There are certain places that I avoid at all times, as much as I can. These are, in no particular order:
- The Post Office
- The bank
- The Motor Vehicle Registry
- The doctors
- The Dog Catchers (Not technically a place but I still avoid them)
It’s a particularly grand day when I get to visit all of them. Especially with all four children.
But I’m skipping ahead of the story.
Monday morning I awoke to the screams of my youngest child, yelling at my eldest “why won’t you get me breakfast?!” Clearly this was a sign that I would be due to accept my mother of the year award any day now.
As I stumbled out of bed, it occurred to me that today, this Monday, the 30th of September, the world was my oyster. There was no school run to negotiate, no work looming on the horizon of early prevening. I could jut chill at home, doing washing and ironing, listening to my children’s ridiculously long tales of imaginary friends (Hi to Lily and Mali if you’re reading), and just be.
Of course there was the quick trip to the post office to send off vital information to my accountant (aka Father in Law), and the quick drop into the MVR to renew my licence, but those things were so minute in the grand scheme of things. I could fit them in to my relaxing morning quite happily and easily.
Or so I thought.
Turns out my immunisation appointment for BJ (only one year late, thanks again to my #motheroftheyear status), which I had carefully organised around school drop off and pick up times, was scheduled for the first day of school holidays. What a great start.
Of course that changed everything, and suddenly my quiet morning turned into a stupidly busy one involving lengthy queues every where I went, and a celebratory ice-cream for what was considered stellar braveness. Totally a legitimate use of the english language that last line.
Upon returning home, I was then reminded of other items on my to do list. Chasing down the computer shop about my incorrectly labelled invoice (turns out I was overcharged $140), and calling Westpac about a replacement card that had not arrived. Westpac, being the most awesomely secure bank ever (apparently), informed me that I needed to provide them with a three digit access code I didn’t have, or answer a series of questions correctly. If I was incorrect on one single one, I would be locked out of everything.
I was reasonably secure in my ability to answer the questions right. I am, after all, exactly who I say I am, and have access to all the needed information.
Turns out, that apparently I don’t.
Or what they have on record differs slightly from the actual truth, because I had one very snooty nosed man inform me rather haughtily that I had failed to pass the phone test, and would now be forced to prove my identity with photographic evidence at my local branch.
Which is exactly what I was hoping he would say to me.
So come 3:30, after naps and an attempt at the once again awesome post that is still waiting, I dragged the kids out of the house to the bank, noticing at the last moment that I hadn’t seen the dog for a few hours.Odd, cause she is always around, and I was positive I had left her locked in the pool area that morning to stop her barking at the passer-by’s. (In particular one guy who has been tormenting her by deliberately provoking her to anger and even kicking her if he thinks I’m not around. Safe to say, he is not my favourite person in the world.)
A quick look through the yard showed her not to be around, but with business hours closing I had little time to look, so I took three slightly concerned kids, and one highly distressed pre-teen to the bank in order to prove my identity. This lady was far more complimentary than the dude on the phone, although I was slightly perplexed at her endeavouring to sell me extra products when she could see that I was already on edge from trying to keep four very bored children from knocking down the partition walls with the backs of their heads.
We got home and a thorough search revealed no Angel, and no obvious means of escape. (Cue internal rage at what must obviously (in my mind) be the work of nasty fence kicking guy)
Taking Taylah with me, we walked up and down the suburb, searching our usual walking trails but it was to no avail. She just wasn’t anywhere. Even the council hadn’t picked her up.:(
I was beginning to think my life was a Garfield cartoon. The one where Odie runs away and Garfield realises how much he loved him and sings that hauntingly beautiful song ‘so long old friend…” I was imagining Angel camped out under a tree, exhausted from dehydration, wondering where we were. Which was a much better imagery than the opposite; that nasty walking past guy had sold her to some illegal dog fighting ring and we would never see her again.
And just when it seemed all hope was gone….
There was a phone call. The council had found her, not two streets away, sitting under someones car. She was shy and wouldn’t go near them, but they had got a glimpse of her rego number and found us. And when Boatman pulled up in front of the house, she heard the familiar car engine and came running out straight away.
The dog catchers said she’s most likely suffered some kind of trauma; that’s usually why dogs get lost, but according to miss Ava, (who had heard she was on the same street as our dear friends), she had just jumped the fence to go to Amy’s house. Which is a much nicer story after all.
So Monday night ends, the sunsets and the children are in bed content. The dog is home, the bank card reordered, the computer money refunded and the immunisations all done.
Surely the holidays can only go up from here?