Let's go surfin' now, everybody's learning how

You may never have guessed, but if truth be told I'm not entirely au fait with this intermaweb thingy. Over the past couple of years I've learned how to send emails, which now reach their intended targets at least 80% of the time, especially if they don't have attachments. I can use Google fairly well to search for information, and again most of what I find is either what I hoped for or, if not, is interesting and sends me off at a tangent so I have a senior moment and forget what I was looking for in the first place. Occasionally it all goes horribly wrong and I find something completely unlike anything I ever wanted to see, and never want to see again in my life ever ever, but thankfully that's been very rare.

I've almost learned that, when googling and I open a webpage which turns out to not be useful after all, to click 'Back' rather than closing it by the X, because that closes google entirely and I have to start again. But I still make it take longer than it need - am I the only person who carefully scrolls back to the top of a webpage before clicking ‘Back’?

Time after time

It’s been an odd sort of a day. It’s never really got light, so I’ve never really woken up, and as a consequence I’ve been in a strange mental limbo. I got to wondering about dates: not the fruit, you understand, which always looks nicer fresh than dried, but is horrible in either form, its only acceptable incarnation being in a sticky toffee pudding. No, I started pondering the accuracy of recorded dates. For instance, John Lennon was shot in New York at about 22.50 on December 8th 1980 and died shortly after. But at the instant he died it was nearly 4am on December 9th over here. If anyone from the UK had spoken to him on the phone up to 4 hours earlier they would have been talking to him the day after he officially died, which is a bit spooky. Why this should bother me is a mystery, but it did.

Of course the great benefit of a particular moment happening at different times is that at every year I can watch the Australian New Year celebrations on TV then go to bed at a reasonable hour. I’m not a New Year type person.

Don't you make me repeat it

I wasn't going to blog, because the only thing that I felt vaguely worthy of sharing was my distress at finishing my supper and finding half a snail in my vegetables. It was at least a fresh, organic snail, because I only picked the veg half an hour before and I don't use sprays on the veg garden - but I hadn't been psyched up for mollusc. I don't recommend them.

The only way is up

Or at least, that's how it's been for most of my meals today. I suppose I could have entitled this "Breakfast Revisited". I still don't feel very well, so I'll bid you all a goodnight.

As high as an elephant's eye

More household expenditure is on the way. I’d hoped the lawnmower would last to the end of the season, but it hasn’t; in fact today I couldn’t even complete the back garden. Some of the strips are nicely sheared, others have merely had the long grass rolled flat so that by tomorrow it will look as if nothing’s been done, and for others only half the blade seemed to be cutting. Then it gave up the ghost entirely. It all looks very strange.

So off we trotted to the garden centre to have a look at their selection, which turned out to be none. Instead we bought two large composts bins (300 litres) that the Council are discounting, from £45 or so to £11. Because our old bins, which Ned constructed from old pallets, have completely fallen apart this was a Good Buy. If only we had some lawnmowings to put in them.

My mind is on the blink

It's been a long day. After a late night yesterday (gone midnight before I got to bed) I was awake at 5 am wondering whether Her Majesty had been bothered by the heat of the Gobi desert, and why she was there in the first place. Surely there are deserts closer to home that she might visit? After that an orchestra got entangled in the wiles of a witch who was mowing the lawns of an arboretum before the earth moved. I think I need another drink.

The Vicar of Bray

Donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey donkey.

Good night.

Where the air is good

It looks like this will be a good year for country-wine makers. As I was walking the dogs around the fields I couldn’t help but notice how large and juicy all the hedgerow fruits are. The elderberries are the biggest I’ve ever seen them, although, like the blackberries, they aren’t very sweet; obviously the summer hasn’t been sunny enough for sweetness as well as juice. In one hedge there are some strange little plums, which I’ve never seen anywhere before. They’re about the size of a cherry, and when ripe are a greeny-yellow colour, with a red flush on the sunny side. I wouldn’t say they’re exactly sweet, but they are more edible than a sloe, for example. The hedgerow pear at the top of the field has a good crop of very round yellow pears, slightly smaller than a tennis ball, and the variety of crab apples is astonishing. Some are bright green, like tiny Granny Smith’s, some are yellow, and one tree has fruit that are a startling salmon pink. Absolutely stunning. The may-trees are crimson with berries, the sloes are almost the size of damsons and the dog-roses, which in June were studded with delicately-scented flowers, are scarlet with hips. The birds’ larder is well-stocked. I think I’ll go blackberrying at the weekend, donkeys and weather permitting - there’s room in the freezer for quite a few pounds, and I love blackberry and apple crumble in the winter.

