Food, glorious food

The Boy and I watched some of the recent TV series by Jamie Oliver and we were both aghast at the vile muck that these poor children were being served for their school dinner. The more we watched the more we were horrified at what was revealed. In ‘the olden days’, at my schools anyway, the dinners were cooked on the premises and served at tables seating about 14 children. There was a teacher, prefect or monitor at the head of the table, who served the meal in either regular or small (if it was something you disliked) portions onto china plates which were then passed down the table until everyone was served. Vegetables were in large dishes on the table and people helped themselves to those. To drink there were large jugs of water. When all the people on the table had eaten their main course the plates were collected and taken back to the kitchen, and the pudding collected. Again, this was served out at the table. There was no choice of menu – we did have one diabetic girl at school who was supplied with an alternative pudding if what regular one was unsuitable, but vegetarianism was almost unheard of – very hippy, and no allowance was made for whims. There was also a ‘top table’ where the rest of the staff ate. And yes, they ate exactly the same meal as the children.

Which is why I was so appalled at the state of modern school dinners. Nutritionally unbalanced portions of junk food are splodged onto plastic airline-style ‘plates’, main course and pudding at the same time, so by the time a child has finished their main course the pudding’s gone cold. But what a vile-looking main course! There seems to be a choice of deep-fried mechanically recovered reformed animal by-product and chips, or pizza and chips, with cans of pop to drink. Table manners have gone out of the window, with children eating with their fingers.

So Jamie Oliver decided to see what he could do to change this. Do you know, lots of these London children didn’t recognise what vegetables they were being shown? One thought rhubarb was an onion; another that a leek was a potato. They haven’t a clue – because their mothers don’t cook properly either. One mother admitted her child’s evening meal was a packet of crisps, a Kitkat and a can of Coke. So junk at home as well. A doctor from the local hospital was interviewed and said that they often have children brought in with severe constipation because they eat so little fibre. Some haven’t had a poo for six weeks; and when they puke their vomit contains faecal matter, they’re so bunged up. It’s reckoned that these children have a shorter life expectancy than their parents – the first reversal of the steady improvements that have been made over the centuries.

It was an uphill struggle for Jamie. The dinner ladies didn’t know how to cook, and they didn’t have proper equipment anyway, because education authority policy had dictated that meals should be centrally cooked, transported to schools and merely reheated on the premises. Many of the children were too afraid to even taste the food which was prepared because they’d never seen anything as exotic as spaghetti bolognaise or mild chicken curry with rice. One small boy was too scared to sample a fresh strawberry.

But they took the bull by the horns, banned the junk food entirely and struggled on for a month, all the while fighting not only the children's horror but also the education authority's refusal to pay the dinner ladies any overtime for the extra hours they were putting in. However, after the month was up, the teachers had noticed a marked improvement in the children's behaviour, especially their concentration after lunch, and, even more tellingly, the school nurse said that none of the asthmatic children need to use their inhalers any more ...

I could go on and on and on, because I was so shocked and appalled at what I saw on that TV series. They say ‘you are what you eat’. I do hope not, because that’s writing off a whole generation as being junk. And this is the generation that will be earning the money to pay our pensions, and the people that will be looking after us oldies when we’re decrepit; some of them will be making our laws. Selfishly I’d like to think they were healthy and strong enough to do this. It's not often I feel strongly enough about a subject to sign a petition, but I do about this one. Please, back this campaign. Your children's health is at stake.

Time after time

Dorothy sighed as she put down the TV remote and slowly got to her feet. What a Godsend those contraptions were for the arthritic “And the lazy!” she chuckled to herself; having to struggle over to the television every time she wanted to change channel had long since meant far too much pain and effort, so she’d either had to tolerate watching a load of rubbish that she really didn’t want to see, or to turn the dratted thing off altogether. But her grandchildren had clubbed together and bought her a very swish, up-to-date model with all the latest ‘must-have’ features, a remote control thingy being the most important. Now she had the opportunity to make those smug, arrogant know-alls on Question Time dance to her tune – do they realise how silly they look, ranting away with the sound off? she wondered. She really should get around to discovering what the all the other buttons do. Maybe tomorrow though. Not tonight.

