Bring it on back to me

When I came downstairs this morning Clover (who you may remember is nearly 13 years old and almost blind) was sitting bolt upright in her bed and Beattie (who’s 10½) was up and about and very agitated and apologetic. We’d had a thunderstorm last night so I assumed they were still upset by that and went to put the kettle on before I let them out. That was when I noticed that the kitchen window was wide open, and my weighing scales gone from the windowsill. How odd. Glancing around I saw that the side gate was ajar, so all the dogs and I went out together to make sure I didn’t have them going exploring. That was when I noticed, through the garage window, that the main garage door was half open. That wasn’t right – The Boy had definitely shut it when he put his bike in last night – it’s a noisy door and I heard him do it. It was when I went round to shut that as well that I noticed how roomy the garage appeared – three of The Boy’s bikes were no longer there. Arseholes. We’d been robbed.

The police were very good and had a rather dishy young PC (I must have been traumatised because I let him go again) round within the hour to take statements, by which time I’d phoned Boy to break the news and Ned was home from work. We all had a prowl around to see if anything else was missing, and discovered that our two camping-stoves had gone from the shelf, as well as Ned’s chainsaw (so Hutters, you’re safe for the meantime). The main body of the scales was found at the side of the garage and its brass trays were on top of the hedge (slightly surreal); the garden poo-shovels had been moved from beside the water butt to under the garage window (even surrealler). I hope the bastards catch something horrible and die painfully (although the fingerprint man says they wore gloves).

Now I’m afraid they’re going to come back and take the other bikes from the rack, and the mower, and the bananana machine, and … and … and … and come into the house and kill us all.

I could be happy

Some years ago, on this very machine, there used to be a programme where I could scan in a picture then tinker with it, pixel by pixel, which was very useful for restoring some of my family’s old damaged photographs, some dating back to the mid-1800s. However since the Great Explodification it’s vanished (along with the Works In Progress) which makes it very difficult for me to alter images for the Bananana Factory. Surely there’s something inside this infernal contraption that’s reasonably idiot-proof? All I want to do is resize, tidy up, separate colours into layers then monochrome – preferably before the keyboard-impression on my forehead becomes a permanent scar.

Like a rolling stone

These are counties I've lived in:

I've visited the counties in yellow. Which counties have you visited? made by marnanel map reproduced from Ordnance Survey map data by permission of the Ordnance Survey. © Crown copyright 2001.

And these are counties we've found caches in:

I've visited the counties in yellow. Which counties have you visited? made by marnanel map reproduced from Ordnance Survey map data by permission of the Ordnance Survey. © Crown copyright 2001.

How do you like my feather bed? How do you like my sheets?

I like them lots! Though it must be said last night I was as snug as the proverbial bug in my fleecy sleeping bag liner and my other sleeping bag and another one over the top. The airbed still had a bit of buoyancy and I lay on my back feeling all cocooned. That was at 1am ish after the festival ended and my legs and feet and back and arms ached from dancing and my throat ached from adding my voice to the 19,999 others singing ‘Meet on the Ledge’. A brief summary:

Thursday, setting up camp and meeting Mallers and going to the field and getting rather tipsy in the sunshine listening to ‘Tickled Pink’ was great. Ned hadn’t had any sleep after his nightshift so got very tired and I started getting concerned that he might not last the evening. I was also a bit concerned about Mal too, especially when he picked up Ned’s feet and tried to tip him backwards off his chair. It didn’t work anyway, cos Ned just folded. My suspicions about Mal were confirmed when, after informing me that he thought Ned might be drunk, he fell off his chair, so I suggested a little lie-down might be sensible. So we parted with Mal at his tent and said we’d phone before we met at the main gate at about 8. Ned did indeed need a little rest because he didn’t wake till 7.30. The next morning. At 11.22 Mal had texted ”Blimey! That was a good sleep! You guys awake?” I reckon he guessed we weren’t.

Friday’s line-up included Big Eyed Fish, Edwina Hayes (great singing voice, very squeaky speaking voice), the Muffin Men (I missed them because I was back in the 'servants' quarters' roasting a chicken) but Ned said they were good), the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain (great entertainment), Richard Thompson (who it seemed that only death would make leave the stage) and rounded off by the Dylan Project (see previous blog). We went to bed, bloody freezing – you could see your breath. That’s not right for August.

