The perfect time to shoot one's troublesome neighbours.

Man that car looks like it could do with a good going over with Cif and some baby wipes. While we continue our gargantuan task of clearing the inside of this house in time for the move, outside we have gun-toting criminals threatening baldy men for their briefcases.

They are filming an episode of 'Ein Starkes Team', a ZDF programme that nobody I know watches. My neighbours think it's Tatort, which would be a much more exciting event, but it's not. They just haven't bothered reading the notice posted downstairs in our lobby too carefully. The letter has had us warned for over a week to prepare our nerves for a morning of police action and not to worry too much if when leaving the building we are confronted by flashing police lights and there are guns going off left right and centre. My neighbours would probably be more alarmed by the sight of such an old Saab...

The one where we're not on tv.

Nice fridge, but you can keep the rest of the crap...now show me something with a pool!

So last week I was approached to be on tv. Sadly not for my wit and depth of knowledge on the subject 'boys in tights', but for my other specialism: checking out houses. Specifically it was for us to appear on an American programme similar to 'Location, location, location', but with an expat twist. Part travel show, part aspirational house hunt. Totally up my street, in more ways than one.

In my quest to try something different this year, I was of the opinion that this would be loads of fun. I really enjoyed being shown round apartments when we first came here, and this struck me as even more fun as we didn't even have the pressure of actually having to find one to live in quite urgently.

The plan was they would film the show in reverse. They'd film us in our current apartment all settled and still no pictures hardly on the walls cause the walls are too big. And we'd be all cheery and happy because we'd be pretending that we'd just moved in and we wouldn't yet have discovered that the shower ran cold all the time and the dishwasher was leaving the dishes dirtier after washing them, and we wouldn't have experienced that awful winter where our 'heritage' windows practically fell apart and were draughty as hell and we wouldn't have known that our landlord was so rubbish with English that he thinks 'heritage' and 'total crap' mean the same thing.

Then the film company would have all our furniture removed and they'd film us viewing the apartment empty, and then they'd put everything back again, and then we'd go on to view another two apartments and all the little aspirational bits and bobs in-between: me aspirationally dumping the kids off in the creche in the KaDeWe and then nipping upstairs, buying a new book, racing up to the top floor bar to drink beer and read half my book before the creche calls me to remind me I have kids. Stevie being filmed in IKEA aspirationally being accused of shop-lifting, and then discovering that his aspirational girlfriend has cancelled his card thinking wrongly that her purse had been stolen. And of course all those little bits showing us enjoying the Berlin landmarks, where the digital editors would have to photoshop out the wet, stream-like marks on the Brandenburg Gate and Fernsehturm, Gedachtniskirche, and Check Point Charlie where Hamish would have taken aspirational pee-pees. Ah...living the dream!

But then 'the killjoy', previously known as Stevie, said that it was too much hassle, and couldn't see what was fun about having the house turned upside down and taking time off work to film for 3 days, and having to fly back to Scotland for a day with the kids, and...etc....etc.....just because I wanted to be on tv.

But I didn't want to be on tv, never have. That was the beauty of this! Nobody I knew would see it, so not only could I make a fool of myself, but I also wouldn't need to go on a sudden, extreme crash diet! It would just be good fun. But Stevie was dead against it, so that was the end of that. And uch well, I suppose there was no Phil and Kirstie...

Late last night I learned that:

1. People like me should stay far, far away from the NHS Direct website. Apparently Berlin is not far away enough.


2. Making the decision to surf around the NHS Direct website is not a good decision, if you are looking for something 'cheery' to take your mind off the fact that you've just seen someone shot through the jaw while watching Fargo before bed.


3. When you are really tired it is quite possible to come away from such a website thinking you might actually be in danger of dying in the night from one of the 73 conditions you appear to have symptoms for.


4. You should take care in choosing the book to read to take your mind off all the illnesses you might have. Books about people rotting behind the locked doors of council flats strangely enough don't help.


5. I am better off watching Playhouse Disney all the time and only reading stories about Maisy.

God bless the Canadians

There's none of your fancy anti-bacterial hand sanitising hand gel at frequent stop-off points here. They make you lick your fingers once you've touched a penguin.

