Category Daily Blog

Apr 26 2014

‘So much to do, so little time’

I got up very early today because Hub was off to paintball.

Gap Boy had informed us last night that he was off out to his mates for the day.

Oh Bliss. Just me and Scoob and a flip chart sheet of Operation Chuck It Out Chores.

GB hadn’t given me a time when he should be emerging from his pit so I left him to it once Hub had gone.  Scoob had been walked and fed so just me to sort out.

I wasn’t going to clear the dining room table off till later but a vase full of dying flowers fell over on it and the rush to pick up the paperwork, mop up the mess and move the left over Easter eggs meant that it got priority.

My nice piece of Italian brocade that serves as a table cloth got wet and old flower-smelly. It washed up well though.

Having shifted one lot of old flowers to the Krappy Kitchen for recycling, I thought that I might as well do the other two vases as well and plonked them on the beautifully empty piece of work top that we cleared off yesterday.

That meant that I couldn’t have breakfast till I’d done the flowers and put the vases into soak because I’d used up all the spare room on the work top.

It was while I was walking past the dresser that I remembered that I had to sort out my cookery books and put them into the small book-case so that we could move the dresser tomorrow.

So I did it. It took ages. Is there a mathematical ratio regarding the number of cookery books to the amount of cooking that you do? I had a dead heat between Delia Smith and Keith Floyd.

And I was quite glad that I hadn’t had a shower first or my breakfast because it was rather dusty shifting all those books.

I ate breakfast eventually, and had a shower and got dressed into something more practical than my now very dusty nightshirt.

I have been beset by disruptions and distractions all day though.

I get up from the sofa intending to do something and get waylaid by something else that needs doing.  Some of the things have been a nuisance – forgetting where I put the bottle of water I just took out of the fridge (it was in the kitchen by the vases), others have been a blessing; texts from Hub, a lovely call from Bezzie Mate and from my Uni Boy.

On being told that Hub is getting a new kitchen door on his way home, UB asks if and when his room will get a new door, especially as BM stays in the room when he visits.  UB’s door has been assaulted by GB on several occasions, most notably the one where he re-enacted the scene from ‘The Shining’ – “Here’s Johnny!”. A door with knife holes in it does not give a good impression to one’s visitors.

GB doesn’t actually have a door on his room.  He demolished it some years ago and we said we would buy him a new one when he started to behave in a more responsible fashion.

He still has a curtain where the door should be.

At four o’clock today there was still no sign of GB so I tapped on his door jamb.

He told me that he should have been awake at a quarter to eleven  but didn’t hear his alarm.

I felt guilty – it’s a mother thing.

I accomplished nearly all the things I set out to do eventually and I have project managed the rest of the week – my flip charts are things of wonder.

GB revved off on his motorbike eventually.

Hub came home with the kitchen door and fetched takeaway because we didn’t want to get the clean worktop dirty again,

Lovely Friend and her Hub are coming to help us clear out the Krappy Kitchen tomorrow so there will be more motivation and energy flying about – GB excluding.

Onward and Upward!

Apr 25 2014

‘Christmas is only eight months away’

 
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The work top is an essential part of any kitchen.

My new kitchen work top is black with sexy coloured glittery bits in it. I can have Christmas all year round in my new kitchen especially when the pretty blue lights under the units and near the floor are on.

I have had two phone calls and three letters reminding me that my new kitchen is being delivered next week, to blow up the blue balloon and tie to my gate (the party will be later) and make sure there is a space 2m x 3m to store the stuff in until my builder is ready for it.

We are SO ready for the new kitchen.

We know that we will be eating takeaway off paper plates for a couple of weeks and that personal hygiene and clean clothes may fall by the wayside when the water is off.

We have broken the news to Gap Boy that he may find himself separated from the PC when the power is off – Minecraft battles may have to wait.

Uni Boy and Bezzie Mate are staying away until the new kitchen has been installed.

Scoobs may spend the next couple of weeks wuffing and whining at the strange men who will be demolishing part of the house and rebuilding it again (I hope).

This afternoon I got a call from a six year old (well maybe ten – okay then a sixteen year old ) work experience girl who had issues with her fs and ths.
There ‘as bin a nerror at Haitch Q apparently. My kitchen has been ordered – bu’ sum1 forgot tuh order yer worktop. Sumfing muzt ‘ave gonn wrong sumwheh – dunno wot ‘ appened, or oo didit but it woz sum1 ‘ere – not sum1 at the shop.
Enough of the junior jargon – they are going to supply us with a temporary work top until my sexy work top arrives, then my builder will be coming back to take out the temporary one and fit the new one.

