Tales Of Very Ordinary Madness

Elephant Spotted!

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Fri, 13 Jun 2014 14:17:00 +0000

There's been quite a conundrum going on down here in 'Tales', despite the complete apathy shown by teenage sons-the-elder-and-younger. How, I kept pondering, was I ever going to catch a glimpse of an Elephant Hawk Moth hatched from the remarkable caterpillars which, you might remember, chomped their way around the garden last year.

As you know, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to distinguish one large moth from another from under the cloak of darkness, should I go ferreting out at dusk, and moth traps just seemed a bit too involved and possible cruel.

The problem was solved by the flimsy greenhouse tent I've erected for growing tomatoes - although the local snail population appear to view it as some sort of luxury hotel complete with fine dining. There have been fledgling sparrows trapped inside it, but the other morning I could make out something small and colourful. My heart leapt. Could it be? Could it?

I teetered down the gravel path trying to avoid being tripped by both dog-of-small-brain and the tubby tabby, equally disgruntled I'd obviously forgotten their breakfast. And yes, it was! There in the greenhouse was this stunningly beautiful cerise and sage coloured moth. Son-the-elder was somewhat unamused, when I dragged him out of bed to come and take a look at it, but I'm sure he'll thank me one day!!!

Running Resolve

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 28 May 2014 11:52:00 +0000

So it’s happened. It turns out there really does come a time in a lardy-bottomed writer’s life when one has to face the fact that spending a lot of time sat on one’s derriere crafting words of wisdom while scoffing fistfuls of biscuits does not a slim-line make. No matter if you’ve spent a hitherto jammy life as a skinny Minnie, debauchery catches up in the end. ‘So what?’ a slimmer friend shrugged while I was lamenting my middle-aged spread. ‘Just buy bigger clothes’.

That’s not happening. One, I’m too much of a scrooge to buy new clothes when there’s plenty of wear left in the ones I already have, and two I don’t like this (whispers) muffin-top (eeeerugh) splurging from their restraints. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

There was a pair of running shoes lurking in the cupboard under the stairs, bought and never used once the glow of enthusiasm dimmed like the memory of the London Olympics. (I have a shocking memory) I put them on, found the faded tracksuit bottoms, another relic of earlier ‘keepfit’ notions, from the bottom of the drawer, downloaded a training app (run! walk! run! great job!) and an album perpetuating to be ‘100 greatest running tracks’. Fired up, I hit the pavements, ahem, running. And promptly remembered

1. I hate running.
2. I hate getting hot and sweaty and out of breath, and most of all
3. I hate bumping into people I know while I’m running, hot, sweaty and out of breath, and clad in ridiculous sportswear.

It is you! Hi Sam, didn’t recognise you dressed like that.
I didn’t know you were a runner.
What are you doing, training for the London Marathon (sniggers)
Never had you down for a keep-fit fanatic (hahahahaha)

How embarrassing.

And there’s no respite at home. In between lots of guffawing about ‘jogging mamas’, the name we used to give a couple of school run mums who’d turn up at the school gate in full day-glo-lycra glory, Son-the-elder reckons I’m going to turn into some sort of muscle-bound colossus. Apparently this is a hysterically funny joke if you’re a teenager; personally I don’t get it.

Anyway, running resolve aside, I had a lovely day yesterday with the half-term teenagers 'chez papa'. I dug, weeded and planted until late into the evening, a perfect day complete with 'al-fresco' wine, birds cheeping, bees buzzing. It was still perfect until I woke this morning, tried to move, and realised everything hurts. Everything, from the neck down . I’ve pulled muscles I didn’t even know I had. So despite today being a run day, no run today. Ah, resolve. I can see it sliding away from me like a ship launching down the slipway of good intentions gone bad. Still, the garden looks nice. And these biscuits are rather good. And I could probably do with some new jeans……

Messy, Beautiful

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 16:28:00 +0000

Okay, confession time. I'm sure I must have said this before, but I am with messiest, most disorganised person I've ever met. It's true. If there was an equivalent of the Turner or Booker prize for being messy and disorganised, no one else would bother entering - I would win every year. Sometimes, though admittedly not very often, I'll get tired of losing stuff, (bills) forgetting stuff, (other bills) and having the kitchen engulfed by mountains of paperwork. (yes - bills again) When that happens, I'll have a huge purge on my clutter and bad habits, but it's a bit like a butterfly trying to get out of closed window, fluttering away but never succeeding. Try as hard as I like, it doesn't take long for my slovenly ways to reappear. Leopards, spots, and all that.

The same is true of my garden. Every spring I promise myself I'm not going to let it get into a state this year. My neighbours have stunning ornamental gardens, the sort of thing you see in magazines. While I like to assure them I'm performing a great service by accommodating the local weeds, they eye the riot of horsetail and willow-weed, and shudder. My garden is a mess. As within, so without - in every sense of the expression.

