C is for Christmas cards

Which, like a few other things, come under W for wife.  Feeling totally smug this year, I acted on the advice of the local postmaster and bought copious quantities of stamps in the weeks preceding the rise in postal costs in the spring; I could justifiably send out the usual mountain of festive greetings come the appropriate time of year without wincing too much each time I stuck on a stamp.

I must have been mad:

Daniel Craig in Skyfall

I'm sure you've seen it, but a survey in the Sunday paper confirmed that Mr Craig of 007 fame is the best-loved actor of 2012, well almost. He was pipped to the post by his co-star, Dame Judi Dench, but I'll forgive her that, it was her Bond swansong.

The offspring have suggested that, based on the recent success of the family outing to see Skyfall, we should repeat the exercise this weekend and venture forth to see The Hobbit. A good idea, but does Daniel Craig have a minor role at all; warrior of some sort? I think Maltesers may be needed for a three hour film of Martin Freeman beginning his quest.

Pop-cakes in the Faraway Tree

The senior hound is sleeping off her hangover and the younger is more relaxed now that the house is empty. The cause for both is the same: hosting a party for approximately fifty seventeen and eighteen year olds at the weekend. Our labrador hasn't had it so good since the house was constantly filled with toddlers in years gone by; teens under the influence tend to drop food with or without knowledge, and certainly without care.

At the birthday child's suggestion I had bought a special 'pop-cake' tin in a well known department store on Oxford Street; the thought being that these miniature items of loveliness might help the liquid refreshment go down. I have a few observations to make:

Countdown to Christmas

Opinion is divided in this household between the bah humbug traditionalists and those who wish to get Christmas swinging as soon as the autumn equinox has passed. Each year advent calendars are opened on the first of the month with at least one shout of, "When are we getting the Christmas tree?" I look at the respective pictures of a goose wearing a paper hat in celebration, a reindeer, a bauble and an elf and take a deep breath,

I'm a Celebrity - Chicken Coop

The oxygen tanks are filling by the back door, but for now normal snorkelling gear is just enough to suffice in order to check on the chickens.

The c'lebs taking part in a trial of boredom and inane activities in the heat of Australia's Gold Coast, would do well to note how those further down the pecking order cope in similar conditions in the northern hemisphere.

The Sisters of Doom, my reliable elder stateswomen of the coop, represent the retired, once appeared on tele, chef, and Eric, a dour whiz of mental arithmetic capable of throwing a small spear accurately.

Christmas Cake Clearout

The annual question of which recipe to follow has been dictated by the contents of the cupboard this year.  A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of efficiency, I bought packets of what I thought might be the necessary ingredients and pushed them onto the requisite shelf when I reached home.

Baking is something we do in this household; we like it and are reasonably adept at it. This means that we have an entire cupboard dedicated to flours, sugars, fruits, nuts, chocolate and so on. Today, I reached for the necessary fruits of the vine and kept pulling out other, smaller packs, wrapped with elastic bands. One thing led to another and soon the kitchen worktops were strewn with the contents of two of the cupboard shelves, as I, specs on, peered at the sell by-dates. Feeling quite smug at first, I soon had two reasonably sized bags of vintage dried fruits and nuts ready for 're-cycling'. In my defence, 2004 was the oldest date that I found; something my late mother-in-law would have scoffed at and added the contents to the recipe regardless.

My Family and Other Animals and...

Machinery, apparently!

Do you talk to yourself? First sign of madness, or so they say. In which case I'm several steps along the pathway to pills.

Michael Morpurgo's War Horse

I have clearly reached the point when the future is considerably shorter than the past ,and perhaps this explains my current desire to find out more about my respective grandfathers' involvement in the two world wars.

I studied history to A'level, have long been fascinated by the machinations of politics through the ages, whether regal or governmental and how they, along with religion - whichever god you may follow - can often fuel a maniacal desire for everlasting power. But, in spite of the dates I thought I knew of battles fought and won within living memory, and the potential of one neurotic man with a hirsute upper lip,

D is for Diary

...And comes under W is for Wife.

Sometimes, in spite of a desk diary which should sit beside the 'phone but is never there, (I know, old fashioned country folk with a landline apparatus); the existence of a calendar hanging on the wall; a tablet with all singing and dancing calendar apps and a computer that is more than capable of telling me if, but and when any member of the family moves, I don't know what I'm doing when!

The best diary of all is in my head, which is becoming an increasing worry as I struggle to remember the names of my children,

WWI short story

In this Armistice week, I thought I'd share a short story that I wrote some time ago which made a final cut for a competition judged by Fay Weldon and printed in the 2012 Rhyme and Reason diary. The entry fees for this competition and resulting diary sales are given to support Iain Rennie Grove House hospice care.

With a remit of max 400 words it really is flash fiction,

Skyfall

Well! Where to begin? The four year wait has been truly worthwhile!

Last week we had the occasion to mark my **th  birthday and what better way to do this than a family ticket to the cinema. The date has been in the diary since we found out that my all-encompassing special-agent hero would be back on the big screen at the end of October, and never has a film been more eagerly anticipated.

Not for me the buckets of popcorn or gallons of fizz; who needs added excitement when a 2.5 hour visual feast of James Bond himself is there in surround-sound? The comfort of knowing that Mr Craig will live to see another day did nothing to prevent anxiety

A wannabe Elizabeth Taylor

Hairdresser's salons: we go in to repair the tired locks, give them a bit of va va voom, to tame the unruly mop and, we hope, to emerge feeling a few dollars better than an hour or so previously. Why then do they provide such an agony of torment in the process?!

Was there ever a place you'd really rather not be spotted in?

B is for banks

B is for banks and, like D for drainage, the dealing with them on a day to day basis is listed under W for Wife. Most of the time this involves a quick check online, burying of head in hands, clicking a button or two and making a few declarations of 'no more...for a while,' before exiting the screen and adopting the out of sight out of mind method of daily accounting.

Top Gear should have a Top Ten

It is a well known fact that being behind the wheel of a car can alter the way in which a human being interacts with others. What continues to amaze me is the seeming transformation of many such mortals into a divine being. How else can their air of immortality, or, at the very least, a sense of being king of the road, be explained?

Our once quiet country lane is used morning and evening, and quite a lot in between, as a cut through between main roads. Ten, fifteen, years ago a few cars would trundle past on their way to join the rat race; nowadays there is a constant stream of those in a hurry whose need to use our lane is paramount and the speed at which they wish to do so of great import.

One of my regular morning encounters is with a driver who

Rice paddies the only answer

With news that an award winning West Sussex vineyard will be ditching its entire 2012 crop to ensure consistently high standards, comes confirmation that North America's recent mid-west drought has scuppered their wheat crops, Northern Europe's constant rain has ensured potato blight, peculiar apples and a dearth of perfectly formed vegetables. I am searching for ideas for cheap food sources for the coming winter months.

Pasta, a family staple, is clearly affected by the price of wheat, ditto - obviously - breads. All those animals feed on grain, what grain? There will be an air of extravagance with morning toast,

The Power of Packaging

What is it about a shiny can that says, take me, buy me, drink me, now?  I'm not a fan of fizz, excepting the bubbly stuff touted at weddings and produced to commiserate for birthdays, so have no particular desire to drink 30cl of chemically enhanced liquid.

Yet, time and again when I'm paying for fuel, calling in at a corner shop to buy a paper or a gallon of milk; rows of shiny cans will wink at me, daring me to walk past without opening the front of their display unit.

