Your mother warned you there'd be days like these

Some days are just pants.

This morning I queued for ages at Leamington station to try to get two cheap returns to East Kilbride because my nephew’s having a wedding reception at the end of the month (I’d like to go to the wedding itself, but it’s going to be in Banff. Not Banff, Scotland. Banff, British Columbia (? - Canada, anyway), but the station was in chaos because of the tunnel collapse at Gerrards Cross (I bet he is) which has meant all the trains to London are disrupted. By the time I reached the front of the queue I was tired and disappointed to learn that the cheap tickets aren’t issued till next week. Poo. Flying would be a lot quicker and easier (and probably cheaper), but I can’t find any flights either.

Once home I spent several hours trying to change the blog template to make the text wrap properly instead of running under the sidebar, but I don’t know anything like enough about code to be able to do that. So I've tried a new template entirely, and that's almost right, except I can't work out how to put the comments at the bottom of the post, instead of the top. Nor can I put the Haloscan and site counter logo-wotsits where I want them.

Then I carelessly left the washing out while I walked the dogs, so it rained and now the clothes are almost as wet as when I hung them out earlier.

Now I’ve got a headache which painkillers won’t shift.

Some days are just pants.

Get down, deeper and down

Your Birthdate: July 5

With a birthday on the 5th of the month you are inclined to work well with people and enjoy them. You are talented and versatile, very good at presenting ideas. You may have a tendency to get itchy feet at times and need change and travel. You tend to be very progressive, imaginative and adaptable. Your mind is quick, clever and analytical. A restlessness in your nature may make you a bit impatient and easily bored with routine. You may have a tendency to shirk responsibility

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

There! That's successfully moved yesterday's blog down to make it legible. :)

What a big surprise

I went into Leamington today to have lunch with the other women I used to work with (and to give them back my key to the building - I'll have to smash a window if I want to break in now!). We had a nice lunch and chat - Boss's flat was flooded last week after the heavy rain, which has particularly pissed him off as it's only 6 months since they finished refurbishing after the last time it did this. One woman's son is refusing to go to school because he's sick of the juvenile behaviour of some of his classmates - luckily he's going to a new school in September. I could tell them about the free advertising Radio 2 is giving to the game written by the Boys Upstairs, because a copy of it (Mashed, fully loaded) and a PS2 to play it on was one of the prizes in Steve Wright's Big Quiz, so it gets mentioned every day; and that Puzzle's rival gave away 30 copies of a CD Rom we designed as prizes on their website.

Then when it was time to go they gave me a big bunch of flowers and a card signed by everyone and some Hawkshead vouchers. Which was a nice surprise.

Our house?

From the (rented) cottage garden 

We saw this house name when we were in Cornwall - Ned felt almost at home!


Nearly home? 

By the way, does anyone know why Blogger has suddenly rearranged itself and is having the socking great gap at the top? I haven't altered the template at all.
Hurrah! Enmendificated! Or nearly, anyway. The text now runs beneath the sidebar instead of cunningly shortening itself to fit ... hmmm ... back to Blogger help ...

Wherever I wander

Honey, we’re home! And we had a pretty fabbo time, all in all. Cornwall’s always lovely (though I think I prefer the north coast to the south), and we had the most brilliant weather – maybe a tad too hot for the long walks we were doing! The seven miles from Cape Cornwall, through Lands End to the village where we’d parked the second car was long, hot and tiring. But we nabbed several caches on the way, so that was good. We saw dolphins and seals, and had cream teas, and beer. Sharps’ Doom Bar and Special were great – the Godolphin in Marazion (they don’t like it if you call their village Marzipan by mistake) keeps their beer very well. The Logan Rock Inn does good Tinners, and the Old Success in Sennen is a lifesaver.

Unfortunately Cornwall also goes in for danger – I made the mistake of picking up a damp towel, and my back went ‘poing!’ so I spent most of the week taking ibuprofen washed down with beer. It worked, and I managed several cliff scrambles.

We had a minor panic when we couldn’t contact the Boy for 15 hours, even when he was meant to be at home, and it was only by phoning one of our neighbours who went and reminded him that ringing phones usually need answering that we were weren’t belting back home on Wednesday morning. We were packed …

On the way back a piratical raid was launched on the Cad Hutters, who in a fiendishly devious move shattered Ned’s shiny cutlass, much to the amusement of all the other people in the pub who were “Yarring” in the proper manner as we sneaked through the bar, bandanas, eye-patches and weaponry drawn to avoid ambush.

We got home to discover that the joint account has been overdrawn since Tuesday and they’re charging us £8 a day for the privilege (they have a shock coming tomorrow); the woman driving ‘the other car’ involved in the Boy’s prang is being a Cow and saying she’s injured, he hit her head on (yeah right, we have photos of the damage) etc, and her insurance company is writing threatening letters to Boy, which I’m sure is, if not actually illegal, is certainly unethical; and the Boy has dreadlocks.


Noooooooooooooooooooooooo! 

And now Blogger's being an arse, and getting stuff all in the wrong places.

Pee, po, belly, bum, drawers

There. I did lots or swears, because I’m feeling glum.

When they say that Bad Things happen in threes, does it mean three bad things for each person, or can a family combine their allocation? You see, I’m hoping that I’ve managed to save The Boy from his third. If I haven’t, he’s still due another and I’m only on my first. Not good.

You all know I love my job. It’s my perfect job. Well, it was. The nature of the work has changed in the past year, and now my fourth temporary contract won’t be renewed. What hurts the most is that they seem to be saying I needn’t bother to come back after my holiday, even though they’ll be paying me my notice. What, am I that useless at what I do, that they're happy to pay me to stay away? I didn’t think so – in fact, today I’ve spent my time fixing other people’s mishaps. Well, bugger them, I’m going back for at least one day after the holiday.

Or not. Depending how spiteful I feel.

Sits vac, here I come.

Why are you growing up so fast, my son?

I hope bad things don’t happen in threes. The other day the Boy announced that he and his girlfriend of 18 months had split up, which upset us all, as we liked her. It looks as though it might be permanent – her toothbrush has gone from the bathroom. Then last night he had a minor (he was going at about 5 mph) prang with his car – the nearside front wing, the headlight and the bumper are all damaged.


Oops :( 

Luckily nobody was hurt, but he’s quite shocked. He told me his life’s going “from shit to worse”. I hate to see my baby so unhappy. Ned and I are going on holiday at the weekend – I don’t want to leave the Boy to deal with all this by himself.

That's what gets results

Isn’t it interesting the way things are done differently around the world? The other day I learned from a Swedish lady that, in Sweden, most dog owners – even ‘ordinary’ pet owners - are members of their Kennel Club, and the rules of dog breeding are very much stricter than ours. Over there, deliberate* crossbreeding is anathema, and anyone who does so is immediately ejected from the Kennel Club. And without membership they can’t enter shows, can’t register puppies – they’re out on their ear! This has the result that the vast majority of dogs in Sweden (and indeed most of Scandinavia) are purebred, and until recently, coinciding with the craze for ‘designer’ crosses, the number of dogs in rescue is very small. The only rescue kennel in Stockholm rehomes about 100 dogs a year – compare that to Battersea Dogs Home, which is only one of many rescue kennels in London, and which rehomes about 6000 dogs each year. Also, I’m told, people cannot visit to pick a dog according to looks etc, they have to be assessed FIRST, fill in forms detailing what type of dog they want; size, coat etc, and the home then match them with a suitable dog - and they have waiting lists at all times. And this is in a country where up until 1989 it was illegal to neuter dogs and bitches.

The rescue system in Finland is also reported to be virtually non-existent – because there’s no great need for one. People take responsibility for their own animals and don’t abandon them or allow them to reproduce willy-nilly. Again, most Finnish dog owners are also Kennel Club members. Unfortunately the UK Kennel Club is run on different lines, with limited membership. In fact it’s only in the last 30 years or so that female membership was permitted (I believe Florence Nagle was the first woman elected to membership of those hallowed portals). There’s a lot to be said for having strict rules about dog ownership – it seems to encourage a much more responsible attitude towards ownership and breeding. What a shame we don’t seem able to do the same here. Easy come, easy go?

*note the word ‘deliberate’. They accept that accidents unfortunately happen.

Yes, we have no banananas

I bought some cherries today, because I like fruit. It says on the bag "Wash before eating". I had a bath last night - will that do?

See how the good times roll

Wow! Fabbo time! We may have had a tad of alcomoholicsismness, perhaps. True fcat.


The Ego Warrior in person 

The Rutles were great. I danced a lot. For some reason many of the rest of the audience were zombies. Or dead. They stood motionless throughout, which surely isn't possible if you have an ounce of music in your soul. And if you haven't, why are you at a gig? Ned roundly applauded the band whilst still holding his drink which was promptly worn by the bloke (and his lady) in front. Luckily the bloke didn't seem to mind. Too much. I'm not sure about her though.

