Saddle up your horses we've got a trail to blaze

“The sun’s shining; what shall we do today?” asked Jan as she leapt joyfully out of bed in the morning. “Gnnnrrrrrrrrruuuhhh” replied Ned through several layers of bedclothes and small primates. “Ooh goodie, I’ll get ready then” said Jan, and off to the bathroom she scampered, looking forward to the day’s activities. Several hours later the chores were completed and the two were ready to set off on their Adventure in southern parts.

The journey south was uneventful (for them anyway; the chap on the hard shoulder watching smoke and flames billowing from his car might not have agreed) and, with only minor queries and tetchy recalculations from Henrietta-the-Navigator the first destination was reached in good time. “Should we have the picnic now or later?” wondered Jan, her tummy rumbling at the thought of the yummy sandwiches, crisps and lashings of pop which were nestling on the back seat of the car. “Both!” laughed Ned, so they each took a sandwich leaving the rest for their return, and off they set on the search for the treasure.

They’d made a careful copy of the original map with the clues and they studied it intently – after coming all this way it wouldn’t do to get lost now! But all was well and they skipped merrily from one landmark to the next, taking particular care to note accurately any details that might prove essential in the hunt. Potential disaster was narrowly averted when they noticed strange reflections on the ground ahead of them, and directly in the route they needed to follow. “That’s water!” exclaimed Ned, and they made a detour to avoid getting trapped in the bog. At last they had all the clues needed, so after finding a secluded spot to make themselves comfortable, they settled down to solve the arithmetical problems. “It’s that way! Come on!” said Jan excitedly, and the pair eagerly sallied forth on the final stage of the quest.

Along the path they went, lizards scuttling out of their way, until they reached the dark forest with its shaggy-coated guardians. “Come on, we’re nearly there” encouraged Ned, and bravely they ventured under the trees. And there it was – the treasure! It had been carefully hidden from prying eyes and its location was undetectable to someone without the map. Ned and Jan cheered and examined the contents of the treasure chest, taking a beautiful pen as their reward, and leaving a book for a future seeker. They carefully hid the box again and returned to their car.

“I know; let’s visit a local inn for refreshments. We can save the picnic for an emergency” suggested Ned. “Good idea” agreed Jan, and Henrietta heaved a sigh of relief that, once more, the two were following her instructions, and led them a few miles further into the forest to a Tavern. “Two glasses of your finest ale please, Landlord” ordered Ned as they entered the bar. “The landlord’s not here, but you can have your drinks anyway” responded the young man, and served them with alacrity. They took their drinks to a quiet corner and enjoyed the rest from their long walk. As they left to start the long journey home they left a parting gift, captured on a recent trip to the barren wastelands of the Far North, for the absentee landlord on his return, their mission accomplished.

When you say nothing at all

Copious quantities of starch have been applied in the vicinity of the philtrum, and normal service has been resumed.

Your old road is rapidly agin'

The Boy's announced that he's moving in with his pal Oliver, who's renting a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere. I knew he wouldn't be with us forever - and perish the thought that he would, unless we magically had a vast house where he could have a wing to himself - but he's good company when he's around, and it'll be strange without him. I won't redecorate his room straight away (although I'll start planning colour-schemes) just in case.

This umbilical cord-cutting hurts.

Put your feet upon the water

The sun was shining and the birds were singing as the dogs and I strolled by the river that flows around King John’s Mound (the remains of a motte-and-bailey castle) on our morning walk. The violets were flowering under the trees and would have smelled delicious if there’d been more warmth in the sun. The peace and tranquillity soothed my soul after the hectic hours since dawn. Ned had woken later than he’d planned due to not having set his alarm properly (he still arrived in the Lake District at 10.30am after stopping at Blackburn Market for black puddings, Cumberland sausages and Lancashire Tasty (“Cheese, Gromit”) en route), and The Boy had arrived downstairs somewhat later bewailing the injustice of accidentally waking early when he didn’t have to. (Was I cruel to chuckle? Nah! Discover diurnality!) Anyway, all that was forgotten as I watched Harry, Piglet and Beattie hunting through the undergrowth ahead of me, working as a team, and Clover bumbled along behind me stopping here and there when she came across an interesting sniff.

So we strolled on, me keeping an eye on the boys to prevent them doing a sudden runner, when there was a quiet but definite ‘splosh’ behind me. I turned; there was no sign of Clover. Not good – dalmatians just don’t ‘do’ water. If they go in, it’s accidental. I sprinted back to the riverbank and saw her, six feet below me in the water, covered in mud all on one side, turning her head this way and that as her near-sightless eyes tried to make sense of where she should go. I think I went down that bank almost as fast as she had, the difference being that I stayed upright. The poor old girl was very relieved when I grabbed her collar and helped her back up to dry land again.

A healthy grown up busy busy bee

The sun's shining and I'm a busy little person, tidying and cleaning Genie Towers inside and out. I wonder how long it'll be before I burn myself out? If I can make it last all the time Ned's away the house will be transformed and gorgeous. Let's hope the weather holds, because when that fails, so will I.

Tell me more, tell me more

I've been called by the vet's receptionist and asked to come for an interview with the vet on Friday, so that's good - at least I made the shortlist of 'people we can work with'!

A slight short-term problem could be (if I get offered the job in the first place) when they want me to start. At the first interview I said I can start any time, but my mother phoned and told me that she has a date for her cataract op; April 28th. That means I'll have to go down for a few days, at least till she's able to remove the bandage and use the eye because she's only got about 5% vision in the other eye and there's nothing they can do to improve that. I can't leave a frail lady in her eighties with rubbish balance to cope by herself virtually blind.

And it means I'll have to go down the day before the op. Ned'll have to celebrate his half-century alone. Poo.

One thing is certain, we'll never give in

Our top pond is full of knots of froggies making tapioca. :) It was March 16th they started last year. That'll be global warming then.

Hello teacher, tell me whats my lesson

An article in today’s paper sent my blood pressure through the roof and plunged me into the deepest, blackest despair. We were given two exam questions:

“I am in the middle of my exams and am going to be taking ___ in June.”

Which word would best fit the space:
A. those
B. them
C. this
D. it

And
“On the map, the distance from the port to the destination is 27 centimetres. The scale is 2 centimetres to 5 kilometres. The actual distance is ?

A. 2.7km
B. 10.8km
C. 67.5km
D. 135km

I know there are some 8-year olds who’d have difficulty tackling those questions, but most 11-year-olds shouldn’t find them too taxing. So what the fuck* are they doing in GCSE papers?

*Sorry, I know that’s a very rude swear but I’m incandescent with rage. They expect us to believe that exams aren't being 'dumbed down' and that children are getting cleverer and educational standards are improving? I've never heard such a load of bollocks in my life. It was bad enough a decade ago when there was an exposé revealing that a 1970's maths O-level question had turned up in a 1980's A-level paper, but to have 11+-style questions in GCSE papers is just outrageous.

It keeps me stable for days

This game is driving* me mad.

*Do you see what I did there?

I don't want no dead end job

Well, that was one of the strangest interviews I’ve ever had. A few days ago, when I was walking down to the Post Office, I spotted a notice in the vet’s window saying “STAFF WANTED. Apply within”. Ooh, that could be good, I thought, so I went in and got an application form, rushed home, completed it, stapled my CV to it as requested then took it straight back. It was for a shared job, where several people cover all the shifts, which were from 9am till 12 noon, then 3pm till 6pm Monday to Friday. Ideal! A morning’s work, home for lunch and walk the dogs, then back in the afternoon. Today I had my interview.

Which wasn’t with the actual vet, but with the other women who do the job. Their task was to make a shortlist of people they felt they could get on with and would fit in. Remember, this is a village, not a large town. One of them opened the conversation with “Is Ned in his shorts yet?”. She was ‘Dudley-the-Weimaraner-and-Harry-the-mongrel’s mum; Ned often meets her husband dog-walking. Dudley and Piglet took a while to get used to each other but they’re fine with each other now. Another was a woman whose son was at playgroup when I helped out there many years ago. It was only the third who was a stranger.

A possible fly in the ointment could be that we no longer take our dogs to this practice for a variety of reasons, not least of which was when a partner in the practice ‘reassured’ me that Clover’s spots would go black as she got older, that “They all start out that colour”. Erm, no they don’t. Do you tell yellow lab owners that their dog will turn black? I think not. We went back to the vet we’d used before we moved here, who fortuitously had relocated to the branch about 4 miles from here. Unfortunately there’s no love lost between him and my prospective employer ... Anyway, cups of tea and coffee were made and we chatted about all sorts of things as well as the job. There aren’t as many shifts on offer as I’d hoped – only two a week to start with – and the wage rate isn’t great, but it’d be better than a poke in the eye.