So it came as a surprise last night to stumble across a pile of photographs I'd forgotten to upload last year, and wow! Yes, weeds might have the upper hand, but this is a beautiful garden teeming with wildlife.

Can you see the two wild rabbits on the path plus our (now deceased) chicken Tikka?

The vegetable plot (albeit rather overgrown)

This is an Elephant Hawk Month caterpillar. There were so many in the garden last year - apparently Willow-weed is their favourite food. The biggest ones were literally the size and thickness of my middle finger. I've never seen the actual moths in real life. Apparently they emerge around May, and I'm hoping to spot one. They are light brown with fuchsia wings, although I'm betting it'll be hard to tell in at dusk when the moths are about.

I rescued this grasshopper from drowning in the birdbath.

Horsetail, couch grass and bog rush. We've toad rush too - what a lovely combination - and there's a bit of chamomile and wild geranium in there too just for good measure. Yes, my neighbours really love living next door to me!!

Common green bottle fly just chillin' on the sweet peas.

Flight of a bumblebee!

Messy, beautiful, and definitely not a show-garden!

A splurge of poppies.

I sneaked this one in because I love the contrast between the gravel path and this peacock butterfly.

At least these guys appreciate the rampant Buddleia.

I'm really impressed by just how colourful the garden looks in the pictures. The photos have made me rethink how I feel about not being neat, tidy and in control of the weeds. In fact I wonder if photographing the mess indoors and not looking at it for a long time might have the same effect. Now there I could be on to something, but somehow I rather much doubt it!

Hannah The Hired Hyundai

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Thu, 13 Feb 2014 13:00:00 +0000

I was listening to an article on the radio the other day discussing the latest fundraising idea for these cash-strapped times: hiring out your car. Yes, once we took in lodgers, then we started renting out our drives, now we can hire out our cars. Sounds great, but the ensuing discussion concluded that as people treat hire cars very badly, trashing the gearbox in particular, it's a very bad idea. I sat cringing. Not that anyone would want to borrow the 'Tales-mobile' with its ankle deep detritus of half-eaten chips, Christmas tree needles and ancient receipts, but when it comes to the treatment of hire cars, guilty as charged mi'lud. Ahem.

You see, last week the Tales-mobile came off worse after an argument with a particularly belligerent pothole. Turning up the radio didn't drown out the metallic grinding sound coming from the front wheels, so it was off to the garage with my funky green golf. Now, a country gal can't live without her wheels, so I hired a car.

Son-the-elder took one look and christened it 'Hannah the hired Hyundai' in an attempt to make the silvery grey car sound more exciting than it looked. I took one look at its pristine paintwork, immaculate interior and minuscule mileage, and promptly handed over extra insurance money. I drove home like a mouse creeping through a cat jamboree, apologising to the car every time we hit an unavoidable puddle, and going to great lengths to avoid potholes. I was being so careful - so far, so good.

But, and this is a huge 'but' - the Tales-mobile boasts an automatic gearbox, and Hannah the hired Hyundai was most definitely, squareishly manual. And yes, while I surprised myself at how easily I made the transition from automatic to manual, there were some real howlers.

I stalled it more times than I care to admit. Hitting speed along the dual carriageway, it was some miles until I realised that screaming sound wasn't a particularly unusual backing track on the radio,
but what happens if you hit 60 in second gear. "Is it meant to do that?" son-the-elder vocalised both boys' concerns as it broke Olympic long jump records, kangarooing up the drive as I tried to start it having forgotten I'd left it in gear.

I gave my most charming smile as the man at the hire garage asked if I'd had any problems. "No, not at all," I breezed. What I meant was I'd probably caused all sort of damage, but no way I was going to admit to it.

So no, in case you were thinking hiring out your car is a good idea, it isn't. You might get someone like me driving it. She whom the garage ask without fail every time I ring them "what have you done this time?" Some of us shouldn't be allowed to hire cars. But don't tell anyone. After all, a country gal needs her wheels.

Chicken Tikka and a Slice of Humble Pie

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Mon, 03 Feb 2014 13:14:00 +0000

Our grand old lady, the last of our hens died a couple of weeks ago. Chicken Tikka, despite being dubbed ‘the immortal chicken’ hopped off to the great scratching ground in the sky. She was ten years old, and the feistiest old bird you could imagine. She wasn’t afraid of anything. Dog, cats, kids: they all received a ferocious peck if they got too close. She used to stand on the grass and watch as I thundered towards her with the petrol mower. You could imagine her spitting baccy as I approached; it was me and the mower who’d have to change course.

Son-the-elder was philosophical; she’d had a good life. He asked if we’d be getting more hens, but when I mentioned the great mite disaster, he was disappointed but accepting of my declaration we were never keeping chickens again. Not so son-the younger.

