Baggywrinkle Mamma

Donations to my 100k Walk Charity Challenge

2013-02-08T10:38:00.001+00:00

Should any of you lovely people feel that you would like to virtually join me, as I plod about the countryside, trying to get fit enough to walk 100k in one day, one night and probably the next day too, then send your love in the form of a donation (size DOESN'T matter) to my 100k Challenge fund in aid of Save the Children.

There is nothing more encouraging than my phone cheeping at me to tell me someone has made a donation. Literally nothing. You can make my phone cheep at me in a happy way, by clicking on the link to my fund raising page below, and donating. It takes about two minutes, it feels good doing it, for you and for me. Save the Children get the money instantly. 89p is guaranteed to be spent in front-line work for the well-being of our children the world over, the remaining 11p goes toward raising the next £1.00.

And I can't express how grateful I am for each one pound, or dollar or whatever your currency happens to be. If you feel you can spare a little, then know that today, you will be helping a child somewhere in the world, you will have done a good deed AND you will have pushed me on in my looooong training walks....

http://www.justgiving.com/SarahBrayattempts100k

Thank you. Sincerely.

Challenged

2013-02-07T12:09:00.000+00:00

Challenged.

Hello? Is there anybody out there? Can anybody hear me? (A nod to the Floyd-ees amongst us)...I have returned from wandering around aimlessly in my own mind, returned once more to the warm place that is my blog. I took a career break and then careered off in all directions, floundering about the place in an effort to relax, to chill, to catch my breath. It has taken months to come down from the frenetic pace of working motherhood that was mine up until the end of May last year. And here I am, eight months or so on, and finally, I have settled down, calmed down, found my direction.

There has been a lot of navel gazing over these past months, which is one of the reasons I haven't blogged very much; I wasn't in a place to talk about anything more interesting than the inner workings of my mind and the consequent navel gazing....and my navel is not the navel it once was, oh no, after four babies, it isn't even in the same place it once was. So whilst a degree of introspection is necessary for blogging, my level of self-absorption was probably just boring. A poem or two came out of it.

Here I am! And after months of lacking some kind of path to be on, I eventually made one. Two, to be precise. Firstly, I have completed the first year of a psychology degree and am embarking now on the second year, my studies this year will mainly be around child development. This is interesting and anxiety-inducing. I expect, with every page turned, to find out just how wrong I have been getting it for the past twenty years or so. The other direction, and the one I plan to blog/bore about regularly, is about walking myself to sanity and away from my black dog (a metaphor - I have two real back dogs, they walk with me and I like them. Try and keep up... the metaphorical black dog is most unwelcome and, for whatever reason, when I'm walking, tends to sod off...) Walking with purpose. Walking for a reason. A bloody good one actually. Being reasonably unfit (my main exercise to date has been dog walking/bringing the wine in from the car/chasing feral daughter) I have signed up for.....The London to Brighton 100k Walk Challenge! Yes, my lovely readers, I am going to walk 100k for charity! A charity of my choice. And my choice charity is Save the Children. Because that is what they do and saving children will always be a right thing. Raising funds is utterly rewarding! What a pleasant surprise that has been. Truly. I get such a warm feeling with each donation, and size doesn't affect my feeling, (oh do grow up) it is the same for all of them, such a reassurance that people are actually very kind....even a renewed faith in humanity, is not going too far. So it is not even very altruistic, on my part. This feels good. Wholesome. Far more wholesome than many other ways of feeling good I can think of, and may have tried. I have never, ever, ever - not since the years BC (before children), had the time or the energy to do anything like this and, in the years BC, I was a bit of a child myself, too busy partying on to be walking. Now I find I can think of nothing else. I believe this is what is known as having a direction. A path.

A path to follow
Shall try very hard not to step off of it.
Particularly here.

Alternate days I walk long distance.....Alright, 'long' depends on your perspective. A Kalahari Bushman might be justified in a little snigger here, but those of you who would not walk for miles unless your car had broken down and you were totally out of wine, may not indulge in one. My non-walking days I study child psychology and beat myself up/cringe/consider calling social services with each new revelation, each new theory learnt. Then I intend to practice on my little girls, then I forget and revert to my usual mix of bribery and threats to get them to bend to my will.

So! I am challenged, I have goals, I have something bordering on contentment. I also have a basket full of laundry, muddy carpets and cobwebs not unlike those encountered by Frodo in the lair of Shelob the spider, hanging from most rooms....but that's ok! I've been a domestic goddess (domestic godless is closer to it) for a while now, nothing to prove there. Goodbye housework, most of it, and hello wide open spaces and endless walking in training for my big challenge! We are lucky enough to live in The Garden of England. That helps with the walking. Nice things to look at. I have been dabbling with photography a bit too, in my months away from work, and so I shall share with no encouragement whatsoever, images taken during my training walks........starting with yesterday's little twelve mile-r across the White Cliffs of Dover. It was great.

The White Cliffs of Dover - Icy winds and a bit of sleet, but there are worse places to be walking. Shelob's lair, for one.

Today my backside feels as though I have been hung upside down by both buttocks overnight. This is because I walked up and down cliffs. By their nature, they tend to be steep. I strop a lot when walking up steep hills. Normally at my husband. He wasn't with me and fortunately for him, it was impossible for me to text-strop with numb fingers. I only have until 25th May to get up to 100k. Must push on. Buttocks protesting all the way....join me on my long walks these coming months...it's good to have the virtual company.

The Dark Waking Dreams of an Insomniac

2012-11-26T00:17:00.003+00:00

Insomnia Dust

Sprinkle a little on the ground, up your nose, pass it 'round,
Enough to keep you right here, right now,
Like Fat Boy Slim's insistent vow,
Wander through night's drawn out maze,
Of little deaths and purple haze,
And peer in at the others sleeping deep and sound.

Think the dreams you might have had, bloody good or bloody bad,
Pillow bunched up, punched up, plumped,
Body gripped, slipped, fraudulently slumped,
0h two oh one, oh three oh nine, and four seventeen,
Red numbers taunting screaming wares plus everything inbetween,
Insomnia has me again unclad. And I have been had. And had. And had.

Puppy Post Part II - Peace Problem Solved

2012-11-24T21:49:00.000+00:00

It has been nearly three months since we got the puppy. Yes, we got the puppy! I saw lots of puppies in the end, varying shades of brown/gold/patchy and something called yellow (if you are serious about cocker spaniels, then you say yellow, apparently). Blue roan (oh, get me with the terminology) and pure whites....yardy yah. You get the picture. I must confess to finding the cocker spaniel breeders world a tad pretentious, but I guess that can happen a lot in the world of The Kennel Club. Some of the ads were positively off-putting, so up their own flue were they. I found myself only inclined to visit the puppies of owners whom I quite liked the sound of. In fact, it would be fair to say, it was the owners/breeders I checked out, the puppies were of secondary interest. Did they sound as though they had been well socialised? Were they house-trained? Did they snap easily? What was the state of their teeth/breath? Could they maintain eye-contact? Did they smell of wee? All of those questions needed positive answers before I could consider looking at their puppies. Eventually I found a good, working owner/breeder from healthy stock with clear eyes and a good temperament who appeared not to be inbred and so decided to check out his puppies. I should add, at this point, that I had been to see, or enquired about, many others, but each time I was put off by the a) pompous breeder, b) the clueless breeder or c) the barking breeder.

To cut the choosing part of the story short, whilst I wasn't set on any particular colour of cocker spaniel, I knew for sure what we didn't want, we didn't want a black cocker spaniel. We have a black labrador and a black cat. A change would be good. I took the children and Grandma off to visit the litter, we entered into a very pleasant little conservatory which had been adapted for a large litter of squirming, impossibly cute, eight week old cocker spaniel pups; I picked one out immediately, in an instant......a black one. A black one with a white chest, but black nonetheless. It was love at first sight. She was The One. It had to be her. I made a show of considering the others, but I was already in love and counting out the £20's. I also made a show of consulting the rest of the family, but I already knew she would be coming home with us. The only thing to decide was her name. On the drive to the breeder's home, we had been debating names. The usual offerings were made, Molly, Polly, Holly, Bessie, Jessie, Tessie, Star, Bra (No. 2 daughter, that one). None inspired. But! No sooner had I handed over the cash and taken ownership of that wriggling, licking oh-so-sweet-smelling black puppy, than the name 'Luna' came to me, just came to me, just popped up from nowhere. Like a burp. Unbidden. I hadn't thought of it as a name for a dog, or anything else before that moment, but looking at her shiny coat, with it's dash of white and black speckles evocative of the night sky, it seemed right, it seemed perfect.

Doggy Twister - Luna is winning

Luna has been living with us for nearly three months now. Those poetic notions which inspired her name are long gone. Luna-tic, Luna-cy, Loony-toons, all of these are far closer to the mark. I would like to find a play on her name which also indicates the near constant incontinence of this dog, but have yet to. For now, 'not again, you vile bitch' will probably have to do. But that aside, she is lovely, she is a joy. MoMo, our black labrador, was at first utterly disdainful of the new pretender, however, she now tolerates a degree of interaction; they play what can only be described as Twister, but without the spinning thingy to indicate if it is a hand or a foot to be moved and to which colour circle. They play Freestyle Dog Twister...a tangle of black fur, paws, tails and slobber. Their version involves a fair bit of panting and saliva and some biting.....I expect this is probably true of many a game of Twister, particularly in the 70's, thinking about it. Dodgy moustaches, Brotherhood of Man, Baby Chams, Fuzzy Navel cocktails and Twister. *Shudder*. I prefer not to think about it.

The rest of the time, when not playing Freestyle Dog Twister, Luna is mostly pooing and peeing. Or she is peeing and pooing. She poos. And pees. A lot. Everywhere. All Of The Time. And yes, of course I have tried all of the usual methods of toilet-training, of course I have. I have had many dogs over the years...this one has defeated me thus far. She has single-handedly solved the peace problem in our house. There is no problem with peace anymore...there is no peace. Had I have known that this dog could defecate for her country (should she be called to, in say, a fertiliser crisis) and could possibly also help other countries in the Commonwealth too, like Australia for example, being usefully employed to swamp whole areas in a bush fire situation, had I have known this about her, would I have still chosen her from the cast of thousands I considered? No. Probably not. Still, I did, and she is ours...and....awwww....look into those eyes...and those ridiculous curly ears...and she is just the cuddliest thing....and, well, she is our own little poo fairy now. Our own little problem hound. Welcome Luna. You bring a lot to the party.

