Heroes and villains

When I was a child we were brought up hearing tales of heroes and explorers, people such as Robert Scott and Neil Armstrong; Charles Lindbergh and the Wright brothers; Sir Edmund Hillary and Sir Roger Bannister (ooh, both knighted for their achievements); Donald Campbell and nowadays Richard Noble; innovators and daredevils who struggled, strived, risked everything, sometimes even including their lives, for the sake of a dream, to be the first, the fastest, the best. In those days this was a Good Thing and inspired the rest of us to do our utmost to get the most out of our short lives. Achievements didn’t all need to be earth-shattering to be of value – what was important that you’d had a dream and tried to attain it. You didn’t even need to succeed (Scott was the prime example), but that was the icing on the cake.

So what’s gone wrong with so many of the people of this country, that now they detest success? Any achievement has to be belittled and sneered at; compared against another person’s efforts and invariably found wanting for not being ‘worthy’ enough (who judges ‘worthiness’ anyway?). Where’s the delight and celebration? Why is success a dirty word? Why knock people – is it jealousy? Are people really so shallow, petty and small-minded that they can’t admire someone for achieving? Is it because they’re too afraid to get off their arses and have a go themselves? You hear the whinges “Well of course he/she’s only done that because of his/her background”. Even if it were true (which it certainly isn’t in Ellen MacArthur’s case) why would the achievements of ‘poor’ people of any more value than those of wealthier ones? Do the best surgeons have to come from slums? Chips on shoulders showing there, methinks!

Paula Radcliffe suffered from the ‘build me up/knock me down’ syndrome at the Athens Olympics, when she ‘failed to deliver’ what the press and pundits had promised. It was noticeable that many of her fierciest vilifiers wouldn’t have been able to run for a bus, let alone a marathon. The knockers also denigrate Ellen’s feat by asking what use it is to Mankind. It shows the rest of us what we could also achieve if we really want to. Her massive achievement stands to inspire everyone else to take anther small step towards their own personal goals. What would the world be like if Martin Luther King hadn’t had hisdream?

Is it the publicity surrounding this record that these mean-spirited people resent? Then they should exercise their freedom of choice and not buy the papers or watch the News. So what if sailing single-handed around the world hasn’t rid the world of evil? If it’s inspired even one person to try to step out of ‘their place’ then that in itself is laudable, and that person might be the first of their family to carry on learning and perhaps find that cure for cancer. Who knows?

Or should we all wallow in the mire of second-rate mediocrity, sniping at people who dare to push the envelope? It’s so much easier than reaching for the stars.

Fings ain't wot they used ter be

Well, it's taken a while, and not inconsiderable expense, but we're back, sort of. There's still umpteen programs to be reinstalled, but we're getting there. I think. Normal service is not yet completely resumed though. Can anyone remember what sites we had in Faves?

Additional: crumbs, it's Pancake Day! Luckily I have eggs, flour, sugar and lemon juice in stock. I'll never forget our first Pancake day as a couple. Ned decided he was going to make them, and had a plate under the grill to keep them warm as he made them. By the time he'd made the fourth he was getting confident, and reached under the grill, wearing an oven glove of course, to get the plate out. Unfortunately that's when the glove touched the element and burst into flames so Ned whisked it off his hand, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it. Crisis over, he nonchalantly removed the redhot plate from under the grill, without an oven glove, burnt his fingers and dropped the plate, and pancakes, onto the floor as well. Silly pancake t****r.

When will I see you again?

*gibbers* Sucks thumb and rocks to and fro. *whimpers*

Sick and broken

(backdated)

My comp has been infected and is still bustificated despite the very best offices of His Majesty and other kind and helpful chums. It's gone to the doctor. Why do wombatting mongoosing hippopotami think it's big and clever?

PS. Is anyone looking after the Donkey?

If you don't know how to do it

Now there's a sight you don't see very often. It's not unheard of for people to be walking down the road chatting loudly to themselves - even less unusual in these modern times of hands-free mobiles, or indeed mobiles at all - but I've never before seen someone being dragged by an invisible dog at the same time.

Additional bloggery: I blame Ned. We have a jar of cayenne pepper. So I assume the other, unmarked jar of red powder is paprika. No it isn't - it's more cayenne. Supper is going to hurt. Twice.

I'll come bouncing back to you

As I drove into Banbury today, ostensibly to go to Tesco to get the stuff I forgot yesterday, but today actually forgetting to go to Tesco at all, I slowed down to see what lickle animal was playing chicken in the road. It was a Common Vole (no offence, it may have been extremely well-bred with a pedigree tracing its ancestry back to the time of the Norman Conquest but it's still common), which I watched going scamper scamper scamper across in front of me. In fact it was scampering so very fast that when it got to the other side it rebounded off the kerb blap.

From a distance

D'you know, at a certain angle and in particular lighting, someone I know bears a remarkable resemblance to the Czar of Russia? Firelight and the Abbot may have had an influence.

My four-legged friend

Clover (aged 12) had her first wibble today. Often when dogs get elderly they develop Vestibular Syndrome, which is a problem in the inner ear causing their sense of balance to be thrown out of the window. It's generally non-fatal, but the longterm effects can be similar to that of a stroke in humans. Our old girl Polly was 15 when she got a really bad sudden attack of it, when she kept falling over and desperately tried to clutch the floor to stop it whirling. Sadly because she was generally frail it was the end of her. :( Clover's attacks this morning weren't nearly that bad, but she obviously felt as though she was aboard a storm-tossed ship instead of on a steady kitchen floor. A foretaste of what's to come. I was worried about her all day, but Ned says she coped happily on her 3-mile walk this morning; so that's a relief.

Anyway, at work I was searching the net for downloadable images of laundry instructions (don't ask!) and I was cheered to find this. Hot on its heels came this.

I saw you, I saw you

At last the wind has dropped, the fog and frost cleared and the temperature risen slightly. So I decided to take the opportunity to hack my way into what I optimistically call the front garden. The way brambles had started to catch at my legs every time I approached the front door had begun to annoy me, so out came the garden fork and the single perished Marigold (I hoped for gardening gloves for Christmas but Santa forgot them) and started the assault.

It went fairly well, really. I’ve removed most of the brambles, pruned the roses, dug out some of the ancient valerian that was threatening to undermine the foundations and made a teeny dent on the amount of ground elder roots that are trying to replace the soil. After a while Ned came out to help by pruning back the dead wood on a winter-flowering viburnum we moved last spring. I’d thought we’d killed it completely, but this winter a few buds appeared on a branch, and these have opened into scented blossoms. So hurrah! Not quite dead then! Ned set to work with secateurs and pruning saw, carefully scratching the bark of each branch before he cut to make sure he only took out the dead wood. It all went swimmingly with the dead branches being tracked down and removed at ground level. As he was tidying up the prunings I noticed something odd about one branch he’d taken out. It was the one with the flowers.