At no cost to us.

Well, that’s a relief then!

Today we have been mostly clearing out the Krappy Kitchen.

Hub and I are dirty and dusty, and now I am disheartened too.

GB has thudded down from his bedroom every now and then to bark at the dog (who is wuffing a lot because he feels insecure), snarl at me and Hub and tell us what a lousy job we are doing.

Go on then GB – set us a good example to follow – thought not.

His one contribution to Operation Chuck It Out so far has been to take his clothes mountain out of the bathroom and dump it on his bed so that we could swap over some bookcases and books (our upstairs bathroom is a very dusty but literary place).

I really should not have chosen basic black to wear when sorting  out dusty but much-loved books.

On the plus side, I have found many favourites that I thought I’d lost – and have now purchased and installed on one of my Kindles – I can’t throw books away though and the charidee box looks rather sparse.

I was given a medicinal sherry to cheer me up after the phone call – I had to hand the charmless teen over to Hub before I said something extremely rude to her.

Spit that gum out!  Spit it out NOW!

It wasn’t so much the news that she was imparting; it was the lethargic ‘so what’ manner with which she delivered it.

I could almost see her examining her cuticles with disinterest as she dropped the bombshell on me.  I wonder if they drew lots in the office as to which of them should break the news of their incompetence to Mrs Angry?

Who the hell orders a kitchen and forgets to order the work top?

Doh.

Easter is over but I am still one Hot, Cross Bunny.

Fingers crossed that I have my kitchen for Christmas – only eight months to go.

Apr 23 2014

‘Georgie’

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This figure of St George was one of my lovely mum’s favourite finds.

He belongs to an era when Mum had stalls at antique fairs in the South of England.

She had an eye for beautiful things anyway and when she retired, she decided to dabble in actually buying and selling.  My stepdad was generally roped in to lug the special boxes down three flights of stairs – the less special and more commercial boxes were kept in the very cold storage shed by the bins. He didn’t mind too much; he would sit at the back of the stall and read the Sunday papers once everything was set out, maybe strolling off to the nearest pub for a pint of real ale at lunchtime, and coming back to help Mum pack up again.

If he was working, it would fall to me to help.  I liked wandering amongst the other stalls, selling whilst Mum was off having a browse, and I even got into the swing of unwrapping the newspaper from each precious object, displaying it and wrapping it up again at the end of the day.

I learned from Mum. What was good and what was tat. What would sell and what would be endlessly wrapped and re-wrapped.  Different fairs called for different goods depending on the clientele.

I became eagle-eyed for those who came to pilfer; interrupting them with a smile and a question before they had the chance  to tuck the object of desire into a capacious pocket.

Even now special things sing to me from amongst the rubbish.  They may not always be worth much; I probably wouldn’t be any  good on ‘Bargain Hunt’ but as the saying goes – I know what I like.

Some of Mum’s favourites never actually made it onto the stall.  Her St George statue – or Georgie as he became affectionately known, was one of those objects. He stood proudly by the fire in every property Mum lived in: the third floor maisonette I grew up in, the sheltered housing flat she and my stepdad moved into when the stairs became too much, the even more sheltered accommodation just down the road from us that they moved 240 miles to in order to see more of their beloved grandsons, and finally the specially adapted bungalow that enabled Mum to escape from hospital and have an extra eighteen months of freedom.

I was always very fond of Georgie.  He’s a tactile boy with a lovely smile. I’d often sit on the floor next to him whilst watching the TV.  There was always something very reassuring about his solid wooden form.

Not surprisingly, years later when Uni Boy was a toddler, he developed an affection for Georgie too.  We had to watch him closely; the origins of Georgie’s paintwork were unknown and whilst mostly smooth, there were a few hard edges still.  Georgie was one of his first words, which pleased my Mum extremely.

Gap Boy also enjoyed Georgie’s company and at first there were a few tussles regarding ownership but UB moved on to playing chess with Grandma, leaving GB to the less cerebral pleasures of Georgie hugging.

Just like Puff the Magic Dragon, Georgie was abandoned by my boys as they grew older and turned to gameboys and football but he still held pride of place by the fire; a memento of Mum’s antique fair days long after she left us in 2009.

