Missing You Already

Scrooge is in the house

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 10:59:00 +0000

Onesies are flying off the shelves. They are the top Christmas present for 2012. Please do not buy one for me. I do not need more excuses to lie inert on the sofa doing fuck all.

Oh the whimsical onesie designs. So much choice. So little point.

The cutesie ears, the friesian prints, the paws instead of feet. I have designed a onesie, it's called 'the slug' and it comes in black or brown velour, it has no legs or arms, but it does have a hole at one end from where your silvery mucous trails and other bodily fluids can escape.

Christmas hasn't been dealt with on any level yet. Decorations, tree, gifts - nothing doing. I think I would quite like Christmas to be over already. Can we skip to Spring time? A season of fresh new leaves, wild flowers and hope, instead of forced goodwill, sellotape rage and peptic ulcers.

I'm not really selling the whole Christmas cheer vibe very well, am I?

Nailing It

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 13:42:00 +0000

My nails have suddenly started growing a lot. What could it be? I have been taking Vitamin C with extra Zinc - does that effect your nails?

I used to sit next to a girl at school who had a part time job in a mushroom farm and she had the loveliest nails you've ever seen. She said it was from delving around in all the mushroomy matter.

Do you remember that Barry White video featuring a lady (possibly his wife) with fingernails so long, they coiled around in tight curls - God knows how she went to the toilet without hurting herself. Perhaps Barry did the honours?

Sprog doesn't like my tiger claws, he says I shouldn't have them because I am too clumsy. He's got a point. I do seem to keep accidentally lacerating him with my talons.

He told me this morning that school is so boring, it is actually more fun to do the work they are given. This seemed a bit of a revelation to young Sprog, so I tried to react on the neutral side of positive. I don't want him to twig that things go severely downhill from here on in...don't want to completely break his spirit.

The weather is a meteo triumph right now. Still, clear mornings followed by warm, breezy afternoons - quite lovely. There are lots of tingly aromas in the air, the smell of my neighbour's jam making, leaf mould, wood smoke and late honeysuckle -there's an olfactory orgasm going on up my nostrils right now - explains the weird look on my face.

Spouse is dragging me out on an evening bike ride tonight. I have lights and dayglo garments a plenty and will be visible from space - I just hope the Pastis-soaked drivers on their way home can see me through the alco-fug. We have to resort to night rides because our days are too full. So while Sprog does one of his 'activities', we do ours.

The two week Toussaints holiday at the end of the month is troubling me. I want to go to Blighty with Sprog, but can I find any flights? Can I bollocks. Everyone seems to be cutting their schedules. Why this should surprise me in these fiscally-fucked times, I don't know - but it does. So, it might be a train.

A train. WTF? The last time I travelled by train was about ten years ago. Do they still exist?

I can't drive. Beside the fact that I'd have a nervous breakdown navigating all that way on my own and would definitely end up in Lithuania, the car won't make it that far. The car has announced its decision to retire from the road, so we're currently trying to figure out whether to fix it up and force it back out there, or just squash it into a bite sized metal cube and move on.

Anyway, I must get back to it. I can hear the footsteps of my mental warder advancing down the thought corridor.

Growing out of wizardry

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 25 Sep 2012 11:05:00 +0000

I wonder how JK Rowling is feeling this week? A little tense, perhaps?

Her first book for grown-ups, The Casual Vacancy will be hitting the shelves.

Word is there are no wizards, unicorns or wands to be found in this new novel. Those few who have been free to scrutinise it talk of sex and drugs. Salacious mentions of 'unguarded vaginas' and 'aching balls' sound most intriguing.

Her unique position means there is no pressure (she doesn't have to worry about paying the electricity bills, for example) and yet, enormous pressure on her to succeed. Of course she wants to be able to cut it in the world of adult fiction, she has been locked in self-imposed exile with spotty, adolescent wizards for the last ten years. Give the poor cow a break!

I am chartreuse with envy over her established successful writing career, but I don't think I would enjoy being in her bespoke Louboutins right now. I wonder if she considered publishing the new book under a pseudonym? I feel that whatever book she has written, whether with or without merit, it is destined to be torn apart by the differing factions who feel short changed, disappointed, violated, affronted, appalled (insert complaint here), by its contents.

Extremely short pause for sympathy.