At first he was indignant. “Why?” He asked when I told him Tikka had died, followed by “can we get a new one?” No way, I said.

“Why?”

He protested all evening. “Why? It’s not fair. I want a new chicken Chickens are cute.” (his current obsession is with all things ’cute’)

I was a rock in the face of this barrage, hard and unyielding. No, I said. No more chickens. No no no.

And to prove my point, I gave away the henhouse. Yeah, I said to friends and neighbours, anyone who would listen, it’s free to a good home. But I felt really sad the day it went, when I cleaned it out and rounded up all things chicken for its new owners.

You see, I miss Tikka. I miss her strutting around. I miss seeing her running down the garden to see if I’ve got food. I miss hearing her coming in through the back door clucking for titbits. I miss the host of wild birds, the pheasants, pigeons and magpies who used to visit the garden to pinch her food; even the sparrows seem to be shunning us now. There is a yawning space where she used to live at the bottom of the garden. And when I spent yesterday gardening, there was a chicken-shaped gap - no one scuffling around me looking for bugs and worms.

No more chickens, I said. But I could kick myself now for being so adamant, so quick to give away the henhouse, so hasty to broadcast the end of my chicken-rearing days. Because I can see I’m going to have to eat a large slice of humble pie. I know I’m going to wind up getting more hens. But there's one more thing I'm going to have to do besides save up for a new henhouse.

I'm going to have to find a way to stop son-the-younger thinking pester-power wins the day!

Not the best picture, but she was a gorgeous old bird. And no, she hadn't just laid a football...

Self Publishing - The Aftermath

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Tue, 21 Jan 2014 12:45:00 +0000

It’s been a few days since I published my book, and I just thought I’d share a few observations with you now that I'm both older and wiser. After all, there are tons of blogs out there telling you ‘how to’ do it, whereas I’m contemplating beginning my own series ‘how not to’.

Observation #1. Your non-writery friends will be delighted for you,

“Oh wow, you got a publishing deal! Congratulations! You must be so chuffed! Well done! Brilliant brilliant brilliant!”

whereas fellow writers snigger up their sleeves because they know full well you’d have never gone down this route if you’d been able to interest a proper publisher. So

Observation #2. You will feel like a total fraud.

Observation #3. You will see pound signs ringing up in your ex-spouse’s eyes because the only writers he knows are J.K. Rowling and Ian Rankin, so he’s calculating just how much maintenance you’re going be paying him once those royalties start gushing in. You’ll decide not to enlighten him to postpone the inevitable having him point out your fraudulent status and decided lack of smarts.

Observation #4. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic having just realised you forgot to include a title or a copyright page. Furthermore, you will be unable to rectify this since those non-writery friends have already bought first copies ready to cash in when you finally morph into J.K. Rowling, so you have to face up to the fact that yes, when everyone receives their copies of a highly unprofessional looking book, they’re all going to know you are a. an utter fraud, and b. a total numpty for not ordering a preview copy because you thought you were clever and got it right just checking online.

Need I say more?

Huge Announcement!!

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Sun, 19 Jan 2014 10:22:00 +0000

I've done it at last!

My novel 'A Very Ordinary Madness' is available to read on Kindle right now! (and it's only a pound!)

"Ewan Davies is a talented musician, a teacher living near Cambridge. But when the past he’s fought to keep a secret threatens his life, Ewan must choose whether to face his demons or lose everything he loves."

I will have a paperback version available just as soon as I stop floundering around in formatting issues. Watch this space!

Trading places

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 18 Dec 2013 16:50:00 +0000

Through the torrent of shoppers I saw you. You saw me and, despite the chasm of time, recognition lit up your face like packs of Christmas lights illuminating at once. Your mouth formed ‘hi’.

I looked away. I looked away because I don’t know you now. I don’t know you, and I don’t want you to know me.

I knew you when you had nits in your hair, and indelible dirt wedged under your fingernails. You were pushing a refilling pram, weary social workers plodding along in your wake. Do you remember you told me the midwives refused to delivery your next baby unless you took a bath?

I don’t know you now, splendid in your Salvation Army uniform, badges of office shining, and your sleek hair slicked into a bun. And you don’t know me, slouching out of the shop in grubby, clothes, lank hair lolling over my ears as though it could hide the sound of my own unruly child squalling. It is I who is now stalked by the spectre of social services. But still you recognised me.

You recognised me, and I ignored you. One thing I’m sure you know; if you were me, you’d at least have said ‘hi’.

In A Forest

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Thu, 21 Nov 2013 17:04:00 +0000

She stepped forward, wincing at the cold mud oozing between her toes, at the unforgiving gravel jabbing into her soles like the certainty jabbering in her soul there was something she was supposed to be doing. Something definite. Something important. Something she had to do.

She couldn’t see.