Slowly she made her way into the kitchen, putting up the fireguard and turning out the sitting-room light as she left the room. A nice cup of Horlicks would be just the thing to sip in bed as she read a few more chapters of her library book. It wasn’t a very good story – absolute twaddle, if truth be told – but it was entertaining twaddle, and helped pass the time.

She took a bottle of milk from the fridge and poured some into a mug. A minute in the microwave, stir in a spoonful of Horlicks from the jar and it was ready. So much easier than having to make sure the milk didn’t boil over in the pan, and then having to wash the pan afterwards before the leftover milk welded itself to the inside. Taken as a whole, she thought, the changes she’d seen over her life had generally been improvements over ‘the good old days’. What couldn’t she have done in her life if she’d had today’s opportunities when she was a girl?

She turned off the kitchen light and took her drink upstairs to bed, taking care not to slop any on the carpet – now that her hands were so arthritic it was difficult to hold a cup steadily. With the mug safely, and unspilled, on her bedside table she got herself ready for bed. It was a bit disappointing to have to put some teeth in water at night, but as she ran her tongue over the gummy gaps between her teeth, she consoled herself that she still had more of her own teeth than most people her age. The hearing aid has come as a bit of a shock too; at first she’d thought people were just mumbling and talking quietly, but when it became obvious that nobody else seemed to have any trouble keeping up with conversations she’d visited the doctor who’d got her sorted out and back in the world of the hearing once more. It did have the advantage that she could turn it off at any time and have a bit of peace and quiet – like now, as she took it out of her ear and settled down with her book and started to read.

Gracious! It was two o’clock already. Although she hadn’t slept well for years she usually tried to turn the light out before it got too far into the next morning. It’d start getting light soon, which always disturbed her sleep, and she still liked to hear the birds in the bushes outside her window starting to twitter in the grey light before dawn. It was more trouble now that she had to put the aid back in her ears to enjoy their chorus, but usually it was worth it – especially if the blackbird was around. So carefully she put the marker in her book and put it on the bedside table. She had a sip of water from her glass, switched off the lamp and settled down to sleep.
...................

Dorothy had always loved the floaty feeling that happens when a person’s between sleeping and waking; she imagined it was like those ‘out-of-body’ experiences she’d read about where people could travel freely through space and time. Just recently she’d thought she was starting to be able to control where her thoughts drifted without being jerked back to wakefulness by the realisation of what was happening.

She opened her eyes and found herself floating through swirling coloured clouds, rather like those extraordinary photos taken by the Hubble telescope of infinitely distant places like the Swan nebula, with towering mountains of gas lit by innumerable suns. This was a very strange feeling – Dorothy was sure she was moving, and moving very fast at that, but there was no sensation of wind on her skin. And if she rolled over she still felt as though she was the right way up. She stretched her limbs and luxuriated in the absence of pain. This was marvellous! The freedom of movement reminded her of when she was a young girl! She could roll and tumble like a dolphin, without having to worry about coming up for air.

Air. That was a strange thing. She couldn’t remember when she last took a breath, but it didn’t seem to matter at the moment. This was a wonderful dream! It would be a shame to wake up.

However, gradually she started to become aware of the passage of time. Her surroundings were changing. She felt … different, somehow. Less free, more … confined. Now she could feel her skin again, and the rolling became more of an effort. There was definitely an up and a down now, too. There were strange noises, too – but how could that be when she wasn’t wearing her … whatever she used to have in her … ear, that was it … oh never mind. She kicked out a bit, and now her feet met soft resistance. It was odd how she now didn’t seem able to stretch out as she wanted to, and she started to fidget, but it didn’t seem to help any more. She frowned, curled up a bit tighter and ran her tongue over her gums. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter that there were no teeth there.

It was nearly time to be born.

Confusion

You'll be pleased (yes you will) to learn that I slept very much better last night. In fact when the alarm went off at 7 o'clock I felt well enough to get out of bed and head for the bathroom for my ablutions before donning the work-clothes I'd left ready on the radiator the night before.

Just before I left the room Boggy-on-the-radio said it was Thursday the 17th of March. That puzzled me. Why was I awake and getting ready to go to work? I don't go to work on Thursdays.

I went back to bed for half an hour.