It stopped, short

Certain sidelines look as though they might possibly, one day, in the fullness of time achieve, to a certain extent, within limitations, fruition. Don't hold your breath though. Blue isn't an attractive facial hue.

Inside out

Enlurgification is horrid. That is all.

La la la la I'm not listening

No I won't. I simply won't go there. It'd just rebuild the pressure that nearly made my sanity go pop last autumn. So no. No. No no no. So there.

Those nice young men, in their clean white coats

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. We popped over to see if there had been a Dressing-Up Game, and if so, who it had been and whether Omally had won it without wearing gloves. I've never seen anything as surreal as Paul's body back-to-front on his legs. I'm concerned that Mr Hedgehog has ready access to a train set; Luggo's cat appeared to be on the verge of hysteria, and then we wondered why Simon had sellotaped his nose. Just as well his parents were out. Thank heavens he wasn't still at the hotel. Excellent stuff!

A jungle VIP

Oops! I think getting involved watching that fillum on the TV tonight ("The Others") might have been a mistake. I found it gripping, and the Boy and I sat with our suppers going cold, forks suspended 'twixt plate and mouth, and had the little hairs standing up on the backs of our necks.

Which should have reminded me that I was in the middle of hennaing my hair, and I may inadvertently have left it on too long. 'Natural hair colour' it says on the packet. And if I were an orangutan I'm sure it would be natural.

It makes the world go round

A cheque arrived today in the post, so now I have to decide how best to use it. Should I open a new savings account, or put a deposit on a new car, or simply go out and have a good time with it? After all, it's not every day you get richer by the princely sum of 14p.

Get on your nerves, get on your nerves

Last night I was going to blog all about our visit to the Birmingham Hippodrome to see the panto. Usually we go before Christmas but that wasn’t possible this season, and going after the New Year seems very strange. This year it was Jack and the Beanstalk starring Joe Pasquale, fresh from his adventures in I’m A Celeb etc. Ned had a bet on with a pal at work for the number of times ‘Jacobs’ were mentioned. Pal-at-work reckoned it would be 20+. As it turned out, it was once. So Ned wins – hurrah! As usual the production was excellent, and being live theatre it more than once strayed from the script resulting in the ‘corpsing’ of several of the cast and much hilarity from the audience.

But I didn’t blog it last night because when we got home it appeared the Boy had killed the computer; the on/off button was completely dysfunctional. I promptly started to hyperventilate at the thought of being Internet-free till we could get a little man in to mendify it, and had to have several medicinal restorative beers to enable me to sleep soundly. However the IT-fairies must have visited during the night, because when we hopefully tried it this morning it fired up in its usual noisy fashion. Hurrah again!

The rest of the day was a failure though, and has left us feeling very depressed and disheartened having had a run-in with a landowner when we were caching, even though we didn’t stray from the public footpaths at all (OS maps and waymark arrows backed us up, but he wasn’t having any of it). And it was grey and drizzly and miserable, and we didn’t see Jeremy Clarkson’s Lightning or number 253 either. So we came home feeling glum.

Don’t ask forever

I saw a very sad sight today; one which made me angry too. A woman was walking along the road with her elderly mongrel dog following on behind. The dog was having a lot of difficulty walking, not only because of her wobbly back legs, but also a large internal tumour which had pushed the ribs behind her left shoulder way out of place. The owner was walking quite fast, and was getting annoyed at having to keep stopping and waiting for the dog to catch up. I’ve got a soft spot for elderly animals and I know they can have a great quality of life, even if it’s done at a much slower pace than it used to be in their youth (just like ourselves), but this poor old soul was suffering – you could see it in her expression. It’s hard to know when to let go of your old friend, but I go by my vet’s advice that it’s “better a week too early than a day too late.” This poor old girl had definitely been made to wait too long.

Ylloh fo shguob htiw llah eht kced

Epiphany, and the dogs are very pleased that it’s Twelfth Night, the Last Day of Christmas, and the decorations have come down. The only place for the tree if it’s to be kept reasonably safe from being knocked over or peed on on a regular basis is on the chest under the bay window in the sitting-room. Unfortunately this is the only furniture the boys are usually allowed on, and their favourite place for swearing at callers at the front door. A tree in this position also blocks out some 80% of the light coming in through the window leaving us groping around in forest-gloom in the middle of the day.

But now it’s down, and out in the garden ready for replanting in the Scrooge-like hope that it’ll survive till next Christmas to be uprooted once more. Judging by the trail of needles left as I manoeuvred it out of the house, I’m not holding out any great hopes. The decorations are all packed away in the boxes to be put up in the loft next time anyone goes up (hopefully before summer), and the cards un-blutakked from the wall. Once I’ve managed to vacuum up all the shed needles so that we don’t get stabbed in the foot Genie Towers will be back to what passes for normality. Probably.

The thunder of stampeding rhinos

Yesterday evening I noticed that a new cache had been planted very close to home, and I wondered whether to go out in the dark by myself and see if I could get it. But we’re a team, so when Ned phoned from work to say goodnight I told him about it and he promised to come home straight away in the morning. So we set off hunting shortly after 8 in the nearly-frosty morning and managed to bag our third First-to-Find! It’s as well I didn’t go out in the dark – I’d have sunk without trace in a particular part of the path! I know it’s verging on the obsessive to be so keen, but it was so close to home (just over three miles) as to be ‘our’ territory.

A successful number-plate spotting session was had when I went to Banbury to buy meat for the dogs, as I bagged 248, 249 and 250. It certainly helps that, between us, we’re on the road for about 4 hours a day, and it’s ordinary road, not motorway, so we can see the numberplates coming towards us easily. We’re a quarter of the way there!

Everybody's gone surfin'

A pub discussion about potato varieties lead to the discovery of The Idler.

See if you can find out what gorillas eat (hint: see 'Unfinished jokes').

Happy New Year, everyone! :D

Didn't we have a lovely time?

Well, I don’t know about you, but we thoroughly enjoyed the Mongers’ Meet. I was a little concerned in the several weeks’ run-up that it might be a total debacle, but consensus is that I can safely be relied upon when breweries (okay, pubs then) and piss-ups need arranging in whatever order. So that’s good. Loads and loads of refreshments were partaken of, games played and zillions of photos taken – sadly, all of mine are complete rubbish.

But it was a Good Do; I thoroughly enjoyed meeting more chatroom loonies inhabitants (especially the Monster, who undoubtedly stole the show). The absentees were missed, though Stu seems to have gone to extreme measures to avoid mixing with us! Just kidding – hope you’re feeling more human now.