Saturday: Disappointingly unsunny in the morning. Mallers collected Tammy while we did our daily trip home to find that the Boy had yet again failed to look after the dogs the way we’d told him to, so came back to the site in a bit of a grump. Richard Digance opened and as usual worked the crowd well. Then ‘T and LaTouche’, a reggae band from Manchester, came on and sadly brought the rain with them. Shame, cos they were very good – sunshine music with dampness. The audience reminded me of pictures of Bridlington in the rain, stoically sitting under brollies and tarpaulins but determined not to miss out. After a few hours getting decidedly soggy, and the rain dripping off the umbrella into our beer, we reckoned another interlude was called for, but we had to rush back clutching sausage-and-egg butties so as not to miss too much of Beth Nielsen Chapman, who was excellent. Then at 8.30 it was the main event – Fairport Convention and guests (once more it Richard Thompson took some shifting). What more to say? They were fab.

One of the nice things about Cropredy is that the performers aren't too high and mighty to come 'front of house' and mingle with the audience and watch the other acts. I had a chat with Simon Nicol about Tabasco (on the plane he'd been bewailing the fact that they ran out last year so when he was at Cox's Yard we gave him his own sepcial bottle), and also to Peggy about the lyric of Matty Groves (cracking song, performed superbly last night) - he assured me there isn't a definitive version, so Lord Darnell, Lord Arnold or Lord Donald are all equally acceptable.

It was a lovely weekend made even better with the great company of Mally and Tammy (and no, I still don't believe that photo of my 'blonde' bits). I’m already looking forward to next year and submitting an order for sunshine ...

Smoke gets in your eyes

Ned went back to work last night after eventually being paid and I spent the evening wrestling with ebay – reasonably successfully. I’m sure I’ll find I’ve made some catastrophic blunders, and we’ll end up losing out. Ho hum. I also started trying to transcribe an old diary from 1857, but it’s written in pencil and is very faded. It makes my eyes go all squinty.

This morning I went into Leamington and failed miserably at a) finding a new collar for Piglet and b) signing on. If that cleric who’s fled to the Lebanon can live here for 17 years on benefits, I’m sure I can manage a few months. (They told me I need to phone up to fill in a form then they give you an appointment to go and complete it or something. It seems much more complicated than it was in the 70s. I’ll try again after the weekend, unless we win the lottery first.) Then this afternoon I set some rice to boil for Clover because she’s got the squits, had a senior moment and promptly forgot about it until the smoke alarm went off and woke Ned. I hope it’ll be possible to rescue the pan because it’s the only one the steamer fits onto. But it’s good to know the battery in the alarm’s still working.

Can anyone remind me what I should have bought to take to Cropredy tomorrow? My mind’s gone completely blank.

Today’s Zen thought: If a man stands in a forest talking and there’s no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?

Hard to tell if anything is going to sell

Yesterday saw us at our freebie evening at Cox’s Yard, seeing The Dylan Project. Now, I like Dylan’s music, but not his voice. This lot played the music extremely well, and Steve Gibbons unfortunately did an uncannily accurate imitation of Dylan; very good and clever, but disappointing. Lots of people can do Dylan stuff without sounding like him. However, it was a free night out so gift horses’ mouths shall be left unexamined. It was pleasing to see that Dave Pegg and Simon Nicol are still talking to one another after whatever happened on the US tour.


The Dylan Project 

Today has mainly been spent sorting out banananas; when Ned rang a supplier for information to be sent to us the supplier recognised the name; if it’s memorable it might be a good idea to stick with it! The packaging has arrived; postal charges are determined; photos have been taken. Advertisements are being prepared, and I’ve had a fab idea for a logo but don’t know how to get the computer to do it for me. Hours have also been spent trying to get my head round eBay’s labyrinthine twists and turns; the hoover’s being worked overtime clearing up the hair I’ve torn out in frustration. Surely it’s not as difficult as it appears?

And the Boy phoned from Newquay to ask us if we knew where he’d put his car keys since he last saw them at 10 this morning. Oh God.

*feels really smug about the double-whammy title*

Numb me, drill me, Floss me, bill me

I don’t like having fillings replaced. It always hurts more afterwards than it did before. And why do dentists ask you questions when they’ve just stuffed your mouth full of hardware? And I’ve been contaminated with a Northern lurgy, which has given me a very sore throat and a deep, husky voice. Oh, and Ned’s on strike till he gets paid. Of course, they'll dock his days' absence from his salary when/if they do get around to paying their workforce. But sometimes you've just got to make a stand.

Addition: Are we the only people who get a RunTime Error once we've clicked on the right-hand side of Mongers' site? It starts off as something about bundebangles, then the computer crashes ...