Random thought - if you're a bloke, and you want to have your hair very short, make sure you have neat ears. A velvety-plush skull which resembles a wingnut is not a Good Look.

Then someone groped my bum. He was either blind drunk or just blind. We identified who it was, though (by the way he changed position when I swapped places with Lorry), and enormous amusement was had by us three as I danced some more and got ogled. Gosh, it's a long time since anyone tried to pull me! Lorry and I had our slapping hands ready, and Ned had his 'decking fist' primed.

Walking back to the car we passed the remnants of a wedding reception, as the bride and groom bade their farewells to honoured guests. By judicious use of less-than-subtle wrestling holds we managed to hustle Lorry around the corner before she shrieked "Don't do it, you fool! They're all bastards!"

On the drive home the tosser behind us had too many lights on, so Lorry mooned him, which we think he appreciated, as he flashed us when he turned off. No, Mallers, I didn't get a picture for the gallery. Sorry.

Ego-warriors thumb their noses.

On the dock of the Bay

Final Ebay update:
A further pot of tabs arrived today to compensate for the broken ones in the other pots. How does Positive feedback saying 'Minor problems sorted quickly and efficiently' sound?

Most efficacious in every case?

Ebay update:
I told you I'd contacted the glucosamine seller, whose advert on Ebay had stated "Upon receipt of payment we will dispatch without delay." That seems to translate as "We will dispatch goods 6 days after receipt of payment if you chase us". Anyway, the package arrived today, and eagerly I opened the first tub of 60 tablets, anxious to start removing the pain in my knees and hands. It contained 43 unbroken tablets and a lot of powder ... Perhaps it'll work if I sprinkle it on my cereal, or stir it into coffee. I've emailed the company to tell them about this - I'll wait till they've responded before considering the feedback.

As for the memory card - hurrah for Omally and his lovely help! He enabled me to go to bed a happy girl. It turns out I wasn't as stupid as I suspected, so nobody needs to point at me and laugh. Not because of that, anyway.

Fools rush in

Last Friday I bought some glucosamine on Ebay. Yesterday I emailed the supplier to ask when the package had been dispatched as nothing had been delivered. This morning I received an email to tell me that it was dispatched this morning. Hmmm. I may need help wording the feedback.

On Monday I threw caution to the wind and bought a new memory card for my camera because we’re going away soon and I’ll need a week’s worth of space. That arrived today (positive feedback there) but I’m sure what I’ve bought is wrong and won’t work, so I’ve probably wasted my money. It seems that memory cards are different to rolls of film, and need to be the right make, not just the right shape and size. Bum.

How bizarre, how bizarre

It seems someone saw fit to give the Leamington loonies a half-holiday today. It was a lovely sunny day, and I left work with a good feeling that I’d got a lot done. I crossed over the junction and walked on the wide (about 10-foot) pavement towards Adelaide Bridge. As usual I walked by the railings on the left, away from the kerb, which leaves plenty of room for pedestrian traffic to pass – which was why I was a mite surprised when a straggly-haired chap carrying a plastic petrol can deliberately moved across the pavement towards me. Not wanting to collide with him I moved to the right to pass him, and to say I was surprised when he put out his hand and deliberately shoved my shoulder hard, sending me stumbling across the pavement, would be an understatement.

He stalked on along the road and, as a bus was turning down the narrow junction by my office, walked into its path and thumped the (fortunately empty) petrol can on the windscreen. Luckily the driver was taking the corner slowly and avoided hitting the weirdo, who walked around the side of the bus, thumped the can onto the side windows before carrying on as if his behaviour was perfectly normal.

Maybe that actually is normal in LoonyLand.

d'you wanna be in my gang?

my gang 

wot i did on my holidays by millie

friday: it was hot and mum and my sister took me in the car and we went to my spotty mum and my brothers and sister and their mum who’s my old mum too and it gets very confusing about who’s who. then they went and i stayed and very soon it was all lovely and we all settled down and went to sleep.

saturday: it was a lovely day and my other person mum took me for a walk and we met with monty who is a terrier and wilf who is a labrador and we talked and then we went on and we met up with my old dad and clover and beattie and harry and piglet and then we came back and i was let off my stretchy lead cos i was being so good. i was tired when we got back and i had a drink and went to sleep.

sunday: we had brekkie and we walked round the big field and in the afternoon i went in the car and i et my lead and luckily my old mum had got another and so we had a nice walk and i et some sheep poo when they weren’t looking and i played with a smelly wet labrador who said woof so i pretended he wasn’t there and then i played with a collie puppy and then we came back. i got told off when i got grumpy and swore at harry cos he wanted his tugger and i had it and i didn’t want to share.

monday: i went on a different walk with my old mum and i went everywhere she wanted when she said “this way” so i had a nice run. then i stayed in like a good girl when they went out then they came back and took us all out again and i ran about and came when i was called cos there were bits of sausage in my old mum’s pocket.

tuesday: i’ve got another lead which is almost like the old one wot i et! hahaha. i had a nice walk in the sunshine and the day was quiet and everyone slept.

wednesday: : we all went in the grassy field together and it was very exciting and i ran round and round in a circle as fast as i could cos it was such fun. i think i like being with all the others. i can run faster than clover but not as fast as beattie or harry. i don’t think anyone can run as fast as piglet. i might have run too fast cos my foot’s okay but my leg’s a bit stiff so i’ll have a rest. it’s raining. bother.

thursday: we went in the fields again where it’s grassy and i chased a bunny and it was too quick and got away. boo spoilsport. i like my brother harry and i follow him everywhere when we’re out.

friday: old mum took me to the fields early cos she was going to work and old dad was supposed to only take the others when he got home but i wasn’t having that so i went again with them hahaha. then before supper i bounced a lot and played with my brothers. it was fun.

saturday: we played in the fields and had pictures taken and we were all good. they say i go home tomorrow which is good but i hope i can come to this kennel again.


i like this kennel 

A lack of originality

Yes, it's taken from the net. Yes, it's sick-makingly twee. Yes, it's shallow. But it's quite interesting:

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes”.

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things - God, family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favourite passions - things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else-the small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and do the DIY. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.

The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.

Dem bones, dem bones

Hmm. An arthritis flare, eh? Great. Ibuprofen for my hands, and glucosamine (if I’m rich, the doc said!) for my knees, because apparently that’s the only joint it’s been proven to have any effect on.

Still, better than osteoporosis.

I mean this joint is jumpin'

Tomorrow I go to see the doc. For ages and ages (ever since I had my foot operated on) my knees have been giving me gyp, which rather put paid to my plans to run a marathon before I'm 50, but now my hands started playing up too. It started when we were having to test PS2 games at work (yes, that really is work) and I found the control wotsit terribly awkward to use. Twiddling the sticky bits (not sticky as in adhesive, but as in like sticks) with my thumbs was especially painful. Over the weekend I found it well-nigh impossible to even carry a plate, because my thumb joints hurt too much to be able to stop the plate tipping. So I'm going to see if he can tell me whether it's the onset of arthritis or osteoporosis. Neither's out of the question.

We are family

And then there were five 

And we can all squint at the camera and look really silly.

Good day, sunshine

This morning we returned to Burton Dassett and found yesterday’s elusive cache instantly. Yes, I had picked up the container without realising – very very cleverly hidden! Blindingly obvious yet incredibly subtle. Excellent! So we liberated both Travel Bugs and took them to a couple of other caches a few miles away. Usually we’d only take one, but this cache hadn’t been found since February – I’m sure their owners will be happy that they’re on the move again. One cache which received a TB contained a pirate’s eyepatch, which of course had to be liberated!

After walking the dogs we visited several pet shops and eventually managed to get a new lead for Millie, very similar to her old one. Then, having recently joined the National Trust (so we can park for free in Cornwall – yes, I’m not sure of the logic either) we popped over to Charlecote Park just before the teashop closed; verdict: not bad at all. We must have a look round the house some time. I'm still wondering why the guide in the Victorian kitchen, who we asked for directions, was wearing a pirate's hat ...

It's good to touch the green green grass

Because Millie can’t do much tarmac walking without making her toe really sore, we decided to take her to the local country park and see if we could finish off a multi-cache we’d started some weeks ago. To keep the other dogs happy I took them to the fields for a gallop so they’d be content to wait at home while we went out in the car. We got Millie’s lead on, loaded her into the back of the car and she settled down as good as gold. There was a bit of rustling, and paper-tearing and chewing noises, but we thought nothing of it, until we’d parked and went to get her out. She’d chewed the handle off her lead. Oops! Into the petshop tomorrow to buy a replacement! Luckily we’d taken the extending lead as well, so she still got her walk - a couple of miles up and down hill. She's a bit stiff now - oops again! (And no, despite getting stung to mongoosery we didn’t find the cache.)