I should hear by Easter.

On a clear day you can see forever

Shame it wasn’t a clear day, though! It was lovely when we left home, warm and sunny. Shall I wear a jumper? I mused. No, a light jacket’ll be fine because it’ll be breezy on the coast, thought I. No, it wasn’t breezy at all. The rain fell straight down. It was weird in Portsmouth because we were in the area where I used to live, but it’s changed somewhat since 1973 and I kept getting a visual overlay of the past to help me get my bearings. “You can see the Spinnaker Tower for miles” we were told “You can’t miss it”. You can when the clouds are as low as they were today! When I looked at the location of our destination on the map I thought it was at HMS Vernon, and I was right. It’s just that HMS Vernon isn’t there any more - it's now a retail and expensive-residential centre - and you can walk through the gateway without being challenged by armed men. We met up with Stu and Sarah and Kouros, then Elly and Claire and Sam arrived, so we went to have a coffee and get warm. Sam entertained us by showing how high he can count (114) and we were on the edges of our seats, collective breath bated, at each contemplative pause. Cheers and a round of applause greeted the successful reaching of his century.

Because Elly and Co had already been up the tower when there was a view they decided to pass an opportunity to go up and see nothing, so the remaining five of us went in, braving the lift-man with halitosis and emerged at viewing deck 1, where there’s a panel of glass floor for brave souls

to walk on. It was fascinating watching the rain falling when you were above it. The 'Crow's Nest' deck, supposedly 'open to the elements' was disappointingly enclosed by glass, but the netting roof allowed the rain to fall on us. I'd imagined a secure waist-high barrier with netting below to catch jumpers and fallers, and to be able to feel the breeze. Ho hum.

The clouds cleared briefly and I was able to see the common where I'd used to play lacrosse, and the open space behind where my old home used to stand, and the fairground where my pals and I used to hang out when we were feeling flush, and the Round Tower where we stood and waved when Ark Royal steamed into harbour, bringing my Daddy home from his year-long tour of duty ... memories, memories.

At ground level again, we met up with Mally and Maddy and went to a 'quiet pub' for a quick drink. I must run the definition of 'quiet' past Mally sometime!

Today's Tower

The morning came the morning went

Don’t you just hate it when inanimate objects start playing up? Yesterday the car behaved perfectly, ferrying me about to view that bungalow (the rooms are too small and it needs a lot of work doing to it – from plastering in the light switches upwards) and into Leamington. Today when I wanted to nip up to the farm at the top of the hill for eggs (60p a half-dozen free range – take care not to run over the chickens) because Ned wanted to bake a cake it won’t start.

My first thought was that it was sulking because it rained overnight and it was a bit damp, so I sprayed its innards with WD40, but that didn’t do any good, and started flattening the battery. So I waited till Ned got home with the dogs and we tried to jump it from the Pug. That didn’t work either so we called the RAC. The nice man spent ages tinkering with various parts of its anatomy, and finally admitted he was puzzled, because it was behaving idiosyncratically. He reckoned it was a problem with the rotor arm, the coil block or the HT leads*. None of which he had. So the car was shoved and heaved from the centre of the drive (isn’t power steering hard to work without power?) and we went to Banbury to buy a new rotor arm.

It wasn’t that. It looks like we’ll have to call the RAC back again to tow it to a garage for diagnosis and fixification. But if we try to nurse the Pug down to our planned rendezvous in Portsmouth it’ll have to wait till Monday. Bum.

*I haven’t a clue what these bits are or do.

I've roomed with fear

You may remember that my mother has, over the past few years, got into the habit of falling over, with increasingly spectacular results, so my brothers and I decided that we really must convince her that the time has come for her to move somewhere a little more convenient for her and all of us. She’s an hour’s drive from the nearest one of us (3 hours from us), in a house that’s really too big for her now and a garden she’s had to pay someone to maintain for about a decade. Despite the fact that she didn’t like the house when my father bought it over 20 years ago, and moved there under protest, she’s now taking some shifting from it. She keeps raising objections like the furniture won’t fit and the attic’s full. Hmmm. I’m sure those aren’t insurmountable problems. Then she decided that if she moved anywhere nearer to one of us we’d instantly up sticks and move away, leaving her stranded. Part of the real trouble is that since her last fall she’s developing agoraphobia. She barely leaves her house at all because she’s afraid of falling – honestly I think she’s been out of doors no more than 5 times since Christmas, not even into the garden, and the prospect of moving away completely terrifies her. Plus, of course, moving house is daunting and stressful even when you’re young and fit. She’s neither of those things.

At one time we put forward the suggestion that we adapt our house and she could live with us but that was vetoed on the grounds that her mother wasn’t happy living with my aunt (even though Mum agreed that Granny had been very happy when she lived with us. So that was vetoed. Then the other week a house across the road from my brother came onto the market, but that seems to have been snapped up, much to Mother’s relief (because it took the decision out of her hands). She keeps saying she’s feeling much stronger now and feels she could stay where she is, but it’d only take another tumbly-bump and we’d all be stymied. She keeps repeating her mantra “James always said we must never be a burden to our children” – but she can’t or won’t see that her distance from us is a burden in itself.

Tomorrow I go to view a dormer bungalow the other side of our village. My brothers and I reckon it’d be ideal if it’s suitable. She’d still have her own place and her own belongings but I could keep an eye on her easily. I bet she’ll find something wrong with it.

Down the trail the cowboy way

Specially for Jane, here’s an update on my Bro, who decamped from hospididdle yesterday and is now safely back home again. The pain-killers are pretty much doing their job, and he says he’s certainly in no more pain than he was before the op. Unfortunately they’ve had their usual side-effect, and he and his wife are awaiting with interest the result of all the figs and other lubricants he’s taken. I’ve put on a bet for 4.32pm on Monday. A chap in the ward who’d had both knees operated on got caught short in the small hours a couple of nights ago, and it took 3 nurses over half an hour to clean him, his bed and the surrounding area. Even the ceiling was stared at suspiciously in case a hose was going to be needed.

Anyway, he’s been told he must only use his bionic leg for balance for several weeks, and use two crutches to get about. He’s managing to get up- and down-stairs so he’s not too trapped. He says he gets cramp in his feet at night and can’t reach down to do anything about it which is a bugger, and his heel’s getting a little tender. I suggested resting his lower leg and foot on a pillow in bed to take some of the pressure off it, and help the fluid drain away. With a bit of luck he’ll be gambolling like a spring lamb again before too long!

Update 19th: I lost my bet. I'm told the earth moved last night, shortly after I spoke to him on the phone. Perhaps my middle name should be Senna.

How bizarre, how bizarre

A couple of weeks ago there was a brief article in one of the local papers about an outcry in a nearby market town because an ‘historic’ Wellingtonia tree had been lopped. This tree, the townsfolk said, was believed to have been planted in 1642 as part of a row to mark the route King Charles took after his ‘defeat’ at the Civil War battle of Edgehill. I couldn’t let that pass. Not only was Edgehill considered to be a draw, with neither Royalists nor Parliamentarians claiming victory, but the Wellingtonia is native to California, and the first specimens weren’t introduced into Britain until 1853. So I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and wrote* to the Editor to tell him so.

This week my letter was printed, and shortly after breakfast the phone rang, and a total stranger congratulated me on my letter! I have my first fan!

*No, I didn’t sign it ‘Pedantic of Warwickshire’

Little things that you do

Interviews are like exams, and the same rule applies when you come out of one: do not relive it. In the case of exams don’t rush to your books to see if you got the answers right, and with interviews don’t kick yourself thinking of the things you should have said, the questions you should have asked (like the salary!) or start wondering if you checked that final figure in the test – did you deduct that £100 or not? When it’s over it’s over, and there’s nothing you can do to change it so it’s best put right out of your mind. (I still think I left that 100 in, though. Poo. I won’t go and buy suitable shoes tomorrow then.)

The Boy has an interview tomorrow, as a landscaper’s labourer. It seems such as waste for a bright boy but it might help him gather his thoughts on his future. Having his car tax reminder in the post has helped concentrate his mind on doing something. He’s also aware that his hair might be a handicap in the interview stakes because people are usually judged on first appearances, and he said that it might be sooner rather than later that I’ll be allowed to remove the dreads!

*Claps hands and jumps up and down in delight before going to hunt out the clippers*

My stethoscope is bobbing to the throbbing of your heart

There's nothing like being told that your blood pressure has rocketed to add a teensy bit more stress to your day and leave you with a pounding headache.

Tomorrow I have an interview.

Time waits for nobody

You realise you're getting old when your brother goes into hospital for a hip replacement. Good luck, Andrew.