An inadvertent shop

It's birthday season here which usually results in last minute panics

Diesel download

Filling up at petrol stations is definitely one of those 'could be doing something better with my time' tasks. Quite why or how no one has invented a painless means of doing this that doesn't involve leaving the comfort of the road or one's own drive, beats me - owners of Smart vehicles and other electrically powered motors needn't make contact to discuss.

I know roughly how many miles to the gallon my car can manage, I know, too, from experience that it is probably best not to leave it until a garage can be spotted in the middle distance and then coast downhill, hoping that the impetus will be sufficient to power you to a neat stop beside the petrol pump, only to remember that the tank is on the other side of the vehicle and, no, there is no fuel left with which to manouevre the car. Feminists, I apologise, but there are times when it is simply best to look feeble and hope for help.

The average beep (now there's an advance in technology that I could do without),

Lurgy and J K's new novel

New term:New germ. This one is taking its time to work through the household and had ticked off the offspring and their mother, only one more to go!

Our variant takes the form of sore throats, colds, coughs, temperatures; others have a sickness form and some a common form of flu - don't think they're really trying hard enough to enter into the spirit of things! I am beginning to wonder whether our family could be sponsored by Kleenex, who must be riding high after a summer of Olympic emotions. As blogs can advertise or have sponsors, perhaps I should approach them as I don't suppose their marketing department follows Sulus in Somerset terribly closely.

My convalescence has been spurred on by the conviviality of company when yesterday I attended a Writers' Studio session. I selflessly spread my germs, thus enabling others to get on and have this bug before it turns into some mutating virus, and in return my colleagues were gracious enough not to flinch each time I reached for the Kleenex (they really should paying me for all this endorsement).

Today, armed with appropriate medicines, hot drinks and the ubiquitous woollen rug, I'm attempting to return to work on a short story, homework and notes for an idea; the novel hasn't gone away, ideas are swirling around along with the lurgy and will hopefully emerge in a wonderfully crystal clear format shortly. In the meantime, has anyone tried J K's new novel?

A Literary Hostess

On a recent 'once every few years' break without the offspring, the other half and I returned to the big smoke, once our home in the dim and distant past. The freedom of boarding a river boat when we felt like it and without having to check that my handbag was stuffed with snacks or that the youngest two weren't about to topple over railings into the murky Thames (they may look as though they're past that stage, but...), was liberating and certainly made a change from the hustle and bustle of country life and wondering whch of the regular four walkers might stroll past the house today.

On our final morning we stopped off at the National Portrait Gallery, which is currently hosting an exhibition of Olympic/Paralympian photographs. I managed to nudge the other half upstairs to wander through galleried landings of the great and the good of days gone by only to have my reverie interrupted by his spoken observation, "Look, there's hope for you yet,"

Cyclical clearing

A writing lesson yesterday stirred my recent thoughts regarding the weighty tome that I am supposed to be completing sometime this side of the next millenium. In response to the gentle nudge of others I have taken to the study today. To tidy. Or more precisely to wade through piles of detritus and then to tidy.

I began with good intentions, cleaning devices and clothes were pulled into the room, boxes emptied in anticipation of all the 'don't need to be here' books that can be put/sold/given away, the necessary radio and cup of tea installed and then...don't you find that if an item has to be taken to another room, then you find yourself picking at things on that shelf and wondering whether such and such a thing really belongs here after all?  

Four Steps to Happiness

Flitting through an extended part of the weekend papers over a bowl of bananas and shedded wheat this morning, (health options on Monday mornings in some part assuage the guilt of a calorific Saturday and Sunday), I stopped mid-mouthful in front of a particular article. The picture showed a woman's backside and legs sticking out of a wardrobe which could only be described as full. Next to this a picture of a very neat looking woman who is the author of a book, the ethos of which boils down to 'Four Steps to Happiness'.

I was impressed by the picture. Whoever this cupboard belonged to had actually managed to place things inside it; not only that,

Instant Gardening

With a family event looming, I decided last week to respond to compliments regarding the luxuriant growth of thistles in our garden. This year we are growing them in a number of ways: swathes through a patch of recently seeded lawn; odd specimen thistles in random spots about the drive and garden; lanky yellow seed pods nod through the collapsed gladioli

Broody bantams

The broody bantams are entrenched. It seems that the warmer the weather the hotter they intend to keep themselves. Four are currently vying for position in the two nesting boxes, not helped by the fact that one of the boxes is clearly preferred to the other. Woe betide the chicken who plays chicken and rises for a drink or the odd bite to eat; the remaining three fluff their feathers self-importantly and assume an air of propriety over their small space.

It fell to me to much out the chicken coop and move the whole shabang to new quarters over the weekend, (there is a loose rota for such things, but it appears that 'mother's' turn crops up with increasingly regularity, perhaps this too comes under D for drainage - see earlier post).  Trying to rouse the broodies from their feathered beds is not an easy task.

Ninety degree angle

Normal service will be resumed! Circumnavigation of the British Isles has been reduced to the South-West of the country this week and we currently look forward to decreasing concentric circles focused very much on our local area from next.

It is clearly time for investment in a modern do-it-all gadget that would enable me to upload new posts on a whim. A calming 3.5 hours was spent yesterday afternoon contemplating the showroom of a local garage whilst they fulfilled a 'stop and wait' appointment to try and cure the small car of its tendency to halt the windscreen wipers at half-mast. Forewarned, I took a notebook, the day's newspaper, a book to begin and a list of texts to send. In spite of the time taken for them to be unable to cure the car, I was offered cold drinks and hot, the television in the corner played constant news on a depressing loop and I was enquired after solicitously on numerous occasions. I decided that perhaps I should book a regular slot at said garage each week for calming purposes. I found an old postcard, wrote it and then drummed my fingers. I could have blogged, if only for a gadget.

The car is still under warranty; a fact that I knew, and they had forgotten. The engine was stripped, new parts were sought, the car lifted up, and back down again and suitable amounts of tutting and procrastination. When I reminded them that I'd like to take the car home with me as child #1 needs to practice reversing manouevres, teeth were sucked apropos time and effort taken to put the car back together (still windscreen wiper problems) and reminders given re costs. I waved the warranty, they blanched, muttered some more, provided more tea; some poor soul sweated away to re-make the car and I drove off, the wipers resolutely saluting the technicians at their 90 degree angle. If we push gently the wipers will resume a position of recline. When it rains they insist on stopping half-way, unless engaged at full pelt. So, if you see a car with wipers going nineteen to the dozen when you've only just noticed the first spot of precipitation, you'll know why!

The car is re-booked for next week. I'm selecting my reading material already!

Armies have marched

The armies marched under cover of darkness.

Or rather, the first platoon left yesterday morning and the second in the briefest of hours last night when one isn't quite sure whether it's still light from the evening before, or whether the new dawn beckons.

Readying members of the family for holiday departure is akin to preparing for military manouevres; a little less convoluted this time as there are those of us who remain to steady the fort against water-borne assault. Nonetheless, male representatives of this family are happy to talk the talk with regard to holiday preparations and there has been much discussion in recent months over dates, times, equipment needed, validity of health insurance, food supplies - perhaps I should re-order this list as the latter should clearly be in prime position - and the volume thereof, bedding, clothing...

