with such a business… such as drugs and violence.

At the end of the day, it really is all about location location location.

Back to the drawing board, but hey… we got a funny story out of it.

It’s been a frustrating week, which is why I probably haven’t gone into labor yet.   We were set to close on a property, and it should’ve been done mid June, end of June at the latest as agreed upon by the vendor… just in time for the baby to arrive.  Everything was in place, the survey done, the mortgage ready.   We had even begun to pack up little bits around the flat in preparation for the closing.  Then, without warning, the vendor stopped responding.  The estate agency could no longer get ahold of him, and the property sale came to a halt.

Yesterday we received the news that the estate agency dropped him as a client, on account of the fact he could be heard in the background saying “Tell them I’m not here” when they called his place of employment as a final effort to get a hold of him.  Turns out, he never had any intention of selling his property.  It came to light there was a lean on the property with a debt collection agency and, in order to prevent repossession of the property, he had to at least appear to be trying to sell.  In reality, it was a game he was playing to avoid the collectors… a game which has cost money in solicitor and survey fees, and four months of our time.

But this isn’t over.  We called the collection agency and let them know of the scam.  They agreed quite openly they were holding off waiting for our sale to go through.  Now, he will have the collectors at his door once more. And that’s not the end of it.  He will rue the day he fucked us about.

So the situation has left us at square one just as the baby is due to arrive.  We have to begin the property hunt all over again, only this time with a newborn.  Our current tiny, one bedroom flat will be good until Maddie outgrows the moses basket and needs a proper crib (which we have, collecting dust at Mark’s father’s house).  Given the property size, we have nowhere we can put a crib.  All the baby and nursery stuff I had bought now collects dust instead of being used, and the beautiful nursery I had in mind for Maddie is no longer within reach.

But I am going to try to remain positive and simply think that perhaps there was an even better property out there we were destined to find, and all of this had to happen so that we would be in the right place at the right time in order to find it.

We had 14 property viewings scheduled today.  We’ve seen 10 thus far and have 4 more to  go later this evening. I am exhausted and, to top it off, had a midwife appointment this afternoon among viewings.

I’m 5 days past due now, and my midwife attempted to do a membrane sweep on me in order to hopefully get things to kick off, but was only able to do a partial sweep due to the fact my cervix is still high up.  Yep, high.  And doing nothing I might add, I am not dilated at all. Not even one lousy centimeter.  It’s disheartening, because it feels like my body is a lame duck, unable to go through with this on it’s own, naturally.

So I am scheduled in at the hospital next week to begin other induction techniques.  If the inserted capsules they will try next do not work to soften and open the cervix, I will have to go in for a c-section.

What. The. Fuck.

I feel like the whole situation is being taken away from me.  I wanted a natural birth, I wanted to give birth vaginally, and it feels like the power (so to speak) of the experience is being stolen from me.  I don’t want to recover from major surgery on top of learning how to care for a newborn.  I don’t want to risk being paralyzed for life from an epidural.  I wanted to do this on my own and unless I go into labor in the next 6 days it’s all going to be taken from me.  I know the positive, at the end of the day, the baby will come out and I will have this beautiful, perfect newborn of my own.  But you know what? I am 41 weeks pregnant, I am hormonal, emotional, and crabby and it’s just how I feel right now.

So there.

Share on Facebook ]]> http://www.awesomeville.co.uk/index.php/archives/frustrating-week/feed 1 http://www.awesomeville.co.uk/index.php/archives/countryside http://www.awesomeville.co.uk/index.php/archives/countryside#comments Sun, 11 Jul 2010 20:32:58 +0000 Nicky http://www.awesomeville.co.uk/?p=702

Drinks (not mine, obviously) in the country.

(yes. I am still pregnant)

This week has proved to be a trial of patience as our letting agency has decided that NOW is the time to begin repairs on our flat.  When they became aware we were moving, they took a sudden interest in addressing a number of the issues we brought to their attention previously, some from when we moved in TWO YEARS AGO.  Suddenly, our phones are ringing every morning with some contractor or maintenance man asking for an appointment to be made, as Leaders letting agency has told them they need to fix something in our flat.

