Me and my shadow

Beattie is a very silly girl. She’s never been one to appreciate change, and she got a bit distressed when I started paid work again two years ago. Now not only is she bothered by my not going out to work now, she’s also picking up on the tension that’s building as the time nears for The Boy to leave for Uni. She’s a clingy girl at the best of times – when you call her she gallops over as fast as she can and sits as close as possible, usually with her front paws on your feet, gazing up into your face, desperate for reassurance and praise. That’s not sufficient at the moment – when she can’t physically be with us she performs a ‘displacement activity’ to relieve her stress. Some dogs will howl, some dogs will destroy things – Beetle self-mutilates. Rather like a child sucking its thumb, she’ll lick the nearest part of herself – her wrist – until it gets sore.

Then, because it’s sore, she’ll lick it to relieve the soreness until, rather like Lady Macbeth, no matter how hard she scrubs with the wire brush, she can’t get rid of the blood. So, until she feels able to relax again, it’s a case of ‘whither thou goest, there go I’.

It's fun to wander through the alphabet with you

Today I bought:

Cake
Cereals
Crusty bread
Cow juice
Complete dog food
Cauliflower
Courgettes
Carrots
Chicken

I couldn’t find which aisle had cannabis so I didn’t get any.

the glorious annual ugly bug ball

About this time every year, walking the dogs through the fields is a hideous experience. Every footstep releases clouds of newly-hatched daddy-long-legses emerging from the grass, and it always reminds me of a weekend back in ’81 when we had a training muster at Shearsby. We were camping in fields adjoining a pub, the landlord of which very kindly left a side-door unlocked at night so that we had access to the toilets. On the Sunday morning, bleary-eyed and somewhat the worse for wear after the socialising of the evening before, my pal Shelley and I, both clad in long calico shifts, strolled over to avail ourselves of the facilities. We entered adjoining stalls to continue our gossip erudite conversation (“Did you see who Dave Thing was chatting up?” “No, really? She must have been drunk.” etc) and settled ourselves comfortably. I’m told my shriek as I was assaulted by a rampant daddy-long-legs who’d been lurking in the pan could be heard in the next county.

Crawling for your love

Look what we found in the garden today! I wonder what sort of beautiful flutterby he'll turn into?

And will Ned get a horrible rash on his hand which will then drop off?

Hey, Mister Tally-man

Ned spent a lot of yesterday outside in the rain (look at the downspout from the guttering),

with the hose, making preparations for today’s planned bananana stuffing. As well as some (now quite straightforward) one-colour pulls (new design though) we went over a learning-precipice and tried a bit of two-colour work. And crumbs, it’s much fiddlier and more time-consuming. Getting the two screens exactly in register when they don’t move easily and you’re having to gauge distances by eye and getting ink on yourself results in a lot of very colourfully-described wildlife. However the results were pretty good, and Ned and I now each have logo-enhanced clothing. The logo may yet evolve further, but so far it’s looking not too bad.

I’m not looking forward to our attempts at even more colours though.

Bend it, bend it, just a little bit

Way back in the Dark Ages, when I was a doped up laid-back art student, we had an enormous piece of equipment in the studio that, once you were stood on a box and drew the curtains around you, enabled you to tweak the proportions of any part of your artwork until you were happy with the result. How we'd have loved to be able to save and print the final result! But no, we had to trace it from the flat screen.

So why, several centuries later, can't I do the same thing on a computer? It's not a complicated procedure so it's obvious the programmer would have installed the facility to isolate any part of the artwork and enbiggify, ensmallify, or in any other fashion manipulate the image. Put the cursor on a point and pull it to distort it. Basic stuff. So why the wombat didn't he make it easy to find? I've worked out how to do things on Publisher which can't be done on Illustrator, and vice versa. I can't believe I have to skip back and forth from program to program to do a simple task that would take 10 minutes with a process camera, a pencil and piece of paper.

Aaaaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhhhh!

Living in the past

I bought a book! It’s a book I’ve been seeking for more years than I care to remember. My mum used to get it from the library for me quite often when I was young, but I haven’t seen it for years. Yes, it’s a children’s book but I loved it. And now I’ve got my own lovely sparkly hardback copy which has been excellently looked after (well done, Jo Mitchell!) and I’m getting tremendous pleasure revisiting it.