With a million copies of The Casual Vacancy on pre-order, let's hope it knocks the tawdry FSOG off the best seller lists. I am quite looking forward to perusing it actually. Jo, if you're reading this, the very best of luck with it all and would you mind sending me a signed copy? Thanks, love. x

Nice One Rosie Fiore

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 18 Sep 2012 09:59:00 +0000

Good to read that some authors are standing up for themselves. The publishing industry always seems to lag slightly behind the music industry, and authors are increasingly having to face up to the reality of illegal downloads. The remote nature of the internet lulls some in to thinking that downloading books illegally is a victimless crime. It isn't.

Rosie Fiore, I salute you.

Have a Whizzpoppingly Swizzfigglingly Good Day

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 13:53:00 +0000

I discovered Roald Dahl's books as an adult. Reading his stories to Sprog has given us lots of laughs and pleasure. I love the way he mucks about with language and is really quite subversive at times. I can't really say which is my favourite story, I like them all. James and the Giant Peach or maybe the BFG? The original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film is FAR better than the silly Johnny Depp remake. Far more sinister. I wonder what the West End Musical version in 2013 will be like?

Today is RD's birthday and it is being celebrated, as it is every year, with Roald Dahl Day. The lovely Michael Rosen, former Children's Laureate, has written the first authorised biography of the delightful Dahl and this interview suggests that his stories were regularly peopled with nasty adult characters as a result of his rather unhappy childhood; beleaguered and then empowered children getting their own back on hideous adults being a regularly visited theme. The book is aimed at eight to ten year olds and has photographs and letters written by the young Dahl that kids will find fascinating.

Do you remember that other Roald Dahl creation, the TV series Tales of the Unexpected? I used to find it quite unsettling. I was only ever allowed to watch when my older sisters were babysitting, mind you. Themes of eroticism and vice prevailed, with tales of wife-swapping and all sorts of deviant behaviour. Mr Dahl could be a randy old goat on occassions and even wrote for Playboy - something typically fantastic involving a seven foot long penis floating up into the stratosphere.

So who is your favourite Dahl invention? Mathilda? The Twits? Fantastic Mr Fox? Horny Uncle Oswald?

Strictly speaking, I was wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 11 Sep 2012 08:50:00 +0000

Yeah, so I did get the whole Strictly line up wrong - but I think my ideas would have made more interesting TV.

Let's start with the 'Who's Gazza?' contestants that I have never knowingly welcomed into my weird world.

Kimberley Walsh - from Girls Aloud apparently

Richard Arnold - no idea. Something on ITV

Nicky Byrne - not a clue

Sid Owen and Lisa Riley - ex soap stars. Shoot me now.

The ones I had actually heard of:

Sports stars Louis Smith, Victoria Pendleton and Michael Vaughan.

Denise Van Outen, Jerry Hall and Fern Britton.

I knew Colin Salmon's face, but not his name
.
Johnny Ball.

Dani Harmer

From the contestants I do or don't recognise you can surmise I am a fat middle aged woman with too much time on her hands - the ideal target demographic for Strictly.

I must admit to being less excited about the prospect of Strictly Come Dancing beginning, than I was yesterday morning. I'm sure I'll cope with the disappointment. It's always crap at the beginning.

Kevin Pietersen and Lord Seb Coe for Strictly?

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 08:01:00 +0000

Now that the Olympics and Paralympics are over, there has to be something to fill the void. Fortunately, the tenth series of the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing is soon to be dusting off the sequins, getting a full body wax and spray tan and plastering on its charmingly cheesy grin.

Yes, the inexorable slide towards Christmas has begun. Strictly season is upon us.

I use Strictly Come Dancing for a glamour fix. There is a glamour deficit of gargantuan proportions when you live in deepest, rural France. Whoever said the French had the monopoly on glamour, hadn't spent much time outside Paris. One look at the nylon tabards, the wine stained shell suits and the bewildering micro-shorts/combat boot ensembles regularly seen in these parts, tells you that this is the place that glamour forgot.

Why bother looking fabulous? Are the sheep, trees and wild boar really going to appreciate it that much? Not that Strictly provides glamour in any real sense - more of a kiss me quick, fish and chips, bunk- up behind the beach huts sort of tacky-glam, as opposed to full throttle uber-glam like Audrey Hepburn or ....er...As you can see, my glamour reference points are rather rusty.