Puppy Post Part 1 - Solving The Peace Problem

2012-10-02T11:58:00.001+01:00

So....nearly four months into my career break. Yep, life has slowly, over the past few months, become less tangled, less frazzled, less complicated, less fraught....for the first time in perhaps twenty years. I returned to work when No. 1 son was three months old and haven't really stopped much (except for having babies) since then. Three more children later , a full-on career and I reached that place I reached, you know the one, Time. http://baggywrinklemamma.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/time.html

I wrote about Time a few posts ago, and now, now I have it. I have it in the palm of my hand, but it is a tenuous grip, it continues to slip through my fingers, trickle down my arm and disappear to somewhere underground, probably eventually seeps on down through to Australia and that's probably why they are eleven hours ahead of us here in the UK. Probably. It does not leak away from me at such an alarming rate as before, but still it dissipates in the mundanities of everyday life . I am content. I am happy. I am not torn between two lives, I am fully engaged with one life. So far so good. And things have been achieved. Oh yes they have! More on that later. As an aside, doesn't poodling about on the internet take a looooong time? It is a time bandit, really must get some parental control going on there....

Where was I? Oh yes, life. Becoming more manageable, it took me three months to calm down. To settle. And then one evening, I was lying (yes, lying) on the sofa where I had been for some time because ....I had nothing that needed doing right at that minute ...and feeling a bit odd, unwell even. Perhaps I was coming down with something? No. 2 daughter had been a bit of a snot goblin the past few days, maybe she had infected me. Again. What was wrong with me? But, and after a while, taking the (new found) time to think on it, I realised this wasn't ill.... no, this wasn't a fainting spell at all! This was ......relaxed.

I was so relaxed, so chilled out, so content that my brain became frightened. It thought it was dying. And so it devised a way to get things back to 'normal'..... What we really need in this house, said my inner nutter, is......a new puppy! Yes, that's right! Order is for ordered people. I am conditioned to chaos. It is all relative. Having not too much to do, is for me, like being in a flotation tank. Sensory deprivation. Just can't seem to strike a balance between chaos and comatose. A puppy would change all of that. I didn't think about it in those terms, of course. In fact, I didn't really think at all. It just happened to me. One minute I was lying on the sofa with an entirely blank mind (except for the brain-dying angst) and the next, I was leaping up, grabbing my laptop and Googling 'Cocker spaniel Puppies for Sale in Kent'. This I did until half past two in the morning. There is not much I couldn't tell you about the availability of Cocker Spaniel puppies in Kent.

The next day, it became imperative that we have a Cocker Spaniel Puppy. But first, to convince those around me, and this I did very convincingly, piece of cake, in fact. It was a piece of cake because I simply ignored their concerns, democracy not being a part of this. And secondly, to choose the perfect new addition to the family. At this point, I feel compelled to draw the comparison between puppies and children. With puppies, you have a choice in who you get. Say no more.

Mummy Loves Ya

Our beloved labrador, MoMo, wasn't consulted. Neither was Genghis Khat. No. 2 son raised the issue of MoMo feeling left out, second best, not as special, by the new arrival. I smartly parried with " We didn't love YOU any less when your sisters were born, did we darling?" He fixed me with an icy cold stare and a sort of 'Oh really?' raise to his left eyebrow. I was caught off guard by this, clearly there were issues to be addressed here, but for now, let's talk about puppies! I countered with my own sideways stare, and a forced smile/laugh which was intended to be both beatific and impart 'don't be silly' in a jocular fashion, all at the same time. I tried hard to express as much impartial love in my eyes in that moment as I possibly could, I became aware that I wasn't quite pulling that off, more Jack Nicholson in The Shining than that perfect specimen of a mother from Little House on the Prairie. No. 2 son backed off slowly toward the door.....I took this to mean he really wanted a new puppy, and let him go. I held that 'feel my love son, and laugh your cares away' expression to see what it was he had seen, I checked the mirror, yep, definitely more Jack than Ma Ingalls. Still, could have its uses in the future.

I consulted my husband as he was going up to bed that morning, following his long night shift. I said, as he placed one weary foot on the stair, "Iwantacockerspaniel. Nite then". ....he stopped and turned to me, a flicker of interest crossing his tired face at my half-heard words, or was that hope? Whatever. It quickly disappeared as I continued "A puppy, I want to buy a puppy. Can we sit up and talk about this, perhaps I can show you a couple that I'm interested in and maybe you could come with me to look today or should I just go ahead and sort it myself while you go and get under that lovely, warm duvet and snuggle down for a good long, uninterrupted sleep?" He opted for the latter.

Needless to say, both daughters were beside themselves at the idea. More than happy. Unable to sleep at the prospect. As they would have been if I had have suggested getting a baby chimp or a slide winding from the chimney stack, through the window and down the stairs. Practicality not really being a part of their thought processes. No 1 son, being away at University, was enthusiastic. At least, I felt that he probably would be if he had given a shit either way.

So! That was the whole family on board then! I set about setting about it.......

Stand Fast

2012-07-09T10:40:00.000+01:00

Waves engulf us each momentarily
Of pleasure and of hurt
Of grief and joy

Passion and fear....
Know the ebb and the flood across the years.

Stand fast and true
Watch as it washes over
All will dilute in time's calmer waters
We will remain
As we were, and will be

Await the ebb or await the rush
Harder edges ever rounded
Smoothed with the encompassing and retreating
Of each tumultuous wave
Stand fast.

Tick Tock

2012-04-08T11:18:00.008+01:00

Hanging on in quiet desperation.....
....iIn the meantime, some perspective......(click) http://dingo.care2.com/cards/flash/5409/galaxy.swf

* * * * *

Time

2012-04-02T19:24:00.004+01:00

It's time for a change. And I am contemplating this one...not a biggie for the world at large, but a biggie for me and for the family....our world. I am knackered. No false heroics here...just plain old shagged out. And so, I have applied, after much consideration and endless discussion with my nearest and dearest and a fair bit of red, that it's time. Time to push the pause button. Time to slooooow doooooown Sarah. To get to the point, after nearly nine years of shifts, some weeks working sixty or even seventy two hours, four kids, house waiting to be renovated....all of that stuff....I am going to stop work. For a while. For a year, to be precise. I have applied for a career break - this means I am still employed, I am still Watch Manager at the Coastguard, I just don't turn up for a year. And they don't pay me. It will be tight. It will be very tight. But..Oh. My. God. No more staying up all night doing my job and then staying up all day doing my other job. No more. And now that I have made the decision, spoken to my bosses and started it happening, images of a different existence fill my thoughts, followed by yet more images of that same, different existence, possibilities....a life. Or rather, a shot at one. Cake baking. Writing. Sleeping in. These last eight years or so have blurred past.... whizzing by in a mish-mash of sleep deprivation, crying babies, happy babies, search and rescue jobs, nappies, over-flowing shopping trolleys and washing baskets, returning home knackered to find my eldest son is not a boy at all, but a young man, school uniforms and work uniforms rush, rush, chop, chop busy, busy , work work, bang, bang, snatched evenings with red wine and worn out husband, hot summer afternoons sleeping in a darkened bedroom resenting the noise of the day, missed school concerts and those that I managed to make, promotions, a job well done, childhood illnesses taking my annual leave, bringing bad stuff home from work with me like my own personal black cloud....endless, endless.....running. Now I want to walk, take my time, enjoy my sprogs......to snatch a year back from the cruel and relentless march of time, to have a space in my life when there was enough time..... to buy a year of full-time mother/wife/me.

I know of many women (and men) who are running the wheel.. It's not for me to question how much in their lives is 'need' (necessary) or is 'want'. But people, maybe, just maybe,it is worth just questioning that for yourselves. To take the time to do that. Just stepping outside of our wheels for a moment and asking whether our wants are preventing us from meeting our needs. We work harder and harder, have less and less time/sleep/interaction with family/quiet still moments - those things that we really need actually to be happy. Of course, we work to provide for our basic needs and the answer to how much we really need to live a happy life is a personal one, but one that only has meaning if answered honestly. . But to drive on for wants? It might just stop you getting what you truly need to be happy. This quote from His Holiness the Dalai Lama XIV expresses it far better than I have managed to here...but then, I won't beat myself up too much about that, him being the Dalai Lama and all, and me being, well, not.

“Man surprised me most about humanity.Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money.

Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health.And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.”

― Dalai Lama XIV

It's all just going to be roses of course. Obviously. I choose, in my current euphoric and philosophical soft-focus daze, to ignore the fact that the daughters will have a lot more time to whinge at me, the sons will no doubt avail themselves of my presence, my car, etc. and I know I will miss the adrenalin rush of co-ordinating the more gripping incidents at work...but a break before I break seems well managed. It may be that fate and circumstance dictate an earlier return to the hamster wheel for me, but I have to at least start to stop.

Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.....time to get a bit more continental about things.

A track for this post, for sure....click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYiahoYfPGk

, ....kick back, take the time to listen to Time.

Ticking away the moments that make up a total day

You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.

Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
And when I come home cold and tired
Its good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees

To hear the softly spoken magic spells

Pink Floyd

* * * * *

Fly Spray

2012-03-11T08:12:00.000+00:00

Flies. Coming Between Us.

