In Which The Builders Blush

Picture the scene: it is mid morning on the day after the builders were supposed to have started our pergola. On day 1, a truck finally turned up at 2.30pm with  all the materials, but there was no sign of a builder. Now, I am dressed to the eights (I rarely make nines nowadays) and coming out onto the back, half built-patio to say goodbye to Himself, whom I can hear in conversation with what must be the builders. It is 9.30am and I am due to meet my friend for coffee at 10am (I am on holidays after all).

Hoorah for the building starting.

But.......

For several weeks, Himself had been in conversation with Lance and No 2 Son regarding the progress of their paving and the impending arrival of the pergola guys. Despite his constant reminders, today there are two substantial piles of dirt and bits of broken brick, paver and vegetation, sitting oh about approximately exactly where they will be most obstructive to the recently arrived builders. I am aware of this, after all, we had spoken to No 2 Son last night as he arrived home around 1am. I had also decided that it was not my problem.

So, there I am on the semi patio, about to say goodbye and leave Himself to it, when the conversation begins to get challenging.

Builder: Well we will definitely need this stuff removed. We need to get scaffolding in here (indicates pile one) and of course this (indicates pile two) is where we need to dig a hole for a post!

Himself: Arizaphale can you go and wake up No 2 Son and let him know this will need to be moved?
Arizaphale: Sure....(thinks....I have no need for this head anyway)

Sound FX: tramp tramp tramp down the stairs to No2 Son's  bedroom....knock knock knock
Voice from within the room: MMMMffffff???
Ariz: Hey No 2 Son, you're going to have to move those piles of dirt. The builders are here.
No 2 Son: uhhhhhhh. OK.....Uhhhhh....how soon do they need them moved?
(Did he NEEED to ask??????)

About 10 minutes later No 2 Son emerges from the depths of his unclean bedding and regards the piles of dirt.....He is is ropeable.

No 2 Son: I TOLD Lance that we needed to do this but oh no, he was too cheap to hire a skip and wanted to do the tip run all in one go.....
Himself: Well, you'll need to move it now
No 2 Son: Why am I left to do all the work?????
Himself: Well go and wake Lance up and get him to come and help.
No 2 Son : Well I told Lance that we needed to do it and he told me that you'd said it would be ok.....
(clearly the waking of Lance is not something No 2 Son relishes, a sentiment I am familiar with )
Himself: I never said it would be ok! I have been telling you for THREE WEEKS now that that this area would need to be cleared for the builders!!

And this is where it went pear shaped......

No 2 Son, if I have not mentioned it before, I suspect to be on the autistic spectrum. If not, he is definitely language disordered and fails constantly to fully process what we are saying to him. Unfortunately, because this was not diagnosed early in his life, he has plodded on convinced that he has made himself clear and continually angry becuase the rest of the world has NOT made itself clear. No teacher ever made him aware of due dates, no ex-employer really told him what he had done wrong, no parent ever clearly defined what was expected of him in the home environment! Apparently.

So here we go.......

No 2 Son : NO ONE EVER TELLS ME WHATS GOING ON AROUND HERE. I TOLD LANCE THAT WE NEEDED TO MOVE THESE PILES BUT HE TELLS ME ONE THING AND YOU TELL ME ANOTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is not going to go well is it?

Himself: I told you three weeks ago and my instructions have not changed in that time

No 2 Son: I WISH SOMEONE WOULD JUST TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON. THERE'S NO COMMUNICATION BETWEEN YOU AND LANCE AND NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO ME.... WHY CAN'T YOU ALL COMMUNICATE PROPERLY????

At this point Himself, who had been doing a reasonably good impression of a patient father, completely lost it and began throwing things into wheelbarrows himself whilst roaring at full bark volume (as in, more bark than bite) that he had clearly explained the need for moving the dirt, and enhancing his protestations with a hefty dose of 'f' related invectives to emphasise this point.

The next 5 minutes involved a fairly fruity (those weren't the 'f' words by the way) rendition of the same three points: 'I didn't know' and 'I definitely told you' and a fair bit of 'go **** yourself', 'no you!', 'no YOU!' etc

At the end of all this, Himself stamped off late for his appointment and in a hell of a rage;  the builders were hiding in their truck; I had changed into my digging gear and No 2 Son had driven off in a rage, presumably to go and try and wake up Lance who was conveniently not answering his phone. I also had to text my dear friend to explain why I would not be there on time.