Anyway - they are going to announce the line-up for Strictly Come Dancing later today. Speculation is rife in the forums and press about who will be entering the benign orbit of the mirror ball. Athletes are thought to be high up on the list. Of course after the summer of sport in the UK, there are plenty of high profile runners, cyclists, gymnasts, rowers etc, to choose from. With their fitness, strength and co-ordination they usually make good dancers. Remember Mark Ramprakash and Colin Jackson?

Here are my predictions on possible candidates - some quite near the mark, others less so.

Kevin Pietersen the cricketer has more time on his hands these days and would draw high viewing figures, I should imagine - being that he is a publicity magnet. Lord Seb Coe is probably twiddling his thumbs this morning thinking 'What the flip am I going to do with myself now?' - his wife would probably appreciate it as a good way of getting him out from under her feet.

Victoria Pendleton and Rebecca Adlington have both been mentioned - they would certainly have the stamina required.

The male eye-candy slot is rumoured to be prepared for Louis Smith, the silver medal winning gymnast with the matinee idol good looks. Who knows? If not him, boy and girl bands usually provide rich hunting grounds for pretty, vacuous, attention-seeking stage-school products.

I don't know anything about soaps or who stars in them - but there are usually a couple of z- listers from that type of show. Do I sound snooty? Do I care?

For the useless old fart slot previously occupied by Paul Daniels, Anne Widdecomb and John Sargeant, I suggest Boris Johnson or Brucie, even. If Sir Chin moved over from presenting to dancing, he would probably do a better job of things. Rumour has it that Johnny Ball may be in the running - who he? Well, of course, I know who he is, but wasn't he last on TV in the 1970s?

I'd love to see someone like Grayson Perry in the mix, turning it all on its head. He would look great in the dresses and he's just a refreshing, unpredictable, loose cannon that would make fascinating viewing. Also, the comic Miranda has always said she'd love to do it - that would make compelling telly. Or maybe Dawn French could have a pop at it? Or Jimmy Carr?

Dani Harmer, actress from CBBC TV has had her name mentioned and would be a clever choice to pull the kids in. Ed Petrie would be good,too. He would look hilarious doing the salsa. Strictly Come Dancing is a family show (my nine year old loves it) and frankly, compared to the vitriole and character assassination regularly featured on the X Factor which airs at the same time, the BBC is a far more positive place for kids to spend their Saturday nights.

Blimey - I'm not even getting paid for this plug!!!

These are my random and totally ill-informed thoughts on who or what may appear next Saturday on the first show. We don't have long to wait, the line-up will be announced later today. I wonder if I have got any of them correct? Who would you make walk the sequin-encrusted Strictly plank?

Tips on Search Engine Optimisation

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Thu, 23 Aug 2012 15:48:00 +0000

This blog has been scraping along the large, be-dimpled bottom of Cyber-shire for too long. I jealously view the stats of other blogs of similar vintage, marvelling at their popularity, and I have decided that this blog should be getting more visitors.

Apart from writing engaging, entertaining and compelling posts, what else can I do? A free cream cake to every visitor? I know nothing about promoting my blog and would love to hear what you all do to keep visitor numbers up. I keep hearing about Search Engine Optimisation. As far as I can make out, this just entails writing really obvious phrases and key words which are going to suck the cyberwankers out of the ether - phrases like 'big tits covered in baby oil' and 'large satisfying cock' - which should pull in a few ornithologically minded readers at the very least.

I am toying with the idea of Twitter, but find the idea a bit daunting. A bit like walking into a party where the room is filled with lots of really witty, funny people pretending to know each other really well.

There will be experiments with my blog template. This one is making me feel mildly bilious with its insipid greeting card style colours and whimsical graphics. I need one with 'tits and cocks'. Can anybody recommend a good avian template?

What do you do to increase readership of your blog? Maybe I should do something exciting and then write about it. Blimey. There's a thought...

Girls Happen

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 31 Jul 2012 08:17:00 +0000

Sprog wants a brother. He told me this last night, after his cousins had left. I explained to him that it was unlikely he would get his wish and that even if he did get a sibling, the age gap would mean that playing football and computer games together would have to wait a long time.

To further dampen his enthusiasm, I threw in the possibility that siblings are not automatically boys. Girls happen. He looked at me as if I had suggested something truly offensive.

We don't plan much in this household, but family planning gets more than a cursory glance. No time here for more shitty nappies, sleepless nights and zombie-like enslavement. Been there, done that.