Yesterday morning Mark called me and told me to be up and dressed as someone was coming around to check something in the flat , despite insistence it wasn’t a good time.  Let me ask you: have YOU ever stood in the doorway, having a contraction, while trying to carry on a conversation with a maintenance man about damp?  No. No you have not.  It’s not pleasant, by the way.  But at the end of the day, it’s not the maintenance man’s fault, and being rude to him would prove nothing.  So last night I emailed Leaders letting agency.  I don’t believe I was over the top rude, but I did make it clear that, chances were, we would still be here when the baby arrived and I was not going to work a newborn’s schedule around noisy and intrusive maintenance.

What really burns me about the situation is we gave them a long list of things that would need attending to when we first moved in August 2008. In fact, it was a list produced AT THEIR REQUEST.  Nothing ever came of anything that we listed for them.  Then, every 3 months or so when they come around to inspect the property, we brought up our concerns again and again, most of which were never addressed.  Now that they know they have to con someone else into renting the flat shortly, they have a bug up their collective asses to finally do something about the issues we outlined almost two years ago.

To this, I say no.

This seems to be a huge problem with a lot of businesses in the UK: sheer lack of customer service.  From what I hear from other people, they too are not happy with their letting agencies and the service they’ve received as well.  It’s almost as if certain industries got together and decided to just suck equally instead of actually trying to get renters / clients via good service.  And that’s where Leaders is: they don’t need to be the best, they just need to suck less than the worst in the industry.  Such an attitude towards people who throw hundreds of pounds a month at you for a service is piss poor, to say the least.

In my purse I carry with me a piece of paper.  The paper is ragged, worn, and dog-eared at the edges.   I received the letter on the 28th of November, 2009 from the UK Border Agency, confirming they have received my Indefinite Leave to Remain visa application, and the letter told me my reference number.  I’ve had this letter with me every day since then, every day for the last seven months.

Numerous times I called to check the status of my application, and the paper would be wrought in my hands, or scribbled upon as I anxiously waded through the options on the telephone, hoping to get through to the right people… hoping to have an answer.

The nerves came from a payment issue.  By February my application still had not been processed.  At this time, a fraudster took it upon himself to withdraw hundreds of pounds of my money from my bank account via paypal, and my bank instinctively canceled my debit card… the same debit card whose details were in the unprocessed application.

I called to give them new details, only to my horror they stated they would not be able to amend anything on my application.  So I was left to ask the only question which mattered:  What will happen when you try to process the payment?  The answer?  The application would be failed.

It was at this point I had to hand the phone over to my husband, as I could no longer breathe.  Image after image ran through my mind, scenarios of what my life would look like if I was suddenly not allowed to stay in the country legally.  I thought about losing my job and with it, my right to maternity leave. I thought about having to leave the country in order to apply again, and spending time away from my husband.  I thought about what it would look like to lose the flat in which we lived, because we would no longer be able to afford the rent if I lost my job.

The stress was unlike any I had ever felt before.  I cried on the couch, shaking with fear over what this meant for my future, and the future of our budding little family.  At the same time, I felt the overwhelming guilt that the stress I was feeling wasn’t healthy for the baby, at the time 4 months along.  But I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t compose myself long enough to answer any of the questions Mark was trying to ask, I couldn’t even hear them being asked.  It felt as though this little life I had managed to built for myself and Mark over the last two years was going to be taken away from me.

Once I was able to, I messaged an immigration advisor I knew through an immigration board.  She gave me her number and I called, crying, that this was the worst case scenario.  But it wasn’t, as she told me.  She told me what I needed to do, that it would be sent back and I would appeal it, that it happens all the time.  I don’t honestly know what I would’ve done that day had I not had that conversation, for someone who knew the ropes to tell me it would be okay, that I wouldn’t lose my job or have to reapply.  The thank yous I have given do not adequately describe the gratitude I feel for having someone out there say it was all going to be okay.

I sent a letter.  I sent a letter to the Border Agency with a money order for the fee amount, explaining the situation and begging them to attach the money order to my application.  I then waited.  I waited several months, calling them to try to get some kind of update, any indication my money order letter was a success.  And in my hands was the original letter they sent me months ago.  Names and call dates written on it, the paper thinned at the creases where it had been folded time and time again, my application number standing off the page, a number I practically knew by heart.

May rolled around and I had still not heard anything.  My husband and I contacted the local Member of Parliament, who agreed to contact the Agency on our behalf.  We wrote two letters of formal complaint, and I sent half a dozen emails.  May turned to June, and still nothing.