Georgie was the first thing I saw when Hub and I began the long process of clearing out the bungalow after my beloved stepdad died suddenly in 2012.

I brought Georgie home to my own fireplace and he has been there ever since; a symbol of my Mum’s love for her heritage, for beautiful  and unusual things.

My lack of prowess in the field of housework is well-known.  I have had feather dusters but they invariably disintegrate from age rather than use. My mantelpiece is a display area for important but not necessarily priceless objects.

It is Georgie’s special day today so I have dusted him down and elevated him to the windowsill where he can keep company with the freesias and my star-gazing bunny.

Happy St Georgie’s Day Mum.

Apr 22 2014

‘At Twenty-Two – Love Goes On’

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They say that most people have a special person – a teacher or a work colleague – who had a profound effect on their lives. Sometimes they disappear and you never see them again, sometimes they come back into your life in a most unexpected way.

In my third year at primary school I was a horror.

I was the original temper tantrum kid and if anyone – teachers especially – dared to cross me, I would leave the classroom with a screech and spend the rest of the morning or afternoon swinging and singing to myself in the playground until it was time for lunch or hometime.

This never occurred at home. My mum wouldn’t have let me get away with such behaviour.

It really began in the second year when Miss S broke a ruler across Lesley’s calves.  It was a wooden ruler and Les had a knack of tightening his calves just as the ruler hit, causing it to splinter and have no impact on his legs at all.

Miss S was not pleased and we all got detention because of Les’s legs. She stopped using the ruler though.

Up until that point I had quite liked my teachers; respect went right out of the window that day.

In my third year Mr M was our teacher. He had a goatee beard when they weren’t fashionable. He shouted a great deal, wielded the gym slipper when punishing the boys but saved his most savage criticisms for the girls. Not the pretty girls, but those like me who wore National Health glasses and hand-me-down clothes.

If I failed to answer a question in class I was stupid.  If I answered correctly I was being a smart ass – and nobody likes a smart ass.

There were a couple of us that he routinely picked on with an unprofessional glee,  but one day the worm in me turned. I had tried to shut out his noise for months but when the weather improved and the world outside seemed more appealing, I broke free.

 I got up from my seat after a particularly scathing reprimand and walked out. He grabbed my cardigan as I left the room but I shrugged out of it, screamed in his face and ran. Torn between running after me and deserting the class, Mr M stayed where he was and I sat on the swing in the playground; cold but happy to be away from the shouting that made my ears ache and my heart pound.

It took a few more of these episodes before Mr M stopped picking on me.  The school secretary spotted me on the swings two days running and brought me into her office.

She gave me a sweet and asked me why I was out of class.  I told her about the shouting and how Mr M pulled my cardigan off me and made me cry. I told her that I sat on the swings to make the bad noises go away.

The head teacher got my mum to come up to the school.  I hadn’t told her about Mr M because I thought I would get into trouble.

Mr M disappeared within half an hour and we had an elderly supply teacher who looked like someone’s grandma and read us nice stories till the end of term.

My teacher for fourth year was Mr W.  He was a games teacher with a reputation for using his spare gym shoe on any boy who messed around in games or PE.  He didn’t use it often because he tended to keep his pupils busy.

On the first day of term we had a general knowledge quiz.  I won.

At playtime, Mr W called me to his desk. He smiled and spoke very softly.

“You are very good at general knowledge.  I hear that you also write stories and poems, and that you like to draw.”

I nodded.  I had been expecting a telling off although I wasn’t sure what for.

“I like poems and stories, music and art.  I like people who enjoy learning.  Do you enjoy learning?”

I nodded even more vigorously.

“Good.  I also need you to let other people learn too, so from now on, even if you know the answer in a quiz, don’t put your hand up.  If no one else answers then I will ask you.  Okay?”

Still dumb, still nodding, but smiling too.

“I also want you to promise me that if you feel upset or angry, you won’t leave the classroom but you will write me a note about it and we will sort things out later.  Promise?”

I promised.

 I wrote poems and stories.  I answered questions when Mr W asked me.  I danced and sang and acted in Mr W’s productions. From then on, I only went on the swings at playtime or lunchtime.

He loved Greece and was a great fan of Nana Mouskouri; he used to bring her records in to play to us. I like to think that we loved him enough to listen quietly.

