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.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
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.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Autumn to Advent, Calm before Chaos
In light of last year's crisis at Christmas (see only other blog entry), this year the family hope to enjoy a more relaxed affair.
The Autumnal months have been full, so we have reached December 1st with Advent calendars at the ready, and that's all thus far for the festive season. Yet again, my children rest assured in the knowledge that they are the only people in Somerset, nay Britain, perhaps the western world, not to have a chocolate filled piece of card. Call me Bah Humbug, but I don't need zippy little ones pumped up on choc and firing on all cylinders over the cereal; besides which I'm the traditional type and I'm not sure how a Barbie pink calendar with corresponding chocolates corroborates the Christmas story.
Building works in the early Autumn began with a burst pipe flooding the appropriate floor. I hadn't appreciated how many stopcocks could be located in hedges and under sinks before the new water feature fountain could be persuaded to slow to a trickle. The joy continued with a humourless door-fitter with the charm of a toad. He shouted, was rude, insulted anyone within a 5 metre radius - and then left with the frame propped with pieces of plastic, the door certainly not the one I ordered, and a seething monologue about the height of the floor. His offensive barrage was effective, it took me twenty four hours to realise that the entire farce had been of his making and not mine.
Hit and run accidents no doubt happen all the time. Being a victim (albeit unharmed) of one is no fun. Over two months after an unthinking and unrepentant teen decided to drive into my car and continue on her journey without stopping (leaving me hopping up and down on the pavement like a demented banshee), the insurance issues have still not been resolved. The inter-dependence of this multi-faceted industry left me reeling. My breakdown service of choice were unable to help, a third party was sent at vast expense. Familiarity with our local garage paid dividends, they stayed open for me to arrive on the back of a vast lorry and soothed appropriately. The police are efficient, take all details and dispatch you. Your insurers are not who you think they are - but you tell them the story in second-by-second detail anyway. Repeat this performance with the underwriters, aka your real insurance company; and in case you haven't got a sore ear from being on the 'phone all morning, repeat the process yet again with the firm delegated to provide you with a courtesy car. Except it isn't a courtesy car, it's a replacement car which, let me tell you, is an entirely different kettle of fish. Should you so much as think of driving near a falling leaf, woe betide you, all blemishes are charged for. Efficient people, but they make their money that way. Deal with local school to try and ensure said hit-&-run driver knows that you, the injured party, is distinctly unamused and insurance companies will be in touch. But that takes weeks. Estimates for car damage have to be agreed, faxes (yes they're still used!) went missing, as did e-mails. It's too boring to continue. I have my car back, but my faith in the system is somewhat jaundiced. The happy teen is still driving her undamaged car each and every day. I don't wave.
November was NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - a sign-on-if-you're-mad scheme that challenges the writer to write 50,000 words between 1st and 30th November. I made an early calculation that the days I had available would mean 2,300 words per day. And then a child was ill. And a far-flung relation came to visit. Oh, and there's an inset day at school. The car insurance problems rumbled on. Building work finally finished, my supply of tea bags exhausted. Other half assumed that a visiting work mate coming to stay with 24 hours notice was no problem. Cleaning showers, making up beds, finding something in the fridge and cupboards to cook, whilst writing my now 4,000 words per day made for an interesting start to this week. And then the strike and all children at home! Someone was conspiring against me.
However, 50,252 words later, I stuttered to a halt on Tuesday afternoon, too tired to think and wondering how the hell I'd got there. I begin again on Monday, this time back to my pen and paper and a more modest daily word count.
The Autumnal months have been full, so we have reached December 1st with Advent calendars at the ready, and that's all thus far for the festive season. Yet again, my children rest assured in the knowledge that they are the only people in Somerset, nay Britain, perhaps the western world, not to have a chocolate filled piece of card. Call me Bah Humbug, but I don't need zippy little ones pumped up on choc and firing on all cylinders over the cereal; besides which I'm the traditional type and I'm not sure how a Barbie pink calendar with corresponding chocolates corroborates the Christmas story.
Building works in the early Autumn began with a burst pipe flooding the appropriate floor. I hadn't appreciated how many stopcocks could be located in hedges and under sinks before the new water feature fountain could be persuaded to slow to a trickle. The joy continued with a humourless door-fitter with the charm of a toad. He shouted, was rude, insulted anyone within a 5 metre radius - and then left with the frame propped with pieces of plastic, the door certainly not the one I ordered, and a seething monologue about the height of the floor. His offensive barrage was effective, it took me twenty four hours to realise that the entire farce had been of his making and not mine.
Hit and run accidents no doubt happen all the time. Being a victim (albeit unharmed) of one is no fun. Over two months after an unthinking and unrepentant teen decided to drive into my car and continue on her journey without stopping (leaving me hopping up and down on the pavement like a demented banshee), the insurance issues have still not been resolved. The inter-dependence of this multi-faceted industry left me reeling. My breakdown service of choice were unable to help, a third party was sent at vast expense. Familiarity with our local garage paid dividends, they stayed open for me to arrive on the back of a vast lorry and soothed appropriately. The police are efficient, take all details and dispatch you. Your insurers are not who you think they are - but you tell them the story in second-by-second detail anyway. Repeat this performance with the underwriters, aka your real insurance company; and in case you haven't got a sore ear from being on the 'phone all morning, repeat the process yet again with the firm delegated to provide you with a courtesy car. Except it isn't a courtesy car, it's a replacement car which, let me tell you, is an entirely different kettle of fish. Should you so much as think of driving near a falling leaf, woe betide you, all blemishes are charged for. Efficient people, but they make their money that way. Deal with local school to try and ensure said hit-&-run driver knows that you, the injured party, is distinctly unamused and insurance companies will be in touch. But that takes weeks. Estimates for car damage have to be agreed, faxes (yes they're still used!) went missing, as did e-mails. It's too boring to continue. I have my car back, but my faith in the system is somewhat jaundiced. The happy teen is still driving her undamaged car each and every day. I don't wave.
November was NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - a sign-on-if-you're-mad scheme that challenges the writer to write 50,000 words between 1st and 30th November. I made an early calculation that the days I had available would mean 2,300 words per day. And then a child was ill. And a far-flung relation came to visit. Oh, and there's an inset day at school. The car insurance problems rumbled on. Building work finally finished, my supply of tea bags exhausted. Other half assumed that a visiting work mate coming to stay with 24 hours notice was no problem. Cleaning showers, making up beds, finding something in the fridge and cupboards to cook, whilst writing my now 4,000 words per day made for an interesting start to this week. And then the strike and all children at home! Someone was conspiring against me.
However, 50,252 words later, I stuttered to a halt on Tuesday afternoon, too tired to think and wondering how the hell I'd got there. I begin again on Monday, this time back to my pen and paper and a more modest daily word count.
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