I called on the BAmeister to give me a hand in the disassembling of the two piles of dirt and she manfully put on some gloves and started sifting through the piles for greenery. Before I could lift a spade to assist her, the builders, who on the departure of my men folk had emerged sheepishly from their truck, pointed to the pool plumbing and announced:

"According to these plans, there's meant to be a down pipe in behind there........"

Now it was my turn.....

After several phone calls to the supervisor, some creative thinking and the dramatic realisation, on my part, that these builders were not going to connect up the stormwater....

("Read the fine print madam, it's there in your contract..."
"What, you mean the one I never saw because I thought my husband had organised it all????")

.....the pergola frame is up, the plumbing did not need to be disassembled and the down pipes are in reasonable locations to assist me (and whichever boys I can co-erce) in connecting up the stormwater.

I think the builders may have been traumatised for life. I know I certainly was!!!

Closing Time: In Which The Dysfunctional Family Pulls Together For The Sake of the BA. Almost.

Occasionally I wish I could assign background music to blog posts. This track would be my choice now.

On the 11th of December the BA attended her last function as a student of St Saviour's College.

On the 12th of December she became an Old Scholar.

Her Dad and Stepmum flew over from Sydney for the occasion. There was much excitement. Having worked until 5.30pm that day and, given we were due at the function centre by 6.45pm, I flew into the house in a state of high anxiety to be confronted by these scenes:

 (She really liked her pockets).

After the obligatory photos the BA, her Dad and Stepmum headed off to have the group photo taken at the venue while the rest of us wrestled with our attire. Himself had to squeeze himself into an aged dinner suit coat and tie, Grandma and Grandad had it all sorted...and I had a complete hissyfit breakdown.

Interestingly, one of the things which has impacted upon my blogging this year is my midlife, torn tendon impacted, weight gain. Having been a consistent 53kg for a majority of my adult life, up to and including the aftermath of chidlbirth, I have been gradually stacking on weight since I turned 40. At 50 and running out of girl germs, I moved into yet another new dress size and a hitherto un-experienced inability to easily touch my toes.
Now don't get me wrong. I know that, for some of my friends, my plaintive wails of weight gain fall on intolerant ears. But it's all relative when an older counterpart looks like this:

and your own attempts to squeeze into something flattering render one desperate. After a small meltdown, my mother patted me on the back sufficiently to get me out of the door. Needless to say we were running late.

We arrived on the banks of the River Torrens and found Dad and Step-mum at a lovely alfresco bar, on the same level, but tucked in behind, the multi-entranced, multi-roomed Convention Centre.

Here is the BA's step-mother again, looking exceptionally beautiful and elegant, while Her Dad, in typically over effusive fashion, offered to buy us all champagne. I looked dubiously at my watch; considered our location relative to the entrance to the function centre and the complexity of the inner layout; and decided we probably shouldn't bother. Too late. We were all raising our glasses to our girl when my phone whistled a message:

     Typical, it's starting and you're the last ones here.

We all bolted down our drinks (I felt sorry for the boys as they had pints of beer....I'm pretty sure Himself was the only one who actually finished his in the 45secs we gave ourselves. Not sure if that's a good or bad thing) and flew to the nearby entrance, to find it locked.

There ensued a scene of typical family chaos, the kind you get when the family in question consists of two Principals, two ex-Principals, one ex-Dean of Science and a company director. Leadership flashed from person to person at the speed of light and the mob changed direction just as quickly. Not to sound my own horn here, but my move of asking a staff member from the bar to let us in, was an intelligent one, I thought. Shame her swipe card didn't work. In the end, another bar staff member ushered us through a hidden door and we followed the signs through lofty, glass corridors

 and up stairs (ok so we weren't on the right level) to the 'St Saviour's 2012 Graduation Ball' room. All the while the text messages flew backwards and forwards between the BA and I:

   We are here, the door was locked!
   The doors aren't locked! Come to the front entrance!
   We would if we could FIND it!!!!
   hkjluoijyufrtdrefgshdh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You are hopeless!!!!!!!!!!!

Of course we got there in the end, only to find that our large group had been split across two tables! Two seats on one table and five on the other!! Now, how to work that one out given the dynamics of the group!!!????