It's the way that you do it

The washing machine is in the breakfast room. It has a prominent position, almost perfectly in the way of everything. Is it over the counter and where it should be? Is it wombat. Did it arrive before 10am, and if not, did I get a phonecall before 10 to arrange a time? Ho ho ho. You’re even more naïve than I. We looked at the installation instructions, and I’m sure it’s perfectly DIY-able, given time. However tasks like that have a tendency to cause marital disharmony, so I’ve called our excellent tame plumber, who will send his boy round next Wednesday morning. I hope he’s as efficient and competent as his dad. With any luck Ned, Boy and I can get it to its final destination in the meantime.

Oh, and we’ve had another postcard! This time from ‘Sunny Beach’, Bulgaria. The message reads: “We’re wombling free. Love, Uncle B”.

A wanderin' fool or a heart at rest?

I’ve been working at building up my muscles for tomorrow’s planned washing-machine juggling event, and I’m now confident that this is going to be a disaster. I’m assured that if the delivery bloke hasn’t arrived by 10am he will phone to arrange a delivery time. We’ll see. And what’s the betting he sucks his teeth and says “Oh no, madam, I’m not insured to lift anything” then mongooses off at high speed? If it does arrive before 10, at least Ned and the Boy will be around (and hopefully awake), so perhaps I will merely be required to supervise. I’m good at that.

Five skeins of geese flew over the house this evening, heading east. Good timing; tomorrow is the autumn equinox. It must nearly be time for the clocks to go back. I’d better top up the Brussels sprouts.

CNPS: 164

That will bring us back to doh

The freezer missed out on some stocks today. As I was bowling along on my merry way to work in fairly heavy traffic, I noticed that the cars in front of me were pulling away from the verge at a certain point. As there was no sign of a cyclist it seemed a little odd, till I realised they were trying to avoid a roe deer. It was a very silly roe deer, because the side of a busy road is not a sensible place to have a little sleep. Especially a sleep in that very strange position. It was clearly freshish because it was still deer-shaped, unlike the one further on which, by the morning rush-hour, had been fairly well ironed. If there had been less traffic, and if I had been homeward bound and not have to keep it all day in the car, getting hotter and hotter, I would have been able to stop and bung it in the boot for gralloching, peeling and dismemberment, with what wouldn’t fit in the freezer fitting perfectly in the dogs.

These boots were made for walking

I hope the wildlife appreciate that the rights of ramblers to roam the land are now far more important (especially because skylarks are as yet disenfranchised) than their (the wildlife's) demands of privacy to reproduce. This Government has absolutely no idea about the natural world that lies beyond the gay bars of Islington.

On another note. Hooray! Ned's home! He's had a lovely weekend and now he's back safe with me. The Boy's home too, so the whole family's under one roof. Batten down the hatches.

CNPS: 159

The game commences

Every time I ask the Boy for a bloggery suggestion he says “Harrod”. Harrod (not his real name, but it’s what he answers to) is one of his chums, who Ned and I have just about come to terms with. Our early dealings with him caused us to refer to him as ‘The Lying Braggart’ – and it’s a shame, because he could be a nice enough lad. But he’s always been insecure enough to try to buy friends – and his parents seem to have aided and abetted him, by showering him with money instead of their time and attention. Basically he’s a nice enough lad (and even nicer now that his parents have moved to France) and he’s growing up.