There were so many trees, twisted, skeletal branches pointing this way and that, brittle and unbending, snagging in her hair, swiping at her face insisting she pay attention to this one. No, that one. No, the other one.

Which way?

But she knew there was no use in asking, no point in consulting friends, runes or oracles. No one knew the way. All she could do was take one faltering and stumbling step at a time, over and over, tripping and fumbling step by step from a misinterpretable past into an uncertain future.

She stepped forward.

Not A Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 13 Nov 2013 11:36:00 +0000

Wow. I came prepared with cloths, brushes and a mop, but it’s even worse down here than I imagined. ‘Tales’ is cold and dark, and my feet leave deep prints in the filthy, fluffy dust. No one’s graced this basement for so long, there are swathes of limp, matted cobwebs hanging from every word, and the damp musty smell of dreams in various states of decay.

And where have I been, ‘Tales’ trusty custodian, keeper of its hopes, to let it slide into such a state as this?

Where haven’t I been?

I’ve been everywhere but here. I’m not a writer any more, you see. I finished the novel and decided I didn’t have anything left to say. My friends read it and I sent it out half-heartedly, but I didn’t really care if it was published or not. I soul searched into the deepest recesses of my mind and was horrified by the monstrous things festering in there. I realised my wanting to write was the manifestation of a ghastly, ugly neediness, so I stopped, because I didn’t want to be needy any more.

(photo courtesy of etftrends.com)

If only it were as easy as that.

I’ve stopped writing. I’m not a writer any more. I never will be one of those clever, well-read people with their original thoughts, refreshing ideas and witty way with words, holding the world in awe of their gift. I needed to stop dreaming; I needed to stop pretending. Oh, and I needed a rest from ‘when are you going to get a proper job?’

So I’m not a writer any more, and that’s why ‘Tales’ is in such a state.

I’m not a writer.

Now, where did I put the duster?

The Entertainer

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 12:49:00 +0000

His wheezing listeners clutch their aching sides and struggle to talk.

God, that is hilarious.

Grinning, he plucks out more anecdotes, twisting the words into humorous shapes for their delectation, and they love it.

That’s so funny. You’re such a scream.

And then he goes home, warmed by their laughter. But he goes home to the four familiar walls who know only too well there’s nothing remotely amusing about his stories; it’s just the way he tells them.

The Kindness of Strangers

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 12:49:00 +0000

She sucked in her lined cheeks, tongue jostling the smooth hard dentures around her soft, toothless gums, and drew in one long breath, before releasing it and shattering the stupid woman’s stuck-up, middle-class plans with a well-aimed blow.

Don’t you know the museum’s closed?

She might have smirked inwardly as the children exchanged sneaky, gleeful grins, as their mother slumped, defeated, but it would have taken a lie-detector to unmask and reveal her guilt.

Psssst.....

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 11:46:00 +0000

Dear Santa,

I know I've been a very bad blogger this year, but you know how hard I've worked.

Please, please, please can I have a publishing deal? I promise I'll be good - very good indeed xxx

To Cope, Or Not Cope?

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 11:36:00 +0000

That is the question....

It’s that time of year when we asthmatic types are invited along to our doctors’ surgeries for a jab to protect us against the ravages of the annual flu outbreak, and protect them from having wheezing malingerers cluttering up their waiting rooms at a busy time of year. Last week it was youngest son’s turn.

I made him go, deciding the hazards of mini medical procedure outweighed the headache of having him poorly, and because the horrific memories of last December’s dental debacle (there is nothing ‘routine’ about an autistic child having a general anesthetic for a tooth extraction, believe me) had lessened in their potency, I made him go.

By our standards, it went well. We even managed a whole two minutes in the crowded waiting room before he started yelling ‘I’m bored, when is it my turn?’ I succeeded in keeping up a jolly smile under the barrage of disapproving looks, and ignored all the tutting as his shouts grew louder. Everyone sighed with relief when he was called in, thanks, I’m sure, to a little tweaking of the patient’s list by the receptionists, who probably remember last time’s meltdown.

It was going very well, until we met the nurse. An older woman, neatly coiffed in her smart blue uniform, she was clearly nervous. Not good. She tried to initiate a conversation with youngest son, and was flummoxed when he did what he always does, and ignored her. Her hand started to shake more visibly when she asked him to pull his sleeve up and he said ‘no’.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I should have been more forceful with the pretty blonde nurse, since she’d obviously never dealt with anyone quite like youngest son before. ‘You’re going to have to seize the moment’ I said, meaning, ‘just get on with it’, but she was so frightened of hurting the dear boy – ordinarily commendable – that all she managed to do was scratch his arm with the tip of the needle. There came a point when I was about to say ‘give me the syringe and I’ll do it myself’, but with a deep breath, she found her courage, and younger son tore out of the room howling with outrage.