In the midst of all this, Himself had been getting crabbier and crabbier. Not known for his patience, the events of the night had been stacking up against him. Let's start with the fact that he thought he'd attended her Graduation the previous week.

In its wisdom, St Saviour's has an end of year Graduation Mass in the last week of school, and then follows it up with a Ball the week after. Himself had been told about these two events, but in his very visual mind, he had merged them into one. One which, on the morning of the Grad Ball, he believed he had already attended.

Himself: What do you mean there's a Ball tonight?????
Me: The Grad Ball! You know, we've talked about this!
Himself: I thought that was last week!
Me: That was the Graduation Mass! What did you think I was making the dress for????
Himself: Huh. Well, I don't know...
Me: And anyway, Her Dad even said to you, 'see you next week'....
Himself: Well, do I have to go?
ME: YES YOU HAVE TO GO; THE TICKET COST ME $100 b;^%%$ DOLLARS!!!!!

Of course, had the experience of the previous week been less traumatic, I probably would not have had to deal with all this angst. But having survived this other rather stressful occasion, Himself believed he had fulfilled his commitment to the BA's Graduation. Imagine his horror when he discovered (now hang on, I had hardly been hiding it from him...after all) that he had yet another event to attend. And this time in 'formal' attire! Add to that our late arrival and the fact that our party had been split, and you can imagine the state he was working himself into.

Given Himself's high dudgeon, I elected to stay at the table with him in the split table scenario. This could have meant that Himself and I sat at a table on our own whilst the BA and the rest of the family sat at the main table. It could have meant Mum and Dad being sectioned off onto the separate table, or Her Dad and Step Mum being separated from us. In the end we put the BA and her dad (who had travelled a long way to see her) on the smaller table and the rest of us sat together. It meant Her Dad and her Step Mum were separated, hardly an ideal situation, but Step Mum handled everything with her usual grace so we moved on to the first course.

Himself had steak which I thought would please him.
"How's your steak?" I inquired cheerfully.
"Average" came the curt response.
It was going to be a long night.

The BA wasn't that far away though. Here she is taken from my seat at my table.

(I often wonder whether the BA and her generation will look at photos like this and wonder what the h*** they were doing. But here it is for posterity!)

Fortunately there are others.

One of the key elements of the Graduation Ball is the act of being presented by your father to receive your Graduation Ring.

This is a hugely important moment in the life of any St Saviour's graduate. Unfortunately, (particularly as far as Himself was concerned) there were 84 Graduates. The BA was not amongst the first. A quick glance at Himself's visage was sufficient to convince me that he was not loving this process. Whereas my mother and I enjoyed hearing every girl's story, checking out her dress and wishing her well with heartfelt applause, Himself became more and more resentful. Well, it did take over an hour. Half way through he marched out for a cigar.

Once the presentations were over, the formal 'dance' part of the evening proceeded. This was the one thing Her Dad had been looking forward to for ages. When we separated in the third year of our marriage with the BA still just a positive result on a path test, he never believed he would be involved in her life to this extent. He was radiant, if intense.

As the mass of white satin, diamante and serious old serge processed around the floor, the MC asked people to remain seated so that everyone could see (bear in mind that there were 168 people on the dance floor!).  Himself prepped his fancy, schmancy camera, I got my PAS ready on video mode and the music began........ and 140 people leaped from their seats and rushed to the edge of the dance floor for a better look!

Himself was furious. I can't recall his exact words as he ranted at me, but they involved 'selfish a*******s', 'pathetic organisation' and a 'waste of a $100 ticket'. He stormed off again to attack yet another defenseless cigar whilst Dad and I were left to crawl (literally) through the ranks of spectators to try and get a glimpse of our two on the dance floor.

Eventually the dads dropped the daughters off in a long line in front of the stage and we had genuine photo opportunities.

Eventually, the BA raced over to us and asked that we come out to the 'photobooth' to have a formal family shot taken. 
"But I'm not part of the family," grumbled Himself, "I don't want to be in the photo."
He could not protest for long as the BA draped her arms around him and literally begged.
"Puh-leeeeeease Himself? I reeeeeeally want you to be in the photo. It's important to me!"
It's difficult to resist a line like that so he capitulated and followed us out to the foyer where the professional photographers were making money like a well oiled machine.

(Perhaps, in retrospect, that's what really annoyed him?)