It’s called ‘Charlotte Sometimes’. (And before you ask, yes it's called that the rest of the time as well!)

We'll meat again

When we went to the maize maze ten days ago we stopped off at a pub for a snack lunch to lengthen the time we’d have to make our escape before we perished. The only snack-type things they did were filled baguettes which, despite the choice being somewhat limited, were fairly substantial. So much so, in fact, that I could only manage half of mine (ham salad), and carefully wrapped the remainder in the napkin to take home for later. However when we got home I couldn’t find it. I looked under my seat, under Ned’s seat, in the back – no sign. Very odd – either I’d only imagined I’d taken it from the pub and my grip on reality was becoming increasingly tenuous or I’d lost it somewhere. So I gave up.

Today Ned traced the source of the unpleasant smell in the car. The baguette had been safe on the glove shelf all along!

Flowers in the park overgrowing

When we saw that some farms are having their hedges flailed at completely the wrong time of year - all the berries for the wild birds are being destroyed - we decided that picking some blackberries had moved up the list of priorities.

Having a couple of boxes to put blackberries in is a castiron excuse to linger near picnicking muggles who are just about sitting on the cache you want to find. But the end result (both the find and the berries) is well worth the scratches and stings. We were surprised how few brambles there were in the hedgerows, though.

Mmmm - I'll be able to make some lovely blackberry-and-apple crumbles.

There were other interesting finds, too:

Your nuts, sire

And on that farm he had a ...

Friday evening saw Ned and me sat in front of the TV in eager anticipation of a good educational programme about 17th century homelife, a series (poo, we missed the first episode) called “Tales from the Green Valley”. The reason for our eagerness was that one of our oldest chums (well, he’s not the oldest as in being old, because we’ve got friends older than him, but he’s been a good friend for … ooh, about 30 years) features heavily in it, and we know how picky he is about accuracy and attention to detail. So we felt rather let down when the programme turned out to more of a Junior School introduction to the subject, and with several basic mistakes and omissions.

For instance, when a pig is slaughtered you don’t lay it on the ground to bleed it (and collect about two pints of blood); you hang the (already dead) pig up by a hind leg to get all the blood (about a gallon) out, for your black puddings. The slaughterer also perpetuated the common mistake and referred to the testicles as ‘sweetbreads’. Tcha! Anyone who paid attention in O’level biology classes knows that ‘sweetbread’ refers to only two parts of the carcass; it can be either the thymus gland or the pancreas. Not the testicles. However we chuckled mightily at the archaeologist bloke going greener and greener as various organs were removed from the carcass – our mate Stuart (who was remarkably clean for the cameras) – I expect you know him too, henners, he was in Norfolk's – is much more down to earth about such things. I don’t think I’ve ever known him squeam over anything. Then they explained about using the washed intestine as sausage skins – but they didn’t show them being washed, which they did on Channel 4’s ‘Worst Job in history’ series, where Stuart got Tony Robinson washing them (there’s been a lot of filming one way and another!). The women doing the culinary creations were very good, though.

The chaps making a wattle-and-daub wall were using an unconventional method of daubing, by only doing one side at a time, rather than having one person on either side and doing both sides of the same area at once – much firmer and more weathertight, but requiring a lot more skill. But they did a good job for novices – better than I could have done, I’m sure - so that’s the main thing. The thatcher was enjoying using a slightly different technique (twisted hazel pegs and rope, not iron ones and chicken wire) to that which he usually uses.

Taken as a whole, it’s a pretty good basic introduction to the subject, but we’d have liked a lot more depth. And we know that, given the opportunity, Stuart can talk for England about it!

Gotta hold myself down

The more I see of the terrible aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the more bizarre it becomes. It’s a natural disaster, so I can’t feel the outrage I felt after September 11th or July 7th (or any of the multitude of IRA atrocities) because those were all just evil. The planet doesn’t do evil things out of malice and hatred – things just happen. But there’s a very odd feel to the debacle of the so-called ‘evacuation’, and the complete madness that it’s degenerated into. After all, this is the richest country in the world, with a huge army and vast resources, and yet after, what, 5 days?, there are hundreds of people dying because there’s no food or water or medical supplies being brought in. There were more emergency supplies on the ground in south-east Asia after the Boxing Day tsunami than are in a region (albeit a region the size of the UK) of America.