Hello darkness, my old friend

Isn’t a night a long time when you’re awake through it? It was very strange – I was fine for the first few hours, sometimes managing to nearly drift off, but at 2am the worries started – what had I got to do in the morning? If we buy the car we’re looking at what’s the best way to transfer funds to finance it? Where are the student loan forms I’ve got to fill in? And suchlike thoughts. So I firmly put them to one side as being silly at that time, and settled down again. But at 3am the demons hit. All the vile things that happen on the news were re-enacted in my head; all the deliberate cruelties and tortures of living things by Man, and wartime atrocities. Not conducive to restful sleep. It was about 4am before I finally managed to doze off, so when the alarm went off at 7am I wasn’t really ready to wake up, and I haven’t properly caught up all day. So I’m amazed that it only took me 2 hours to uninstall and reinstall the computer’s anti-virus software which had decided not to run any more. Blimey, that’s complicated - almost as complicated as the Student Loan application form is turning out to be. I’m getting in such a muddle. Time for a cup of cocoa liberally laced with paracetamol.

PS. Our pond is full of froggies giving each other sepcial cuddles and making lots of tapioca.

Coughs and sneezes spread diseases

On Thursday night I bathed Harry, cleaned his teeth and dremelled his nails so that he was nice and clean and sparkly for his stint at Discover Dogs at Crufts. It’s always a bit of a worry how he’s going to behave – one nightmare year there had been an in-season bitch around somewhere and he got An Idea in his head, which wouldn’t be shifted, no matter how sternly I spoke to him. Anything, luckily only on four legs, showed potential, and his sister got extremely miffed with him. This year he was on the stand with a ‘stranger’ bitch, and my heart was in my mouth when they met. But he was completely calm and very well behaved, which made the whole time a lot less fraught.

I was a little taken aback when chatting to the visitors and answering their questions when a voice said “Can you tell me about dalmatians?” and a large microphone was thrust into my face. My immediate response was to say “Eeek!” and step backwards, unfortunately onto Harry’s foot, so he squealed and mayhem ensued for a brief while till he calmed down again. Flipping ‘Crufts FM’ – I could have done without them, but it seemed to go all right, and the other club members said I did very well, not over-selling the breed. Too many people think they’re a fashion-statement rather than a very active dog which’ll cover you with hair.

But it was very crowded even on Friday (though better than at the weekend), and I didn’t get to see the things I wanted to. I was interested in seeing the Lagottos, but the effort of negotiating the crowds with Harry and an awkward bag rather put the kibosh on that. I’d also wanted to find a stall where I could get a plain ordinary rolled leather collar and lead, as Harry’s hasn’t been the same since he ate the handle of the lead, and the D-ring of the collar’s coming loose. Could I find one? Not likely. Pink leads, diamante collars, show leads by the zillion, rope slip-leads a-plenty, but ordinary workaday stuff? No chance.

So I came home, along with the flu-bug I picked up there and which has laid me low since. Wonderful.

I was feeling insecure

I’m feeling rather snippy at the moment, so I apologise if I snap at people and over-react to stuff. I think it comes from seeing my mother looking so sad, and noticing how frail she’s become in the weeks since I last saw her. I suppose it’s brought it home to me that Anno Domini catches up with all of us, and that it’s probably getting close to the time when I lose her forever. And it’s frightened me.

So I’m sorry, and I’ll bugger off for a while till my defences are up again and I’m not perceiving slights where I’m sure none are intended.

Gee but it's great to be back home

I’m so glad I was able to get down to the Deep South and visit my mum, especially for Mothering Sunday. The only real problem on the M25 was the roadworks around Heathrow, where there was a 40mph speed limit, and almost no traffic (yes, really, even today!), which made crawling along with all that open road ahead unbelievably tedious and frustrating. The surface around the junction with the M23 was slightly off-putting because they’d been very enthusiastic with the salt, leaving the road entirely white. Unfortunately this had the side-effect of making the lane markings completely invisible.

It was a great relief to me that I was with her when the vet phoned to say that Tim’s ashes were ready for collection. Her sister, who’s not a ‘pet’ person, would have thrown a wobbly at the very thought, and refused to have such a thing in her car, so mum would have had to get a taxi to bring him home. But I’ve been to collect dogs’ ashes in the past (we still have Bella and Polly in their caskets on a shelf because we haven’t yet decided what to do with them) and I know how upsetting it is. We were able to have a hug and a little weep together, which I think helped Mother. So many people scorn you for mourning what they see as ‘only an animal’, which is incredibly hurtful. Some are even so callous as to say that ‘you can always get another one’, which is unspeakably unkind. Anyway, Tim’s home again, and Mother knows there’s no rush for her to decide what to do with the ashes. I’ve agreed with her that if she dies before she’s decided, then I’ll put them in her box with her, although I’d have to be discreet because the vicar might get arsy.