Having joined a queue, we had been waiting a bare 5 minutes when Himself again flew into another rage.
"This is ridiculous having to wait like this! I don't want to do this!!"
He was halfway out of the area in high 'stalk' when I caught up with him and read him the riot act.
I got him back. He is smiling, but look at the body language!

Some of us managed to enjoy the rest of the night.

There was dancing, for many of us,

but in the end I suggested Himself take the aging parentals home whilst Her Dad, Step Mum and I finished the night off with pancakes.

He was delighted to comply.

On the 19th of December we received the news that our gal had finished her schooling in the top 10% of the state and was positioned well for entrance into the Uni course of her choice.

On around the 22nd of December, the Baby Angel's immune system collapsed under the weight of all her recent excitement and she was laid completely flat with suspected Glandular Fever (aka mono).

She is still resting up.

Adelaide Convention Centre image credit 1

52 Weeks of Me: Looking In

This is me 'looking in' on my husband's weekend treat to himself...the football.

This is actually LAST week's theme but, who knows, with a bit of luck I'll get something else up before the week is out! Mind you, the way the week is shaping up, I will not have time to scratch myself. This seems to be my excuse for my appalling lack of exercise and resultant ballooning waistline and thighs but really, let me give you an idea of of what's on the cards.....

Monday: work, specialist's appointment for shoulder...(YAY! Let's get this ball rolling!) And then tutoring at 7.30pm
Tuesday: work, middle school parent teacher interviews until......not sure yet....and then maybe tutoring (or not...depending upon lateness of PTIs)
Weds: work, after school parent meeting, parent meetings at the BA's school (this time as a parent), netball practice and an important meeting with Small Boy's Mum (more of this later)
Thurs: Fridge repair man in the morning, Himself's office in the afternoon learning how to do their account payments, Tutoring at 7.30pm
Fri: Work.......and home to collapse in the evening. Don't THINK there's anything on in the afternoon or evening. Could be wrong. Frequently am. Probably have to take the BA to some social event. (Thanks be, for Himself who both took her and picked her up from the party last Saturday night. There was a reason the suburb didn't sound familiar! 40 minutes each way from our place!!!!!)

On Saturdays now I have to transport the BA to school netball in the morning and Club netball in the afternoon. It's no wonder I have no time to get to the gym myself.

As for the meeting with Small Boy's mum: this week we were graced with sleepovers Weds, Thurs and Fri nights! It's the first time he's stayed with us in about two months and only the second time this year. He's now at the local High School which is actually closer to our place than his mum's so it is easier for him to stay here during the week. Himself is naturally quite keen for this arrangement to be formally established in order to 'get some routine' into him and to keep an eye on what's going on with schoolwork etc as his term 1 report Card was dire :-(. As a result, we are going to meet with the Small Boy's mum, a rare occurrence, to make sure we are on the same page about some issues. For example, on Thursday night Himself got a call to pick Small Boy up from the local mall on his way home from work. This was circa 6pm and had not been negotiated. Apparently he 'had no homework' and, as I prepared dinner, announced to me that he had 'eaten at the mall'. He also won't eat breakfast in the mornings. :-( All these things need discussion although, as he is not mine, I am going to have to back off on some of the issues I guess.

**********************

At last we are seeing him.

Musical Crews: On My Word, Everyone Change Partners!

So, I promised I'd tell you about the launching and maiden voyage of 'Retaining Wall'.
(This of course is not the real name of his boat, but as far as I am concerned it is
'Retaining Wall').

Some background:

Himself sailed in Jester for about 5 years with No 2 Son as his crew.

This worked well as No 2 Son learned the skills of crewing and the vagaries of sailing and was, at the time, a nice, lightweight foil for Himself's rather generous proportions.

In 2009/10, No 2 Son moved on to crew with a very experienced female skipper and together they were runners-up for the state titles twice. Himself on the other hand, attempted to coerce Small Boy into crewing with him. After a promising start, Small Boy could not cope with the amount of yelling and ordering about endured by most crews, and handed out liberally by Himself; he lasted two races.That was the season I made my debut as ill-fated (and last resort) crew.