Then today, as I went to the door to open it for a friend, I noticed I had a package.  I brought it inside and sat it down as we talked.  Glancing at it, I saw it was postmarked from Croydon, and suddenly I knew what it was.  I ripped it open, and inside was the binder containing everything I had worked so hard to collect and assemble over the last two years.  It was a record of my life, my marriage certificate, proof of where I lived and mail throughout the two year period proving it. It was a declaration: I exist, I live here, I have made a life for myself.

I opened the binder and found my passport beneath a letter from the Border Agency stating the application’s approval.  Nervously, I found the large stamp they placed in the back: Residence Permit.  I was granted the ability to remain in the country for an indefinite period of time.  The song and dance was over, the music stopped playing, and we could all finally go home.

Now I’ve removed the original letter from the Border Agency, dated the 28th of November, 2009, from my purse.  I no longer need to carry it, no longer need my application number close to hand, no longer need to stress the already worn fibers of the page between my fingers in yet another blood pressure raising phone call.  I finally have the visa.

I finally have it.

Completely.

Utterly.

Bored.

I do not regret the decision to have gone on maternity leave a month before the due date, and it certainly proved to be the right decision given my blood pressure is no longer on the increase and frankly, a case of false labor is enough to prompt anyone into a state of perpetual waiting.

But damn, I am bored.

I don’t sleep very well through the night anymore, and tend to get my best sleep early in the morning, 7am-noon.  This puts breakfast at around 1pm, and any activity I could’ve hoped to do that day doesn’t kick off until 3 or 4 in the afternoon when I can be bothered to actually pull my head from my ass and get it together long enough to accomplish something.

That in and of itself warrants comment.  What is it about being pregnant that turns the brain to useless mush?  I cannot focus, nor have I been able to in a very long time.  I seem incapable of doing even the most routine tasks, or being able to think long enough to decide on what I should probably be doing with my time that isn’t mindless surfing the internet.

The problem is, I don’t FEEL like doing anything.  Games, books, friends, walks, cleaning, packing… I know these are things I could be spending my time on but for one reason or another working up the motivation is a different story.

So I have been forcing myself to clean.

And not just any cleaning, DEEP cleaning.  Going through drawers, throwing away stuff we’ve hung onto for absolutely no reason,  SCRUBBING WALLS for feck’s sake!  We are probably still 2 weeks away from being able to move, 4 weeks away from D-Day.  But I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to be realistic: Maddie could arrive early.  If she did, I would want a super clean and organized flat to bring her back to, and I would want moving with a newborn in tow to be as easy as possible (read: not easy in the least).  Thankfully, we have a moses basket courtesy Barrie that will suit us and our small flat just fine if the Littlest of Doodles decides to make her grand entrance early.

So this has been my last two weeks: Wake up 12pm-1pm ish. Eat, zone out on teh interwebz for a good few hours, feeling guilty about wasting time but unable to overcome the odd, hypnotic powers of cat pictures with captions and great eBay deals, work up the motivation to DO something ie clean, annoy the hubby when he gets home up until he goes to sleep as I missed him all day and everyone needs a good annoying now and again, rinse repeat.

Although yesterday did provide some amusement as we went out to Worthing to have a look at a cot and chest of drawers being sold second hand that I found on friday-ad.co.uk   They were in immaculate condition, just as the ad promised, and GORGEOUS.  See stock image below:

The cot converts, as the child grows, into a single sized bed.  The chest of drawers has a changing table top to it which I am in love with.  Both pieces are simply beautiful.  Dearest hubby will be picking them up with a friend and a van next week.  Luckily, we have been given the ability to store large items we’ve bought over at Mark’s father’s house until we move.

I cannot wait to get everything set up in our new place, I am hoping Maddie gives us enough time ^_^

I was wearing what I’d hoped was cute. I had applied my make up in the wee hours of the morning, 30,000 feet in the air, whilst my fellow passengers continued to get the sleep I longed for.  With baggage in hand, I made my way through Heathrow airport, through the winding tunnels, following other passengers in hopes of being led out of the massive labyrinth.

In the greeting area, my eyes darted from face to face, looking for the man in the photographs.  I was still counting seconds.  There was, of course, no guarantee this person would even be here, and in which case I would’ve flown halfway around the world to a foreign country I knew nothing about and been stuck for a week.  The stress of this thought started creating a tunnel vision effect, and as I thought I might faint right there in the terminal, I saw him.

