Anything you canoe, I canoe better

Ow, ow, ow. I don’t think there’s a single bit of me that isn’t aching. After a late night last night (bed after midnight – we were watching “100 scariest moments” and fell asleep at about number 15 – does anyone know what was supposedly the scariest?) we got up early to meet up with chums and take the canoe for a paddle. We put in at Bidford and paddled to Evesham, a distance of about 8 miles. We paused briefly for a picnic lunch, and were forced to adjourn to a handy riverside pub (free mooring for patrons) during a sudden sharp shower, but still got about 3 hours paddling in. My neck, back, shoulders, arms and tummy are all protesting strongly.

I know Henry the Thirst finds boaty people very friendly, and maybe they are down in his neck of the woods, but the first two we met, forever to be known as Bill (William Anker) and Tom (Thomas Osser) because of the speed at which they drove their powered craft past us, nearly capsizing a canoe containing children, were quite simply stupid and arrogant. We were quite fascinated (in a ghastly sort of way) by a woman in her narrowboat, when we stopped for our lunchtime picnic, who was concentrating deeply on her small hand-mirror, which was making her task of either squeezing her spots or plucking her beard easier. The remaining people we came across just tried to be awkward, but when we could prove that all the canoes were licenced with the BCU so we had a perfect right to be on the water and using the lock they shut up and mongoosed off.

And why do anglers do it? Yes, they are outside in the fresh air, but they’re not taking any exercise, about 80% of them smoke and they sit just far enough apart to make conversation impossible.

Curate's egg

Well, what a strange event that was; it was both better and worse than I’d been anticipating. For one thing we were in little compartments in the middle of an arena, with no shade or shelter from whatever weather came our way. There are about 120 Kennel Club recognised breeds, and all ‘parent’ breed clubs had been contacted and asked if they would participate. The sum total of attendees was 4 Shelties, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, a Border terrier, a Hamiltonstovare and three dalmatians (of whom one was still (just) in season and Harry thought it was his birthday and Christmas rolled into one). So the ‘Parade of Breeds’ was a very sparse affair. Probably because it was the morning of the first day of the show, there seemed to be very few public about as well. When we’ve been there in previous years it’s been busy, busy, busy, but not today. Even the Guinness bar, which is usually bursting at the seams with customers, was rattling. It meant that, in the three hours we were sat there trying to look welcoming rather than lost we had almost a dozen people come up to talk to us. Bor-ring.

And I don’t quite know how it happened, but I find I’ve volunteered for Discover Dogs at Crufts next March ...

Apart from that Ned managed to buy 3 ammo cases for a fiver, Harry had a professional photo taken (cracking!) and we tried, for the first time, some yummy-looking barbecued tiger prawns. They aren’t really very nice, are they?

Julia says

Do you remember ages ago I told you I’d been volunteered for a couple of Breed Club events? The first was at the beginning of the month when I drove to Malvern and helped out in the kitchens – it was a great relief to know that was why the rubber gloves were needed! Tomorrow we take Harry to the Town and Country Festival at Stoneleigh to participate in their version of Discover Dogs – sick-makingly advertised as ‘Cuddle a Canine’. (Bring chairs and an umbrella.) We often do Discover Dogs at Crufts (Harry was on TV there one year and got to kiss Philippa Forrester), but I think tomorrow there will be more children trying to put sticky fingers on my nice clean dog. Our stint is from 10am till 1pm, and reading through the blurb that was posted to me I have discovered, to my horror, that I am expected to take part in the Parade of Breeds just before lunch. Oh. My. God.

CNPS: 139

Pounding away, pounding away ...

While we were walking back from the barbecue last weekend I spotted on the pavement a pound coin, which naturally went straight into my pocket to be forgotten about. When eventually I remembered it, it had vanished. It wasn’t in my pocket, nor on the floor from when I undressed, and closer examination revealed a pound-coin sized hole in the lining of the pocket. Drat! Oh well, I thought, c’est la vie. It’s obviously a coin with wanderlust, and I put it out of my mind. Until this morning when I was putting on the shoes I had last worn to the barbie. There was a stone or something in the toe of one – no! It was the pound! It must have fallen through the hole in my pocket, slithered down the leg of my jeans and plopped neatly into the side of my shoe. I’ve taken no more chances – I’ve invested it on a Lucky Dip for Saturday’s lottery. Fortune, here I come!

PS. Are the Olympics over yet? Is it safe to turn on the TV again?

CNPS: 136

Stand and deliver

There’s been a long discussion going today on another site where I spend a lot of time, which was sparked off first thing by someone (J) posting about what a silly thing she’d done. She had arranged for her son and herself to go to London for a couple of nights, stay in a hotel, and go to the theatre. She had the theatre tickets, train tickets and the hotel reservations all safe, but when she was packing this morning before they caught the train she noticed that the theatre tickets were for last night’s performance. We’ve all done stuff like that (classic TOGgery, Scotty!) and sympathy and cheer was duly offered, with suggestions of cheap alternative entertainment in the Big Smoke.

All went well until another person (H) suggested trying to get a refund from Visa by concocting a story about how they weren’t able to make it there. Now, I know it’s not just me (because several people also queried why one would lie like that) but to me that seems like fraud. The tickets had been received, the performance had gone ahead - every aspect of the contract had been fulfilled, at least from the point of view of the theatre company and Visa. Yes, we all make mistakes, and it’s unfortunate, but surely it’s wrong to try to get someone else to (literally) pay for them? Apparently I and the others are suckers who deserve all the shit that life throws at us – ‘H’ thinks it’s better to duck and let some innocent person cop the lot instead of you, no matter that it’s your fault. But if Visa paid up, then they would claim on their insurance, and their Insurance company would raise their premiums. To everybody. Just as every shoplifted item results in retail prices rising to cover the losses. Every single spurious insurance claim results in innocent people paying the bill. And I don't like being robbed - it gets me very angry.

*Has a beer to simmer down*

PS. Hurrah for Autorecovery! The computer crashed when I was drafting the blog in Word, but it was still there after I restarted!

Let the memory live again

Another day, another few quid off the mortgage. Actually it was quite productive apart from my moment of TOGness at lunchtime. I knew I had two things to do in town – go to the Post Office and Something Else. As I couldn’t remember what the second thing was (I was sure it involved Smiths) I went to the PO first then strolled up the Parade to the rest of the shops. I walked around Smiths, but nothing jogged my memory and I went back down the hill to the office. Almost the instant I got in I remembered that I had intended to buy the paper, so got the office manager to get it for me. Luckily she’s as TOGgy as me (I helped her remember several words today) so I didn’t feel too foolish.

CNPS: 135

When I'm calling you-oo-ooo-ooo

I had a terrific idea for some new puzzles for work - a topic with many variations on the same theme, so lots of output from very little input. It didn't work. :( The idea is still brilliant, but most bingo calls are just too long, and I could only just get one puzzle out instead of the three I'd imagined. Damn. Back to the drawing-board and more searching for novel topics.

CNPS: 132

I need a little time

Don't weekends pass quickly? The long list of chores that, in the old days before I restarted paid employment, could be spread over all the weekdays so that the weekend could be free for quality 'family time', now has to be crammed into the days 'off', and depend even more for success upon the weather. So today was concentrated on the washing, ironing and gardening, and fortunately the weather today has been perfect for all of these, and has been a positive, productive day; but crumbs! I'm weary! And tomorrow it starts all over again.

It's only words

Ned and I went to a barbecue at a chum's house tonight. Generally I detest barbecues - I hate the flavour of the badly-cooked food so tend to over-compensate by drinking, with the result that by the next day I have contracted a strange virus with the symptoms of nausea and headache. But tonight was different. Clever Lindsey had prepared lots of food in advance so that her husband's macho-cookery (why do men only cook out of doors? Is it a primeval memory of slaughtering mammoths and throwing the corpse onto a bonfire?) was appreciated by the men and ignored by the women. All tums were well lined and a good evening was had by all. Even me.

Anyway, in the interests of science, I have started an experiment in the village. When we girls were gathered around the brazier warming our particles I filled them in on the "plinth" theory. They have all promised to put the theory to the test tonight and report back. We do, however, all have our doubts, and have a side-bet going that the general reaction will be one of "You wha'?" In fact Liz got over-enthused with the idea and experimented early. We were right - her husband looked totally confused and said "Eh?"

I still reckon Mr Rankin is wrong.

CNPS: 131

Days of future past

Ned is having a rant. The cries of “Bushbabies! Where’s my gyrocopter? I want my silver suit!” are this evening echoing around Genie Towers. I have no idea what prompted this right now, but those of you of a certain age (Hello? Is anyone else there?) will recognise that those are items which, when we were at school, were promised to us by ‘The Year 2000’. It was True Fact that in that magical year all menial tasks would be performed by robots, everybody would wear silver space-suit type outfits and have jetpacks and personal flying machines so that traffic jams would be things of the past. It must be true. They told us that in school, and we all drew pictures of "Life In The Future".

Well, what happened then? And what toot are they filling children’s heads with for 2050 (apart from having to work till they’re 70 before they qualify for a pension, by which time they might just have paid off their student loans)?

Where did it all go so wrong? We have been cheated.

And if it's really true, oh lucky you

Happy Boy 

At last the waiting’s over and the results are in. I was right in that the teachers were not to be believed and AAC was not on the cards. Unfortunately neither was my prediction of ABD – the actual tally was BCE. His offer from Warwick required BBC, but they did say at the time that they might be willing to ‘stretch a point’ if he didn’t quite achieve those grades. However, none of us imagined for a moment that, when he phoned Warwick to tell them of his actual grades, that they would confirm his place! Quite how the jammy little bugger has swung that I don’t know – but he’s delighted, and we’re thrilled to bits. I do hope they haven’t made a mistake.