Edit: Since logging the DNF we had an email from the cache owner giving a further hint. Would you Adam and Eve it, I actually picked up the damned thing without twigging? Tchoh! Amatuer! Guess where we'll be tomorrow.

Sweet as sugar candy

We've got Millie staying with us again - this time for real! Her family are going abroad for a week, so if anything goes wrong there's nobody to rescue her - or us! But so far (all of 3 hours in ;)) it's going great. When they arrived she dragged her 'mum' to get into the house, wagging her tail and pleased to see all of us. She sniffed at Clover's nose - who she'd immediately attacked last time - Clover curled her lip and Millie immediately backed off. So hopefully they've got their relative positions sorted ... Millie at the bottom! They all seemed to reassume the positions they had when she stayed the first time. And now she's feeling brave enough to start playing a little bit with the others. She is a poppet. She has a very sweet old-fashioned look about her; if she hadn't damaged her leg so badly when she was younger and could have had the proper amount of exercise I think she'd have done pretty well. Her front assembly, even though it's under too much fat, is well made, and that's quite a failing in a lot of the breed.

Anyway, I'm sure with more exercise playing with the rest of them, and coming on longer walks (not on tarmac as it makes her foot bleed) we can shift a little of her weight. I wonder if dabbing her pads with surgical spirit will harden them enough to make roadwork more viable? However, what's important is that they all get along in the house, and that's looking good so far. I think (crossing fingers and not trying to tempt fate) this might work ...

Please tell me who I am

Today on the radio they were going on about ID cards. I didn’t hear all of it (probably due to my shouting at the asinine dorks spouting drivel) but we listeners were assured that if compulsory ID cards are brought in then the level of crime will tumble. Now perhaps I’m being particularly dim today, but I’m not sure how they’re going to make us all safer. Perhaps they’re magic cards where, if you have one in your pocket, you become physically unable to burgle someone’s house?

Honestly, they must think we were all born yesterday! How are these cards even going to make crime-solving any easier? Unless a mugger drops his ID card (maybe even his real one, not one of the many fakes that’ll be hot off the presses in an instant) at his victim’s feet it’s going to be no easier to trace him and pin the evidence on him than it is now. (Actually, it’d be quite easy to pin an ID card on someone, but they’d probably squeal a bit. Perhaps not such a bad idea.) The terrorists who flew the planes on September 11th had ID, and it didn’t seem to stop them committing crimes. Visitors to the country who intend to stay for less than three months won’t need one, by the way. That lets all the suicide bombers off the hook then.

We were also assured that they’re very quick to produce, only taking 45 minutes. Hang on, there are 60 million of us living here (officially) or thereabouts, aren’t there Elly? At 45 minutes per card it’ll take over 5000 years to make them all. By the time mine arrived it’d no doubt need renewing because I bet my photo would be out of date. It's worth remembering that all 60 million are going to be wanted within a very short space of time, unlike passports which are done to order as and when. If the entire population needed a new passport within 6 months there'd be terrible production problems!

(And apparently one of the problems with the trial sample is that if you develop a cataract the iris recognition system rejects you ... )

What I mainly object to is the fact that they intend to make us pay for something compulsory. I’ve got no real objections to carrying yet another card - they were compulsory during the war after all - but with all the other ones I have it’s my own choice. If I don’t want them I don’t have to have them, and I certainly don’t need to carry them at all times. But these ID cards are going to cost us £93 each and I assume will need regular updating because they’ll have photographs on them. It's compulsory to have a birth certificate, so you're issued with one for free. We're all issued with a card with our compulsory NI number - for free. If ID cards are to be compulsory (and you won't be able to get a passport - to be paid for as well - without one) then they must be free as well. I don't mind paying for a passport (even though they're not your property; they always belong to the Crown) because that's voluntary - nobody's forced to go abroad. If I’m going to be forced to carry something at all times I’m damned if I’m going to pay for the privilege.


PS: Update from yesterday; my friend contacted the NSPCC who told her that telling the school should have set in motion a chain of events that would draw in Social Services and the police, that writing a formal letter to back it up is exactly the right thing to do, and to request a formal written response on what measures are being taken in consequence to safeguard all the children from a repeat of this. That way it can’t be swept under the carpet, which has got to be good for all concerned.

Keep your head together

A bit of a tricky day today, trying to give sensible advice to a friend whose five-year-old son is having problems at school with one of the boys in his class. This other child is older but has special needs, so is in the reception class. Apparently he’s been taking my friend’s son into the toilets, pulling down his pants and behaving ‘inappropriately’. (I confess I had to chuckle when the Freudian phrase 'never regions' was mentioned!) We decided last night that the best course of action was to see the class teacher and the headmaster and write a formal letter to the school governors; this morning my friend learned that this boy was excluded from his previous school for the same sort of behaviour. At seven years of age.

Something is very wrong – how has this child learned this sort of thing? He needs help PDQ – should my friend contact Social Services or ask the police for advice in case this boy’s being abused at home?

Because time - it waits for nobody

This is very disappointing, you know. Somewhere along the line I’ve lost my stamina, because I’m still not firing on all cylinders after Saturday night. This is very, very wrong. I’ll be reduced to indulging in a cup of cocoa and a gentle novel before turning in at 9.30 before long. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

PS. I forgot to say, there was one thing yesterday that made me feel about 6 years old rather than 60. We watched the Dr Who we'd taped from Saturday, and it was fantastic!! I've not been so spooked since the Cybermen were on the rampage way back. The sentence "Are you my mummy?" is now one of the most spine-chilling in the language. I can't wait for the final part this weekend! If you're waiting for it in Amerikaland, it's the story called 'The Empty Child'.

*moves sofa away from the wall in readiness*

If you really mean it, it all comes round again

The Fairport Convention gig last night was fab! A bit of irresistible piratical nonsense occurred before we went in (Om has the pics), and the only downer was that the management wouldn’t allow the Boy’s girlfriend in because she’s under 18, and by the time Ned got it sorted she’d gone home. It was a very small, intimate affair – Cox’s Yard is only licenced for a maximum audience of 200, and I reckon there was roughly 150 there – so there was room for me to jig about, though I tried not to get too enthusiastic. Lorry and I were ‘shushed’ at one point (I’m sure it wasn’t just me!) which made us giggle. Mal and Lorry were stalking the mandolin-player who looked incredibly like Stu with long hair, though when we found pics of the guy on Google to show to Stu neither he nor Sarah could see a likeness, but what do they know about such things?

We all tried to dodge the raindrops as we headed back to the car afterwards, and Lorry and I carefully held the handrail of the dark, wet, slippery steps to the carpark and convulsed with giggles when Lorry found that the rail she was pinning her faith on wasn’t actually attached to anything at the other end. Ned, Mally and the Boy steadfastly refused to look back and see what was going on – maybe they thought they’d be turned into Lots of Wives, or something. (Biblical allusion, in case you hadn't realised.)

It was after we got home that the Great Mistake (on my part) was made – I wasn’t sensible like Lorry and I didn’t go to bed as early as I should have. Instead I stayed up chatting to Ned and Mal and before we knew it, it was half past three in the morning. When the alarm went off at half past seven I didn’t feel at all rested so Ned, who wasn’t as hungover tired as I was got up and managed the morning routine as I dozed till I felt able to surface. Sort of. Today has been a bit of a write-off, really. An early night is called for tonight, I think.

A big thank you to Mal and Lorry for coming up – we had a lovely time. :)

How much is that Doggie in the window?

I’ve managed to buy another copy to add to my growing collection of Observers’ Books of Dogs. I now have copies from 1987, 1979, 1973, 1967 and 1964. I’m not sure how many editions there were in all, but it was first published in 1945. I’ve been having a look on the net and the ones from 1957 seem to be going for about £20. Blimey! I’m not going to pay that much – I’m sure if I look around I’ll eventually get them all, and at a more reasonable price.

The older editions are fascinating, showing how the breeds have altered over the years. The main differences seem to be purely cosmetic, with coats being much more profuse and glamorous; however they aren’t necessarily practical for the breeds’ original purpose. Bearded Collies, for example, now have long, straight coats which often have a parting down the centre of the back, which would be disastrous for a decent working dog. Rather than being weatherproof, any rain will get straight to the skin – a stormy day’s work rounding up sheep in the hill country where the breed was developed would leave a dog seriously chilled and not able to do its job properly. Some of the breeds in the earlier editions seem to have disappeared entirely, while other varieties, rare at the time, are now quite commonplace.