As a caring mother and wife I have nodded words of encouragement, paid instalments to educational establishments in the case of the first platoon, occasionally asked whether anything was needed of the second. Assurances were given that all was under control, and although I've 'been there, done that' too many times to be taken in, I was.

We undertook a speed tour of the local city in the early evening two days before departure. Watersports holidays require an inordinate quantity of spare clothing it would seem and the internet shopping delilvery man gave up checking whether this was the house he thought it might be (we've been missing a house sign for a few years now) and has learned not to fear the mock-dobermans that roam the yard.

Platoon No 2 very much took the, 'if we don't ask for help, we won't need it' approach - otherwise known as burying one's head in the small gritty stuff found on most beaches. Thus the car required for the journey across La Manche was still in the garage yesterday with only one or two minor things still to work on, (as this particular reccy is all about a certain classic car rally, it was relatively necessary). Panic buying of supplies took place two days ago; I ignored complaints about the size of the family tent and refused to invest in a smaller version to better fit in the car as we have had both tent and car for some years, there has been time to work out if one will cram into the other. Cries of 'Where are the picnic blankets...the cool-box...have you seen the spanner, you know the one that?' have been neatly deflected, but I confess to feelings of relief in the knowledge that the first child must now be near the end of his journey and the second contingent are probably rocking their way across the waters right now (I did hear the car return to the house once five minutes after departure, perhaps they did remember passports, tickets and money before it was too late).

 It was only last night that I realised I have no idea where Platoon No 1 has actually gone, the land of baguettes yes, but where exactly? Who knows?!

Wimbledon's centre court cover

The iron ring has been hammered in on the top floor; the chickens have scraped the weeds from the 1metre squared sandpit; towels have been washed and draped around the house to dry; a large supermarket shop is in, and stored upstairs, and the inflatable crocodile arrived express delivery yesterday. We are ready now for the worst this summer can throw at us.

Rather than buying in sand bags or asking the local council to take pity, the chickens (led by bored bantams) have made a sterling job of clearing the sandpit and children can now be press-ganged in to filling old sacks. These will be our first line of defence. Towels (those not taken on holiday by male members of the family, all of whom are conveniently away for the comings days), can be shoved against doors, or walls, wherever the water decides to creep in first.

Should the road outside prove to be impassable (water has crept from the river on to the tarmac for two of the last three days), we can sit smugly inside, with tins of pineapple, tuna and sweetcorn to stave off the hunger pangs

The iron ring provides a mooring point at which the inflatable crocodile and pastel-coloured swimming support can be tied, in event of the need for the family to set sail. Alas, I failed to persuade a strapping teen departing on a school watersports trip, that the ancient arm-bands would do as a prop for the planned inflatables-race on said trip; and, instead, had to forfeit the blow-up aeroplane in the interest of not losing cool (his, not mine!). Thus, we have our getaway craft, although I'm wondering whether the paddling pool and its lung-busting pillowed sides might also be pressed into service. Whilst not terribly aqua-dynamic, it would double as floating storage when we throw caution to the wind (or swamp) and launch ourselves from the top floor.

I no longer look at the forecast, the celestial swamp outside tells me all I need to know - and the long-suffering septic tank confirms the worst. Wimbledon finals this weekend, I shall look with envy at the gliding roof cover; do you suppose they make them to order?

Olympic torch parade

In light of my recent scenic tours of the countryside, it is with some trepidation that I note that tomorrow's designated city is also hosting the Olympic torch 'parade'. We, and several thousand others who plan to head to the city made famous by he who robbed the rich to feed the poor, will doubtless spend more time than we had hoped sitting in our vehicles.

Initially several tours and possible talks at a particular educational establishment were scheduled for an unearthly hour of the morning; now we're being urged to delay our arrival time, (not hard with my track record) and to expect delays. Oh, and had they mentioned we should expect to do lots of walking, and could we note the weather conditions as they're expecting marine biologists only and are providing the weather to match. The eldest child has blistered feed from yesterday's city tour; she went with others so got there and back in one hit, amazing. We shall return, southbound (although one never knows) on a Friday afternoon at about the time the city empties of workers and the highways and byways clog with those hopeful of a weekend in the sun.

I have ready: snacks, drinks, magazines, books, blister plasters, umbrellas, macs, comfortable shoes and am now thinking of taking; packed breakfast, lunch and evening meal for mid-motorway munchies; pillow, blanket, extra water and perhaps a camera in case anyone famous trots by with a flame aloft!

Better go and find a map, or directions...

Writing Conference

Bombarded by information, the old grey matter has gone into melt-down; surely not the desired effect of attending a wonderfully informative and lively conference?! Tempted by a friend's talk of the benefits of attending, I signed up for and attended the Winchester Writing Festival last weekend. It was like Fresher's Week - new environment, know nobody, eager to begin - but with less alcohol and then the first year's lectures in two days; a feast of advice and knowledge.

It's a far cry from sitting at home hunched over a desk, absorbed in the imaginary worlds of characters that floated in through the ether. Days of staring into space, willing words to flow, wondering where and when the next drama might unfold; and then hours of writing furiously and hoping that the thin threads linking my hand to the picture in my brain don't snap before I can get it all down on paper, or, occasionally, on the screen in front of me.

At Winchester, and doubtless other festivals and courses; you're surrounded by others who 'know'. Those who know how challenging, infuriating, saddening, depressing, uplifting, exciting, funny and exhilirating, and, ultimately, exhausting, it can be to try and bring an idea to fruition on the page; an idea that will entice the reader and envelop them in the world you have created. 

Artists are rarely asked when they'll exhibit at the Royal Academy, nor musicians when their next concert at the Albert Hall might be booked. Mention you write and, "Why aren't you a)published and b)on the Top 10 list?  I'm not sure we do it for the global attention (!), but the challenge and joy of hoping that someone, somewhere, might enjoy the stories we spin, some day.

The scenic route

There are those for whom life without a Tom-tom is unimaginable (other brands are available); those for whom downloading routes from a computer site makes their lives considerably easier; the old fashioned types who study out-of-date atlases, pour over B' roads in the hope they may provide an easy link between motorway A and B; and then are the few who, like me, know that such and such a city is north or west of my start point and head on out. How hard can it be?

Occasionally I jot down a few road numbers, or key cities I need to be passing, even the street name of my target sporting venue (usually the cause of long-distant UK trips). It works, mostly. Last week,I found an old cathedral town in the south of the country without much recourse to pulling in at lay-bys and on Sunday drove to a town in the north-east without a navigational pause - until we ended up outside a building supplies merchant that happened to share the same address as the budget hotel booked - when in doubt, double round the roundabout and you'll find the hotel hidden next to the plumbing warehouse, - worked a treat this time. Yesterday, I found my way through an ancient cathedral town (yes, another - not a deliberate theme), past throngs of would-be undergraduates and to the required university campus and appropriate car-park. I might have known it was too easy.

Suffice to say that our return trip took in parts of the country that we definitely hadn't passed on the way up!  I marvelled at how easy the 'stay on this motorway until signs indicate otherwise' policy was working. And then it occurred to me that, although it was a journey of some distance and I couldn't be expected to remember each and every set of roadworks, there weren't any, nor had there been for some time. And isn't Lincoln to the east of Nottingham rather than the west (good to know that a degree in Geography comes in handy sometimes)? Those signs asking me to slow to allow tractors to cross certainly weren't there on the previous day, and why acre after acre of potatoes rather than the trees of Robin Hood's hangout?