So, we're half way through our first week in the new flat. I thought I liked it, but now as of tonight, I love it. I have met quite a few of my neighbours over the past few days, and they are all pretty friendly. One is taking me to the market tomorrow morning at 8:15 (she expects that I will be up anyway with the kids. I didn't tell her that they keep me so occupied with their incessant demands that I generally can't get out before 10:30.). I may have to go in my pyjamas...

We have been invited to meet a selection of neighbours for tea and coffee on Sunday which I am really looking forward to. I plan on quizzing them on all sorts of topics, and it'll be a relief to have a conversation with someone who speaks good english rather than attempting to have conversations with my poor German. We had thought that there were quite a few British people in the building (or 'the house' as they call it). There is an element of snobbery here too that I have picked up, There is the 'Vorderhaus' which is the front building and then there are side houses which you access via the main front door. Ours, the Vorderhaus, has double security, an extra set of locked doors, and that seems to be what sets us a little peg above our scabby side-house neighbours.

My neighbour upstairs that is taking me to the market talked about the others in the house as though everyone is a Diplomat. Whether they are or not I am not sure yet. But I guess we'll find out on Sunday. Our landlord is the German Ambassador for (well I won't tell you, or you'll Google him and then find his German address and all of a sudden I'll have all 15 of you on my doorstep looking for some Bratwurst and Robinson's Finest Apple & Blackcurrant).

Anyway, I just headed out to get some milk and I met my downstairs neighbours. They are Canadian and they were really nice. I could get to like them a lot and already I am sad that they are leaving in September. They were really friendly and gave me lots of top tips on where to locate things locally, and when I commented on their fine Kettle Chips (SALT & VINEGAR!!!!!) they gave me one of their bags as a housewarming gift. Then they went on to give me their details for their hidden broadband network, and I swear, my happiness levels hit the roof. So I sped throught the streets to get the milk while chanting their network name and password to myself until I got home and here I am! Lovely, lovely, internet access.

So as for the apartment itself, well it's great though Stevie has complained that it is "too big". I don't believe that it could ever be too big: I just haven't bought enough stuff yet. Stevie has always wanted to live life as a minimalist, and now that he has this feeling of empty space, he doesn't like it. Maybe he has gradually become a clutter-lover over the years of me quietly, furtively furnishing houses piece by piece with things he 'might not notice if I don't say anything'.

Anyway, the removal men decided they would finish on Tuesday without doing any unpacking. They were German and spoke no English and hadn't been told that they were meant to unpack the boxes taking everything out on to the floor. So they came back the next day and it was really hectic. It would have been easier if I had just done it myself, box by box, but as I would have had to get rid of the boxes myself this way then we just got on with it. Orla and Hamish were really excited about seeing their toys, and I caught Hamish trailing round behind one of the men holding his Wonderpets book aloft asking him to read it. It would have been much easier to do the unpacking without the kids, but Stevie sensibly chose to go to work leaving it to me.

So the place is a mess but I am slowly working my way through the various piles that are many and varied in all the rooms. We have spoken to our Relocation Service Provider (Heidi) about the fact that we have no hot water at all in the en-suite and only get a centimetre of hot water in the kitchen sink before it runs cold. Heidi, I have noticed can't be bothered to really help us or suffers from a strong strain of such negativity that were she to be psychometrically tested, there's no chance she'd be a match for this job.

I told her about the water in the kitchen and she told me that it might be just a 5 litre tank. I doubt whether we are getting 3 litres, and if that is the case then it's not even enough to wash the dishes, so how is that acceptable? Then she told us that there would be no chance of getting a parking permit because we still have the rental car, and that the local council would want us to wait and pay for parking for the next 8 weeks until our normal car gets delivered. I thought that was a load of rubbish, and Stevie ended up phoning work and asking them how they felt about paying for parking as we are ineligble for a permit, and all of a sudden, today we have a permit. Next on the list was the Kindergeld. It's like your child benefit, or family allowance if you like. Stevie will be paying German tax, but according to Heidi we would not be eligible for this as we are only here for 2 years on a temporary contract. Well, today we met some Americans in the swing park who have been here 3 weeks and are over doing fellowships. They won't be paying German tax - but yet they are entitled to both reduced Kita (nursery) fees and KinderGeld.