And congratulations to all the Blogring's exam-takers. In the immortal words of Young Mr Grace - "You've all done very well"!

Approaching doom

We’ve all seen the dreadful pictures on the news about the floods in Boscastle. Ned and I spent a lovely day in the village two years ago, and it’s very hard to imagine that beautiful place suffering such destruction. It was so well cared for, the sun was shining, the flowers were in full bloom and the walk along the harbour to the top of the cliffs at the end of the combe was lovely, and the views of the rocky Cornish coastline were stunning. This was the village where we started our ‘tea tour’ trying to find the perfect Cornish cream tea. (At Boscastle the scones and the cream were good, but the jam was disappointing.) There were several very ancient buildings, one of which, the ‘Harbour Lights’ gift shop, (shown in the pic) with its buttressed walls and wibbly roof, dated back to the 15th Century. It was totally destroyed by vehicles being hurled against it by the floodwater.


Harbour Lights 

Thankfully, it appears that nobody was killed, though they won’t know that for certain till the demolished buildings and wrecked cars (some out at sea) have been searched. Coincidentally it occurred 52 years to the day after the Lynmouth floods, which tragically happened during the night, and 34 people lost their lives. I’m sure that without the rescue helicopters at Boscastle there would have been many more casualties.

On another topic entirely, tomorrow is A-level results day, when we find out how much revision and digital extraction the Boy managed in the run-up to the exams. If his teachers are to be believed, he is capable of getting AAC, but I personally think ABD is the best we can hope for, and which I think is the points equivalent of the BBC the Uni has asked for. I would love for him to have done really well, but am consoling myself that, if the results are poor, then University would have been the wrong move for him, and we think about his future plans together. I don’t want him to go to Uni ‘because it’s expected’, or if it wouldn’t be of benefit to him. Watch this space ...

CNPS: 124 (ours)

Did you miss me? Yeah!

Mally and chums 

Hooray! The computator has been mendified and we’re back!

We've learned that next time we go away we'll have to take one of the dogs with us. Boy told us that Beattie had her tail between her legs most of the weekend, and the stress drove her to lick a patch of hair off one of her front legs. So she is going to have to become a Festival Girl. I shall practice getting her used to wearing a bandanna, because everybody wears silly clothes at festivals.


The Thinger 

I suppose this picture really ought to be posted in the Favourite Things forum, because it is evidence that Omally has successfully thung the Tilley T3. This picture was taken while we waited for Fairport to start their set, but Mallers still hadn’t imbibed quite enough to enjoy to the full being swept into an impromptu reel when a few bars of the “Dashing White Sergeant” were played. (If I recall, his words were along the lines of “You’re both wombatting mad”, but without the benefit of the filter.) He needs a few more lessons in hair-letting-downification. And I know just the people to do it!

Good time, feeling fine

The question of the day is; will I manage to get this blog completed? I'm having to scribble this at work because our home Peecee missed us so much it attempted suicide while we were carousing at Cropredy. The man is coming tomorrow to hopefully mendify it. I do hope so. With no computator we have had to watch TV and talk to each other.

Cropredy was fab. The musical highlights included the Family Mahone whose repertoire consisted mainly of drinking songs interspersed with the occasional toping song, and, for variety, the odd swigging song. It's a shame their spot was so early, but apparently it was their first Cropredy and they were very nervous. If their spot was too late they would have needed so much Dutch courage they would never have made it.

Richard Digance was good, despite having nearly electrocuted himself recently and so not able to play as many songs as normal without his arm dropping off. I was standing very close to Terry Pratchett at this time, and he seemed to be enjoying it too. Morris On were great - Ned and I had a lovely dance to some of the jigs, and watched in awe as the dancers on stage performed unusual acts with brooms.

A final afternoon getting sunburnt was followed by a great evening's entertainment from Fairport, and chatting to Omally and his chummingtons (nice guys - pictures to be posted when the PC is better!). I did feel very left out when they and Ned had 'quality boy-time' ogling the laydeez in their various states of undress and physical variations. Try as I might, there seemed to be a distinct lack of male eye-candy (present company excepted, of course).

Then home on Sunday to admire the Boy's new car that he collected on Saturday. It's a nice red VW Golf, J-reg, with only 78,000 miles on the clock. We've been taken out for a spin in it, and it seems to be a good deal; the engine runs smoothly and the only rust spots we can find aren't structural. The poor lad was a little crestfallen coming home to have a stone flung up on the motorway and his windscreen cracked. It seems harsh to have a prized possession damaged before you even get it home.

CNPS: 121

It's getting better all the time

Brief blog - popped back to have a bath (I'm a sissy) and empty the camping potty. Ned says driving with a gallon of wee in the back of the car concentrates the mind wonderfully.

Met up with Omally and his chummingtons - he texted us his co-ords so we cached him. I forgot to write in his logbook so I'll do that later. I claim a First-To-Find.

CNPS: 117 (as soon as we get 118 the campsite will have rich pickings - we've seen 119, 120 and 121 ...)

Steamy windows

No, not steamy in that sense, you smutty lot! What's happened is that, while we were putting up our tent at Cropredy (the usual camping field is flooded, so we're now next to the main railway line - this is going to be fun) there was a thunderstorm. So we busied ourselves pegging out the groundsheet and all that sort of stuff during the heaviest of the downburst (or cloudpour, I'm not sure which Ned called it). I was overjoyed (you may detect a note of irony here) to get back to the car to discover that Ned had left all the doors and windows open, so everything was sodden. The equipment, the seats, the contents of my handbag - everything. So I decided that, when Ned was having his post-nightshift sleep, I would go to Tesco, get the rest of the food supplies, pop home to see how the Boy was getting on, feed the dogs, then come back, when hopefully the heat of the car might have dried things out a bit. Which is where the 'steamy windows' reference comes in. I have successfully transformed the car into a mobile sauna.

Off I set. To wait in a queue to leave the campsite. The field is down a single-track lane and the police, in their wisdom and because of the hundreds of cars arriving, were refusing to let vehicles leave the site unless they were in a convoy. Three-quarters of an hour I waited there. I asked what would happen in an emergency, and was told "It'll have to wait, madam". I think that's appalling.

I'm off back there in a minute. I have got the shopping and returned for umbrellas and the camping potty, because I'm wombatted if I'm going to walk the half-mile to the portaloos (they're not near the railway line) in the middle of the night.

It's got to get better, surely?

Well, I woke up this morning ...

Which, although it’s a always a plus, it’s not really welcome at 4.30am, with cramp in one leg, a splitting headache and a throat that felt as though I’d been gargling with razor blades. It hasn’t really improved all day. Looks like I may not be camping as much as I could over the weekend, which will be disappointing.

The Boy, being a boy, is a master of inconsistency. For the past few days he’s been encouraging me not to pop back from Cropredy over the weekend (“I’ll be fine Mum, I’ll look after the dogs. They were all right last time you went away, weren’t they?”). Now he’s in a bit of a strop because we’re not going to be here over the weekend, when he wants to go car-hunting. Never mind, he’ll get over it!

CNPS: Still 115

Run, rabbit, run

It's been a very ordinary day today, so I thought I'd share a picture of Harry having fun.


Harry 

Down came the rain

D’you know, I don’t think it’s stopped raining all day? It started raining in the middle of last night, cos I heard it, and it’s been coming down steadily ever since. I’ll need to get the canoe out of the garage to get to work tomorrow at this rate.

The Internet is still down at work, and things are getting difficult. It means so many things are uncheckable, so we’re getting further and further behind. I foolishly forgot to take in any reading matter for lunchtime, so because there was no internet to play on either I worked straight through. And for some reason I’m still working.

And after all the trouble I went to, getting a new aerosol for my airbrush, I now find that the paint is too viscous to go through the tube. Bother. Brushwork is going to ruin the effect. I may have a new duster after all.

CNPS: 114

Among the fields of barley

When my granny was a girl (I think she was born in 1890) she spent her summer holidays on a farm in Kent. Her father had emigrated to South Africa to start a new life for his wife and daughters, but vanished without trace. Family history says he died in a hotel fire in Johannesburg, but who knows? Anyway, that's by the by. She used to tell us tales of her holidays haymaking, when she carried baskets of lunches out to the farmhands and would ride back to the farm on the wagons of hay that were drawn by horses.

I was reminded of this by the combine harvesters that have been driving down our lane at all hours for the past week; motorisation and headlights mean that there is no 'quiet time'. Make hay while the sun shines - and harvest when you can. Rural life still revolves around the weather, whatever New Labour would have us believe.

You'll always find me in the kitchen at parties

First thing this morning I was relieved to see my car back on the drive, indicating that the Boy had returned safely. He’s a good Boy, and hadn’t woken us when he got home.

My ‘volunteer’ day turned out rather better than I’d dreaded (and I’ve brought home two pairs of latex gloves), although because we still haven’t seen car number 110, the 111, 112 and 113 I saw in quick succession were wasted. Ned has been stuck indoors all day, juggling payslips, bank statements and a calculator, trying to work out how much backpay he’s owed (about £2,500, which would be very useful. If they pay up, especially all in one go rather than in dribs and drabs, we can replace our poor old car which is really on its last wheels. Not with a new car, obviously, but one less than 16 years old.)

He is now having fun being creative and artistic, working on a project which, if it’s successful, will be a nice (yes it will) present for someone. If it doesn’t, I’ll have a lovely new duster.

The Boy emerged from his room at 3pm and announced that he was going to buy a road atlas. His drive home had taken 7 hours instead of 5 because the A30 had been closed due to an accident, and he was diverted through Tavistock (I drove past your old school, Mum) so he’d had to navigate using only a small Tesco Store-finder map. Dartmoor is a big place in the dark, when you’re lost.