Times they are a-changing

I collected most of the Boy's belongings from Uni today, tomorrow being the end of term. I'd have done that even if he'd been returning after the break because all the students have to empty their rooms every holiday. But he won't be returning for the summer.

I do wish things had been different. I wish he'd enjoyed not only Uni life (which he did) but also the course. He tells me that if he'd wanted a career as a civil engineer he'd have gritted his teeth at the difficult bits and got on with it, but as he'd realised that it wasn't the future for him changing was the sensible thing to do. After all, this isn't a dress rehearsal for Life; as far as we know this is It, so settling for dutiful unhappiness would be foolish.

That's all very sensible and logical, but it doesn't stop me worrying what he's going to do with his life. Once again we're in limbo.

Timing is everything in life

When applying for a cracking-sounding job that you have all the right qualifications for it’s best to complete the application form before the closing date. Especially when it’s a job requiring accuracy and punctuality. Whoops!

Have a banana, have a whole bunch

I'm not usually a particularly hungry person, although I can't go for hours without eating something; even if it's only a cup of tea it's important that I don't go for too long without something in my tummy. But for the past few days I've been almost perpetually ravenous, and I fear I may be about to balloon. Sandwiches, peanuts, buns, chocolate, fruit, yogurt, cheese, cold meat - I'm not fussed what it is, but I must eat. Mind you, Abernethy biscuits with a Best Before date of 30th May 04 aren't my favourite - but they're better than nothing. Now, where did I see those waffer-theen meents?

Going underground

The drain from the downstairs loo needs rodding again.

Ring ring, why don’t you give me a call?

Actually please don’t just at the moment – at least not on the mobile. The company we’re with contacted us to say that our mobile handset is so terribly dated (I think it’s the only one still being used) that they’re switching off the equipment that it makes it work, so in a few days’ time it’ll die. Because we’re so lovely they’ve sent us a ‘free’ replacement of something more recent; we’re not at all impressed. Not only are the buttons tiny and make my arthritis flare when I try to use it, and Ned’s fingers are a bit big, all the controls are in different places.

The instruction book starts “It’s probably not your first mobile phone, so you might want to skip this bit” (no, I don’t actually. I want to know how you turn it on). By enlisting the help of chums on another site I’ve found where the punctuation is (with the ‘1’ button, not the ‘0’) and how to leave a space in text (with the ‘0’ button, not the sideways arrow. There isn’t a sideways arrow). What I have managed to do is not only turn off predictive text (I’ve no idea how I managed to turn it on in the first place) but also add a lovely new ring-tone which I spent all yesterday evening installing. (The theme from the 1960s TV series of Robinson Crusoe, if you're interested. Shame my tinny version sounds as though it's played on a stylophone, rather than the marvellous full-bodied orchestral number. That just blows me away!)

If we’d wanted to change our mobile I wouldn’t be bothered about the hassle – but we were perfectly happy with the old one. It made phonecalls, which is all we wanted. It also sent texts, which was occasionally useful, although sometimes they took hours to be received at the other end. Now we have to faff about putting yet more credit on the damn thing to activate it and get the remaining credit from the old phone transferred over. Then we’ll need to ring ourselves to find out what you press to answer a call – it doesn’t have a lovely safe green ‘Go’ button like the old one, with a corresponding red ‘Stop’ button to finish. I know that with mobiles if you don’t hang up properly the other person can’t get a clear line to make other calls – all they get is you still. So how do you do this? The handbook doesn’t say. And ‘free’? I don’t suppose they’ll send us a new in-car charger to replace the one we’ve bought and is soon to be totally useless.

Where i stole the margarine

Shrove Tuesday again (already?) and once more I wish that I was better at making pancakes. It’s not until I get to the last of the batter that they’re turning out reasonable, although I’ve never (yet) made such a pig’s ear of them as Yvette Fielding did on Blue Peter all those years ago. It doesn’t help that, although we have four, I don’t really like any of our frying pans. Two are designed for a range and are too big for the hob; one’s too heavy for me to handle and the third, although a nice weight, has a warped base because it’s basically too cheap and starts melting on application with heat. Not ideal really. I used to have a nice frying pan but the bakelite handle (that dates it!) finally perished and fell apart at critical places, so that when you lifted the pan off the heat to dish up your creation it tended to spin round and deposit its contents on the floor (if you were lucky. If you weren’t you got scalding food landing on your foot after it bounced off your front). However blaming the tools doesn’t get around the fact that I really need to make twice as much batter as we need so that by the time the first half’s been used up in making crud to give to the dogs I’ve got the hang of it and they’re turning out properly. And no, I don’t even attempt to toss them.

I always feel like somebody's watching me

Is there to be no privacy anywhere?

It made me chuckle gently to myself and go "Ooh! It goes crosseyed!"

You say goodbye and I say hello

There was a cache meet arranged quite locally to us (12 miles or so) today so we thought we’d do a couple of caches and go and meet people. It was flipping cold, with the wind seemingly straight from the Arctic, although in the sunny intervals between the sleety showers it was quite pleasant. So we did – found the caches without any great difficulty, although signing the logbooks was tricky because our hands were so cold it was almost impossible to hold the pen. The cache meet was odd, though. The pub was bursting at the seams with obvious geocachers (the GPSs, travel bugs and printouts on every available surface gave the game away), some of whom were deep in conversation and others lurked shyly at the periphery. There was nobody we recognised from photos, so we bravely introduced ourselves to a couple of total strangers who politely responded then wandered off. So, chuckling to ourselves at the similarity between us and ‘someone’ who drove miles to meet strangers watch the dawn and then was too shy to actually take the plunge and say hello, we drank up and went away too.

And send them homewards

For many, many years I've known I'm a rugby jinx. Whenever The Boy was playing in a match, if I went along to support, his team lost. If I stayed at home, they won. I don't even have to be there in the flesh; it's the same with watching on TV. If I watch to support a particular team they lose (or 'come second', as I suppose we're meant to say). The only matches I'm safe to watch are the ones where I don't care two hoots who wins; but there's not the same excitement, no adrenalin rush, so I generally don't bother any more.

So when, like today, there's a match on TV where I support a particular side, I'll busy myself doing something else in another room (today I cleaned the bathroom) and trry to keep up with events by listening to Ned's commentary ("Would that be an English tosser or a Scottish tosser, dear? Ah, I thought so.").

Later on I asked whether we won. I could tell by Ned's disconsolate expression that we had. :D And as there were two local soccer teams that also won their matches today, the only safe quiet places to drink in Edinburgh tonight will be the gay bars.

In the middle of the night

It was all very confusing. There I was fidgeting, unable to get back to sleep after waking suddenly in a panic (rats in the tunnel, or something) at 2.36am. I rearranged the pillows, had a drink of water and lay down again, but that was no good. I turned over and tried not to think about all our worries; and besides, even if I could remember Boy’s UCAS total there was nothing I could do with it in the middle of the night. Next I got out of bed and went to the loo, hoping that being more comfortable would help. It didn’t, although feeling the warmth of the bed seeping back into my bones after getting chilly out of bed was very pleasant. But although I felt exhausted I still couldn’t sleep, and I made the mistake of looking at the clock again. 2.20am. Eh? That’s when I gave up rational thought.

And the ship sailed on

Not a lot happening really. I still feel pretty ghastly, Ned's got to contact the Union again to find out how to word the whatthefuckhaveyoudonewiththepensioncontributionsyouthievingtwat letter, and I've got to quickly pay in the cheque he's been given for January (February's pay's due on Friday, by the way); Ned's only ever had two cheques bounce before, and coincidentally they were both paycheques signed by this same bloke. We're not holding our breath.

Also we're still waiting to hear what decision The Boy's come to, having been told by 2nd-years that the bit he has trouble with gets worse, not better. Still, as I pointed out to him, my eldest brother changed course from geology to Biology; my other brother changed from Mech Eng to Physics; a niece changed from Town Planning to Publishing (or vice versa); and a nephew changed from Psychology to something else then dropped out entirely and is now doing an Open Uni course, so changing tack seems to be a proud family tradition.

Pinch me to see if I'm sleeping

A body can only take so much before it breaks. When your bones are made of lead and an elephant is sitting on your chest that point is getting very close.

Talking about me

Today I have mainly been updating my CV, having been for a careers interview (!) and completed the computer questionnaire only to have it suggest I’m best suited for the sort of jobs I’ve been applying for anyway. So that’s good, but not really helpful. I’ve found it’s very difficult, when you’ve known from an early age that it’s very bad manners to boast about yourself, to ‘big up’ your abilities and personal qualities without feeling like a bighead who needs a slap.

