Super Mums!

Its official, I have it. Both my daughters have got it, theirs started in the week and today, yes, I have it. Swine Flu.

Girls developed colds to start with, but within 24 hours had taken to their beds, Mum raced off (on two separate occasions) for Tamiflu supplies and copious amounts of Lucozade and tissues.

Woke up with the sniffles this morning and, as previously arranged, set to, making concrete stepping stones for my new garden path. After making the wooden 'frames', digging out the soil, backfilling with hardcore and topping off with freshly mixed concrete and decorating with a little mosaic design on each one, I gradually began to feel sorrier and sorrier for myself, until we had finished the job, cleared up and sat down for (well deserved) coffee. Then I realised, I am rather poorly!

So, after washing the concrete dust from my hands and face, walking the poor dog (who, for obvious reasons cannot go out into the garden till at least tomorrow morning) cooking the two invalid daughters their dinner, washing up, typing up my (way behind the times) blog, having a bath and re-walking the dog (who by this time is actually crossing his poor little furry legs!) I will dig out my favorite PJ's, one of my favorite re-readable books and a fluffy dressing gown and collapse on the sofa for a hour or so.

It is times like these, when I catch myself wishing my old Mum was around, making me chicken noodle soup and bringing me hot drinks, but i guess it's that way for all of us, anyway, as my girls seem to think, Mums don't get it as bad, do they?

Peace Man!

Well, as the festival season draws inevitably to a close and I realise I have not, this year, attended one, I am left wondering if I should plan to go next year.

As the mother of two daughters, one almost twenty one and one almost eighteen - same week (bad planning on our part!) I am beginning to wonder, am I too old to go to festivals?

Oh I know you always get some die hards, us old hippies seem to be a tough breed. All that tofu, veggie mince and sunflower seeds must have done some good after all!

Does make you wonder though. I'd hate to be 'the crazy old hippy lady' that turns up at all the festivals, that would be embarrassing for both me and my offspring - who would probably deny knowing me!

I have matured though. I dont wear the cow bell anymore, or the love beads. I go home afterwards, on the predetermined day, so that I can return to work, responsibly, on the right day. I even come back with the same people I went with. Oh man, I even keep my clothes on nowadays!

Yes, perhaps it would be OK for me to attend for one more year. My twenty year old said there were a few people 'even older than you Mum!' at this years Download (Donnington Park). So it looks like there's hope for me yet.

Dont forget to look out for me next year, will you? You'll know who I am, just follow the zimmer frame marks in the mud and the waft of Patcholli!

Viva le France!!

My youngest daughter and I have just returned from our latest adventure. We went to Paris for a long weekend - on a shoestring (or cheaply if you prefer).

We arrived on Eurostar late afternoon early evening with no real notion of where our hotel lie. After fruitless map consultation we admitted defeat and phoned a friend who kindly texted us directions (these were so handy they are still saved on my mobile!) When we finally arrived at the aforementioned hotel I was slightly dismayed. From the outside it was pretty old and run down. We duly checked in and were told our room was on the first floor. As soon as we mounted the rickety spiral staircase with its faded red carpet and opened the door of room 21 I fell in love.

The furniture was old, the carpet was old, the room was the most peculiar shape and our 'bathroom' appeared to be inside a rather large cupboard, but the double doored window was wide open and the little railing outside it was actually touching the upper branches of one of the trees in the little square below. I was hooked. Although everything about the place was decidedly geriatric it was polished, bleached and boiled to within an inch of its life and the view of life on that little square was more addictive than any soap opera.

Over the next three days we visited the The Louvre, braved the Metro, was turned away from the Eiffel Tower (must remember to take that up with the Obama's) saw the Arc de Triomphe and spent a facinating morning at a flea market on the banks of the St Martin canal. We walked the Champs Eylsees shoulder to shoulder with millionaires!

I defy anyone to visit San Chappelle and not be rendered speechless by its beauty. I simply do not have the words to do it justice. Notre Dam was simply amazing and the Sunday morning on the banks of the river when it seems the whole of Paris come with picnic lunches, wine, children, dogs and any musical instrument they may possess, simply to enjoy each others company and music was an education. If you have'nt been yet and you get the chance, do go. We may not have bought designer labels or feasted on fabulous French cuisine (They have Lidl in Paris!) but it was a mini adventure I would not have missed for the world!