On the up

The company got their money’s worth from me today. I got in to discover that the internet connection has been down for the past two days, and won’t be back again before Monday morning. So instead of being able to have the occasional break on various sites in between tasks, I’ve had to w**k on the database all day. Concentrating for 7 hours solid has left me with a headache. Heaven knows what state our website’s in – we can’t get access behind the scenes. On the surface all looks to be well …

Tomorrow is going to be another busy day. It is one of the days I was volunteered to go and help out at a breed club event. I still don’t know what is involved, but I hope to be able to catch up with some gossip. Malvern, when the weather’s fine, is a real sun-trap, so it will no doubt be sweltering. I’ll be glad to get home and unwind. I think I’m looking forward to it about as much as Carol was the hen-night she attended!

Hooray! The Boy’s just phoned, and they’re coming home tonight instead of getting stuck in the motorway traffic tomorrow. They set off at about 9, so should be home in the early hours. And his quilt’s dry and back on his bed, so ner, hutters!

CNPS: 109

Storm in a teacup

Isn’t it odd, the way you can suddenly be hit by the blues? Life will be chugging along quite merrily then suddenly WHAM! - all you want to do is curl up in a small, dark space and pretend you don’t exist. It’s even worse when you know just what’s caused it, and there’s mongoose-all you can do about it, that it’s something you’ve got to live with for ever, and it’s never going to improve. It's nothing anyone's done, so don't worry about that. It's just an unfortunate set of circumstances.

So rather than write a self-pitying blog I shall leave you with some music. Leonard Cohen should do it.

I feel it in my toes

It’s taken several days, but I’ve nearly got the Boy’s room mucked out in preparation for his return on Saturday. Today I decided to wash his quilt, which of course won’t fit in the washing machine, so I filled the bath with warm water and washing powder and dumped it in there. After half an hour’s soaking it was time to start beating it into submission, so I got my current book (“Equal Rites” again), took off my sandals and proceeded to stomp up and down the bath in the fashion of a very confused French winemaker. It was disturbing but satisfying to see the water turn an unusual shade of brownish-grey. When I reckoned it was as clean as it was going to get the plug was pulled and the sludgy water encouraged to escape down the hole. A bit more trampling squeezed out most of the water, and then it was time to prepare for the rush. The bathroom is about as far from the back door as it is possible to get, so getting a sodden, dripping duvet out to the line was going to be a sploshy business.

Of course, because the quilt is too big to go in the machine, it is too big to spin. It is currently draped over the washing line, dripping in a way that looks like it can carry on for several days. It’s got 60 hours. I wonder ...

CNPS: 108

Riders on the storm

My drive home from work today was exhilarating. I left Leamington in bright sunshine, but to the south the sky was darker. The closer I got, the blacker it became, till I could see the lightning bolts flashing down, yet I was still in sunshine. Very strange. About a mile from home it suddenly became dark and the rain started just as I reached home. Poor Ned had to set off for work in a downpour.

I was thrilled to discover today that if you type “Jeangenie” into Google, this blog is the very first on the list. Hey! I’m famous! (Of course, not as famous as Mr “mildly surprised” who lurks in Images.)

My final thought for today is to wonder why some phrases lend themselves to Spoonerising better than others. Today I have been singing that famous song “Sailor for trail or rent” ...

CNPS: 105

The sun has gone to bed and so must I

Yaaaawwwwnnnn! Lord, I’m weary. After all the excitement and activity of last week’s holiday, I’m exhausted. It was back in at the deep end at work (they have just signed a £10,000 contract, and I’ll be personally responsible for a quarter of that, to be completed before the end of this month). No pressure there then!

With Ned at work tonight and the Boy away, I think I shall treat myself to a long relaxing bath and an early night. Night night everyone.

King of the Road

It’s been a long day today. The alarm was set for 5am to make sure the Boy was up in time to collect his chum from Stratford at 6am and drive to Newquay. Although he’s a good driver, and during the week completed his Pass Plus course, I always worry about him when he’s driving. I’d worry anyway, but because his two pals were killed last November, through no fault of theirs, it makes the possibility less remote. His driving is fine – it’s the other loonies on the road who will cause the problems. Anyway, he phoned at 11 am to say he’d got to the campsite safely, so I can breathe freely again.

The rest of the day was spent completing household chores before we went off to play with Ned’s GPS. The first two finds were easy-peasy, especially in comparison to what I was expecting, but the final one became very zoological because it had been placed by a person who is even worse at sums than I am. The recommended parking area turned out to be 7.85 miles from the cache. A bit of a long walk for a hot summer’s evening, methinks. Shetland pony.

Ned’s a bit fed up tonight because he’s just realised that, with the Boy and one car in Cornwall, and me and the other car in Leamington tomorrow (holiday over, back to w**k), he’s going to be limited to the village. Never mind. He can mow the lawn to pass the time. He’ll like that. :)

CNPS: 104

The animals went in two by two

Why is it that so many words for female animals are used in a derogatory way when applied to women, but the equivalent terms for male animals are often used in an admiring fashion? I mean, when someone wants to be really offensive to a woman she is called a bitch, a silly cow, a stupid mare or a spiteful vixen.

What impression do the terms 'stud' or 'buck' convey? Virility, power, sexiness. Not sweat, stench, hairiness.

But why are some female terms universally disrespectful while others, although screamingly patronising, aren't intended as being so? 'Pen' for example. Or 'duck' (eek!) or 'hen' (considered perfectly okay north of the border). Another thought: in the 1960s 'bird' or 'chick' was an eminently acceptable appellation for a man's female companion. Now it's likely to get a chap thumped!

We're busy doing nothing

First thing this morning (well, not actually first thing – that involved getting washed, dressed, jogging to the newsagent’s to buy the paper, having breakfast then checking the internet for interesting overnight happenings) I phoned the doctor’s surgery to find out when my morning appointment was. Oops. I replaced the receiver and immediately set off, hoping I wouldn’t be too late. For once my timing was perfect and I arrived a minute before my name was called. Shame. The waiting room was empty of drunks and ill people so I wouldn’t have caught anything.

It turns out my only physical problem is slightly raised cholesterol (Yay! The liver-function’s fine! Open another bottle!), and I was advised on a suitable diet to correct the potential problem. The trouble is, the advised diet is my normal diet, so I can’t see a lot of change there in the immediate future. This also means that my other physical symptoms are psychosomatic. Fair enough. I can deal with that.

The rest of the day was spent pottering, then we went to a localish (3 miles away) pub to see if there were any cachers hoping to log a first-to-find. Two pints later (no luck, but nice beer!) it was home-time, to eat more hastily-cooked-before-it-goes-off-accidentally-thawed-out food, and for Ned to take part in (and win! Hurrah!) SimonG's Dressing-up Competition.

The Boy’s at his mate’s party and will return to sleep then load the car (my car!) for his drive to Cornwall on Sunday. I bet he won’t phone to let us know he’s not been mashed on the road. I will worry until he’s home safely. That’s my job.

Here, there and everywhere

Our second cache has been in place for nearly a week, and nobody’s found it yet! Ned was astounded to get an email from one person who related his attempt-to-find, what figures they’d used from the waypoints (all correct), described where they’d looked for nearly two hours, and yet still failed to find. He then asked if he could log it as a ‘First to Find’ anyway! Now, I’m not quite certain how “Completely failed to find” can possibly equate with “First to find”. Maybe it’s a strange new use of English which I’ve never come across before. After all, we are still very much newbies at the caching game. Anyway, we said no, better luck next time! Cheeky so-and-so! (I see he’s logged it as a ‘Failed-to-Find’ now. Come on boys and girls! Who’s going to take the prize?)

CNPS: 102

Wherever I wander ...

Our break was successful. On the journey down we saw car number 99 as we left our village, and 150 miles and 3 hours later saw 100 as we entered my mother’s village. Since then we have driven to Dover, around Calais, back to Mother’s, around the area this morning caching and back home still without seeing 101 (of which we saw plenty before we needed it). At least we know one lives outside the Red Lion in the village – what’s the betting they’ve gone on holiday?

This morning we notched up four caches (darn, ‘team Minstrelcat’ had done them last October!). The first was quite amusing, because we were treated to a guided tour of the site by the resident gardener. Now, I’m interested in history, and old buildings, and gardens and plants, so half of me wanted to carry on chatting to this bloke, and the other half wanted to get on with hunting! But patience won through, and we found it. (I wonder if he was the one who placed it? We must check the placer’s profile.) The next two went pretty much according to plan, but the fourth was again made more of a challenge because we had to pretend we hadn’t seen where another cacher was emerging from! We walked on down the path and waited round the corner, but they caught up with us and we got to chatting. It was only the chap’s second cache, which made us feel like old hands at the game! After they’d gone, we turned ourselves around three times and tried to forget where we’d seen him coming from. I’m pretty sure we’d have looked in that spot anyway – it was a place I’d have hidden something.

Anyway, I think it’s good to be home. The walls are still standing, so that’s a plus. There seem to be rather more empty bottles in the house than there should be (especially when you consider that the Boy had been very good and put the box out for recycling yesterday). Another slight problem is that, when he helped himself to some ice cream yesterday, he didn’t properly shut the door of the freezer, and so I have a load of lovely soft food. Salmonella, anyone?

CNPS: 100!! Woo! Yay!

I'm on the road again

I’ll be taking a brief blogging holiday cos we’re off to visit my Ma in Sussex, fit in a booze-cruise and do a bit of caching if we’ve time. The Boy will be holding the fort and, with luck, remembering to feed and walk the dogs in his rare moments of consciousness.

I wonder what chaos will greet us on our return.