Ahhh.....it's been a while....no excuses (she states before proceeding to roll out an excuse), but I have not been in a place where I can write for pleasure, leisure, interest or fun. The interesting (but not fun, pleasure or leisurely) thing about it is, it is only as I come out of that 'place' that I realise I have been in it at all. If that seems all drearily new-age, then don't read on, because it's possible that for this post at least, this is about as good as it's going to get. There is that strange thing with blogging....if one has been away from one's blog for a length of time, trying to get back into it is like trying to find a way to visit a close friend or family member you know you have neglected, where you are unsure if the old rapport will fire up again or if resentment is going to be the order of the day and where, as time goes on, it becomes harder to drop in and so you don't drop in and so it becomes harder to drop in....ad infinitum.....(I believe I mentioned what to expect with this particular post already?)...then, you turn up and it's....awkward. For a while, anyway. The unsaid stuff hangs between you both like a large, shiny, brown fly paper....each stuck-fast, expired fly symbolic of conversations you didn't have, fun you didn't have, compassion you/they didn't show, small, unpleasant resentments......it's also quite telling about the thinking power of flies...I have often wondered about that....they have quite a few eyes, flies, do they not see their mates dead and dying, glued to the thing? Anyway, I digress (no change there then). So there you both are, in this quietly tense atmosphere, your friend sitting on the opposite sofa, the metaphorical fly paper that is those months of resentment, dangling between you, impossible not to look at....will more and more flies appear on it as the tension builds and each remembered hurt buzzes into the room? Or will your mutual like disolve that sticky brown paper and normal services quickly resume (with hastily, but sincere promises made to never allow such a state of affairs to develop again?) So it has been with me returning to this blog. And as I write this, I can feel the relief of having dropped by and found that it's all ok, I can return. There are no dead flies here.

Laser Eye surgery Post Part 3

2011-10-28T12:32:00.006+01:00

So, there I lay. Looking. I really didn't have much choice about looking. My eye was clamped from the top of the socket to the bottom, open. I can't tell you what the clamp looked like because I never saw it coming. What I can tell you is what it felt like. It felt .....wrong. I was aware of my eye socket, the bone of it, in fact, I became aware of my skull as a skull, rather than as my head. It is not often we feel the whole of our eye socket. It was uncomfortable. My eye had been numbed with drops. The surgeon spoke, but not to me. He spoke to his glamorous assistants....surgeon speak....'scapel'.... 'drill bit No. 4'....that kind of thing. Then he told me to keep my eye still and open. Right-o, like I could do anything else. My eye did want to shut....oh, it so desperately did. It knew what was coming for it. My non-communicative surgeon suddenly became hugely chatty. Couldn't shut him up as he told me in great detail how he was about to cut a flap in my eyeball (yes, he called it a flap) and that after that I wouldn't be able to see. I actually didn't want to know, but there was no getting away from it.

Bulging Eye - Disconcerting

Before the cutting began, he told me he would be placing a suction thingy onto my eye....to suck it out a bit, I guessed. He did this. It felt oh so wrong. I imagined that I didn't look too damn good either....the pressure on my eyeball was only just tolerable and then....the cutting began. I could see the flap being created, lying there focusing on the light as instructed, trying to be the very best patient he had ever, ever had and then maybe, he might want to do the best job he had ever, ever done? I don't know! I was helpless there, just trying to help myself in any small way. Then there was a star burst. No, not a packet of sweeties considerately produced to soothe people with one eye semi-sucked out of their face. No, this was a mosaic of splintered light. In fact, it was the light I had been looking at all along, but this time with the stuff that covers the pupil, cut away. Disconcerting? Yep. Revolting? A bit. My surgeon then told me he was going to laser my eye. Then, he lasered my eye. I have to say, at this point, I really wanted it to stop. I am usually fairly stoic but I hadn't been prepared for the feeling of 'wrongness' the procedure had induced in me thus far, plus the socket clamp thing was starting to hurt and I was in effect, blind in that eye. Still, it didn't seem the time to be getting off the table. And, truth be told, despite the yuk-ness of it all, I was still wanting perfect eye-sight. My reasons for being there were still greater than my reasons for not being there.

The surgeon must know that the laser is not without it's discomforts....the heat builds up in the eye, despite the numbing, it builds up in direct relation to the smell of burning flesh.....the surgeon counted down the remaining seconds '10.......5,4,3,2,1 and we're done.'. I believed that another three seconds and he would have been through my brain and it would be the smell of burning foam as he lasered his way into the operating couch that we would be inhaling. Well, perhaps not me inhaling at that stage. Just the surgical team. But it was over. Except it wasn't. The surgeon then had to replace the flap. Ah yes! How could I forget the flap! Cute liddle ol' flap....flappy flappy flappy...flappity flap-flap.... I was able to watch as he positioned it and patted it down, a version of my vision returning as it arrived over my pupil. I was unable not to watch.

My world was blurred. And then, quick as a flash, I was swivelled on the couch thing and positioned for the procedure on my left eye. Repeat as above. Only this time, I knew what was coming. In some respects that was a good thing, in others, not so good. I found myself wondering if this one was taking longer, had it been like that for the first eye, now I knew what 'normal' was, I found myself bracing against the suction thingy....but at the same time, I knew that it would soon be ended, there were no nasty surprises. It was just nasty. I was pleased when it was over. I was pleased I didn't have a third eye.

Ol' Red (Yellow & Puffy) Eye.....

I was taken off the couch and into a side-room, the recovery room. I truly expected to open my eyes and voila! I can see!! But no, all was a blur. I had my sunglasses on, sitting in a dimmed room, and still the world felt too bright. My husband was with me, he peered into my eyes and said something like 'Can you see me?' . He spoke very slowly. Clearly, he thought my brain had had a bit of lasering too. T|he fact is, I couldn't see him, or anything very well. I remained in the recovery room without recovering, for another half hour or so, then it was time to leave. I was given eye shields (what?!), eye drops and instructions to come back the next day for a check up. My husband led me, stumbling and whining, to the car. It was brilliant sunshine on the drive home, I cried all the way. Eyes streaming, rolling up into the back of my head in an effort to get away from the light....like some vampire, caught out by the sudden approach of dawn. I looked like a vampire too. All bloody eyed and pale. I reflected on my treatment on the way home (there really wasn't much else to do, with my eyes wide shut).....it hadn't been too painful as such, it had been......a bit revolting. But I was feeling positive and upbeat overall. Because, I had done it! I had, after years of wondering about it, day-dreaming about perfect vision, done it and I wouldn't be doing it again. Now all I had to do was wait for the results.............

Uncorking the Whine....

2011-10-20T12:30:00.003+01:00

My friend received my first text poem and we exchanged a few more polite texts on how it was best to write about what was truly in your heart,,....for her it was nature, love, desire and other things like that, you know, spiritual. For me it was the kitchen. I texted her another little poemette ....

Ode to the Kitchen

Dearest Kitchen, please, what more could you need?

Oh cruelest of masters unashamed in your greed!

Must you have my attention the WHOLE of my time?

With your "Wipe me! Mop me! Expunge my grime!"

Gleaming, preening, vanity fair,

Your reflection in the microwave grinning back at you there,

Momentarily smug in your hygenic review,

Oh kitchen, you bastard, I'm enslaved to you.

Should I dare to withdraw with cuppa in hand,

I instantly feel your silent demand,

"Load the dishwasher now you forgot that last plate,

Real women just don't leave such a state!

And my fridge could do with an antibacterial squirt,

How CAN you drink tea, surrounded by dirt?

Have you no shame in domestic affairs?

Oi! Come back you! No sneaking upstairs!

My cooker is greasy with no shine at all,

the kids have left grimy prints on the wall,

I wouldn't be saying if it didn't need to be said,

But get back in here and CLEAN me instead,

Away with the forks the spoons and the knives,

If you want to hold your head up amongst PROPER wives,

Did you think it enough to clean me last night?

The teens have been in, I'm a terrible sight!

Bacon fat on my hob and baked beans on the side,

Egg white congealing - have you no pride?"

That kitchen my master and dissatisfied lover,

Wordlessly scorns me as wife and as mother,

It silently goads me to wash and to shine,

Till I give up and give in to sloth and to wine,

For surely modern life does dictate,

That cleaning and scrubbing will just have to wait,

Who is it really there to watch and to judge,

Every unwashed cup and grubby smudge?

You, kitchen, can't talk, can't hear and can't see,

In the end, I guess, it's just me judging me!

Airing Dirty Laundry....

2011-10-20T12:02:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine has recently taken to writing poetry....she has been sending me, usually via texts at odd times, her poems. They are deep and meaningful and full of her inner turmoil, her conflicting emotions and desires expressed in terms of nature's imagery and her environs....I sent her back one of my own; like hers, it was based on what was in my heart, my true feelings and thoughts at that moment as I wrestled with the predictive text on my Samsung (it clearly wanted to write it's own poem). This is it....(feel my pain)

My Mountain

Oh endless, pointless, essential laundry,
I hear you softly call to me,
Huddling here, denying those cruel fingers of dawn prising at my unconscious,
Oh mountain of fabric...your peaks claim my reverie, compel me to motion,
To feed the machine with it's relentless sustenance

Oh crumpled me and crumpled you,
Symbiotic need fulfilled in our life-long ritual,
Spin and spin and churn your wares and together we will reach the summit,
Oh til the morn rears up again and we sigh once more at the base,
Staring with weighted hearts at those insurmountable heights,
Oh endless, pointless, essential mountain of laundry.....

Laser Eye Surgery Post - Part 2

2011-10-12T17:48:00.004+01:00

Where was I? Ah yes...I can see! I have eyes! I seem to get occasional flashbacks these days to Eddie Murphy in Trading Places on his little trolley thing, begging for money on the premise that he is both blind and disabled.....if you don't recall that one, there's little point in me elaborating here. Moving on then....

So, to the nitty gritty of it. I saw many lovely and quite beautiful people at the eye clinic prior to treatment at the two assessment appointments I attended. When I say I saw them, I mean I saw them in a different way...sometimes through the haze of my short-sightedness, without glasses, and, more alarmingly, up close and extremely personal as each eye was intimately examined for it's short-comings. I had dye dropped in my eyes in turn, turning the world temporarily amber. I had my eye numbed and various odd, but not entirely unpleasant procedures carried out. The upshot of all of this is that I was considered 'suitable' for treatment. I was ridiculously elated. Not because it meant I could have the surgery, but rather because it is always good to be considered suitable, who wants to be unsuitable? F|or anything? At some place in my psyche, I took my suitability as a positive stroke, it wasn't about my eyes so much, rather that they wanted me, they approved of me....I was 'suitable'. I am sure that someone who knows about these things would be able to tell me this feeling was as a direct result of a need to belong, a need for approval or something...whatever, it felt good, ok? They, those beautiful ones at the clinic, they thought I was suitable. Then we haggled over money.