It seemed the taste was not so sweet

I've just been chatting to The Boy who seems to be planning major changes in his life. It seems the more he does of the course he's on, the more he realises it isn't what he wants to do with his life. He'd imagined there was more architecture and design involved, not merely working out what strength and size of girder a particular project will require, although I'm sure that'd be useful, and the more interesting stuff would come later in the course. With the physics part of the course he's been told he's heading for a First, but with the maths part (which doesn't involve numbers - no I don't understand either) he's looking to fail. But changing to a purely physics course doesn't seem to be right either.

He's now considering environmental science - which they don't do at Warwick, but do at the local Agricultural College. So he's trying to decide what to do for the best - quit now and get a job till the autumn or complete the year then change. I've suggested finding out all he can about the courses offered at the various places, and if he wants to change, then apply now - they might not have room for him if he waits too long.

What I don't want him to think is that changing courses means he's a failure. Only a fool carries on down a path they know to be wrong. But things are never easy, are they?

I would walk five hundred miles

Or so it seemed. "Let's do a couple of caches" we thought "and then do the shopping on the way home." The first one was pretty straightforward; the second was a little trickier; the third claimed to be 'a short walk of less than a mile'. Great - plenty of time. We got the first waypoint easily, though reaching it was weird, going down a sloping tunnel without any light, and set off for the second. We walked, and we walked. And then we walked some more. There aren't many ways to get lost on a towpath, especially when you're going in the required direction. "Less than a mile" we reminded ourselves. When we'd walked 1.2 miles with no sign of the waypoint we decided to call it a day. We'd got back to within about 500 yards of the first waypoint when we spotted the second (missed because we don't have eyes in the backs of our heads and were looking where we were going!), took the figures, ummed and aahed, discovered the cache site was less than 0.2 miles back where we'd been, ummed and aahed a bit more, and went for it. Found it within minutes. Done properly, the walk would have been about half a mile, not just under the three that we did.

The shops were shut by the time we got there.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?

It started when I was in the bank in Leamington having paid in a cheque (hurrah!) and went to the cashpoint to get some readies. That was when I discovered my bank cards weren't in my bag, no matter how many times I searched it. So I retraced my steps to the Jobcentre to see if the wallet was there, but despite upturning every chair I couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor of the car either, so rather than shopping I tried to stay under the speed limit all the way home, and mostly succeeded. The cards weren't on the kitchen table, nor in my caching-bag where I'd stuffed my handbag the other day when we'd parked the car in an unsalubrious area and I didn't fancy having it nicked. So I went upstairs and tried not to wake Ned as I searched in the bedroom, but failed in that too. When he came downstairs I was on the phone to the last place where I remember having them, but that was two days ago, and they didn't have them either. All this time the panic was rising and I was consciously having to remember to breathe.

Then Ned found them in a bag of Christmas cards I'd taken to put into a recycling bin, but brought home again because the bin wasn't there any more. Just as well really. I love Ned.

Every time it rains ...

Hurrah! It's Christmas! I wonder when it'll be January?

It's a storm in a teacup

Wahay! It's raining! I think it's the first time this year. :)

Over there, over there

The Geocaching site recently had a revamp, and since then I've noticed that the noting of the distances Travel Bugs has been is erratic to say the least. It used to be that there was a running total for each one, and also the distance between each cache that the Bug had visited was also logged. With the New Look those individual distances have vanished, and the totals seem to have got stuck. One of ours ( Puzzle the Donkey ) is now in Maryland, but his total's still showing as 713 miles. I hope they sort it soon or there'll be no point to moving Bugs on.

Happy talky talky happy talk

The Boy's been back this weekend, and he's been home tonight, and he's had supper with us (roast organic lamb, roast taties, roast parsnips, carrots, broccoli, redcurrant jelly and gravy, followed by a Vienetta) and his friend Dan's came round grumbling about how much further it is to ride a bike here than it used to be since he's been driving, and they went out to play and now he's back and we've been watching TV as a family and we don't have to take him back to Uni till tomorrow and it's lovely. My whole family happy in one room, all sharing, all together. It's the Best.

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes

And I feel it in almost every place in between. Aches and pains, that is. It's surprising how tiring bananana-stuffification is, especially when you don't have a great deal of space and have to squeeze round and under pieces of iron whilst simultaneously (and at the same time) trying not to touch the glowy-red-hot curing element.

It's brotherly love

Every day for almost their entire lives, Harry and Piglet have insisted on sharing a bed despite there being at least one each. And every day they grumble at each other as they settle down and get comfy (“Ouch! Mind your elbow” “Budge over a bit then, fatso” etc etc). So why yesterday evening, as the normal swearing went on, was there a sudden squeal from Harry, who shot out of the favoured bed (where he’d been first and Piglet had been getting in) and retreated to another one, cursing under his breath and glaring daggers at Piglet? Later on they both came into the sitting room to sit by the fire, but they weren’t their usual happy selves, and Piglet was sniffing at Harry’s shoulder, then leaping back with a horrified expression when he saw what he’d done:

I’m sure it was an accident, but it still meant a vet visit this morning, where Uncle Russ managed to thoroughly perforate Harry in attempting to staple the wound, rather than do a GA and stitches. Stitches are more secure, but the risk, not to mention expense of a GA, mean that it’s something to be avoided if possible. Russ’s parting comment of “Bring him back in if it all falls apart” didn’t exactly fill me with confidence, but so far, so good. So now it’s lead walking for 10 days. Harry’s not impressed at all! But they still love each other really.

Stuck in the groove

There’s something definitely not right. I’ve long been aware that I’m not at my best first thing in the morning, which is why I make a point of laying out tomorrow’s clothes before I go to bed, to minimise the risk of disaster. This system has served me well for many years with only the occasional mishap, which is usually due to there not being enough of a time-lag between going to bed and getting up again.

So why, all of a sudden, are my pants playing up? It doesn’t matter what style they are, skimpies or Bridget Jones’; and I’ve become very careful at checking them first, sometimes even going so far as to open my eyes or turn a light on, but by the time I’ve got downstairs I’m convinced I’ve put them on back to front. Where I hope for comfort I get a cheesewire effect, so I check and no, that’s not the problem. Perhaps it’s not my pants at fault after all - maybe something awful’s happened to my ostrich?

Do you promise not to tell?

We had such a good idea of something really funny to do in a few weeks' time, but I don't think we dare. So I can't tell you till afterwards. But if we've done it you'll know already.

... some sunny day

What a fabby weekend, seeing so many of our lovely chums, and meeting new ones as well! The second annual MongFest in Oxford was great; I was rescued from caddish clutches by a valiant, stout-hearted but very small hero-in-the-making armed with a fearsome cutlass, who repelled the foe the length of the bar, stapping his vitals good and proper.

Unfortunately I never managed to get a picture of Sam's marvellous pose; cutlass brandished in one hand with the other resting on his hip - sheer Hollywood! He and his moll (the Monster) were later restrained from making an attempt on the north face of the bar and consigned to Maddy's creche.

Ned was delighted to receive a shipment of comestibles from the Far North (all right, some black pudding from Bury market) - thank you Sparkle Princess and your mum (would she be Sparkle Queen?). We gave Simon some maltesers for being a pal, which he later scattered to the four winds - no doubt some strange arcane Leicesesestershire ritual; and he was presented with an award for having the most entertainingly rubbish website:

The Trivia-game machine drew a lot of attention


even though it blatantly cheated and said we were wrong when we weren't (a B-52 was an aeroplane, not a hair-do). Team Clever-Trousers will have to do better than that to become rich and famous, despite being partway there already (I bet Rich hasn't heard that before, hahaha).

Loads of brilliant pics can be found at Stu's place.

Then it was time to come home so we abducted Mally and Maddy and brought them home for supper and beer and to go caching in a tunnel this morning. Which we did, and it was fun but very cold and very wet and very dark and very dirty.

Back to reality tomorrow, I suppose.

... the birds began to sing

AvianOcular have replied to the letter I sent the other day about the lack of filling in their pies. They were very apologetic that their quality control, which is designed to ensure the ratio of meat to gravy remains within specified tolerances, seems to have failed them in this instance*, and they enclosed a £3 voucher, which is accepted in payment for ice cream as well as other frozen food. Hurrah!

*Unless of course the pies are meant to be practically empty.

You're in my soul*

Am I the only person who, when you can finally get to the loo after being terribly busy and distracted, wonders what volume had been passed?

*think about it

Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down

Lurgylurgylurgylurgycoughcoughsneezelurgylurgygroan.

Pride of our alley

That wasn't me. At all. I think it safe to say I'm pants at bowling. And doesn't it hurt when the ball rips your thumbnail off?

When the pie was opened ...

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am writing to express my disappointment with one of your products: an AvianOcular ‘Steak and Ale Pie’ which I bought recently.