The way we were

Ooh, that programme brought back memories. Now that there is no typical Sunday suppertime programme (Inspector Morse, Miss Marple, Hornblower etc) I concede that the best TV in the slot at the moment is Top Gear. Tonight's programme was brilliant, even for a non-car-loving girly like wot I am. There was a parachutist trying to land in a moving sports car (he did it at about the eighth attempt, with the car moving at 50 mph and him at 70 mph, dropping at 160 feet per second). Then there was the seasonally topical "What is the best car in the snow" slot. They showed archive TV footage from what looked like the winter of 62-63, which I remember vividly. We were living in Scotland, nearish to Inverness, and there was snow on the ground from the middle of September 1962 till the beginning of April 1963. The was even ice on the sea. But the memories were really triggered by the sight of Jeremy Clarkson, on skis, being towed along the roads behind a car. Because where we were living was very flat, although there was lots of snow, and we all had toboggans, there were no hills. We used to hitch the sledge to the rear bumper of the car and be dragged at speed along the roads and over the beaches.

Mr Health and Safety would have had kittens. We lived.

Who shall have a fishy ...

Tonight's supper was brought to us courtesy of Ned's New Toy. For months he's had a fixation for Cobb cookers - the result of an unholy alliance between a steamer and a barbecue. Apparently it can cook a chicken in an hour and a half using eight charcoal briquettes. Anyway, he's been scouring all the camping shops to no avail, and was recently watching some on Ebay, but before the bidding closed one was delivered to our door the other day. I wonder how that happened.

So rather than the first trial being 'experimental chicken' he cooked new potatoes and seabass (though chicken would have been cheaper. I just think undercooked fish is safer than undercooked chicken). The fish was very good indeed. The potatoes, cooked within three hours of being dug from the vegetable garden, weren't as good as they could have been, especially the ones that weren't foil-wrapped. But that's just being picky. 'Real' fresh food, cooked simply and served straight away, is the best.

Hooray! Hooray! It's a holi-holiday!

Hurrah! Ned and I have both got next week off work! It’s been a long time since Christmas, and although I love my job, I’m in need of a break. I’ve emailed the office manager about all the things I want checked on Monday morning (and the email hasn’t bounced, so I must have got the address right) so with luck it won’t all go belly-up and I find my P45 waiting for me on my return. I expect I’ll phone in on Monday to make sure. (Note to self: Let go. Switch off. Nobody’s indispensable.)

So what will we do with our break? Much to the Boy’s annoyance we haven’t booked to go away anywhere (he wanted to be paid to look after the dogs, and trash the place with a party), so I expect we’ll do exciting stuff like a booze-cruise, go caching, plant a cache and generally potter about unwinding. I want to buy a new washing machine, and visit my mother who I haven’t seen for far too long (not this year, anyway).

A week when we can be us. I like Us.

CNPS: 98

Art for Art's sake

Ooh! I’ve been invited to a Private Viewing of a one-man art exhibition at a gallery in London! Trouble is, it’s on the 10th August which is a Tuesday, which will mean leaving work early to catch a train to the Big Smoke. I never used to understand this guy’s work years ago – what he saw, I didn’t – but it was powerful. He’s had years and years to either refine it or take it completely off the wall. I’m sorely tempted to go down and discover which it was, though I have my suspicions. It would be nice to see him again too – we parted company in Silver Jubilee year. I bet his hair isn’t thick and to his waist any more! Feel free to invite friends, he says ...

I can't keep it in

My medical tests were quite amusing in an odd sort of way. I had my usual discussion with the person who summoned me from the waiting room (“Actually, the surname isn’t Brady, but I suppose it’s near enough”. “Are you sure? I’m certain that’s what it says on your notes … oh no, you’re right.”). Then she took the blood sample, which wasn’t a bother as I’ve been a blood donor for more years than most us can remember, and I know the needle routine. I thought it was unusual the way she removed the needle before pressing on the vein, and when she went to get the sticking-plaster I pressed it firmer. The plaster went on, and she pointed me in the direction of the bed, told me to strip to the waist and lie down for the ECG. It was when I was lying there in the semi-nude that I noticed that the sticking plaster, although still stuck, wasn’t really stopping the flow of blood. My top-half clothes were unscathed, but my cut-offs, and the bed, and the nurse by this time as well, were liberally smeared. I reckon it was because my arm is used to pumping out a pint at a time, not a measly test-tube full. So it did. Of course, it could be because she didn’t press the vein shut before she removed the needle … Once I was mopped up and the flow staunched the ECG pads were applied and a recording taken, and I got dressed again.

A few heads turned and there were one or two gasps as I left through the waiting-room. I’m sure I’ll be able to remove the stains.

I'm so dizzy, my head is spinning

Tonight I was going to start my attempt at breaking Rich’s site by loading the pics of Genie Towers onto his Great Adventure Game. But as I was sitting working out what to do everything went all woozy and started spinning round, and now I don’t feel very well at all. I think I’ll have an early night.

CNPS: 96

Just my imagination

We are down to two outside clue-writers at work now. When I started there a year ago there were four - one who wrote synonym clues, and three cryptic writers. As the months passed, the synonym writer left (but that's easy enough to do ourselves, with frequent referral to our very large friend Roget) and recently we parted company with one of the cryptic composers, which was a mixed blessing; he had good ideas, and his well-written clues were excellent, but the pure opals were hidden in a lot of potch.

So then there were two. We have met one of the other writers and his wife (who checks completed crosswords for us) a few times, and get on well. The other day we met our final writer for the first time. We have got to know her through her work for us, and brief emails, and as you do we each had formed a mental image of her. She is clever, she has a sharp sense of humour, and she is a vicar.

No, she doesn't look like Dawn French!

Follow me, follow

After the morning's chores were done (mow the lawn, clip the hedge, weed a flowerbed etc) Ned and I set about recceing the site for our next cache. We used to visit this particular place frequently - generally once a week in fact - but we haven't been there for over 10 years, and needed to refresh our memories as to the layout. What we remembered as being there was still there, and various plans were mentally drawn up. But this is to be a multi-cache, so what about the final location? We decided to explore an area we only visited once in the old days. And we soon realised why we didn't bother walking the dogs there. Bear in mind that this is mid-July, and although it's not been very warm so far, it's not been particularly wet. That didn't stop the path being ankle-deep in mud in places - which means that it isn't particularly busy. Ideal, in fact!

CNPS: 91

Thank you for the days

Bear with me, this may be disjointed!
 
Today was good. My ancient washing machine staggered on valiantly despite recently being 'sprung' smoking and duly undergoing 3 weeks of detention and hard labour. Once the laundry was on the line Ned and I went off to bag a couple of caches, the first of which was in a most beautiful area of woodland. There were massive sweet chestnut trees that must be at least 300 years old. I found the atmosphere invigorating and it seemed to recharge my batteries as I felt the stress fall away from me. My shoulders straightened and I felt like 'me' again. It was wonderful. When we got home I started taking photos of the rooms in the house for Rich's estate agency (thanks Simon) Great Adventure Game which might be viewable if he can sort out a way to smallify my pics, cos there's no way I can!
 
After that I played the Ironing Game while Ned popped round to his gang's houses to arrange a weekend canoeing trip (Teme work. Ahahaha) and was plied with beer at each house...
 
The lottery was pants as usual, so no new car this week, and the spuds were the wrong variety (Maris Piper) for mashing, and sausage-and-potato-soup isn't great. then we watched a brill programme about longbows and how we trounced the enemy on their own ground (after they'd won the toss and chosen ends) at Agincourt, then missed another about the trial of Dr Crippen. I wish I'd seen that because my grandpa attended the trial and was convinced of Crippen's innocence. If the latest revelations are true, he was right.
 
So today was a good day, and I'm a happy girl. :)
 
CNPS: Still not seen 90 (when we've been looking for it).

Picture this

I was going to blog about how pants it is that nothing ever works how you want it to, but that would have necessitated pointing out that Henry the Thirst always says that, so I’d have had to do a link to his blog to make me look efficient and au fait with technology, but I’ve lost the scrap of paper (it was in the pile of useful paper on top of the CDs) that told me how to do links. The event that prompted this realisation was our taking part in SimonG’s (insert link) Friday evening half-hour dressing-up game (insert next link). Tonight’s challenge was to dress up as Blackadder (link), and having almost got to grips with the workings of the digital camera we duly got the costume and took the snap (oh, let's bung one in here too). That took 5 minutes. The rest of the time was spent trying to upload/send/post the rotten thing to be able to enter the competition. That part took half an hour. It all sounds so simple in theory. The stress levels are astronomical.

Goodness gracious me

Today was the day for my regular medico visit which is required to keep me on the straight-and-narrow and prevent me going around biting the heads off strangers and sniping at Ned and the Boy for the simple, but otherwise punishable by death, reason of being male and therefore responsible for everything that has ever gone wrong in the history of the world, ever. He took my blood pressure (which was slightly raised from its usual rock-bottom "are you still alive?" level, but in my defence I had been trapped in the waiting room for half an hour with the village 'character' who smells of many things, only one of which (swig) is marketable. I was then asked me a few unusual questions, my honest replies to which prompted him to get out a form and book me in for blood tests and an ECG.

Oh heck. I wish I'd lied.

A movie or a measure

I had a real adrenalin rush this morning, that took me some time to recover from. I knew I should be sitting a very important exam, but I had no idea where exactly I had to go, what time the exam started, or even in what subject I was supposed to be proving myself. More time was wasted trying to decide whether I should wait for Ned to get home so I could take the big car, or upset the Boy by taking the small one he uses, but Ned got home before too long so I took the big one. I arrived at the centre where the exams were being held, only to be told that I should have been there yesterday. Aaarrrgh! Disaster! But to my relief the nice organiser-person told me that as it was not an academic exam that could be cheated I would be able to sit it today. We trailed round the building searching for an appropriate room for this test that I was by now resigned to failing. Eventually, after I’d picked up the loose change that people had dropped on the broad wooden staircase, a place was found for me in a room full of middle-aged and elderly people (mainly men) studying creative journalism, whatever that may be.

