I know that I'm a prisoner

I got a bit more of Mother's pre-move house-sorting done this weekend. The most awkward loft is now completely empty (I lost count of the number of times I whacked my elbow on the hatch-frame) as is one wardrobe and my Dad's chest of drawers which I'd hoped to fit into the car to bring back for The Boy, but the wheel-arches thwarted that plan and I had to limit myself to a lawnmower, logs, coal, kindling, a small rug and a picture.

Because it was possibly the last time I'll be going down there I went to visit my Dad's grave to keep him up to speed with proceedings. It's 21 years since he died and you'd have thought I'd have got used to the idea, but no. Every time I go there I only have to say hello before I have to sit on his grass and sob like a baby. Quite pathetic.

Oh, and you remember I told you about the mulberry tree that I grew from seed in 1981 that has flourished but never fruited? Guess what it's done? Yep, the first fruits are developing. The alternative reasons are a) that it hated us and is rejoicing or b) it needed a dead dog buried at its foot.

I want to break free

'Free' is one of the many words that's used in different ways to give very different meanings. For example, as well as meaning 'unoccupied' ("I'm free, Captain Peacock") or 'vacant' (the bathroom's free now) it can also mean 'for no money at all'. All of which can make translation into a foreign language fraught with danger and has to be approached with caution in case it's used in the wrong sense.

While we had the bananana machine out of mothballs I siezed seized (why do I always spell that word wrong first time?) the opportunity to print myself (and make an extra couple on spare red shirts) a political protest teeshirt on a topic very dear to my heart, ever since I first read Tintin in Tibet at the age of 6.

I'm assured, by a well-trusted native speaker and writer of a Chinese language, that the script on this shirt

reads "Liberate Tibet".

I do hope so, and that my chest isn't actually recommending the chef's special menu for two.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

It's been all go here at Genie Towers. Somebody at Ned's Jelly factory thought it would be a jolly fine idea to enter the annual charity Raft Race ("Think of the advertising potential, Adam!") and in a brief rush of enthusiasm a volunteer crew was duly signed up. The rules are that everything has to be homemade from the rafts themselves to the method of propulsion - no manufactured paddles. The various tasks were delegated to those most likely to be able to achieve them; the welding of the barrels was assigned to someone who knows how to weld, etc (which was a top move, when you saw some of the other rafts!). Ned & I dusted off the bananana machine and produced the crew's teeshirts proudly emblazoned with (the company's name. They nearly didn't happen. Two weekends before the race we decided to clean off old screens to reuse them, then coat the clean ones, expose them and wash them off which would mean we could empty the garage to print them at our leisure. The best-laid plans, and all that ...

First of all the old coating decided that it loved the screens so much that it wasn't going to come off, and despite double-strength solvent, hot water and a lot of scrubbing, after two days it was still determinedly clinging to several parts of the screens. Bugger. When we eventually managed to get a large enough clean area for what we needed we coated them and left them to dry in a warm dark place for a couple of days. On a free evening the design was duly exposed onto them and they were taken for rinsing ... whereupon all the coating (all right, so it's been a long time since it had been used and chemicals deteriorate) promptly flowed away, leaving us back at square 1. Bugger again. Despite the attempts of a garage mouse to thwart us by eating through a bottle of essential chemical there was just enough left to make some fresh emulsion, and the screens were coated again and left to dry. On the day before the race the design was once more exposed onto them and with bated breath we rinsed them off ... hurrah! It only washed off where we wanted it to! Victory was in sight!

Until Ned started setting up the machine to actually start the printing, when he realised that we'd exposed them back to front and the advertising would only work if everyone held a mirror! Aaarrrggghhh! Rinse off the coating again, recoat, and judicious use of a hairdryer speeded up the drying time. This time it all worked, but it was after ten at night by the time we finally got all the printing done, and we had to meet up at the starting point at 8.30 the next morning.

The rafts were launched one after the other, with the starting line some 100 yards downstream - as each boat passed they'd call out their number and their starting time noted. From then on it was a simple matter of getting downstream (with a couple of weirs thrown in for good measure) as fast as you could.

The launch

Setting off

Gaining ground

On windy open water

Approaching the finish - at last!

Yes, they did all change places, several times!

Unfortunately nobody had a camera handy when young James had a contretemps with a tree whilst using the punting pole, and ended up dangling by his neck in a fork in a branch - luckily for him it snapped (the branch, not his neck) and he realised the wisdom of wearing a lifejacket under his teeshirt.

Usually it takes crews about 3 hours to complete the 7½ mile course, but this year although it was warm and sunny there were very strong winds, and the moment people eased off paddling the rafts were being blown back upstream. It was just under 5 hours before Ned and the rest finally crossed the finishing line (coming in a respectable 38th out of 56 finishers); the last boat to complete the course took just over 7 hours.

Surprisingly everybody could move reasonably freely the next day at work, but during the Monday night Ned and another chap were struck down by a nasty lurgy, resulting in explosive ejection of as many bodily contents as possible. Having discounted Weil's Disease (incubation period 7 to 14 days; maybe we have that to look forward to as well) my money's now on cryptosporidium, which can last between 1 and 3 weeks. What fun!

Gin a body meet a body ...

...well, not comin' through the rye, really; more like runnin' through the wheat. Harry and Piglet love running through it and springbokking over it (they don't break it down or damage it so I don't feel bad about letting them), hunting for all the creatures that are hiding in it, like rabbits and pheasants and partridges and, on one very exciting occasion, a roe deer. As the wheat's grown taller the stalks become tougher and have a very rough, sandpapery texture. And as a dog forges his path with his head, a certain amount of grazing happens.



It doesn't seem to bother him at all though; but it's very unsightly.

Be careful with that axe, Eugene

X, Y and Z axes? WTF is the Z axis?

*stares sadly at all the cut out numbers on the floor and waits for the hoover-repair man*

Got to keep on plodding onwards

Don't worry, I'm not cheating (much - with some of the horrider ones the temptation's very powerful), nor have I suddenly become amazingly brainy. It's just that, having seen most of the PuzzleDonkey puzzles already I can remember how most of them were done, and even a lot of the answers; I open a puzzle and think "Oh yes, that's the one where there was all the hoohah on the forum about the pronunciation". However I have noticed that some of the answers have changed from the original; I notice that some of my loathed puzzles are also there, and I bet I'll be tempted to bung in the old answer and scream when it's rejected. That sausage machine one was a nightmare ... (and having succumbed to temptation and cheated, I see that's one of the one's that's changed. Curses!) Anyway, because you can abandon a puzzle and move onto another, the rate of completion is dramatically speeded up. And it's lovely to work through some of my old favourites again! Thanks Si and Rich!

*looks at some of the new puzzles* ... I think ...

See the tree, how big it's grown

The day of Mother's house move draws inexorably closer, and there's still masses to do; and it's even more difficult to do it all at a distance. Eldest bro is sorting all the legal stuff and other bro and I (because we live nearer) are getting over when we can to sort out the accumulations in lofts and cupboards. I've been reclaiming all the baby clothes that Mum and Dad stored for us when we were in our tiny house with no loft, in readiness for when Baby #2 arrived. Being realistic, that's unlikely to happen now, and if we ever have any grandchildren (looks sternly at The Boy, reminding him that I'm not getting any younger) their mother will probably want lovely new stuff for her cherubs, and not their father's hand-me-downs. It's horrid getting rid of them though, because they're still in excellent condition, even the ones that had done several cousins before Boy. I just have to keep one or two things for old time's sake, and I'll take the rest to charity shops, so that hopefully someone will appreciate them.

Then there was the linen to sort. Lots and lots and lots of linen. Sheets, towels, tablecloths, napkins, place mats and doilies. Mother's never used doilies - they were inherited from her aunts, put into an oak box 30 years ago and there they've stayed ever since. I found about 50. They're also destined for a charity shop.