Then everybody started drifting homewards, though the King of Swede and his Maritime Minion Chauffeur extended their Midland tour with a night enjoying the dubious pleasures at Genie Towers (sorry I forgot about the pudding, chaps!). A late breakfast today was followed by a quick cache (while Ned and I waited in the pub garden, giggling at an overheard argument about today’s date. One woman’s Christmas has obviously been too much for her, and the realisation that her New Year’s Party is tomorrow night and not the night after was proving very traumatic.)

After that we had a slight problem trying to find a nice pub that hadn’t shut for the afternoon, and finally ended up back at the Wobbly Wheel, where the car keys were slung in my direction and Ned and Mally tucked away the beer and got gigglier and pinker in the cheeks than usual. (Hint to all those of a sensitive disposition: if Mal goes to find cocktail sticks, make your excuses and leave!) I guess the Merman’s travelling companion was less than chatty on the way home!

When’s the next get-together then?

Everybody's having fun

Wrapped by a man ... 

My brother wrapped that ^^. D'you know what it is yet?

Fa la la la la, la la la laaaa

We’ve decked our hall with boughs of holly (and fir), and the way the holly bites at your hands as you go upstairs means I suspect it may be repruned well before Twelfth Night. The cards are artfully arranged and the tree’s been brought in from its cage in the garden, which is supposed to protect it from the attentions of the dogs. Unfortunately they seem to be wising up to this, because as the tree warmed up in the sitting room there wasn’t only the usual exciting piny smell, but there was also an underlying hint of pee …

Anyway, a few drops of Advent oil in a burner seems to have sorted that minor hiccup and now the tree’s either partially or fully dressed, depending on whether we decide to stick with a minimalist look or throw caution to the winds and bung on the lot.

The cards have been distributed around the village (including, sadly, a condolence card to a dear neighbour whose wife died yesterday – please send up a thought for them); the gammon for tonight is simmering, tomorrow’s goose is thawed, the pudding is made, along with more mince pies, and the wine is mulling. I know where all the veg are, but I won’t start those till tomorrow. The presents are wrapped and soon to be placed around the tree. Then I think it’ll be time to make a start on the hangover.

So a merry Christmas, everyone. Love to you all from Genie Towers. Have a wonderful time.

All together now

Click on the reindeer and join in!

You've got a friend

You know who you are. You know where I am if you need to unload. {{{{hug}}}}

Do you hear what I hear?

Okay then, here's a little puzzle to keep you all off the streets for a while! They're all songs with a festive theme. How many do you know?

1. OIRDC
2. WSWTFBN
3. JB
4. SN
5. OLTOB
6. AIWFCIAB
7. LD
8. WC
9. DDMOH
10. CROAOF
11. WACIB
12. DTH
13. FTS
14. HTHAS
15. JTTW
16. ICUTMC
17. TFN
18. OCAYF
19. RTRNR
20. TTDOC
21. GKW
22. GRYMG
23. THATI
24. TCC
25. WTKOOA
26. AFTROG
27. WW
28. ISMKSC
29. JBR
30. TLDB
31. MBC
32. OCT
33. WWYAMC
34. IWICBCED
35. OCOCE
36. WITA
37. ISTS
38. LIS
39. RATCT
40. AWGMOO
41. SCICTT
42. ITBM
43. DTKIC
44. MXE
45. LC
46. SB
47. TVMHABB
48. SATWS
49. G
50. AIAM
51. CTYE
52. MAW
53. HWCAW
54. DHFC
55. ASCT
56. IDJ
57. LTC
58. LSN
59. IBIFC
60. AFONY

Who do boys like they're girls

On TV recently, because I suppose it’s seasonal, the travel programmes (and a cookery programme!) have been to Northern Scandinavia to feature reindeer. I’ve learned that while both male and female reindeer grow antlers in the summer each year, male reindeer drop their antlers at the beginning of winter, usually late November to mid-December. Female reindeer retain their antlers till after they give birth in the spring. Therefore, according to every historical rendition depicting Santa's reindeer, every single one of them, from Rudolph to Blitzen, had to be a girl. Or a cervine cross-dresser.

Home again, 'cross the sea

A busy old day today. Ned’s alarm went off at stupid o’clock so that he could drive to Dover to do a booze-cruise. He left the house at 4am, forgetting to take the mobile so I have no idea where he is, and I only managed to doze from then till my alarm went off earlier than usual because of having to walk the dogs before I left for work. Of course it was pouring with rain and we all got thoroughly drenched, and by the time we got back it was nearly half past eight, and time to see if the Boy had managed to get up in time to be at work for 8am. No he hadn’t, so a certain tenseness reigned while he crashed about, slamming doors and cursing at the Unfairness of Life. I quietly ate breakfast and let him get on with it.

The dogs were very pleased to see me when I got home – they’re hardly ever left all day, and they’d been awfully good. We made sure that when I got my job that if I was at work Ned would be home, and vice versa, because no dog should be left for long hours. (A general rule of thumb is not to leave them longer than it takes a person to need the loo.) But there was no mess, no destruction through boredom – just ecstasy at having human company again. They’re wonderful – no matter how rotten your day’s been, or how rubbish you look, they don’t care. Non-judgemental love can massage the soul.

Oh, and thank you, Carol, for Raffy (aka Mr Snooty)!

If I had a hammer

Actually, I think I have. And it's inside my head, pounding away at the back of my left eye. The first migraine of the festive season. Oh joy.

The winner takes it all

What a nice day it’s been! Although we’d intended to spend the day making Christmas puddings (one for this year, one for next) we changed our minds and instead did a short quest of three caches. They made a pleasant morning out; one was a particularly nice location that I’d like to go back to in the summer when the house and gardens are fully open and there isn’t such a bracing breeze. It was slightly disappointing that the Jeep Travel Bug that was supposed to be in the final cache had been taken the day before but not logged out (maybe they haven’t had access to a computer since), and when the mobile in my backpack rang as we were feigning invisibility past a bull the adrenalin levels shot sky-high.

It was a bit too late for a pub lunch after that, but BK filled a hole before we toodled homewards. I walked the dogs then we made a pot of tea while I perused the Net then went to log our finds. What’s this? A new multicache posted while we were out? Local and unfound? Slippers and teacups were discarded, we leapt back into the car (it’s not a very environmentally friendly hobby is it?) and sped back the way we’d come.

We pulled into the recommended parking place at dusk; horrors! Two other cars were there already! Had we been beaten? Who else would be bonkers enough to be roaming in the gloaming? Never mind, we were here now, so onward. We followed the stages, wondering whether every person we passed had beaten us to it, and got the final co-ordinates. And we were First to Find! Our first ever FTF! Woo, yay, and yippety-yip! I know, it’s tragic that such a little thing is so exciting, but it gave us a thrill.

I told you once

As I was lying dozing this morning, listening to Brian Mathew and Sounds of the Sixties, I heard a very familiar tune being played. But I knew full well the tune I was thinking of was a fairly recent release, and I hadn’t known it was a cover version. The track being played was the Andrew Oldman Orchestra performing a slow instrumental version of the Rolling Stones’ ‘The Last Time’. To my sleepy brain it sounded identical to the music on The Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’.