In the meantime, Sprog needs a playmate. I don't really cut it anymore as a playmate. He gets frustrated with my lapses of concentration during intense Lego role playing games, my giggling at his serious faces and grown-up voices, my boredom with having to watch him repeat football tricks over and over and over. I do try...it's just that we have wildly differing interests. I get fed up with his theatrical sighs of boredom when I try to interest him in my stuff. Granted, my stuff is pretty stultifying, and having it pointed out to me by a dull-eyed nine year old somehow makes it more so.

Time to get on the phone and start rustling up some child-shaped diversions. Or (horrors) maybe we should develop some common interests. Any suggestions?

Punditry Pedantry

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 19:39:00 +0000

I may have identified my own personal version of hell. If you were to lock me in a room full of football pundits, my soul would wither, shrivel and die before you could say 'it's a game of two halves.'

Most football pundits seem to be ex-footballers. And you know how articulate footballers are.

For all my readers over the pond (Get me!), football is what English people call soccer.

Anyway. Football punditry. Men in tight shirts, slightly gone to seed, sitting with their legs apart (obviously because their balls are SO MASSIVE), talking over each other, 'he's done this, and he's done that, and he's scored, and the lad's over the moon' ...I find it all really depressing. I don't know why.

Actually, yes I do.

Because these guys talk about football as if it really matters. And I beg to differ. It doesn't matter to me. I don't give a fuck who wins.

As I write, England are playing Ukraine in the European Championship. I don't know if they will win or not. John Terry's long socks are interesting. Wayne Rooney's hair is laughable.

Commentary is different. You need to be able to string a few words together, think on your feet a bit. But punditry. Spare me the thoughts of a studio full of conceited Liverpudlian neanderthals, Brummie bores and Midland morons. The scary thing is, in years to come, the likes of Terry and Rooney may be pundits. Just imagine the sparkling and enlightened repartee between two such conversational giants.

Half time score: England - 0 Ukraine -0.

Thrilling stuff.

I shall dive on the mute button now, before the punditry starts.

Final score: England - 1 Ukraine 0. The Rooney boy done good. Only took eight years.

Snakes Alive

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Thu, 31 May 2012 10:22:00 +0000

A grass snake has me on edge. It has taken to sprinting.

Erm. Hang on a minute. Do snakes sprint? Are legs essential to sprinting?

Maybe streaking is a better choice of word. The snake in question is butt-naked whenever I see it, and moving at a streakily fast speed, wavering and undulating through the grass in a disconcerting manner. It has taken to leaping from the stone wall, into the grass of the lawn and making a dash for the small pond a few metres away.

I don't appreciate this type of herpetological taunting.

The garden is my domain. There are fields, meadows, mountains and pastures a plenty in close proximity. Why doesn't Mr G Snake slither off somewhere else? I stomp around a lot, trying to give the hint with bad vibrations, but this particular serpent is deaf to my foul mouthed footfall. Yeah, literally deaf. Sprog informed me, snakes have no ears, so there is little point in trying to engage it in any form of dialogue,other than with my boot.

Like I'd really have the guts. It is MASSIVE.

I have spoken before about my dislike of frogs and toads. I object to their quick movements. May I also add snakes to this list of critters lacking charm? They have fast movements too.

In contrast, I am a slow moving, languid (or dim and dullwitted depending on your opinion) individual, and projectile animals unsettle my calm.

I googled grass snake. They feed on amphibians such as frogs and toads. This explains why Mr G Snake has appropriated the overgrown and grimy pond as his own personal lido come resto.

What I want to know is, what eats grass snakes?

Somebody That You Should Know

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 08 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

I live in a strongly socialist part of France, so there were great celebrations on Sunday night following the announcement of Hollande's election victory. At eight 0' clock I was stood in the garden and heard the cry go up. A grillade was hastily assembled in the village square and somebody set up some speakers and a bit of post-election-optimism-euphoria-French-stylie-shindig ensued.

And I keep hearing this great song, I believe it is soaring in the French charts at the moment. I heard it on the radio the other day whilst in the car and I was listening so hard I started to drive really slow. Cue French drivers all over my arse like a rash, horns blaring, irate hand gestures.

Did I care? Not exactly.

