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!
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
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?
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?
Monday, 28 May 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 24 May 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
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?
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?
Monday, 21 May 2012
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!
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!
Friday, 18 May 2012
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!
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!
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
£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.
"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.
Monday, 14 May 2012
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!
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!
Friday, 11 May 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 10 May 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
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...
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...
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
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.
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.
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