And we also buried Mother's dog's ashes. He's been in a chestof drawers for several years, and Ma and I thought it best if he stayed in the garden he knew, so we buried him under the mulberry tree. I grew the tree from a seed in 1981, and in its saplinghood it travelled, potted, with Mum and Dad from the Scottish borders to Bexhill before reaching their first-ever owned home two years later. When it outgrew the porch it was planted in the garden where it's thrived, and is a startling reminder of the passage of time.




(Hutters, I took this picture of the mulberry tree shortly before you texted to say how heavy the rain was ...)

It's going to be a terrible wrench for Mother to leave. She knows it's the only sensible thing to do, because she simply can't manage on her own any more, even with a gardener and cleaner coming in once a week. She tells me she's had enough of being so lonely and needs company - but I'm sure she'd prefer 'company' (ie us) to move to her rather than have to face the trauma of leaving all her memories behind. It's going to be very difficult emotionally for us all.

They seek him there

After all that palaver with boob-squishing they couldn't find a darned thing.

I'll take that as a win, then. :)

Sing little birdie, up above

This morning, as I left the house to go and get the newspaper, I distinctly heard a cuckoo. Summer's definitely on the way. Hurrah!

Bend me, shape me, any way you want me

Warning: this may contain too much information for those of a sensitive disposition.

It was nice that the mobile boob-squishing unit was air-conditioned. I'm told that's for the benefit of the equipment, not the staff or patients, but that's par for the course. I was a little disconcerted to be asked when I'd signed in if I was wearing a bra; that suggested that it might have lost a lot of its upliftability. I wonder why the tray on which you have to rest your chesticle is slightly higher than is comfortable. Perhaps it's so that you don't notice the rest of the necessary contortions, or the actual squishing. Four plates they take - from the top and from the side for each accessory. I was very relieved to find that it's the machine that tilts to do the sideview and that I didn't have to lean at 45 degrees, because I don't think my back would have allowed it. And what was best was that neither of them popped once, even though I was fairly sure it was imminent. With the application of some industrial-strength underwear I'm sure they'll be back to a more usual shape in no time.

On seeing my reflection I'm looking slightly rough

Tomorrow is when I have my chesticles ironed courtesy of the NHS. try not to think about me at 4pm - it might put you off your cup of tea.

(Morning Glory)

Somewhere in the middle of a long and convoluted situation.

Found in a box removed during the clearance of one of my mother's lofts was a novel. I have a very catholic (small c) taste in reading material, but this particular book, entitled "What Did It Mean?" was very well named and is one of the most irritating and badly-written books I've ever come across. I wonder if it'll be the second book I've never finished.

She's so twentieth century

Ah, happy memories! Enjoy!

(PS - you'll score better if you turn your speakers on!)

I scored a Far Out
80% on theQuiz by SheGoddess: Quick Weight Loss

Would you have liked a present too?

This village is jolly kind, you know. Without being told they seemed to somehow know that it was Ned's birthday and they laid on a lovely weekend. Yesterday there was a beer festival at the Sports and Social Club (17 beers - we only tried 6) and then today the church tower was open for visitors.

The narrow wooden stairs from the ground to the ringing platform was fine, if steep; the banisters made it easy though. The ladder from there through the trapdoor to the clock level was unnerving, because it went over the void of the stairs - okay if you hold the rungs and don't look down. Then there was the very narrow spiral stair - very worn treads of a maximum width of 7 inches - first to the bells themselves then onwards and upwards again, finally emerging on hands and knees through a small opening onto the roof itself. Isn't it odd how it's a lot further down than it is looking up? Funny how an episode of Inspector Morse kept coming into my mind; the one where Richard Briers was a murderer and ended up jumping off a church roof ...



Looks like rush hour.


The (very) small white building on the right of the road, in the middle of the picture, is where I work.



And the village even managed to lay on some lovely weather too.

I never thought it would happen

Oh joy. The NHS has realised that I've reached a certain age and have arranged an appointment for my first mammogram - in a local village hall. This sounds as though it's going to be soooooooo much fun.

Somethin' always happens whenever we're together

Tonight's supper is brought to us courtesy of Piglet. If a partridge,
that's capable of flight and has access to the whole sky, chooses to try to outrun a fit dog with very high prey drive then it's a prime candidate for a Darwin Award. And what a good boy he was to bring it back so professionally, straight to hand.

They seek him here, they seek him there

A while back the Boy asked me to get him some more pants and some particular work gloves when I was shopping, which I duly did. Of course the gloves were the wrong type, and the pants the wrong design, but I still had the receipts to return them and get my hard-earned money back. However for some reason I just can't manage to do it. I do the in-town shopping when I've finished my weekly morning accounting before I come home for the afternoon shift at the vet, and the first week I left the bag with the goods in by the computer where I'd put them to remind me to take them. The next week I decided to be clever and put the bag on my handbag so I couldn't forget them; but I was in a rush that morning and just grabbed my bag, leaving the carrier bag behind on the kitchen table. This week I knew I couldn't fail - I put the bag into my handbag last night so there was no chance of me leaving them behind. And it worked! When I reached work I carefully put the bag of gloves and pants on the car seat and went to juggle invoices.

It was a trickier job than usual, it being the start of a new financial year so a new spreadsheet was required (luckily Paul had prepared most of it in advance) and items transferred from last year's to this year's, repeating items listed, details of Purchase Orders added, and so on, as well as putting on the invoices that had come in during the week. So it took a while but all looked lovely when I clicked Save and went to do the same for the other company. Once that was done the post arrived and there was a new invoice to add to the first spreadsheet before I logged off and went to do the shopping. I clicked on the link to take me to the spreadsheet - and it had gone. The link had somehow turned into a shortcut to itself, not to the file. With rising panic I looked everywhere - how the hell could a file just vanish?

It didn't take long for me to realise I was beaten. "Paul, something seems to have gone horribly wrong here", and he came to see. And he searched fruitlessly too - on my computer and on his where he knows the layout better. Zilch. So we went to the server and explored the innards of the backup. Nada. It reluctantly acknowledged that yes, there had been a file of that name opened and edited this morning but no, it wasn't going to say what had become of it. We conceded defeat and rang our tame IT advisor, who talked us through the internal workings of the server and managed to locate a file with that name and it was duly returned to our computers. We tentatively opened it and ... oh joy! ...it was the right one! Except that all the morning's work I'd so carefully saved had been removed and it was back to the beginning again.

So by the time I'd re-input all the data it was far too late to do the shopping so the gloves and pants came home again. Maybe next week ....

The lunatics are on the grass

Yesterday I said that I'd have to mow the lawn another day because it was under all that beautiful snow. This morning the snow had all gone (making the occasional random snowman in people's gardens look very surreal) so I mowed it today.

Woke up this morning, feeling fine

I wasn't expecting this! Just so beautiful!




I'll mow the lawn another day, then.

Thank you for the days

Sometimes, just sometimes, things just go well. Yesterday was a Good Day. The sun was shining. The car's oil leak was enmendified very quickly (and cheaply! Even better). The Boy passed his chainsaw maintenance, felling and cross-cutting exams. The dogs did what I wanted them to. I got some weeding and log-splitting done. Ned's back felt much less achy. Did I say the sun was shining? Oh yes I did. Sorry. And eventually the Boy managed to get a ticket for Reading, so he was happy too. Hurrah for March 31st!

I'm dreaming of a white Easter

Luckily for these chilly little souls the sun came out and the snow soon vanished.

Many miles away

*yawns*

I spoke too soon. Beattie was wandering again last night, out of one bed and into another, disturbing the boys who took umbrage and told her pack it in, which woke us up. This went on about every 15 minutes or so from midnight till after 4am.

Another plan is called for. This can't go on.