Interested enough to Wiki the song and artist, I discovered this has been a massive global hit. Further proof (not that it were needed) that I have been living in a hole for the past few months. You probably know it already, but if you don't, have a listen to 'Somebody That I Used To Know' by Gotye. You don't hear many pop songs these days with such quality musical and lyrical content. I have no idea what this artist's other material is like - is this a flash in the pan, or one slice of oft-repeated genius? Don't know, don't care.

In The Not Very Hot Seat

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 10:52:00 +0000

As I get older, I'm not sure I am getting any wiser. Surely experience should count for something? Not if you are too dim in the first place to learn from it, I suppose. We are busy here. We have guests - always nice to welcome civilised,non-grunting individuals (they are rarely seen in these parts). My little Sprog has morphed seemingly overnight into some kind of Justin Beiber/Horrid Henry/Uber-brat I hardly recognise. Where before lay sweetness and charm, there now lies a chilling indifference and wilful loathing of everything ranging from me to...er...well, me. Apart from that, everything is fantastic! Some quite exciting irons in the fire which entail London trips and lots of Skype induced panic attacks. What arsehole invented Skype? Clearly someone who had never had a bad hair,skin,face,body day and had never seen fit to spend all day in their pyjamas. Loser. I'll let you have more news as and when anything happens...the way things tend to not-happen in my life, that is not a foregone conclusion. In other news, I have stopped drinking. I know, it's a challenge believing it, but it is true. No alcoholic beverage has passed my lips since 2nd January 2012. The effects on weight loss have been minimal, however, I am less nutso, shreiky and hormonal which is a plus. I have just re-read that last paragraph, and it makes me sound a bit like a sad alky. My name is Mya and I am not an alcoholic. I am pre-occupied with the sourcing of chairs. Unless you want your guests to stand around your house in bus-queue like disarray, it is necessary to provide seating. The problem is, too many arses, not enough seats. Spouse and Sprog are finding the cold tiled floor a little hard on their less well upholstered bottoms. I, of course, feel nothing. I could be sitting in a vat of dry ice, wearing Haagen Das pants on an ice-berg saddle - and still the cold would never penetrate my arse blubber. Better get off to the chair shop. If this is all bunched up into one stodgy,unwieldy paragraph it's because Blogger has changed...and I don't understand any of it...

Not dead

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 17:16:00 +0000

Well, I wasn't dead last time I looked, which was about 10 minutes ago. It was a grim experience viewing myself in a mirror directly below a Velux window. Sunlight is never a girl's best friend, on just about every level.

Yeah so anyway - not dead. I am very much alive. I thought I had better post as I was getting, frankly, fed up with the hundreds of plaintive, needy emails I was getting. Saying things like 'Are you okay? Without your blog posts it's as if a 15 watt lightbulb has been switched off - when are you coming back? Have you spontaneously combusted? If you are six feet under can I have your guitars?'

And so on.

I have been locked away - prison, sanitorium, my own brain...I'll let you speculate on that one.

Still, it's nice to be back.Quite apt that I should re-emerge at Easter - not that I'm likening myself to anyone, you understand. I've got a pair of sandals, but the similarities end there.

There is a squeaky green newness to everything outside, it is really quite lovely. I have been munching chocolate egg and watching the shepherd and his dog chase their little troupe of mouton over the hill. Much bells and bah-ing.

Back soon. Promise. x

Unhappy hooters and roughed-up arses

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 11:36:00 +0000

So, yesterday was Blue Monday. What's today? Tragic Tuesday? Followed by Woeful Wednesday, Thoroughly shit Thursday, Fucking awful Friday, Self-hatred Saturday and Suicidal Sunday.

Fantastic!

Did anybody watch Sherlock on Sunday night? I was compelled to watch, influenced somewhat by the whole media fizz that seemed to erupt whenever ACD's annoying private dick was mentioned. It was the first time for me, and I think perhaps the last. I was only five minutes in when the springs on my preposterometre burst from their casings and scattered over the floor. Nice armchairs, great performances from that little Hobbit bloke and the Moriarty geezer, but apart from that.... I am looking forward to Birdsong next Sunday, I just hope it isn't set in a Nintendo game on planet Tharp.

Things are quiet and New Yeary here. We have just returned from the shops. We bought a large amount of recycled loo roll. Great if you have any furniture to sand down. Times are hard,obv.