We had a major run-in with him a few years ago when his mother phoned me one morning and gave me an ear-bashing for the state in which Harrod, the Boy and another chum had left their house (“there was nobody else there, he knew he wasn’t to have a party while we were away and he swears he hasn’t”). Apparently, and judging by the debris, the three of them had smoked about 300 cigarettes (the Boy and O.C. didn’t smoke) and got through two bottles of whisky, two bottles of vodka, a bottle of Southern Comfort, 9 bottles of wine, about 100 assorted cans and bottles of beer and sundry alcopops. Call me suspicious, but I’d seen the Boy and Other Chum that morning, and they were fine, and so I said I reckoned they may have had outside help. I asked the Boy where he had been on the night in question – “At Harrod’s party” he said. It took over 6 months for Harrod to get around to apologising to us for the haranguing I received from his mother. Ned subtly reminded him every time he asked him to leave our house.

But I don’t think I can blame him for tonight’s little upset. A couple of months ago I started making a small stuffed toy orang-utan to be a geocaching ‘Travel Bug’ courier. It didn’t look too bad – the face was a bit of a problem – and it was put into a plastic bag and left on the kitchen table till we got around to planning the next cache. I’ve been tidying the table in readiness for Wednesday’s upheaval and found this toy. Someone – and it has to be one of the Boy’s friends – has opened the bag and drawn a frown and Hitler hairstyle on it. I’ll have to make a new one now. I’m not best pleased. I wonder which of the little s***s it was?

Climb ev'ry mountain

Things are improving. I’ve been making sure the Black Dog gets plenty of exercise trying to keep up with me, and I think it’s tiring. Scott is being a star and helping me with ideas (keep ‘em coming – you’re brilliant!) and Stu helped me sort out a computer problem I had. And of course Omally's bony hug helped. What lovely people I have got to know.

The only other problem looming on the horizon is how to get the new washing machine, which is being delivered on Wednesday, into the kitchen. It won’t fit between the units which divide the breakfast area from the kitchen, so it’ll have to be lifted over the top. Anyone feeling particularly strong?

You saw me standing alone

Aquamarine, azure, cerulean, cobalt, cyan, indigo, monestial, navy, Prussian, royal, sky, ultramarine. Blood, cross, eyes, heaven, meanies, moodies, Mondays, hats for days, kerry, jays, birds, ridge mountains, peter, ribbon, pencil, Nile, movie, moon, oyster cult, velvet, lamp, jeans, whale, thin line, cheese.

Yep. I’ve got the blues.

PS. I apologise to Paul g0tlg for monopolising his commentification box. I enjoy a sensible, rational debate - and he's good!

Everybody knows one

I can hear the pitter-patter of paws in the distance, getting gradually closer. I know they’ll get steadily louder, and then I’ll feel the hot breath of the demon on the back of my neck. If I keep moving around a lot, I might be able to shake it off, but I can’t think of anywhere to go or anything to do to distract myself. I know this fidgetiness of old – it heralds the approach of the Black Dog of depression.

In an effort to avert it I’ll commit a shameless feat of Omally-bloggery-idea-copyingitis and tell you about my pal PJ. He was a lovely bloke, great fun to hang around with, and tremendous fun. He was tall – about 6’3” or so – and lanky, and drove a very small car which meant he was limited to how many people he could give a lift to because there was no legroom behind the driver’s seat. Anyway, a gang of us – mostly girls it has to be said – used to take fairly frequent trips up to Town to go to the theatres and art exhibitions and such. Because PJ worked in London we sometimes arranged for him to meet us and join us on our jaunt. This particular occasion we arranged to meet in the cafe at Waterloo station, which in those days had large circular windows overlooking the concourse. We were sat with our teas and coffees, engrossed in chat, when the sound of sniggering attracted our attention. When we looked up, there was PJ slowly to-ing and fro-ing past the window, arms making slow swimming movements and his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish. We scuttled out to collect him and set off for the theatre. As we ambled through the West End he said something that irritated Liz, and she stalked off in front of us. PJ apologised loudly “Daphne! Daphne! Wait! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!. All right then, I’ll have the operation!” All the passers-by stared, Liz was mortified, and the rest of us were collapsed on the pavement in hysterics.

I still chuckle over that 20 years later. I wonder what happened to PJ?