All bound for morning-town

It's been an odd sort of a week with Beattie. A few weeks ago she decided that she wasn't going to sleep in the kitchen any more; to be fair, I think it's our own fault. Since Clover died we've been taking Beattie out and about with us much more; geocaching (which we haven't done for ages because of the cost of petrol), into the village to post a letter, coming camping with us. So because we've made her twilight years more interesting and fun-filled (you should see her bouncing arthritically when the boys are shut in the kitchen and I pick up her lead!) she's not so relaxed alone. Rather than have the kitchen door scratched to splinters we left it open so she had the choice of two dogbeds (hahaha!), the sofa and two armchairs in the warm sitting room. We weren't really happy about this because that's where the sofabed is that guests sleep on and the numbers of people who want to share their bed with someone else's elderly dog are limited. But we decided to cross that bridge when we came to it. Suffice that we were all sleeping happily.

Then last Saturday it all changed. The first change was when we'd all settled down for the night as usual but in the early hours Beattie woke us by barking furiously, over and over. This is something she's never done, not even when we were burgled. As a breed they're really very quiet, which is one of the things I like about them; I can't bear yappers. Anyway, Ned went down to check if anything was wrong (my hero!) while I watched out of the window for possible escaping misceants but there didn't seem to be anything untoward happening. Beattie was reassured and settled down again, and we all went back to bed.

On Sunday night (following a day when Ned had strained his back by not allowing me to help him carry a heavy box from the garage to the back of the car for mer to take to the tip, so that all week he's been using up all the out-of-date painkillers in the medicine cabinets), at about the same time, we were woken by Beetle giving a single "Woof!", then a pause to listen, then another "Woof!". This was a completely different sort of bark to the fusillade of the night before so I felt confident going to check her, Ned being unable to move, and found her standing in the hall, woofing at nothing. I settled her down again, covered her with her blanket in case she was cold, and went back to bed. This routine was repeated about every hour and a half throughout the night - I just had time to drift off to sleep again before the "Woof!" started up.

I was tired on Monday. Unfortunately I was even tireder on Tuesday because exactly the same thing had happened, and I began to suspect that she might have developed doggie dementia - one of the symptoms is night-time wandering and barking. There are various medications that can be treat it but they're not cheap and I'd rather avoid them if possible. Then I had a thought - she might just be lonely, because every time I went to settle her down again I'd sit on the sofa and she'd jump up beside me and cuddle up happily. The cure for loneliness is company - but I wasn't going to have her sleeping up with us because she takes up far too much room even when we're supple enough to curl around her. With Ned's bad back that wasn't possible. Another plan was called for. The next night, when she started up, I took her back into the kitchen, put her in her bed (this meant crawling under the table with her) covering her up snugly then letting the boys in from the utility room. It seemed to work - there wasn't another peep out of any of them.

And after one or two teething problems (like the boys not being able to agree who was going to sleep in which bed in the kitchen and making more noise about it than Beattie did in the first place) they now all share the kitchen in relative harmony. And we get to sleep through the night.

Don't it make my brown eyes blue

I was very intrigued by this photographic effect. Both pics are of the same tie, in the same position, in the same lighting. The only difference is that in one shot it's on the uncovered wood and in the other it's on a white sheet. Very odd.

When I'm sixty-four

Terry Pratchett who, as I'm sure you all know, is one of the world's most prolific and successful authors, was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's a few months ago. This week he was in the news for donating half a million of our Great British Pounds for research into this evil condition. Despite being not quite 60 years old already his motor skills are waning - from being a proficient touch-typist he's now reduced to the sort of two-finger pecking that's my own claim to keyboard proficiency; I don't want to try to imagine the rage and frustration and fear that he and his family are going through.

He says that Alzheimer's disease lacks the heroic glamour of cancer and subsequently receives far less funding, and I think I've worked out why this is. Cancer, you see, can strike down anyone at any age. Babies and angelic innocent children develop the condition and everyone says how terribly unfair it is. Mothers develop the condition and people say how noble they are, battling against it, and fundraise to support their families, soon to be without a parent. Don't get me wrong, I applaud the actions wholeheartedly. But Alzheimer's strikes at the elderly - not cute innocent children or people in the prime of life, but individuals who're nearing the end of their lives - and I suggest that this is the sole reason that Alzheimer's is largely ignored. Let's face it, in today's youth-orientated world, old age and the attendant indignities just aren't 'sexy'. This living death happens to the people who Society has written off anyway.

So all power to Mr P! May he continue to simultaneously keep this tragedy in the glare of publicity whilst carrying on bringing enormous pleasure to the many millions of us for whom his alternative world is more real that the one we live in, for as long as is humanly possible.

Oook!

Come away with me

Do you know, sometimes I get quite cross about situations which just seem to be wrong. Lots of you know that we live in a reasonably-sized village (population roughly 2500) with a junior and a High school and a few local shops; it's quite a busy place yet still small enough for people to notice what goes on. Well, there's a new (we have three already) old peoples home/sheltered accommodation complex nearing completion (built on the site of the fire station - we now have an extra 10 minutes or so to burn to death after calling 999 before help arrives, but that's another story), and it's known - and been reported to the police - that one of the men working on the site has been chatting to teenage girls, offering to take them shopping and inviting them to get into his van. Now, we may be rural folks who chew on straw and talk about traaactors, and aren't well up with the Ways Of The World, but to us that seems wrong, and it's been suggested to the authorities that a word in this bloke's shell-like might not go amiss.

They won't. No laws have been broken. "Until he does something wrong, we can't do anything." I think that's total rubbish, and I bet all the parents of young girls do too. Whose daughter is to be the sacrificial lamb?

A little bit of this with a little bit of that

Ooh look, here's the digit I've extracted so I can blog again and prove to you all that I'm still alive. *waves finger* Don't worry, I've washed it.

It's funny, I've been very busy but not doing anything that's really noteworthy. Just the usual routine of dog walking and work and housekeeping and sleeping and dog walking and work ... you get the picture. I broke the mould slightly last weekend by taking Beattie down to my mother's house to clear out her derelict caravan so it could be dismantled and removed. She's never liked it - it was a fixture in the garden when she and Dad bought the house nearly 25 years ago. The previous owner used work on building sites and took the caravan as a home rather than use hotels; when he retired he parked it at the end of the garden and there it stayed. When it was sound it made a good play house for my nieces and nephews, and even a reasonable overflow when there were too many guests for the house. It was used as a dumping-ground for garden toys - the croquet set, tennis racquets, deckchairs and, for some reason, empty jamjars. Lots of empty jamjars. My brother and I sorted through piles of junk, had a bonfire with anything woodwormy or generally unwanted and filled his car with jars for recycling, and heaved a sigh of relief. Then we lifted the seats and found that the storage space beneath was also filled with jamjars. He screamed. The other task was to make a start emptying Mother's lofts for when she eventually moves house, so I came back with a car laden with things that I'd been storing there from our last home which was tiny and didn't have a loft. The charity shops have done well, and I've nearly got shot of it all - just a bit of eBaying to do and I'll be ready to start on the second loft.

I took Beattie with me partly because she's not happy being left behind, and partly in the hope that she could her PAT dog stuff and keep Mother occupied while Bro and I disposed of junk cherished belongings and made repairs to bits of the house, and I'd optimistically taken a dogbed with lovely blankets for her (Beattie, not Mother) to sleep in, despite knowing that she'd probably prefer to sleep on Granny's sofa. In the end, however, she decided neither was as good as the foot of my bed. Luckily the bed was against the wall, otherwise, it being a single, she'd have fallen off - and it's a high Victorian cast-iron bed. She's not a big dog, but she takes up a heck of a lot of room! We only had one minor quarrel (at 1.30am) when she decided that my feet were too fidgety (selfishly I kept on trying to restore the circulation to them) so obviously lying on my head would be better. Whenever we take her for an overnight stay we take a dogbed, and the only time she's used it was in the car to and from Cornwall when we were otherwise laden to the gunwales and it saved her some space. But not to sleep in. Oh no no no. Dog beds are for dogs, not for Beatties, and she's a Beattie. The best Beattie in the world, as it happens. But I still take a dogbed. Hope always triumphs over experience.