Sorry dog

Well, first, apologies. To the few people who actually read my blog, for my abysmal lack of the written word. I have had trauma. I have been flooded. I have bare boards in my hall, on my stairs and in my lounge.

It all started when we had a cold evening. I took the plunge and put the central heating on.

Who knew?

A couple of hours (three and a half actually) later I got up from the couch to lock the front door before we turned in for bed, and stood in a puddle. 'BAD DOG!' I said crossly, as you do. The dog looked hurt. As I proceeded out to the hallway I realised this was a 'big' puddle, the animal has some serious problem, I considered. It was only when I ascertained that the 'puddle' stetched all accross my lounge, down the hallway and up the first two stairs that I began to think the dog might be innocent after all.

The radiator pipe had split.

A strange thing, but it seems it is only at times like this that you realise some odd little quirks about the place you call home. It appears that in some houses the mechanism with which you are able to turn off the water supply is, in fact, OUTSIDE the premises. Not only is it outside, but it is, conveniently, approximately three feet down a hole which has a three inch circumferance. To operate this igenious mechanism, you need a common or garden metal rod with a triangular shape on the end. Guess what I'd forgotten to pick up in Tesco's?

Well, suffice to say, 'the man' came the next day. He shook his head, he sucked his teeth, he went away for a hour and a half to that mysterious shop, the one where all tradesman have to go to buy anything they need to fix a problem with your property - obviously not available at the hardware store accross the road.

I spent several glorious hours, pulling up sodden carpet and underlay, in a freezing house, and a couple more trying to prevent either of my two cats disappearing down the cavernous hole that 'the man' informed me he had to make in my hall, to get at the pipework. How we laughed.

Presently, we are finishing off re-painting the hallway and stairs, in preparation for my nice new carpet to be laid.

Maybe by then the dog will have forgiven me.

'THE SHED'

Next weekend I am going to venture out into the garden. (Or 'Beirut' as my daughters refer to it). Other than doing the 'dog poo run' (a joyous pastime) I have not really been out there yet this year. It shows, big time. I dearly love plants, but, sadly, Alan Titchmarsh I am not.


Last year, for the first time, I dabbled in vegetables (the growing you understand, I've been eating them in copious amounts for a while now) It did not end well. My tomatoes were actually edible and quite nice, but, strangely, they became cherry tomatoes. I planted normal ones but when they appeared, voila! cherry toms! I also had some measure of success with petits pois, in fact a little too much success. Now I love petits pois as much as the next man but I was giving them to friends just to get rid of them (and not all my friends like petits pois......evidently).


Anyway, working full time, keeping house and trying to find time to write does not leave me too much 'spare' time, so, I thought, this year I'd set up the garden to be as easily maintained as possible, whilst still looking nice.


A word from the wise. If you intend to do anything on these lines in your garden, I cannot stress too strongly, DO NOT read the gardening magazines to find out how. Well, not unless you've just won the lottery anyway.


The people who write these are incredibly wealthy!!! They blithely advise you to 'shingle' an area that tends to be in the shade a lot, to enable better drainage. Have you seen the price of those little stones?? I think I'd sooner get a couple of goldfish and call my badly drained area a 'water feature'.


Then there's my other 'garden problem'. Insects. I am ashamed to say that I am actually afraid to go into my shed. Why? Spiders. Oh, I know what you're thinking now. But these are big. OK, I admit that I am phobic, but these really are BIG.


In fact, the last time I was foolhardy enough to venture, unarmed, into that dank, dismal interior the spider that confronted me (and I do mean 'confronted', it reared up!) was so enormous, in the brief (was it ever brief!) time it took me to vault over the lawmower, impail my left foot on the grass rake and kick over a half full tin of hideous purple paint, I swear I noticed it was smoking a pipe and sporting a tattoo. This was big.

I guess I'll end up getting my beautiful, fearless daughters (did I mentionthey are beautiful? - they may read this) to brave the perils of 'The Shed' and dust down the mower, wipe the blood from the grass rake and plant my rather good petits pois.
Anyone out there like to put their name down for a few? Anyone??