If you are considering laser eye surgery, consider haggling over money. You will be presented with the various treatment options, there is super-duper surgery a kind of HD-equivalent result, and various tiers (and probably tears) beneath that. I don't think I really considered the lesser ones at all; if I was going to do this thing, then I would just go for the best option. The laser eye surgery industry (that is what it is), is good at pitching....a lot of psychology goes into it. But I think the bottom line is that they work on the principle that most people are going to want the best treatment available; they price their services accordingly, so that there is a leap in cost at each level offered, but it is not so great as to make the top level an unobtainable hike in price from the bottom level, but it is an increase, nonetheless. My beautiful laser operative person (technician, consultant, whatever) told me that it was possible for me to have better than twenty-twenty vision. Hmmmm... really? Isn't that like saying you can get more perfect than perfect? Or more full up than completely full up. You get the idea. But apparently no, it is possible acccording to Beautiful Eye Person, to have eyesight that is better than 20-20 vision. There you are then, that's what I wanted. So the brochure price was £4995.00, she said, but LUCKILY for me, this month there was a special offer on, for this month only, you understand, there was a big discount on top-whack treatment. What a coincidence! I was quoted something like £3,600. I left the consultation seeing the world through a strange amber glow (that'll be the dye) and with a lot of literature, to consider. A lot of money. There was an interest-free deal over the rest of my life or something and obviously, if I went ahead, that would be the way to do it.

Once home, I began checking out the competition. I figured how different can the treatment be? If I went for a cheaper one, would they do it less well? Would it be without anaesthetic or maybe it would come in a do-it-at-home kit form thingy, like teeth whitening. I called around. I was quoted £3000.00 for the same surgery with another company. Great. Only, they couldn't do it in the time frame, not semi-locally anyway and it would involve another consultation (more eye-dye, more trying not to breathe in the face of the consultant, etc). I called the company I had had the consultation with. They said they would match that offer. And so it was decided. £3000.00 and I would have better than 20-20 vision with a life-time guarantee. What is not guaranteed is that it will actually work. They do go to some lengths to make it clear that for some people, there is a possibility that there will be improvement, but not perfect vision, that some people still need glasses. Hmmmm again. Turns out very few people still need glasses afterwards, and, based on the stats and my almost life-long yearning for good eyes, I went ahead and booked the surgery.

There followed, a consultation with the surgeon who would be getting intimate with my eyes. He was....business like. I wouldn't say unfriendly as such, rather, he seemed to not want to make friends. Fair enough, I thought sniffily, business it is then, matey. I wanted to know how often it went wrong. I asked the ,burning.question (pun intended), the one that we all would really like to know "How often do people go blind during or after this procedure?" The answer he gave was that worldwide, to the best of his knowledge, he was aware of four individual eye-balls that had been blinded. In Korea and America apparently. That seemed pretty good odds to me. I am neither Korean or American. Overall, the decision to do it or not on the grounds of safety can only be based on that kind of information, I reasoned.

My husband drove me to the clinic. I had been told I would not be able to drive back, oh and bring some very dark glasses for afterwards, the eyes can be sensitive after the procedure....not shit! I couldn't open them more than 2 millimetres, peering out under caked lashes, as though I were staring with my eyes stitched wide open, into a brilliant snow-scape with the brightest snow-scape glaring off it....only brighter than that. I whimpered a bit when I walked out of the clinic and stubbed my foot on a kerb, didn't see it, didn't know to lift it. Gosh, I was really very glad of those very dark sunglasses....they didn't make a great deal of difference to my ability to open my eyes, but they did stop people staring at me as my eyelids flicked open and shut and water poured down my cheeks and I staggered inelegantly about. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The staff at the clinic were extremely courteous and professional. The surgeon didn't say much. Again. Prior to going through that now ominous door at the end of the corridor, behind which eyes were singed, I was given a bottle of antibiotic eye drops and instructions on how to use them after the job was done. I was a tad alarmed. Would I be in such a bad way afterward that they needed to get all this kind of stuff sorted out first? Hmmmm. A nagging feeling of disquiet began in the pit of my stomach. Up until this point, I had been expecting something not dissimilar to the consultation...you know, eyelids pulled backwards, drops, a bit of ocular man-handling, a little bit of 'uurrgg' a teeny bit of 'arrgh' and then all done. It was as I was given the surgical hair and shoe covers and led into that door and into the procedure room that it dawned on me, this was actually going to be a bit more than that. It truly hadn't worried me too much before, I have had four children, I have been to the edge, this might even be almost relaxing (I would, after all, get to lie down for a while whilst they fiddled with my eyes). Silly me.

James - Brave

I had read the testimonies of other patients; in the main, they didn't mention pain or really anything very negative at all. As I was laid down on the table and my head secured in a kind of metal and plastic helmet, a barrage of thoughts rushed upon me, my eyes darted anxiously about (possibly for the very last time - melodrama came unbidden)....'blimey, there are a lot of staff in here, all looking very serious - are they to hold me down? What the....woah...does that nurse look sorry for me?' 'And what the hell is that wicked looking gadget for...' 'This looks just like an operating theatre....why didn't I expect that?' 'And why doesn't that surgeon say something reassuring? A friendly smile, or perhaps even a patronising pat would be welcome just now...' It occurred to me right at that moment, that it probably wouldn't be in the best interests of the clinic to publish anything remotely negative about the procedure. Doesn't mean there isn't anything negative about the procedure. Just that it's not really mentioned. Genius, me. I was so busy organising to have it done, hoping to have it done, arranging it, I forgot to really consider it, I really, really hadn't given any more than a nano-second's thought as to how it would actually happen. I wondered then about this laser thing...I had no idea what it might actually be like...was it some little pen-gadget thing that the surgeon would use to kind of write (or, more likely a rubber-tipped pencil type set up to rub out) on bits of my eyeball? or was it more monstrous than that? Was it more a bright and burning laser beam of the sort that had once so terrorised James Bonds' genitalia? I really had no clue. I ought to have asked more questions, but really, I had been focused on a) cost and b) fitting in the consultation, surgery and follow-up trips around the kids and work. I breathed and comforted myself with the knowledge then, that it was only something like ten minutes for each eye....how bad could it be? Just be started and then it would be over.......I manned up....lay back and you know, I would have closed my eyes and thought of England, but the surgeon was in the process of forcing the right one open with some clamp-like device......

Laser Eye Surgery Post - Part 1

2011-09-24T17:00:00.001+01:00

So! It's been nearly three months since I did it. Three months of .....drum roll please....perfect vision. Oh yes, it has been life changing, in that I can see the world unaided. Is that life-changing though? Isn't everything life-changing when you think on it? New shoes? Well, life has changed, didn't have those shoes before, did you? Whatever. It's just that all of the literature from all of the companies offering this surgery say 'life-changing' ....all the testimonies say 'life-changing' and it just irks me a teeny weeny bit because, well, all changes are life changing to some degree. Gosh, I sound rather ungrateful, rather complacent now I am on the other side of it. Interesting how quickly we can become used to something, anything.

For those who are a bit squeamish about the burning of eyes, look away now, don't read any further, because it is my intention to tell it like it was, suction an'all, like it was for me anyway. I am sure others have had entirely different experiences, blah blah, but this was mine. I have been away from my blog for some time, is it because now I can see the world, I have my eyes everywhere? Nope. it's because I didn't know where to start with this little lot and, as I had led up to it in my last post, I wanted to finish that particular story. Am slightly resentful of the eye story...because of my compulsion to bring that particular post to it's rightful conclusion, and in order, I have not written some other stuff.....oh well, never mind, I'm here now......

So! Eye, eye....here we go then, getting right on with the details of the surgery, telling it like it is....no dilly-dallying....nope.....a little writer's block, but I can overcome that....it's not a difficult story at all, telling stories is what I do, it's just......oh for GOD'S SAKE!!! W-h-a-t??!! Why have I not felt inclined to write it? I just can't answer that, overall it has been a great experience....life changing one might say, if one were inclined that way.....think I will juuuussst go away and have a little ponder on why I need a little ponder before kicking into this story...........

10 Reasons Why Being Very Short-Sighted is Never a Good Thing

2011-06-24T21:47:00.004+01:00

1. Large chunks of your education gets missed, because as a kid you are too vain/shy/tortured to wear your glasses and so you either squint your way through the lesson, managing to see bits on the board here and there (the bigger bits) or you sit at the back of the class and give up completely on ever seeing that board and instead, pretend to be a rebel.

2. You wonder if you know the person in the distance, their blurry outline looks quite familiar and, after much straining and squinting, decide you don't. You wonder why you seem to lose touch with people until someone tells you you have a reputation for ignoring your friends and crossing the street.

3. You wave frantically at the familiar, blurry outline along the street from you, yelling 'Vanessa! Hi Vanessa!' You break into a little run to meet up. As you gain ground, you gradually realize 'Vanessa' is, in fact, an elderly man, and he is shaking. He is shaking because he is frightened of the weirdo woman chasing him. He breaks into a run. You trot along a few paces behind, trying to explain, he runs a little faster, you try to catch up, try to reassure him, he throws you a scared look over his shoulder and runs into a supporting post of a bus shelter. A collective yell goes up from the people queuing for the bus as the elderly man stumbles, slightly dazed, to the ground, pointing one gnarled, shaky finger in your direction "It. Was. Her....." He croaks. You decide best to saunter off as quickly as you can in the opposite direction, you tell yourself the old boy will be fine, he's tough, look how fast he could run and at his age too! He'll be fine!

4. When you swim, you have three choices a) contact lenses - so get out of the water the second any gets in your eyes and behind your lenses.... gotta get those suckers out before infection gets in, b) glasses....no diving, ducking, bobbing (heavy petting) or swimming actually, just stand there or c) go without either glasses or lenses and bob or swim in your own blurry world where people loom up out of nowhere and scare the shit out of you and shapes under the water could be patterns on the bottom of the pool or some freak with goggles and a snorkel circling you like a barracuda......take your chances.