I’m well aware that images on packaging involve a degree of artistic licence, but the image on the box for this particular product is very misleading in that it suggests that the pie within contains more than 4 pieces of meat and 6 tiny slices of mushroom; it didn’t.

I suggest you rename this product ‘Gravy Pie with Small Lumps’ so as to avoid misleading your customers.

I enclose the Best Before End panel in the chance that I bought part of a faulty batch.

Yours faithfully,

And made the graduation into the banking business

Someone forgot to take their bank card when they went to withdraw some money in the early hours from the cash machine at the bank in the village. So a couple of tractors were ‘borrowed’ to help. Where the hole-in-the-wall machine used to be, there’s now a ... erm ... hole in the wall.

Ooh! I wonder if Ned will come home with unexpected riches?

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off ...

Today's addition caught me on the blind side. The Boy's bank statement arrived.

Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Those lovely people at the Inland Revenue have decided that they overpaid our Child Tax Credit a few years ago, and they want it back now. It just gets better and better.

Travel down the road and back again

My faith in 99.9% of humanity was restored today after our shopping trip. We went into Banbury and bought more meat for the dogs, then went to Tesco. Ned had his daily optimistic bank-balance check at the hole-in-the-wall (no, nothing yet; grrr) then we shopped for the essentials, paid and left.

When we arrived home the answering machine was flashing its little red light. A message from Tesco Customer Services for me - I'd left my bank cards at the checkout, and they'd been handed in; would I come and collect them?

Thank you to the honest people who handed them in. Thank you to Tesco for being so efficient as to let me know they were safe before I even realised they were missing, thus saving me agonies of panic and trouble cancelling everything. Store loyalty cards have more benefits than mere points - they'd traced me so quickly because of it. How do I know? They'd replaced it in its pocket the wrong way round!*

*Whaddya mean, 'obsessive'?

And now, the end is nigh ...

... well actually, it's arrived. I've finished Qwyzzle. There were two or three tricky puzzles in there, but when you consider it takes me about 6 weeks to complete 100 PuzzleDonkey questions, and Qwyzzle took 12 days, I think it's fairly clear which is more challenging. Mind you, it's quite entertaining; And at least it can be completed by one person without too much need for help - just pointers along the way - the Donkey can be somewhat OTT in the difficulty stakes, and there's no chance that it can be completed without help. A puzzle somewhere in between the two would be ideal - but then, I'm not a genius! However, their Forum badly needs the services of a good Moderator with a sharp pair of scissors. It's chock-full of spoilers which ruins the fun.

Back to FreeCell, I suppose.

That ring of fire

No, nothing to do with curries! We've both been suffering from achy backs recently, which is liveable with until they start to give the occasional twinge of reminder when you do something strenuous - such as put down a cup of tea. Yesterday Ned got just such a reminder so at bedtime he searched out the lavender wheaty-bang thing I made some time ago and nuked it up good and hot to lie on in bed, rather than risk popping a hot-water bottle and scalding his back as well as soaking the mattress. All was well and the heat started to seep into the muscles and relax them and we both dozed; until he suddenly squealed. In response to my tired-yet-caring "Wassup?" he deposited a handful of redhot grains of wheat onto my tummy - the cover had split.

A tip to anyone who may find themselves in this situation: do not react to your belly being burned to a frazzle by sitting up - gravity means that all the scorching particles descend to one's nethers ... now that's a real emergency.

Things can only get better

The latest rumour from the Fun Factory is that December's salaries aren't going to be paid at all.

It's no surprise that they're giving none away

Did I tell you that Mr Effing Lying Bastard Boss promised faithfully and guaranteed that the salaries would be in the bank by today at the very latest? Silly us - his lips were moving again, so he was lying. He also was 'unavailable'. Oh, and even more joy - the pension contributions haven't been paid either.

Gone fishin'

As we're still waiting for Ned to be paid December's salary, it was deemed sensible to start eating some of the stores from the freezer, to make a change from the pauper's meals I've been producing (lentils and rice are nourishing and tasty, but bad for the ozone layer). So I burrowed down and emerged clutching some sardines in tomato-and-pepper sauce. "Yum!" we'd thought when we bought them, and "Yum!" I thought when I put them on to cook. They smelled jolly nice, if somewhat fishy, as they cooked and I prepared the accompanying vegetables.

Then "Yuck!" we thought as we scraped the barely-sampled fish into the bin. I don't think they were real fish. I think they were blocks of salt cunningly designed to resemble fish. Totally inedible. Too salty even for the dogs. And the few mouthfuls we managed are repeating ...

Where's the spirit gone

What's wrong with the following ingredients?

Contents: Sloes (50%), Sugar (50%).

Nothing, you might think. But the product is called 'Sloe Gin Preserve'. There seems to be a vital ingredient missing from the list ...

Silence is golden

Sometimes there are serious things that need pondering out loud to try to make sense of them and work out the right path. But some subjects are simply too important to be thrown open and exposed to strangers, so blogging about them, although probably therapeutic, is out of the question. So they'll carry on going round and round and round in my head till it feels like it's going to explode.

Do you really want to hurt me?

Yucky sleety snow all the morning made dog-walking less of a pleasure than it can be. It didn't help that I'd had a rubbish night and woke up with a throbbing headache, all due to the bloody poxy MD where Ned works; a man whose honesty is easy to tell - if his lips are moving, he's lying. I'm very nearly at breaking point with him - I badly want to either phone him (or even better, see him face to face) to tell him what a misery he's making our lives, and when he's going to pay us the money he owes (nearly three grand would come in handy); but I don't know whether it'd make things worse for Ned. Hard to work out exactly how it could be, though.

On another theme, while scouring the Qwyzzle fora (Good for lack of spoilers, but badly in need of the zillions of whingy "Can someone PM me the answer? I've been stuck for nearly two minutes" posts to be removed) for hints I came across this interesting quote:

"Hmm... at least these have *mostly* been easier that the dreaded donkey so far..."

I think I may be persona non grata among certain of my chums for introducing this - sorry! ...... Nah, I'm not!

My favourite waste of time

is currently Qwyzzle.

All day long I'd biddy biddy bum

The last day of Ned's break was totally wasted. We waited in because the garage was going to phone when our car was ready. They didn't. We phoned them, several times, and they eventually 'found the paperwork'* at 4pm, when we were due to collect it. It needs a complete new dash unit, which will set us back Three-hundred-plus of our Great British Pounds. Fabulous.

*Got off their backsides and looked at the car

I will cast the spell, Be sure I'll cast it well

Busy busy busy. I remembered to order some heating oil (blimey, that's got expensive) and got The Boy's clothes ironed and draped over the radiators to air for him to take back to Uni. We loaded both cars and he set off to collect his room keys while I bought his groceries (hmmm - he's getting cunning). We got him settled in then the three of us went to the Plaza so he could take our picture to log the Warwick Union Cam cache. Our computer won't allow us to access the proper webcam, but other people have had this problem and have taken ordinary shots of themselves there, and it's counted. So we got into position, I handed the camera to The Boy and its battery promptly died. Bugger. And I didn't even have Gottle's mobile number to beg for computer assistance. Stymied. It'll have to wait for another occasion.

Then it was time to rush down to Banbury to deliver the car to the garage for mendification. When we bought this one the rev counter was erratic, but that was okay because we never use it. Then a couple of weeks ago the fuel gauge started playing up, the needle pointing way beyond full. Over New Year the dash went completely haywire and started acting like a thing possessed. Every couple of seconds all the needles flicked between both extremes, all the digital figures vanished then reappeared set to zero, the milometer froze at its current total, no matter how far we drove, and as a final touch the speedo was convinced that we were travelling at 120 mph when parked with the ignition key removed.

I feel this may be an expensive mend. Bum.

***Stop Press***
Just heard on the local news that a body has been removed from the River Leam, not a quarter of a mile downstream from where Jack MacLeod was last seen a month ago.

And who knows which is which

The Boy saw the New Year in with a bang.

Don't worry, it was self-inflicted. Apparently there's a stage of inebriation where, when you trip up, you fail to put out your hands to break your fall, and use your face instead.

Three steps to heaven

Which today - the first of the year - meant being First To Find three caches! Hurrah! Aqueducts One, Two and Three (the most challenging) were just what we needed to start the new year off well. The weather was beautiful - sunny and not too cold - and the marvellous secrecy element of the hobby came into play when we had to pretend we were ordinary walkers with no ulterior motive when all the 'muggles' (non-cachers) strolled by. It can be difficult to look inconspicuous in a ditch with brambles clutching your hair!