A little judicious googling tells me that they were both written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. I would never have thought the two songs had the same melody. Just shows what a change of tempo can do.

Things can only get better

(The following blog entry is shamelessly plagiarised because it made me laugh!)

When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mum was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where.

More stress.

Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.

So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hidden the booze, and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas tree. The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?"

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.

How much is that doggy?

A few weeks ago Ned realised that we ought to do a booze-cruise soon, to stock up for Christmas. To his horror he discovered his passport had expired, so I got him an application form from the Post Office, and we spent a merry morning trying to find a photo booth where the resulting mugshot failed to make him resemble an elderly serial killer. But at last we got a tolerable result, whereupon Ned made a mistake filling the form.

I got a replacement form, which was put onto the kitchen table and immediately lost. Meanwhile, Christmas was getting closer. I decided to blitz the kitchen, my energy levels and enthusiasm lasted long enough to disinter the application, so last weekend he duly completed it and took it into the Post Office for checking and sending off on Monday morning.

Much to our astonishment the shiny new passport (What happened to the 'European Community'? It now says 'European Union' – pah!) arrived back today. I reckon to be fast-tracked like that he must have had an affair with David Blunkett’s guide dog.

I think I am, I know I am

I don't know what it is, but I feel very very strange at the moment. It's a sort of fluttery, light feeling. After several weeks I've stopped feeling physically unwell. There's no sign of the Black Dog, no matter where or how thoroughly I look. Everything is the same on the domestic front as it has been since time immemorial, but even so this weirdness persists. There's something very odd going on.

Ooh, I've had a recollection! Now I think I remember this feeling, and I can recall its name.

It's called Happiness. Hurrah! :)

Red hot chilli peppers?

Lunch was quite rubbish really, which was a surprise seeing that Leamington has a fairly high Asian population, and most of the curry houses are excellent. But this one was very bland – the food tasted mainly of salt and very little of spices. I think they must be catering for the sort of customer who thinks even the use of pepper is pushing the boat out. But I mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth – it was free, and we got the afternoon off as well.

Tomorrow the Boy’s Christmas present is being delivered. I’m not sure where we’re going to hide it.

Keep on running

I don't usually go in to work on Wednesdays, but tomorrow I'm making an exception because we're having the company Christmas lunch (paid for by the company). Usually it's held on the last day before the seasonal shutdown (which is extra to annual holiday) but because Big Boss is going to Oz for a month starting on Friday it was decided to have it early. His absence has caused a flurry of activity in our office, because he's the only one who knows how to upload stuff onto the website, so we've been trying to get as far ahead of ourselves as possible to hopefully avert disasters. Today we have at least been taught how to generate puzzles so with luck we shouldn't be scraping the barrel by his return. To be on the safe side we've made notes of Boss's mobile number and server-manager's mobile ....

Anyway we're off for a curry at lunchtime tomorrow. Unfortunately Biggest Boss won't be able to be there, and he's the one with the Company credit card. I predict that towards the end of pudding people will start making their excuses and legging it.

Clap your hands in the air

Our bedroom telephone extension is now functioning again! Conversation with certain individuals who came up with innovative suggestions has resulted in my no longer having to thunder downstairs starkers in the middle of the night to answer the phone before the dogs start howling like a pack of timber wolves summoning the leader to their midst. By using pure logic (and a touch guesswork combined with hope and bluff) my chum decided which coloured wire should be attached to which terminal, thus removing the necessity for me to try all possible combinations in turn (no I haven’t worked out the number of options, and I have no intention of doing so).

It pains me deeply to say this, and it goes against almost everything I’ve held true in the past, but sometimes a person has to bite their lips, grit their teeth (quite challenging to do simultaneously and at the same time) and come out with an unpalatable, and almost entirely unbelievable statement. So I beg you all, take a large swig of something restorative, brace yourselves and take it on the chin: Simon is great.

*has large mouthful of raw spirit to rinse mouth*

Oh why can’t we talk again?

Botherbotherbotherbotherdamn! Sometimes I surprise even myself with my downright stupidity. I think I’ve even out-stupided Simon this time, which I feel is a remarkable achievement. A couple of days ago our phone started playing up, and the Internet kept crashing. We attributed this to the BT engineers who were tinkering in the green boxes to coax a broadband facility to the village. When the phone went completely dead I mobiled BT to see what was happening, and they ran a line check and said it was fine. So we unplugged all the umpteen connections and checked the linebox. That was working, so it was a fault within the house – our responsibility. By a process of elimination we found that everything worked fine until we plugged in the extension line to our bedroom; that killed the lot. Bugger. The line for that runs under the floorboards upstairs and we didn’t want to take up the carpet and boards to replace it. So I’ve bought a new lead which will run in an unsightly way up the wall, past the banisters, around the skirting board, over doorframes, down the other side and through the bedroom wall. So I’ve unscrewed the box, disconnected the cable and pulled it almost all out. There’s a short length jammed in the ceiling of the understairs cupboard but I can live with that. Anyway, I’ve spent several hours this evening poking the new cable through random holes in the walls, tacking it to any available bits of woodwork and finally connected the wires to the terminals (possibly not the right ones because the colours of the actual wires are different to those of the instructions) in the box on the bedroom wall.

It still doesn’t work. Turns out it’s the 50p multisocket in the kitchen that’s faulty.

Wider still and wider

Ooooh! Broadband has arrived in the village! Now all we have to do is work our way around the minefield of forms and sign up with our chosen supplier of such delights. But how on earth do we find out if our computer has got all the right sort of stuff, or whether all the extra oomph will make it go poof?

Blue is the colour

Ned is quite, quite mad. Yesterday he got up at stupid o’clock and set off with his equally loony chums to Snowdonia, to go for a walk. The roads were still sheet-ice when I got up several hours later but still before daylight to take the dogs out before work. As usual I assumed that no news was good news, and the fact that I hadn’t been phoned from an A&E department somewhere on the Welsh border they had probably arrived safely. Luckily I was right, and when he phoned this morning he was delighted to discover that he and I make a really good team. Because I’m still on the ABs I haven’t had a drop of the hard stuff since last Friday, so to wake up with a hangover was a tad annoying. But apparently it’s all right – Ned was very, very drunk last night (ooh, surprise) but feels fine, so I must be taking his punishment. What a lovely wife I am. He’d had a nice day yesterday; they climbed Snowdon and it was very cold. But disappointingly they didn’t have any woad on, which is after all traditional when you get snowed on on Snowdon.

Should I cool it or should I blow?