And today Ned and I put on our Dalmatian Welfare hats to collect a dog from his current owners and transport it to its new owners. A lovely dog - only three years old and now with his third family since he left his breeder. Let's hope he's now found his forever home.

Freeze the toes right off your feet

The upside of the past week of freezing weather is the beauty of the mornings. The ground is solid, the grass is a delicate shade of pearl and, if it's been foggy as well, all the leaves and branches of the trees and shrubs are fringed with white crystals, for all the world as if they're wearing little fur coats. With the sun shining from a clear blue sky, the stunning sight just takes your breath away.

The downside of the past week of freezing weather is having to crack the dogs off the lampposts during their morning walk.

I know I am, I'm sure I am

Carpe Diem.

But which one?

Decisions, decisions.

Things can only get better

Hmmm. So much for thinking I'd become vaguely computer-literate. I did the 'simple' template upgrade so that I could have the list of labels on the sidebar, and now I seem to have lost the Commentification mechanism, even though I've downloaded and uploaded as instructed. And of course without it nobody can tell me how to put it back. Plop.

ETA: Woot! That just shows the power of Earl Grey! Hurrah!

That's what all the people say

They can't take that away from me

Mathematics is/are rubbish. Arithmetic is logical, but mathematics - no. This negative numbers bit, for example. I live in a rural village, and have done a course at agricultural college on Small Flock Management. I know a fair amount about sheep. I can drench them, I can dag them, I can trim their feet, I can inject them, I can deliver their lambs. All the sheep were positive (apart from the depressed ones, that is). One sheep, two sheep, three sheep - yep, no problem there. But we're told that if you add two negative numbers, you get a positive. What nonsense. But if I didn't have two sheep, and someone didn't give me two sheep, I wouldn't suddenly have four sheep gambolling around the garden, eating the vegetables and falling into the pond. Therefore the whole concept of negative numbers is patently absurd. QED.

Run Rabbie, run Rabbie, run run run

I was in the bottom-slapping supermarket today, searching for a haggis for tomorrow's Burns' Night supper. It's surprising how popular these events are, south o' the Border, with many pubs and restaurants advertising them and going the whole hog with piper and speeches and everything. We don't go that far - just pluck it and gut it and boil it and slit it open and serve with the appropriate bashed veg. But I digress. Anyway, I searched the chiller cabinets but couldn't find any, so I asked an assistant if they stocked them, or had perhaps sold out. "Ooh!" she said "Is it for the Scottish New Year?"

And so the conversation turned

Conversation at a party.

"And what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a professional dancer."
"Oh that's interesting. What sort of dancing? Tap, ballet ...?"
"Lap and pole."

*meep*

We eat ham and jam and ...

... and yes, you've guessed it. It started a few weeks ago at a friend's pot-luck supper party when, long after the time when all sensible souls would have realised they were too tired and emotional for rational thought and would have retired to the Land of Nod, someone suggested a themed supper party, one where all the dishes had to contain a particular ingredient. Last night was the party date, and the chosen ingredient was ... spam.

The Spam Madras was surprisingly tasty, as was the Spamish Omelette. The Spamosas were particularly successful, mainly because you didn't notice the spam in them. The cheese-and-spam crumble was all right, but the spam-and-potato pie was a step too far. Fortunately people had been more cautious with the puddings, and the spam in the trifle was still safely in its tin and therefore avoidable, and the carrot cake merely had Spam written in Swedish blue and gold icing.

Nobody had been aware of the fat content of this particular meat product - something like 30% - and with the flowing alcohol needed to wash down the food, everyone's feeling somewhat liverish and jaded today. Suggestions are now sought for the next theme.

Edit: Oh good Lord, I've just discovered this. Anyone going to Austin in April?

*groans with digestive discomfort*

Nothing's right, I'm torn

Sometimes it's very difficult not to say anything, when correct medical advice contradicts correct ethical advice. It's true that medically it may well be sensible for a bitch to have a litter at her first season, but ethically that's so wrong. For a start the tests for many genetic conditions (such as HD and numerous eye conditions) can't be done so young and breeding from an untested animal is leaving yourself wide open to lawsuits if the pups prove to be suffering from one of the conditions. For another thing it's against the KC's own rules and those (usually even stricter) of the breed clubs. Plus the bitch is still only a puppy herself - it's a bit like recommending that girls aged 13 should be starting their families. But butting in and giving contradictory advice to a client isn't a wise idea either.

That's how elementary it's gonna be

Clarkson, May, Hammond.
Steve, Ricky, Ned.
Compo, Foggy, Clegg.

The future's already been written. Oh dear.

In the year 2525

I wonder what I was blogging about this time last year? Or the year before that? Let's see - oh yes, I was ranting about the inconsiderate bastards who let off fireworks and terrify animals. They started at 6.30 this evening. Why? Do they not realise that the new year starts at midnight? Their excuse is that "the children will be asleep then". Well, yes - so wake them up if you want them to see the new year celebrations - having them earlier is stupid and pointless, and only serves to extend the torture. I bet in the year 2525 someone will be having a similar rant. Plus ça change.

Happy 2008, everyone. Let's hope for an improvement, because 2007 was pants really.

57 channels and nothing on

The digital box is all very well, but there's still nothing you want to watch when you want to watch something. And it's awfully annoying (not just this box - we've noticed it with other people's Sky) when it freezes for a second or so, or when you get a flash of pixillation across the screen. And, if there's a way to record something on the video whilst watching else on Freeview, we haven't found it yet. So all in all it's not a great advance - but the picture on BBC1's clearer (except when it freezes or pixillates ...)

In other news, my new debit card arrived in the post today! That's pretty good service.

Your mother told you there'd be days like these

So I set the alarm for earlier-than-usual, to make sure I had plenty of time for Job2 before getting instructions from a friend whose dogs I'm looking after this everning, before going to Job1 for the afternoon. When I arrive at Job2's carpark the barrier was down - the whole place must have closed for the duration. Luckily I got ahead of myself last week so all the invoices are paid up to date - I think...

Because I was nearly there anyway I decided to go to the supermarket for a few odds and sods. I found a nice parking place and went to the hole in the wall for some cash. That's when I realised my debit card was missing from its usual place in the wallet, and no matter how many times I searched the entire handbag, it just wasn't there. So I rang Ned to ask him to phone the shops I went to last (before Christmas) to find out if it'd been handed in, while I got in the car again and drove to the town centre to visit the bank. As I walked there Ned got back to me - no joy - so I queued to cancel the card. The nice woman explained that, if it was permanently cancelled, if I found it later it wouldn't work and I'd have to wait till a replacement arrived, which would be a couple of weeks at this time of year. But I thought it sensible to block it, so she phoned and organised it. Then, because I still needed cash, I wrote a cheque and queued again to cash it. When I reached the cashier's desk I handed over the cheque and pulled out my cheque card - and the debit card which had been sharing the pocket. Curses.

The camera never lies

The Boy was so fed up with the poor reception we get on our TV when there's high pressure over the country (only BBC is affected, curiously) that he gave Ned a Freeview box for Christmas. When we saw the display lit up we couldn't decide what it was passing judgement upon - our ancient TV, the quality of the programmes, or even us!

Do his fairies keep him sober for the day?