5. If you were warped back to medieval times, a time of knights and damsels, of romance and chivalry, you wouldn't be able to see any of it because there were no glasses or contact lenses then; you would not be the beautiful princess so elegant and graceful, no, you would be the grubby, shoeless, bedraggled hag sitting in a corner of some castle keep, saying 'Who's there? Who's there?' That's who you would be.

Yes I know there are not ten reasons in this list, and that's another reason. Being really short sighted can be really crap. There are other reasons, but I think I've dwelt on it enough. And so, to save myself another forty years of said crap, I have finally decided on laser eye surgery. Yes! It is true! So when I go time travelling in the future (or should that be the past?)....I will blend! Watch this space soon for the further adventures in full, glorious technicolor, of my eyeballs......and a friendly laser......

Feline Felony

2011-06-08T12:03:00.001+01:00

A short while ago, whilst I was upstairs, pretending to be somewhere else, hiding probably, from the relentless needs of the mob, just for a few minutes. My solitary moment, carefully planned for and very necessary, was interrupted (it always is) by the noise of No. 2 daughter. No. 2 daughter yelling incoherently and noisily is not an unusual event, of course, but there was something in this particular babble-fest that grabbed my attention and dragged me from my short, pretend solitude . She was really very excited, again not unusual, she nearly always is really very excited and I nearly always have to feign my own excitement in return, otherwise I might appear to not care that she's created a gnarled rock shape out of play dough (with a little dog hair and saliva in the mix)..... and it could seem that I am unimpressed that she has created ...well, some scribble actually, all by herself. I abandoned my moment alone and trotted downstairs to find No. 2 daughter laughing and pointing and babbling about Gengy's friend. Following her gaze, sure enough, Genghis had indeed brought home a new friend. Genghis had a baby rabbit, half the size of himself by the throat and was growling like some beast of the night....an unearthly sound. I was mortified. Baby rabbits are cute. They are fluffy, they have names like 'Thumper' and 'Flopsy'....... they do not dangle by the throat at an impossible angle, dripping blood onto the carpet. Still, No 2 daughter seemed to be able to see past that bit. She was just thrilled to have a bunny in the house.

Posed by Model (for illustrative purposes only)

No 2 rushed off to get a blanket to wrap it in for 'cuddles'. I leapt into action. I lunged at Genghis, he neatly and elegantly side-stepped me, the rabbit, looking straight at me, rolled his one remaining eye. I lunged again. Genghis gave a little hop to the left and avoided me again. He was not giving up his new friend easily. I grabbed a broom and attempted to sweep him out of the door, he somehow (rather sinisterly actually, like a shape-shifter) was able to hold his ground and his hold on the rabbit....No 2 daughter, back at the scene with a pretty pink blanket, lost her mind. Gushing snot and tears yelling "You bad Mummy, don't hurt Gengy and the bunny, Mummmmeeeee! No! Mummy stop it!' She was howling and hopping about the place. Oh now she was traumatised? Now she was upset? Never mind the eery growling, the blood-stained fur, and the cat looking like Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining'.....oh no, her insane mother was beating up two sweet, furry little creatures with a broom! I tried to mollify her, calling over my shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring tone "It's ok Anna, Genghis has been naughty, that's not his rabbit, just...er...bear with me a minute..." Then "Genghis, you horrible little bastard, let go....LET GO" ..."No Anna, don't cry sweetie, we're just playing, it's ok....go and get a biscuit" and "Jesus, cat, this is it, I HATE YOU, let go ....LET GO" and in an attempt at a 'this-is-all-perfectly-normal-move-along-there-citizen-type voice: "Anna sweetheart, go and get an icy pole from the freezer, stop making that noise honey, I'm just sweeping Genghis, be there in a minute" .....So it went on for some time, me working the split personality angle in an effort to comfort No 2 daughter (who was clearly going to resent me for the rest of her life) and make that cat release that rabbit. I cornered the little black fiend and grabbed him by his scruff, lifting him off the floor. He didn't loosen his death grip one iota. I shook him vigorously from side to side. The rabbit, being very floppy, was flung about too, slip-slapping into the walls. Oh dear. If the rabbit had have been alive at that point, I surely finished him off with my rescue attempt. Nothing was going to release that cat's death grip. I flung the cat with his victim still dangling from his chops, out of the door and into the garden and turned my attention back to my snot-covered child who was looking at me in a whole different way.

Some chocolate buttons and some lies about how 'Genghis and the rabbit like to play with brooms and had now gone for a really fun scamper in the field' later and No 2 daughter appeared to be over it. I am sure it will come out at some point later in her life, perhaps her first Saturday job when she's asked to sweep the back room or something, she'll pick up the broom, she'll freeze, they'll have to prise her fingers from the handle one by one, she'll be gently led away, wide-eyed and staring, into therapy. But for now, she seemed ok.

Genghis Khat is clearly a murderous little bastard, this I am learning about our little, furry friend. Prior to the rabbit he could barely lift, there have been lizards (2), mice (3) a shrew and a bird. He is no friend to all the other little furry animals in the fields and hedgerows of rural Kent. Perhaps if we had have named him Fluffy or Bertie......something innocuous like that.... hmmm....still, least we had his balls lopped off, considering this is what he does sans balls, imagine how it would be if he were testosterone-fuelled? He'd be dragging the neighbourhood dogs into our house. Wild boar. Zebras.....

Genghis - Murderous?

When I eventually went out into the garden a little later, I found what was left of the rabbit. A stomach carefully and expertly removed and pushed to one side, Ray Mears would have got a warm feeling at the skill required to extricate that organ intact. Genghis had also removed and left two feet, neatly together, like a pair of bunny slippers at the end of a bed, except with blood on them. That was it. Everything else had been consumed.

Genghis lolled in later, bloated and not in the least contrite, of course. He plopped himself onto my lap. I couldn't hate him really. Anymore than I could hate a bird for catching a worm. He is a little hunter, hard-wired to do it, a slave to his genes, as we all are. I guess it's just not often that nature, raw in tooth and claw, enters our homes in any way other than via the t.v.......

Scatolini - Going Potty

2011-05-06T12:40:00.007+01:00

I have been away from here for a little while and no, I haven't been having a fun time in my underground cavern-spa, and yes, it is pretty crap of me to not post and no, I won't attempt any excuses except to say that I have not been of the mindset to write stuff that people might feel inclined to read. I could have written an epic about, oh I don't know, torture, dark places, living and dying, mostly dying, but, on balance, not this time. Instead, I waited for those times to pass. As those things must.

Life of course, charges on regardless of whether we are feeling much like participating or not and this past month has seen No. 2 daughter make the transition from nappies to knickers....or not. Between the dog, the cat, the baby and a bout of d&v generously shared around the other members of the family, it has truly been a rather shit time. Each to their own, is how it's had to be. Even Genghis Khat has excelled in poo-management in his secretive and rather aloof cat-way, carefully and delicately depositing his own offerings along the edge of the fire place where it is easiest to get them up again, on the two occasions when he didn't get outside because every other member of the family was either a) in the loo, b) banging on the door of the loo) or c) running behind a maniacal two year old pixie, waving a plastic potty and a packet of wet wipes.

Momo has not had issues of her own as such, unless you include the three times she has managed this month to track down, and roll in, fox poo ....Hmmm.....I guess we could call this 'an issue' ....I would be concerned enough to call it such if my friends or children were doing it. Maybe they are....perhaps they're just a little more discrete. You never can tell about people just by looking, can you? I once saw something about a woman and a man who liked to pretend they were ponies and pony trainers respectively, she would trot around on a lunge rein and he would give her a sugar cube at the end of each 'session'.......perhaps I have friends who also like a little equestrian role play, I mean, how could I know and would I actually want to? ....But I digress. Back to Shitsville, Arizona, where there have been many puddles and occasional piles along the way. One notable accident/incident of the more solid variety went unnoticed for around half an hour or so.......just long enough for No. 2 daughter to scamper off with the offending item to ride her rocking horse vigorously to some imaginary land far, far away, taking simply ages to get there.... at least half a bottle of Dettox later and the pony is almost clean again...... with the exception of that bit of horse behind the saddle. That can never be truly clean again. Rather like trying to get Marmite off of a sheep. Dettox won't do that.

Should we have told Daddy?
No. It's better this way. He looks
so happy.

The house has been ringing with calls of 'Mum, Anna's peed on the floor again' and 'For God's sake Mum, she's in my room, she's gonna pee on my school work' and from me, 'Anna, do you need a wee? Shall I take you sweetie? Anna, listen to me, you have to tell me if.....FOR GOD'S SAKE ANNA! Why didn't you tell me?' There appears to be some strange law of physics at play in this whole toilet-training business, am not sure if it has a name or actually belongs to chemistry, science never being one of my strengths, but it seems that just one small piece of toast and half a cup of orange juice can equate to a poo the size of elephant dung a very short while later, along with a veritable Niagara wherever she is. How can that be? Fascinating. Is No.2 daughter's stomach far, far bigger on the inside than the outside? Is she sneeking vast quantities of food and drink and somehow storing it inside until that moment after I have tried her on the loo, changed her clothes again and ventured 200 metres from the house in the car? And how does she manage to eek out her pee from one end of the hallway to the other, just finishing up as we reach the toilet door and I frantically fling it open whilst simultaneously removing the sixth pair of knickers and socks that day.....How does she measure distance by the amount of fluid she is holding in her bladder? What a talented little individual she is.

Night Life

2011-03-24T13:08:00.014+00:00

The working 'week' finished for me with a night shift three days ago and my days off are finished after today, (cue ironic, sneery, slightly unpleasant laugh - days off? Really? Pah!) And it's back on day shifts tomorrow. I resent night shifts. I spend the day waiting to go to work, I rant. A lot. My whole day is about going to work that night. I do not go quietly or meekly. I whine, I bleat, I almost enjoy myself in the end. But after a long day with the kids on a night-shift-day, there is no wine-o-clock to look forward to......no hunkering down on the sofa with JB and Merlot. Instead, as he bravely manages to hunker down without me and works hard on not looking cheerful, I must don my Wonder-woman costume and hot-foot it down to the station. In those hours leading up to the night shift, my whole life is, of course, shite and can never be good again. It's strangely similar to childbirth; long and painful at the time, but you're glad you did it afterwards and it's quickly forgotten. Until the next time.