I saw Mark for the first time.

I remember everything about that day still four years later.  The way he looked, the way he smelled, the way it electrified my entire being to kiss him. As we departed the airport and headed for the subway, his hand found mine… and we still haven’t let go. Not for a minute.

We endured months apart at a time.  We lasted through awkward schedules and the occasional gaps of not even talking due to commitments.  Many nights we found ourselves in front of skype time and time again, sometimes talking and sometimes merely taking comfort in knowing the other was there.  Many nights Mark drifted off laying at the edge of his bed, sometimes mid-sentence.

We cherished the times when we could be together.  Our relationship made it through the strains and pressures of the long distance, of the uncertainty, and we married.  We found a way and together we moved mountains (and visa applications!) so we could finally know what it was like to live as a real couple.  To fall asleep in the dark next to one another and not 5000 miles apart.

I have always said and will always continue to say that I never expected to meet someone  in a video game (World of Warcraft), or on the other side of the world for that matter.  We never knew where it was going to go, and we both took a chance on a fateful conversation in a game, when I rather whimsically proposed that I could possibly come t0 visit him. Such few words, such a random and infinitely small chance that we’d have even played together, and out of that chance blossomed what we have today.

Four years on, that shy and uncertain girl who stepped off the plan at Heathrow is now his wife.  We’ve built a life of love for ourselves, and it has only continued to grow. And just when we thought we had gotten pretty good at falling in love with each other… Little Doodle came into being.  Now together we get to set out on the new task of finding out what it means to fall in love all over again, into a new kind of love with this tiny life we have created. And we get to experience all of these blessings thanks to a chance we took on someone halfway around the globe, that we met in a video game.

And we’ve never stopped holding hands.

I am off Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays of every week and I must say this particular midweek weekend has been about indulgence.  It started Tuesday whereby my normal whole grain cereal and fruit breakfast was inexplicably replaced by the desire to have cheesecake instead and it only went downhill from there.

I’ve been avoiding my end of year assignment.  Next up is chemistry and I really do not like chemistry (despite it, ironically, being the best grade I’ve received for any unit assignment).  I am, however, fortunate enough to be sister to 18 year old Chris-the-boy-wonder who can not only understand but also correct any mistakes I’ve made on my university level Chemistry and Physics.  He checks my work.

So instead of working on that on Tuesday I cleaned the flat and did laundry (and then suffered with subsequent back pain because I am really not used to these new pregnancy limitations) and  I sat down to watch one episode of Hoarders before starting my coursework and this turned into a day long Hoarders marathon of episodes I had downloaded.  I also napped, very important, as growing a new human being is, by no means, an easy feat.

(as a side note Mark refuses to watch Hoarders with me, and sticks my episodes into a folder called “Nicky’s Guilty Pleasures” on our drive).

I then somehow managed to convince Mark we needed (or, the baby needed, rather) McGangBangs for dinner.  If you don’t know what that is, it’s quite possibly the only way to make the McDonald’s menu any more unhealthy. Click here.

Wednesday I meant to work on the schoolwork after my 9am doctors appointment, but instead I napped.  We had a lovely lunch in the countryside with Jen and even grabbed coffee, which was supposed to fuel me through the next few hours I set aside for schoolwork… but instead, I napped.  And then hung out with Alicja in the evening.

Now we are at Thursday, I slept until 11am this morning and have, thus far, managed only breakfast.  I am writing this blog instead of working on Chemistry. Ughhhhhh. And I am tired already.  I’ve lost the mojo I had just a few weeks prior, and now this pregnancy thing is getting hard again. I feel like I am back to the first trimester where, if I wasn’t complaining about how crap I felt, I was sleeping… all. the. time.

I guess it’s time to go work on Chemistry.

I need a nap.

(ps.  it’s a caffeine molecule)

- What’s up this week?  My blood pressure (hahahaha oh I slay me).  I’m now being monitored weekly from here until D-Day ever since, two weeks ago, it was found my blood pressure was on the rise.  My blood pressure has always been smack dab on FREAKING PERFECT at 110/70 all my life and really, most of my pregnancy as well.  Now it’s at 136/89 and I am not pleased.  The doctor is not worried yet as I have no other signs of  pre-eclampsia, but I tend to worry about most things.  I am (crazy as this sounds) looking forward to labor and I really don’t want this interfering with my plans… I don’t want a C-section above all else!