Yesterday was our only opportunity to deliver presents to the Sussex family contingent, so Ned walked the dogs early and off we set. Motorways in the fog make for tense driving, but it wasn't too bad, and the journey down only took about an extra quarter of an hour. We had a nice lunch with Ned's mum, then at a quarter to three we left for home. Although the fog was thicker we hoped the traffic on the clockwise M25 would have cleared a little, but the Traffic Totty informed us otherwise - nose-to-tail traffic from junction 9 till junction 17. We wanted to get on at 9 and off at 16, so decided to go our old route across country, that we used before the motorway was built.

Surprisingly we could remember the way, recognising landmarks where we needed to turn and only had to do one revolution of a new roundabout. Of course single carriageway roads through towns are much slower than motorways so we knew our journey time was going to be somewhat extended, but at least we were moving. Then it started getting dark. Dark and foggy. But we successfully bypassed the M25, dithered about whether to carry on on minor roads or to drop onto the M40 for the last bit ... and plumped for the motorway. We dropped on to it at junction 6, hoping for a clearish run till we come off at j12. We were in the outside lane when everyone started braking (I hate that bit, when you have to sling out the anchors and hit the hazard lights to warn the driver behind), and there we were, stationary. We crawled northwards and eventually saw blue flashing lights up ahead - on the southbound carriageway. Once past the vehicles that were pointing every which way on the road, illuminated by the headlights of several police cars and fire engines we could immediately get back up to normal speed again - no idea why there was the tailback on our side.

By the time we eventually got home we were starving, had tension headaches and our backs were cripplingly painful. A journey which should have taken 2 hours had taken just over 4. Today we have festive sore throats ...

Merry Christmas, one and all!

Mother of mine

At last we have progress on the 'moving Mother' front. My brothers and I have all been gently chipping away at her determination to stay in her current house till she's carried out in a box and it's paying off. As some of you know Mother has vertigo and arthritis, which means she tends to fall over for no apparent reason unless she's holding on to something, and the arthritis means the grip in her hands is poor so she can't hold onto things very well. A couple of years ago she had a nasty fall when she was in town and ended up with bad concussion - luckily I wasn't working at the time so go down (150 miles away) and look after her during the week and a brother cover the weekends. The other day her wrist swelled and was extremely painful and the doctor's told her that her rheumatoid arthritis has flared and caused that, and she's decided that enough is enough - she's struggled on long enough and it's too expensive to live like she is and it's all beyond a joke.

She's even come to terms with the fact that she'll have to part with some of her 'things' - like the large Victorian furniture she and Dad inherited and she feels 'custodian' of for future generations. However without a lottery win or Ernie coming up trumps there's no way any of us can afford a house large enough to fit the stuff, and this has been a major stumbling block. Now at last she's deciding what she simply won't part with and what will sadly have to go. We've even started taking things away with us when we've been to stay - with her full knowledge and blessing, of course!

The thing is, where should she move to? It'll have to be a bungalow because stairs are very tricky for her, and a small-but-suitable one has come up for sale in the village. I've measured up and she could comfortably get her bed and (essential) chest of drawers and (essential) dressing table in the main bedroom, and the living room's a lovely size. I think it'd do her very nicely. However my brother Oop North has also found a couple of bungalows near him which would be suitable, but only after a lot of updating.

So we have to decide which to go for. The one here is the most reasonably-priced and is ready to move in to straight away, but means I'd be her 'sole carer'; that doesn't bother me because at least she has a full complement of marbles! The ones near my brother are more expensive (but not much bigger) and need some work done, and there'd be him and his wife, and my niece and her husband (and children) as frequent visitors, sharing the 'carer' role. Bearing in mind that there's no way she's going to come and view these properties herself and we'll have to do it all for her, where's the best place for her to go to?

Catch me if you can

Oh, you did. It seems I've been tagged by both Hutters and Mermy.

Rules: Link to the tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. Tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Okaaaaayyy ...

1. By the time I was 18 I'd had 12 home addresses (13 if you count boarding school). The best posting was to Winterbourne Gunner in Wiltshire in 67. I can still remember the phone number.

2. I hate driving in the dark.

3. When I was about 3 years old I was found washing my pet mouse Amelia with Vim. She was very tolerant and didn't bite me. Or die.

4. I had a very very bad stutter as a child and rarely spoke to anyone outside the family until I was about 14.

5. I'd love to have a small farm and grow all our own organic meat. Poultry, Southdown sheep, Longhorn cattle and Middle White pigs (although Ned wants Berkshires).

Okay, now for the retaliation:

Aoj
Dogga
Jane
Lorry
Maddison Star

Bend me, shape me

Wow!

It's a jolly holiday

Flipping typical. I had to take my final holiday entitlement before the end of the year so plumped for the last week in November as being as good as any. Ned's started a crappy (well it would be, wouldn't it?) temporary job so I could take over the running of the household again; I could some festive shopping, maybe even take the dogs and pop down and visit my mum.

So what happens? I get laid low by a very uncomfortable tummy bug and daren't stray too far from the facilities for most of the week. What a waste. Bah.

We must chat about a very important matter

The computer isn't very happy at all. I didn't know it was possible for an electronic clock to be quite so inaccurate - it's losing about half an hour a day. Anyone know what causes that?

Confusion

We're having horrible computer problems. Despite running anti-virus software and stuff like that, and not downloading any strange stuff or even visiting unusual websites, and never opening suspect emails, the past few days have been infuriating. It takes about half an hour and seven restarts, including a couple of system restores, to be able to get the damn thing going, and then it's liable to crash at any moment. It looks as though we'll have to get a new computer and have no idea what's the best deal for us, and how to reinstall the stuff we need, and all the absolutely vital work which is stuck on the external hard-drive and didn't want to transfer to the new hard drive after the last explodification, or the new info in the folders.

We tried to save the folders and pictures to disk, but hadn't installed the disk writing software. So Ned installed that, and was told to restart the computer. That meant all the start up problems started again, and we had to do a system restore, which means that the CD writing software needs to be installed again, which will mean a restart, which means a system restore .....

Do we dare risk doing another backup onto the external hard drive, or will that just transfer all the problems to a new computer when we eventually get one? A new computer will mean installing everything from scratch, and a new running system might not recognise the saved information anyway. And whether we can ever get back online again is anyone's guess. I feel a tad stressed.

Pounding away, pounding away

Friday was a very busy day. Ned and the Boy were Frogbound for the day so I walked the dogs before going to work to hold the hand of the trainee. I'm not sure that she's going to last. She's very nice and all that, but she's taking ages to get to grips with the job. When the person before me started she had five accompanied training shifts (15 hours) before having to go solo. I was luckier - I had eight (24 hours). The new girl had seven (21 hours), tried a solo shift and had to call me in to help, so was taken to the main branch for some intensive training. She had another 25 hours training during the week but still needed assistance on Friday morning. She's written the procedures in a notebook but doesn't refer to it, and stands staring at the computer screen waiting for it to tell her what to do while the waiting clients get fed up.

The trouble is that, although everything's quite straightforward, you do have to multi-task. A client will come into the reception area to buy something and immediately the phone will ring. The phone has to be answered (it might be an emergency) but the client who's there mustn't be ignored - you have to smile and apologise and if necessary take the phone client's number and offer to call them back in a few minutes. This is the PR side of the job and is very important. None of the things we have to do are difficult in themselves, but they do all tend to happen at once! Tomorrow she's supposed to be going solo for real - if she can't manage after all this training I don't think she ever will.

Anyway, I did the (very busy) afternoon shift (all appointments booked) on my own (apart from the vet for the second half of it) and felt a headache brewing. And it built and built. Nothing would shift it. It was still there yesterday, and when I woke this morning as well. Pound, pound, pound. Over the course of the day I tried ibuprofen, aspirin, feverfew and paracetamol, but nothing made any impression on it. The next step was going to have to involve sawing off the top of my skull to let the pain out.

Now it's just getting dark, and the pain is starting to ease up a bit. What a washout of a weekend this has been.