Not surprisingly, for such a good teacher, Mr W was offered a better position at another school and we both left at the end of the year.  I organised a whip round and managed to find three Nana Mouskouri albums that he didn’t have.  We both had watery eyes that day.

Winding life on, and at twenty-two years of age I was working as a revolting houseparent in a local authority children’s home.  One of the girls had been caught smoking behind the bike sheds at school (where else?), and I had to accompany her to a formal telling off by the new head teacher.

I think both of us felt nervous as we sat in the corridor outside the head teacher’s room.  The school secretary came out to  usher us in. part of me wanted to ask her for a sweet, then I remembered that I was a responsible adult now.

The head teacher was Mr W.  I grinned hugely as I said his name.  He hadn’t changed – well his black hair was turning grey at the edges and his moustache was more bushy than I remembered it.  He blinked a couple of times, then smiled just as hugely as he recalled my name.  No more National Health glasses or hand-me downs; I’d gone upmarket, had designer specs and penchant for jeans and rugby shirts.

The next ten minutes were spent updating each other; his progress through the ranks to his first head teacher position and my more chequered career through drama school,  bar work and after the soda syphon incident, a spell as a volunteer in a children’s home that led to my current permanent post.

My naughty girl was temporarily forgotten.  She had the sense to sit quietly whilst we talked, and when we eventually remembered her, Mr W merely frowned and told her that he didn’t want to see her in his office again.

In the three years that I worked at the children’s home, I had cause to work with Mr W on several occasions; our children were not the easiest to deal with.  Most of them had spent years being rejected and neglected, so solutions weren’t always easy.  Mr W could always be relied upon to look beyond the issues and use his imagination to motivate rather than punish. Our children thrived in his environment.

We lost touch after I qualified as a social worker and moved to another children’s centre.

I met my Hub whilst working there, and two years after we married, a familiar name caught my eye one evening as I leafed through the local newspaper.

Mr W had retired at last and was going to relocate to his beloved Greece.

Three weeks after he retired he was killed instantly by an uninsured boy racer.  The boy t-boned Mr W’s beloved Jag as he pulled out of the local Spar shop car park one Sunday morning when he went to collect the papers and some milk.

‘On and on like the sea
Love goes on eternally
Troubles come then they’re gone
Love goes on, on and on
Like the sea
Love goes on eternally’

 Love goes On – Nana Mouskouri 1970

Apr 21 2014

A tale of two fridges – well- four actually’

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When Hub and I bought our first house 27 years ago, we were given a fridge freezer as a moving in/engagement present by Hub’s parents. My tiny fridge with freezer compartment that had served me well in my studio flat looked in danger of collapsing if it was removed from its little cubbyhole in the kitchen. I left it there for the new owner, together with an Ercol wall unit and a temperamental Baby Belling.

We bought it from Bejams –  a company now known as Iceland  – but in those days it only sold frozen food and things to keep the food in, and long before they started using A, B and Z-list celebrities to promote their products.

The fridge freezer sat very nicely in the tiny kitchen of our two up, two down end of terrace ex council house, and made up for the disappointment of finding that what we thought were kitchen units turned out to be doors with a big empty space and a gas meter behind them.

The little house was Uni Boy’s first home too; he cruised around the furniture and we were slightly worried that he was having problems walking. Then we took him to Southampton Common , plonked him on the grass near the Ornamental Lake and watched in amazement as he ran, and ran, and ran. Hub managed to stop him before he reached the lake.

When Uni Boy was just over a year old, and Gap Boy was more than just a twinkle in his father’s eye, we moved North and rented a house.  We let our little house to a mature student, his wife and daughter, and endured several months of them grumbling (via the agent) about the shortcomings of our happy little home.  We couldn’t get house or contents insurance because of our tenant’s status and they unfortunately they turned out to be a ham-fisted pair judging by the constant breakages and replacements they demanded.  The fridge freezer survived their clumsiness however.

We decided that we wanted to stay in the North; we had made good friends, Hub enjoyed his job and Uni Boy was busy running everywhere (and climbing into my Dear Friend’s fish tank).

After Gap Boy was born, we started saving up money to buy another house – providing we could sell the old one.  The tenants moved out and on to wreck another property after a couple of years.  We had the house professionally cleaned and tidied and put it up for sale.