The later editions are re-written/edited by Catherine Sutton, but the earlier ones were the work of Clifford (known as ‘Doggie’) Hubbard, who I had the pleasure of meeting on his bookstall at the Championship shows. And it was indeed a pleasure to talk to him – he was a delightful man with a shock of white hair and an enormous stock of anecdotes; I once nearly missed my class listening to him recounting how as a boy he did a ‘Dick Whittington’ and walked from his home in Bath (though he was born in Wales) to London to look for work, sleeping in haystacks (and once on top of the ovens in a bakery – cosy!) as he had no money to spare for accommodation. The show scene lost one of its most knowledgeable and more colourful characters when he died.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Boy! Crikey, that's come around quickly.

It's apropos of nothing

Thought for today: LeAnn Rimes.

No, it doesn’t.

If you know what I mean

I have a new game! Yesterday I put a site monitor (see how casually I slipped in that technermological achievement? No mention that it took me over an hour. Some of the time it works) onto the blog because I was curious to see who found me and where they came from. The further into the bowels of the system you click the more details it provides. One visitor arrived (and disappeared again in less than a second) via Google, and it showed what his keywords had been. I was surprised to discover that if you type in
Odd parents biscuits
this blog is top of the list! I wonder what he was really looking for?

Hey, good lookin'

Well, there I was at work, busily trying to think up questions for the trivia database, when I hit upon the idea of basic history (though what I consider basic may actually be fairly advanced if what I read in the newspaper’s true). So I bashed out a few about Romans then started working my way through history. The Princes in the Tower and the Wars of the Roses were quite productive, as was the Mary Rose and then the Civil War, Commonwealth and Restoration. Then came the Jacobite Rebellions. Searching reputable sites for accurate details such as dates, correct spellings etc, I came across this page. My colleegwees were startled when I let out a squeal of astonishment. Some of you might recognise the handsome throat-slitting chap on the left of the picture.

Where do you go to, my lovely?

I must have aged by about 10 years at lunchtime. The dogs were helping me bring the shopping in from the car so when I’d got all the bags in the house I called them in from the front garden and pushed the door shut. It took a while to put the shopping away, having to remove interested heads from the bags, and put the frozen stuff into the freezer before it became toxic. Then I made a cup of coffee and had a stroll around the garden making a note of all the things that I should have been doing. Then it was one o’clock and time for the dogs’ biscuits, so I got the Bonios out of the cupboard and called the hounds. Only three turned up – no Clover. Assuming she was deeply asleep on a chair I gave the others their lunch and went to find her. And I couldn’t find her anywhere. She wasn’t in the house so I searched the garden. She wasn’t there either. This was when I realised what must have happened. When I shut the front door she must still have been outside. So I opened the door to let her in. She wasn’t there.

This was when I started to panic. Clover’s getting on a bit and has poor sight so she gets lost easily. I knew she wouldn’t have gone far, but in which direction should I look? There was no sign of her up or down the road as I ran past all the neighbours’ houses looking in their front gardens. No sign. So I ran back and into the village where we go for walks, in case she’d taken herself off. No sign. Getting distraught by now I ran back and up the road to the fields, calling her. Nothing. As I ran back yet again a neighbour drove home, said she’d put her dog in and help me look. She quickly came back out saying that Clover had been in to visit her semi-disabled husband (in the back door, pottered around their kitchen, out into the back garden for a sniff then wandered out again) who waited for me to go past with the others and pick her up. When I didn’t he made a note of which way she’d gone and tried to find my phone number.

So at least we knew she’d gone towards the fields instead of into the village. Off I ran again, calling her and feeling increasing desperate. What if someone had stopped their car and taken her? Although tattooed she wasn’t wearing her collar – I might never get her back. Then Di called me. Clover had emerged from another back garden and was pottering homewards. She called Clover’s name, who stopped still in surprise, not being able to see anyone in the bright sunshine, and as I ran towards her I couldn’t stop myself bursting into tears of relief. Three-quarters of an hour of hell, and she’d been about 100 yards away. No matter. My lovely old girl was safe.

Those ants that invaded my pants; finis

Ooh, it appears we’ve been tagged. I wonder what that means? It appears to be something about fillums and chain lettery type stuff. Oh well, seems harmless – but tricky because we don’t really ‘do’ fillums – and we don’t have many friends either! Oh well, here goes:

1. Total number of films we own on DVD: none.
2. The last film we bought: never bought one.
3. The last film we watched: About A Boy (cos it was on TV)
4. Five films that we watch a lot: Difficult. Like I said, we don't ‘do’ films. ‘Some films that we’ve watched more than once will have to suffice!:

The Italian Job
Brief Encounter
Clockwise

Erm ... that's all folks!

Tagged in return: Elly, Miss Sixty, Mrs Mort, Henry, Aoj (who for some reason won't enlinkify).

To wander in the fear of a never-ending lie

How very strange. I thought I’d read that when you had a Blogger account that name was always yours and nobody else could use it. But when I clicked on the link to Morty's blog from Scotters' blog I did indeed get taken to Mort’s old Sam Vimes blogname, but now it seems to belong to someone called James T. Mortling, is there something you haven't told us? And Scotty, you might like to update your linkification!

I got a brain in left hand drive

A long one today, sparked off by an interesting chatroom discussion the other day, which made it clear to me how the same technical term can vary from one application to another. We were discussing the basic principles of animal breeding, and how, in cats the term ‘out-cross’ means crossing two pure breeds, whereas in dogs the same term means mating two unrelated animals of the same breed. That lead onto a discussion about breeding and genetics in general, but as it was late at night there simply wasn’t time to explain it properly.

There was a lot of confusion about ‘in-breeding’ and ‘line-breeding’, with some expressing the view that these are wrong. However, people who are experienced in the practical aspects of breeding animals as well as having qualifications as geneticists explain it thus:

In-breeding is where the mating involves close relatives, such as grand-father to grand-daughter, half-brother to half-sister. This system will quickly ‘fix’ good points in the resultant offspring, and will also expose any major faults carried in the family line. It cannot create problems which aren’t already there - it can only bring them to light, which, if you’re concerned in trying to eradicate hereditary problems and breeding only healthy stock is a definite benefit to the breed as a whole. It can be used with great success, but only if the parent animals are of better-than-average quality to start with, and the breeder is knowledgeable enough to recognise when to stop. It’s certainly not a system that should be used without careful thought and planning, and a wealth of knowledge about all the animals in the pedigree, not just as names, but as individuals. This is the form of ‘marriage’ which, if it involved humans, would be forbidden by the Church.

Line-breeding involves using animals with common ancestors in their pedigrees three or four generations back, and is used by the majority of dog breeders. It helps ‘fix’ characteristics at a slower rate than in-breeding, but there’s less chance of potentially serious problems coming to light. They’ll still be lurking in the woodwork, though. If applied to humans, this marriage would be perfectly legal.

Out-crossing uses animals from totally different families. Offspring produced by this system will vary tremendously, and although the occasional super example will be produced, the vast majority will be mediocre at best. A carefully chosen out-cross is used every few generations to bring a new quality into a family, and then two or three generations of line-breeding will try to fix the good points and eradicate the bad ones that will inevitably have been introduced at the same time.

Providing the parents and grandparents are healthy (research, research!) basically the system that is most likely to produce the healthiest offspring is line-breeding. Out-crossing is a complete gamble. Also gene mutation is completely random and shouldn’t be associated with any particular breeding system. Indeed, a mutation is as likely to be of benefit to the species as otherwise.

In the effort to breed healthy pets for people to enjoy sharing their lives with, it’s vital to only breed from animals who aren’t carrying serious conditions. Where possible you make the most of the screening tests (BAER, hip-scoring, elbow-scoring, ophthalmic tests etc) while DNA tests are slowly being developed. In-breeding is one of the tools that, in the absence of laboratory tests, can be used to bring to light hidden conditions. When you know they’re there you can start to do something about them. If you deliberately avoid discovering them then all you’re doing is disseminating them to spread more widely in the population. And not just the ‘pedigree’ population.

Of course, the ultimate gamble, both looks- and health-wise, is a mongrel. Everyone knows that various breeds usually have a tendency to suffer from hereditary conditions – just like people do. What a lot of people forget is that crossbreeds and mongrels frequently suffer from the same hereditary diseases. Just because the parents are of different breeds it doesn’t mean all the ‘bad’ genes are instantly removed. Each parent passes 50% of their genes to their offspring, whatever breed they’re mated to. If a Labrador with dodgy hips mates with a German Shepherd with dodgy hips then the resulting pups are just as likely to have dodgy hips as if both parents had been mated to their own breed. The people who tell you that mongrels are healthier simply aren’t telling the truth. So if you choose a crossbreed (the offspring of two different pure breeds) or mongrel (where more than three breeds are involved in the first generation of the ancestry) - and there’s no denying they can be delightful animals - you really need to know the breeds which have gone into making them. But as many mongrels are the result of irresponsible owners allowing their pets to roam as the mood takes them the pups could be carrying absolutely anything in their genes – undoubtedly something from all the breeds that have gone into their make-up – and could be a timebomb. There again, they could have got lucky. What’s certain is that their parents won’t have been screened for genetic conditions, which is something responsible breeders do.

