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!