A couple of weeks ago, when things were getting very much out of control, I told the boss (not Big Boss, just the intermediary) that things weren’t going too well, and if I hadn’t managed to get things into better balance by the end of the month I was going to resign. That was accepted, and things started improving as a result of my reprioritisationing, which partly consisted of compartmentalising my life: no thinking of Home when at work, and no thinking of Work when at home. Then this week I’ve been off poorly, as you know, so I phoned in on Monday to explain that I was going to see another doctor, certainly wouldn’t be in that day, probably not Tuesday either but would aim for Friday (those being the only days I work there). That was fine. I phoned in again on Tuesday morning, saying that the New Doctor had thought it unlikely I’d be fit before next week, but that I was still hoping to get in on Friday anyway.

“Oh dear, I’d hoped you would be in today. I’m off on Friday, and on holiday all next week, and then it’s the time you said you’d make your decision. I wanted to talk to you today to find out what you thought the decision was going to be.”

Well I’m sorry, but I think a hurried decision due to pressure like that is as likely to be wrong as right, so I’m sticking to my guns. If I could see into the future and knew how things would be going in a fortnight’s time there’d be no problem. But I can’t, I don’t, and so I won’t be rushed. But I feel all stressed again, because I’m at Home, thinking about work, which is what the problem was in the first place.

Wee'll meet again

We’ve had better weekends. Friday night was perfectly fine; then when I went to the lav last thing before bed I thought I was passing battery acid. It smarted just a tad. But I still felt as though I needed to go. And so it’s gone on since. Saturday morning, having been up to the loo every 15 minutes or so, I started getting washed but had to lie on the bathroom floor before I passed out. By this time it was light and I could see what I was passing (I don’t turn on lights at night) and I know what colour urine is meant to be. Red isn’t it. So I made an appointment with the out of hours doctor at A&E and spent a fun time there in the afternoon. Result – one nasty infection. So I was given some lovely antibiotics which made me nauseous and gave me stomach cramps as well, so I had to also take the high-strength painkillers I was given when I had my foot operated on a while back. By this morning there was no improvement so I’ve seen another doctor and got some new ABs, as it seems I’m resistant to the ones that work best on these things. It’s really really horrible. All the time I feel like I’ve had a gallon of water and not been to the loo for 5 hours. Even when I’ve just been, I’m still bursting. Not fun. And every time I go, no matter how fruitless, I have to drink a glass of water or cranberry juice (yuck!). Ned's been a star, but if I don’t get some sleep soon I might lose my sense of humour.

You'd laugh and say 'nothing's that simple'

And I'd reply "Yes it is"! (Should the exclamation mark go before or after the quotation marks? Or both?)

Anyway, I'm at last free of the complusion to blog regularly. I don't feel guilty if I miss a day, or even two. One more pressure off. I can confidently predict a time when I'll be me again.

And I think that's good. :) :) :)

I wonder who it will be tomorrow?

Phew, that was close. A reasonably thorough stock-take has been carried out; delegation (assisted – thanks!) of essential (to me) stuff and downgrading of the merely important to the status of trivial appears to have got things back on a more even keel. I still hate being a ‘weekend wife’ despite sharing the same house; it may be normal for a lot of people, but it isn’t for us. I’ve learned I’m not Superwoman, and trying to be all things to all people is not only impossible, but also terribly self-destructive. So I’m stuffing myself with metaphorical chill-pills, and they seem to be working – I can now stop doing housework as early as 9pm, rather than after midnight. A step in the right direction, at least.

Flash! Aaahhh!

Guy Fawkes’ night (or weekend) passed far better than I ever dared hope. That desensitisation CD seems to have worked wonders. They all noticed that the fireworks were going off, but even Piglet wasn’t as totally panicked as he used to be. True, he was sticking to us like glue, and trembling, but he didn’t wet himself, and Beattie just lay with her head on my foot instead of trying to dig through the floor. Friday night was the worst because everyone was having their own private party, but on Saturday, when the Junior School two fields away was having its big display, it rained. Oh dear. *chuckles*

Who do girls like they're boys

I received this in a RiddleMule PM.

"P.S. I realize you must be Bean something from the last PD."

Does this mean s/he thinks I'm a 6'9" 18 year old male? Oh dear. Oh deary deary dear. *adjusts make-up*

Crash! Tinkle! It fell to the floor

That’s the sound of my failure to keep all my plates spinning. So in a major prioritisationary reshuffle some of the elements of my life are being shelved. I’ve made a list of the things I do that I want to do, and also of the things that I need to do. Unfortunately, to enable me to do the things I need to do properly, it’s the things I want to do that have to be shelved. All work and no play … I know, I know. But needs must. Dullsville, here I come.

I've been working like a dog

What a shame that nobody realised that my Hallowe’en story was not a work of fiction but did in fact happen. Never mind.

Anyway, after my little rant and a couple of days off I’ve finally managed to complete the RiddleMule, without too much outside assistance, and I feel much better for it. Those last couple would have nagged and nagged at me if I had just left them. I still loathe and detest 5.18; 5.19 was somewhat better, and 5.20 was really quite fun! Now that’s out of the way I can concentrate on modding and answering the umpteen PMs I get a day – over 60 yesterday! It’s nice when people are polite enough to thank you for helping – they’re more likely to be helped in the future! Enough of that though. I hope my pics of Saturday's select gathering post okay.

Come on, Talis - show us your blog!


Talis and Rich 


Simon, Carol, JG and GordonRogers 

Close your eyes and hope that this is just imagination

It being Hallowe'en, Simon suggested that the BlogRing chums should each write an appropriate story ...

Vera didn’t know whether the fluttery feeling in her middle was due to nervousness or excitement at meeting George’s family in their own home. They had met and spoken fleetingly at several of the parties she had attended that season; the parties where she and George had fallen in love. Now they were engaged and so she was invited to spend a weekend in the country at his parents’ large house. Although George’s family was very wealthy they were also very kind and accepting of her, a mere doctor’s daughter. George had told her about the family home (which in Vera’s imagination was a veritable palace) and she hoped desperately that she wouldn’t make a blunder and embarrass George, or his parents – or even herself! As the car which had been waiting at the station to collect her turned into the drive and pulled up outside the house Vera tried not to gasp. Although not vast, it was an impressive building and it was hard not to feel overawed. But there was George, and, swallowing her nerves, she smiled as he held the door for her to get out of the car.

George’s family were, she was delighted to discover, genuinely pleased for her to be joining their family, and she was soon more relaxed in their company. Later that evening at dinner she asked why the maid who had shown her to her room had seemed reluctant to linger there. It seemed to be an ordinary enough room, pleasingly decorated and equipped with the usual furniture and a very attractive looking-glass over the washstand.