Don’t forget, the ultimate aim of the game is to produce animals which are most likely to live long, happy, healthy lives – not just take a chance. Reputable breeders do this by trying to identify carriers of hereditary conditions and remove them from the gene pool, leaving only those who are clear of the various conditions.

If anyone’s bothered to read through to the end of this, and is remotely interested in the subject, this and this may be of interest. I suggest they also read the works on genetics, both practical and theoretical, by Dr Malcolm Willis BSc, PhD. He can explain it so much better than I can!

It ain't what you say, it's the way that you say it

Today I hurt my chin. You’ll recall I was advised to phone local boarding kennels to find out what they charge and ask half that for looking after Millie. Today, being a day off, I decided to do just that, and got out the phone book. Gosh, it’s quite expensive, isn’t it? I called a few of local ones first; the first one didn’t answer; the second charges £12/dog/day; the other £9.50 + VAT/dog/day. Then I called one that’s further away but sounds quite upmarket – from the advert it’s the sort of place I’d consider for my lot. They do indeed sound lovely and charge £10/dog/day. Then I tried the first one again, and the conversation went like this:

Me: “Good afternoon! I was wondering how much you charge to board a medium-sized dog?”
Him: “What time of year, duck?”
“Errm - early June.”
“What sort of dog? Is it a crossbreed?”
“No, it’s a Dalmatian.”
“We don’t take Dalmatians. Goodbye.”
With that he slammed the phone down.

My chin? I think it got bruised when it hit the floor.

I'm in pieces, bits and pieces

Some time ago our up-and-over garage door became reluctant to both ‘up’ and ‘over’. The little roller on the right-hand side had been in the habit of falling off, but had always been directly below it’s assigned place (gravity can sometimes, when human bodyparts aren’t involved, be a marvellous thing) and was easily replaceable. Then one day it pinged off and vanished. As the months passed we became used to the excruciating squeak the door made as it was hoisted aloft, and then last week the cable attached to one of the weights snapped. Something Had To Be Done. So Ned bought new cables and on Saturday, shortly before Millie was due to arrive and time was tight, decided that it would be a good time to get this mended, squeezed himself into the garage (does anyone have space in their garage for a car?) and removed the cable housing.

Twoinnnnggg!!

Bits flew off in all directions and much cursing was heard. Two important plastic spacers, one from each side, had vanished. As a dutiful helpmeet I managed to find one of them, volunteered my assistance (refused) and retreated, because I simply can’t cope when DIY gets agitated. When I returned shortly afterwards I was told that another plastic spacer had vanished. Now we were lacking two spacers and one roller from the right-hand side. With the door forced fully open and propped up with the metal housing (the air had been blue with oaths when the door, lacking both counterweights, had clanged down onto Ned’s spine) I boldly suggested we clear some of the garage contents to find the missing (and vital) objects. This we did. Seven bicycles (don’t ask), a trailer, two barrels, a bucket of ash from the fire, a large ceramic table lamp (no idea where that came from) and numerous boxes of Important Stuff later the space was cleared.

The only explanation is that the garage contains a Black Hole that swallows important components. None of these missing items were in the garage. Anywhere.

I think we need to buy a whole new door. Bugger.

Now I'm tired and I don't want to walk any more

By eight o’clock last night all was peaceful, with all dogs off leads and relaxed and dozing in their chosen spots. Marvellous! So Ned and I had a couple of Masterbrews, watched a tape of Casanova, took all the dogs into the garden for a late-night wee and went to bed. We’d thought it wise to have Millie sleeping apart from the others so that there was no chance of a spat breaking out. The kitchen and utility room were therefore out (girls’ and boys’ dormitories already) so we decided to put her bed in the hall where she’d decided to pass the evening – probably waiting for her mum to come and save her! So we settled her down with a biscuit and a bowl of water and went upstairs.

At 2.23 am she woke me by whining, so I got on dressing-gown and slippers, went downstairs to put her on a lead and took her out into the front garden in case she needed a wee. We pottered about for a while – I looked at the stars and she sniffed the plants. After 5 minutes or so I gave up and we came in. She got back in her bed and I went upstairs again.

At 3.20 am she woke Ned by whining, so he got his dressing-gown on, went downstairs and took her through the dining-room and out to the back garden, where she pottered about for five minutes till he got bored and brought her back in, settled her down and came back to bed.

At 4.14 am she woke me by whining, so I went downstairs and did the front garden routine, fruitlessly, so walked her up and down the road a few times. No result, so we all came back in.

At 5.27 am she woke Ned by whining, who did the back garden routine. Hurrah! A wee and a poo! Back to bed.

At 6.12 am she woke me by whining. I put my head under the pillow and tried to ignore her.

At 7.18 am we started the day. At first she tried to beat up the girls but a yell from me convinced her that was a Bad Move, and after that they were fine. Piglet was a good boy and behaved himself, and she wasn’t bad on her morning walk – though she pulls on the lead if she thinks she can get away with it! When she realised she can’t, she stopped trying.

Her mum came for her shortly after 11 am, and was pleased to see how well they were all getting on. The upshot is Millie’ll be staying with us at the end of the month. The first day may be awkward again, but now we know it’ll get better. Also, she’ll be sleeping at the other end of the house next time! We were asked how much we were going to charge, which rather stunned us as we hadn’t thought about that aspect at all! Chums on the net say to find out how much local kennels charge and ask half that, which seems fair, so I suppose it’ll be round about a fiver a day.

Now all I want to do is sleep.

When you're in love with a beautiful woman, it's hard

Sorry about the suggestiveness of the title, but it’s a little fraught at Genie Towers tonight. We have one of Harry and Piglet’s sisters staying the night. Her owner’s going on holiday at the end of the month and last time Millie was in kennels she hated it badly, so we’re seeing how she fits in back here to find out if it would be feasible to have her here for the week. I’d had it all worked out in my mind how each of ours was likely to react to a stranger in our midst – and I was wrong on a couple of counts. Beattie doesn’t appear to be as jealous as I thought she’d be, and Harry’s being a complete gentleman. He invites her to play by bowing and spinning, but she’s not sure so he goes and lies down. Clover (their mum) who has the sweetest nature of any dog in the whole wide world, went to say hello and was very confused at being seen off, and is now pretending Millie isn’t here. It’s Piglet who’s really surprised us. He’s not really a ‘dog’s dog’, and tends to be standoffish when out. He’s also very territorial about his house and garden, and we thought if anyone was going to be aggressive to a stranger it’d be him.

Piglet has fallen in LURVE bigtime. Or at least as near lurve as a dog with a very small brain can manage. He’s having to be kept on a lead, and his serenading her to the best of his ability. Unless he pulls himself together overnight I can see that having her to stay for a whole week might be too much for us all. Pity – she’s very sweet – although very overweight! I’d love to have her to stay for a while to get her back in shape and get her nails right, because they’re too long too. But that’s because when she was a youngster she badly broke her leg, resulting in the loss of a toe and some pad, so she can’t do a lot of roadwork without getting a very sore foot. She’s not overfed (well, obviously she is overfed because she's fat, but she doesn't actually eat a lot) – she eats less than ours (she brought her lunchbox with her); she just doesn’t get the exercise she needs. Not only do ours get long walks they also play together a lot and use up energy that way.


Millie 

I must admit though it’s reassuring to see that the dogs I’ve produced have got pretty good temperaments. A lot of research went into planning the litters, travelling a couple of hundred miles to the right stud dog each time (the nearest is never the most suitable – it’s the law). Good show specimens and great, healthy pets, combined in the same animals. I must be doing something right.

A distant bell and stars that fell

They tell me that this Sunday is the 60th anniversary of the end of World War Two. I’m sorry, but no it isn’t. They’re wrong. It’s certainly the 60th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe, but that was only part of the conflict. The War was still raging in the Far East, where my father was fighting.

I remember him telling me of a visit by one of the Top Brass (I can’t remember whether it was Auchinlech or Slim) who mentioned in his speech to the troops that “You may have heard that at Home they’re calling us ‘The Forgotten Army’. That’s not true. You can’t forget something you’ve never heard of.” That stuck in my father’s mind, that there they were, fighting and dying and the people they were doing it for didn’t give a toss.

And clearly they still don’t. Yes, let’s celebrate 60 years since the end of the last European War. But the Second World War wasn’t over till August 15th: VJ Day. That’s when I’ll be remembering, celebrating and mourning.