She stood holding onto the desk, biting her lip to hold back the tears. “I don’t know how you cope,” she warbled, and much as I felt sorry for her, I couldn’t help but let out a mad cackle, especially when a breathless receptionist burst into the room to report younger son had just fled out of the surgery’s main door. I caught up with him, he simmering with indignation, me still chuckling, and we walked back to the car. ‘I don’t know how you cope’. I don’t know how I cope either, but if I don’t, who will?

And no, I’m not taking him for a flu jab next year. We’ll stock up on inhalers, and wish for luck.

Sigh...

Colours

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 11:25:00 +0000

Take a colour, Esther says. Take a colour, take lots of colours, take as many as you like, and fill the paper. Fill the paper with colours that sum up your mood and how you’re feeling. Fill lots of paper if you want, just draw how you feel. Go on. There’s no right or wrong. No one’s going to judge what you do. Just try it and see how it goes. No right, no wrong. Play with it. See what happens.

The others, they set to it. Fergus holds a stubby red crayon between his thick, hairy fingers and his meaty hand draws loops looping round and round, filling the page with elegant sweeps, his eyes unblinking as though this is some sort of miracle and he mustn’t miss a millisecond. Laura draws a pink unicorn, trust her, and Billy scrapes back his chair, says this is all bollocks, and stomps off out for a smoke, Esther straggling after him going wait Billy, just give it a try okay, her voice fading out into the corridor.

I don’t wanna ‘play’ with Esther’s stupid crayons. She thinks she knows how it is, fluttering in here in her shiny new blue car, fresh from her pretty house with its just-so décor, matching kids and soft-hearted husband, gaggles of giggling friends and a family: a family; people to notice if she ceases to be.

I stare at my page. What colour is there to capture the flat sterility of my life, the time passing within the bubble of my four walls where nothing happens unless I move, no one speaks unless I turn on the telly or talk out aloud, aimless hours blending into one timeless monotony as I drift through the doldrums of solitude, while a busy world, the ‘normal’ world bustles on around me, without me, and there’s no one to notice I’m not there.

What colour are you thinking of, Gina? Esther asks, hovering over my shoulder.

What colour is there to capture the fact she’s the first person who’s spoken to me in days; that I walked into Fergus on the way in here on purpose, just to feel another person’s touch; that when we’ve finished this latest session of stupid games I will wander the streets, squandering time until the inevitable happens and I return to my empty home.

Come on Gina, Esther wheedles. Choose a colour.

I kick the table. It lands with a crash, crayons and paper scattering across the floor. Esther blinks, but honestly, what does she expect? I can’t explain that I can’t explain, and someone like Esther will never understand that she’ll never understand.

Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 13:43:00 +0000

I found her trembling on the kerb outside my house, puffy eyes red from crying, quivering eyelashes sodden with tears and dressed not in the countryside uniform of muddy boots and grubby waterproofs, but in white: an embroidered blouse, crisp tailored shorts and pristine white pumps, matching beads adorning sapling arms so delicate they needed no ornament. No, she told me, wringing out a soggy handkerchief and winding it round and around her long trembling fingers, she didn’t need my help. Her brother was coming. Everything was all right.

A car drew up. An unsmiling man and unamused woman, their rock-hard faces staring into some unfathomable distance as thought they’d rather be anywhere but here. The girl got up, all long limbs and coltish legs, young enough to be my daughter. She clambered into the backseat, crying too hard to speak.

They drove away. I stood twisting my hands, watching as the car grew smaller and smaller, and disappeared. And I stood there for some time, wondering who the girl was, how she’d come to be sitting outside my house, and just who exactly had collected her: brother, friend or pimp; the feeling I had just missed the opportunity to do the right thing staying with me, gnawing my conscience for months to come.

Picture of white feather by Stuart Lilley www.photoforbeginners.com

Mites and The Ministry of Quick Thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 13:24:00 +0000

Well, while the rest of the country has been soaring on an Olympic high this summer, down here in ‘Tales’ it’s more of the usual lurching from one domestic disaster to another. Between builders who vanish like early morning mist mid-job, to drains that collapse the day after I turn down home insurance that would have covered said drains, there’s never a smooth moment. But the latest mishap is the most unpleasant, and, worst of all, it’s all entirely my fault.

I wrote last year about our little ‘Twilight Saga’ which, funnily, is the one post that generates the most hits, presumably horrifying people looking for vampire stories rather than my musings on poultry mites. For those of you who don’t keep chickens, the birds are susceptible to nasty little red mites which hide in their hen house and crawl out after dark to feast on their blood. Oh, and the bugs would probably survive a nuclear holocaust, they seem to be virtually indestructible.