-Due to the above, I may need to go on maternity leave earlier than expected.  Currently, I am scheduled to leave work June 15th.  I hate the idea of spending some of my leave (39 weeks paid) before the baby is born, but I would rather do that then blow a vein in my head over stress.

- This month marks 7 months since sending my visa application off.  I still have nothing back, our passports (yep, Mark’s included) are effectively held hostage by the Home Office.  Today we posted a letter of formal complaint about the timeframes, especially given that the indefinite leave processing time is 14 weeks.  Failing this, we will go to the local MP about it.

-I am proud to say I am 2/5 of the way finished with the final course assignment, due June 3rd.  Out of the 5 sections, I’ve completed Biology and Geosciences… leaving Chemistry, Quantum Physics, and a section on the universe to go.  Once this course is completed, I will have roughly 1/7 of my required credit hours for my bachelors.

-Everything is proceeding with the property sale and we should be looking to move in mid June. I wonder if we will actually pack this time or wing it as we did last time ie. arm-fulls and car loads. The idea of packing and unpacking is so unappealing, not to mention exhausting.  I am hoping we will have time to paint the walls in the new place and add our touches before Little Doodle dominates our lives.  The nursery will be the very first thing getting done, and I have ordered some very cute things that fit in with the jungle theme we are going with.  I cannot wait to get in there and get everything perfect for when Little Doodle is born. Yeah, I’ve become one of THOSE women.

-My birthday is at the end of the month (May 25)  and I will be 25 years old.  I am not a big celebrator of my own birthday, not due to some inherent belief that my chronological age has any real impact on my life, merely because I don’t really enjoy being the center of attention.  The one thought that has occurred to me this year is I never thought I would be having my first baby so young, but I certainly have no regrets.

- Last scan on May 28th…. last chance for Little Doodle to show us the goods!

-60 more days!!!

My first year with the OU is about to come to an end.  Overall, I have really enjoyed this year’s course as the changing subject matter has kept me constantly engaged.  We’ve covered everything from global warming and climate, to the history of the Earth, to physics, to chemistry, to biology, to geology, to quantum physics and now wrapping up the course is life in the universe.  Even though I will continue with science as a biology major, I have thoroughly enjoyed both the geosciences and quantum physics I have gotten to learn about this year.

I am really impressed with the Open University as well.  The support is always there when I need it, the materials are provided, and everything is laid out in a very clear and concise manner.  I will say one thing though:  the speed and difficulty of the course, even for a year one course, is more than anything I had experienced in the American university system.  When I attended McNeese State University, I would show up for class, take notes, study a few days before the exams, and get an A or B.  Typically, three exams per class per semester, and I continually made the Dean’s list for my grades.  Here, the grading scheme is significantly harder, with tests as well as tutor marked assignments at the end of each unit, the average time spent per assignment being 20-25 hours.  I probably invested an average 15 hours a week in reading and comprehending the material in line with the syllabus, with the tutor marked assignments occurring once a month.

And now we’ve come to the big finale: the end of course assignment.  This baby is 17 pages of questions regarding the entire scope of the course.  I started today, with a hot cup of tea for assistance, and dove into what I am sure will take me the entire month to do.  I’ve got until June 3rd to complete it.

I feel really empowered by the experience of this year back in academia.  After all, I completed this huge amount of work for this course all the while working a full time job and being pregnant.  It hasn’t always been manageable either, as I was left with no choice but to turn in the second tutor assignment half completed due to feeling so unwell with my first trimester that I couldn’t find the time to complete it back in December.  But overall, I’ve gotten really good grades on my assignments and tests once I learned the ropes and hit the steep learning curve regarding what was expected of me.  Oddly, my best grade still stands as the chemistry unit… and I really don’t like chemistry!

Once I settle into my new life as a mother to Little Doodle, I will be enrolling in the next course starting for October or November. From here on out everything will be biology-centric and I am looking forward to some of the fun and interesting classes I will be taking.  Mark’s math course is about to wrap up here in June as well, he has also done very well for himself.  One day, I hope we can inspire the same love for learning in Little Doodle.