You must have been a beautiful baby ...

Emma (or Lucy) 


Lucy (or Emma) 

Unfortunately I couldn't get a picture of them together at the reception when, for I think the first time in their lives, they wore identical dresses. But once they're released they scatter. One day I'll snap them together ...

I remember you-oooooo

So, on Saturday we got up an hour too early and drove to Birmingham International to get our plane to Glasgow for my nephew’s wedding do. The first couple of times I flew (US and Sri Lanka) I went in a jumbo, and last time when we went to Italy it was a rather smaller plane, but still quite sizeable – one aisle and 5 seats wide. This time we had the sort of plane that needs to be pushed to the big elastic band at the end of the runway in order to get enough speed to get airborne (Embraer 145 if anyone’s interested). Two seats on one side of the aisle and one on the other, and not enough headroom for Ned to stand up straight. Still, it got us there, and my brother met us at the railway station. The afternoon was spent at his house with family then we went to the hotel to have a sleep to keep us going till the evening. The do went well – the show was stolen, as expected, by my niece’s twin daughters, who at 15 months old are walking like zombies with their arms held out on front, and have grown even more similar than they were last time I saw them, and are stunningly beautiful. We didn’t drink a lot – not at the prices the bar was charging (“A pint of beer and a glass of wine? Let me relieve you of six of your Sassenach squids, sir.”)

After a very hot night in a ground-floor hotel room with only patio doors and no window, which found me in the wee small hours sat butt nekkid playing at punka-wallah and fanning the outside door back and forth to get some air, my brother gave us a lift back to the airport. After a minor squabble about who was going to sit by the window we watched the other passengers boarding. “Ooh, doesn’t that bloke look like Stu?” we said to each other. (Regular readers may experience a touch of deja vu here.) “Scuse me, are you Chris Leslie?" asked Ned. And it was! Then Simon Nicol and Ric Sanders appeared. The only Fairport member missing was Dave Pegg. We asked them how the American tour had gone, and there was a horrid silence. “The first eight hours were fine” said Simon “then we broke the bassist. Bass players are rubbish. They only play two notes and manage to get those in the wrong order …” It sounds as though there had been a major falling-out. Oh dear. Anyway, we chatted about having our Cropredy tickets, and seeing them at Cox’s Yard. “We’re playing there again on Thursday”, Chris said. We expressed interest, and then Simon said “Give us your names and you can be our guests. It’ll only cost you a pint … of tequila.” So guess where we’ll be on Thursday night?

Who's sorry now?

Whilst wandering around Banbury in a bit of a strop about the expected non-appearance of a certain sum of money, we watched enthralled as a delivery lorry reversed up a pedestrianised street to make a delivery to a pub ("Thursday night is Litten Kitten night"). The resounding 'booiiiinnnnggg!' as he backed into the tall ornamental castiron postbearing two substantial hanging baskets, leaving it at a very arsy-tarsy angle, attracted the attention of many other passers-by, and we waited to see the driver's expression when he examined his handiwork.

And we waited.

And we waited some more. Nothing. He didn't appear. We walked past the lorry and saw the driver leaning on a bell trying to make his delivery, and Ned asked him if he'd seen what he'd done. "Of course I have, I know what's happened, I'm not stupid." was the reply. We were a tad puzzled at that as he definitely hadn't bothered to look and clearly didn't give a toss.

So we took his number and reported him, and came home feeling a little better.

The time rolls on those minutes fly by

The electricity man’s note said he’d call back sometime this morning. Surely he won’t be much longer?

I’m getting really ratty, because I can’t find the program we used to have to let me tinker with artwork. Grrrrr!

Who shall have a fishy

Rather than spend a few happy hours in bananana-related activities (I have some nice ideas, but finding suitable artwork is proving troublesome), yesterday was mainly spent in the pond. I noticed a couple of days ago that the goldfish weren’t very interested in their food but thought no more of it. Then yesterday morning I reckoned that the ones who were on their sides at the surface didn’t look all that well. I picked on out and it gasped and flipped a bit so I put it back in while I went to prepare an intensive care ward (a bucket filed with very aerated rainwater from the butt). As I lifted them out the movement of the water released a vile stench – a full pond-cleaning job was called for. One of the worst tasks in the world. It means carefully baling out buckets and buckets of water and sieving it for wrigglers (mainly tadpoles in varying stages of development and efts) before pouring it down the drain. Some fish seemed okay, others were a bit rocky and a few threw off this mortal coil whilst in intensive care. The dogs were fascinated, and had to be restrained from rescuing the fishies from the water.