Anyway, being very lazy, I hadn’t checked the henhouse for mites for a while. Conscience troubling me, I decided to inspect it one evening last week, and was horrified to find the house crawling. Gritting my teeth, I filled buckets of hot soapy water, and by the time I’d finished sluicing, there was nothing moving. But what to do with the mite-infested straw and sawdust I’d removed? It was getting dark, and I couldn’t think. Then I had a flash of inspiration: the plastic compost bin. Genius. You know, I thought, when I have so many good ideas, it’s a wonder I’m not asked to be an advisor in a government department or something. I could head the Ministry of Quick Thinking. Without a second thought, I tipped all the bedding into the bin and went in for a well-earned glass of cold beer, patting myself on the back for being so clever.

It was a few days later when I next went to the compost bin. I lifted the lid, and dropped it with a shriek. The bin, the lid, and now my hand, was a seething mass of mites. It was like something from a horror film. That’s right: in my haste to find a solution for the infested bedding, I’d stupidly overlooked the fact the compost inside the bin is nice and warm, perfect for mite multiplication.

No idea what to do, I ran indoors to wash my hands, and fretted over what to do, plumping for the option of hoping they’d go away by themselves. But if none of this was bad enough, that night I couldn’t get to sleep for the cat messing around. He sleeps on my bed, and went on scratching and shuffling until I was ready to scream. And scream I did when turning on the light revealed both he and consequently my bed were crawling with tiny mites.

I have attacked the bin repeatedly with disinfectant inflicting a high death toll on the ghastly bugs, but there are many survivors still crawling. The cat, banned from everyone’s beds, is sporting a thick layer of mite powder and an indignant air. I’m told I need to take the straw out of the compost and burn it, but the thought of having to reach down into the infested compost bin is so abhorrent, I have yet to pluck up the courage.

This is an example of why I’m not asked for advice on any matter whatsoever. Roll on winter and lovely heavy, mite-killing frosts, that’s what I say!

Chewing the Cud

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 20:07:00 +0000

(Picture courtesy of Hippy Motors - do check out their brilliant website!)

Hands on hips, he arched one eyebrow.

“What’s your car called? Does it have a name?"

“Maisy,” she giggled, but bit her lip, a painful blush creeping cell by cell across her face. “Why?”

He shrugged.

“You just strike me as the sort of person who’d give their car a name.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? But she didn’t ask; civility stayed her tongue just as surely as it hadn’t restrained his. He turned away to talk to someone else as she went sprawling, floundering into a quagmire of self-doubt, her foolishness stripped bare by his cynicism. What did he mean? She tried to laugh it off, but she knew she’d be chewing over his words for weeks.

Taking Stock

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 10:38:00 +0000

(Picture courtesy of Brothersoft.com)

They used to have staff in Malaysia who’d bring iced tea as she sat journaling in the shade. Now she presides over a till in Tesco, the ghosts of the servant’s deferential smiles flitting around her mouth, her Greta Garbo eyebrows painted on with a hand as firm as the conviction life was never meant to turn out like this.

Things Our Parents Didn’t Have To Deal With #225736

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 10:43:00 +0000

Spirits were high when youngest son’s school taxi arrived home the other day. He tumbled out and ran indoors as usual, but his companions were sat wiping tears of mirth from their faces.

“You know the ‘Chas n Dave’ Rabbit song? When it comes on the radio, he laughs so much, he makes us all laugh.”

I’m not a ‘Chas n Dave’ fan, and that song is as old as the hills, it comes as news to me that anyone, let alone the taxi driver’s radio station of choice, plays it at all, never mind often enough for it to be the subject of so much hilarity on the way home from school, but, evidently, they do!

Elder son was intrigued. He’s constantly on the look out for dodgy U-tube clips to share with his mates, so wanted to ‘check it out’. I warned him his social standing would nosedive were he to share this one, but nonetheless he looked it up and, I’m relieved to say, was unimpressed. Not so younger son… I had to put up with ‘Rabbit rabbit rabbit’ blaring from the I-pad for the rest of the afternoon, while younger son laughed so hard, his asthma kicked in. That's a typical afternoon in my world…

It wasn’t until later when I sat down, I happened to glimpse what he was watching over and over again. It wasn’t an official video, rather a pastiche put together on the aforementioned ‘U-tube’ featuring cute and cuddly rabbits, interspersed with, yup, you’re way ahead of me there, pictures of a certain infamous brand of vibrator. [and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you can look up ‘rabbit’ and ‘vibrator’ yourself - so long as you’re not of a nervous disposition, in which case I wouldn’t bother!]

This is one of the problems with kids and the internet, and it doesn’t just apply to autistic kids like my youngest son. There is no way of policing what they stumble across. Yes, so I could ban the computer, but that isn’t realistic in this day and age. And, just as the boys used to play recordings of Roy Chubby Brown in the tape player in my school’s senior common room, there will always be people who find it really funny to dub rude language over cartoon clips, or paste inappropriate pictures. And in context, being viewed by the people whom the joke is aimed at, ie not my ten-year old, it is funny. But for me, it’s a headache.