Finally, Heidi was round this morning and we had a disturbing chat about the tv. Part of the package is that we get a basic Sky package allowing us some British channels. I don't know, maybe in amongst me harping on about Robinson's juice, I may have mentioned, how much I am missing tv, and BBC World News is just not rocking my world that much. Anyway, she asked whether we were able to receive BBC World News through the tv. I said yes, but not even with a signal that you could describe as acceptable to watch or listen to. We then got on to the subject of when we might be getting the tv sorted out. To which she looked a bit surprised, so I explained that this was part of the deal (hey, that was the bit that had me sold on this whole idea). So she tells me that this is not possible, that we can't get this in Berlin. What? What rubbish more like. I reminded her that there are satellites which beam CBeebies all around the globe for people like me. So the next argument was that we would not be allowed a satellite dish on this building. I think we could get one behind the balcony at the front without it being seen by anyone. And if not, my new Canadian friends told me of a company that'll do you cable with British channels, plus phone and broadband. Sadly I have forgotten the name of this vital company as I was busy trying to remember the more important broadband login details.

So I am getting a bit fed up with Heidi. The tv was the thing that made me realise she just wants to do as little as possible for us. I'll wait and see what happens at the beginning of next week, and then maybe we'll nudge Rolls-Royce into making a 'MAKE IT HAPPEN!' phone call.

I've added a quick 'Let's touch the penguins' photo for you.

Less haste, more speed

It's the one at the bottom of the pile. See? Right there...on the right.

I could tell you what fantastic progress we are making towards the move. I could tell you that we're bang on track for getting everything sold in time for the move to Berlin. I could tell you that I'm making real headway with all the form filling-out and the inventory.

But I am fed up of it all. The place is a mess. We have a sofa on the patio that never made it to the dump today, and the rest of the house is just strewn with a seemingly endless mix of items that defy simple inventory.

On the positive side, I finally saw proof of one of my mother's favourite sayings this evening. How does it go? "Less haste, more speed"? I think that's it. Stevie was rushing me to place adverts for the car on various websites just before he raced out to the pub, moaning all the while about how slow I was being. I wasn't. It's just that he was desperate to get down to watch the football though you would have thought he had something utterly vital to get to.

So, I was hurrying as best I could, and as soon as we finished we simultaneously realised that we forgot to put a price for the car in the adverts. I've been left to fix them but the database hasn't registered them yet so maybe it'll be tomorrow. Anyway, I have lost momentum now. I just want to swipe a pile of things off the remaining sofa in here and watch Ashes To Ashes again. I was too busy working on the inventory last night to really grasp what was going on.

Anyway, here's a photo of the canvas I have completed (and stuck in a pile) for my neice. Making a 'to do' list is top of my mental 'to do' list.

A letter arrives

I am woken by Orla having a tantrum in the night. I go quietly from the room and sit with her until she feels calm and then I lay her down in her little bed and tuck her in. I creep back through to bed and as I settle a warm body shuffles closer until we are touching. As I run through some thoughts from the day trying to get back to sleep I remember the letter. Anxiety floods back into me and with it jolts memories of last year and the year before, of when I couldn't see. And this is how it was.

I wake in the morning before it is really light, and minutes before my baby. Before I open my eyes I check out the situation from behind closed lids, and there it is - I can see a bleed. Quickly I work out which eye and watch the blood spread like in one of those slow motion films of ink in water. Still with eyes closed I shift my pupils from left to right, and up and down and watch it spread and move around. I do this for a minute maybe more, some days this is what I do as I fall asleep, sometimes throwing in a turn from one side to the other and then I watch a whole slosh of blood slowly slide from one side of my eye to the other. But this day, only a minute, as the baby by my side has woken up and is demanding a feed. And now I open my eyes to get the full picture for the day. Can I see the spotlights in the ceiling today? Not quite. Ok. I turn to Hamish, scoop him up, and head downstairs.

Feed over, I get his nappy changed using what little sight I have to make out any 'dark shapes' that need wiping, but mostly using my now acute sense of smell to make sure he is clean. On good days when the blood is clearing I can get an hour maybe 2 of what I class as reasonable sight. I do my best to maintain it: I don't bend over, I don't move my head around too much, and I try not to shift my gaze around as this all causes my sight to deteriorate. I liken it to having a bucket of water with sand in the bottom, except really it's more like a gel. Nudge the bucket, stir up the sand, and all of a sudden it's a misty, murky mess.