Animal magic

Its a dogs life. I think everyone's heard that comment at one time or another. I've been thinking just what that must be like - for my animals anyway. My dog and two cats all have private health insurance. (It, evidently, costs more to remove my cats tooth than it does mine!) They all get little cards through the post reminding me when they are next due for a general medical, just to check everything is ok. I dont know about your Doctor, but I dont remember the last time a Doctor did that for me. They wake, with me , in the morning and lay and doze, warm and comfortable whilst I rush about frantically getting ready for work and making sure they are all fed, watered and walked (where necessary). Weekends, I finally get time off work. Rest and relaxation? Well, if you call walking windswept beaches, throwing sticks with frozen fingers and trying to cram a distinctly reticent dog into a dog coat then I guess so.

Whilst all this frenetic activity is going on the cats look on serenely. Watching the world go by with the aloof air of one who is waited on hand and paw, and expects to be. One who is brushed, conditioned, fed, watered, medically coddled and generally adored.

So, I've decided. When my time comes, and St Peter (or whoever has the job at the time) asks me what I want to return to the mortal world as, I shall have no hesitation. 'Find me a suitably daft, preferably rich and undeniably stupid human and I'll be their pet'.

What's the betting I'll get the only little old lady that's into taxidermy?

But just maybe.......

I might be the 'Lucky Winner' of £250,000. No, really. I have a letter to prove it. In this letter it plainly states that I am, in fact, in the final stages of the competition. We are, evidently, down to the last 2% of entrants. It also advises me that I might want to sit down before reading the accompanying leaflet, which explains to me the effect that suddenly coming into that amount of money has had on other (lucky) people. Well, I sat down. I read the letter and then the leaflet. Then, rather than running amuck at my (almost) new found fortune, I went to the 'junk' drawer, into which we, shamefully, shove anything that we can't find a home for that will fit. In this drawer I unearthed photographs of the beautiful, rurally located, French cottage that I very nearly won last month. I also found details of the BMW, (the one I had to choose the colour of) that'd I'd almost received the log book for. Why? why must these companies do this to ordinary (broke) people? Isnt it enough that we've bought their magazine/ breakfast cereal/chocolate bar, instead of the supermarkets sensibly wrapped, sensibly priced version?
But I guess I answered my own question on that score. Did the old cynic in me screw up their ridiculous letter and even more ludicrous leaflet? Well, not exactly.
Not straight away. I mean, I know I havent really won or anything. Or if I have it's going to be a keyring. But some one has to actually win these mega prizes, dont they? Just maybe there's a competition fairy somewhere, and just perhaps he'll think 'mmmm, she has entered an awful lot of really dumb competitions and won nothing '- (he won't count the 123 key rings) and just possibly, well, you never know, do you?

Sorry, what was that?

Writing this I should, be sitting in the calm, peaceful atmosphere of my dining room. Unfortunately I have a tumble dryer. Not one of your new, shiney, space age tumble driers. Oh no. Mine is old. Oh, lets not be coy here. Mine is ancient. My tumble drier wouldnt look out of place if it featured in Time Team. Now, owning a gerictric kitchen appliance would not normally cause me one iota of concern. Except today. Due to the attrocious weather we've all been having, (and the fact that, well lets just say 'domestic goddess' I aint, if you catch my drift) I have accumulated an outstanding amount of washing. I only realised how bad it had got when I witnessed an argument between my two daughters this morning about who was going to use the very last clean bath towel. OK, I thought, I really must tackle this.
That was the start of my problem. Now I know the tumble drier is old, and as such, not going to be as quiet and efficient and sleek as new model (are any of us?) but this is something else.
The noise is unbelievable. It whistles. Not Green Sleeves or the theme tune from The Bill or anything, but more the way I would imagine a parrot would sound, having a vasectomy sans anasthetic. It does this constantly. The whole time it's on. Now I am not in a position to rush out and purchase a new one at the moment, so, as I explained to the girls, we will just have to get on with it, stiff upper lip and all that. I thought they were taking it rather well. They didnt say much, just smiled and nodded. It was then that I realised I'd been left to it. They were'nt hearing me or the apocalyptic din of the satanic drier. They'd plugged in to their MP3's and were completely oblivious. Well, if you cant beat 'em, as they say. Anyway, if anyone reading this was thinking of popping round for a coffee or anything, I'd advise against it. Unless you bring your MP3. I can recommend Beethoven's 5th, anything by Metallica is good too. Oh and if you can lip read that would really be a plus.