I still have no idea what exam I was meant to be taking, because it was at this point my alarm-clock went off and I woke in a complete panic. I think my brain needs de-fragging.

And they swam and they swam

We have a problem with our goldfish. They seem healthy enough, and are swimming about in the pond quite happily, as far as I can tell. I mean, they’re not going around in a little fishy conga-line (or even conger-line. Sorry), blowing trumpets and letting off sub-aqueous party-poppers or anything like that. But neither are they obviously sulking and throwing tantrums (tantra?). There are about 40 of them, in a surprising range of sizes considering they’re all the same age.

But they're not gold. They are, with one notable exception, black. The pond liner is black too, with the result that I find myself feeding invisible fish. What is the point of ornamental fish that nobody can see? Is there anything that can be done to goldify them, or should I start looking for suitable carp recipes?

Just another manic Monday

Nothing to report really. I woke up far too early, and managed to get back to sleep just before the alarm went off. A routinely busy day at w**k, routine failure to see Car Number 88, back home in time to wave Ned off to his work, mow the lawn, cook supper, and veg out watching University Challenge and Coupling.

And so to bed.

And who would have thought ...

High above the planet he hovered, intently studying what he could discern of its surface. It was the most beautiful of the satellites orbiting this outlying star, gleaming like a pearl in the blackness of the void. Carefully he manoeuvred his craft closer. Despite its small size it had sustained him well since he had been cast out from his home world in punishment for his so-called crimes. He’d had no choice in his actions; at least no choice that wouldn’t have resulted in the loss of all he held dear. Which, considering his current situation, had happened anyway.

But now his situation was becoming desperate. His vehicle had never been designed to survive for such a time – how it had lasted as long as it had puzzled him intellectually, but emotionally he merely rejoiced. Perhaps the Guardians, if they truly existed, were watching over him after all.

As he prepared to enter the atmosphere of his new home he reflected ruefully that the ultimate irony would be if he made contact with water – the only substance against which he had no defence. Fortunately, however, it was found so rarely in the universe that he was unlikely to have been drawn to a place where it was abundant ...

Wait a minute Mr Postman

Right then chaps, I’m calling for recruits for a retaliatory strike. We’ve had another of our mystery postcards (from the Algarve!), although it is slightly different from the others, and we’re 99% certain who is responsible. So now it’s payback time. If anyone would like to send this person an anonymous enigmatic postcard, please email me (or leave contact details in the Comments box) and I’ll let you have the name and address.

This is War!

Don't wanna be ... all by myself

Another quiet night at Genie Towers. Ned has been asked to work tonight (and Sunday night too, but I got in a strop), and the Boy has taken his girlfriend to the pictures, and won’t be back till morning. I shall open a(nother) personal bottle of Mrs Mort’s sepcial tonic and contemplate scribbling a novelette.

CNPS: 84

I love to go a-wandering

I want to go away somewhere. I don't know where I want to go, or for how long, but I have suddenly been afflicted by a horrible restlessness and wanderlust.

I want to go and find fossils on the Jurassic coast, I want to go over the sea to Skye, I want to see the Himalayas at dawn and I want to see the Terracotta Army. I want to swim over the Great Barrier Reef and go white water rafting in British Columbia. I want to visit Machu Picchu, the rose-coloured city of Petra, the Valley of the Kings and save the orangutans in Borneo.

But "I want" doesn't get. Oh well. Bedtime. To sleep, perchance to dream ...

I'll be myself again in the morning.

CNPS: 84

All the pieces

Phew! The boiler service man turned out to be the last bloke who serviced it all those years ago, and who obviously had done a reasonable job in that it hadn’t blown up in the interim. He has now set up on his own rather than work for a company, and his bill was £12 less than the bill from 1999, so I reckon that’s a win (as long as the boiler doesn’t explode in the next 5 years). He also tinkered with the timer and valves to try to make the central heating turn off, but that doesn’t seem to have worked, in that the radiators are still getting hot. However with the weather as it is tonight, with a gale blowing and the rain lashing against the windows, I’m not too bothered. But I’ve let him know, and he’s coming back tomorrow to replace another part. For this extra stuff he’s only charging for the parts used, not his time. He will go on my list of people-to-recommend.

Time after time

Did I ever tell you about my run-in with the TV aerial man? We summoned him when our video went all wobbly due to rainwater coming down the aerial cable and soaking the electrics. The video seems to be beyond help, and we decided a new cable, with proper sheathing, might be a wise move. So I phoned around various companies in the Yellow Pages, and settled on the one who seemed willing to discuss the problem. He was also local, and I like to support local businesses when I can. Anyway, chappie duly arrived, put his ladders up to the chimney, and set about replacing the cable. This seemed to take a long time, but he neatly secured it to the wall, and descended to ground level to fix it in the sitting room. This was where the trouble started.

He insisted that he could get the video working again, despite my protestations, but I humoured him and let him tinker with it. After half an hour I was informed the video didn’t work, and I agreed. So he set to work tuning in the TV. The conversation went something like this:

“I see you can only get 4 channels here, madam.”
“Yes I know, we can’t get Channel 5.”
“Oh Channel 5 is fine, it’s one of the others you can’t get.”
“No honestly, Channel 5 is all snowy. The others are fine.”
“No, it’s …let’s twiddle this knob … BBC1 you can’t get here.”
“Yes we can. We can get BBC1, BBC2, ITV and Channel4.”
“No, you definitely can’t get BBC1.”
“But I was watching it last night!”
“Are you sure, madam? Sometimes people get mistaken ...”

Well, once I had managed to control my rage I got him to keep twiddling his knobs, and lo! There was BBC1 in all its glory! Then apparently the wobbly picture on Channel 4 was the best possible in this area – “My machine doesn’t lie, madam.” In a chilling tone I asked if he was accusing me of being a liar, at which point he back-pedalled extremely hastily. I suggested that maybe the aerial needed tweaking, but he assured me he had put it back in exactly the same position on the pole as it had been before. However, I insisted he check, so he heaved a sigh, got the ladders off his van and put them back up to the chimney. This time he dislodged a tile from by the gutter, and then managed to damage the lath when I suggested he replace it. He fiddled with the aerial, and ... my goodness! Channel 4 was completely clear! I was right all along – what a surprise! It took him about 5 hours to do all this ... I don’t think I’ll be recommending him.

Tomorrow we have a man coming to service the boiler. He’s a local chap, because I like to support local businesses when I can ...

Ooh. I’m getting a funny feeling of déjà vu.

And the sun comes up like thunder

Knowing my fascination for the ancient Orient, and the romance (as long as you weren't actually involved in any way) of shipwrecks, Neddy gave me a lovely birthday present – a China bowl. Yes, really a China (capital C) bowl, not a china bowl. It is a piece of the cargo of the ‘Tek Sing’ - a Chinese junk, 60m long and 10m wide, carrying 1,600 passengers and over 200 crew, from China to Java in 1822. She never completed her voyage, and foundered on a reef with the loss of most of those on board. Her wreck was discovered in 1999, lying at 17 fathoms, and her valuable cargo of porcelain recovered. This bowl is a beautiful thing, and I am truly thrilled with it.

I have decided where I need the shelves constructed to display it safely ...

Fings ain't wot they used t'be

It's funny how Life has a way of kicking you in the teeth. We were watching the fillum "Mrs Brown", starring Dame Judy Dench (whose late husband's surname I am striving to remember - his Christian name was Michael*) and Billy Connolly. Damned good fillum - well cast, great scenery and all the rest of it. It got me thinking of how my Granny reminisced about the day she saw Queen Victoria drive past in her carriage, and her surprise at how tiny She was. Now Granny was only 12 when Victoria died, and wasn't very tall herself, but obviously the Queen was such an important person that her spiritual stature far overcame her physical one.

Anyway, I was relating to Ned the story she told me of when she was on a train, with several prep-school boys in her carriage. They were very polite little boys, and she was one of the most open-minded and tolerant people I have ever known, and she delighted in chatting with these lads. They discussed many things, and the conversation touched on her reminiscences of the national celebrations on hearing the news of the Relief of Mafeking. The boys were duly impressed with her information (top marks due for a future history essay). One litle boy was so impressed that he asked her for her memories of the Crimean War (which was over 34 years before she was born). Somewhat crestfallen, she confessed that she wasn't that old ...

It was at this point that Ned informed me that the 'King of Sweden' was born the year I achieved my majority. Ostrich. Surely that wasn't so long ago that people born then are now adults? Where is my life going?

*I've just remembered. His surname was Williams.

CNPS: 81

Terror Firmer

The team 

I was aware before today that I’m not entirely happy when not standing on a good, solid surface, but I had never realised to what extent my pathetic wimpiness had developed. Now I know, and so does everyone else! It is only because I was damned if I was going to be the only one of the gang to bottle out that I managed to finish the course with any degree of self-respect, most of which I abandoned when I found myself rigid with fear about 5 feet off the ground on a rope ladder.

That apart, the day was brilliant fun despite the showers. The officials were a little startled to discover that we were an internet chatroom adventure, and that several of us had never met before. A major highlight was the sight of Bean managing to origami himself on the Tarzan rope and ending up crashing into the catch-net upside down. Shame we were all laughing too much to get out our cameras. Several involuntary splits ("Make a wish!" was the helpful advice from MM) were performed on some of the trapeze walkways, but the piratey scramble nets proved very popular with some. And the zip-wires were great – with the added bonus that they ended on the ground!

Once we’d all successfully completed the course we adjourned to the nearest hostelry for welcome refreshment and general unwindment. It was a top day out, but I need to restore my supplies of adrenalin before I try anything like that again!


Oh! Mally! 

Here's health unto His Majesty

Tonight we humble peasants are honoured to be graced by the presence of His Noball High-and-Mightiness the King of Sweden (may He live for ever), who has deigned to grace our meanly hovel during His current Royal Progress through this fair land. He arrived in His golden Carriage of State hauled by numerous sweating steeds who gasped with relief as He transferred His bulk from that regal chariot to the lesser conveyance that was to take Him on the next stage of His journey.