Girl, don't be scared to move

I'm going to have to warn a neighbour about livestock-worrying. After last night's few drops of rain the ground of the ploughed field where I often walk the dogs was claggy and sticky, so I thought that going into the pasture would make a nice change. It's a bit more awkward going in those fields than it used to be because although I was given a key to the gate-padlock a couple of years ago, the lock was changed during the summer and I haven't got a new key. So we have to walk further up the road and cut through the hedge, jumping a ditch as we go, to get to the top entrance. Here we have the use of three lovely secure pastures, totalling about 50 acres, where the dogs can run free as long as there's no livestock in them, of course. Well, in the top field were my neighbour's sheep and a few cattle, so I decided to walk the long way round them to get to the gate into the next field, with the dogs still on their leads.

Sheep are afraid of dogs, aren't they? Try telling these ones. They all came running up to us, bleating away, and I found myself with three very good dogs and about 100 sheep walking nicely at heel. Then the cattle saw us and decided to come and investigate. I'm not very good with cattle. I like to have a barrier between me and them so that I can admire them at ease. (Even better, I like them on a plate, surrounded by vegetables.) In their natural state they're a bit too big for comfort, and they have a tendency to want to 'play' with dogs. So not only did we have a flock of sheep following, we were being circled by nine galumphing and bucking cattle, rather in the manner of Red Indians circling the wagon train, which just didn't seem to understand what bugger off meant.

As I said, I shall have to complain about the livestock-worrying; they were worrying me!

The clinking, clanking sound

Every week the takings are counted and balanced against the till sheet. Sometimes it balances exactly. Sometimes it's a few pence up or down. This week the cheque takings balanced exactly, as did the credit card takings. The cash takings, however, were exactly £50 down.

Now, that's a huge sum to go astray. It's more than I spend on a week's food for three adults. It's nearly a week's income. There are several possibilities.

1) A client reached into the cashbox and took it.

Unlikely. There are very few times that the cashbox is unattended, and it would mean lifting the coin tray to reach the notes beneath, removing a minimum of three notes but leaving the rest and returning to one's seat without being noticed.

2) One of the staff took it.

I didn't. That I can say for sure. And I don't think any of the others did either. I'm the 'junior' and I've been there for 18 months and we've never had this problem. And I don't mistrust the trainee we've taken on this week either because I find it hard to step back and let someone learn the ropes and tend to hover annoyingly and help, so there was no opportunity for her to swipe it either.

3) It's an accounting error.

This is my last hope. Possibly someone's mistaken an 8 for a 3, or a 7 for a 2 - when scrawled hastily they're very similar, and there's a difference of 5 between them. The problem with that is that, in this particular week, we never took as much as £50 in a single cash transaction - unlike the following week when we took four times that amount in cash in a single day.

We've searched the till and the drawer it lives in and the safe and checked and double-checked and triple-checked the books. No sign. And it makes me feel sick.

Ned says I'm 'going down, and'll dance the hempen jig'.

Hey rock'n'roll king is down

As an anniversary celebration we went to see Stardust. Fantastic! I loved every minute of it.

We fade to grey

When Beattie was a young girl she had quite a spotty face and muzzle. When a dog's predominantly white you don't notice the gradual effects of age until ...



... you take another photograph and realise how many of the markings have vanished.


Where does the time go?

May be the last time

Okay, so I was wrong. The previous last-blog-about-Cropredy-2007 has been superceded by this last-blog-about-Cropredy-2007. The Mike Harding show on Radio 2 tomorrow (Wednesday 10th) is featuring the live performance of Leige and Leif that a regathered as-nearly-original-line-up-as-possible Fairport Convention presented for their 40th birthday celebration. 7pm to 8pm. Be there - we were!

What's new, pussycat?

Today a woman brought her cat into work, saying that it had been in a fight with a car and had lost; she didn't know how to dispose of it, and could we 'get rid' of it for her? A little suspiciously, we took the bag she handed us - recoiled slightly and asked when the cat had died. "Last Thursday."

Anyone know of a really effective air freshener?

Coming for to carry me home

I guess Stu will be going to see Stardust.
I predict a riot.

Who's going to drive you home?

Tip to Ned: Try using the brakes rather than the garage door to stop the car.

I said "What?"

According to the experts it's time to harvest ones apples for storage before the wind blows the all off and spoils them. When the trees in our garden were planted (before our time) they were cleverly planted in a row and laid at an angle to limit their height and make a nice fruitful barrier. If they'd been properly pruned every year they'd still be nice and low but before we bought the house they'd been allowed to go feral and we've spent the last 18 years trying to get some control over them. This has mainly involved severe pruning which has the side-effect of removing all the flower buds, so they've never been very productive. Because they're a bit gnarled and split and past their prime we decided this year to grub them out and start again, so last year I didn't really bother with the pruning - only the lowest branches; with the result that this year they've cropped quite well, but all the fruit is about 18 feet up. The trees are the wrong shape for ladders to be either secure or helpful, so I wriggled and squeezed my way up the tangled branches to try to reach the apples. That's when Ned said it. "You're fifty years old and shouldn't be climbing trees."

I said "WHAT?????"

EIEIO

We're reliably informed (yes, I was watching QI) that methane gas is twenty times more dangerous to the ozone layer than carbon dioxide. As the producers of the greatest quantites of methane are herbivores, does this mean that vegetarians should be eliminated?

Walk this way

I turned up on time at the cardiology department, and was swiftly whisked into a small room for the ECG, which involved several people with very cold hands putting sticky patches on various parts of my anatomy ("top off please"), wiring me up to a machine that went 'ping' then before I knew it, whipping them off again ("top on again thank you"), then out into the corridor again. No sooner had I got my book out to calm down a little than I was called into another small room full of people and machines that go 'flub-dub', ("top off please"), had my chest covered in gloop and an echo-gram thing done and various measurements taken. It was at this point that the consultant came in and said hello. Nice. Then I was handed some scratchy paper to mop up the gloop ("top on again thank you") and sent back to the waiting room. Then the consultant reappeared and I was ushered into yet another room to discuss my symptoms. Which he didn't seem to believe any of, sent me into the side room ("top off please"), used his stethoscope and took my blood pressure ("That's quite high but I expect you're not very relaxed but your pulse is slow so that's good top on again thank you") and that was it. Apart from being positioned slightly lower than they expected - from a certain age everything's lower than it used to be - they couldn't find anything wrong with my heart, which is good, but I left feeling like a complete fraud and a twit and a waster-of-everyone's-time. I knew I should have cancelled.

And Ned's sulking because it usually takes a good meal and a nice bottle of wine to get my top off.

And the eyes in his head see the world spinning round

Whether it's reaction to the gallons of local anaesthetic I needed yesterday to get a filling replaced without having to be enticed down from the ceiling, or tiredness, or what, I don't know, but all today I've been alternating between feeling pissed and feeling hungover. Walking in a straight line was tricky, and I found I couldn't write properly when filling in the order book at work. Seeing that I haven't had anything stronger than tea since Sunday, and only 2 pints of water to drink yesterday evening, it's a bit odd. I hope an early night will sort it; I've got some driving to do tomorrow.

She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake

Although I seem to have spent most of today on the computer I don't think I've wasted my time. Ned and his pals went walking in the Peak District, so once I'd walked the dogs and spent far too much money shopping, I settled at the screen to keep up with the gossip.

As some of you might have guessed, I'm a bit of a dog person, and go on several sites with fora for passing on information and general chat. A few days ago someone on 'my' breed site asked a question about genetics, saying that someone on Site B had posted pictures of newborn black-spotted puppies from liver-spotted parents - was this possible? The short answer is 'No' - basically black pigmentation the dominant colour, and dals will only show liver coloration if they have no black gene. As both 'parents' were liver they therefore had no black genes to pass on, so the black puppies couldn't be sired by the liver dog. With me so far?