Aqueduct 3 was the greatest fun. When we printed off the details it hadn't been approved (but had been mentioned in the details of the other two) but we decided to give it a go anyway. The co-ordinates were literally miles off (the parking co-ordinates were for Althorp when the cache was near Stratford) so we disregarded those and used logic and the clues mentioned in the waypoints (if 'at the church' is mentioned, you probably need to be near a church and not on a towpath ;)), which was enough to get us there. The satisfaction of finding the eventual cache was immeasurable! And we logged the find a minute before the cache was finally approved!!!

By the left, by the right, by the centre

As we shivered in the garage stuffing banananas we considered the curious conundrum of Taste. Why is it that images of despots and terrorists of one political extreme are considered acceptable, such as Ho Chi Minh, Uncle Joe Stalin (who was responsible for the deaths of millions of his own countrymen) or Che Guevara, which we're assured is still a 'must-have' image in university halls of residence, whereas those of the equal and opposite political extreme, such as Mussolini and Hitler, are considered completely beyond the Pale? Political Correctness is an incomprehensible and dangerous thing.

Happy New Year to anyone who celebrates it. No doubt we will be awake till the small hours until our terrified dogs have finally relaxed from the fireworks let off by all the inconsiderate bastards within earshot. There's no excuse; anyone who hasn't been in a coma since the age of 5 is aware that fireworks terrify animals, wildlife and farm animals (many early lambs are aborted at this time) as well as domestic pets, so they're torturing them deliberately. Why not be content with church bells and vocal good wishes? That's all that's needed.

Do you promise not to tell?

It's a pity I can't tell you about today. It means you won't get to hear about how Ned hopes the lady he saw engaging in activities of a columban nature without previously drawing the curtains was our neighbour's son's girlfriend and not our neighbour (dog-walking with closed eyes is a risky occupation); and how the whimper that I thought was a signal of imminent collapse of a spinal nature turned out to be something else entirely, and which was even funnier than playing hide and seek in Tescos.

But if I told you about all that I'd have to kill you.

Grown accustomed to your face

As we walked around Banbury, trying to find an open shop which sold pink thread, we passed a group of small boys walking in the other direction. One of them looked hard at Ned, with his Peruvian hat pulled down to protect his ears from the biting wind. A few paces on we distinctly heard him hiss to his friends "That was Father Christmas!"

I must get the clippers out and tidy Ned's beard.

Momma's got a brand new pegbag*

Yay! We managed to do 100 caches this year as planned! Today we did Pining for the "Ford"s for our 99th and Braunston Tunnel for our 100th. The latter was a much longer walk than expected (although a very interesting one), so I think it'll be one that sticks in our memories.

*My sister-in-law gives unusual presents!

And a partridge in a pear tree

It's a lovely Christmas! We're all healthy, all happy, all home. Lunch was perfect

and the pudding burned nicely.

The dogs are walked, the fire's lit, and there are no more chores. Happy Christmas! Cheers!

*But I still can't dowse, even though I have lovely new rods. My dad could. Why can't I?

God rest ye merry, gentlemen*

I think everything at Genie Towers is as ready as it's going to be now. The tree's in, up and dressed; the surface of the dining table's been found and polished; the cards are artfully displayed (thank you to all who've sent them - I can't remember whose cards I sent before the incident with my mother, which rather threw all my organisation out of the water. If you didn't get one, it's not because I don't care about you); Gertie the Goose is defrosting nicely; tonight's gammon's simmering while the honey-and-mustard glaze blends ready for roasting; I've hoovered and tidied and cleaned; I think it's time to crack open a bottle of something pleasant and relax.

I hope everyone has a merry Christmas, and a happy, healthy and prosperous 2006.

*And ladies too, natch!

Fuels rush in

So, today I whizzed into Leamington to do seekrit shopping (reasonably successfully), chatted to an ITV person who was going to do a News report about the missing teenager (still no trace :( ), then decided to fill up with petrol because the fuel gauge is playing very-silly-buggers and is showing that we have three times the amount of fuel that the tank actually holds. Keeping a tab on how many miles we've done since the last fill no longer helps because after about 20 minutes driving all the counters reset themselves to zero.

Anyway, I got to the filling station - blessedly unbusy - grabbed the hose and opened the flap over the filler cap. Which wasn't there. Where it should be was a hole. I still don't know why I started searching for the filler cap on the roof and on the ground seeing as I hadn't taken it off. Then I remembered that Ned said he'd filled up in Banbury on his way home from his glingle-trip a few days ago. The fillercap might still be there! having topped up I bunged a rubber glove in the hole and drove off. When I got home I called that garage.

Me: "Is that the filling station?"
Her: "Yes"
Me: "Good. Now, this might sound strange, but have you had a filler-cap handed in?"

Pause while the girl at the garage roared with laughter.

Her: "We have a bagful of fillercaps under the counter. Come and choose one!"

So we did. It isn't actally our original one, but it fits. Just like Cinderella's fur slipper.

All stood still

Why is idleness so tiring? Today I sat for two hours while we drove to Horsham, I sat for half an hour having a cup of tea with sister-in-law, I sat for an hour having lunch with mother-in-law, and I sat for two hours while we drove back. I'm sure my bottom has spread considerably, and I'm exhausted.

They seek him here

How difficult should it be to buy a jar of piccalilli? Very difficult indeed, if you're picky about the brand. It's easy enough to find jars of yellow gloop which masquerade as this elusive pickle, but the only variety we like is made by The Bay Tree Company; a really scrummy mixture with decent-sized chunks of recognisable vegetables. Many delis stock various Bay Tree products (we know - today we've been to most of them in North Oxfordshire, North Gloucestershire and South Warwickshire) but the piccalilli is conspicuous by its absence. Once we realised it was more environmentally friendly (and quicker) to phone first to check availability we managed to lay our eager mitts on the last two jars within a 20-mile radius. our Christmas gammon will be complete.

On another theme, my mother's vicar phoned today when we were out sourcing our sauce, and left a message to say he'd been up to her house to take communion to her. That's all very well, and I'm sure his intentions are good, but it would be more helpful in the long run to arrange for a member of the church society to collect her on a Sunday and drive her the ¾-mile or so to the church so she could be part of the community again, not isolated in her home. Putting her in touch with local people who'd do home-helping would be a practical help as well - it's not the sort of thing that people living 150 miles away can do. I'm well aware from when my dad worked at Westminster Abbey that this is a rather busy period for the Church, but I also know how willing many supposedly Christian people are to shrug off the more mundane aspects of the Faith. I really must call him back and diplomatically suggest these ideas ...

Dashing away with the smoothing iron

Doesn’t laundry smell nice when it’s been out in the frost? It loses all the poofy fabric conditioner pong. It almost makes ironing pleasurable. Almost.

Gee, but it's good to be back home

I'm back. On Sunday I threw the dogs and a change of clothes into the car and went down to the Deep South to help get mother back on the road to recovery after her fall, because she was very unwell indeed. She still has no memory of falling, or being got into a taxi, or turning off her burglar alarm, or the taxidriver putting her shopping in the kitchen, or paying him, but has a vague recollection of him ringing the doctor. She spent the next three days (while my brother was staying with her - lucky him - I can't cope with vomit) throwing up every time she moved, of course getting weaker and weaker and more dehydrated. Three days after the fall the doctor gave her an anti-emetic injection and some tablets to do the same, and she started being able to keep down fluids. It was five days before she could manage a little soup and began getting stronger. She's still frail but I've moved her downstairs where there's an ensuite bedroom, got a raised loo seat with handrails and a racing-zimmer affair with a tray for when she needs to carry drinks or a plate, because otherwise she needs both hands for her walking sticks (when she's better we can play hockey with them).

As she starts feeling better she's regaining her spirit, which took a heck of a bashing. The doctor and I were discussing options of where she should be living, and she was so upset at the thought of care homes and the like she said the only place she wanted to be was with James (my dad). He died 18 years ago. I'm not ready to have her put down yet. It was very distressing to see her so sad.

The vicar got around to visiting her two days after my brother had phoned him to tell him what had happened and to ask him to help find someone in the village who'd pop in and see mother when she was on her own. Mother's helped at the church, cleaning, doing the flowers, getting communion ready and suchlike for many years - now it's payback time.

Mostly the dogs behaved themselves - they were very good and seemed to sense that mother wasn't to be bounced into, although Harry managed to set off her necklace alerter thing by cuddling her, making the phones ring and people asking if she was all right. It was embarrassing to say it was a false alarm, the dog had set it off, but a good test for the system! Piglet was a bit of a git, searching out all the holes in the garden boundary and getting out onto the road twice on the first evening. He and Harry had to be watched every second they were in the garden - not relaxing for me - and spent most of their walks on their extending leads*, and were never both let off at the same time. Oddly, the moment we got home and I let them out of the car he instantly shot across our road and into another garden. Little bugger.