Anyway, as the water level got lower and lower the smell of the sludge at the bottom got worse and worse; and it was too deep to reach from the side. This is the stage I hate the most, when I have to get into the pond to pass the filled bucket up to Ned. The stinking mud gets right into your skin and no matter how much you wash afterwards you can still smell it. Now that it’s all refilled the surviving fishes seem much happier. What’s the betting the heron appreciates being able to see them better and scoffs the lot?

Makin up a mess of fun

Hooray! We've stuffed our first banananas!


One bananana ... 


Two bananana ... 

I'm tired, and I want to go to bed

It's only 8.30ish, I'm stone cold sober, but I've already fallen asleep on the sofa once tonight. Not like me at all. I'm just exhausted and I ache everywhere. Night night.

Black shadows are following closely

Checklist:

We have:
a) a large box of bananana skins in various sizes
b) Several bottles of bananana puree
c) Five boxes (one badly damaged, with some of the contents embuggered - how much force does it take to bend 5mm tough steel?) of bananana-stuffing equipment
d) A deeveedee about How To Stuff Banananas
e) One insurance cover note so the garage can tax the new car
f) One old monitor
g) One overfilled hallway

We haven’t got:
a) The new-style log book to part-exchange our old car (backlog at DVLA)
b) The exchange monitor that should have arrived yesterday

Result: indigestion and nightmares.

This virtual insanity we're living in

Or: a fool and his money are soon parted.

Golf isn’t a game that’s ever appealed to me, but I now have confirmation that golfers must be barmy. The Royal Bank of Scotland has brought out some fivers with Jack Nicklaus’ picture on them, and people are actually selling them on Ebay - and making a profit! A single note sold for just over £20, and a set of four (consecutive numbers I presume) fetched £95. They’re being advertised as ‘limited edition’ – well yes, that’s true – there will only be 2 million issued, so that can be called ‘limited’. Curiously they’re all being bought by Americans. Perhaps someone ought to tell them that if they go to the RBS website they can buy them for a fiver!

Good buy - eeeek!

I hope our period of unusual expenditure is coming to an end, because it's making me hyperventilate. Not only did I splurge on the plane tickets to Scotland, but we paid for the bananana factory today - it should arrive on Wednesday - and then went out and bought a car - which we collect on Friday. My wedding outfit will certainly have to be a charity shop affair.

I wonder what we'll call the factory? I have an idea but I think there'd be an objection.

Yes! We have no banananas

But we're getting closer. We were outbid on Ebay for a second-hand Bananana Factory setup kit, so have bitten the bullet and ordered a brand-new one for less than the highest bid for the used one ... and tomorrow we might buy a car. Ooh! All this expenditure isn't good for me.

Mister could you maybe lend a hand

According to his random heading, the last thing Mongers googled for was 'Fitsuno'. Is that what Prince Charming said when trying the glass (or fur, if you're being accurate) slipper on Cinderella's little tootsie?

It's raining again ...

Actually, no it isn't. Not a drop has fallen today, though I think we had about seven yesterday. As today's St Swithun's Day, he who determines the rainfall for the next forty days and nights, it appears we may be in for a drought. Where's Michael Howell (or whatever his name was) when he's needed?

Why don't you go where fashion sits

Okay … I’ve got the hotel room booked for the end of the month and I’ve booked the flights (aren’t airport taxes a swizz? But I really didn’t fancy spending most of a weekend on a train) so we can not only get to my nephew’s wedding do, but we have somewhere to sleep as well. But what shall I wear? The invitation says ‘formal’, but what does that mean nowadays? It’s an evening do, with speeches and dancing. Nephew, brother, and no doubt other males, will be bekilted. Ned can wear his suit. But should I wear my ‘little black dress’ (though I usually only wear it to funerals), or something more frivolous? I think my Biba dress might not be quite right, even though it’s an original and retro’s ‘in’. Long or short? Tailored or flowing? Decisions, decisions. I think I’m going to have to go shopping. Boo. I’m told Oxfam in Summertown has a very upmarket donor catchment area, and fab bargains can be had there. But I can’t face going to Oxford; it’ll have to be a Leamington Special.

Eek! A wedding present! What do you get for a couple who’ve been living together for years and therefore have everything they need?

Wee'll meet again ...