But it's good to be back home again.

What would I do without you?

This morning we managed to turn what could so easily have been a disaster into, if not a triumph exactly, at least a worthwhile exercise. Some weeks ago the Boy had a letter from Uni asking him to confirm his offer of a place by the end of April (still time!) and to invite him and us to a ‘Family Day’ at the site. This was to be held on March 5th. So we made a note of the date on the calendar, pinned the letter to the board and put it to the back of our minds. Yesterday evening I asked him his plans for the weekend, and gently reminded him about the Uni date.

Boy: “Ooo yes, well remembered Mum!”
Me: “What time is it, and where do we go?”
Boy: “Dunno. ‘Spect it’s on the letter.”

So I go and get the letter and have a read ... and pop upstairs again.

Me: “Have you actually read this letter?”
Boy: “Yes”
Me: “All of it?”
Boy: “Durr, yes of course.” *rolls eyes*
Me: “Including the bit about having to book by March 1st?”

Long pause as Boy snatches letter and reads it.

Boy: “Where does it say that?”
Me: “On the other side of the paper.”

Another long pause.

Boy: ”But that’s stupid! Nobody reads the other side of pages. How can they expect me to look there?”

The future of the nation isn’t looking bright if turning a page is too technical. Especially for a prospective engineer. Anyway, we went, and discovered that, as I’d suspected, it wasn’t actually that formal and it didn’t really matter that we hadn’t booked. What’s more it was interesting and we learned some useful info about scholarships and applying for loans and all that sort of stuff. Which is good.

The nearer your destination

I hope the snow in the south-east clears soon, because I want to go and visit my mother at the weekend (not only because it’s Mothering Sunday, but because I love her and I’m worried about her), and it’s not looking promising. We’re all phoning her every day to prevent her losing her power of speech through lack of use, but I’m sure she’d like physical company too. She’s seeing ghosts again, which means she’s lonely. She saw my father very clearly, but he dematerialised before she could speak to him. I wish we lived nearer each other.

Changing the subject, isn’t Wikipedia fun? I’ve had a lovely time correcting typos.

Things are never quite the way they seem

Count them! 

You would never have thought dalmatians are particularly well camouflaged, would you? When they stand still in patchy snow they disappear - Piglet especially.

Let's be friends

I laughed out loud at work when I found this. I think I got away with it though.

PS: Ooh! Yesterday was my blogiversary. And I got a letter saying that I'd won a prize (4 bottles of wine)! So that was nice. :)

Taking that ride to nowhere

I suppose, if I’m to look on the bright side, today wasn’t entirely wasted, although I got absolutely nothing done that I’d planned. What I’d hoped to do was place a new cache in a place with a particular view. It all started a week or so ago when we picked up a Bear travel bug who wants to go to Canada. Well, that’s not one of our more immediate plans, lovely though it’d be, so I got out the map and started looking for possible alternatives, along the lines of Halifax (Yorkshire) instead of Halifax (Nova Scotia). I discovered London, Gloucester, Bristol and Woodstock in Canada, but then aha! Bingo! (No, there’s not actually a place called Bingo to my knowledge, certainly not near here.) In Quebec there’s a town called Warwick! Ideal for my purposes – and the Warwick county emblem is a ‘Bear and Ragged Staff’. Even more perfect for a Bear TB to set off from. As there’s no cache there it means setting one ourselves, so we got out the local maps and studied all the public footpaths that might have a view of the castle.

There were surprisingly few. I suppose in the old days it wasn’t a good idea to have people wandering too near your fortifications. Anyway, we were sure there must be something suitable. We walked about six miles, which isn’t too bad a distance if the surface you’re walking is good, but we were slipping in the mud because we didn’t have our proper boots on. We also had a total lack of success, unless you call Ned narrowly avoiding falling into the canal (one hand went in) a success. And it rained. And it was cold. And my legs really, really ache now.

But today wasn’t completely wasted inasmuch as we now know that there aren’t any good hidey-holes where we originally hoped. And I’ve spotted another couple of places that, on the map at least, have potential. We’ll have a look there tomorrow.