We stopped for sustenance and headed off again. Linking motorways were missed as my navigators (luckily neither hoping to study cartography) failed to find my scraps of paper in time; and then forgot to mention when they had. We exited one motorway, found an excellent A road and traversed beautiful countryside at speed and joined another motorway. Our exit junction - didn't exist, entrance to the motorway here only. Anxious to face due west and feel the sun on our faces, we persevered with As and Bs on the map, found Coventry, at which point a text was sent to say, 'Birmingham - ish' in response to queries for our whereabouts.

It was time for bells to toll by the time we arrived home; but we had seen hills, plateaux, rolling fields, woods, windmills (old and new), power stations, animals of all sorts, mining towns, derelict industrial units, fields of vegetables, farm shops, we'd gone past castles - and by-passed huge cities without knowing where they were. Now I'll have little to do to convince my two passengers that the city we had visited is only a short flight from here!

Editing

Should that be a - or a ,? Which is more fitting for the style of prose? What do I usually use in such circumstances, or have used in the previous chapter? Minor details can seem like big decisions!

Editing is not unlike cooking, a little dash of something extra can make the whole paragraph rise like a perfect sponge. Replace a single word with one not quite suitable and the result looks and feels decidedly flat. Words that have been written in an outpouring of ink on paper, summoned from inside the head of a character other than one's own, can leave me feeling exhausted at the end of the flow; convinced that I too have been murdering/loving/missing/creating in that character's stead. A period of cooking and cooling is definitely needed. Step away, do the washing up, mull it over, look through the oven door, but don't touch, not yet.

When the time comes to taste the cake, I'm never quite sure what I'm going to get. Did I add enough zest, or is there too much vanilla? Will a reader guess that so-and-so might be feeling cross or happy because I hinted at this several pages ago? A devourer of the cake doesn't necessarily want to know what has made it look and taste so chocolately, they simply want it to taste good - and preferably be calorie-free! So, I assume a reader wants to read, question a little and understand well, leaving him or her with a desire for more, for the next slice.

It can be tricky to know whether to change something that someone says or does, when it felt so right at the initial time of writing. Gut instinct versus some necessary distance.

So, red pen, purple pen, biros and pencils, wads of paper and post-it notes take the place of recipe books. I consult books, reference sites, dictionaries, imagination, instincts and memory and at the end of the day hope that inside it all there's a story with enough interest and Vim (although wasn't that a cleaning product?!) and charm of its own to become a book - when I've finished re-writing and editing. Time to ice the cake!

Egg-hunter

Our hens are a moveable feast. We move their coop, and a large stretch of electric fencing around the garden for a change of scenery every week or so.

Smokey - #1 in the pecking order - has, in recent months, shown utter disdain for the power of electricity. She lays her eggs at about 11 am most days and her preferred nest is anywhere other than the straw-lined nesting boxes provided. Thus the strutting and noises of disgust from 9 am onwards. She began by flying up on to the perch provided outside the hutch and then squawking in awkward flight over the fence. Clipped wings didn't prevent similar attempts, but did increase the abuse she dished out to anyone who happened to pass. Undeterred, she decided to walk on through the fencing, which basically involves treading it down and then hopping over. Her feathered comrades find the mild electric current off-putting. Not Smokey. She is after all, No.1, and one of the Sisters of Doom (a frightening partnership, of which more another time).

Nesting places have included the lavender bushes, underneath the rosemary/honeysuckle confusion, right in the middle of the sweet-pea teepee, in the dogs' shed (behind some wooden planks). Several different hideouts have been found in amongst the weeds - plenty to choose from - eggs have nestled right beside the road under the protection of an over enthusiastic elder and in the comfort of some grass clippings. The large bin in which the hen food is kept has been found to shelter in its lee a number of her eggs. The secret, we thought, was once we found the latest nesting place, to leave at least one egg; if this is done she returns, if not, she knows she's been rumbled and moves on.

Enter the dog. Never acclaimed for her wisdom, the elderly labrador is none-the-less an expert mouser and will happily spend many hours sitting by a mouse-hole anticipating the moment the small rodent might emerge. She meets with some degree of success in this method. She has also been watching us watching Smokey. The hen crows with delight at having laid an egg, a member of the family rushes out to spot the nesting place (but the hen isn't stupid, she wanders away from the site before letting rip), and retrieves an egg. Clearly, this stomach on legs that is our dog decided she wanted a piece of the action. She lies on the grass and observes, is up and off and searching before Smokey has so much as squeaked, and finds the egg before any human is aware that one has been laid. Scolding has no effect whatsoever, nothing can come between a dog and her morning snack. So, I'm about to continue with editing, with windows and door wide open (have to be careful there as Smokey will happily wander in and help herself to the small dog's food), with half an eye flitting to the window in case a yellow coloured hunter should pass by.

Hirsute heros score!

I am neither given to admiring too much facial hair on a man, nor to worshipping at the altar of the game that is referred to as the beautiful one.

The other-half has experimented once or twice with working on the whiskers and, at the time, I found it perfectly acceptable (you can sense the enthusiasm); the notion growing on me with each week, so to speak. It's the in-between part that I'm less keen on, the designer stubble so beloved of ageing film or pop-stars and some footballers - often those with thinner locks on top.

Football, I can take or leave. Boring for 90% of the time, spectators hang on in there in case the predictably good striker hammers one home, or the unbelievably awful mid-fielder - you see I do know the odd term - trundles up from behind the half-way line to pop one in the goal whilst the goalie's attention is elsewhere. Every time one of these tournaments comes round - which they seem to do with astonishing regularity - my heart sinks. The over-paid and over-there ones are followed by hordes of paparazzi, their every move and those of their loved-ones souped up and served up for our delectation on air, screen and paper.

However, I do enjoy watching members of the family play and can be hear to embarrass them with yells from the sideline (or is it touchline?); words of encouragement and suggestions as to movements - well it can't be that different from school-days hockey, can it? And when these regular global, or impoverished-monetary-unit zone, competitions feature I can, on occasion be found passing through a room with a screen showing a match. Answers to any questions in these circumstances will not be forthcoming from any male member of the family and I've found that passing notes under their noses doesn't work either. Half-time is devoted to a quick comfort stop, or re-stocking of liquid refreshment and, "Got any crisps or something, Mum?" In the face of such competition I find it best either to vacate the premises or to give in, feign interest and sit and watch. Gives me the perfect excuse to hold up my hands in question when asked, at the end of the match and commentary, "What are we eating?" I, too, have been watching animatedly; how can I know?

I digress: Hirsute men. Whilst watching half a match between our nation and a certain bearer of blue and yellow, I couldn't help but notice a bearded, viking-type on the pitch - though luckily less barrel-chested than traditional images of his marauding ancestors. His presence was dismissed by family members, yet I had clearly chosen well; he scored two goals and now I find that I may have to watch another match to see how he gets on. I shall advise him, (sure he'll be pleased to know) not to rid himself of the beard. Another Nordic hero of mine played Aragon in Lord of the Rings; magnificent with long-hair and beard, the actor has sadly disappointed in subsequent smooth-cheeked roles. If Mehlberg wishes to succeed, he needs to keep the facial hair.