I've left mother with plenty of soup and easy meals in the fridge, which will only need heating up, done her laundry and vacuumed and tidied so I hope she'll be able to manage. My brother's going over tomorrow - he only lives an hour's drive away - and the neighbours have promised to call in every lunchtime if she doesn't have anyone staying. I think I've got everything covered. I wish she lived nearer.

*Tip: Do not use extending leads in woodland unless you enjoy being wound around trees.

How I wonder what you are

SimonG is great. Official. That is all.

Ring a ring a roses

My mother phoned this afternoon to relate the tale of her shopping ‘trip’. Yes, she’s had another fall, and this time has concussion and can’t remember getting the taxi home, switching off the burglar alarm, the taxi driver putting her shopping in the kitchen or paying him. Luckily my brother lives only an hour from her, rather than my 3 hours (and other brother’s 10 hours). She can’t even remember falling this time, which is a worry. I don’t think she’s going to be able to live alone much longer, but every time we suggest she moves somewhere that we can keep a better eye on her she gets very stroppy.

They still haven’t found that missing boy, by the way, although the police have arrested another 17-year old on suspicion of his murder.

They seek him here

When we were looking for a parking space in Leamington today, having gone in to see if Ned had been paid last month's salary (had he? what do you reckon? lying, cheating bastards) we were surprised to see a large police incident unit near the park, and all access to our caches taped off. There were frogmen in the river too. That's not usual for a Tuesday so it must have been something serious. There was nothing mentioned on the local news but later on we found this article. I hope he turns up safely.

We don't know what we dig them for*

Watching a programme on archaeology, today we were amazed to learn that, when one finds evidence of a hearth, and the soil beneath bears evidence of burning, it's clearly a site of rituals.

Good Lord! That means people are performing rituals, such as watching TV followed by going to bed, in our sitting room.

*fails to find a lyric referencing grandmothers and egg-sucking

The hill is the distant horizon

Yesterday we collected most of The Boy's belongings and today he came home for the holidays. He immediately went upstairs to have a sleep, came down for supper then went out to his mate's house. He might be back later. As soon as he's got his music system wired up again it'll be as if he never went away. :)

But a woman like you baby, should never have the blues

The more information we get about this French woman who’s had a face transplant the stranger the situation seems. At first we heard that she’d been ‘attacked by a dog’ and had the lower part of her face damaged beyond repair. This has certainly happened in the past, but it now seems that wasn’t the case. Latest information says that the woman had taken an overdose (deliberately? Not sure) and was unconscious on her sofa. Her dog apparently tried to rouse her – perhaps she was snoring or making other strange noise that worried the dog, or maybe she’d vomited – by pawing at her. Now I know that when I’ve dozed off on the sofa or curled up by the fire I’ve often been roused by one of the dogs pawing at my head (and their nails don’t half hurt when the rake across your scalp!). I’m quite certain that if I didn’t react instantly they’d repeat the scraping, just like this French dog did, getting harder the more worried they become. Yes, if the media is to be believed there were no bite wounds – the damage was done by claws. That's not an attack - dogs don't use their feet as weapons. It’s a bit harsh to be destroyed for doing your best to help your owner.

I hope the woman’s had sufficient psychiatric help for the original problems that led to the overdose, and that there’ll be a happy ending with the success of the transplant.

There's no business like snow business*

Today we’ve mostly done nothing. It took Ned 3 hours to get home last night because of the snow, and when it froze overnight he decided not to go in today, seeing as it would have meant leaving at 3am instead of 4.30. It looked beautiful out first thing; the sun was shining and the sky was blue, but you only had to step outside to realise that the pretty snow covered sheet ice. I was very glad not to have to worry about Ned being in a ditch somewhere. We especially stopped feeling guilty about him not going in when we discovered he hadn’t been paid. Yet again.

So we’ve tidied the garden a bit, and I made some soup from the onions and artichokes I harvested some time back, and then we played “Try to see the dogs” in the field. When the snow isn’t deep enough to be a complete blanket but instead some of the grass is showing through the dogs are only barely visible when they move. If they stand still they instantly vanish. How to hide in fifteen empty acres.

*Well, someone had to say it.

My eyes are dim, I cannot see

In an attempt to quell the rising tide of panicky out-of-controlness and uselessness feelings which have been building since a) I was made redundant and b) the Boy went to Uni, I'm having another go at transcribing an old family diary from 1858. I had a bit of trouble getting used to this bloke's handwriting when I copied the letters he'd written to his family, but they were in ink, and the diary's in pencil. Very faded pencil at that ("Paid $4.80 for bread for fifteen men."). My eyeballs may yet fall out.

There´s no compare with the hard wood logs that's cut in the winter time

Today I, because Ned's been at work, have mostly been splitting and stacking logs. I don't think my spine will ever bend again.

Catch a falling star

Poor old George Best. The media coverage of his last few days has been in very bad taste, verging on ghoulish. I always hated football, but even I as a child could see that he was a rare talent. It was inevitable that he would live the high life – it was the 60s after all, when the playboy, jet set lifestyle was so glamorous. His downfall was almost inevitable, but such a tragedy. Live fast, die hard I suppose. Remember the glory days. I wonder if St Peter's applied for a 24-hour licence?

Yo heave ho

This morning, when I tidied Beattie’s blanket from where she’d blocked the back door, I put my hand in a large pile of cold dogsick. Just what I needed to start the day well. She’s since been sick on the kitchen rug and the sofa twice. Marvellous. I’ve run out of throws; I wish she would too.

Better news is that today we completed our first Bananana order – and got paid! Woot!

Baby it's cold outside

When two days-worth of freezing fog (-4°C) lifts, we get some very pretty sights.

Hold your head high

It struck us last night, as we leaned against the bar, that once again we’d come out into a freezing night to watch granddads play great music. Yes, we went to see The Zombies and they were great. Boy, could they play? Terrific stuff; even the vocal abilities were still strong. Colin Blunstone could still hit the high notes in ‘Say You Don’t Mind’, and Rod Argent can get great sounds from the keyboard. And he still has a good head of hair – not as long as the old days, but still thick. (You notice these things after a certain age.) The current lead guitarist (Mark Johns) created some stunning sounds, and visually reminded me of Ned, many years ago, and badly smudged. His hair was similar, but not as lovely, and Ned's much more handsome. :) The bass player (Jim Rodford) in particular was knocking on a bit. I didn’t think he had any teeth, but Ned assures me he did, and that it looked as if he’d paid for them too. Put it this way, he was in a ‘successful local band’ when he introduced his 11-year old cousin (Argent) to rock music. The drummer was Steve Rodford; Jim's son. Was it nepotism? Perhaps he was on work experience - or maybe he was cheap! However I think it was probably due to his ability to play.

I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important ;) Mally, when I snuck you in the back (via mobile) for that great track. How was it at your end?

Help!

Every so often, in my guise of PuzzleDonkey mod, I come across someone who hasn't really entered into the spirit of the game. I don't think it's possible for an individual to complete all the puzzles without the occasional hint from someone else - certainly I couldn't! - but some people just don't want to try. The sums ones are my bugbear; numbers just don't do what I think they should, so when someone PMs me for help with a numbers one I can entirely sympathise, but my heart sinks because I rarely understand them well enough to give hints without making it too easy. And where would be the fun in that?

So this person asks for help with a particular puzzle

"hey wats doin, im havin heaps of trouble with this puzzle lol. im doing yr12 methods and im the academic prefect for my school, and i still don't get it, please i want to continue with this site, but this puzzle has put me off heaps. ive been stuck for at least two weeks, can't stand it! Any helpful help will be much appreciated"

and I give the stock reply of "Tell me what you've worked out so far - you might be nearly there". A long conversation ensues about how he (it could be a she, but I like to think a female would rise to a challenge better) thinks the answer should be X (not actually X, but I never give away answers!) but that's not being accepted. Then it's wrong, I say, and ask how he worked it out.

"Show me the equation you made from the puzzle components, and I'll see where you need to concentrate" I say. I got the following reply:

"i dont have an equation,i just put the figures into my graphics calculator program and randomized it. i cameup with possible answer with the given numbers, signs, and brackets, and all i got was the number 1. this question is really really annoying. i dont think i can be bothered to do this site any more"

There's not a lot more to say really.

In my profession I'll work hard

But how hard can it be to find a simple line image of a clean window? I've been searching for hours and hours. At this rate I'll have to draw one myself.

Time after time

Two years ago today, two of The Boy's close friends were killed in a car crash. Today, so was another. Sometimes Life's really cruel.