On arrival at this humble inn He was plied with all manner of dainty trifles and liquid refreshment, of which He partook with gusto. The fare seemed to be much to His satisfaction, for He did belch mightily, and indeed for ‘tis true, a Monarch such as He must at all times strive to maintain His doughty (or is that doughy?) stature. He graciously acknowledged our preparations for His comfort with a lordly blow from his Imperial Fist, which resulted in an insignificant concussion to Mine Host.

If Fortune smiles upon this unpretentious abode His Effulsiveness will depart on the morrow fully refreshed and in a suitable condition for any arboreal activities that may come His way.

Ooh, I must away! His Sublime Perspicacity is demanding that another flagon be broached. “I’ll be with you directly, Your Awesomeness!”

Running up that road

It’s odd how the most inconsequential things can cause the years to roll away. Tonight’s supper of tagliatelle with bacon and mushrooms in a peppery white sauce took me back to the times when, it being a quick and easy meal to prepare, we used often to have it while watching ‘Treasure Hunt’ on TV, after the Boy had gone to bed. There we would sit trying not to slop sauce onto the maps and atlases with which we had surrounded ourselves, striving to solve the clues before the players. This was in the days when Anneka Rice was the Skyrunner who, although maybe not the most stunningly beautiful woman in the world, was at least in command of her own brain and could help out some of the dimmer contestants.

Unfortunately when Ned was involved in one episode of the programme with his Big Gun Anneka had left the show, to be replaced by Annabel Croft. Sadly, doing the tennis circuit as a girl had clearly not left Annabel with any time to study, and what she lacked in knowledge she made up for in vacuity. She duly simpered at the men in their trunkhose and squealed when the cannon was fired, but eventually managed to locate the clue which was hidden in plain sight.

The latest Skyrunner incarnation, Suzi Perry, is a girl who combines beauty with intelligence. Perhaps if the planners had scheduled the last series for once a week at primetime, instead of every evening during rush-hour, our tagliatelle supper might once again be a regular event.

CNPS: 79

Chinese laundry blues

Sniff ... sniff ... what’s that smell? Whatever it is, it’s horrid. Sort of plasticky, smoky, hot electricky ... and why can’t I see across the kitchen?

Erm … Ned? Can we go and buy a new washing machine, please? This one seems to have explodified ...

CNPS: 78

Come on Eileen!

It being Wimbledon fortnight, and tennis is one of the few sports I even vaguely understand, it seemed only fair that I should abandon the housework for a while (any excuse!) and watch some of it. By chance I turned on when Tim Henman was playing Mark Philippoussis, and it was a less nerve-wracking match than the usual ones by 'our Timmy', in that he wasn't getting a set up and then letting his opponent catch up and beat him as easily as he normally does.

As the match wore on, and the end appeared to be in sight for the fourth time, there were the usual encouraging calls to the players (“Come on, Tim!”. “Come on Mark!”) and then they died away as the server prepared to take his shot. In the silence there came a loud, distinct call of “Come on, Eileen!”.

CNPS: 76

School's out for EVER!

The Boy's first day at school 

Today saw the Boy taking his final A-level paper, and henceforth he has now officially ‘left school’. It’ll be very strange for all of us for a while. He’s taking a gap year* to try to earn some money to help pay for Uni**: I imagine the longer hours and shorter holidays of a working life will come as a bit of a shock to him! To acknowledge this momentous day I have posted a picture of him. He didn’t really want to be recognised, so I’ve only put the one I took on his first day of school. He’s changed a bit since then.

We received our 4th ‘stalker’ postcard today; a picture of Plymouth Hoe and just the message “Hey Hoe!!”. This time the message and the address are written in different hands – and the message of this is by the same person as wrote the one from Edinburgh. Curiouser and curiouser …

*As long as re-sits aren’t called for.
** Unless he changes his mind about going.

CNPS: Still 74. Where are all the 75s?

I've been losing my head, I've been losing my way

Simon, Henry and Ned 


Wey Tamarisk 

When Ned went over to Napton to deliver some photos to Henry and Simon he was delighted to meet Trouty there too! She had got fed up with being all by herself and just upped sticks and gone to join them. So I'm sure Henry's feeling happier tonight.

In accordance with Kouros’ instructions of the die, I had 5 Things to accomplish this weekend. I started this morning with Marmite on toast, which after the shocking night I’d had (fever, nausea etc) was the only thing that would stay down. Later on I got the lentil splot cooking, and I have to admit it is tasty. I’m not sure it’s a Favourite Thing, but it has certainly been Thung. This afternoon we went geocaching (another Thing) which was somewhat of a disaster. I still wasn’t feeling very well, and I’ve never been good at sums anyway, but really! To fail to add 1+1+1 correctly is really desperate. This slip was only discovered after we’d walked a mile in completely the wrong direction. It was a very pretty walk in lovely weather, but an annoyance when we had limited time. We retraced our steps and, using the correct coordinates apparently got to within 49 feet of the cache. Except that the GPS was insistent that we should be in the middle of a field instead of in a wood. Anyway we searched for about half an hour then called it a day. Our first ‘Could Not Find’. When we got home we checked on the geocaching website and the last three people to report beck had also FTF. It must have gone. All that for nothing!

I’m now looking forward to a having a Big Girly Bath (as long as the Boy has left me some hot water) to ease my aching feet and legs. I’ll have to look at The List for my 5th and final Thing. But it'll have to be something easy. I'm exhausted!

Time keeps on ticking, ticking ...

Unfortunately, tonight I seem to be unable to post the piccy I took of the Wey Tamarisk, and Boaty Simon, Henry and Ned. (I'll try again tomorrow, but there's no promises this time. 'Hello' is ostriching about bigtime.) We took them copies of the photo, and ones from the dressing-up competition, when we met up with them again this evening. So you’ll have to excuse me if my typing is a bit blurred.

I blame Kouros. In his blog he challenged people to roll a die to decide how many Favourite Things they had to do over this weekend. Ned’s roll selected 3, and mine 5. So I had a look at the list, and selected Marmite on toast, a Mars Delight, Geocaching (that’ll be tomorrow), a Big Girly bath, and Lentil Splot. “Aha!” I thought. Now is my chance to get splot tutelage from the Splotmeister himself. Huh! ‘Bung in what you’ve got. The lemon is important, though’ was the summary of the masterclass.

However, the evening was longer, and more emotionally draining, than either Ned or I had anticipated. I bless Henry and Ned for instantly re-settling and starting a conversation about nothing while I held Simon in my arms after he burst into tears, saying how scared he was, and how embarrassed he was, and how sorry he was.

I’ll cook the splot tomorrow. And have a Big Girly Bath, with chocolate, candles, wine and music, and cry my eyes out in sympathy for a man who’s going through hell. And for Henry, who’s keeping him company.

That's what friends are for

Lawks, is that really the time? Late bloggery from Genie Towers tonight! We've just got back from taking a Special Delivery package to Henry and Boaty Simon (Henry was thrilled - 'just like Christmas' was his verdict) who tonight are moored at Cropredy Bridge (site of the famous Civil War battle of 1644, and the almost as famous Fairport Convention annual farewell Folk Festival - held every year since 1978).

Although I can't speak for Henry and Simon, Ned and I had a lovely evening. Simon (who reminds us of someone, but we can't think who) is a thoroughly nice guy, and Henry, who gives the impression through his blogs of having Frippy* tendencies, is an absolute gem - one of the sweetest, gentlest people I have had the pleasure of meeting.

We spent a companionable hour or so at the pub then retired to the Wey Tamarisk for a cup of tea (yes, it really was tea - Ned was driving) and further chattage. When dusk fell, the mosquitoes started biting and the mist began to rise from the canal I suggested that we really ought to be heading home. Much hilarity ensued when it was hinted that clearly I was feeling chilly (note to self - always have baggy, figure-enveloping jumper available). Pictures (not of me, fortunately) will be posted tomorrow, when I've worked out the technermological details.

*Local 'character'.

CNPS: 74

No milk today ...

What is the correct way to dispose of milk? Last summer our dog-sitter left a full litre carton of UHT milk, plus an opened one, in the fridge when she went home after minding our house and dogs while we were away in Cornwall. I tried finishing off the opened one in coffee, and it was unspeakably vile, so I gave it to the dogs. Who weren’t keen either. So the full carton has sat in the back of the fridge, minding its own business, ever since. Until today, when I decided to evict it. The ‘best before’ date was last October, but I’ve never been one to take much notice of things like that.

But, what to do with it? I’m not using it because it is horrid even when its fresh. I can’t give it to the dogs because they didn’t like it last time. I can’t pour it down the drain because milk is a toxic pollutant, and if it gets into the watercourse it kills fishies and things. I suppose it’ll have to go into the bin, unopened. And if the weather gets hot before next Wednesday, it'll explode ...

CNPS: 71

And now, the end is near ...

The Boy had his final maths A-level paper today, which he wasn’t particularly looking forward to. He’s certainly been revising for it, even going in to school when he didn’t have to, to get help and explanations. But 10 minutes into the exam he developed a blinder of a headache, followed by cramp under his left shoulderblade. I’ve assured him that as long as he did his best, under the circumstances, that’s all anyone can ask. But he’s somewhat depressed by it. Still, only one more exam to go - physics, next Monday.