The estate agents kept us apprised about viewings and we thought that they were looking after our little house.  Unfortunately they were slapdash and left the spare set of house keys in the kitchen drawer.  We got a phone call one Monday morning telling us that someone had broken in through the kitchen window and ‘somehow‘ managed to unlock the back door and take out the fridge freezer.  The burglar(s) tried to take the washing machine and the boiler but were too inept to manage the plumbing.  Oh, and the spare set of keys were no longer in the office, did we have them?

Surprisingly enough, the little house still sold and we went looking for a home for the four of us and our family of cats.  We had moved North with five cats and were down to four after our tiniest cat had curled up under the radiator one night and gone permanently to sleep. We lost another the night before we moved when he ran out into the road when a dog wuffed at him and was run over.  He is buried under our magnolia tree. The other cats lived out their happy moggy lives in the new house.

Our new house-to-be was occupied by students when we went to visit it.  The owner had left the students to show prospective buyers around and was perplexed as to why there were no offers after eighteen months. We found out why.

We visited just after Christmas.  They refused to let us in.

We called the estate agent and he arrived within minutes and threatened to call the owner.

They let us in, scowling.

The curtains were closed, the wreckage of a Christmas tree leaned drunkenly in the living room,  three hung over students were slumped sullenly on the sofa.

The agent showed us around.  His bright and breezy attitude at odds with the sulking students.  The kitchen was dirty and filled with rubbish – some of it in bin bags.  The downstairs bathroom and bedroom were damp, smelly and unaired, the living room too dark to see anything, so we climbed the stairs and were pleased with two of the bedrooms.  The occupant of the third obviously had a bad temper as there was a huge fist-shaped hole in the plasterboard.  The agent had described the upstairs bathroom as ‘impressive’.  It was.  It was a huge tart’s boudoir.  All white and pink and gilt and scalloping.  Uni Boy eyed the bidet with interest. He later informed friends that our new house had a ‘bumwasher’.

We visited twice more and saw the real house hiding beneath the students’ wilful neglect.

The owner appeared to have had lessons in artexing as every room in the house had a different pattern – on the walls and on the ceilings.  The stairway and upper hall still have the capacity to remove three layers of skin when you brush against it carelessly.  Under the grime, the kitchen turned out to be a seventies nightmare; brown and white tiles, pine cladding, pendant lights and pseudo Mediterranean arches that  blocked out the light. The front room and dining room ran the length of the house with patio doors opening on to a quiet courtyard – filled with more bin bags.

The purchase of the house was rather fraught; the students were reluctant to move, the owner was reluctant to change the locks or drop the price due to the state of the garage roof.

We won in the end.

With the help of our new and incredibly supportive friends, we moved out of our rented house, cleaned it from top to bottom and moved into the new house.  There wasn’t an awful lot of money to spare and though we kept the existing horrible hob and crusty cooker, the fridge freezer was beyond redemption, so we bought a new one from Iceland – RIP Bejams.

As the boys got bigger and consumed more food, we took advice from our Dear Friend and invested in a second fridge freezer which was installed in the downstairs guest bedroom after the garage proved too cold for it.  Uni Boy moved into the room when he started at high school and needed more peas and carrots (peace and quiet).  By this time he was cooking elaborate meals for himself and had already acquired a taste for grana padano cheese and soya milk, so having a fridge freezer in his bedroom was a must.

Hub and I were permitted to keep food in UB’s fridge freezer but GB was told in no uncertain terms to keep out.

Now that UB is away at uni, his room is frequently occupied by our Bezzie Mate.  He tells me that the fridge freezer is rather talkative – especially in the middle of the night.  It sighs like a mournful ghost apparently and is even more disturbing than the sound of GB thundering down the stairs to cook noodles in the early hours of the morning or Scoobs giving me his uproarious first thing in the morning welcome.

After fifteen years of living with the artex and pine-clad hell of our kitchen (we replaced the worktops and cupboards a few years ago, and bought a new cooker but I still hated it) we are having a new one.

Being kitchen virgins so to speak, we have relied on the support and advice of our friends. We were told to get at least three quotes.

Then we walked into Wickes and I fell in love with a black quartz worktop with multi-coloured sparkles in it.  Shiny shiny!  Shortly afterwards I developed an attraction for what turned out to be the most expensive set of kitchen units in the store.

The kitchen designer came out and measured up our horrible kitchen.  Scoob liked him – possibly a bit too much because he handed the job over to his colleague.