We’re busy going nowhere

As it was Ned’s mum’s birthday we’d arranged to go down to Sussex for the day and have lunch with her at Ned’s brother’s house. Lunch was arranged for one o’clock so we set off shortly after 10.30 to be sure of being there in plenty of time to chat. Our hearts sank slightly when we saw the matrix signs telling us that the M25 was closed between Junctions 10 and 8 – we wanted to get off at Junction 9. We pondered getting off at 11, but the traffic was light and flowing freely as we approached it. No matter, we thought, 10’ll do and we’ll cut across country.

You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?

About 300 yards after Junction 11 the traffic ground to a halt, and it took over an hour to get between 11 and 10, most of the time parked with the engine off and everyone getting out to stretch their legs. Luckily it was a sunny day but the lack of suitable bushes on the verge if the need became too strong to ignore bothered me more than a little. It was 2.30 we finally got to Bruvv’s house. We greeted everyone, gave Ned’s mum her present, gulped down the excellent meal which had been saved for us, became a touch hysterical at M’s malapropisms and mispronunciations (did you know that nougat can rhyme with mugger? What a bougat!) and came home again.

We’ve had better Sundays.

By the light of the silvery moon

It’s that time of year again; the time where my evenings are chaotic. If truth be told it’s not often everything in my life goes according to plan, but when we’re back into dark evenings my ability to time everything properly goes belly-up. You see I like to aim to have our evening meal ready at near-as-dammit 8pm – a civilised time when we can relax afterwards and not feel that there’s other things we ought to be doing. I can’t cope with a meal at, say, 6 o’clock, because it’ll be finished by 6.30 and there’s no way I could sit and do bugger-all for four hours till bedtime. So I’d be up doing chores afterwards, working up an appetite and then need something else to eat, and I’d very soon turn into a blimp. It seems that our mealtime’s out of kilter with the rest of the country, but when people go out to a restaurant for dinner, they don’t turn up at 6pm do they? No, they turn up at – ooh, about 8pm. So it seems clear that later mealtimes are the grownup thing. But I digress …

I tend to start thinking about preparing our dinner at dusk, when it gets too dimpsy to work outside any more and the gnats start biting. In the height of summer that might be about 9.30 (causing complaints from the clientele) but when the clocks change, and it gets dark early, I lose the ability to gauge when to start cooking and overcompensate. Tonight I knew it was too early to start when we were busy stuffing banananas in the garage by the light of a 5-watt (at most) bulb, then cleaning screens by moonlight. (It’s cold out tonight, by the way. We might even have the first frost of the season, which is well overdue.) So I ignored my instincts and stuck some banananas on eBay and sorted out one or two problems on another site, and did the ironing, and put today's banananas in their bags and ... oh bugger! Have you seen what the time is?

It's all gone quiet over there

At the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month the guns fell silent at the end of the War To End All Wars. Even though that turned out to be a misnomer it’s good to know that people still pause in their day-to-day life and remember the people who are dying, even today, in the hope that they might be making the world a slightly better place.

I don't want to talk about it

Tonight I have a sore throat, which I narrowed down to a choice of two causes: either I'm coming down with bird flu, which seems unlikely because I don't feel the urge to eat Trill, gaze into mirrors or hit little bells with my nose, or I've been joining in too enthusiastically with the CD I bought the other day. I often sing along to most music (if it's a piece new to me I tend to be a nanosecond behind the note) but these songs are in a key I can hit without distressing either dogs or passing whales. I've had a lovely afternoon with Disc 2 (A Night In) of The Story So Far by Rod Stewart. Great stuff.

*Currently drinking Badger's Golden Glory, a beer which smells of mangoes. Interesting and not unpleasant.*

When people run in circles

There's something very strange going on in Europe. No, I don't mean the way France seems to be imploding at the moment, but the fact that today this blog was visited by people from Germany, Austria and The Netherlands all of whom had googled "Let's twist again". Is there a Beatles convention happening?

Yes I can, yes I can, yes I caaaaaannnnn

Interview results? The company reported that I had been the best at the editorial test they set (30 minutes allowed, I’d finished it in 15), but felt I might not be sufficiently computer literate. Erm – I told them that for the last two years my work had been 98% computer-based, the remaining 2% involving the tea-round. If they prefer to employ second-best rather than negotiate for the best, then they’re not worth working for. Just as well I'd told you that I'd probably turn down the job, eh? Their loss, not mine.

Working like a dog

I was going to reply to Hutter’s suggestion of getting a job in a kennels in the comments, but it’d overflow the comment box so might as well be a blog in itself. :)

A couple of years ago I did that very thing – applied for the post of assistant manager at a local breeding kennel owned by a well-known charity. A kennel-maid’s job anywhere is rubbish – because ‘working with animals’ is a very popular career choice, the pay’s barely subsistence level for a school-leaver living at home, so it’s only pocket-money for someone trying to maintain a household. But a job at management level can have possibilities. So I applied and went for the preliminary interview, which went very well. My years of experience in dealing with stud dogs, brood bitches and rearing litters stood me in good stead; the interview went well and the tour of the kennels was very interesting; though I know where I’d make improvements. The kennels were beautifully clean and the dogs delightful – friendly and well-trained, and they responded well to instructions from me, a total stranger (which also made me look capable!). But the kennels didn’t each have free access to a separate outside run as I’d have liked – instead the dogs were allowed out of the kennels and into a run a specified times, as well as going for their walks, of course. Personally I’d have given them more opportunity to be outside … but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I then had a lovely play with the 6-week puppies who were about to go to their intermediate owners; and cooed through a viewing window at the small litter of 2-day old pups. Then we started talking routine, and pay and conditions.

It was a full-time, 37-hour week, with varying shift hours BUT there was a catch. One night every 10 days had to be spent on site – and the time from when the shift ended at 7pm to when the night-shift started at 9pm had to be spent on site too – but was unpaid. The nightshift finished at 7am then you went straight into a day shift till 2pm, when you were finally allowed to go home.

I decided that a job requiring a person to leave her dogs, who wouldn’t be allowed on site for health reasons, and family alone for 30 hours unattended wasn’t for me. They invited me back for a second interview, but I declined.

I'm going to take my time

I met up with The Boy after his morning tutorials and he seems more positive having a) spoken to his tutor who can see there’s a problem and thinks he can help and b) discovering other people are struggling with the same stuff too so he doesn’t feel like the only thicky in the class. I think he said they’re going to be working together more rather than panic on their own.

After that I had my interview which I think went well – but even if they offer me the job I don’t think I’ll take it. They definitely want someone 5 days a week, and I definitely don’t want to work 5 days a week. I’m not willing to risk having to rehome the dogs because they’re left alone too long. Yes, I know loads of people leave their dogs alone all day during the week, and they say “Oh he’s perfectly happy, he sleeps all day”. Perfectly happy when his owner’s not there? You don’t have a very good relationship then if he’s not bothered. He sleeps all day? As opposed to reading a book, or doing the crossword, or doing an Open University course, I suppose. Face it, he sleeps because he’s bored out of his brain and it’s either spend the day comatose or chew things up just to relieve the endless tedium. Our lot are active during the day, pottering about wherever I am whether that’s in the garden or doing housework. Sleeping during the day is for when there’s nothing better – when they’re not “perfectly happy”.

The job sounds great, but not that great. Something better will turn up.

There's a change in the air

It seems to be interview time. Ned had one today which seems to have gone well, but he’s not sure what to do. The workplace is a lot closer – at least an hour cut off each journey – it’s days rather than nights, but 5 rather than 3, and for a salary cut of £5000. Hmm.

After his interview Ned went to the site of a virtual cache that we thought we might as well get in the bag while he was in the right town and I was at home. No problem getting to the right place – the hassle is that the captured pic’s no good because the sun was in the wrong place. Bah!


And I have a follow-up interview tomorrow, having been recommended after the preliminary one I had last week. It sounds like the sort of thing I can do; proof-reading and inputting amendments, and liaising with graphic designers, for educational publications. It’s not quite full-time, but rather more hours than I was doing before – I’ll have to see if I can manage the hours to suit me, because I don’t want to leave the dogs all day, 5 days a week. Anyway, let’s see if I get offered it first, eh?

And The Boy’s just phoned up nearly in tears because at the moment they’re doing electronics and he’s never done it before, even at GCSE, and he’s completely lost starting at degree level. He’ll work on a particular calculation for 4 hours, and still get it completely wrong. I think unless his tutor can help him get this sorted, he’ll be one of the percentage who drop out. He says he doesn’t want to, but he can’t afford to throw money down the drain, doing something when he’s doomed to fail. He's seeing his tutor tomorrow morning, so I hope he'll get some help in getting out of this mire. I'm possibly seeing him tomorrow as well, so maybe we can get something sorted out.