a stitch in time...

... saves nine (plus one) fingernails being bitten to the quick by an anxious mother. It also saves your beautiful little boy from a life-long souvenir scar across his face to remind him of his time in Hungary.

Yes, sorry, still going on about the hole in Pickle's head. The trees in my front garden know all about it because I went at them with the secaturs like a woman possessed yesterday evening after wrapping my offspring up in cotton wool on the couch. One big pile of ivy, tree and shrub clippings equals one very pissed-off mummy - Nobby knows I'm not one for gardening in a good mood.

Anyway, quick update. I want to name and shame the Health Clinic that Nobby's company have been shelling out huge great wadges of cash for over the last year but who have consistantly refused to see my children every time I call them. In a family of two adults and two little kids, according to the law of averages, who exactly is going to require the most health care over a 12 month period? You don't need to have kids or a degree in medicine to work that one out. Unless you work in this particular clinic, which told me this morning that I shouldn't bring my child in for a second opinion on the state of his facial injury because there is no-one there who specialises in treating children. Surely a cut is a cut? I wasn't aware there was a magic age where your skin starts to heal differently making you eligible for expensive private Hungarian treatment.

I am ranting, but, hell, I need to. Nobby is still in Vienna so I have both barrels pointing at the keyboard instead. And I'm not sorry!

Fortunately (or rather unfortunately for his poor mother) a little boy we know gashed his head during the holidays and I was on hand to do the mercy dash to the nearest private clinic which was recommended by a fellow teacher, so I decided to jump on this band wagon of 'it's not what you know it's who you know that counts'. So this morning I grabbed said Mum, got the phone number and took Pickle along to see if anything could be done for him.

Sadly after eight days there is nothing she can do to improve the quality of the stitching he received at the other hospital. It is too late for glue but it would have really helped when the cut was fresh (all we got was iodine.) So Pickle will have to chose whether to go with the Action Man 'desert warrior' look and wear his scar with pride or the Hugh Grant 'don't I look cute looking up at you through my fringe?' fop.

I, meanwhile, will have to choose between sending in the heavies from Nobby's firm to tell 'our' private clinic what I think of them forcing me to fork out 50 euros at another clinic because they are all too squeamish to look at a bleeding kid, let alone the requirement that I use a public hospital in the first instance last Sunday because they don't work weekends, or go down there and give it to them myself.

Either way, I recommend they run and hide.