And that ain't what it takes

What on earth possesses them to do it? I refer, of course, to the enormous spiders which take it upon themselves to abseil into the bath overnight in order to squat there balefully and glare malevolently at me when I drag myself into the bathroom in the morning. Three there were today, busily covering the base of the bath with industrial-strength webs and pretending that the others didn’t exist. As usual I ignored them and hoped someone else would deal with them, but no, they’re still there. Why don’t they realise that I don’t keep flies in the bath, shin back up their ropes and go searching elsewhere? If I’m ever to have a bath again I’ll have to do my usual trick of scooping them up on the end of the backbrush and twitching them out of the window. Maybe I should mark them in some way to see if it’s the same stupid ones returning each time, or whether our house happens to be in the centre of Spiderworld.

I feel the earth move under my feet

When did the organisation of the world change? When my grandmother was young and living overseas, about the time of the first world war, the ‘Middle East’ was the Afghanistan, Persia, India region, the Far East was still China and Japan, but what is now known as the ‘Middle East’ (Palestine, Israel, Syria, etc) was the ‘Near East’. If that area is now the Middle East, what is India categorised as nowadays, and where has the Near East moved to? Belgium?

It's a sign of the times

I'm afraid I shouted at the TV tonight. There was a programme called "Who got Marc Bolan's millions?" and it opened with sycophants gushing such statements as "He was the major star of his era", "He put the 'glam' into glam rock" etc. Yuck. Puke. Well I'm sorry, but I was there. Marc Bolan and T.Rex were just A.N.Other band, and not even really that big. In a class of 30 fifteen-year-old girls, only one was a Marc Bolan fan. Come on, this was the era of Rod Stewart and Elton John, and from the glam rock point of view there was Slade, Gary Glitter (enough said), Sweet, Wizzard, Mud ... the list is huge.

I'm sorry, but the best that can be said of Marc Bolan is that he was 'of his time'. Just like Buddy Holly, his main claim to fame is that he died young, in a tragic accident, in his prime.

Death elevates us all.

We're riding along on the crest of a wave

Being a very tired person today (the burning ends of the candle seem to have met in the middle) I sat myself down with the puzzle section of the paper. Yes I know, coals to Newcastle and all that, but I like puzzles. So I had a go at the ‘fast five’ puzzle (completed within time, hooray!), tinkered with the large general knowledge crossword (Ned had started it) then moved on to the codebreaker. This is the puzzle where the letters of the alphabet are randomly numbered, the crossword squares numbered accordingly and you are given three letters to get you started. We make these at work - or rather, the computer generates them and we have to check them to make sure they are neither too easy nor impossible. Sometimes the given letters are too easy – E, R and S for example – and anyone with enough vocabulary to read a newspaper can solve it in minutes. Sometimes there is the opposite problem where the letters are very rarely used, such as J, V and Z. I was idly chatting to Ned as I worked on the puzzle (given letters I, P and V – not easy) telling him about one I was checking once with the letters B, J and M, and which I thought would be horribly difficult, until I scanned the wordlist (which also has to be checked against an ‘undesirable words’ list – nothing too obscure, nothing rude etc). There was ‘jamboree’ – a word containing all the given letters, and with the last two letters obviously being the same there was little else it could be, giving the solver four more letters straight away. Easy-peasy - and I've only seen that word appear twice in the year I've been checking those puzzles. Guess what word was in the puzzle in today’s paper. Yep, jamboree. How weird.

Living by numbers

We’re still going great guns with this Consecutive Number-Plate Spotting, by the way. Although I can see it can be a cause of stress, especially when you hit a dry spell and not see the next number for days (132 and 146 are a case in point), then as soon as you’ve ticked that one off your list you see them everywhere, the thrill when you make a spot is great. Okay, it’s very short-lived because you’re immediately on the lookout for the next one, but it’s one of Life’s little pleasures. And there are some very strange number-plates around. I thought, for instance, there are regulations about the size and font they can be in – but there are some very arty-farty ones around, with squiggles and swirls, and some with teeny-tiny lettering. Then there are the ones where people have changed the spaces between the components, so that SU 51E is squished to look like SUSIE. I was very envious when I saw the numberplate P4NTS, but the other day I saw a car with the numberplate M457 URB. Am I the only person who thinks that looks slightly rude?