Cause you ain't got time to check it

It’s The Boy’s first chance to vote in a General Election, and I’m pleased he’s taking it very seriously. We’ve had long discussions about the policies of the various parties, and whether it’s better to vote for the candidate who’s most likely to represent the constituency, or to vote for the party with the policies you agree with – or the third option of voting for the leader you want. As I pointed out, leaders are transient; policies are more permanent. His interest probably won’t last very long because we all become very jaded and disillusioned with politics, but it’s good to see him taking an interest at least once.

I’ve been thinking long and hard about Gottler's election blog regarding postal voting, and he raised a couple of points that are very serious. Postal votes are sent some days before the actual polling day, and once they’re in the postbox that’s that. Now, the chances are that, sadly, some people are going to die in between posting their ballot and election day – which means that certain dead people are now enfranchised. Also, some people will come to trial, be convicted and sent to jail. Convicted prisoners aren’t allowed to vote – except the ones who’ve voted by post. So that’s two categories of postal votes that legally should be annulled. I bet whatever you want they aren’t though – after all, they’re supposed to be secret!

But does anyone else know folks who chose a postal vote because the husband finds it awkward to get to the Polling station (Village Hall this time), but don't trust the postal service so drove 12 miles into Stratford to deliver it by hand? Ah, village life ...!

May I enquire discreetly

Hmm. It seems as though the suspicions I had three months ago are being proven true. I queried the result and scoured the house looking for evidence of extra unauthorised activity, but can find no evidence. Searches of The Boy’s room for signs of standby drew a blank, so I’m afraid I must be the guilty party. I bought the washing machine. That’s the only change that can possibly have put our electricity bill up by £100 a quarter, unless it is indeed pouring out of sockets and soaking into the carpet. We’ll just have to set a fashion for wearing grubby clothes. Or become nudists.

Apart from that, I heard a cuckoo today – the first this year (though Ned says he heard one yesterday).

Inside out and round and round

How very peculiar. The Bank Holiday weather was lovely and sunny and hot, with only rain at night, and when everyone was back at work again it started raining. Have I climbed through into Looking-glass Land, or has the world turned upside down and is about to explode?

All good friends and jolly good company

It’s been a lovely weekend! We got our car back, fully MOTed, from the garage on Saturday, and on Sunday the lovely Lorry and the King arrived to help paint the fence, a job which was much quicker and more fun with their assistance than it would have been otherwise. It was perfect duelling weather, and much green was liberally applied to the combatants. Much gossiping intellectual discussion occurred and there was a competition to see who was small enough to paint the panel behind the shed; the bony king won. Strange messages appeared while I was walking the dogs – I think the perpetrators should write it out correctly one hundred times before morning. You can’t get the staff, you know.


Graffiti 

When the job was completed and cup of tea enjoyed (and the King claimed as Harry’s own in that special way) we went up to Spring Hill so that the visitors could get a head start on the Blog Standard series. Despite being given a map showing the positions of the footpaths they decided to make it more of an adventure and set off into uncharted territory. Ned and I listened to the crashes and yelps in fascination, and wondered if the SimonG school of navigation was spreading. Several wounds and asthma attacks later they reappeared, successful (don’t forget to log it chaps!), and after admiring the view while they got their breath back we adjourned to the pub for a interlude before supper.


Surrender! 

It was when supper was finished and drinks being shared – sometimes willingly - that things became a little woolly, especially for Piglet, who proved himself to be a lightweight with his (or rather Lorry’s) beer, and spent some time shaking his head presumably to try to keep the room still. Silly Piggy. However he had no signs of a hangover this morning, and helped Harry catch a rabbit for their supper, so no harm was done. Except to the rabbit, of course.

I want one for my tea

We’re having problems with our emails. Last night MSN started telling us that we need to enable cookies, but the settings of the computer haven’t changed. Briefly, first thing this morning, I was allowed access, then it changed its mind again. So if I don’t reply to anyone’s emails it’s not because I’ve gone off in a huff, but because I haven’t been able to get to them.

Hooray! We have our car back home again and road-legal for another year, which eases the pressure on us to find a replacement. It’s reached the ‘radio’ stage – you know, the time in a car’s life when, if you hear a new noise you turn the radio up a bit more.

Other stuff: some years ago we used to keep a few chickens, and they were great fun to have (one day I’ll tell you about Percy) and gave us lots (well, Lucy didn’t give us lots, but she was a law unto herself) of lovely eggs. But they started to destroy too much of the garden, and they gradually died off or were rehomed to friends. Eventually we gave our coop to other people, and we were a bird-free zone. Then we got a couple of guinea-pigs, but last year they all departed this earthly life, so to remove all temptation to replace these animals we gave away the hutches and most of the runs, only keeping the one that was too big to go in the car, with plans to break it up. But as the fence started falling apart the run proved very useful at propping it up, and it’s only now the run’s back on the patio getting in the way. But we'd definitely decided to stop the extraneous pet/livestock keeping till we had more land, and in the meantime stick with just the dogs.

Which makes me wonder why Ned came home with some green (rare breed) free-range eggs, and has set up the incubator in the garage ...

It don't look much but I've been far

When the phone rang just before lunchtime I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. The garage chappy said the car needed two things fixed to pass the MOT; a new bolt-on thing (easy-peasy, costs £11 and will take half an hour to do) but also the headlight reflectors seem to be mongoosed and aren’t throwing the beam properly, which they now have to do. He’d phoned around a few places and they didn’t seem to be available – should he call the main dealer and get sepcial brand-new headlight units which would cost more than the car’s worth? After my panic had subsided I told him to hang fire and I’d get back to him. I need plenty of warning if I’m to make a snap decision, you understand. I mean, I don’t want to throw money away, but I don’t want to be forced to scrap a go-able car merely because of manky reflectors.

So I started phoning breakers’ yards, and hurrah! The first one I called had indeed got a pair – right model, right year! So I leaped into the little car and off I sped, only to be told when I arrived at the yard that someone had taken the entire car yesterday. Thanks pal. So home I went to get back on the phone. The next nearest didn’t have any, so then I started going alphabetically. A spares shop in Alcester (about 20 miles away) had some in stock but they were £63 + VAT each. Worth bearing in mind though.

Next alphabetically was a place in Banbury. And yes, not only did they have two headlight units, they were a pair, and both MOT-passable. I got directions of where to find them and buzzed off again; and toured the industrial estate they were on for about 15 minutes looking for their unit before I cornered someone and asked for help*. It turns out that ‘last place on the left’ translates as ‘second turning on the right down an alleyway between two warehouses’ but as they hadn’t been lying to me, and I came away with both lights for a total of £35 I let it pass.

The car will be ready tomorrow. Yay!

*Males reading this may have a problem with that concept.

If they were me and I was you

Ned seemed very pleased with the presents I gave him, which is always a relief. I tend to be pants at present-buying, especially for chaps. The two pairs of shorts (which he initially thought was a jumper) are a tad tight, but he admits going up a size is admitting defeat. His plan is to make sure he always stands up straight and keeps his tummy sucked in so that he looks lean and lovely. However so far his time limit on remembering to do this has reached a massive three seconds, and my suggestion of eating and drinking less was met by not a little whimpering.

His other main present was much bigger, and he viewed the package with trepidation. “It’s an implement, isn’t it?” It’s something he’s been wanting for years and years and years, and they had some cheap in Aldi a few weeks ago, and he sent me to have a look at them before they sold out. When I arrived there was only one left so I grabbed it. Once I was holding it I could look at the pallet they’d been on and see that there were none on it, so I could tell Ned, in all truthfulness, that they’d all gone. Then it was merely a question of hiding it in the wardrobe till the big day. He was very surprised, and unnervingly excited, to unwrap a chainsaw. I fear my apple trees may be doomed.

Pottering around the garden today (lovely weather, got two loads of washing dried) I noticed that dear Mr O’Reilly had got the fence panels nice and level by cleverly digging a shallow trench along the boundary to avoid the slight slope. Which is all very well but it means that when the flowerbeds are levelled off again the bottom couple of inches of the panels are going to be buried and will almost instantly rot. Oh joy.

Tomorrow the car has to go and be MOTed. Bother. We were hoping to have replaced it a few weeks ago so we could have avoided this, but time has caught up both with us and the rubbish car dealer who doesn’t appear to want to sell any cars. If it’s going to cost more than a couple of hundred squids to get it through the test it’s hardly going to be worth it (it turned over the 199,000 mile mark on Monday), unless we decide to keep it for at least another six months. Which if the dealer doesn’t extract his digit PDQ is looking very likely.

Other than that I finally got The Boy’s student loan application posted, so that’s one more thing crossed off the worry list.

It's only words

Forgive me if I ramble in this. I apologise in advance if I offend anyone with this, but the fact that I feel the need to say that only proves the veracity of what I say. It’s some of my thoughts on one of the greatest evils of the late 20th century, Political Correctness.