My righteous self-pity does not take prisoners and so mostly, the family cluck sympathetically and bring me stuff. Or avoid me under the guise of 'letting you get some Zzzz's in before night shift tonight'. So it does serve some purpose. Otherwise they may not notice I have worked all day and am about to work ALL NIGHT. The reward for martydom in our home is more work. There is no sense in being noble and quietly diligent, none of that 'their happiness is my reward.....' crap. That won't get them away from the Tv/X Box/Sofa . Best to let them know ALL about it....and often.

On the last night shift (seems like just yesterday), with the exception of a broken down ship that had been that way for three days and a car stuck in the sand on a beach, it was all quiet on the Western Front. This made for a very sloooow and very loooong night. I saw 23:40, I saw 00:39, I saw 03:11, I saw 05:20, I saw 07:09 and all those other minutes in between. I think you get the picture. Night shifts are not conducive to healthy living. There are just so many more opportunities to eat stuff. I wouldn't normally be quaffing Cadbury's creme eggs at four in the morning, or Wispa's at one, followed by porridge (dead 'elfy) and two cans of coke..... no, I would be asleep, letting the weight just fall off me during the night. Night shifts. Not right.

But this is not just a whinge-fest about my two night shifts a week. There are some up sides to the strange hours I keep. One is that the kids tend not to notice that I am at work because they are asleep for half of my working week. At least I hope that they are. They could be out, of course, leading double lives. Perhaps there's another family out there somewhere who believes that these kids are actually theirs, maybe my boys have devised some elaborate story about why they only come 'home' after seven pm and have to leave early again the next morning. Could it be that this is why they don't always fancy dinner? They are being fed elsewhere. And all those nights when they stay at 'friend's' houses....is that just a cover story so that they can visit their other family? Their proper, normal family. Sneaking in just before I arrive home in the morning, scampering up the stairs as they hear my key in the door and diving under their duvets. I should go straight upstairs when I get home next time, surprise 'em, fling back their blankets and see if they are indeed in their pj's.....hmmmmm. On second thoughts, best not. Teenage boys. Shudder.

Back to the other 'up-side' of night shifts; I have been privy to some of the most awesome sunsets over the English Channel from our vantage point on the cliffs, witnessed sunrises where the sky is ablaze with reds, oranges, pinks.....streaked with contrails as though a child had taken a pencil to the sky........viewed with awe the most dramatic cloud formations or perfect, virgin canvases in hues of blue and grey, pink and white, just too, too beautiful. And the sun, a ball of red and orange fire, too bright to look directly at, emerging from the edge of the sea and sliding upward to light the world and start the day, or sinking down behind the horizon as though pulling the light of the day into the water with it. Those times it is a privilege to be there. I get a warm feeling. I, of course, never have my camera when this happens, it's enough that I remember to bring in the cokes, the Cadbury's creme eggs and the 'elfy stuff for balance, to work. On the last night watch, the moon was the star of the show, at it's closest for, I think, eighteen years. It was stunning. I saw it coloured orange and change slowly to white. I didn't have my camera with me, I had forgotten it, still, I had remembered to take No. 2 daughter out of her car seat and place her in the house before leaving for work that evening, so I congratulated myself on that instead of dwelling on my failings. The new me.

My 'Moon Through Binoculars
via Mobile Phone' - Cutting Edge
Photography

I did make an attempt to take a picture of that spectacular moon with my mobile phone camera, through the high powered binoculars we have........they are attached to the ceiling, a pull-down affair, a kind of "Up periscope!" type arrangement. We have a history, those bino's and I. Many people walk into them, usually just the once. Only I have managed to be twatted twice by those definitely-possessed bino's in the same incident, I blundered directly into them, at high speed, making contact right between my eyebrows and somehow, as I reeled, dazed, they spun around on their axis and got me again, cracking me on the back of my head as I staggered to my feet. Just to make sure the job was done proper. Not this night though. They were going to redeem themselves by providing this blog with an amazing close up of that amazing moon. That was the plan. There was no way of doing this discretely, the bino's are situated at the front of the Operations Room, that is, in front of everyone. I had a go, though, not entirely sure if this was going to end up being quite high up on the list of 'Ridiculous Things I had Been Spotted Doing.'

View from my 'Office'

I did try the old 'What's that over there on the cliff?' trick whilst quickly doing the deed with my phone, trying to align one eye in one eye-piece and the mobile phone in the other; I cracked my eye socket on the metal eye piece, then dropped my phone which twice required reassembling. Three - nil to evil bino's then. It was undignified, ineffective and probably will impact on my promotion chances in the future. The shot was rubbish. It looks as though the surface of the moon has slipped off and is hanging around below and to one side, in space. However, luckily for me, my colleague and friend, Niki, took this shot without the use of mobile phones or binoculars....

That moon brightened up my night. We have to get it where we can.

The Princess Room

2011-03-20T17:34:00.010+00:00

Back in December, we, that is JB and I, decided that it was probably time to move the girl's into another bedroom. Their bedroom, which they shared, was sandwiched between No. 1 son's and No. 2 son's bedrooms. This was clearly not working. Teenage boys want to play X Box into the night, have their dodgy mates over, max out their speakers and swear a lot. At least, mine do. In fairness to them, they don't do those things around me. This is because my bedroom is on the floor below theirs. It works well. For me. But the girl's were being subjected to a teenage life style in stereo, coming from both sides of the wall. No. 2 daughter invariably slept through it, but seemed to pick up swear words by osmosis, like those 'learn-a-language-in-your-sleep tapes....she learnt to say 'f*ck it' and generally developed a boy-losing-at- COD attitude. No good. And so we did a makeover on what was the tv room downstairs, lobbed out a whole load of kid stuff .....Oh my God! Where does it all come from? Does someone sneak in at night and dump their crap under the bunk bed and behind the wardrobe? And how on earth did those girls accumulate all those plasticy MacDonald's toys? They couldn't possibly have had that many Happy Meals, surely? We must have spent the equivalent of the gross annual budget of Liechtenstein at MacDonald's these past couple of years, judging by the amount of McCrap we had. Hmmmm. That was a matter that needed addressing. I decided to believe instead that No. 1 daughter had been trading her organic pitted prunes and sunflower seed snacks at school for other kid's Mackers toys. Much less troubling that way. I digress. The point of this post is to show you what I found! I was wanting to make the new room somewhere pretty, No. 2 daughter being a total sparkly princess kind of kid and No. 1 daughter having recently emerged from being the uber tom-boy and now getting more in touch with her feminine self. I also need to make it alluring because No. 1 daughter was being moved there under duress, she had been happy enough ear-wigging on her big brothers these past two years. She had learnt a lot.

So, the budget being a little tight (clearly having spent all our money at Maccie D's), I turned to the internet for inspiration. And something cheap. I am not sure what I was looking for, but what I found, at http://www.preciouslittleone.com/product-information/46/4278/walltastic-fairy-princess-wallpaper-mural/ was this! It just transformed the room and best of all, for thirty quid!

The New Princess Girly Swirly Pinky Sparkly Bedroom -
There is more to the mural than shown here, but I couldn't get the whole thing in.

It came on a roll in twelve pieces and we just stuck it up with wallpaper paste. Oh, it was such fun watching it all come together! At least, it was for me. Because I watched and JB did it. I more than watched, I drank wine and talked at my captive husband; I co-ordinated from my comfy position on the bean bag. I orchestrated this masterpiece. This art. I directed. I came quite close to being held by the neck, head immersed in a bucket of paste. But it was so worth it!

The picture doesn't do it justice....it adds so much colour and interest to the room. It's a little like being inside a story book, sort of dreamy, and little girls do love to dream. I think they do other designs too, little boy stuff, animals, that kind of thing. It certainly enticed No. 1 daughter to move downstairs. It's been up for a couple of months now. I believe that my daughter, No. 1, is quite possibly, the world's most untidy person. She will walk on whatever is lying on the floor and discards whatever she is using/wearing/eating/drinking where she stands. It. Drives. Me. To .Distraction. But enough on that, best stop now because I feel a rant coming on and it's not nearly wine-o-clock yet. Suffice it to say, then, that the room is now trashed, but the wall...... ah! The wall is still beautiful!

The boys are much happier too, a two year old and a nine year can really cramp your style. They now have the top floor to themselves. We don't go up there. It's a strange and forbidding place. We may just brick up the stairwell one of these days......

http://www.preciouslittleone.com/

Genghis Khat has a Bad Day

2011-03-15T12:01:00.003+00:00

Genghis Khat has had the worst day of his, admittedly quite short life today. We did the thing to him. We took him to the Vets and abandoned him to his fate......and what a fate that was. Today, Genghis was relieved of his nuts. There are probably less brutal ways of putting it, but they're only used to make it seem like we are not actually lopping off his testicles, as though what we are doing is dealing with a cat personality disorder or prescribing a little course of antibiotics. Say it like it really is. Ouch. And Yueeeeuuuk. And Arggghh. And probably meeeoooooow, in this case.

We, as a family, have never had a cat before, Genghis was a bit of an afterthought. Still, he's been well absorbed into our home, particularly by No. 1 daughter who is, officially, his owner. I was quite happy with that, but cat people have told me more than once that he really shouldn't be allowed to keep all of his equipment, that it's bad news for him, for us and for the neighbourhood virgin-cats; that he would eventually turn from the Genghis we know and love, into a veritable Mr Hyde, a feline fiend with insatiable and impure urges, spraying wee at will, becoming aggressive, violent even, if he wasn't 'done'.

So today, Genghis was 'done'. But Oh! I felt bad about it! I so did! No. 1 daughter fretted all day, even though I am not sure that she is sure what exactly it was that was happening to him. My explanation was too inhibited by my desire to not appear to her to be evil. I couldn't say what was being lopped off , I don't know if she knows what those bits are and, whilst this may have seemed like an ideal opportunity to talk about testicles, I don't want to. I always did believe that I would be the hip and frank parent when it came to these matters, and it is so easy to say that you will give frank,anatomically correct and honest answers when asked, to say that you believe that when they are old enough to ask, then they are clearly old enough to know, to be that Mum - it's dead easy to be her when your baby is six months old and gurgling and the possiblity of he or she asking you 'what does sex mean?' and worse, 'have you done sex, Mummy?' is such a remote and impossible-to-imagine scene. When that time comes, and it has in lots of ways and lots of times for me over the past fifteen years or so, I blush, I change the subject, I skirt the issue, and ultimately I say as little as I can get away with. Hey, it works for me! I could say it's because children just grow up too quickly these days, that I want to keep mine innocent for as long as possible....but it's nothing as noble as that. It's because I'm embarrassed.