When we decided to keep Harry and Piglet – not that there was a lot of option, because nobody wanted a dog puppy (not even us, if truth be told!) – we realised that if we were to retain a semblance of sanity we’d have to get Clover and Beattie spayed. Having entire dogs and bitches, who there’s no way should be mated together, in the same house is emphatically not to be recommended! The girls were selected for surgery because Clover was too old to have another registerable litter and Beattie wasn’t suitable for breeding anyway. Neither males nor females should be neutered until they’re physically mature, so the boys had to be left intact for at least 18 months. So the girls went, midway between seasons when surgery is safest, to visit Uncle Geoff the vet. That was 5 years ago.

Now, no surgery is without risk or side-effect, and one of the side-effects of spaying is a higher risk urinary incontinence. If a bitch is spayed very young it’s more likely to happen sooner rather than later, and we hoped that, being older girls, Clover and Beattie would be okay. However for about the past year we’ve noticed that Clover’s been leaving little damp patches, about the size of a half-crown (which depressingly the vet didn’t understand!) behind her when she’s been asleep, but it was only intermittent, and liveable-with. But then a couple of days ago Beattie started doing the same. Oh dear – but worse was to come. That evening I sat on the sofa beside Beat, right in a hot puddle. She’d had a flood. Luckily it’s good drying weather and I managed to get everything washed and clean and dry in a day. The cushions are now encased in binbags with the covers over the top, so at least the sofa (it’s many years too late to ban them from the furniture) won’t smell like a urinal.

So today Clover, Beattie and I paid a visit to the vet to make sure they didn’t have cystitis or an infection or anything horrid, but easily treatable, like that, and no, they haven’t. So I’ve got a bottle of Propalin syrup for them, which they have to have three times a day (just as well I’m not working now) which is supposed to be very effective. Fingers crossed it works. The most awkward thing at the moment is going to be storing it – it has to be kept at below 25°, but not refrigerated. With the outside temperature being roughly that at 10pm, I think we may have a problem!

Red and yellow and pink and green

I could be a good painter. Not great, but certainly in the good-to-saleable range. My skills are very rusty and I’d need to do a hell of a lot of work and practice to get back up to speed but I could do it – if I had a painter’s soul. To become really good takes a high degree of selfishness; letting nothing, absolutely nothing, distract you from your goal. Nothing else could take priority.

But I could never have that degree of self-centredness because I have a family and home to care for which are simply more important to me. I can no more let them fend for themselves than I can swing gracefully from the topmost twigs in the trees. I realise I’ll never be more than a dabbler – a better than average dabbler maybe – an amateur. And to completely prove the point, I don’t really mind that I haven’t got What It Takes to be great. So I'll happily continue dabbling and daubing because it's fun, but I'm not kidding myself that the results will be the mainstay of the Bananana Factory.

Voices. He heard his uncle's voice ...

We were watching the programme about the British landscape (studying mainly Victorian landscape painters and seeing how the places had changed with the passing of time), where the centre of focus had travelled from the east coast to Dorset, to Wales, to Devon; in Wales there was a male voice choir singing 'Gwlad, gwlad ...' etc - you know, the other standard Welsh song sung at rugby matches - not the one about saucepans.

Anyway, one of the Welsh blokes asked David Dimbleby (him wot presents the programme) what 'dialect' (I think he meant accent) he had. DD replied that he spoke the dialect he was taught at his father's knee - BBC English. He went on to say that it was a dying voice. I wish he'd made the point that it's as important as any other tongue, and should be given the same importance and preservation as, say, Welsh? After all, it's one of the few accents that everyone understands ...

What's it all about?

You pathetic cowards.

Do you think that'll do your cause (that's assuming you're bright enough to even have one) any good? Well, in case you're so very thick you haven't worked it out for yourself, I'll tell you. It won't.

Today, a city slowed slightly, but it didn't stop. Millions of people's days took an unexpected detour, but tomorrow things will be back on track, and in 100 years nobody will remember you - because you're too afraid to come out in public.

That's why you're pathetic cowards. And do you know what? You're just dog shit on the sole of my shoe, so I don't even hate you. You're merely filth to be washed away, into oblivion.

Never once forgetting there's one born every day

Listening to the seemingly unending Olympic anthem that was heroically warbled (well done on that almost-successful final note/shriek, whoever was 'singing') before the IOC announced that London had drawn the short straw, I was reminded strongly of the St Trinian's School Song. Happy days!