Was it her imagination that the silence which followed her question seemed a little uneasy? Then George’s mother laughed and explained that, like all old houses, this one also had its share of stories of ghosts, but there was nothing to be concerned about, anything that had happened had been a long time ago. The conversation turned to general stories of the unexplained draughts and creakings that gave rise to tales of ghosts and haunted rooms, and then moved on to easier topics as the evening wore on. Much, much later, as Vera tried to hide her tiredness, the party broke up and everyone went to bed.

Her bedroom, as she entered it, was welcoming and warm. There was a small fire in the grate, her bed had been turned down and warmed, and her nightdress lay waiting. She undressed and washed, then thoughtfully brushed her hair while she thought about how the day had gone. As she sat there she glanced into the mirror, and screamed. There, looking back at her, was a man! Vera dropped her hairbrush and fled out of the room in horror. George’s family had heard her scream and came running. George’s mother hugged her as Vera sobbed out what she’d seen, and was aghast at the matter-of-fact way it was explained that a previous visitor had hanged himself in that very room, and occasionally made his presence known in this way.

It would perhaps be too easy to round off the tale with the ending that despite this shock, Vera and George married and lived happily ever after. But it wouldn’t be true. Vera went home the next day after a very uncomfortable night in a hastily-made up bed in another room, and George soon after joined the army and went off to France in 1914. He was killed quite early on, and like many other girls of that time, Vera (my mother’s aunt) never married. Following the deaths of George’s parents some years afterwards the house was sold, and later demolished. Nobody knows what happened to the mirror.

The sweetest thing

I’ve got a lovely husband, you know. He drives me to meetings and sits and chats and drinks umpteen pints of tonic water cos he’s driving and lets me drink umpteen pints of 6X (Ooh, was it 6X?) till I’m nearly horizontal and then he takes me home and he doesn’t get cross with me and he doesn’t expect me to cook so he gets a takeaway and I’ve got a lickle bit of a headache so I think I’ll go to bed. Piccies tomorrow perhaps. Night night.

Yield it, yield it

There’s a saying in the world of animal husbandry that you should never ‘over-face’ an animal in training. This means that the tasks they’re given to overcome, whether it’s a show-jump fence for horses or a down-stay with a dog, should never be too much for them to cope with. Of course this varies from individual to individual, which is where the skill of the trainer is tested. With a horse, you don’t go from popping over a bale of straw straight to the puissance wall at the Horse of the Year Show. Likewise a dog who can manage a down-stay for 10 seconds shouldn’t instantly be expected to cope with a 5 minute one. You gradually build them up, stretching them slightly then consolidating the progress. If they’re over-faced they lose all confidence and may never achieve much again.

I’ve been over-faced. Now please don’t think this is a personal rant against my chums, it’s a rant because I need to let it out. We all have our individual strengths and weaknesses, and what one person finds easy another will completely fail to grasp. It doesn’t mean that one person is worse than the other, just that they’re different. My great strength at school was spelling. I was never brilliant at maths. I learned enough to be able to pass my O-level, but that was over 30 years ago, and I’ve only needed to use basic arithmetic ever since. So now when I’m finding myself faced with questions which are post-A-level standard maths, I have no idea where to even start, and to be honest, I have no intention of taking extra tuition in order to be able to do them.

I’m spent. This is doing me no good at all. I’m stressed out, and trying to keep so many plates spinning all at once has broken me. My sense of humour has eloped with my enthusiasm and may never be seen again. Waking at 4am crying is generally a sign that all is not well, and when it strikes you that the reason is due to something that is meant to be fun, you realise that somewhere along the line things have taken a wrong turn, and have assumed unnatural proportions.

I think this may be where a certain quadruped and I part company. I know there are only two more questions to go, but there’s no pleasure left for me. There’s no “Aaahhhh!” moment when I get the answer; only time to heave a sigh of relief that it’s done. It’s become something I fear. I know the sayings “A winner never quits, and a quitter never wins”. Yes, I know I’m weak, I’m a loser, and I despise myself for it, all right? I don’t need it rubbed in, thanks.

Maybe this is just a bad day. I hope so.

Oh dear, what can the matter be?

The senior moments are becoming, if not more frequent, certainly longer-lasting. In my lunch break today I rushed up the town to get a card for a chum - nothing too sick-making - and eventually found a suitably obscene one. So I queued patiently, and it wasn't until I reached the 'Please Pay Here' till that I realised that I hadn't seen my purse since I put it into my caching bag on Sunday. The tillgirl (who looked about 12 years old) blushed as she looked at the card, and I blushed as I apologised and left the shop cardless. I'll try again tomorrow.

Always should be someone

I think I’ve discovered the reason why the population of our village is growing so fast. When Ned first moved up here from Sussex in 1980, ‘rush hour’ involved three horses and a tractor moving slowly down the road. Now there are several ‘dormitory’ estates, smallish maybe, but still generating a lot of traffic, so now you actually have to look both ways before you cross the road. In fact there are so many new houses that the council was forced to put up street name signs, which until about 5 years ago weren’t needed – there weren’t enough roads to warrant it. Roads were named according to the town or village they led to: Warwick Road, Banbury Street and Southam Street, or to features on the road, such as Bridge Street. Okay, there are three Mill Lanes (and only one mill), but if you keep going round you eventually find the right bit.

Anyway, the village has grown, and the roadsigns have proliferated, much to the delight of the local kiddiwinks, who’ve discovered that the letters can easily be scratched off, with sometimes unfortunate results. In opposite directions from the bus shelter (aka Youth Club) are the villages of Wellesbourne and Gaydon. Or, as the edited signs now read, L*sbo and G*y.

Just a jealous guy

I'm in two minds what to blog about tonight. Both (or all three if my Shift key doesn't buck its ideas up and start doing its job properly) are rants to a certain degree. One concerns a relative (or should that be relation? I always get the two confused) who has upset some of the family, and the other concerns a friend's relation (or relative) who is a waste of space. Eeeny, meeny, miny ...

Okay, tact demands I slag off the friend's kin (ha! An escape from the dilemma!). We were watching, squint-eyed because tonight reception for BBC1 has been rubbish and programmes are being transmitted in a snowstorm, Rod Stewart in concert. Now I like Rod Stewart. He reminds me of when I was a giggly teenager and Life and the Future were optimistic blank canvases on which to make our marks. His voice, though not brilliant, has a raw power that says so much more than a classically-trained operatic voice. What's more, you can understand the words.

This particular bloke is so insecure in his marriage that he has forbidden his wife to listen to Rod Stewart because she liked him when she was single. Who's placing bets on how long that marriage lasts?

It's a very very ...

There was a weird bloke in Tesco today. We did our little bit of shopping (two boxes of cereal and a sack of potatoes) and queued at the '10 items or less' till, behind a bloke and a basket. The bloke had a basket, you understand, but there was another one on the floor. So the long queue shuffled forwards as the opportunity arose, with the basket being kicked along too. Then all of a sudden this weirdo comes along, smiles and winks at me (Grrrrr!) and steps in front. I give him a Hard Stare while Ned pretends to be elsewhere, and the weirdo offers to toss a coin for the place in the queue. In fact, he insists on tossing a coin, despite my refusals to join in. So he chooses heads for me, and I win, so he starts pushing me forward ... until Ned steps in, pointing out that the basket on the floor was in front of us all the time ...

