It may not be exactly the scheme you mean, but Home Start are a wonderful service. My MIL is a social worker and manages one of their local services here in Norfolk. My MIL works with the children who are close to being on the at risk register to try and prevent it escalating to that. A friend of mine who used to be a single, teenage Mum (also grew up in care, abused and on the at risk register herself for some time) goes in and talks to families in the same situation. I've even been in with Tank to help with showing positive ways of interacting with young children and to promote extended breastfeeding. I'm thinking of training to be a breastfeeding peer supporter.
Yesterday I had got myself into a frame of mind where I was calm and relaxed about the haircut and thought I'd just deal with one thing at a time. Hair first. Outfit second. Photos third. There were already indications that events were conspiring against me: M had only had 6 hours sleep the night before and woken up with a streaming cold that was becoming progressively more green as the day continued; a viral rash was creeping across her chest and face; the artwork afforded by a permanent marker she found in the study the night before was still adorning her ears and neck and all manner of scrubbing wasn't helping, in fact was only exacerbating the worsening rash. Still, I got ready to go out hopeful that my hair may still be tamed and one of the photos might come out well. All ready to go, I couldn't find my money or bankcard. In his infinite wisdom, dh had taken my wallet to work with him.
It at this point becomes frighteningly clear that dh doesn't have the sort of workplace where you can just drop in and request to see him. Herein follows a transcript of my conversation with Norwich City Centre Custody Sergeant:
[Woman red-faced and panting, dragging small, snotty child behind her bursts into the custody suite]
Crazy lady: Er... I'm looking for my husband... he... er might be here... or he might be out...
World weary custody sergeant: [picking up relevant form and chewed biro] What's he done?
Crazy lady: Um, no he didn't do anything. He's... er... it's not like that... he's not done anything wrong, it's his job you see.
[small child, perked up by mad dash in cold weather is climbing over the custody desk shouting daddy]
Custody sergeant: [trying to remove small child from pot of biros and paper copy of Norfolk's Most Wanted] Is it something I can help you with? Is your husband here or not?
Crazy lady, still panting and panicking: I don't know where he is, I mean he's usually here I think. It's just, he's taken my money.
[small child is breaking into a cell still shouting daddy]
Custody sergeant: [wiping snot from his desk and removing toddler saliva from his best pen] Was it a large sum of money?
Mad woman with terrible hair which still needs cutting: No, he's not taken it taken it, he's just taken it if you see what I mean
[small child has fed several biros under the door of a cell and is drawing on the floor]
Custody sergeant: [reaching for his "Wives of Criminals : What to Do When He's a Wrong Un" leaflet with a sympathetic smile] Is this a formal complaint?
I eventually managed to expalin through my panic that dh is in fact a policeman and I just wanted my money for a haircut. Said sergeant found this all very amusing and took great delight in broadcasting 'Oi PC MrSOH, your wife's in custody' across the airwaves.
I was about 5 minutes late for my hair appointment, red-faced, apologetic, worried and not in the frame of mind to look at myself in a mirror for an hour. DH had to come to the salon with the money which caused a great stir. With the buzz of hairdryers and chatter it wasn't apparent why a policeman had wandered into a salon, bent down for a word with one of the women there (who is red-faced and incoherent still and to all intents and purposes looks like she may be on the run and hiding out in a hair salon) and then left again just as quickly.
I had bits cut off my hair, the hairdresser talked about wanting to leave his wife and run away to the continent and eat cheese (I kid you not) and I tried my hardest not to look in the mirror/breathe in the coconut stench/drop my cup of tea/cry.
I went to collect my manic child from her grandparents, she's still awake and getting crazier by the minute and I decided to try the shops suggested on here. Peacocks didn't have the lovely dress TSM linked to, Primark was like hell on earth, so busy you couldn't see and most of the stock was strewn on the floor, so I tried TK Maxx. I tried on a 36E bra. Too small. Norks have now reached epic proportions and won't be shoe horned into a cheap bra. No money for a nice bra, time is running out, so I trudge home to iron my favourite homemade skirt and floral top.
It's 4pm, M has been up for 12 hours and is saying 'bed... cuddle... blanket... milk... bed... mummy...bed... sleep... night night...' over and over again. Five minutes from the photo shoot, she passes out.
I get told off because I'm wearing the 'wrong colour'. It's a family shoot and apparently we're supposed to be colour coordinated. I feel awful, frazzled, haven't eaten all day, old crap clothes on, red in the face from the hot studio lights and feel like a naughty school girl. After an hour of photos M is still asleep so I wake her up. She's got a temperature, snot running down her face, she doesn't know where she is, various family members are juming up and down trying to cheer her up (bad move, she needs to be cuddled by mummy and woken gently but they're all pleased to see her and don't realise they're making the situation worse). Try to have photos taken with M, she screams and tries to hide in my shawl. I ask if they can photograph her feeding (to calm her down and because I want a photo of it). ILs all mumble about 'why would I want that as a photo' and all stand and watch while I struggle to get my boobs out with a screaming child, hot lights and hating the camera pointing at me. I realise my tummy hurts. Too late, becomes horribly apparent that af has turned up 3 days early, I hadn't noticed. Run to bathroom with with screaming child. Blood everywhere. Cry quite a bit. Try and sort me and M out. Try for more photos in damp clothes, washed in a tiny sink with no way of drying them. All goes wrong. M doesn't want to know, I've got nothing to stop the bleeding. Give up.
Cry to dh that I want to go home.
Photos will be online in 2 weeks. I don't think I'll view them.
Wasn't the best day.