Thank you for being a friend

To Tim. Thank you for being such a good companion to my mother. Your company for fourteen years made her life very much fuller than it would otherwise have been. You were always there when she needed someone to talk to and helped her make friends with other people who she’d never have met otherwise. It would have been very easy for her to become reclusive in the years after after dad’s death, but having you to care for prevented that. It’s a shame you and Piglet hated each other, but he doesn’t make friends easily, and after all he was in your house. (And he’s not as lovely as the girls, who you always welcomed with joy!)

Don’t blame Mother for helping you cross the stair to your next stage of existence. It wasn’t an easy decision for her, and she was undecided for some days, but took her cue from you. Yesterday evening, when you hadn’t stood up all day, you waited till she’d steeled herself and actually picked up the telephone before you got to your feet and walked slowly across the hall to have a drink. She put down the phone and cried with relief. But that was your last great effort, and today even that was too much for you.

I hope you’ll now be playing with Lizzie and Rupert, Ben and Rosie, Bella and Polly, and keeping company with my Dad. You never knew him, but he liked dogs so you’ll be all right with him.

Mother will miss you terribly.

It's happening again

I’m still not happy about this computer and the way it’s operating. Sometimes it’s fine, but last night it was goooooiiinnnngggg ssssoooooo sssllllooooowww it was like wading through treacle, or one of those nightmares when you try to run away from something horrid and the harder you try the slower you go. The virus scan said there’s nothing there (though it’d blocked a Trojan horse several times; something about a bus; I suppose they always come in groups) and I cleaned all the spyware off (about 15 a day) bit it didn’t help. This time I’m sure I wouldn’t worry about it so much if I knew how to do a backup onto this shiny new hard drive, but I don’t even know where to plug the flipping thing in. Surely it can’t be that hard? It’d dial to the Internet all right but it wouldn’t recognise the password (Error 718 apparently) – which was right. I did a restart and then that was accepted, then after a while it froze on me. So I gave up and went to bed. Lights out at 10.15? Almost unheard of – and it meant I woke early, which was annoying.

It had been a bit of a horrid day anyway because my mother thought her old dog would have to be put down, but my brother managed to get over there (it took him over 2 hours) and get him on his feet again, and the vet said he wasn’t too bad. But today the dog’s down again, and although Mother’s got a towel under him he simply won’t try to get up. And if he can’t get up that’s the end. If I lived nearer her then I know I’d be strong enough to get him up (he’s a large golden retriever, and Mother’s frail) but it’s over 3 hours to drive there even when there isn’t any snow. I hate feeling so helpless, with her facing this all alone.

They're all made of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same

During our day’s caching we found ourselves strolling around several villages in North Oxfordshire, looking for the various locations to solve the clues to find the whereabouts of the caches. In two of these villages there were some new houses being built slap bang in the middle, some detached, some terraced. But do you know what, you had to look very hard to see if they were actually new houses or old ones being renovated. They were being built of the local stone, cut to the same traditional size and shape, the roofs had been properly constructed on site rather than the usual prefab sections, so they were steeply pitched to blend in. All the little local architectural features were there; in about five years time, when the stone has weathered slightly and has lost its rawness, you’ll walk past them and assume they’ve been there for a couple of hundred years just like all their neighbours.

So why, when you drive around the country, are all houses on all housing estates identical? What happened to vernacular building? No, they’re all red brick boxes crammed onto tiny patches of ground, with wavy roads (burglars’ paradise – easy to escape from view) linking them and, almost more damning than anything, no pavements. It seems people are meant to walk in the road – if they walk at all. What happened to the idea of community? It seems that you live in your house or you drive to somewhere else – you don’t walk, or push the baby’s pram to the shop (strike that idea, there are no shops on these estates; it’s house after house after endless identical house). You could be in Plymouth, Blackburn, Newcastle or Gravesend for all the local identity they have.

So hurrah to the architects, planners and builders in Horley and Shutford. More power to you. And a pox on Persimmon, Barratt, Wimpey and all of that ilk, for the rape of our identity.