Our resident owls in the giant poplars have begun hooting really early this year. I am concerned that they are not getting on and that an owl divorce may be on the cards. There is an undeniably sarcastic edge to some of the hoots (definitely his, not hers...typical). I could offer to mediate, but I don't want to ruffle any feathers.

I feel as if I am in a waiting room at the moment. Fortunately, this waiting room is not peopled with the sick, miserable or dejected...there is just myself and a pretty view out of the window to enjoy. I shall return when I have more to report.

Things I Won't Do In 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 10:32:00 +0000

1.Pay off my credit card bill

2.Lose two stone

3.Look any younger

4.Invent something quite good

5.Understand the appeal of dried banana chips

6.Learn Mandarin

7.Marry a dwarf or Tom Cruise

8.Fully service a Briggs & Stratton lawn mower

9.Pay for sex

10. Feel inadequate for not-knowing what a Kardashian is

Oh and number 11...I won't give a toss about not doing it...

Merry New Year to all of my lovely reader. x

What won't you do?

Pre-stuffed

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 15:18:00 +0000

Usually, by this time in December we have locked up the house and departed for Blighty. But due to various literary commitments (Spouse, not me),the scarcity of ~~escape~~ travel routes out of France and general terminal flakiness (me, not snow or dandruff), we shall be departing in a few days. This rather pathetic late-in-the-day-ness means I will have zero time to Christmas shop.

Obviously, this comes as a huge relief. Christmas shopping this year has been completed by the fire, laptop on knee, glass in hand. I reckon I have saved money and sanity in equal measure. Not for me the scrum down on the high street amongst the sharp elbowed old bags, pick pockets, bomb scares, suffocating lighting, fainting episodes, shouty shriek-fests and losing it in Hamleys.

Yep. Better off by the fire.

Not in the spirit of Christmas, rather in the spirit of doing-as-little-as-possible, I have jumped into the slacker-mum camp. This year, Sprog is receiving a pre-stuffed Christmas stocking. This strategy carries with it some risk. The pre-stuffers in a windy Hitchin warehouse say this stocking is appropriate for an eight year old boy. It will be interesting to see what the little Prince fishes out on Christmas morning. If he produces a pair of rubber comedy tits then perhaps my view on delegating just about everything in my life may need adjustment.

Oooh, I just heard Joni Mitchell's song 'River' on the radio. Beautiful song. Admittedly, it was being performed by a third-rate singer in this instance, but it reminded me of the fine original version by Joni. I had never considered it a Christmas song, but I suppose the opening lyric 'It's coming on Christmas, they're cutting down trees, putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace, oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on' make it as topical as pretty much any Christmas song you care to mention. Don't let the fact the lyrics look pedestrian put you off, dressed in a languorous vocal and with exquisite phrasing they are transformed into pure poetry. Here, a Christmas present, just for you...enjoy.

The annual freezer de-frosting ceremony has been taking place. Using my Bear Grylls novelty ice-pick I have so far hacked out four plastic bags full of stale bread off-cuts. I clearly fully intended to use them for breadcrumbs in some un-named, unimagined and er uncooked recipe. They are now in the bin. Along with the vile sludgy brown soup that looks like frosted turd pudding. I rescued the raspberries, however. The very same raspberries I lovingly collected every day over the summer and placed into a tupperware for later use. Last night I cooked a raspberry pavlova. Being a meringue virgin, I approached the exercise with trepidation. But I must have been thinking of souffle, which is a complete bastard. Meringue turned out to be a doddle. Tasty too. We munched happily on the crunchy, chewy, sweet meringue combined with tart, mushy raspberries whilst watching Harry Judd get his champion's glitterball. Pavlova, Strictly, there was a pleasing and totally unintentional synchronicity to it all. We really do live on the edge out here, you know. It's that mental.

Back to the present. If I want to avoid my maternal credit rating being further downgraded I had better go now and fetch my child from his sleepover. I'm just rehearsing the conversation in my head now...'Oh, was it only one night? I must have misunderstood. Bloody French language.'

I hope you all get what you want for Christmas. Toaster, hair straighteners, peace, love, a stable economy and some Uggs.

Merry Christmas my lovelies!

Mya x

Lego Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 13:32:00 +0000

I am aware that whenever I blog these days, I seem to be repeating some or other drivel I have dumped on the blogosphere previously. As I complete another revolution, I pass by old, abandoned rants dumped carelessly like rusting fridges or gut-spilling sofas.