I hear Orla cry as she wakes up. Stevie is in the shower already, so I quickly swaddle Hamish and place him in the travel cot to keep him safe while I go and get Orla. She holds out her arms from her little bed and I can make out her shape as I lean down for her. I select her clothes from the wardrobe. Maybe because I can't see it's important to me that her clothes don't clash; that she looks as though she has been dressed by someone that has not just grabbed the first things that come to hand. So I use my sense of touch to remember what's what. I recognise items by their buttons, embroidered details, and luckily I still have that skill picked up from Uni of being able to tell the fibre make-up of a fabric by feel. But there's not much in the way of 60/40 cotton/polyester mixes in her wardrobe but I am sure that being able to do this helps me in some way.

I carry my 16 month old Orla down the stairs and into the dining room and get her into the highchair ready for her breakfast. I dash back to the living room to check on Hamish. Stop, and listen. He's asleep. I place my hand into the bassinette and gently run it round his shoulders and head. It doesn't take long to discover he's been sick. I take the wet muslin out from under him and wipe his cheek. There's a little on the blanket but that can wait. I need to hurry now to get Orla's breakfast ready. It doesn't take long. I have pre-measured out little tubs of porridge and just need to select one and add milk. I probably spill the milk, but what does it matter?

Feeding Orla takes time. I can make out her mouth if she has it wide open and I can see the darkness of her open mouth against the paleness of her little face. This gives me something to aim for. But she does this maybe only a couple of times so the spooning in of porridge is a hit and miss affair. I get better with practice, and some days are better than others. So we get the job done, get her cleaned up, and get her nappy changed and dressed. During this long-winded process Stevie comes downstairs, racing around, getting ready for work. "How are your eyes today?". "Fine", I say "Manageable". "Really?" he asks, not really believing. "Better than yesterday anyway". Yesterday was hard work. Changing nappies all day long with sight similar to looking through heavily frosted glass held a foot in front of you with the baby behind it. My hands are dry and cracked from my blossoming obsessive hand washing habit. He shouts that he can't find his cycling gloves. "They're in the cupboard above the sink in the utility room beside Orla's puddlesuit, but they might be underneath some reigns and another pair of gloves now". "And where is my security pass?"- "Orla is wearing it". I hear its familiar smack off the wooden floor. I have memorised the location of pretty much everything in this house. Don't ask me on a quiz team because I have had to shove out about 20 years worth of general knowledge to make room for my mental household inventory.

Stevie goes to work, and the day continues. I switch on the tv. BBC 1. Always BBC1. I can't even see the tv set from across the room never mind watch the programmes, but it is my method of telling the time. 9:15 Breakfast news ends; Hospital trauma documentary or Animals being tortured 24/7 (glad I can't see that) - that's on until 10am. Then a slew of property programmes until Bargain Hunt starts at 12:15 which tells me it's lunchtime. I could listen to the radio, but I like to strain my eyes trying to make out Belfast sinks and new double glazing on Homes Under the Hammer whenever I can.

I get my own breakfast and Stevie has made me some coffee. You don't make tea and coffee much in my situation unless you have a certain apathy towards scalding yourself. Afterwards I get my insulin and work out which is the long acting one and which is fast-acting and silently listen to the clicks of the dial that I turn on the end of the pen until I get the right number of units. Orla is playing and I play with her until it's apparent that she is tired and needs her morning nap. Off we go upstairs and I quickly get a shower and get dressed. Most days I try and do this before Stevie has to go to work. I like to get my make-up on and have him check it so I don't look an idiot when I go out. Today though I do my make-up and hope for the best, though this is one of the things that really frustrates me about this whole thing.

Time for the next feed, puke, and change for Hamish. This time he has been sick on me. I know he has got my top, but hadn't realised that I had sick down my leg, so later I go out with dodgy make-up and sick on my trousers. As Stevie says, 'What does it matter?'. I guess it doesn't. I have lowered my standards significantly, but I worry that having reached new lows in my 'look', that when things improve I won't be bothered to up the standards again. In a kind of 'If you've seen me covered head to toe in sick, with next to no make-up, and generally unable to present myself in a decent way, does it really matter to make an effort in front of you ever again?'. Why bother? And that's what worries me. And that is why it is so important to me to have make-up on at the very least and have Stevie check it, even though he thinks this is completely pointless and ridiculous. (and unsaid "when there are more important things you have to worry about").