'Blue Cat'
A Culinary Representation of
Neuter Day'

Anyway, back to Genghis Khat. He was gone for the day. During that time, I did what I do. I made a cat-shaped blancmange. Actually, I made two, but the first one was eaten before it had cooled. By me. It was comforting initially, but then became a little disturbing, was there some deep, psychological link to my devouring half of a symbolic cat and what was happening right at that moment to our little fella? Probably.

Interpretation of 'The Scream'

I had a call to come and collect our cat, or what was left of him. No.'s 1 and 2 daughters came too, because I couldn't leave them at home alone. No. 1 son came too, because I had to collect him from the train station on the way and so he had no choice. It was just as well, as things turned out. And so we arrived, en masse. I paid the bill and went to the door where we were to collect him. We rang a bell and entered. It was gloomy. almost dungeon-like. I did have a surreal moment of wondering whether this was indeed all it seemed, had I unwittingly put our little cat in the hands of fiends, of those who like a dungeon-esque setting for this kind of thing? I looked for signs of manacles on the wall and then gave myself a quick talking to for my unworthy thoughts. These were nice people. Unlike me, obviously.

"Actually, I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

Genghis was brought out by the very lovely, very bouncy, veterinary nurse. She was enthusiatically caring and super- interested in his welfare. I hated myself more. She proceeded to explain about his after care, and then held out to me a little, waxed bag " In this bag here..." she said " are Genghis's...." and then she paused. Her words and bag hung in the air. I recoiled in horror...surely not?! WHY. Would. I. Want. Those??!!! My mouth fell open involuntarily and a strangled squeak escaped me. It seemed like an eternity before she continued ".......after-op care instructions and some special food for him, to help him mend." But it was too late for me. My relief manifested itself in maniacal laughter. She, politely and uber-professionally ignoring me, went on to say that he may have some swelling in the scrotal area....I laughed. Not at that. I was still laughing at my mistake and my relief that the bag didn't, in fact, contain his testicles. Sadly, the veterinary nurse could not have known that, and I could not explain. No. 1 son looked at me quizzically. I lost it. I could feel his disappointment, after all those lectures from me about maturity, about dealing sensitively with sensitive matters! I laughed harder. After a short time of this, he took the lead....maturely...gathered up the cat and his sisters and led the way out of the gloom of the surgery and into the gloom of the car park. I sniggered all the way home. I did try to explain that it wasn't the word 'scrotal' that had done for me, that I wasn't laughing at the fate of our poor cat, that it was just because I had thought.......oh never mind. My kids silently hated me all the way home. Genghis has his post-op check up next week. No. 1 son says he'll be taking him for that.

I am sincerely pleased to report that Genghis is fine. At least physcially. I should imagine that the mental scars will remain for a while. It doesn't help that we are, basically, a family who's fundamental nature is to take the piss. No. 2 son was pleased to see Genghis "Hi Genghis, how's it hanging?"....and so it went all evening.......

"Er Genghis, you missing a little something there, Buddy?"

"Oh just sod right off, Mo! Why couldn't I have been picked by that lovely,
normal-looking family that took my brother....WHY?"

I would like to say that no animals were harmed in the making of this post....but I don't know that Genghis would concur........it's a cat's life......

Pancakes Schmancakes

2011-03-12T08:42:00.013+00:00

It was Pancake day three days ago here in the UK, otherwise known as Shrove Tuesday. I was gloomily aware of the weight of expectation on me to throw some flour, milk and eggs together, slop it into a pan and lob the whole mess up in the air, sometimes twice. It's the same every year. Somehow even No. 2 daughter seemed to be aware this year, that this was my job, my role, a 'good mummy' thing to do, and was, in her own small way, making me feel guilty for ignoring my pancake duties (and her guilt trip) for the best part of the day. No.'s 1, 2 and 3 are of course, much more vocal, no fobbing them off with a bag of animal-shaped biscuits and CBeebies....oh no! Nor will they be deterred with an intellectualisation of the matter, just because it's a Tuesday, or because everyone else is doing it, or because we've always done it, why should I be flinging batter mix around the kitchen? Any day can, after all, be a pancake day, and probably should be. It could be construed as a kind of 'bah humbug' mindset on my part, but more than that even, only not about Christmas. I believe it's a recognised condition - Complex Resistance-Associated Pancake Psychosis, or C.R.A.P.P. At least it ought to be. So then I can have some counselling. Or maybe some tranquilizers. Perhaps I am missing entirely the religious association? Holy Pancakes! I am really not down with the Shrove Tuesday/flour,water and egg fest thing at all.

Back to the kitchen and the mob is looking increasingly hostile and so, despite changing tack and attempting then to justify not making pancakes on theological grounds, they were not to be moved. I couldn't even argue the 'you're way too old for pancakes!' thing, ridiculing them into giving up their pancake ambition; having four of them between the ages of two and eighteen, at least one of them qualifies for pancakes on age grounds. And so, wearily and with an air of martrydom, I did the pancake thing. They made me do it. They were underwhelmed by my enthusiasm and I was worn down by their insistence on it being a happy childhood memory maker, No. 1 son is eighteen, after all, I don't owe him any more happy childhood memories, surely? No. 2 daughter is two and half, she won't remember. Still, No. 1 daughter and No. 2 son did have a little bit of a point, and they had made it.

No 1 Son....Making his own pancakes and memories, he doesn't qualify for my assistance with either, on age grounds. Still, being the maternal sort, I felt obliged to offer some encouragement. Woo hoo.

And so, I made the effort, I trudged to the shop, our baking cupboard being a tad bare, save for a lonely half-eaten bar of chocolate cake covering (yep, it's still there, ready for one of those high-stress times when it will suddenly appear appetising and edible again). By the time I had reached the shop, I had become strangely infused with a heady mix of rebellion and righteousness and, away from the weight of my hungry childrens' eyes, free from the pain of their silent accusations, I walked straight past that cynical display of flour, eggs, lemons and sugar, and I headed toward the

Perfect!

shelves at the back of the shop, where the long-life goods are kept, where no real mother would be seen browsing, and it was there, amongst the hermatically sealed tortilla wraps with sell-by dates into the next century and muffins with more preservatives than a Damien Hirst piece, there I found just exactly what I was
looking for! Ready-made, vacuum -sealed, in economy sized eight-packs, perfectly round, perfectly ready-to-eat, pancakes! Yum! That ought to do it. What kids wouldn't be happy with that?

Mine, it seems.

Look Kids! Mum can do 8 at a time!

No. 2 ...No Preservatives

I tried to make those styrofoam pancakes seems like a fun alternative. A funky modern twist on Pancake Day. When that failed, I played the 'as-a-working-Mum-I-don't-have-much-time' card, but I couldn't front it out under their glares, their disappointment. The ready made pancakes were utterly spurned. Relegated to the baking cupboard, although even as they were disdainfully thrown in there by No. 2 son, I knew he would return to them one day, there would come a time during some late night binge event when he would tip-toe furtively into the kitchen and seek them out, probably lather them in that cake covering too. Meanwhile, though, I was under attack. They needled me into knocking up some pancake mix, they bullied me into letting the baby have a turn, they battered me into batter making, teased me into tossing, harried me into hurling the whole sorry mess even higher, faster, twisting, turning, left-handed, right-handed, and THEY......THEM.... THOSE KIDS are bloody well responsible for the third degree burns I suffered as a direct consequence of the pancake-in-the-air-double-pirouette-trick THEY goaded me into attempting! Oh! But I was magnificent!

The Pancake Day Elf

I must confess to enjoying the whole event eventually..... and the burns? Well, hey, the dressings will be off in a few weeks and I read recently that facial transplant surgery is coming on leaps and bounds, so not so bad...........but those happy childhood memories we made, well, they'll last a lifetime .......or at at any rate, at least until after The Simpsons has finished on Channel four and the mob is hungry once more......And, what's more, perhaps, just maybe, I think I may have finally shaken off the stigma of being a C.R.A.P.P Mummy ........at least in the context of this acronym!

A Quick Share....

2011-03-07T19:52:00.010+00:00

Messing around on my laptop here on the sofa, half listening to my husband JB on the phone to The Olds, (his lovely folks), telling his Mother about a huge sperm whale that had beached itself on the Kent coast. Mother: "I wonder where that came from, then?' JB without a pause: "...The sea." Conversation resumed seasmlessly on the current cold snap....
Not for me, I spurted red wine over the rug (waste!!) and dribbled wine down my chin (more waste!!) amid inelegant snorty laughter......not sure why, it got me.......just lost it there for a moment.......

10 Signs of a Working Parent with Time Management Issues

2011-03-06T13:51:00.007+00:00

1. You nuke the same cup of coffee in the microwave at least six times over the course of the morning on your day off, before you actually get to drink it. Cold.

2. You realise that you're unable to get the brush through your daughter's hair before school on Monday morning because you haven't brushed it since the last time she went to school. On Friday. Or possibly a week last Friday, if it's been half term.

3. You run your teenage son to the train station in your pyjamas and coat. And then break down on the way back. You haven't owned a negligee for years, fortunately.

4. You give the cat ravioli from a tin for dinner, not because he likes it but because there is no time to get to the shops for the real stuff. Yesterday he had a pot noodle.

5. You're at your desk at work, you notice it's quarter past three. You wonder why that time feels significant. You remember it's when school finishes. You remember you hadn't arranged anyone to collect your nine year old today.

Neil - Hair to Scare

6. You haven't been to the hairdresser for over a year. You look like Neil from 'The Young Ones'

7. Your daughter looks like Neil from 'the Young Ones'

8. You've missed the last three upgrades on your mobile phone contract. Your phone looks like a house brick.

9. You iron only the cuffs and collar of your shirt to save time and then spend your entire day at work with a face like a space hopper, sweating under a jumper you can't take off, because the air con isn't working properly.

