Thursday, December 10, 2015

being british, botanical obsessions and & the police

Wow. There are some serious tumbleweeds blowing through this place. I was hoping to regale you with a dalliance about how obsessed I've become with Christmas Trees (side hobby), but really this is what's happened in the last little while:

We called the coppers on our neighbours
It came to that. I knew it would.

No one was stopping her, so we had to get some scary adults to intervene.

I dutifully logged every rant, every deliberate thump, every time she woke Sebastian up, in a logbook.
It was pretty clear to us that she was deliberately trying to be as loud as possible; speaking or ranting loudly after midnight or running as hard as she could along her passageway, or thumping up the stairs.

Then a few nights ago, while I wasn't feeling very well,  I put Sebastian to bed, which took a little time. He is now starting to wise up to bedtime and isn't tremendously keen on the idea of always going, anymore. So he sat up and wailed, around 7:30pm.

As I went in to comfort him, she started banging the ceiling again. I thought I must've been hearing things, surely she wouldn't do this again would she?
Nope, sure as fuck there she was. Banging our ceiling at 7:30pm.

I sent her husband an email. "That was your wife banging our ceiling, for the second time, while i'm trying to put my baby to sleep. This is the last time I deal with this before I contact the police and file a harrassment complaint for your wife's unreasonable and outlandish behaviour."

Because, I mean, surely no one in their right mind would actually think doing this is OK?

Then, he showed her the email. And, as we thought, she went completely mental. Screaming, shouting, "How dare they" kind of thing.

I dialed the police. They came over the next day to talk to us first, listen to what we had to say, and then said they'd go upstairs and have a word with them.

Nice enough blokes, said they can't take sides but could only mediate, and happy to do as many follow up calls as we needed. ("Yes, we will probably need that service.")
Explained that while my baby wasn't deliberately trying to wake her up, he sometimes does. But more than anything, she will deliberately try and get at us by trying to intimidate or bully us, and bang the ceiling, scream at us through the ceiling and generally be aggressive and terrifying.

After speaking to them, they came back downstairs and I asked, "Did she admit to bashing our ceiling with a blunt instrument?"

No, she denied all claims. Obviously lied through her teeth.
"Surely you guys can see when someone is clearly lying?"
 "We can't take sides ma'am. We could only explain to her that a baby doesn't deliberately cry."

It's been three days since they came to visit. And it's been a lot more quiet. I don't want to jinx anything, but I sincerely hope that this has done the trick.

I became a British citizen
It's a long, arduous, bureacracy-filled journey. If you ever intend to embark on it.

You fill in a million forms. Sometimes twice, because you did the first one in blue or you made a mistake. You spend a lot of money, upwards of £4 000 on permanent residency (ILR) and that's not including the work permits before that.

You do repeat trips to post offices, biometric assessment facilities like Lunar House,  stand in many, many queues (essentially, practicing to be British in the most puritanical of ways), and deal with people who don't feel a sense of urgency like you do.

It's hard work. And the authorities know this; because they said so in my citizenship ceremony a few nights ago. ("Well done. You've worked hard to earn this.")

One has to go through the ritual of the citizenship ceremony in order to get a Certificate of Naturalisation. This certificate allows you to then apply for a passport. My application is in the post.

The ceremony itself is rather sweet to be fair. The Brit, Sebastian and my dear friend She Who Also Loves Tweed, came as my guests, and in the Wandsworth Town Hall, posed for photos next to a picture of the Queen, sang the national anthem, and I had to take a pledge to remain loyal to my new country.

Sebby burped during my pledge.

Couldn't have been more perfect, really. Only my child.

 Today he is Father Christmas as it's Christmas Jumper day at his nursery.

Became obsessed with Christmas trees

Possibly because this year, we had our first adult Christmas tree ever. We haven't actually had Christmas trees in the past few years living together. Not because we don't feel festive, more just because we couldn't be bothered.
Now with child, and everything is magical obviously, Christmas has been reborn in our household.

We got a real one - a Noble Fir -  and I sat for weeks obsessing about what colour theme our tree would take. Mood boards, Pintresting, following "tree" Instagram accounts, stopping to observe trees in shop windows, generally being All About The tree in such that it took over my mind.

Then styling the tree to look like the one's you see in The White Company, but not quite getting that Nordic, but cosy vibe I was hoping for. (Gaps, not enough white.)

Seriously B&Q?
I am slightly disappointed, but my son is not. He loves the tree. Albeit it a little confused as to why we have one inside the house, but all the same, mesmerised.

 Before...and after. Hmmm.

But I still find myself moving baubles around, or looking at it intently and redecrtaing one entire side of it. Because I'm OCD like that and if it's not even or symmetrical, a little piece of me dies.

So, that's that really. 

1 comment:

Nicole M said...

Peas, I realise that this may be slightly extreme, but might it not be fruitful to set up a digital recorder/nanny cam in Sebastian's room so that, when she does go bat shit crazy on you again, you have an actual recording?