Orla wakes from her nap and we head out. I love where we live now because I can get everywhere I need to go by foot. I no longer drive, obviously, though strangely I could if I chose to as none of my doctors or consultants inform the DVLA that I wouldn't be safe on the road as I can't see an object clearly 30 cm from my face or when it is bouncing off the bonnet of my car. It's one thing I feel quite strongly about. There are lots of people on the road who shouldn't be driving, particularly the very elderly, and they have doctors and GP's and eye consultants who know they shouldn't be driving, but as long as they don't have a health condition such as diabetes or epilepsy or something else (I can no longer remember all the other ailments) then they are not required to be checked for fitness to drive every few years. My license lasts 3 years and then I have to reapply. But I am not fussed that I can't drive anymore. It's a bind in that I can't go to friends houses and I can't meet up with them at play places in other towns and parks in far away places. But it drives Stevie nuts. If I need to go somewhere or we need something big or heavy from an out of town retail park then he complains that he always has to take me and if I could see then I could just do it by myself and he wouldn't have to get involved. He is more frustrated than me. I have made my peace with the driving thing.

Back to the day. We go to Tesco. I go pretty much every day. In a similar manner to how they advise you to get out and about after you have a baby to try and avoid post-natal depression, I go out to stop myself from not going out at all. Some friends laugh at how good my children are about supermarket shopping. Some of them don't take their kids there for fear of the meltdowns that might ensue. And here mine are, every single day. But what choice do I have? I have 2 children in a pram and can't carry more than a day or twos' shopping at a time. I can't do my shopping on the internet, because I can't use the internet cause I can't see anything usually on the screen. On the very good days I can read some of the text, but I just can't see the cursor. We would starve before I completed my list. So shopping we go. I have the shop memorised, I know the colour difference between smoked and unsmoked bacon packaging even if I don't know what the discernible difference between the two is.

We shop, we pay cash (I can't rely on getting the buttons right on the chip and pin), we navigate the crossing of the busy road and we go home. I've bought meat but I don't know how to cook it. I phone my dad and ask him. "What weight is it?" he asks. "I don't know. I can't read it". "Well, what size is it?". "Ummm....It's about the size of Orla's head. Maybe a bit bigger". He tells me how long to cook it and what temperature to set the oven at. 1, 2, 3, 4, soft clicks to the right and the oven is on. The temperature is a different matter. Its a smooth turning dial. With numbers I can't read. I have it left at 180 degrees. It turns out there's not much you can't cook at this temperature - roast potatoes and things that require a 220 degree temp just need more time, and you can use that time to lower the expectations of your taste buds. With the microwave I have a similar theory. 3 and a half minutes. Does everything. And nobody died or got food poisoning during these dark, culinary times.

I miss reading. I miss magazines. I miss books. I even miss reading (or should that be mis-read) food packaging. I miss reading to Orla. That makes me feel lacking as a parent. But I tell her the story of The Very Hungry Caterpillar every night at bed time and I use my own words and then it is our story. But, this gap in normal parenting is filled by Stevie who traditionally was not a reader. It helps to improve his reading tenfold and this is an added bonus. But most of all I miss seeing my children's faces. Faces that are changing and little bodies that are growing and doing new things every day. This is the hardest part of the whole thing. There is the worry that this won't get better and I won't see them and know what they look like. I don't allow myself to think about it. I just don't. Instead I just take lots of photos, dreadful photos, some just with the tops of heads, some with only part of my child and a whole lot of space, and lots of a complete stranger and his son at Water Babies who I thought was Stevie and Orla.