Sock Dating Agency

Fed up feeling like the odd one out? Do you lean to the left, or the right? Black, white, coloured? We offer to match you with a partner with similar interests. Scroll down the available styles below and then simply fill in your details:

A. Black: Sizes from childrens 6 to Adult 13
     1. Sports style (ie thicker and more padded than the norm, which sums up the owners)
         i. with appropriate logo above the ankle
        ii. with fetching stripes to the side - to give the impression of speed
     2. Trainer-style, which to most of us means, those teeny-weeny pretensions to be socks that cannot be seen above the shoe. Not for the exhibitionist sock-lover. Usually in plain block-black, also seen with mock-leopard-print pink (for the closet fast-dresser.)
     3. Work socks - whether office or classroom. Thinner cotton. Adult sizes only. Block colouring at heels and toes, some with stripes at both ends, others with barely discernible black lettering (subtle, but a little too much so for we match-makers).

B. White: Sizes from childrens 9 to Adult 13
      1. Sports style - as above. Rarely seen in original colour, can be provided with varying shades of grey, orange, brown, green or pink soles.
          i. if for cricket, logos not seen underneath white, so exact match not essential
         ii. fetching stripes simply look like mud-stains, do you really want these?
      2. Trainer style. Limited numbers available, too little of original colour remaining to classify as white.
      3. Work socks - no one in their right minds...

C. Multi-coloured: Sizes from childrens 3 to Adult 6
     1. Long - fun socks available in the months prior to Christmas for novelty stocking-fillers. Available with a variety of Jolly Snowmen, Nordic knit-print, and Festive reds. Again, probably worn under trousers and therefore matching non-essential.
     2. Short - from short-short, trainer-style to ankle, to mid-calf, due to age-induced shrinking.

Any interest, apply within. All single socks available for immediate pairing.
Please - no donations expected, wanted or asked for.

Why am I here?

I opened the fridge to get the washing out yesterday. It's not the first time, I did once put the iron in the fridge, shut the door and turn away before I realised what I'd done.

We all have those infuriating moments when, having climbed the stairs and gone into the bed/bath room, we've had to go back to the ground level to try and trigger the initial prompt. 'Why am I here?' is a common refrain heard in this household, and sadly it's not a philisophical poser.

I've left my purse on top of the car, driven off, reached the shop, and 'ping', like some cartoon bubble the picture of the afore-mentioned appeared before me. Luckily, that time, I retraced my path and found the purse in the middle of the A38, some contents scattered across the road. A busy road, and one that parents admonish their children for walking too close to. This time, I just held the traffic up with an assurance I didn't feel (my hand and many nods and mouthed thanks), ran into the road and scooped up the bits and pieces. My loyalty card for a well known chemists still has a sharp crease down its length and I've given up trying to explain why.

I left the elderly dog, in her youth, at a friend's house and had absolutely no idea that I'd done so until a 'phone call some time later. Perhaps I was subconsciously enjoying the 'one less thing to do' ease of dealing only with the off-spring when I returned. The friend concerned had wondered when I might turn back on my journey home, or whether the penny would drop once I had got everyone out of the car. Not a clue.

At least it wasn't a child. Having dropped the eldest children at school one morning, I left the premises talking to two other parents and suddenly realised that not all was well. Keys were in my hand, fine on that front. Then, "Oh, no, I've forgotten ...(toddler)..." A quick glance to the road to check,  back behind me. No, nobody around. There was silence from my companions. As I turned to begin my run back into the playground, one cleared her throat and said, "You're holding her hand, she's here!" 

I have researched and produced conferences and seminars for handfuls of people and thousands; understood relatively complicated technological advances and strategies for dealing with their implementation, can metamorphose hundreds of 'phone calls and hours of reading into one salient point; but I can't find my child at the end of my arm - I am clearly beyond the half-way point in life's journey!

Summer Wedding

Now here's a hot business tip for the entrepreneurs out there, summer thermals. Ideally, these should be a little lighter in their make-up than the thick-set woolly numbers that traditionally surfice during winter months, yet still have the ability to warm chilled torsos, and let the body breathe should there happen to be a ten minute burst of summer.

Fortunate enough to attend a wedding in the west country last Saturday, my choice of outfit (see earlier post re forsaking the Greeks in favour of trying to 'divert' weight gain), was ultimately decided by the on-going drought conditions. I have two dresses that are hauled from the back of the cupboard for weddings, generally alternated depending on how many friends/relatives saw it last time and will be attending the current event. This time the chill factor held sway and I sallied forth in the blue for the simple reason that my most light-weight thermal would fit under it. With legs a 'holiday-moisturising-tan' streaked colour, I felt that I had given a nod to the season of summer, whilst preventing the on-set of hypothermia.

The church is one we know well, it is small and the congregation large in number. Arriving in what I felt was good time (fifteen minutes before the bride), it was a case of standing-room only. We had the best view in the house and I offered up a prayer of thanks to the inventor of wedge heels, it was their inventiveness that meant I was still able to walk an hour later. But, a small, full church, bathed in a few watery rays, soon heats up. The jacket came off, but it's a  little harder (and undoubtedly inadvisable) to remove thermals during a wedding ceremony. When the vicar asked us to leave in an orderly manner I'm not sure he'd realised the need for open windows and a quick 'one-two' frog-march out of the door.
For the rest of the day my 'ski-smart,light-weight' warmer worked a treat and instead I spent time wondering when it might be acceptable to swap my open-toed shoes for the socks and trainers option (or wellies), waiting in the car.

W for Wife

Whilst I have no doubt that my choice of life-partner was one of my better decisions, I was clearly far too naive to think of writing a pre-nup, (in my defence I'm not sure they existed back in the day). Thus D for drainage comes under W for wife - this also covers P for plumbing.

Living in a city for a number of years the only plumbing required was dealing with the far end of young children. Things changed when we moved to the Celestial Swamp. Our predecessors were kind enough to leave us with lengths of detachable drainage rods, complete with a variety of 'ends', the like of which probably formed the basis for many a medieval torture chamber. Perhaps a warning light should have come on when we first noticed these stashed neatly at the back of the tool shed.

On this fine Jubilee weekend many are baking fairy cakes, chilling beer and firing up the BBQ; I have spent the afternoon up to my elbows in a variety of substances that, singly, are enough to frighten potential burglars; combined, and I'm amazed anyone has dared to cross the threshold in recent days. The assistance of the small dog, whose insistence on digging grit, chasing imaginary mice and chewing on wood had undoubtedly contributed to the problem in the first place did not help. On a muggy day and covered from head to foot to prevent said substances covering me, having a small terrier climbing up ones back, yapping and then treading in the offending backed-up drainage pool, didn't help! My only consolation was that at least it was above 0 degress celsius, wasn't raining and neither was it hours before a party, all of which has happened before - the latter during a memorable Christmas.

Job done, I have subsequently scrubbed my hands and arms several times in antiseptic, anti-gardening, anti-pong soaps, (I know there is no point in rubber gloves, yet insist on wearing them each time, only for the offending blockage to be so deep as to flow over and into the gloves). I've 'aired' my arms, left them a while and washed again and they are now covered in thick cream in an attempt to disguise the scent. The large dog, meanwhile, is busy sniffing round the garden for flicked up samples from the blocked drains, no accounting for taste!

Tripping the line fantastic

On a quick errand earlier, I passed a herd of Jersey cows. They were ranged along the length of the low stone wall; eyes the size of saucers looking with amusement, not at me, but at the farmer standing close by.
Hundreds of metres of bunting has been fluttering along this particular stretch of road - proclaiming the farmer's support for our monarch, and welcomng all to the village concerned - for some days now.