So I snarl sweetly at the loony and let him go first, and he gets his shopping checked through the till, then realises he's left his wallet in the car and only has a few coins about his person. The till-girl refuses to start haggling about his shopping, he hands over his £1.80 and rushes out of the shop, leaving behind a couple of the things he's paid for.

Harmless, but barking.

Hands move and heart beat on

What miserable weather we’ve had today; all grey, damp and gloomy. It was so uninspiring we’ve done almost nothing, which seems a dreadful waste of holiday, but it was too wet and yucky to go caching or gardening or anything outdoors. So we’ve mooched about indoors getting ratty with each other, which isn’t really what I’d planned for today. 20 years is supposedly the ‘china’ anniversary – at least we’re not yet throwing plates at each other. Happy anniversary anyway, Ned. You must be due for parole soon.

Sank 'eavens for leetle girls

Home again, home again! I hope you’ve all had a good weekend while we were away at the Christening of my great-nieces. It all seemed very successful, despite one or two hiccups. The twins are absolutely gorgeous, very smiley, but although I’d deliberately left space in my suitcase I wasn’t allowed to bring one home. I’d even said I didn’t mind which one I had – despite being identical and only 8 months old (though they were 7 weeks early so have to be thought of as being younger) they are developing distinct personalities – Lucy seems to be more of a scamp, and can roll over, while Emma’s more of a watcher at the moment. I’m sure that will change though! Ned and I were very impressed that within an hour we could tell them apart.


Lucy and Emma 

The Christening itself went as well as could be expected, given the fact that despite waiting half an hour we had to proceed without one of the godparents who’d managed to get lost within ten miles of the village, in an area she professed to know! The vicar seemed quite High Church and did a lot of talking so when it came to the actual dunking both girls were getting a tad fractious. I was doing my godparently duty with their older brother, retrieving him from the vestry and trying to help him be patient and wait till the end to see what was in the font, and to explain why the vicar was washing his sisters’ hair, and no, maybe he’ll be allowed to blow the candles out at the very end …The post-dunking bash passed without tears (the missing godmother eventually arrived), though both the stars had been put to bed before the excitement of the day overwhelmed them entirely and they toppled into total hysteria.

Our homeward journey was uneventful, although we did spot car numbers 191, 192, 193, 194, 195 and 196. What a shame we’re still looking for 190.

One and one is what I'm telling you

A brisk walk around Banbury (brisk because I had to be at the hairdresser's at 2pm - yes twice in one year!), looking in shops both likely and unlikely to have something suitable, eventually turned up trumps when Ned spotted some attractive picture frames in a jeweller’s window. The trouble with so many Christening presents is that they are completely useless (“Oh thank you, that’s lovely, how kind”) and simply get put away in the attic, which is pretty much a waste of money. So we reckoned that these frames, although not suitable for children, might actually be used one day in the future when the girls are older (if they haven’t been broken by then – the frames, not the girls). Anyway, they’re bought and wrapped, and all we have to do now is remember to take them with us.

It's a family affair

Forgive me Blogmeister. I have missed a couple of days’ outpouring, basically because I wasn’t in the mood, so tough. Not a lot has happened, so rather than witter on boringly I thought I’d leave you in suspense.

Tomorrow will be busier. I have the morning to get the washing doing and hassle Ned into walking the dogs, then hasten off into Banbury to look for presents for my niece’s twin daughters who are being Christened on Monday down at my mother’s village in Sussex. It’s not all her own personal village you understand, just a small part of it is. It should be quite a gathering of the clan, insofar as there aren't really very many of us, so will either be great fun or hell. Anyway, we’re off down there on Sunday, leaving the house and dogs in the ‘capable’ hands of the Boy, who has used up all his holiday entitlement and can’t get out of work on Monday, and who has promised to be in the house most of the time, especially overnight, and not to have any horrid mates round to vandalise anything this time. I wonder what disaster will befall Genie Towers this time.

You'll find that life is still worthwhile

Julianna’s sadness has struck a chord with me, because we so nearly went down a similar path to hers. Because the principles of ‘family planning’ are taught to people at such an early age you always assume that having children is as easy as falling off a log, and for many people it is; ironically enough, judging by the numbers of terminations that take place, it’s especially easy for those who don’t want children. Because Ned and I were almost ‘onlies’ (we both had older brothers, but they were much older, so not really playmates when we were young) we were keen to have several children quite close together. We were very fortunate to have the Boy without too much hassle, although I nearly lost him quite early on when we think his twin was lost. He was an awkward little cuss to bring into the world, and the damage done in the process meant we were told to wait a couple of years before trying for another. So we waited – a bit – then got bored with waiting, till it seemed that number 2 was due on the Boy’s second birthday. But I wasn’t pregnant. At the age of 30 I had had a premature menopause – no more babies. Ever.

It was devastating news. I felt like a freak. My dream had died, and it felt to me as though my much-wanted children had been killed. Yes, I know they had only existed in my mind, but there had always been the thought that one day they would be real. After months of tests and scans the prospect of IVF via egg donation was raised, but quickly dashed because of the shortage of egg donors and the full waiting-list. By the time I reached the top of the list I would have been over the upper age limit for treatment. My niece, bless her, offered me some of her eggs, but she was only in her mid-teens then, and not only would the procedure have been very unpleasant for her, there was the possibility that my situation was hereditary, and I knew I would never forgive myself if she missed out on her chance of motherhood due to her kindness to me.

So we settled for just having the Boy, and have tried not to put too much pressure on him merely because he has to be all our children rolled into one. If we hadn’t had him we might well have been tempted to seek private treatment abroad, and quite possibly had our hopes raised and dashed in just the same way as Julianna and her husband have. I’d hoped and hoped so hard that they would be lucky. I know what emotional turmoil they face in the coming months, and all I can do is wish them the strength to come to terms with this blow.

When you wish upon a star

Nothing scintillating to report from Genie Towers, but please will you all keep your fingers crossed for a good result for Julianna?

A, I'm Adorable

That man! I wish I wasn't so gullible. The trouble is, being a complete technophobe who not only doesn't know what she's doing has a deep underlying fear of the whole Intermawebwotsit anyway, trusts anyone who tells me what to do computator-wise. I should really know better, because I've used the same principle of "sound confident, then run very fast" myself, and it always works out alright in the end (for me). Except this time I'm the mug who's spent hours trying to relocate long-forgotten passwords which gain access to any numbre of vital sites, having fallen for the "to solve Problem A you want to delete your cookies" scam. So, obediently I do this, only to find not only does it not solve problem A, it at the same time creates problems B, C, D and most likely the rest of the alphabet as well.