How can people help? Humanitarian considerations compel us to offer assistance to any human beings in such disastrous circumstances, no matter which country they’re from, but what have we got that the US hasn’t got more of to call upon? More manpower; vast oil (if oil was a problem, petrol/gas would be much more expensive than it is, more like the price it is over here) and food stocks; the armed forces have squillions of helicopters and trucks for airlifts and transport; so why has it descended into anarchy in the streets?

It’s a terrible tragedy, and suggests that there’s something basic lacking in the American infrastructure.

Little donkey

Ned’s on strike again tonight, because August’s salary hasn’t gone into the bank. It was meant to go in last Friday. Wombat.

We’ve got our car back – hurrah! Apparently ‘the cat had broken and gone through from front to back’ – no, I don’t understand either. But it explains why I prefer dogs. Though I'm told the dogs in the distributor can be awkward.

Having been reminded by others, I had a look to see how people had stumbled upon this blog. One had googled ‘breakers yards banbury’, but I can’t find the link on the first few pages. However I’m a bit worried about the person who arrived through Google Images, having typed in ‘donkey do’. I imagine they were expecting something else.

That's where you'll find me

We went on a nature ramble today, and we found blackberries (yummy);


and crabapples (a bit blurry cos the breeze was blowing the branches);


and sloes (where's the gin?);


and elderberries (mmm, wine!);


and rowan.



Oh yes - and loads of remarkably well-grown nettles which stung Ned to mongoosery (curse those Romans for introducing them) - and four caches.

Meet me on the corner

I'm either having a Senior Moment (shut up at the back there!) or I already posted this and it vanished and now I'm tryiong to remember what I said, whcih is pushing it.

Anyway.

After we chuckled at Mally and Maddy having problems replacing a cache (so did we) we went off to enfortify one of our own, which people had reported as having fallen from position. So we got there, and Ned grabbed it, then noticed a muggle sitting on the steps not 10 yards from him. We ambled off to a bench to swop over the log and waited till he'd gone. We waited. And we waited. For ages. We watched while he did his deals. We wondered where the police were to move him on. After half an hour or so we reckoned my shoelaces needed tying, and we managed get the micro in position. I hope.

*Clicks 'Publish Post' more in hope than anything*

The grass is as high as an elephant's eye

Well, not grass, really – maize. Ooh, we did have fun at Hidcote maze! First Simon arrived at Genie Towers, then Lorry, then finally Mally and Maddy, who’d overslept. We had two mazes, actually, because we didn’t have a very good map to get to the site (the maps are in the other car, and we don’t know where that is), and went up and down many rural lanes before we decided to adjourn to a pub for lunch. Refuelled, we made a second onslaught using Lorry’s gps, but abandoned that when it wanted to take us across a field and down a footpath. However success was ours – we scorned the offer of maps and boldly set off into the maize, clutching our flags on 6-foot poles to wave if we needed help. In hindsight it might have been a good idea to find out what we were actually looking for, but there were 10 numbered boards scattered around with little puzzles to collect letters to unanagrammize and solve a puzzle. The first five were found in order, then we found number 5, then we found number 5, then we found number 5 … we’d got into a loop. Whichever direction we went we ended up back at number 5. So we changed tactics, and decided not to try to get away, whereupon we found numbers 7 and 6.

Lorry had decided the best way to carry her flag was to shove it down the back of her clothes which left her hands free. Unfortunately it meant that, to avoid getting stuck under the bridges, she had to either bend double or limbo. That was when Ned and Mally started playing,


Insertion 

and she ended up with more poles down her clothes than she really wanted. This made her wider than the paths and tended to get left behind when everyone ran away giggling.


Result! 