My autistic son is a computer whiz. He loves the internet, because he can find things that really appeal to him, and watch them over and over again. It’s fuelled an interest in making films himself. But I have to keep an eagle eye on what he’s up to, because he doesn’t understand some of the content may be rude or offensive, and he will repeat things that have tickled him. Once that happens, it's virtually impossible to get him to stop. It’s just a shame there isn’t a way of policing with strict categorising what's posted in the first place, although I suspect even that wouldn’t stop my lil’ techno-demon’s surfing.

Rabbit rabbit rabbit. I have until he gets home from school today to work out how I’m going to stop him watching that particular clip. He won’t ask me what the coloured, funny shaped thing is, but his brother might! Parents of yester-year really didn’t know how lucky they were!

Knitty-Nora and The Finished Sweater

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 11:01:00 +0000

One of the best things about being a single 'lay-dee' is that you can cultivate a whole raft of interests and hobbies without the fear of ridicule from your 'other half'. And whilst your imaginations race way ahead of me to conjecture what sorts of sordid activities I could mean, I have to spoil it by confessing I'm talking about knitting. Yes, knitting.

My Mum taught me to knit when I was little, although as I remember, I wasn't an enthusiastic pupil. I wouldn't have dreamt of doing it while I was married: in fact, Mr X finds the sight of my knitting needles on the coffee table so hilarious, he now calls me 'Knitty-Nora', hence today's title. But once I started knitting, I discovered that far from being a sordid habit, loads of people do it. I even worked with one girl, the most unlikliest crafter you could ever meet, who confessed she liked nothing better than to crochet. And she did - beautifully!

It's not something I do all the time, in fact I'm a sporadic knitter; I'll weave away for a few weeks, then I won't do any for ages. I find it quite meditative, sitting clicking away with some nice music on in the background, or, more often than not, whilst I'm watching tv. It salves my conscience on those nights when I fancy a bit of trashy tv; I'm not really wasting hours of my life watching rubbish, I'm being creative. It works!

Two years ago, my Mum sent me two enormous balls of wool, and a pattern for an arran sweater. I'd never tried anything so complicated, and I did try, I really tried, but I'm not a pattern girl. I like to bash away at something straightforward, so scaves and simple stuff is pretty much where I'm at. I did try the arran sweater. I even asked a friend's mum to show me what to do. But it was so complicated, I kept forgetting what to do. This little section is all I managed.

Actually, I'm quite proud of that, but don't ask me how I did it! The next question was what to do with all the gorgeous pink wool? After much rummaging through books, I found a really easy sweater pattern, and started knitting. And stopped knitting. And started, until eventually, here we have....ta-da!

How about that? It's taken nearly two years, but I got there in the end. I don't think knitting sweaters is much of way forward for me though, I'm definately sticking to smaller projects from now on.

Recycled Art for TicTocc

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 14:25:00 +0000

In amongst the millions of things I haven't been doing lately, I haven't got back into doing Kat's TicTocc challenges since she restarted them after the summer. [If you don't know what I'm talking about, pop over and visit the fabulously talented Kat Wright at Wright Story, all will become clear.] But when this week's challenge (#19) arrived in my in-box, I thought, yup, I can do that. So here we are.... Ta-da! Turn empty glass cosmetics jars into tealight holders!

First take one clean, empty jar, peel off the labels and wipe the whole thing with white spirit to remove lingering adhesive.

Then decorate it with relief paste and glass paint. You need a steady hand, which I don't have...

Et voila!

and here's some I made earlier... aren't they cute?

For my next trick, I want to work out a way to turn the tons of bits of broken china I keep finding in the garden into pendants.

I have the ideas, but I'm very short on know-how. The best suggestion I've come across is to glue fabric and wire to the underside of each piece, but if anyone has any advice, I'd love to hear it!

Skipping (revisited)

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 11:06:00 +0000

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while, only my self-imposed hiatus intervened. It wasn’t until after I posted my flash piece ‘Skippers’, it occurred to me not everyone might know what I was talking about. But luckily everyone who commented either here, or over on ‘facebook’ had heard of ‘skipping’ or ‘dumpster diving’ as it’s called in the US, and yes, you were right, I had been watching ‘Cherry’s Cash Dilemmas’ in which the presenter, Cherry Healey, went out foraging with a dedicated ‘Skipper’.

I watched that programme a few times, out of a mixture of awe and disgust. Having worked extensively in the catering industry, it goes against the grain for me to consider eating out of rubbish bags, but at statistics like £14million worth of food being thrown away by shops each year, the skippers, or ‘Freegans’ as they call themselves, seem the sane ones here. If you pop over to their website, you can read their philosophy. And it all sounds so sensible, my children have spent weeks trembling at the thought I might insist upon us raiding a few skips ourselves. They are relieved when it’s time to go ‘chez papa’; he prefers expensive farm shops and doesn’t entertain wild notions about righting societal wrongs. As one ‘facebook’ comment said though, it does make you wonder why on earth leftover food isn’t automatically given to homeless shelters. Madness indeed.