On a brighter note, Beattie’s toe seems better (fingers crossed it lasts) and is now off her antibiotics, and I realised I should have bought some live yoghurt to get her gut flora back to something approaching normal. To that end I waited till the morning’s torrential rain had all but stopped, then walked into the village to get some at the local shop, because I haven’t got enough of a shopping list together yet to make a trip into Banbury, Leamington or Stratford viable. As soon as I came within sight of the shop I realised that I’d left the Council Tax cheque at home, when I should really have paid it in at the Post Office last week. Damn! Anyway, the shop didn’t have any live yoghurt so I bought her some Danone-stuff (hope she likes it) and a Mars Delight to fortify myself for the walk home in the resumed cloudburst. Tomorrow I shall get some proper live yoghurt after I’ve scoured the fabric shops for orange fur-fabric.

*goes to continue search for the Very Important Document that Ned has put in a Safe Place*

CNPS: 70

It's raining again ...

No sooner has the summer solstice passed than the temperature plummets, the wind gets up and the rain starts. If the nights are starting to draw in as early as this I suppose I ought to start thinking about putting the brussels sprouts on to boil, ready for Christmas Day.

Ooh! I've just learned we'll be enjoying the pleasures of visitorificationism the night before we GoApe! There's now the possibility that we may be in a slightly fragile state in the treetops ...

CNPS: 69

You say tomato and I say tomato ...

It was a far better day at work than I'd anticipated. We were stunned that our tame freelance American, who has been proof-reading our output for the US disc (disk?) has completed the second-stage work we asked within days and is asking for more. She is very good; bright and on-the-ball, and can grasp what is required at the first explanation. Our problem is the classic one of two nations divided by a common language, and a native US-English speaker was essential.

One American chap at the university who was offered an interview took two days to reach our office - the first day he tried to get to us without first consulting a map. He then emailed to say that he had been searching for our building for two hours, and his mobile had run out of credit so he couldn't call. But he emailed only half an hour after his interview time (why did he start searching so early? Why didn't he ask someone? - and has he not heard of phone boxes? He's been in the country a year!) I'm sure he's intelligent - he's just not very clever.

So now we have to work fast to keep up with the girl, who flies back to the US on Thursday. Hurrah for couriers (I've volunteered to take the demo disc (disk?) if necessary - I have a visa! And California sounds quite nice. It took them quite a while to stop laughing ...)

CNPS: 67

Please release me

We released our first cache today, and it was approved within a couple of hours! We’d tried to release it yesterday, but just as we were placing it we noticed that the paint wasn’t sticking properly, so we brought it home again, sanded and repainted it and had another go.

It rained quite hard this morning, which got the ground really claggy to walk on. As we walked across the fields to our chosen site we found the soil clinging to the soles of our boots, until I was apparently wearing platform wellies and Ned’s hiking boots had 3-inch heels. We ended up laughing till we cried as suddenly a clod would fall off and we were left walking lopsidedly having nearly broken an ankle plummeting down to our normal altitude. Our giggles startled the local wildlife, and we were thrilled to see both deer and a hare, to the musical accompaniment of a soaring skylark.

I wonder who will be the first to find it? It’s really quite exciting!

Edit: Crumbs! It's been found already!

CNPS: Still 66

Spirit in the sky

Today’s question for the panel is: Which do you prefer; Plymouth Gin, Beefeater or Bombay Sapphire*?

The debate arose because I decided mackerel and salad would be nice for supper tonight, and everyone knows that lemon is important when eating fish.** And once you’ve opened a lemon you know it won’t keep, and the best way to finish a lemon (if you’re not cooking Sussex Pond Pudding) is to have it with gin. And tonic and ice of course. If not tonic, then Gini is a good alternative, which makes your drink a Gin-gini (that sounds awfully like Jeangenie – hurrah!) instead of a djinnantoniK.

*No contest.

**Except mackerel.

CNPS: 66

Back to life, back to reality

Some days
Are glum days
While others
Have glee.

Fridays
And high days
Should always
Feel free.

My hopes
Were high hopes.
They’ve crumbled
I fear.

I’m battered
Not shattered.
They’ll not see
One tear.

Never reaching the end ...

After Miss Sixty’s horrible experience this morning with brain-dead morons who were a prime example of the advantages of post-natal abortion, we agreed she required the services of a Knight in Shining Armour. These seem to be few and far between nowadays, and must, if truth be told, be very noisy to have around, what with all that clanking. Plus of course you would need somewhere to stable the vital steed.

So although Knights in Shining Armour sound very romantic they don’t conjure up quite the image I get when I hear that famous song “Knights in White Satin”. Yes, yes I know that’s not the real title, but I was young and innocent when I first heard it, all right? Despite the passing of years and experiences, I still can’t rid myself of the vision of a mediaeval hall, lit by a few guttering rushlights and with a blazing fire on the central hearth and wolfhounds lying quietly in the shadows. Then a clattering of hooves heralds the arrival of the knights, who enter the Hall, removing their helms and shaking off the rain. Their esquires hurry to remove their sodden surcoats and armour, to reveal the padded white satin garments worn beneath. The ladies hasten with food and wine to welcome their lords back to the safety of the castle ...

A big question mark

We have almost begun to think we have a stalker. A strange stalker who sends us postcards. The first one was a picture of Hadrian’s Wall, and which arrived a few days before his walk up there, saying “Wish you were here”. I’m fairly sure I recognise the handwriting on that one but the postmark is indecipherable. The second one arrived a month or so ago, this time a picture of Charlecote Park (a National Trust property about 5 miles away), and saying “Hello, Have you been here? We have.” Different handwriting to the first, and all we can read of the postmark is ‘Herts’. The third arrived yesterday, and is a picture of Edinburgh with the message “Hey Jimmy” in a third handwriting, and with the address very slightly wrong. Again, the postmark is no help. All of these are addressed to Ned in his ‘Sunday’ name, not the one his friends use.

We have our suspicions who it is, and if we’re right then it’s just Ned’s brother (who looks even more like Dickie Attenborough than Ned does) playing games. If it isn’t ...

In a spot of bother

Clover, Beattie, Piglet and Harry 

Poor Beattie’s got a sore toe. She started favouring a leg on Sunday, so we carefully examined all her feet several times, but could find no sign of anything amiss. On the principle that ‘rest is best’ we didn’t take her out for the remainder of the day, and by the evening she couldn’t put her left fore to the ground. At least that narrowed down which foot was hurting.

Yesterday it was still bad, and today one toe was noticeably swollen, so it was off to the vet. She has either cracked a bone (no graunchy sounds when it is manipulated, so not a proper break) or wrenched it and got it infected. This is bad news. Harry did a similar thing a couple of years ago, and months of antibiotics didn’t help and he ended up having the toe amputated. I really don’t want to go down that path again.

CNPS: 59

We are the Champions!

Big Cache hunter 

Well, I'm not entirely sure what I did, but whatever it was, it worked! Hurrah! (Now I need to work out how to combine the picture with the Blog, and not have it as a separate entity ... well, that seems to have worked too!)

I wished I'd had a camera with me in town today. There was a bloke up a ladder fixing a 'For Sale' board to one of the houses. Well, it was two For Sale boards really, that made two sides of a triangle sticking out from the building. There was a chap on the balcony steadying the boards while the bloke up the ladder was behind them (inside the triangle with his back to the building) fixing them together. The bloke on the ladder was visible from the waist down, and the chap on the balcony was visible from the waist up, but there was about a 3-foot gap between the two waists, and it looked just like one 10-foot tall man. That would have been a terrific picture to post as my first one!

CNPS: 54 (or 56, depending)

We're on the road to nowhere

Okay. I signed up with 'Hello', which apparently lets you post pictures on your Blogspot. I answer all their questions, and download, and activate, and everything. No instructions. So I go to 'help', and they say email. So I email what they say, and still bugger-all. They say email to confirm password. I email in a complying way, and they welcome me and ask me to email the change of password. But I've just done that! I now have three identically unhelpful emails which send me back to the beginning without passing 'Go' and without collecting £200.

I'm fed up.

I've been driving in my car

I haven't yet decided whether I like or dislike spending money. Yes, it's great, and it's fun, and you have things afterwards, but on the other hand you haven't got the money any more to buy things with, and what if you've impulse-bought the wrong thing ...

But today was the turn of free money, so it didn't worry me so much. My winnings vouchers aren't accepted at M&S (no new bras then) or Hawkshead (no new other clothes either). They are valid at the Body Shop, but there's only a certain amount of henna a girl can take. So I decided to go technermerlogical. My beloved SLR (lost property from Westminster Abbey in 1976) will never be superceded but it is bulky, so a smaller digital camera is called for. We perused the catalogues, we asked for advice in 'proper' camera shops ("don't do it" was the general consensus), and decided on make and model. So off to Argos, which not only stocked the camera, but they also accept the vouchers.

But why were they charging £50 more than anyone else? Not acceptable. Sulkily we went home, and Ned checked the prices on their website. £50 less than the catalogue - what's going on? So he rang Head Office and was told it was discounted at the checkout. Hurrah! So we went to Leamington to buy it. They were out of stock.

We got them to phone the Banbury store, discovered they had one left, which we reserved, and sped 20 miles south, hoping that we'd get there before they shut. Huzzah and hooray - we got it! A forty-mile round trip.

So far I have managed to charge the battery, insert the card, and successfully turn it on and off again. PIctures may follow within the decade.

And they call it puppy love

My mind was a blank, so I went into the chatroom to ask whoever happened to be in there for a word that might inspire me bloggery-wise. Obviously everyone else has a life at 9.30 on a Friday night (tchah!) and I found myself all alone. So I ran the vacuum over the scraunched-up crisps that had been ground into the hideous carpet, and emptied the ashtrays (these aren’t tobacco cigarette butts are they?) before I turned out the lights (global warming doncherknow).