CNPS: 152

Oh Mr Wu! What shall I do?

Either my bum’s getting bigger or this dilemma has abnormally close-set horns. You see, my old washing machine has, for some months, been misbehaving. It’s an ancient twin-tub, and has given sterling service for nearly 15 years, cleaning many loads of laundry every week. It is quick – three loads of washing cleaned, spun and on the line in half an hour – and economical on water because the same water is recycled for each load; whites first, coloured light soiling next, heavily soiled items last. If the water still looks vaguely liquid and not a slice of the Ankh then the dog blankets get a sluice. Then a few weeks ago the spinner started playing up. Sometimes it would spin, sometimes not. Sometimes it wouldn’t stop spinning until the machine was unplugged from the mains. Then last week the drive belt to the washer section snapped, and I was forced to do the washing by filling the tub with water as usual and sloshing it about manually. It was an excellent slimming aid, as not only did it start building my upper body it also meant I didn’t have time to eat.

But seeing as I’m no longer at home every day I decided to enter the latter half of the 20th century and treat myself to a new-fangled automatic machine. We looked at lists of various machines, bearing in mind water use, economy of power, noise, efficiency and size. I don’t want to have to rearrange the kitchen, after all. An integral tumble-dryer isn’t necessary because we were given a tumble-dryer 20 years ago and it’s lived, unused, in the garage since we moved here 15 years ago. We decided on what seems to be the most suitable make and model, checked out prices (the store that claims “We will not be beaten on price” can be beaten by £50) and placed our order, to be delivered in about a week. I may not be strong but I have stamina – I can cope for a week. Then we got an email telling us the manufacturers were out of stock and we had to wait a month. At this news I grew quite agitated, and invested a fiver in a new drive-belt which Ned duly fitted, and while he was at it he tinkered with the spinner-switch and got that working properly again.

The dilemma is, now that my faithful old machine is working again, what should I do about the new one? Should I cancel it? Should I go ahead with the purchase and store it in the garage? Should I go ahead, have it plumbed in (is that a DIY job?), and store the old one in the garage (it’s ideal for washing the filthy dog-blankets, after all)? But the drum’s getting rusty ... Decisions, decisions ...

All together now

I was sent this by one of my other chummingtons. I don't usually put anything political or contentious in here because I like everyone to be happy little pals and not get arsy, but I thought it worth posting anyway.

To be sung to the tune of

'If you're happy and you know it'

If you want to show your mettle, ban the hunt.
If you want to grasp a 'nettle', ban the hunt.
If your backbenchers are roaring
and the crime rate it is soaring;
from the coffers cash is pouring
So ban the hunt.

It makes such a catchy headline - 'ban the hunt'.
We will set an urgent deadline - ban the hunt.
Whilst the peace of our great nation,
Transport, health and education
seem to be beyond salvation
Ban the hunt.

Show that government is working - ban the hunt.
Proof that there will be no shirking - ban the hunt.
If you've lost control of law;
Saving pensions is a bore
and you can't drum up a war
Then ban the hunt.

Just to show we earn our wages - ban the hunt.
Been discussing this for ages - 'ban the hunt'.
Not enough determination
to get tough on immigration
But we plead in mitigation
"Ban the hunt".

Lock your livestock up in boxes - ban the hunt.
'Cos you cant be cruel to foxes - (ban the hunt).
When they raid and maim and loot
(Are you SURE? - they look so cute)
You can poison trap and shoot
'em. Ban the hunt.

If you need an easy target, ban the hunt.
Cant control the Common Market - ban the hunt.
If your feeble leadership
Should be showing signs of slip
and you feel you've lost your grip
Then ban the hunt.

No Comments please. I realise this is a topic likely to cause ill-feeling, but it is my Blog for my views. For this reason, all comments on this post, whether positive, negative or neutral will be removed. Thank you.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings

When I was doing the Post Office run for work today (although as it turned out I went too soon, because Big Boss discovered during the afternoon that he had packaged the wrong disks and had to email in apology and burn new ones and re-post the updated ones) I had to walk through the park, where there is a columnar poster-board where all the adverts for upcoming events are posted. Hooray! There’s going to be a Singalonga Sound of Music next month – for one night only! Oh poo. It’s a Thursday night, when Ned’s working. I don’t want to go on my own, and the Boy would rather stick pins in his eyes than accompany me. I’ve got a great costume in mind too – I think I’ve got enough brown paper and string ...