This time I am recycling the 'I'm too fucking skint for Christmas' rant. You know, the one about not asking people what they want for Christmas, because there isn't a chance in hell of being able to afford anything more than a pound shop gift selection.

The fact nothing ever changes year on year could be depressing.

Strangely, it isn't.

It's quite comforting in a way.This isn't a doom-dump.Far from it.

I am in fine fettle and so are my boys, and that is all that matters.

The sun is shining ridiculously outside and the air is crisp. I wore a T-shirt this morning out in the garden.

I digress. Skint Christmas. I'm not exactly the only person feeling this way, clearly. I have been having dark thoughts about mugging parents on their way out of toy shops to run off with their Lego purchases.

How expensive is Lego?

Unbelievably so. Ounce per ounce it's pushing gold.If I am to buy the Lego Star Wars vessel lusted after by my eight year old Wookie, I am going to have to make some sacrifices.

Note to Lego PR: If you want to send me any ludicrously over-priced Lego Star Wars merchandise, I promise I shall give it a glowing review, as long as I don't have to pay for it. And give me plenty of time to assemble it....next summer should be sufficient.

I have noticed a few of my favourite blogs have gone quiet lately. I'm a fine one to talk, how lax am I? The supreme Belgian Waffle has gone silent - possibly away with the capybaras or been adopted by an owl sanctuary. The Ugly Truth is also quiet, but I think he is working on his book, so that's acceptable. Same goes for Susie at No Damn Blog.Great news though, is that The Bad Librarian has sparked up again. For some reason, her blog updates weren't appearing on my blog roll. But she is still there. Still fascinating reading.

We are going for a walk in half an hour. I have to assemble my 'going for a walk' kit. This consists of, stick for whacking things with, tissues for cleaning up snot/shit/spit/other,pilfering bag and sunglasses.

What are the chances of me stumbling upon an abandoned Lego stash? Left there by a forgetful millionaire, obsessive Lego Star Wars collector? It could happen...

Time To Get My Chopper Out

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 10:40:00 +0000

It rains.

And rains.

It's damp outside. My shoulders ache.

But everything is OK. Because we have wood. Good wood. Goodly wood.

We have oak logs that 'ting' brightly when knocked together. To the expert's ear, this means it is goodly wood. Oak that has a high calorific content and low interior humidity will burn like the clappers, but in a slow, hot and uber-efficient way.

God, I'm a tedious fucker when it comes to firewood. Each year I blog about it. Forgive me. It is just so important, that's all. We don't have a central heating button we can simply press when it gets a bit chilly. Our heating needs are met in a far more high-maintenance, low-tech manner.

So anyway, we have a shitload of dry oak stacked and as such are slightly less worried by the apocalyptic winter weather forecasts.

Christmas looms.

I look forward to it, and once we get there it is always great fun. It's just the getting there. Now that the fucktards at Paddyair have seen fit to cull all the flight routes out of France, there is an unwanted added frisson to the pre-Christmas hysteria.

Halloween was excellent. I managed to do fuck all, again. Which is just how I like it. I sorted out Sproglet with a costume and he set off around the village with his chums and a couple of far more diligent mothers. Two hours later he was back with rosy cheeks and a tongue of Haribo blue.

I'm being sweary today. I seem to go in phases. One week I'm Julie Andrews, the next I'm Courtney Love. Go figure.

Pressure is being placed upon me to bake for the school art fair. I wish they would just spring these things on me, so that I don't have any time to think about it. About the possibilities. The temptations. The ingredients one could substitute, and the fun one could have. I have a good three weeks to consider the embellishments of my cake recipes...and the chaos caused by mass departmental sedation or diarrhoea. Clearly channelling Dennis the Menace right now.

So there you have it. A brief resume of the utter drivel swirling around the cess of my brain.

Is there anything you would like to add?

Mwah ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 16:04:00 +0000

Happy Halloween! I'm going to gorge myself on Haribo and probably vomit. How about you?

Grape Monsters of Wrath

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 13:06:00 +0000

Do you know what this is?

Let me enlighten you. Perhaps specialist agricultural machinery is not your personal fetish.

Not to say that I have an agricultural machinery based fetish - err...not that I'm consciously aware of, at any rate.