Last year, 2010/11 season, Himself got together with the nephew of one of the other sailors and had a good season, winning the Club Championship on handicap (always a bitter pill though) but, more importantly, gaining a trophy for 'Consistency'. We managed to frighten that young man off however, and at the end of the season he announced he was going to sail 420s as 'there are a lot more young people' sailing in that class. That, at least, was the reason he gave.

And so we come to the 2011/12 season.

As many of you will know, Himself deemed a new boat more important than a retaining wall, even though he had not yet found anyone to crew with him this year. No 2 Son and his lady skipper had finished up together at the end of last season but he was not a candidate because he is too heavy now to sail competitively with his dad. Himself's solution was to give No 2 Son the old boat, Bad Jester, so that he can learn to skipper, and once more try to coerce Small Boy into crewing on the new boat, Retaining Wall. Much to my surprise, Small Boy agreed, even going so far as to drive down to Victoria with Himself, to pick the new boat up.

No 2 Son thought he had a mate to crew for him but this fell through. Out of the blue, No 1 Son, whom we rarely see nowadays, expressed an interest in sailing with his brother. Now, not only has No 1 Son been previously reluctant to sail, but given the combative nature of their sibling relationship, I was surprised No 2 Son was even considering it. But, consider it he did.

So, to recap:

Retaining Wall:
Skipper: Himself
Attitude: Keen as mustard/highly competitive
Experience: lengthy and successful

Crew: Small Boy
Attitude: terrified and guilt ridden
Experience: nil

Bad Jester:
Skipper: No 2 Son
Attitude: nervous/insecure, but keen
Experience: virtually nil

Crew: Possibly No 1 Son
Attitude: doesn't like being told what to do
Experience: as above

Meanwhile, it transpired that Small Boy had a school friend who was also keen to learn to sail. His family had been into sailing, before the divorce, and he had never had an opportunity to actually learn, so when he heard that there were crew seats possibly still available, he was beside himself with excitement. The only problem was that this crew seat was with No 2 Son.

Now I don't talk too much about No 2 Son here as he has made it known that he does not like being plastered across the internet; but suffice to say that he is a rather intense young man with many Aspergery traits and a moderate case of dyspraxia to boot. Social skills and clear communication are not his forte and the idea of him trying to teach someone else (and a little kid at that!) to crew whilst learning to skipper himself was possibly the most convincing recipe for disaster that I have ever heard put forward! I communicated this to Himself who was gracious enough to acknowledge that it could be a problem. There did not seem to be an immediate answer to the dilemma and so as the first 'try out' race of the season approached, it seemed that FOSB (Friend of Small Boy) would be taking the crew's seat for No 2 Son.

With a stroke of providence from the Divine, No 2 son was struck down with a bad shoulder on the day of the trial race. This meant that Himself would take 'Retaining Wall' down to the beach, give FOSB a quick ride and then go out for the race with Small Boy whilst I, the inveterate non sailor, babysat FOSB on the shore.

That's FOSB looking keen in the red shorts. That's Small Boy looking like he can't get away fast enough to the right!

Himself was keen. He was really keen. He was so keen he wore silly sailing clothes.


As Himself was preparing the boat, Small Boy informed me in defiant tones, that he had hurt his leg and that no-one was listening to him and everyone thought he was faking but that his leg really hurt and he didn't know how he was going to sail with such a sore leg! A wave of inevitability washed over me and I brought the dilemma to Himself's attention.

Himself stormed around for a minute but quickly saw the immediate solution.
FOSB would crew for him in the trial race.

Look how excited he is!

To be fair, he initially got very excited about the idea, asking lots of questions and climbing enthusiastically into Small Boy's specialist gear. Small Boy stomped about, or rather limped about in an exaggerated fashion, with a brow like a thundercloud and the inevitable "No-one believes me.." echoing repeatedly from his lips...no mean feat considering the prominence of said lower lip.

Speaking of thunderclouds, as preparations were reaching a peak, the wind began to pick up.

The moment of Christening had arrived.


I grasped the champagne bottle and drew the cork.
"I christen thee Retaining Wall and God bless all who sail in thee..."
(thinks: ugh, maybe a few too many 'thees' in there....)

One of the other gentlemen approached me afterwards;
"That the first christening you've done then?"
"Uhhh, ye-es.." (thinks, 'where's he going with this..?')
"So how do you think it went?"
"Ummmmm..."
"Room for some improvement you think?"
Rats. I knew there were too many 'thees'.....