But it doesn't matter. We get by and we get on with looking after our two babies. The evenings are simple. Stevie helps me with the kids and makes sure that they are clean, and I always have him change evening nappies to ensure clean bums. We are at the peak of our bulk buying phase. Nappies and wipes, we have mountains of both. We go through loads anyway so it makes financial sense, but with my eyes the way they are I use 20 wipes where you might use 5, so the wipes mountain is constantly being depleted and restocked and we have our finger on the pulse of where the best wipes and nappies deals are on any given week. Once both kids are in bed we watch tv, or I sit and listen and ask questions where things aren't clear. But my eyes are tired from trying all day, and mostly I just go to bed early to get some sleep before the next feed. I climb into bed beside Hamish and relax next to his tiny snores.

We never bothered with a moses basket for him as Orla hated hers with passion. We decided instead to put him straight into his cot bed and luckily our room is big enough to have it at the end of the bed. But pretty soon I was having to dive up to get him when he woke for feeds to stop him from waking Orla and every time I got up to get him my eyes would hemorrhage. So now we're both happy. He sleeps longer and feeds less in the night and my eyes bleed less. So get off your high horses co-sleeping disapprovers!

So the days pass and the weeks and the months. Looking back it seems that this went on for a long, long time. Orla was 6 months when this started and I was just pregnant with Hamish. But some times wouldn't be as bad as others and sometimes I would have good sight in one eye. I was told that it could resolve itself and there was certainly no way I was having the operation while I was pregnant. And then I didn't want the operation when Hamish was just a newborn and I feeding all the time. So it went on and it went on and it didn't get any better, and Stevie started to threaten that we would need to move back home to Scotland where we could get help from family. I didn't have my children though to have other people looking after them. My job; my responsibility; my babies, and also I'm not very good at accepting help. So eventually I agreed to the operation. A big step for me who in case you don't know has an eye phobia so strong that I have to take diazepam just to make it through the normal eye clinic appointments.

I booked in to get it done under a general anaesthetic though you can get it done with a local. But my eye consultant thought it best also. I chose the worst eye and tried not to think of the chances of things going wrong. 3% chance of going blind. And all you can think of is the 97 successful cases before you. I turned up on the day, negotiated my way to the top of the list with the anaesthetist (hey, I'm diabetic -there's got to be some benefits!), easy enough as I hadn't eaten since the night before. And was operated on and ready to go home by 10:30am. So I could get back to the kids. Euphoric at surviving, I asked how soon I could get the other one done. Technically, they could do it the next day was the answer, but best to wait and see how this one healed first. I won't tell you about the operation. You can google it - vitrectomy - there you go. Eyes are the one thing I can't google. I don't need to know all the things that can go wrong. Time will no doubt reveal fresh horrors to me. The difference was remarkable. At the time I think I might have said it was the best operation you could have, to go from no sight to sight. I wanted to strike while the iron was hot, while I was holding positive thoughts towards surgery. But it was a few months later. And I was kind of of the opinion that with sight in one eye, well we could just put a patch over the other one and forget about it.

But I did it. And I had follow up appointments and everything has been ok. I worried about dots that I could see in one eye that was kind of like what you see after looking at a light, but that turned out to be some laser surgery I had had previously. But then they gave me a nice long gap between appointments and this was nice cause I felt I needed a bit of a break from the whole diabetes, eyes, obstetrics constant whirlwind of appointments, but the longer the gap the more you worry that something will have gone wrong in the intervening period.

And so, the letter. It came yesterday, and I am scared and it's going to keep me awake and terrified in the night until the appointment arrives. June the 3rd. We should be in Berlin, but I don't think we will be, so I know I don't need to rearrange it. I just have to get on with it.

Happy Easter!

I've been keeping Easter quiet. Orla has grasped that there's something with little chicks and hats and eggs, and who knows maybe her work (nursery) will have gone into the religious side of things, but the chocolate side of things I have been keeping quiet. I don't let them have masses of chocolate and they don't eat sweets at all. My mother-in-law and possibly quite a few of my friends think I am a food fascist on this score but I know that there will come a time when sweeties will come into their life all by themselves without my introducing them.

7am: Hamish turns on the tv as soon as he gets downstairs. Orla grateful for his skill at finding Milkshake on Channel 5 sits down and listens as the presenter says "...is busy eating his easter eggs already. Happy Easter, everyone! Hope you are all enjoying your easter egg!". Orla to mummy: "I don't want breakfast. I want easter eggs!". Ha, ha, so much for keeping it quiet!