Today, the farmer stood with a length of bunting looped in one hand, his other stretched to the side with a further extension. For a moment it looked as though he was about to try his hand at rodeo lassoo, static-jubilee fashion.  Too good to miss, I slowed down to watch.

The cows stayed still and continued to observe the lone figure getting closer to them. The bunting had blown in the breeze and the farmer was about to engage in a complex line dance in order to sort himself out. So, with a,'you, Flo', move to the right a little,' and 'Daisy, back a bit, will you' he began to untangle the regal tribute. I am pleased to report that the bunting is tied again in its rightful place and the herd concerned are grazing unconcerningly once more, albeit a little more hoof-co-ordinated than they might have been a few hours ago. Only in Somerset!

What's in a name?

The title of the blog.

I'm writing this blog to get used to the idea that, if I'm ever to be published, I should have an online presence of some sort, besides which it provides a good way to 'write myself in' on some days, then go off and toil away with pen and paper over my novel!

A Sulu is a Fijian word for a sarong. The book that I'm writing is largely set in Fiji, so for me Sulus in Somerset is a way of combining the two locations. Chronicles of chaos - the strapline - is hopefully self-evident should you read any of the other posts in this blog!

I'm currently re-writing and editing the manuscript for my first novel. Sometimes this means going off on tangents and wondering how many books I'm trying to write in one go, at other times I sit and stare at the wall and wonder when the heck inspiration is going to hit home! Like many other aspiring writers, I can spend hours, if not days, with brain ache really working at a few sentences or paragraphs that simply won't flow; and then sit in a cafe whilst a child is training and write a chapter in an hour and a half - often the first is necessary for the latter to happen.

With all children at school, I have become accustomed to wandering between my pads of A4 paper and the computer at will, (being a Luddite I still prefer to write in long-hand before typing something up, not the case for this blog as you can probably tell); with children at home for exams, that freedom of flow has been disrupted. We have a laptop, two in fact. The one designated for parental use chose the onset of study leave to pack up, the other is in constant use by teens, all assuring me of their absolute need for its use and who am I to argue with GCSEs/AS etc in full flow? So there is a clamour over this computer. I snatch moments, such as these, when my offspring are in full exam panic and sitting at desks answering impossible questions in exam halls, to make corrections to my script, type up new ideas and to write this.

My mind is invariably in the world of the book, and all the things I'm going to have to do in order to try and get it published, what I'm going to do if it isn't, do I begin the next one, go back to the day job...these brief blogs give a glimpse of what happens when I rear my head above the parapet and realise there are other things going on out there!

Chelsea Flower Show?

I had a quaint idea many moons ago when we moved to Somerset from the big smoke; that I, like my grandmothers before me, would have a garden full of fabulous herbaceous borders, roses would proliferate in abundance and hollyhocks would welcome all at the gate.

The hollyhock was eaten this winter, having never flowered. I did plant honeysuckle, two actually. One twines decorately through a hornbeam tree, but is on the side of the house never seen except by those driving at speed down the road outside; the other spreads desperately in every direction, still waiting in vain for the trellis that the other half was going to install some 10+ years ago. We've had moderate success with roses, until the recent drought meant that the garden became so waterlogged that the rose arch finally rotted and, aided by strong easterly winds, crashed to the ground, where it remains. The roses themselves are still in situ, but currently re-aligning themselves through the horizontal arch and trellis.

We have one flowerbed, it took me twelve years to dig and in the intervening time has changed constantly in content. This is not due to some wonderful on-going plan that I have, rather to my assistant gardening team.

I plant bulbs/seeds/seedlings, it matters not. Firstly, the hens regard the flowerbed as their afternoon dirt-bath domain. This involves scratching out a large enough basin for them to snuggle down in, then flinging a bit more earth about to cover the feathers, basking in a trance like state for about half an hour or more, then getting up to scratch and dig at the flower bed in the hope that any escaping slugs or worms might be snapped up. They move on, but reserve the right to revisit at any chosen moment during the day. The installation of sturdy netting over the top fooled no-one. All eight firstly trod nonchalantly over the top, treating it with utter disdain, then simply dislodged it and proceeded to have their dirt bath underneath. They didn't look quite so content as usual, but they were prepared to put up with the circumstances.

Dogs one and two are partial to a bit of bone-burying and imaginary mouse-hunting. Both exercises involve choosing a separate part of the flower bed to those already excavated by the fowl and digging until shouted at; then resuming said activity as soon as the human concerned has turned their back.

I am further assisted by the playing of sport. Footballs and cricketballs have snapped delphiniums, mashed lupins and broken foxgloves clean in two. Barriers of wooden planks, garden chairs, old milk crates (remember the GroundForce team and all their 'features'?), a catching net and the garden bench have all been pressed into service to try and protect this modest bed - no effect whatsoever.

Then there's the lawnmower, all too easy to swing around at the end of a row and 'woops' there go the trailing daisies or whatever poor plant has attempted to venture over the brick border - which to be fair to whoever is mowing, is usually hidden beneath long grass.

So, this spring I have one lupin plant where once I had several. My swathe of alium (that's probably alii in multiples!), was reduced to a straggling, but still curvaceous line, then last year to a trio of starburst spikes. This year, one lone white alium stands head and shoulders above everything else - won't last long with the cricketers about. When I first began planting, I had a plan (sort of); but nothing looked as it should have done come the requisite time. Now, I pretty much just bung everything in the middle and wait for the hens and dogs to redistribute. Not quite guerilla gardening, but it may as well be! Do you suppose there's a class for this kind of design at Chelsea?

Iced coffee

A double whammy here; revitalising and cooling, an alternative to well known brands-in-a-can on a warm day.

This is a speeded up version that we enjoy every summer:

1.  In a large glass put twice the amount of coffee granules, (or more depending on glass size), and dilute with about an inch of hot water - taking care to make sure you have a spoon or heat conducting something in the glass to prevent the glass cracking.
2.  Top up to about 2/3rds full with cold water
3.  A good dollop of milk, but so it's still on the dark side
4.  2 or 3 ice cubes
5.  Scoop of ice-cream, or two

Voila! sunglasses, deck chair and you have it all.


Should you think all the dairy might not do wonders for the waistline, just remember all those articles one reads stating the benefits of both caffeine for health (circulation?!) and calcium for bones. Personally, I feel that the cold caffeine helps to speed up circulation, thus further aiding the cooling process enacted by the cold water/milk/ice. The ice-cream is a necessary bonus.

For the purists, make up a cafetiere or percolator full of 'proper' coffee in advance and place in fridge, then continue from step 2 above whenever you're ready.

Ticket time!

Zeus, in his Olympiad, tipped us the wink yesterday.

At the click of 11.00 the computer behaved and I applied for tickets. A short wait informed me that I hadn't been successful (there's a ticking clock in our national colours, the design of which is, I think, meant to be avant garde, but can be mighty annoying after a while). Undaunted I tried again, and again, and again. Copying cryptic lettering that with one pair of glasses, then another, still remained obtusely blurred, I felt that I must be on the home strait. 15 minutes or more to wait and then I'd be told whether or not the tickets I'd like would have been reserved - the dutiful red, white and blue clock told me.