So I joined Site B so that I could be Mrs Interfering and suggest that the proud daddy had probably been cuckolded and that mummy dog had been playing away. This went down like a lead balloon and I let the usual newbie-flak bounce off as it's only to be expected.

Then I went to look at other posts on the site. This same person had proudly posted pictures of the four dobermanns she was rescuing. Curiously they all had cropped ears (ear cropping's been illegal in this country for over a century) so were obviously imported, and I was curious and asked about them. Apparently they'd been imported illegally and had their ears cropped on the dockside at 8 weeks old. Anyone who's done any research at all about the process knows that's an ipossible scenario - after the actual cropping there are months of taping and posting to get the ears to stand upright. So that didn't ring true either.

There's also a section for cat posts on this particular site, and this same person had posted pictures of all 7 of her pedigree cats, all different breeds and confirmed when asked that all were on the active register (you'd understand that Lorry). One of the cats was very attractive so I went onto Google Images and typed in the breed. Well, I nearly fell of my chair. There were the exact same photos - one on the Wikipedia page for the breed. I put in the name of another of 'her' breeds, and blow me down, there they were - this time the exact same pictures were of a stray cat found in California.

That's when I had my Miss Marple moment. I google-imaged all the breeds she'd posted pictures of, and there they all were - her elderly 'Belgian Turvuren (sic) cross' was actually a blue merle American champion rough collie that died 17 years ago. The puppy pictures were from a dalmatian site about mismarks. The picture of 'her and her husband and their four dobermanns' was lifted from an American breeder's site.

So, 'she' was obviously telling porkies. But why? A sad, lonely attention-seeker? Maybe - but it turns out (after I'd subtly ("Wow! Your cat's picture's on the Wikipedia page! How cool is that?" etc) posted that she'd been rumbled, other people found even more evidence of the fantasy.

Then came the rather scary bit. Over the past few weeks 'she' had been in contact with other site members by email & PM and, with some of the younger ones, had offered to send more puppy pictures in the post if they'd let 'her' have their addresses, and would they like a holiday job with her, to help look after her dogs and puppies and horses (oh yes, she's been posting on a horse forum as well - her Shire horse had to be shot last week. Much sympathy ensued).

Am I right to find this very alarming? I've heard of 'grooming' before but I think I might have exposed a groomer (stop sniggering Mal), who of course will now vanish for a while, to reappear somewhere else. I've suggested to the Admin of the site that, while it could all be the work of an attention-seeker or a bored youngster, it could equally be something more serious and perhaps making a note of the IP might be a good idea.

This could be the last time ...

... this year at any rate, that I post a blog about Cropredy. But at last! Someone's put up this year's version of Matty Groves, and the follow-on choon. Remember that this is very near the end of a four-hour set, with only the finale to follow.

Ahh, magic! That's why we go to Cropredy each year.

It makes the world go round

Wahay! I've had a payrise!

Its a bit old but its mine

The lovely ArAySee Boy - I'm not sure he's old enough to have left school - brought along a chum and they looked under the Pug's bonnet. I turned the ignition key and there was just an impotent click. I explained what used to fix it (first wiggling that bluey-green wire, and then when that stopped sorting it, putting it in gear and rocking it back and forth (in my case looking helpless until some kind strong Young Man took pity on me and did the rocking)), but that now nothing was working. They ummed and thought the starter motor was probably dead, and took out a Birmingham Screwdriver and whacked it a bit. No joy. Then they checked the strength of the battery and that was fine. Then just as an experiment they bypassed the connection between the battery and the starter motor. Brrrrrrmmmmmm!!! Hurrah! But it still wouldn't start on its own and I began to wonder if I was going to have to adopt the lad and keep him as a pet mechanic. A little more discussion led to them replacing the bluey-green wire and Bingo! The car now starts happily all by itself! We now have a car again and not a fully-comprehensively-insured driveway ornament.

He's a Nice Man. He's a very very Nice Man. Oh no, that's the Other Lot. But he's very good anyway, and we like him.

I'm a tiger

A few weeks ago I cut some comfrey from the garden (caution - wear gloves and long sleeves because the hairy leaves and stems can cause a nasty rash), chopped it up a bit and put it in a lidded bucket with some rainwater to steep and make a good rich organic plant feed. Today I bravely opened the bucket and put a little of the liquor into the watering can to dilute and feed the plants. Poo-ee, what a stink! I hope the plants appreciate it because it's truly disgusting.

In other news Beattie's nose has pretty much recovered from the nip it received last week. At first,as you recall, it was a bit scraped and bloodybut then it scabbed over and was scratchy. Now the scabs have come off and it's all healed nicely, except that the scars aren't yet pigmented properly so she has a very fetching stripy nose.

Smoke gets in your eyes

Typical. As soon as we get some lovely weather - and it has been glorious today - some twunt fires up a barbecue and fills the garden with smoke and stink, driving us indoors again with the doors and windows closed. I wouldn't mind on a campsite but I know for a fact that all the houses around here have kitchens. By all means eat outside, but at least cook indoors and keep the smells to yourself.

Today's other rant; I hate cars when they won't start.

Don't stand so close to me

It came as a shock to Beattie to learn that not all dogs are as placid as she is.

Poor girl. That's gotta smart.

Now the feeling's gone

It's always the same. Scenario 1: Your car develops an annoying, expensive sounding rattle so you take it to the garage and they can't find anything wrong and you can't make the rattle happen - until you drive away having paid your bill.

Scenario 2: Your dog starts limping so you make an appointment with the vet, only to have him walk into the surgery (thus qualifying for a consultation charge) as sound as a bell.

Scenario 3: A tooth starts jumping every time you bite something hardish, so you make a dentist's appointment, but when you get there you can't remember which tooth it was and they all need prodding to find out and then they all hurt. Another bill.

The latest is Scenario 4. For months and months I was having the occasional funny wibbly turn when my blood pressure would drop through the floor, my chest felt as though my heart wanted to burst out of it and I'd feel faint for a couple of minutes till it all got back to normal. Gradually it started happening more and more frequently until it was several times a day. So I made a doctor's appointment and was referred to a cardiologist. Since the hospital appointment came through I've felt fine.

There's the dilemma. If I keep the appointment then I'll feel like a fraud and a time-waster. If I cancel it the wibbliness might come back and I'd have to be referred again. Decisions, decisions.

He'll never let you down

Once in a while I get called upon to help out Dalmatian Welfare. Sometimes I get asked to visit and assess dogs that people want to give up for rehoming, sometimes to help transport them from their old home to their new one (old owners and adopters are never allowed to meet or have direct contact with one another), and sometimes do a home-check on potential adopters. Today was a home-check day, so to make sure they knew what they might be letting themselves in for I loaded Harry (as being big and bouncy) into the car and set off to meet the family. I 'd been told they already have a labrador (just out of season - phew! That could have been tricky!) so at least I knew they were used to dogs of that size.

They were a lovely family. We went in and the lab said hello to Harry, showed him her favourite toy then went outside. I chatted to the parents and the children (polite, friendly, not nervous of a strange dog) and waited for Harry to do his worst; better to put them off at the outset.

Always expect the unexpected. He said hello to them then stood quietly at my side, for all the world as if he never chased anything or knocked anything over or made a nuisance of himself. He didn't make any movement to suggest he might cock his leg on anything. Even his hair stayed firmly attached when I tried to demonstrate how much they shed.

Next time I'll take Piglet as well. That should do the trick.