The reason I am breaking with my usual lazy habits and showing you a picture, is because otherwise you probably wouldn't grasp what I was on about. Not that you are stupid. It's just that my descriptive powers lack...er...power.

Around here right now you will spot machines similar to this tearing up and down the vineyards, divorcing plump grape from tough vine. Straddling the serried vines, they roar up and down sucking up the lifeblood of this region.

Forget the toothless, leather-skinned, poverty-stricken, arthritic but ecstatically happy Disney version of grape pickers. You've seen them...the misty-morninged, Renoir-rinsed, perfect peasantry hoisting wicker panniers across broad shoulders...breaking at midi for a crusty bastard and a hunk of brie.

Because they have all gone, now. Certainly on the larger vineyards, anyway. Human grape pickers are a dying breed. They have disappeared into the iron jaws of the grape-harvesting machine, pips and all...

Does the wine taste different when the grape has been humanely separated from the mother-vine by gentle, knowledgable hands? If the juicy little darlings are brutally torn away by raging machine, do they have a last second panic attack and flood with adrenalin? Does that add an interesting fruity augmentation to the final taste? Does a worse finish create a better one?

I'm not sure we'll ever know.

What really troubles me, is the way these massive grape-bots rattle around the quiet roads of the neighbourhood. It's hard to tell from the picture, but these machines are MASSIVE. For scale, think of an over-inflated combine harvester that's been at his big brother's growth hormone. When these things are rolling towards me like a pair of Sponge Bob's square pants in steel or an Arc de Triomphe on wheels, I am gripped by a terrible urge. They take up so much of the road, I find myself actually considering driving through the middle bit. I want to launch myself through this portal into another dimension. I can see road and sky through the advancing window...so why not?

Obviously, because my car is too wide and it would be a horrible, messy exit. Picked to death...sounds grim.

In short, I can't wait until these viticultural vandals are back under lock and key in their draughty hangars. My death wish urges seem weirdly heightened at the moment. I can't bear to think what is around the corner. Silage tank snorkeling? Blindfolded chainsaw juggling? Bull cuddling?

Handful of nuts

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 15:11:00 +0000

Walnut time again. Orange hands. Squirrel wars. Cleansed arteries. Fat arse.

What or who is your favourite nut?

Battered

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 21:08:00 +0000

I am being harassed by bats. There are two of the black, rubbery triangular gits squatting behind the shutters that cover our French (natch) doors. As the evenings draw in, the time for closing the shutters corresponds with their nightly emergence. It is unpleasant to have bats flying into your face at speed. Of course, with their super-radars they manage to just swerve past my eyelashes - but close enough so that I can feel the air movement caused by their waxen wings.

I spent time in Austin, Texas a few years back. A massive colony of bats lives beneath Congress Bridge in the middle of the city. At dusk each night they come out in a swarm, turning the grey sky black. Back then, I was quite impressed by their bat otherness. Too much forced exposure to Batman of the Future and ubiquitous vampire shlock has rendered me impervious to their charm these days.

And they may carry rabies.

Would anyone really be able to tell the difference? Extreme agitation and foaming at the mouth is my default setting.

I'm hoping these twin bats are not the offspring of the unfortunate chauve-souris I accidentally sucked up the hoover nozzle last year. If so, I could be in for some serious, prolonged harassment. Chauve-souris translated literally is bald mouse. I could probably sit through a few episodes of Bald Mouseman of the Future - that sounds edgy.

I'm off to lay my hands on some decent, pungent garlic. At least I'm in the right place for that stuff.

Wish me luck.

Sunday Worst

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 14:01:00 +0000

Lethargy is the word of the day. Closely followed by bloated. With indolent bringing up the rear.

I can't do a duvet day. Not on a Sunday. It's just not on. So I'll go through the motions and try and get through to this evening without accidentally setting fire to the house, falling into a hot oven, blowing up the car or skinning the cat.

I hope I can make it.

And that the rain stops.

What about your Sunday? Whereabouts on the shitometer does the needle tremble?

Cretin Corner

noreply@blogger.com (Mya) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 09:17:00 +0000

Some people prefer Connery to Moore. Some Bovril to Marmite. Pitching to catching. Good to evil. Vomit to diarrhoea. Kingsley to Martin. Yin to yang. Salt and Vinegar to Cheese and Onion. Concrete bollards to Adrian Chiles.

I prefer Strictly to X Factor.

What does that say about me?