But before I left I glanced upwards and saw the word ‘Portsmouth’. Now there’s many a tale I could tell about Portsmouth. I lived there from 1969 till 1973, the longest I had ever lived anywhere, and they were very formative years. Ages 11 to 15 is a huge leap in social development, and I look back to those years with very fond memories. I have intermittent contact with friends from those days, and even regularly see one pal presenting the BBC News. I enjoy those broadcasts, no matter what the news involves, because I am instantly transported back to the easy life when the greatest worry was whether or not Mr Xxxxx (not his real name) would breathe over us in double maths, or if there were prunes and semolina for pudding. I go back to the era of first dates, the first boyfriend, the first (squeaks with excitement) … kiss!

The elf-call

The sun rose, and lit up the waterfall cascading over the rocks, which scoured ever deeper the pool at the bottom where the moss grew in the chill damp areas which were in permanent twilight. The droplets of spray scattered the light and carried fragments of it beyond the direct rays into these hidden shadows. The creature was entranced by the sparkling diamonds and cautiously advanced. He could dimly recall a time long ago when there had been many small beings such as him living near the waterfall but there had been many changings of the moon since he last saw another of his kind. The twinkling lights appeared to dance in front of him, and he chuckled as he twisted and turned, delighting in their company in his lonely existence. Where the droplets landed on his skin he was sure he felt the light enter his body, making it tingle with pleasure, and invigorating him. For the first time since he had been left alone he felt his spirits lift, and his pale face stretched into a tentative smile. The glinting of the light drew him further and further from the shadows towards the dazzling mist of rainbows which surrounded the tumbling water.

He never saw the hand which suddenly reached up from the pool to snatch and drag him beneath the surface.

The spray sparkled on.

To adorn and perfume those sweet meadows in June

I had a lovely walk with the dogs this afternoon. The sun was shining, there was a pleasant slight breeze, and the birds were singing, even the buzzards circling high aloft were mewing. We walked through the flock of sheep (dogs still on leads of course) to the second field where they could be let loose. The hedges were blooming with flowering elder, honeysuckle and dog-roses, their scent adding to the warm smell of the newly cut hay. If only that combination of aromas could be bottled. Perfect. It is at moments like that when I realise there is no other place I would rather live.

And thanks are due to the Blogring’s Foreign Correspondent, ScottJ, who was enormously helpful to me in the chatroom, pointing me towards a much more useful online American dictionary than the one we’ve been using at work, and also proving that he wasn’t cutting leather* when he should have been attending history classes at school. He’s saved me quite a few hours of work, so a big cyber-hug is winging its way across the Pond. Thanks, Scott!

*He and I were both startled to discover the original meaning of 'skiving'. He was also surprised to discover it meant 'goldbrick'. I was surprised to learn that 'goldbrick' meant 'bunk off'.

Random observation: the peel I’ve just removed from a Clementine smells just like gin. *goes to fetch glass of tonic to soak it in.*

CNPS: 48

It was a hot afternoon

Crumbs, look at the time! Nearly bedtime and I haven't thought of anything to blog about. At least it's cooler now than it was during the day, which makes thinking more of a possiblity. It was absolutely steaming at work - the poor lads upstairs were dripping with sweat - even having the windows open and a fan blowing couldn't counteract the heat generated by all the computers. Every so often they'd come downstairs with the latest Blue Peter 'Watch Venus traverse the Sun without destroying your retinas' gadget, involving a lavatory roll, masking tape and magnifying glass. It worked reasonably well, and we saw the planet, but staring at magnified light on clean white paper meant that everyone had a large black spot blanking out their vision for some minutes afterwards.

They're enormously thrilled because their game has passed all its final checks and is now in production, to be launched on June 18th. So the bosses are treating everyone to lunch (probably at the new Thai restaurant) and the rest of that day off. Our games have also been taken, and all the content must be completed by the end of July. So we're busy busy busy!

CNPS: 43 at last! Hurrah!

swodniW gninaelc m'I nehW

I do apologise to anyone who may have caught a brief glimpse of the #1 version of tonight's blog. It was a very amusing (yes it was, don't argue) story about how the bright sunshine of the past few days had revealed exactly how dirty my windows are, and how, being a person who's careful with her money, I haven't employed a window-cleaner for nearly 20 years, preferring to risk life and limb hanging precariously out of upstairs windows, lathery shammy in hand, all to save a couple of quid.

This led on to the rumour that that there is a magnetic gadget (probably most recently available from the Innovations catalogue) that will clean both sides of your windows at once. Exactly how the water, and the final polish with a scrunched-up newspaper to remove smears, is applied has always eluded me, but I'm sure there's a method.

And that led on to the known fact that computer screens need the same treatment. It's all very well removing the greasy fingermarks and the yoghurt splashes, but what about the internal grime. At this point I published a link to a very clever site that performs this function for you, because when I saw it the first time (work's computer, oh dear!) I only saw part of it, and was somewhat amused. When, checking the published blog, I saw the complete image I realised that I had linked my dear chummingtons to a Dutch p*rn site.

As I said at the beginning, I do apologise!

Woo-ee-oo-ee-oooo ..... wah wah wah

You can cut the tension in the village with a courgette. The scene is set for an almighty feud. For months, nay years, this has been 'Captain Pugwash' territory, where everyone paid up and nobody got hurt. Tonight there's a new kid on the block, a Johnny-come-lately, an interloper, a challenger for the throne, who goes by the tune of 'Teddy-bears' Picnic'. It'll be 99s at dawn, fully complemented with choco flakes, chopped nuts and lashings of raspberry sauce, with Calippos as backup firepower.

There are two icecream vans vying for supremacy.

Ain't gonna need this house no longer

Our main task for today was to scrub out the now-vacant hutches and take them over to Rugby to donate them to Guinea-pig Rescue. With the hutches gone I won't be tempted to find new occupants for them, because of all the 'small animals' (veterinary term) other than dogs and cats, piggies have to be my favourite. They're usually very gentle (Pandora's daughter Sharon, who died in February, was an exception - she had the temper of a harridan, a bite like a ferret and the tenacity of a bulldog), they're a handy size, diurnal, sociable and responsive. They will come when they're called and have an amazing vocal range. They chatter and chirrup, and if they hear the distant sound of vegetables being chopped the decibel level of the demanding Clanger-like whistle is astonishing from so small an animal. And when you cuddle them they snuggle into you just like a puppy.

So we thought the best thing would be to give all the equipment to a deserving cause.

After all, I can easily make a nice new hutch ... ;)

...in the key of Life

My plans of seeming efficient, capable and all-round great at work took a bit of a nose-dive today. The other two women I work with were both off, so I was going to be running ‘downstairs’ all by myself – manning (girling?) the phones, dealing with visitors, organising the website (which seems to have been delegated to me in its entirety), going to the post office and all the rest of the it. So I made a point of getting in nice and early, which was, in some ways, made easier by the fact that its halfterm so there’s less traffic on the road and more parking places in town. However, more choice means more indecision – would that be a better space than this? Will I be able to cut into the flow of traffic at home-time from here or will I be stuck for ages? Etc etc.

Anyway, I let myself in through the main door and headed for the first of the offices I would be running. Locked. My usual office? Locked. Okay, up the stairs I trot to Big Boss – can I have the keys to downstairs please? Clutching the ring of keys in my hot little hand I trotted down again … could I unlock the first door? Could I ‘eckaslike. After several minutes struggling I turned to the other door – no problems there (why is it always the fourth of four keys that is the right one? Why not the second or – perish the thought – the first?). I struggled for another few minutes with the first door, where one key nearly worked before I shamefacedly slunk upstairs to ask for help.

I’m not very good with technology.

Wombling free

Today, because Pandora was still refusing to eat or drink, I held her while Uncle Geoff the vet gave her an injection, and stroked her till her eyes glazed and her breathing stopped.

She is buried beside the other guinea-pigs, and has daffodils planted above her.

It ain't what you do

It’s a really cruel joke to give a person high aspirations but only average ability.

There are so many things I’d like to be able to do really well, but in honesty I can never aspire to being anything more than mediocre in them. I love music and singing, for example, but never got beyond Grade 1 in my piano exams (although it was with Merit), but I can play the Captain Pugwash theme quite acceptably on the recorder. For years singing was the only way I could vocalise to anyone outside my immediate family without stammering horribly and having everyone laugh at me. Fortunately I was pretty good at carrying a tune but was far too shy to put myself forward for solos just in case my throat locked. I’d also love to be good at painting, whether oils, acrylics or watercolours, I’m not bothered. All of them would be lovely. I can visualise the most beautiful images but despite years of training I still don’t have the technical ability to transfer them into two dimensions.

But what I can do really well is care, both in the physical feeding and nurturing, and also the mental shaping and encouragement whilst still allowing independence. To see the Boy tall and strong and intelligent (so why doesn't he do his revision?) and handsome (yes I know that’s down to lucky genes, but some of them are mine!) and nearly ready to face the world as a kind, gentle, thoughtful man, I think we're entitled (because Ned's input has been vital!) to feel an element of pride in a Job Well Done.

PS. I found the cake!

Only shades of grey

Take Two.

I’m afraid you missed your chance to read the stunningest blog in history, cos I had it mostly written and the computer crashed and I lost it all. So I’ll just have a bit of a whinge about how flat I feel. No, I haven’t been going around feeling apartments, nor have I miraculously lost several stone and suddenly have the sylph-like figure I always craved. No, I just feel a little deflated and anti-climactic. And Ned’s hidden the cake.

It could be lack of decent sleep. I think I got overtired yesterday, though my feet have returned and I no longer have blisters with shoes on. My back was aching all night though, and I opened the window because it was too hot, then woke at 4 am to close it because of the rain coming in. I know why it rained – it’s because I got the hose out yesterday evening and gave everything a thorough watering and topped up the ponds. Then I woke up at 6 am and worried until I got bored and got up instead.

I think I’ll have to take Pandora to the vet. She isn’t at all well. :( She was fine until her daughter died. I think she’s moping. She takes food from my fingers willingly, but won’t eat it. She used to be a fat little piggy, but not any more.