10. You eat your breakfast in the car on the way to the train station/the school/work. So do your children. You have learnt that cereal without milk works best.

Carol-Ann

2011-03-04T22:56:00.032+00:00

Spring has sprung. It is a year ago today, that my wonderful, good and kind friend Carol-Ann, died. She was forty one years old. She had two very beautiful little boys aged four and five. She went in her sleep, there was no warning, no hint that she wouldn't be around to see the next day, or to see her sons grow up or any of the other everyday things we all take for granted. Carol-Ann was you and me, she was everywoman.......she had the kind of worries we all have, she juggled work with raising a family, she brought yummy puddings when she came for dinner, she was one of life’s givers and she gave so much, she was quietly funny, she loved her little boys passionately, I can't put nearly twenty years of friendship, of knowing her, of sharing with her, into writing, …… I can only say, simply, that I loved her and with good reason. So many people loved her.

The year has seen Mark, her husband, my close friend, continue where she left off, creating a warm and happy, loving home for their boys, James and Thomas. Mark has been awe-inspiring, truly.
Carol-Ann would be so very proud of her three guys.

During those dark, early days that followed after she had died, Mark called and asked if I would speak at Carol-Ann’s funeral. It was both daunting and comforting in equal measure, but more than anything else, it was a privilege. I wanted to do something, this one last, tiny thing for her, there was no struggle to find the right thing to say, she made it easy, because she was so easy to love; words flowed from my heart. Sorrow flowed from my heart, for her, for her husband, her mother, her children, her friends, for me, for all of us who were reeling from that terrible news then.

* * * * *
Eulogy for Carol-Ann

'Mark asked me to read Psalm 23 for him, for Carol-Ann and for you all. It has been my honour to do so.

There have been so many wonderful, deserving tributes to this beautiful person over the past two weeks, such an out-pouring of grief and love, the fact that there are so many of us are here today is in itself a tribute to Carol-Ann, to the friend she was, the mother, the wife, the daughter and all the many other roles that she filled so admirably, so capably and selflessly.

Since that evening when Mark first gave us the terrible news of the loss of Carol-Ann, I have, like you all I’m sure, thought of very little else. What an unquantifiable loss it is, just too desperately sad for any words I can conjure to adequately convey it, and I won’t try to do that now, we each of us must find our own way to express that loss.

In recent days, my thoughts have, on occasion, been interrupted and gradually pervaded by the onset of spring….. since that dreadful day, spring seems to have crept up on us……..the flowers are poking through the soil, there is life and colour and the sun has been making a tentative appearance from time to time………and gradually, for me, Carol-Ann has become synonymous with spring, ………….the little moments of quiet joy experienced when feeling the sun again…....….the hope and optimism spring brings with its new growth, she is present in all of it;
the beauty of the flowers remind me of her own special beauty, the way spring makes us feel good, better somehow, even in difficult circumstances - Carol-Ann could do that too - the warmth of a spring day……..have you ever known a warmer person than she was?

All of the facets of springtime are facets of our lovely Carol-Ann. And the memory of her, the love of her, I feel it in these life-giving, inspiring, new spring days……….……. such a beautiful season, my favourite season, I spoke before of tributes to Carol-Ann….. forever more, for me, springtime, in all it’s beauty and warmth will be a tribute to Carol-Ann….'

* * * * * * *

Carol-Ann with my newborn daughter, her warmth and love radiating outwards, as ever....

Life and time have rolled on another year. We miss her, in ways we have already found and we will miss her in ways we haven’t yet come up against; and still, a year on and raw emotion has given way to something a little gentler……and I find her warmth again in these early spring days and I think on too, how so very lucky we were to have known this beautiful, smart, loving person and to have shared our lives with her's......

'I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.'

* * * * * * *

Eminem - Making Blancmange Special

2011-02-27T20:58:00.093+00:00

It was my turn. I bought a new mould from Ebay. It is a ring with a delicate, decorated perimeter, a cute little space in the middle, like a doughnut, only bigger, obviously. It was my 'big idea', my secret plan, to make the blancmange and turn it out onto a smart serving dish, then make a jelly and place it strategically in the aforementioned cute little space. But that wasn't all, and here was the cunning part, the part that would see Frank and his green and pink temptress off forever, the jelly would be set in the same mould turned upside down, in the hole of the mould ring! Genius, heh? By setting it in that mould, once the blancmange had been turned out of course, the jelly's perimeter indentations would fit perfectly with those of the blancmange's inner, locked together in wobbling harmony, joined in perfection. Viewed from above, it would be a shimmering halo, the jelly within the blancmange halo reminiscent of the top of an angel's head. If the halo were actually resting on that head. And if the angel were bald. And red. And made from Tesco's value jelly. It would require imagination of course, as well as a degree of intellectualisation and sensitivity to appreciate, as with all important examples of expressionist art. Why was the halo touching that head? And what had the angel done to make that halo fall? An enigma within an enigma. This was to be the extreme edge of multi-media art. A cerebral blancmange/jelly piece.

At least, that was the idea. And I still maintain it was a good one. Perhaps ambitious, but then, look at the competition, I had to up my game, the melted-kitten-blancmange mess was not going to cut it at this level. And suddenly, the words of Eminem, learnt under duress over many years of boom da da boom boom coming from No. 1 son's bedroom, suddenly had a new resonance. I had to....

" lose yourself in..... the moment

You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow

This opportunity comes once in a lifetime..... yo."

Absolutely! Thanks for that Em! You are so right! Gosh! And yes, I was born for this very moment! I had the idea inspired, I am sure, by a benevolent, bald, red angel somewhere looking down on me, desperate to be re-created in my blancmange in an effort to redeem himself for whatever it was that had caused his halo to drop onto his head, I had the packet of blancmange (and some in reserve), I had the uber-mould and I had the fire in my belly! I was unstoppable!

And it was at this point that it started to go wrong. The uber-mould, it transpired, held two pints of blancmange, not the one pint that each packet of mix makes. Hmmmm. Ok. So my one pint of chocolate blancmange was not going to do it. There was no time to get to the shops and buy some more. I could feel the panic rising, my throat tightening, but no, I couldn't give in to it and give up, no! I quelled that choked feeling and concentrated. Really hard. I felt a vein throb in my forehead.........I had it! A flash of inspiration! I had a packet of raspberry flavour blancmange in the cupboard (languishing behind the half-eaten cake covering), I would mix it with chocolate, making it chocolate and raspberry flavour, the most natural thing in the world because (and this is the best bit) the jelly was raspberry-flavoured too! Oh perfection! It was clearly meant to be. And even if it wasn't meant to be, they would all think that it was, the judges, Frank, they would never know! And so I lobbed the packet of raspberry into the mix too, stuck my Frankenstein's monster of a blancmange in the fridge and waited for it be alive.

Angel Blancmange ............Crap

Time passed. It set. The colour was difficult to describe. Brown with a hint of red, red with a hint of brown. A little disappointing. I turned it out. The beautiful little indentations were not beautiful, they were blurred with no real definition, like a jellyfish crawling across a window. Never mind. La pièce de résistence, the beauticious raspberry jelly, would save it from mediocrity. Except it didn't. It didn't fit. It required an undignified amount of man-handling to make it squeeze itself into that ring of blancmange.....was it somehow resistant to becoming my representation of a bald, red angel-head? Was there some other-worldy intervention going on here? Jelly and blancmange perhaps not being the most dignified representation of a celestial being. At the risk of my immortal soul, I ploughed on with my creation anyway, manipulating that jelly into it's spot, poking it down, squidging it in, cajoling it, pleading with it, getting violent with it. In the end, it was in, after a fashion. But it came at a price. The angelic concept was lost, the pattern, the cog-like edges...... lost to all but my imagination. There is no movie of this one, it failed even to wobble significantly.

I had arranged for a colleague to drive me in to work that night; an evil idea was struggling to surface in my sleep-deprived consciousness. It involved his driving and my blancmange. It involved slander. It involved maligning a perfectly innocent, decent and kind individual whose only crime was to offer me a lift in that night. Sadly for him, wrong time, wrong place, mate. I was going to blame the failings of my blancmange and jelly on his driving. It was perfect. He is a young guy, who wouldn't believe that he drove at such speeds, with such recklessness that even the most robust blancmange wouldn't have stood a chance?

I arrived, just before the start of the shift and unveiled my effort, not to the adulation I had hoped for, more of an embarrassed, collective mumbling, with the odd discernable phrase, such as 'Oh that's nice'; and 'Erm, great, I'll try some later, ta.' and 'Interesting, yeah, not for me though thanks, have already eaten' Me: 'But you're a judge' 'Yeah, but had a big meal earlier, you know how it is'. No, actually, I don't. Can you imagine John Torode of Masterchef saying that? He wouldn't. I tried with a nonchalant 'Oh it's a funky little raspberry and chocolate combo, the blancmange complimenting the heavier flavour of the raspberry jelly, tempering it with subtle cocoa overtones'. Blank faces, staring off into the middle distance. Failing to impress with either the thing itself or my description, and seeing Frank yomping home towards the finish line, I confess that I did listen to my resident evil and resorted to loudly and shamelessly blaming the driver who had brought the thing and me in that evening. 'It had been perfect when we left the house, but just couldn't withstand that terrifying journey...it had been traumatised, shaken and jolted entirely out of shape.' I couldn't look my crest-fallen driver in the eye. I am not proud of this. The thing did get partially eaten eventually, and all were polite of course, we do have to work together, but nobody gushed about it, there was no raving over it, there was only an air of awkward pity. In the end, sigh, I have to concede that Frank has won the blancmange-off. His green and pink creation was far superior to the lump of milk, sugar, water and additives that I produced. Well done Frank. And as for me? Well, tomorrow is another day. In fact, Frank was just telling me yesterday how to make a curry, the only way to make a curry.........actually, I make a mean curry, in particular, Bombay potatoes......I see a chance here, a chance to redeem myself..........I shall go away and plan the most amazing, mind-blowing awesome curry creation....... he may have won the battle this time, but just watch this space...........I shall return, stronger, wiser, ready for the next food clash, the curry-off.....