On Wednesdays he goes shopping

As you may or may not know, The Boy's halfway through his Arboriculture course, with plans to be a tree surgeon after qualifying. He's being taught how to handle a chainsaw properly, with minimal risk of careless self-mutilation, and is learning a lot about the different species of trees and their ideal environments. His holiday placement has involved a lot of clearance with felling and logging, so when he had to fell a particular tree that had grown in a certain shape, he decided to keep part of it as a curiosity. He turned the section upside down and carefully trimmed it so it balanced. A friend (so he assures me) whittled the final detail, and now this charming sculpture graces our patio.

Like little sugars and spice

Another highlight from the weekend was the wonderful conversation we, as a group, had with two delightful little girls who were with the family group sitting in front of us. They must have been about nine and seven years old, and had been extremely well brought up. They were confident but not cocky, and extremely good conversationalists. The elder approached us first, and asked us in a very polite adult manner whether we were having a good time, and whether it was our first festival. We chatted with them about this and that, and they showed us the strange alien-in-an-egg toys they were playing with. At some point, and I'm not sure how it happened, the matter of Omally's identity arose, and somehow the words 'King of Sweden' were uttered. The younger girl's eyes opened very wide, and she sidled over to Ned and asked him if this was true. When it was confirmed (we'd have looked silly to have denied it!) she asked how Ned knew that. Manfully resisting the opportunity of using the obvious Monty Python quote as being unsuitable, Ned said that he knew this because he was his cook, and received a very hard stare. She went over to Mallers and asked him, if he was a King, why wasn't he wearing his crown? The temptation to say it was at the dry-cleaners was almost irresistible, but the reply was that he was in disguise because he was on his holidays. There followed a very earnest conversation about how differently things are done "in our country" as we all struggled to keep straight faces.

I wonder if that little girl will go through life thinking she met the King of Sweden at Cropredy Festival.

It all comes round again

This year's Cropredy Festival was just the most brilliant few days I've had in a long time. Wall-to-wall sunshine (apart from at night, of course. That would be silly). The whole thing was just fantastic. The weather, the company, the food, the beer and of course, the music.
Waiting for the kick-off.

An imitation of that well-known Belgian statue, the Mally'king Pis.
Stu did some very impressive juggling with various artefacts of different sizes and weights, but for some reason declined my offer to throw an axe at him to incorporate into the flow. No idea why - he was wearing his boots after all. Be careful with that axe, Eugene mallet, Stu.

After a busy session of signing CDs, Richard Digence seemed rather pleased to be able to use bigger writing on an LP sleeve.
Some of the line-up I've heard before - some I liked and wanted to see again, and some who kindly gave me an opportunity to catch up on sleep! Then there were some that were new to me; Mad Agnes stood out as having a wide range of styles and seemed more than competent. Hummingbird were well worth listening to (Maris, Edwina announced she was trying to keep her voice deep because last time she was told she sounded like Minnie Mouse!). Jools Holland was great and Lulu can still do 'Shout'.

After being voted the Most Influential Folk Album Ever by Mike Harding's Radio 2 audience, the surviving Fairports of that line-up reformed and performed the album live, with Chris While standing in for Sandy Denny - a real treat. The final day was opened, as usual, by Richard Digance who never fails to get the crowd 'warmed-up'.

The high point of the whole festival (incidentally all tickets were sold out a fortnight ago - the first time that's ever happened) was of course Fairport Convention's own closing slot. They came on stage shortly after 8pm and kept up the most amazing energetic enormously professional performance for four hours. This year was the first time they've had a back-screen showing the performers themselves, which meant that everyone got close-up views of just how stunning the musicianship was. They also had the lyric for their famous (!) hit "Si tu dois partir" so that everyone could sing along;

and the film produced for the enhancement of "Matty Groves" was a sheer delight! The weekend was brought to a close by the traditional finale of "Meet on the Ledge".

Other memories: much Thinging was done on Friday night, with several new Favourite Things thought of but forgotten by the morning; the burger-stall's music system, which thankfully couldn't take the pace and died on Saturday morning; Cropredy Virgins' amazement at the standard of the 'facilities'; watching what must have been the space shuttle (a bright orange light that traversed the sky from horizon to horizon every 20 minutes or so) with Mallers; Beattie being an absolute star - I'm not sure she really enjoyed it (she had to stay up well past her usual bedtime) but it was better than not being with us, and there were loads of trodden-on chips to hoover up when we relaxed our guard; Stu's paddling pool that he kindly shared; Mally's super-soaker that he not-so-kindly shared (!) ... it just goes on.

It was the best time!

Whatever happened to the heroes?

Well, one of them lives at Genie Towers. A bit of background; several years ago we noticed that the paint on the fascia of the gable at the front of the house was starting to flake and, because it's very high and we don't like going very high we started contacting decorators and asking them for quotes to do the job. How many do you think responded? That's right, none at all. Year after year we searched for a tradesman wanting work but obviously they've all won the lottery and don't need customers. It's not even as if it was a very big job - just very high. No way on this earth would you get either Ned or me up a ladder that high even though the painting would be a POP.

So the job was left and left, with the paint getting shabbier and shabbier, until a friend bought a scaffolding tower which he offered to lend us. We borrowed it, hoping to do the work over the May bank holiday, but it rained, and whenever we were free to do it the weather wasn't co-operative. But this week the sun shone, so we got the elements of the tower out of the garage and started.

If there was a flat, solid surface in front of the house the job would have been much quicker, but there's lawn and flowerbeds, so first we had to find bits of timber and blocks for the legs to stand on securely. A second problem was that the platform was too narrow to do the whole lot at once, and, when fully constructed, the tower was too heavy to move. So each complete coat meant the tower had to be constucted, the work done on as much as could be reached, deconstructed, moved a couple of feet, reconstructed and the work done, deconstructed, moved again, reconstructed, the last bit of work done, then deconstructed for the last time that day because the paint had to dry before the next coat could be applied.

Occasionally we had the base fractionally too close to the house when we built the tower, only to find we couldn't put the topmost sections on because of the eaves and had to take it down and start again. Those were not happy times.

But at last it's finished! Those of you who went GoAping with us know exactly how pathetic I am with heights, but few realised that Ned's only marginally better. So for him to go that high, even with a reasonably steady platform to stand on, took a huge amount of courage. He's my hero.


Of course, the problem is that now the guttering looks shabby, and could really benefit from being taken down, sand-blasted and repainted before being replaced. I'd better not mention that yet.

If you leaf me now

Oh dear.

In all my years of gardening (I started dabbling when very small, with a little patch of the garden of my own) I've never been stricken with blight on either my potatoes or tomatoes. This year the weather conditions have been ideal for it and we've had both. The spuds had to come out a couple of weeks age, with some of the crop salvageable; yesterday I noticed the tomato plants - even the ones in the greenhouse - were looking decidedly dodgy and this morning there was no getting away from it. They were infected too and have had to come out and be destroyed. It's a rotten shame because the crop was looking promising. Of course it also means that the soil in the greenhouse is infected so we won't be able to grow toms straight into it next year, and we'll probably have to take a couple of years out from growing spuds at all. Damn damn damn. All that work and nothing to show for it.

Apparently it's the same all over the country, so watch out for huge price rises for home-grown veg this winter.

Today is only yesterday's tomorrow

The good news is that the swelling from the bites is subsiding. AA neighbourhood doctor recommended antihistamine tablets (okay, can manage that) as well as sitting with my legs raised and holding cold compresses on them. That would be quite a challenge at work, so had to go by the board. Although the information about the tablets said that they don't cause drowsiness, they certainly make me woolly-headed; so much so that yesterday I quite forgot I was meant to be doing both shifts, and it was only a slightly petulant phonecall from the vet asking if I was on my way yet that got me there at all. With Ned's co-operation at giving me a lift into the village I managed to get changed and into work within 4 minutes of the phonecall, but it meant I hardly knew which way was up, and by the time the afternoon shift was over I was totally wiped out. I'm not sure which is worse - the discomfort from the bites or the muddle-headedness.