Anyway, my Tai Chi teacher has a favourite saying, and this is it:

"To change the world, you must first change yourself."

I’ve been thinking about this a lot ever since I saw a report on the BBC’s ‘Countryfile’ programme about how the average household wastes so much food, it makes supermarkets and food retailer’s efforts look like a mere pebble tossed into a very large ocean. So instead of being self-righteous about what shops ought to do, perhaps I should examine my own habits.

And it’s true: I do waste a lot of food. Okay, maybe not that much because our hens obligingly turn leftovers into eggs, but still rather a lot. I’ve been watching what I do, and here’s what I’ve come up with.

1. Things that come in large packets turn mouldy before I can use them. Prime example here is soya milk. I pour cartons and cartons of the stuff down the sink. Now soya milk is vile, but youngest son is on a dairy and gluten free diet, and it’s handy for cooking. But it comes in litre cartons, and goes off before I can use it up. It is possible to get smaller cartons, but they’re like gold dust.

2. Fresh fruit and veg. Yes, so I compost what I don’t use, but I buy too much in the first place. Doesn’t matter whether it’s a farm shop or the supermarket, I lose all sense of reason when faced with a display of fruit and vegetables. I’ll make this, this and that, I’ll think. But I won’t. And it’s worse if I’ve been watching Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and his divine River Cottage, because then I’ll buy weird stuff that I don’t even know how to use, like the salsify root mouldering at the bottom of my fridge. Let’s just say it’s been there a while.

3. Pre-packaged fruit. This is like a combination of points 1 and 2, but how many times do I fall for the supermarket’s ‘two punnets for a pound’ scam, only to chuck the fruit in the compost bin two days later when no one wants the squashy berries. Yes I could make smoothies. No I don’t.

And whilst I’m at it, why don’t supermarkets have huge bins to collect the plastic trays this stuff comes in? Youngest child loves strawberries, but even from the strawberry farm they come in a plastic pot, and there’s only so many uses you can invent for them before you have too many. Our local council doesn’t recycle them either, so, much against my principles, it’s into the bin they go. Such a waste.

4. Preparing too much food. This is a real bugbear of mine. You’d think after so many years of cooking for one woman and two kids, one of whom has a smaller appetite than the tiniest bird, I’d have sussed out how much to make, but I regularly make too much. Most of the time this is okay; I either freeze the leftovers, or feed them to the chickens But if it won’t freeze, it winds up in the bin. Maybe I should be thinking about setting up my own homeless soup kitchen.

Providing we don’t actually manage to make ourselves extinct, I think history will look back our ‘throwaway’ mentality with incredulity. I do often think, when I’m tipping an over-ripe melon, or squishy strawberries into the composting bin, I wouldn’t take the financial equivalent, coins or notes, and throw them away. I wouldn’t put a fiver in the bin, so why am I doing it with food?

To change the world, you must first change yourself. It’s going to be a long and arduous task.

Do you have any thoughts on this issue, or tips to share? Do leave a comment and let me know what you think....

Aftermath

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 11:31:00 +0000

Your head lolls, your eyes are wide and rolling, trying to fix on the turbulent sky. It rained before. I wonder if you can feel the earthy damp, the wet grass soaking through your torn sweater, seeping through your greying flesh to your scrawny bones. Your body jerks, foam flecks your lips. I can’t tell if you’re trying to move, or trying to talk.

“It’s okay love,” I sound patronising; my ears cringe. “The ambulance is on its way.”

I take your hand; you startle. I squeeze your nicotine fingers. Your pale blue eyes flail, trapped amid your once-handsome face. Your jaw works, your limbs twitch. I hold your hand, and I pat your shoulder. For that moment, in the universe, there is only you and I.

Then the ambulance arrives. They strap you down onto white sheets on a squeaky stretcher, and then you are gone. I turn back to daily life, and carry on as though nothing happened. I don’t know you; I don’t know how you are. But I think about you. Sometimes the briefest encounter leaves the deepest scar.

Paintings by James Mousley

noreply@blogger.com (Sam Pennington) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 11:36:00 +0000

I saw an exhibition by artist James Mousley the other day, and if you have a chance, do go and look at his paintings. He has produced a truly stunning series of paintings; birds working in goldleaf and oil paints. If you're reading this in the UK, and happen to be near my stamping ground in Lancashire, you can see the pictures at Cedar Farm Galleries (just click on the link for directions) or alternatively, many of the pictures are on his blog, James Mousley Art.

If you can make it to Cedar Farm, do go: the pictures look fantastic in their long gallery. If not, take a minute to look at them online. Right now I'm trying to work out whether or not if I can afford to buy one...