PS. I wonder where the pistol-shooting events will be held. They can't be held within the UK, because of the handgun laws. Even the UK team (and hopefuls) have to practice abroad ... or do you think that bliar/whoever will discover a loophole in the law?

Everything all right

When we were in Cornwall we looked around loads of galleries, mostly of the shop variety, but also the Newlyn Gallery. We both know of the Newlyn school and were interested to see some of their stuff ‘in the real’ rather than as prints. Normally I’m happy to spend several hours in an art gallery, but this one was small so I didn’t think the visit would take all morning. In fact I think it took two minutes. What a load of tosh! There was none of the Newlyn School stuff there at all (we learned later they’re in another building in Penzance), just recent crap. There were some Christmas-tree-shaped prints in various colours, each of which can’t have taken more than a minute to produce (I did similar stuff at art college and used it as wrapping paper). There was a pen-and-ink drawing, about 6 inches by 4, with a flat black blob and some scribbled lines, a bit like this \/


How much? 

Do you know how much that was on sale for? £325. I couldn’t believe it. So what with seeing that lot (the ‘works’ upstairs make Rothko look talented) and the variable quality of the wares in all the other galleries has inspired me to take up my brushes again. I’m not brilliant by any means, but I know I can do better than a lot of them! So for my birthday Ned’s got me some more oils (my old ones – including the ones I’ve inherited from various dead relatives - are still soft in the tubes, but the tops won’t come off, and they need to be attacked from below) and an easel, and I’ve already started blocking in a Cornish view.


Towards Sennen 

It’s donkey’s years since I last wielded a brush in anger, but it’s slowly coming back. Here’s one I prepared earlier (1990, I think):


Making waves 

It was quite entertaining when we went to buy the stuff, because one of the women in the shop had just realised she’s been drinking decaf all day and was needing her fix, and the other one couldn’t get her head around the fact that we were doing secret shopping that was to be a surprise present for me. The twitchy one put the paints into a bag and sang out “Surprise!” as she handed it over, and then gave a spiral of what she described as ‘special blutak’. I do hope she got her caffeine soon afterwards.

After we went shopping in Banbury this morning the Boy treated me to a pint and a plate of chips in the pub. As we were sat there he muttered “I hope they realise you’re my mum, and I’m not a toyboy!” Well, what could I do? I replied “Get your coat, you’re pulled” and then started calling him ‘darling’, became very tactile and made suggestions about renting a room whenever anyone was within earshot. He blushed. Hahaha!

My biggest brother asked me if there was room on my cake for yet another candle. Tchoh! Silly boy! Doesn’t he realise you just get a bigger cake?

*goes to look for some jelly and ice cream.

Never leave the stream of warm impermanence

There are changes in the wind at Genie Towers. What with me not in paid employment, and Ned being fed up to the back teeth with driving a three-hour round trip for work, now seems to be the right time to take stock of our lives and consider what we should do. A bloke on the radio said what changed his life was being asked “What would you choose to do if you were told that you couldn’t fail?” Ooh, that’s a good question – there are so many options for dream careers. I’d love to have a smallholding and raise our own organic meat. A small boarding kennels would be good – maximum half-a-dozen dogs. Or writing. Or painting. We could use Ned’s 30+ years printing experience and set up a small publishing house – or maybe small-volume tee-shirt printing. Of course everything needs a cash injection to get it started, but we’ve nearly paid off this house so we have collateral for loans … but then I start to get cold feet thinking of the risk if it all goes belly-up. This is going to need a lot of careful thought.

Filling me up with the rules

Well, progress is being made on the template front. Thanks to Carol I now have the comments at the bottom where I think they ought to be, and the other bits and bobs are stuffed haphazardly down at the foot. *makes note to ask Lorry how she’s got hers so tidy*. Typically, this morning I got an email about how to enmendify the old template, so I carefully copied template #4 onto Word, then replaced the original one and did the modifications required. Guess what? It didn’t work. (I thought if I went back to the old one there’d be less chance of someone stumbling into it in the dark, thinking they were at home, and wondering why things were in the wrong places … ;) ) So I cleared that, re-installed #4 and started another hour’s tinkering. The result is what you see before you. I’m sure I’ll get used to the new décor before long. In the meantime, be prepared for strangenesses while I experiment.

I still have the headache. Nothing’s budging it – it feels how I imagine it feels if someone shoves a 6-inch nail through your skull via your left eye. I’m reduced to munching feverfew leaves from the garden (the front garden only, where ‘the boys’ don’t go). My knees are improving, though, so that’s good.

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.