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...
Thursday, 28 June 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
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!
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!
Thursday, 21 June 2012
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!
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!
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 18 June 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 11 June 2012
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!
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.
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.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
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!
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!
Friday, 1 June 2012
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!
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!
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