Let it fly in the breeze

How do they do it? No matter how many times a day the dogs are groomed, first with their rubber brush to loosen the dead hair and massage the skin, then with a bristle brush to remove the handfuls of whiteness and finally a polish with a chamois leather, I can never get them to reach a state of groomedness. You give the dog a stroke, and there’s still more loose hair. And it gets everywhere. I make sure to groom the dogs in the garden, because handfuls of the stuff come out and lie on the lawn until either I mow it and it goes in the compost or all the little birdies steal it as nest-lining material. All hail James Dyson – the bloke who has saved the sanity of dalmatian owners everywhere.

Judging by the amount they shed you’d think that after a fortnight they’d be bald, but no, there’s plenty more where that came from; and this ability to regenerate hair lasts all their lives – even very elderly geriatric dogs have a good thick coat. The scientist who manages to isolate the magic ingredient that causes this marvellous hair-regenerational ability will be worth squillions. Just think – no more ghastly comb-overs by desperate men!

Like a circle in a spiral

When I was looking at the amazing satellite photos on ScottJ's blog about Hurricane Frances, and hoping that the damage to people, property and wildlife won’t be too severe, I noticed the similarity between hurricanes and the universe. (It was also very late at night and I was tired and somewhat emotional.) The storm spins round and around a central core, and the bits on the outside are whipping along at incredible speed. They say the galaxy is like that – a spiral circling around a central core, with our little solar system on the outer edge clinging on for dear life.

My best summing (and google) assures me that the UK is rotating at about 600 miles an hour (you multiply the cosine of your latitude with the speed at the equator - 1000 mph. I almost know what that means), and rotating around the Sun at about 67,000 miles per hour. So if you combine that with being whirled around the centre of the galaxy at about 559,000 miles an hour, is it any wonder I feel so tired?

Saturday knight's all right for fighting

Tonight, on and off, because I kept having to go and watch how Frances was approaching the US, I was mostly watching a fillum called "A Knight's Tale". No, not the Chaucer story (he was a relation, but I shan't go into that now), but terrific entertainment. It was an English version of a Hollywood version of the Middle Ages, but what the heck - it's our history and we'll abuse it how we like. Historically it seemed to condense 300 years into about 20, judging by the styles of armour (human and horse), fashion (ditto) etc, but it managed to rise above that, even if the people were all far too clean. Incidental music included Thin Lizzy's 'The Boys are back in Town' and the language used was definitely late 20th century English. The jousting scenes were great, as were the tactical discussions ("How would you beat him?" "With a big stick. While he slept.").

Yeah okay, the film was rubbish (just shows what the alternatives were like). But it made both of us laugh out loud, which nowadays is no bad thing. And phwooaaarr! There was so much male crumpet - it was almost my 'Knights in White Satin'!

Picture this

We think we've been burgled. When we went on our last booze-cruise we brought back masses and masses of beer to last for ages, but somehow the stocks have been vanishing at a remarkable rate. Well, we've remarked on it, so that makes it remarkable in my book. (It's a very strange book. Odd pictures.) Anyway that means we have to do a repeat journey; luckily it should have been long enough ago for C&E not to be suspicious and dismantle our car and seize our purchases on our return, being under the false impression that only smugglers can get through that much alcohol so quickly. Think on't. If we were smugglers, would we have such a rubbish car? I rest my case.

Right, so another shopping trip is in the offing. Ned was checking ferry prices on the net then suddenly remembered to check his passport. It expires tomorrow. Whoops! Off to the photo booth tomorrow. That should be a laugh - mind you, they do say that if you actually look like your passport photo, you're not well enough to travel.