Then hurrah! We found ourselves at the central point, and got yarrred at by other venturers. We met them several times actually – sometimes from behind, sometimes head on, even when we were trying to get to the same place. We found number 5 several times more, then number 8, when one of the guides on a bridge asked us if we wanted help. Tchoh! Couldn’t he see we were bold explorers? We scorned him, cantered on and found ourselves at another bridge, still with two more boards to find. He hailed us “You should have turned left after number 8, not before it like you did … twice.” Cheeky swine! Saying ‘twice’ was quite unnecessary! Besides, we didn't feel like yelling the explanation across the field - that we were avoiding a small child who was busy excavating the depths of his sinuses via his left nostril, leaving the findings encrusting on his face ... Anyway, number 9 was found, and number 5, and then hurrah! Number 10! Now all had to do was get out …

*searches books and the web for the difference between a labyrinth and a maze*

Don't let me down

On Monday we tried to drive into Stratford in the rain, but our lovely ‘new’ car started coughing and spluttering, so we took it home again. On Tuesday, in the lovely sunshine, we took it into Banbury, and although it didn’t feel quite right and didn’t have its usual acceleration we didn’t worry too much, until we were about 3 miles from the village when it suddenly died. Hopeful fiddling did nothing, so we called the RAC who were on the scene within 15 minutes. The nice young lad also tinkered with various of its entrails before giving up and towing us home. So next morning we towed it to our usual garage (I hate being towed – 30 mph when you’re only about 10 feet behind the towing car is terrifying, especially when you’re afraid the back of the towing car is going to fall off as it struggles up the hills) and hoped to have it home in the evening. They opened it up and tinkered and couldn’t find out what was wrong. Yesterday they still couldn’t find what was wrong. Today it’s at another garage being plugged into computers, and they can’t discover the fault either. There’s fuel getting through, the starter motor’s turning, there’s a spark, but it just won’t fire. And now it’s a Bank Holiday weekend so it’s stuck there till Tuesday. I expect they’ll have to take it to a main dealer and we’ll have to auction several bodily parts on ebay to afford to get it mended.

A fool such as I

I hate it when people forward bogus warnings...but this one is real*, and it's important. So please send this warning to everyone on your e-mail list:

If someone comes to your front door saying they are conducting a survey on deer ticks and asks you to take your clothes off and dance around with your arms up, DO NOT DO IT!!

IT IS A SCAM; they only want to see you naked. I wish I'd got this yesterday. I feel so stupid now.

*May not be 100% true

In the darkness of everybody's life

Isn't life horrible at 2am and you can't sleep?

Swing low ...

For those of you who've been puzzled by the Oshkar option, here is Oshk, the inspiration behind the name, who has figured large in our lives for many years. We thought the alternative spelling would help people pronounce it properly ...

If he hollers

A) Bananana *note that spelling could create problems*
B) Oshkar

Votes please.

Here we go round the mulberry bush

Since my lovely job came to an end I’ve been vaguely looking for alternative employment, though where I’m likely to find another situation remotely as congenial, I don’t know. My last pay-cheque went into the bank at the end of July and my P45 arrived in the post, so I decided to see what, if any, benefits I was entitled to in the meantime – and officially get my tax and National Insurance and all that dull stuff sorted out and on record – it might help The Boy get more in the way of financial support at Uni. So off I pottered to the JobCentre.

“Oh no, madam, things have changed, you can’t do that here.” I was told. “You must call this number and give them your details over the phone so they can make you an appointment to come in and talk to someone.” So I phone the number. And get informed I’m in a queue, but my call will be answered eventually; or would I prefer to try again later, between 8am and 6pm? So I call back later, and hang on, and get the same message. Over the past fortnight I’ve been trying at all available hours to talk to someone – so far the longest I’ve hung on is 15 minutes – and this isn’t a Freephone number, so it’s all going on my phone bill.

Two weeks it’s taken so far, so I returned to the Jobcentre to be told firmly that ‘the government’ says they’re not allowed to talk to people without a telephone-arranged appointment. Keep hanging on – there’s usually only about 20 people in a queue. Oh, and I was also told that I could try between 9am and 1pm on Saturday. I don’t know why – when I did the answering machine told me they weren’t open on Saturdays. How the wombat is this supposed to be helping people? I wonder what’ll happen if I go back and ask to use their phone to call, because I don’t have any money to pay the steadily-mounting phone bill? I’m getting angrier and angrier. Where’s henry’s Big Gun?

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. :)