Political Correctness, that’s supposed to bring about unity and harmony amongst all the citizens of this once great and wonderful country, does nothing of the kind. It doesn’t encourage acceptance and integration. On the contrary, people who’ve been brought up to be polite have become so fearful of potentially causing offence that they avoid different groups entirely. People who haven’t been raised correctly don’t change, and everyone becomes tarred with the same brush (all football supporters are hooligans, all teenage boys are muggers, etc). Integration and tolerance goes out of the window and segregation, isolation and mistrust are nurtured. It has replaced basic good manners, where people aren’t deliberately rude to anyone, with a climate of fear. The ethos is one where people actively seek out possible causes of offence, rather than accept that difference is not only acceptable, it's positively desirable. To ignore differences is to deny tolerance. But of course tolerance is something that only ‘they’ - the PC Thought Police - are qualified to decide upon. The worst is when people search for what might possibly, in their opinion, offend others. The arrogance in assuming people are too stupid to know what offends them and need a keeper-of-morals to tell them how they should be feeling is utterly breathtaking!

It was that petty mindset that lead to letters of complaint being written to the BBC because Lenny Henry was telling jokes about black people! He was telling jokes about his own family!!! Unbelievable but true. Personally I feel that only a blind person (and the one such person I know finds being called ‘visually impaired’ insulting) has the right to say what offends someone in that situation. The PC nursemaiding well-intentioned do-gooders scurry about organising denies her her adulthood. In fact she, and people in her condition, are the only true egalitarians. Because they physically can’t see differences between races they meet everyone with the same open mind.

The way I see it, PC has replaced good manners and tolerance with a doctrine of fear. Pre-PC differences between races, religions, genders etc were accepted (by polite people) as just that – merely differences, neither better nor worse than one another. There were rude names for ‘different’ people by all groups – no one section of society is any worse than the others, after all! You should hear what a Sikh friend of mine calls Chinese people – and again, polite people didn’t use them in public, just as polite people didn’t blaspheme or swear in public. But – and it’s a big but – these same names are used within a group to refer to themselves. I’m particularly thinking of the recent scandal when Ron Atkinson used the word ‘nigger’. He was thoughtless, but remember, when he was a boy that’s how POACE (I’m informed by those ‘in the know’ that that’s the correct PC terminology) referred to themselves – in fact there was recently a rap band called Niggas With Attitude (my spelling might be dodgy there). Why is a particular word acceptable when one person uses it but a heinous crime when said by another? There’s no logic. Either a word is offensive or it isn’t. Full stop.

The double standards get right up my nose as well. For instance, if it's offensive to call a black person (and there's a potential minefield! In this area POACE prefer to be called black and consider 'coloured' to be an offensive term, but it's a reverse situation where my brother lives) by the n-word, then fair enough, nobody should use it. But how come it's perfectly legal to call a white person 'honky', even though that's just as offensive? Because, in law, racism only works one way.

The evils of Political Correctness lead, a couple of years ago in America, to a man famously losing his job because he used the word ‘niggardly’ and his ignorant co-worker (white, by the way) took offence. Even after the meaning of the word had been explained at the tribunal, the dismissal was upheld. Outrageous. To top it all, we’re officially informed that it’s not possible for a white person (even though I’m actually pink, and only white when I’m unwell) to be racially insulted. I find that insulting. And if anyone calls me racist for writing this, I’ll refer them to my Chinese relations, who know me well and know I’m not. So ner.

PC is also responsible for the fear many men have of showing gallantry and manners towards women. When I lived in London and ravelled a lot on public transport I used to see men being rounded upon for being polite enough to offer their seat to a woman. And heaven forbid they should actually hold open a door for someone! Shocked gasps all round, yes? Or have you all got the courage to stand up and say how rude it is not to accept the gesture in the spirit in which it’s offered? Whether or not a woman needs or wants that seat she doesn’t have the right to throw the poor man’s manners back in his face. But that’s more Feminism, another branch of PC, and a whole other topic. Let’s save that for another day.

The Political Correctness Thought Police are the enemies of freedom, fairness, tolerance and good manners.

I bet I cop some flak for this one. :(

It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of

I’ve got a zillion and one things to witter on about bubbling and seething away in my brain, but they’re all very elusive. I’m doing my best, gambolling through the echoey corridors with a large butterfly net, but just when I get close to one, off it flutters again. Ooh look! There’s Political Correctness! And over there, there’s Animal Welfare being abused by Animal Rights. And right up there, look, by the skylight is a little flock of general Worries. They certainly should be caught. Where’s my stepladder?

Always look on the bright side of life

EXCERPTS FROM A DOG'S DIARY

Day 180
7.00 am - OH BOY! MUM’S AWAKE! MY FAVOURITE!
8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVOURITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVOURITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVOURITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
Noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVOURITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVOURITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVOURITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! DAD’S HOME! MY FAVOURITE!
6:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!

Day 181
7.00 am - OH BOY! MUM’S AWAKE! MY FAVOURITE!
8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVOURITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVOURITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVOURITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
Noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVOURITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVOURITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVOURITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! DAD’S HOME! MY FAVOURITE!
6:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!

Day 182
7.00 am - OH BOY! MUM’S AWAKE! MY FAVOURITE!
8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVOURITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVOURITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVOURITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
Noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVOURITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVOURITE!
1:30 pm - ooooooo. bath. bummer.
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVOURITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! DAD’S HOME! MY FAVOURITE!
6:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVOURITE!
__________________________

EXCERPTS FROM A CAT'S DIARY

DAY 752
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal.
The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild
satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture.
Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 761
Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while
they were walking almost succeeded, must try this at the top of the
stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I
once again induced myself to vomit on their favourite chair... must try
this on their bed.

DAY 765
Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body in attempt to
make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into
their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little
cat I was. Hmmm..... Not working according to plan.

DAY 768
I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was
chosen for the water torture. This time however it included a burning
foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a
liquid. My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my
teeth.

DAY 771
There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in
solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell
the foul odour of the glass tubes they call "beer". More importantly I
overheard that my confinement was due to my power of "allergies." Must
learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 774
I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The
dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is
obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an
informant, and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my
every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room his safety is
assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time...
_____________________

That's why I like dogs. They're so full of joy. :)

A little bit of this, a little bit of that

I’ve been terribly strong today, seeing as how I’ve been barred from the computer all day. You see, our bedroom’s at the front of the house, and the council are busy resurfacing the road. They actually started last week when we were off work, but for some reason they decided to save the noisy stuff for when we’re back to the old routine and Ned (who works nights) becomes a Creature Of The Night. So he’s sleeping on the futon in the back room with the computer – which means I can’t be tapping and typing away and disturbing him. It meant I got to do some gardening in the front (hammer and bolster chisel to remove some of the drive) but I did get a little fractious.

Our local MP came canvassing this evening – I ended up giving him advice on how to handle his 16-year old son, and to reassure him that, although his boy will soon be able to drive himself everywhere and not rely on parents as a taxi service, his wallet will never be safe. Shame the conversation didn’t get around to politics at all. I could have told him how angry I get at the poxy tax laws making booze-cruising economically viable, not only to fill the car up with drink but also petrol as well, when I’d far rather pop out to Tesco or somewhere and buy English beer at the price I can get it in France.

Before I forget to mention it (as Simon’s site seems to have vanished into the ether, and for some reason I seem to be surprised) the weather forecast for this weekend is complete pants, so fence-painting would be a waste of everyone’s time. We’ll see what bodes for next weekend, if anyone’s up for it.

For the benefit of Mr Kite

Mr O'Reilly has finished the fence - hurrah! And I must admit he's done a pretty good job. It certainly looks better than when it was propped up by redundant bits of chicken-run and guinea-pig hutch. Now all we have to do is buy a few brushes and the green stuff to put on it and Bob will be your relation. I'm glad it's been completed before the sheep start lambing in the field behind us, because I'm sure Harry would think of them as being his little num-nums - tasty little snacks. Not good.

Oh, and the latest of the Blog Standard cache series, Blog Standard: Panorama, has gone live. It was absolutely beautiful when we set it, and we were astonished, standing at the top of the hill, to see that the bird of prey which swooped past us wasn't the expected buzzard (common as muck around here) but was in fact a Red Kite, the first we've ever seen in the area. We watched it cruising on the hunt for quite some time ... not often you get to watch birds from above them!

Whose is next?

A whiter shade of pale

It does exactly what it says on the tin 

Guaranteed to cover in one coat. Or should it be 'guaranteed to cover one coat'?

What's another day?

Well, instead of starting work on the fence yesterday, Mr O’Reilly (name changed because I can’t remember his real one, but that’s more accurate than the genuine article) had telephoned (at 7.20am – eek!) to let us know his slabbing job had overrun and it would be today instead that he’d be round. Last night he duly turned up to unload fence posts and panels so he could make an early start. And he and his sidekick arrived at 8 this morning.