I won't bore you further, suffice to say that I managed to edit half a chapter in between waiting times (if you're not successful, you have to go right back to the beginning and start again, no quick flicks between dates, times or sports) and learned that it doesn't do to get too excited when the clock tells you there's only 2 mins to go before you find out; it reserves the right to flick straight back to informing you that there's still 9 minutes to go. Cups of coffee can become cold!

Once an efficient schedule type page tells you that you have met with success there comes a daunting few minutes when you're invited to pay, all set against the clock. A stop-watch at the top of the page tells you how many minutes and/or seconds are left for you to input the relevant debit card number and then later security card nos etc. Easy under normal circumstances, unnerving when you know that the previous 45 minutes of cat and mouse with a computer screen might come to naught should you input an incorrect digit (that could sound dodgy!)

Some of us are off to watch basketball in the morning of the appointed day and others to watch diving the same afternoon. Although it would appear that I have paid for a further two basketball tickets (to enable all of us to see one event together), my friend the ticking clock has yet to see fit to confirm that purchase. I haven't decided at what stage I'll be brave enough to enter the labyrinth that will undoubtedly be the query system!

Cropped trousers

Is it only me that, in this season of fewer layers, catches the odd glance in the mirror and then looks down? That rounded silhouette; was it there last year?

I knew the trousers were tight when fresh through the wash, but had attributed it to the characteristics of denim...or wool...or cotton. Or perhaps I could wear the skirt/jeans a little lower on the hips this year, more flattering I'm sure. The top button becomes harder to fasten after a meal, but with judicious adjustments to the multi-layered shirts and jumpers, no one need be any the wiser.

Sadly the pudding paunch will not squeeze into my cropped trousers - they have clearly been cropped in more ways than one! Some time ago we, (that is I, the head-chef), issued a 'no puddings during the week' edict. The weekend begins on Friday and then Sunday's puds are usually either large enough or plentiful in number to cater for visiting friends or family and, conveniently, last until Monday. And a small fruit crumble to fill the kids is surely fairly healthy and wouldn't really count on a Tuesday, or Wednesday.

Did you say yoghurt? A health food and therefore a necessary part of the diet and a natural understudy for those non-dessert days. Greek yoghurt is also a breakfast speciality for me (someone has to prop up their economy); but they're going to have to exit the euro without me. In two weeks and two days I'm off to a wedding. The dress (an old favourite), won't zip up and a voluminous jacket or shawl required to offset the puddings wouldn't do the frock any favours.

A fortnight of behaving in martyr life fashion beckons.

Does a magnum count as pudding?

Fire up the Quattro!

As an addendum to the last entry, we have a new thrill to add to the current levels of examination excitement in this household.

One offspring was due to sit an exam on Friday afternoon at 1.30. Feeling, a)relatively organised about the whole thing, and b)unduly relaxed; we felt that a 1.00-1.15 arrival at the school would stand the said person in good stead. Lunch was being eaten, last minute testing taking place when at 12.53 (it's relevant!), eldest child burst in to say a call had just been taken from exam candidate's friends, asking where they might be. The exam time had been changed and was due to get underway at 1.00.

Child concerned leaps for shoes, grabs pens, pencils etc, mother swears and fires up the quattro (I wish), 'phone call taker mans the gates and they're off. I apologise to all those living in the intervening villages - I did observe the 30mph where possible - but I'm relatively pleased to say that I have awarded myself the current unofficial land speed record between our house and my children's educational establishment.

We didn't 'burn rubber', but the ancient vehicle swerved to a magnificent running halt (there is such a thing, believe me) and deposited the teen without ceremony, nor a fare-thee-well. That GCSE candidate began the exam at the same time as others, but with a somewhat faster heartbeat.

The exam department had, in their infinite wisdom, apparently altered the timings 48 hours before. As yet, we have not had a 'phone call, message, text, e-mail nor any other form of communication from them informing us of the fact. I have nearly calmed down enough to feel that a 'phone call from me is now appropriate; especially in light of the 10 different papers due to be sat by the eldest offspring this week.  Next time you see a frantic looking, middle-aged woman belting along at inappropriate speed, you'll know that it may not be a medical emergency, but it'll feel like it to the person concerned!

Halcyon youth?

Ever feel as though you're re-visiting your youth? Sadly, I don't mean the halcyon days of gazing out of the classroom at daisy filled meadows, sunshine filtering through the windows as you dream of ...or an endless round of parties and pubs, late nights and even later mornings.

It's exam time and I have daily reminders of distribution anomalies; conjunctive verbs; the importance of Piggy in Lord of the Flies; arguments for and against capital punishment; regressive taxation; lung disease, (there's a common link between the latter two that a geo-biologist with a zen for economics would relish); equations so complex that they feature only letters, and a few ( ) +s and - s and can you balance them - with a pair of scales maybe?

In this time when we are constantly told, and maybe in our smugness feel; that exams have been dumbed down and it's so much easier to get an A grade than it used to be, that taking exams in instalments over a number of years takes the pressure off the students; it seems to me that the 15-18 year olds have nothing but pressure piled on them from the moment they begin year 10 - although that start date varies, I have a 15 year old who took a first GCSE paper at the age of 13 and a bit; not because he's a child genius, but because the school decided it might be a good idea that year. They introduced a different policy by the time the next child reached the same stage, and it will be changing again shortly - well, why not?

My current gripe (I have many) is a comment I have ringing in my ears from teachers of an AS student, informing both of us that grammar needed to be worked on (French). Bearing in mind I was sitting in front of the very teachers that had taken this student through the 5 years to GCSE, I wondered when it was they planned on sorting out a problem they had only just perceived in a current class size of 5 pupils. My youngest, however, informs me that after nearly a year of learning a foreign language, they have yet to learn any verbs, at all. Therein lies the answer to my question.

Forgive the rant, although each year I become an expert in some of the above mentioned disciplines, sometimes the exam tension gets to we parents too!

£74 milk and Thelma and Louise

Abandoning a child to an hour of sporting activity with promises of being back in 10 mins, I hurried off on Saturday to a small supermarket close by. One bottle of milk was needed - albeit a 4 pint bottle - and then I supposed some bread for lunch would be a good idea. The apples looked tastier (mirror, mirror on the wall blood red); but not to worry, these items would all fit into the bag I'd brought with me. The quick-shop sized trolley that I'd inadvertently collected instead of a basket soon filled; how can it be possible to get through a weekend without at least half a pint of cream and a bottle of wine? If I bought this chicken, it would save de-frosting the one at home in the freezer, much easier. BBQ the next day? Why not? Coals, salad stuff, the requisite amount of meat...

"Would you like any bags?"

Well, with the best will in the world my family sized four pints, which had morphed into 2 such bottles, wouldn't fit into my bring-along bag alongside all the other essentials! "£74, please." Punching numbers on a pin pad is too easy a method of payment, painless, which is perhaps their intention. I'd had enough cash for the milk.

It was a small supermarket in a provincial town and the exit strategy to the car left a little to be desired. Young trees, old men, discarded rubbish, loose paving stones set like man traps ready to ping your feet either 6" higher than the other, or down, catching ankles in doing so. The ground was on a natural slope, so the bags slipped downside, the font of the trolley swung round, but with so little shopping (only the milk and one or two extras after all), I marvelled at my control.

The cross-country route seemed quickest. To walk to the nearest designated deliberately designed slope as access point to the car park, would mean trailing behind at least 3 more people, none of whom were in a Saturday morning hurry.