The gang began the process of getting the boat into the water.

All seemed to be under control so I turned my back, momentarily, to put something further up the beach. When I returned a few minutes later, all hell had broken loose.

Himself was standing in the water desperately holding Retaining Wall's nose in what was turning out to be an increasingly stiff breeze. FOSB was on the shore crying and holding his stomach. People were shouting things over the top of the mounting wind:
"Just give him a minute.."
"We're going to miss the start.."
"I'll...sob shudder...be...sob...alright in a minute..."
and of course the inevitable over-reaction from my beloved husband.

"I KNEW IT! I MIGHT AS WELL PACK UP THE BOAT NOW!I KNEW I WOULDN'T GET A SAIL TODAY!!!!"

A few quick questions and it became apparent that FOSB had suddenly been stricken with stomach cramps. Helpful onlookers were making suggestions, Himself was ranting and FOSB was doubled over whimpering and insisting that he had to go out because Himself was relying on him. Small Boy was deathly quiet behind me.

After bellowing at Himself to stop over reacting and quickly assessing FOSB's discomfort, I suggested he dash quickly up to the club toilets, see if he could be sick or go to the toilet, and then come back. Himself then started up again about how they would miss the start and they didn't have time etc etc etc. One thing I have discovered about my Leo husband over the years, is that for all his bluster and volume, he can't take it in return!
"Does it matter if you miss the start? It's only a PRACTICE RACE for F***s sake!!!!"
"Well what's the point if you're not going to be competitive?"
"Do you really NEED ME TO TELL YOU THE POINT???????" I bellowed back. (Bear in mind that all this is taking place at a distance and over an ever increasing wind.)
Momentarily chastened, he shut up while I checked on FOSB again who was still crying and doubled over.
"What about you Small Boy?" I called to him, "do you think you can do it instead?"

Now, this was a gamble. I was pretty sure that Small Boy's 'strained leg' was every bit as real as FOSB's sudden cramps but I was also pretty sure that both of them had the same root source: anxiety! I was banking on the fact that Small Boy would rise to the challenge to help out his dad and sure enough, he did. With pretty bad grace I must admit, but at least he agreed and the two lads started exchanging clothing there on the water's edge, accompanied by groans of pain (from Small Boy, whenever he lifted his leg) and whimpers and moans from FOSB, which may or may not have been relief and gratitude. I encouraged Small Boy, hopeful of the possibility that given the urgency of the situation, he would not have time to think about his anxiety but would simply get in the boat and do that crew thing. I was not helped by Himself who, having recovered his bluster, began to bellow:
"ARE YOU COMING OR NOT????????"
"HE IS DOING THE BEST HE CAN........PULL YOUR HEAD IN!!!!!!!!!" I defended 'our' little lad as he valiantly tried to pull on wet sailing gloves over sandy hands, between hard tears of terror.

Eventually, Himself and Small Boy were away, FOSB was sitting comfortably on the beach wacthing them go and I was standing, shaking my head over the drama of it all!
"Do you feel better now?" I enquired of FOSB.
"Oh yes thankyou."
"Do you think you just might have been nervous?"
"Oh yes, I think that's what it was. I vomited 5 times before I had to go in for my first taekwondo tournament!" he announced, chirpily.
It would have been nice to have known that in advance, I thought.*

FOSB and I retired to the club to have a lemonade and watch the race from the balcony. We hadn't been up there half an hour when we noticed someone coming back in. It was 'Retaining Wall' of course. The wind had picked up to 25 knots and the boat had taken off like a rocket. Himself of course was delighted but Small Boy was duly terrified and, to his credit, Himself had agreed to take him back in if he was frightened.
"Yea, but you'll be cross with me," Small Boy sobbed defiantly.
"No, I promise I won't; just say the word and we'll go back in. Nothing more said."
And he was as good as his word. He was just so excited by the acceleration of the new boat that everything else paled into insignificance.

The following week they couldn't sail because there was no wind. The weekend after that they sailed their first race and came third! Today is their second try and No 1 and 2 Sons make their debut as a team.

Can't wait to hear how that goes!

*It turns out, Himself had known that in advance. FOSB's mother had rung that morning to warn him of the lad's anxiety issues!!!!
"Did you not think that worth mentioning and discussing with me?" I asked him incredulously when he had informed me of this, later that day. He had no comeback.