It only hurts when I laugh

Splosh. That was the very undignified sound I made this morning when I slipped over in the ice/slush/snow. Thunk, that was the other sound, caused by my elbow rapidly coming into contact with the ground, only marginally later than my bottom. I was wet, I was cold, I was in some pain. I was also somewhat embarrassed, fortunately there were only two, rather startled, cats to witness my ice dance, but they have that aloof air, dont they? So whats the first thing I do? Pick myself up, check for broken bones, cuts or scrapes? No. Maybe it's my peculiar sense of humour, maybe I'm just slightly unhinged, I really dont know. I laughed. Not a giggle or an embarrassed grin, I howled. I actually couldnt get up for laughing. It took me a good two to three minutes to get myself under some sort of control for goodness sake.

Why? I imagined watching myself. Saw, in my minds eye, my legs, shooting out before me, my arms pinwheeling to try to regain my, obviously too far gone, balance. But most of all I imagined the suprised look on my face. Just writing it down has got me started again. I am battered and bruised, hobbling and limping, but oh! how I laughed.

I suppose the moral of this is, if you should happen to fall down in the icy weather, I hope you dont hurt yourself too badly, I also hope there arent too many people about to make you feel silly but, secretly, I hope I'm there!

Press to delete

Another Saturday of overtime behind me. Sunday spent cleaning, washing, ironing and generally tidying up. I, once again, find myself at my keyboard attempting to write at least one or two paragraphs that I will not end up deleting. That is the problem, the delete button. What, I wonder, would life be like if there was a delete button, for real? Would any of us survive for long? The guy that pulled out on me in Hamlet Court Rd for instance, well, he would have been instantly zapped. The woman in the ridiculously long checkout queue in Iceland who decided she wasnt going to see me, patiently waiting my turn, and plonked her basket on the counter in front of me - erased. Fans of opposing football teams....you see where this could lead? Of course some of us would be OK, it would only be the really annoying people that would have anything to worry about. The rest of us are just occasionally a bit daft, I seem to remember, several years ago, I inadvertantly washed my husands wages, nestled safely as they were, in the back pocket of his jeans. Oh, how we laughed. Well, eventually. I say, its got very dark in here has'nt it?....hello? .......... Is anyone there?.......hello?

The Continuing Adventures of Noggin & Ted

Saturday, apres overtime, finds me penniless as usual and tired to boot. Being creative is not easy when your eyes keep closing of their own volition. Perhaps I have, inadvertantly, 'bitten off more than I can chew', in that I am, at present, writing a short story (horror) a childrens book and the original 'novel'. Maybe I should concentrate on completing at least one at a time. Alternately, I could amalgamate the three and see what happens.

'He stared, unable to comprehend the brick wall the other side of the door. He ran to the window and threw open the dusty velvet curtains to reveal.......Noggin and Ted, Noggin was waering his bright red wellington boots, 'Oh Ted, he smiled at the little bear, 'I'm so happy with my beautiful birthday present, they really are the best boots ever!' Ted laughed his gruff little teddy bear laugh.......ironic really, he thought. 'Two divorces, three years in therapy and all because, it turns out, I have a shoe fetish.'

Oh, well. Maybe not.

In a Fair and Just World

In a fair and just world I would be living off the immense advance for my next (in this world I am prolific) best selling novel. My public would be waiting with great anticipation for the next, thrilling exploits of my well loved (Harry Potteresque one might say) hero. I would drive to the meeting with my (fawning) bank manager, in my British racing green BMW. We would have coffee, share a joke, discuss world events and ask after each others families. He would insist I came to dinner soon, I would reply that I'd 'call him'. I would leave with a cheery word and a nonchalont wave. The bank manager would stand on the steps until I was a just a speck in the infinate distance, he would be smiling at his good fortune.
Unfortunately 34p of ones overdraft left two weeks into the month does not seem to impress Bank Managers as a whole.