Amazing what flight trajectory can be achieved when pushing at pace off the edge of a pavement. Think Thelma and Louise, we sailed through the air and clunked onto the tarmac (that was just my knees), hands still on the trolley handle and willing my legs to follow suit. Three hours sleep the night before hadn't enabled my brain or body to have co-ordination of thought or action. Tomatoes rolled, bread, (carefully placed on top of the shopping when packing), squished under the bag of charcoal and cereal skidded to a half under a smart looking sporty number (car, not man!).

In time to see the relevant child complete the second half of their lesson, I was happy simply to stand and watch, no tempting packaging or trolley racecourses in sight.

Olympic tickets gone

I have a conspiracy theory: Locog have squirrelled a little memo into their ticketing programe that blocks this household, thus preventing purchase of tickets for the people's games this summer.

Happy to accept accusations of sour grapes, I can't help be disappointed that, having registered as one of the keen ones back in 2011; tried valiantly on the correct date to apply for anything and everything, submitting the family home to potential re-mortgage in the process; failed on all accounts, and then risen at some ungodly hour second time around only for the 'system' to freeze and then this computer to overheat in all the excitement and shut down just as I went to press the key to authorise payment, I was doubtful that this last chance tranche would prove fruitful.

So far, I'm right, which in itself is vaguely gratifying, but not the desired outcome. I suspect that we'll be camping out round the god that is the television for the pertinent sporting fixtures during the Olympics, talking the talk, persuading ourselves of the hideousness of the imagined journey to the big smoke and the crowds once there, and eating our way through all things calorific to justify the disappointment - swilled down with the appropriate liquid refreshments to help invoke the thrill of the competitive chase!

 

Water off a duck's back

I think the hens are subscibing to the Met Office's website; they're sulking. Each time the forecast is for a dry day their hopes are dashed and they're reduced to mumbling amongst themselves, "...all very well for ducks...", "...water off a D--'s back, hah...". The broody hens have given up, there is clearly no hope when the chicks will have to learn how to swim before they can walk, and even the Sisters of Doom (#s 1&2 in the pecking order) have stopped chasing magpies from their enclosure.
We've moved them to new pecking ground, given them extra things to perch on, but they couldn't be less interested - its the splash when they fly down, dirties the feathers and makes a dreadful mess! Next stop, some budgie style mirrors or tinkling bells to keep them amused. Thankfully their biological spring clocks haven't stopped ticking and we're dining on omelettes, meringues and all things eggy (cakes, custards, more meringues, pancakes if the rest of the family had their way!).
However, on a positive note, we're doing our bit for the environment with water butts full, the plants (those that aren't floating off to the rhynes on their own personal islands) are well watered, the hosepipe is coiled - well that's a lie, but it isn't being used - so bring on that BBQ summer that we were promised last year.

Lists and Harry Potter spells

Do you keep lists?  In my advanced years, I've abandoned them. Never read them, never get to the end of them, can't see the point.

In my youth (think last century), an uncanny knack for remembering endless mundane details days, weeks, months in advance meant that I scorned the need for diaries, knowing that a dentist appointment at 08.45 in four months time; September 18th, for example, was on a Thursday and that I had a review meeting scheduled with another department later that day after the dentist and that I'd have to research ideas 1-10 on certain days before then; that baked beans had been omitted from the seemingly random names of potential food shop items floating around my head, that I had remembered to 'phone the plumber and that I could take work calls from home on Tuesday week when the fridge repair-man might deign to show up, having failed to do so two months earlier.

Slowly the written word as a memorandum became a necessity and lists pinned to the office wall or shoved in a purse increased in length, some items with arrows pointing to them to remind me of their importance. I wouldn't shop without one; babes, tooddler and teens either chewed, ripped or ignored them.  Supermarket lists came - and went - as quickly. Like many others, I enter a drug-like trance when entering any shop with over 20 square feet to its name and simply follow the designated route up and down each aisle. The obvious exception is the one with the most important item for that week, without which the household might collapse. That aisle has, Harry Potter style (apologies to JKR), some room of requirement spell cast over it which the flustered brain has no hope of remembering to summon. Thus, many an exhausted arrival home has been followed by exasperated cursing.

Now, I have a grading system, of sorts. Scraps of paper are often found stuffed into handbag pockets or slipped between telephone directories; hard to decipher and usually meaningless by the time they've been discovered. Larger pieces of paper with scrawled script lie by the computer, work reminders, 'don't forget to order oil' reminders. When times get tough and too many parallel thoughts threaten to intervene, long lists appear in the vain hope that some things listed will be crossed out. These lists are left on the kitchen table, next to the car keys, anywhere that might actually catch the eye amongst the clutter (hard in this house). It works - for a day or so. Days later I might find it in the dog's basket, with added lines in red biro or felt tip from a hopeful child.

So, I've given up. The result has been that I have managed to forget the birthdays of long-standing friends whose special days fall in the first few months of this year, I have a godson who is doubtless casting aspersions on the validity of his godparent - although I remember now that I've forgotten, I never remember to remember to do anything about it - I wonder daily whether the plumber has forgotten where we live and any day now we'll run out of oil, again.

Bogside - paddling hens

How can one possibly persuade our dignified layers that no one will laugh if they decide to paddle? Their feathers are ruffled, and with competition for perching places ruthless, there are those whose feet are decidedly muddy. They lift their legs high and squawk indignantly at the prospect of wetting their feet further, but in the drought-stricken Somerset countryside there is little alternative.
We are adhering to the threatened hosepipe ban with remarkable ease and feel, a little piously, that our H2O uptake is remarkably low for a household containing quite so many inhabitants.  This has been aided by the continuous state of flood alert in which we have placed ourselves and our septic system; meaning that facilities at school/friends houses/workplaces are highly recommended and an 'only if you must' system operates on home territory. Sheets remain unwashed and speed showers are the norm. So far, friends continue to visit and no one has moved too many seats away in the cinema or at the school gate, diplomatic one and all.
Up to chapter thirteen of the 1st re-write and unsure how many more to go - this is a re-write after all. Deadline coming up with remarkable speed and I try to chop,change, re-instate and change again all the time wondering whether this is a marketable story. On with Ch:14!
Yours with wet feet...

Water Features in Somerset

Water Features

My early morning drive might have been better undertaken in an amphibious vehicle (perhaps the type seen traversing the Thames in London, yellow and frog-like, although other members of my family might prefer the somewhat more professional khaki camouflage of the armed forces). Our lane on the Somerset levels is remarkably splash free thanks to the constant vigilance of the local water board and enviromental agency, but once we began to climb we encountered some fun new water features on the roads. Central Bristol has an extremely co-ordinated looking 'low fountain' arrangement, reflecting the city's maritime past and the point to which the docks used to come. I wouldn't like to comment on how much the city council may have spent on said structure, but we came across several guerilla-features this morning, self-constructing, free for a while; almost 'pop-up' attractions, if you will.
Drains have been rendered redundant as water pours straight from fields onto our nearest A road, the resultant muddy waters making the 'guess how deep the puddle' game infinitely more fun.
The garden and pond have melded into one, water from the bordering rhynes happily joining all in a bid to isolate the house on its own small island. We watch the river on the opposite side of the lane with interest, but it is the rising ground water which causes the most concern; not least because the distance of the property from the village means that we have our own septic tank and soakaway system. With groundwater levels this high, I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Suffice to say it's foolish to wash dishes, clothes or ourselves and leg-crossing is de rigeur.