They did the Monster Mash

It was a good day for gardening today, so I dug the remaining few rows of potatoes. The last five plants yielded 2 stone of spuds. Not bad, eh? I have no idea what variety they are, because it’s been several years since we last bought seed potatoes. Since then we’ve just kept replanting the ones that are too small to be eaten. And are potato fruits fertile? You know, those poisonous green tomato-looking things they produce? They must make fruit for a reason, after all. Can I just ignore them and dig the soil over, or will they grow into potato plants next year? We’ve noticed the slugs like some varieties more than others (spuds with pink eyes (King Edwards? Maris will know) seem especially vulnerable) but on the whole they’ve done all right. But they do grow into some strange shapes sometimes. I’m not sure which way up is best for this photo – are they boggle-eyed little aliens, or something ruder ...


This way up? 

Beattie’s leg’s improving slightly. The creams I’ve been smearing on and the tablets I’ve been shoving down her neck (possibly vice versa in the small hours) seem to be helping her. She was very good about it overnight, and we all got some sleep. People may think I’m daft taking so much care over what appears trivial, but if these lick injuries are neglected they can result in months of vet treatment (unpleasant for the animal and very expensive for the owner!) and have been known to require amputation, with the worst-case scenario being, depending on their location, even death. I’m not prepared to risk that, so I’ll carry on doing what I do best. Caring.

The postcard war continues! Another one arrived today – from Ibiza, simply saying “From 3 Ibiza babes!” We’ve not heard any news on whether the retaliation is working ...

When I need you

A pinch and a punch for the first of the month – and no returns!

Today has mainly been spent trying to prevent Beattie eating herself. In the past when we’ve all been away we’ve either taken the dogs down to stay with my mother (until her dog and one of ours decided they hated each other) or got house-sitters in. The sitters have been excellent, and meant that not only could the dogs stay in their own home, the house was occupied (and so guarded) as well. And for roughly the same price as kennelling four dogs – provided you can even find a kennel that has space for four all in together. Yes, it’s very odd, and not entirely pleasant, having strangers living in your house, but they look after it well, and the last one not only mowed the lawn for us, she also picked and froze the vegetables from the garden for us, so they weren’t wasted.

Anyway, when we went away last we left the dogs and homestead in the novice hands of the Boy. The dogs were fed and walked (I know that because a) the neighbours told us and b) sometimes when I popped back I walked them myself), but obviously they knew things weren’t quite right. Beattie is a very intense soul, who always tries her very very best to get everything right, and is filled with apologies if anything goes wrong – she gets upset if one of the others gets told off, let alone her. So, just as an unsettled child will suck its thumb in times of stress, she has the common doggy habit of licking a front leg. Till it bleeds. Then, because it is bleeding and sore, their natural instinct is to lick it to make it better. Of course, no matter how persistently they lick it doesn’t heal – a bit like scrubbing hands clean with a wire brush; you can never get rid of all the blood. This morning when I came downstairs I was greeted by Beattie, front leg all gory. Silly dog. She’s fine when I’m near; the problem arises when she’s bored. So guess where it looks like I’ll be sleeping for the next few nights – yep, under the kitchen table with her. (Taking her upstairs wouldn’t help – she knows they’re not allowed up there, so that would stress her more.) I don’t think the Boy considered their mental health as well as their physical health. It’s all very well being loved, but it would be nice to not be quite so indispensable.

Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied

After the Boy’s failed attempt to wash his hair when he got back from Reading – he fell asleep in the bath and forgot he hadn’t done it – he tried again today. He had more luck getting it clean, but the brush broke when he and his girlfriend tried to get the tangles out. For some reason he was surprised that it got knotted after a week with no attention, though my oft-repeated suggestion that he brush or comb it every day has always been scorned. He’s informed me that he is so fed up with it that he is going to get it cut. I’ve asked him to save me a ringlet.

(Thanks Scott!)

And we dance to the masochism tango

With my arms aching so much they kept waking me last night, why did all today’s household tasks involve using them? Lawnmowing, ironing, pushing a shopping trolley, weeding … I repeat, ow, ow, ow.

PS. I forgot to say yesterday that I saw two kingfishers, the first I've seen since I was a little girl of 4 years old. It made it all worthwhile. :)

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