If I hadn't taken the precaution of copying everything onto scraps of paper and stacking them in an organised heap on top of the CDs on shelf 2 over the computer I wouldn't be here to tell you this sorry saga.

But I'll stay quiet and then I'll go

That’s a line from one of my favouritest-ever cheering-up re-enlivening songs ever. Cracking.* :) Now I feel as though I could write the splendidest blog of all, which would then inspire me to enscribe at least one of the award-winning novels I have inside me but which are log-jammed somewhere about my diaphragm (which can be very uncomfortable after a heavy meal). However I’m sure the Muse (is it Erato? If so, how appropriate) would desert me after the third paragraph, as has always happened so far. None of this “I’ve started so I’ll finish” stuff. I’ve got a great title, and a brilliant opening line, but it weakens after that. Maybe I should take up hallucinogenic substances to clear the passages, as it were.

*What a tragedy there’ll be no more from such a marvellous voice.

Me, myself, I

It's been a very strange evening, being in several places, and having several identities, at once. Not only was I my usual physical embodimented triplicate personality (Jan, Ned's wife, and Boy's mum), I also had the JG persona in three, nay four places at once on the interwotsit. I was flitting between them like a butterfly, and now I don't know which way is up. So I shall go to bed.

Rolling down the road

Today’s major topic of conversation in the chat was of resignations, and the best way to accomplish them. Should you ask for a reference before or after you hand in your resignation, for example. If you do it before (and before they suspect you might want to leave) you might get a glowing report, but it rather lets the cat out of the bag. If you resign first they might be a bit miffed and not say such nice things. There are whole books about what has been put into references: “His men will follow him everywhere, if only to see what he’s going to do next” is one which springs to mind.

When I’ve left jobs it’s usually because I’ve been leaving the area and commuting would be impossible, so I’ve not been in the situation of, in effect, telling someone they stink and you’re off to work for someone nicer. I hate the ‘leaving ceremonies’ with a deep loathing, so tend to book a couple of days’ holiday at the end and just go on the Wednesday and not come back. Ned knows people who have simply not returned after their holiday ...

The oddest departure, though, was when I was living with my parents in the Borders. Dad was manager at a stately home, and the Family needed a new butler – a job that isn’t easy to fill because of the strange hours; wives of staff like this tend to get very miffed. Anyway, a series of temporary chaps had their month-long trials, and in due course one was appointed. He seemed happy enough in the job, but one morning was nowhere to be found. All his belongings were still in his room, but there was no sign of him, nor was there any message as to where he’d gone. After a couple of days the police were informed, but to my knowledge the mystery was never solved.

Back to the desensitisation – I’ve hit a snag. Piglet, the one who is most terrified of fireworks, is too clever for his own good, and has twigged (after 3 days) that if I go near the CD player something nasty might happen, and goes to another room to tremble. It’s not as if I don’t play any other CDs, for heaven’s sake!

Busy doing nothing

There’s something very daunting about opening up a nice new document ready to receive the latest enthralling episode of the events at Genie Towers, especially when nothing’s happened. I seem to have been very busy, but have nothing to show for it.

Ooh, I haven’t told you about the washing machine! The son-of-plumber arrived 10 minutes before he was due last Wednesday and fitted it for us. I’m glad we didn’t try doing it ourselves – the pipe-cutting would no doubt have gone horribly wrong. But it works, it’s quiet, it gets things clean, though I haven’t attempted a dog-blanket in it yet. It takes its time though – I can get a load started, take the dogs out for their longish morning walk and it’s not finished by the time we get home. So I have to do the laundry more often than I used to, which means there’s ironing to be done on most days. I hate ironing, but if there’s one thing worse it’s having ironing waiting to be done. I can’t bear to leave it because the things dry out too much so then it takes even longer. Now we have to decide where to put the old one – I’m bored with it blocking the kitchen door, so a new home will have to be found. I’ve suggested the garage or the tip ...

I am, I said

I'm not used to being assertive, and I don't think I'm very good at it, but I said my bit today and I think headway has been made, which is good.

Desensitisation stats: With the TV on as well we're okay at level 4.

Hush! Here comes a whizz-bang!

For many years the only dog we had who was bothered by noise was Bella, our old Labrador. She came from good working stock, but was never happy with bangs. She loved going beating until the guns started – then she tried to get into Ned’s pocket. She didn’t like thunder either, and a night-time storm meant she had to be allowed upstairs where she would try to sleep under our pillows. None of the others were remotely bothered by noises until the false Millennium – the one that was celebrated at the end of 1999. Then the fireworks went off thick and fast, and the dogs started getting edgy. That seemed to mark the start of people letting off fireworks at any time of year – birthdays, anniversaries, completing the washing-up – and the problem quickly escalated. By the time the real Millennium came around their nerves were in shreds. I made the mistake of taking the dogs into the garden for a late-night wee at about 1am and a badly-aimed rocket screamed towards the house and exploded about 20 feet above us. That was the last straw.

Since then every bout of fireworks, even on TV, has reduced the poor things to a quivering mess. If they are alone Piglet wets himself in terror, Beattie tries to dig an escape through solid brick walls and Harry and Clover try to cram themselves into the smallest, darkest space they can find, such as under the fridge. Of course you can’t comfort them, because in a dog’s mind comfort=praise, so they feel they are being rewarded for showing fear, and will do it more next time. So you have to ignore the fearful behaviour and praise them when they aren’t reacting. It can be very difficult getting the timing just right.

So to mark the run-up to the dreaded firework season we have started a desensitisation programme. We have a CD of nasty noises which is played at very very low volume (so quiet that it is barely audible) on and off for several days until they are comfortable with that. Then you gradually increase the volume every few days, but never enough to worry them, and hopefully by the time it all kicks off they will be at least a little less terrified. Today is Day 2, and the tolerated volume is level 2.

Well, who are you?

In SimonG’s almost empty chatroom tonight the topic of names came up. Although most of the regulars in there use aliases, we all know each other’s real names, and occasionally use them, especially when we meet – though it is very hard to think of a person by a completely different name to that which you’re used to. But very few people seem to have the name that they would have chosen, given a free choice of all the names available. I detested my full name when I was young, but I’ve become reconciled to its shortened version, and am now quite happy with that, although my JG persona seems to be encroaching rather a lot. When I was born my brothers offered suggestions for names for me, their favourites being the names of popular literary characters. Luckily my parents vetoed their ideas, thinking, quite rightly in my opinion, that ‘Noddy Rupert’ was inappropriate, especially for a girl.

But I have no idea what name I would have chosen.

Like a puppet on a string

Boo hiss to work assessments. :(

Hooray for loving families! :)

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.