Now, you must understand that when MO’R came to estimate for the job we made several things very clear: one, that on no account did we want posts simply concreted into the ground because they always rot at ground level, the dogs put their paws against the fence to talk to the neighbours, the posts snap and the fence falls over. So he promised to concrete in ‘godfathers’ and bolt the posts to them. We also said that we wanted the posts all shifted along about 18 inches to have the awkward quarter-panel at the far end of the garden behind the compost heap rather than halfway along, and to make it easier I’d chopped back the hedge that was stopping the dogs getting over that low place. So when I looked out of the window after an hour or so I was surprised to see that the gap was still there and the new posts in the same place as the old posts – hmmm. On enquiry it seems that there’s too much concrete there to dig out (or something) so the panels can’t be shifted. So the hedge is now 18" too short and looks completely arse for no reason, and the dogs will be able to get over the top of the new quarter-panel that I hope he's going to refit. Drat.

My major Sybil Fawlty moment arrived when Ned, having gone out to ask them if they wanted a cup of coffee, returned to tell me that the new posts, 7 of them so far, were simply concreted in … I took a deep breath and went to discover why. “Oh dear, I forgot about the godfathers!” “As we explained to you, we think wood set in concrete is rubbish and it’s not suitable for this situation. So you’d better take out what you’ve done before they set, and go and get them and do it properly then, hadn’t you?”

He went.

They’ve managed to get about a third of the job done so far, and will return on Monday.

Apart from that, here are some things we’ve seen today when we’ve been out.


Toadstools 


Looking towards Brailes 


I love you, mum 


All roads lead to ... nowhere 

Because we want to

Last night, when it was getting close to bedtime, a noisy car drove slowly up our road. It’s unusual to get traffic past the house at night anyway because it’s not a busy area, but as the road’s officially closed for resurfacing (Access to frontages only) it’s even more unusual. Anyway, the car, which sounded as though it was being limped home with a nigh-terminal condition, went slowly along the road and round the corner. About five minutes later it came slowly back and stopped outside our house, so I went out to see what was happening (the first person to say ‘Nosy bint’ gets a thump – this is a ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ area, and I was watching the neighbourhood), to see the young male driver leap from his seat and head towards the contractors’ portaloo on the opposite verge. “Bless, him, he’s been caught short” I thought, until the tinker reached out and pushed the portaloo onto its side, leaped back into his car and roared off over the bridge. In daylight it became clear that the reason he’d been going so slowly up the road was that he’d been stopping at every coned-off raised manhole cover to knock over the cones.

If anyone can explain the logic and purpose behind this I’d be very grateful. I bet the little oik won’t be coming back to clean up the mess in the loo ...

Those were the days, my friend

Once we’d successfully located the small series of three caches we were after today, which had involved standing very close to the cache site and having to take a long time to remove a very stubborn stone from my shoe whilst a dog-walker slowly ambled by, we adjourned to a local (to the cache) pub for lunch. It was getting close to 2pm when most pubs stop serving food, so we dashed into the nearest one. It was an unusual building for a pub – it was whitewashed stone and looked like a cross between a village house and a small workshop, but when Ned was last in there they brewed their own beer, which he said was certainly drinkable. Inside it was rather shabby and there was only one other customer, and they’ve stopped making their own beer for the moment, but we ordered a couple of pints and a sandwich each anyway. The landlord chatted as he pulled two pints, then realised he hadn’t pulled the one we asked for, but it didn’t really matter. The sandwiches seemed to take ages to arrive, and a couple more customers came in while the landlord’s small daughter sat at the bar with a colouring book. It was at this point that the three local blokes (all over retirement age I’d guess) started chatting, like you do. But it was a very surreal conversation, and as we shamelessly eavesdropped it flowed seamlessly from the cheapest train fares from Banbury (buy a railcard and get 30% off all fares south of Banbury, and make sure you buy your Underground ticket before you set off), through discussing the speed of the current on the Rhine, via how “comp’nies” want goods yesterday, not tomorrow, or else they could use the canals which would be much less polluting, and that's where the saying 'leggin' it' comes from, which now means runnin' away when you've been caught scrumpin' and nothin' to do with getting yer boat through the tunnel, to the best way to clean leeks (cut them into four, lengthways). We didn’t dare join in because we’d have got very involved and had to have another drink and it was too far to walk home.

"Right" said Fred

How many blogringers does it take to change a monitor? It depends how much time you have to spare, but to my certain knowledge it takes four people over an hour. After all, there’s eight shelves to be emptied of all their tat essential items, then the unit needs to be moved from the wall and the shelving raised. This is the point where it’s discovered that the wall socket is mongoosed and there’s electricity pouring out all over the floor. Lorry reassuringly pointed out that it would soak up into the carpet and I didn’t need to fetch a mop and bucket. But that meant the plug needed changing. After that it was a relatively simple job to untangle the spaghettiesque network of cabling and exchange leads. So woo and yay for Swedish regal kindnesses! We now have a dazzlingly bright monitor requiring the use of industrial strength Raybans. I’ve almost got the shelves restocked again, and once more it’s possible to cross the room. Hurrah! Celebration cake and cups of tea were called for before Mal and Lorry continued their way homewards.

Thanks for the book, Sarah! Very timely, as I'm on the last chapter of my current one.


King and Subject 


It all went on the shelves ... 


Fit for a king 

I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles

Although we weren’t able to join the BlogRingers' Outing the The Forbidden Corner, we still had a very satisfactory day, doing domestic sort of stuff around here. Ned cut the grass and took the old death-trap lawnmower to the tip while I weeded and mulched with some of the compost from the bin. We have a ‘little man’ coming to replace the fencing in the back garden on Thursday, so it’s quite important that the compost is out of the way. (I’m having to be very careful and not call this chap Mr O’Reilly – he reminds me so much of the builder in Fawlty Towers that Basil kept employing much to the fury of Sybil.) I also got around to planting the Oriental Poppy and Coreopsis I’ve had in the greenhouse all winter, so maybe they’ll get established now that at least some of the ground elder is out. If only ground elder was a fashionable plant to grow – I can guarantee all mine would instantly die and I wouldn’t be breaking my back every year trying to rid myself of the damned plant.

Then we went to a pub for lunch, but it was too busy and we only had a pint before we came home to get something here. On the way back we stopped off to see if there was a cache-spot near Spring Hill, by Sun Rising (great place names, eh?). As you walk across the field from the road the most fantastic view opens up in front of you, getting wider and wider. At the stile the view is absolutely breathtaking, and on a clear day (like today) you can see way past Coventry to the right, the Malverns on the left, and either the Long Mynd or The Wrekin ahead – and they’re about 60 miles away as the albatross flies. It’s just so amazing we’re dying to share it – but can we find a nice spot? But we’ll keep trying!

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

... I get really annoyed when you stick two fingers up and run off in the opposite direction, Harry. And Piglet, there's no need to go after him.

A few refresher lessons in recall are needed, methinks.

Now that the spring is in the air

As it was such a beautiful day I decided that, rather than listen to what my head and body were telling me (“sleeeeeeep, you neeeeed sleeeeeep”) following a really rotten night of wakefulness, and nobody in the chatroom at 3am when I was awake and bored and alone in the house, I’d go into Leamington and place the small series of caches we’ve had in the pipeline for some weeks, and which have been playing on my mind. It wasn’t easy finding suitable places because Leam’s kept pretty tidy, and the undergrowth is artistic rather than natural. And I really wanted some in the town because I’d thought of such a fab name for them – the Spa Trek series. Ned and the Boy think the name's awful, but what do they know? Tchoh! But eventually all was in place. I hope Ned isn’t too cross that I did it without him, but he did come recceing with me last weekend, so he’s seen all the sites.

Then it was time to walk the dogs, and they caught another rabbit (that’s two in two days) so that was their dinner sorted. Odd that they never catch them just before the dustmen come and take the binbag away, so the skin and innards sit and fester for a week. After dealing with that it seemed as good a time as any to go seeking another cache site for the Blogring Challenge caches, so I took a couple of the dogs with me for company – I feel a little vulnerable exploring strange places on my own, but walking dogs is less conspicuous somehow. They were terribly excited at this change in routine and were complete PITAs; there was no way I was going to let them off the lead, and there were lots of bunnies enjoying the sunshine, and it was nearly all too much. Unfortunately the wood I’d hoped to be able to get into was securely fenced off with ‘Private’ notices on all access points. Disappointing, but I guess that’s why it was so full of primroses and violets, with bluebells to come soon. Keep the people out and nature can thrive. So there was no suitable site on the route I took, but from it I could see more possible places, so I’ll go out again tomorrow – my leggies are far too tired tonight. 18,558 steps, and the day’s not yet over. Does anyone know what the Blogring series is going to be called?