I know you're out there somewhere

I hope you realise just what a Good Girl I’ve been for the past couple of days. I’ve been doing the regular household chores, when all the while Ned’s GPS has been sitting on the shelf, with the final co-ordinates for a multi-cache we haven’t found all programmed into it. It’s only 6 miles away and I know exactly how to get to it. But we’re a team, and Ned would be awfully dischuffed if I went and got it without him (even though he did go and get his very first one all by himself).

I’ve also programmed in the stages for another nearby multi, and the part-co-ords we’ve found for a couple of mystery ones … all local. I so want to go out and get them ... and they're all between home and the shops ...

Roll on Saturday!

Giving it all away

I did a bit of a silly thing today. I walked into the village to get a bit of shopping, realised I’d left my purse at home and walked back. Whilst searching for said purse I noticed the Council Tax book, remembered the date and decided to write out a cheque for this month’s pound of flesh to take to the Post Office. Only a couple of days late – pretty good for me. So I got all that done, chatted to a few people in the village, came home and pinned the tax form onto the board again. That’s when I realised that I’d paid the final instalment last month. The flipping council now have the benefit of 174 of my hard-earned squiddlicks for no reason.

Pah!

Tell me why I don't like Mondays

Actually don't bother; I know why. It's because I've got to get to work before I know what's happening and whether or not I feel like going. Which I won't.

LENT (Liver (Entire Network) Treatment) is all very well, and most mornings are surprisingly painfree. But any good Christian (which I assuredly am not) will tell you that Sundays in Lent 'don't count'. Well, think about it. Forty days in the wilderness. Forty days from Shrove Tuesday (Pancake Day, when all the eggs are eaten before the Lenten Fast) doesn't take you up to Easter. But it does (as the jolly good vicar we used to have before the new one took over reassured us as we gibbered) as long as you take Sunday off. So, as usual, Ned and I are off the alcomahol (unless we get dispensation for a very sepcial occasion) till Easter. But come Sunday ...

Oh dear. My glass seems to be empty.

Do the Monster M*A*S*H*

I always thought these things were a load of tosh, but fun, nonetheless. So I completed it, and this was my result:

Then Ned completed it, and this is what it said about him:



It appears I'm the Boss and Ned's the Fun Star. Does this mean I'm in need of another lifestyle makeover?

We're on the road to nowhere

Do I live in an area with an unusually high population of uncos? All I wanted to do was walk briskly around town in my lunch half-hour, popping to the Post Office and the bank, and get back to the office in reasonable time. So why were so many people totally incapable of walking at a reasonable pace in a straight line? They were weaving about from one side of the pavement to the other with nary a warning of their intentions. Just when I was trying to overtake they'd cut across my bows, forcing me to take avoiding action by stepping into the road, narrowly avoiding being squished. Even the ones who can proceed at a pace marginally faster than a crippled snail would suddenly stop for no reason. Especially if they're three abreast and taking up the full width of the pavement.

Perhaps there should be some sort of pedestrianism test, along the same lines as the driving test, with L plates being compulsory until they have shown an acceptable degree of competence. If that's too extreme, let them be fitted with indicators and brake lights that work off their brain waves.If, as I suspect, some of them don't actually have any discernible brain activity, why can't they simply keep to the left?

Just don't get me started on the ones armed with those hazards to life, limb and eyesight; to whit, the umbrella.

My name is ...

I was chatting to my niece today, and out of idle curiosity I asked her why she and her husband had decided on the name Benedict for their son. It’s an unusual name, and not one that’s cropped up in the family before, and we tend to be fairly traditional when it comes to names, with children tending to be named after a grandparent or thereabouts. The names always skip at least one generation to avoid confusion. One brother’s children are Thomas and Charlotte, and those were the names of our 4-greats grandparents. The Boy is named after my father, who was named after his grandfather. Previous surnames are generally included as Christian names too: my great-grandmother had one ‘girl’s’ name and three ‘surnames’ in her baptismal name. There have been umpteen Roberts and Jameses and Charleses and Johns, so to throw in a Benedict (though his middle names are his father’s and grandfather’s names) was quite an unusual thing to do. The child was very lucky at his Christening though, because for some reason the vicar wanted to name him Beatrice, which would have made his life unnecessarily challenging. Oddly enough, Beatrice is the name of my aunt, and her grandmother, so under different circumstances it wouldn’t have been too bad.

Why Benedict? Good old BBC. My Godson is named after Benedict Allen, one of my niece's explorer heroes.

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! :)