The kitchen fitter/builder came out and scrobbled Scoob’s head.  Scoob was smitten and so was the fitter.  I viewed my horrible kitchen as a monstrosity; he rubbed his hands gleefully and told me that this was his favourite kind of job and he couldn’t wait to get started.

Having had a boiler and radiators fitted the previous February, we decided to wait till May and give the weather a chance to warm up.  Three days of sitting together on the sofa huddled under a blanket with a nervous and wuffing dog had taught us a lesson.

Our kitchen designer drew pretty pictures on his computer and all the bits were ordered and paid for.  We now have a letter from head office containing a blue balloon and a piece of string which we have to attach to the gate so that the delivery men can find us.

So sweet.

The hob, the oven and the microwave are included. We are using our own washing machine and dishwasher. I have chosen floor and wall tiles and matched up the paint with the units. Oh, go me!

The only thing left to do was to find a snazzy American-style fridge freezer and a tumble drier that would fit in the gaps.

Hub did his methodical trawl through ‘Which’ magazine.  I hopped about on the Internet going ‘Oooh’ at very expensive and rather impractical monsters.

We headed to that big electrical/computer store and whilst Hub nipped into Halford’s for wiper blades, I did some fridge freezer stroking and exploring.  That was when I found the beauty that heads this story.  It is a fridge  with a nice, cold, ice-cold water dispenser and loads of shelves. And the beauty has a freezer brother with a tippy ice-cube tray and oodles of drawers – also pictured.  The handles are full length and very tactile, and even when put side by side, they are still only 30cm wider than the conventional 90cm allowed for the American-style monsters. It would also mean that we could get rid of the fridge freezer in UB’s bedroom and ensure that BM would have quieter nights when he comes to stay.

We also found a not very glamorous but highly rated by ‘Which’ tumble dryer with a condenser and a sensor – all this is over my head.

Clutching our measurements we toddled off to Wickes in the hope that the gorgeous chilly twins could be accommodated in our ner kitchen.

Oh, go Wickes!  Not only did our lovely designer redesign the kitchen to incorporate the twins, we got a refund for the bits of kitchen that we no longer needed.

So, today, 27 years after the day we first started going out with each other, Hub and I have purchased the last three essentials for our first new kitchen.  Work starts next week and apart from having to control Scoobs and move into camping mode whilst normal services are suspended, our only other shopping trip will be to pick up the tiles and paint in quantities as advised by our eager builder/kitchen fitter.

Now begins the mass chucking out of fifteen years of womble-hoarding in the kitchen cupboards.  I will be awarding a prize for the most out of date object found.  Lovely Friend and her Hub are coming over to endow us with some much needed ruthlessness.  I foresee many tip trips ahead.

We will be having a kitchen party once it is all done and I have been told that with my new kitchen will come a housework gene that has hitherto been missing.

So woe betide anyone who leaves a mess on my glittery worktop or puts a dirty cup in my Belfast sink!

Apr 20 2014

‘Wholly Day – mild religious references contained within’

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To some people, Easter Sunday is a holy day.  A time of religious rejoicing, spending time with the family and probably going to church at least once.

A bit like the Sainsbury’s Easter advert – I can’t help thinking that the man is going to run amok and slaughter his family now that he has found the hammer and screwdriver though.

To others. the day is a nuisance because all the big shops are shut, the TV is full of religious stuff, and everyone feels sick from eating far too many Easter eggs, bunnies, and anything else you can make out of chocolate – oh use your imagination – I’m trying to keep it clean here.

For me, religion is an extremely personal thing.

I respect the right of all other people to observe their own religions – and I expect them to respect my right to tell them to do one when they knock at my front door trying to co-opt me.

They must have all been busy today because I was blissfully undisturbed whilst munching on the chocolate bunny given to me by my Best Mate. I’m saving the giant Walnut Whip for tomorrow afternoon when Hub goes off to work.

We were regularly exposed to religion as children; the vicar had a goat that I was very attached to so going to Sunday School was never a chore.  My Mum used to deliver the parish magazine and I can remember the front room being tidied because the vicar was coming round.

When I got older, a friend and I decided to sample the delights of different churches in our area.

Probably the best was the one with the swimming pool because they gave you 50p at Christmas and 50p on your birthday.  Our attendance was short-lived; being January babies we joined in December and left in February.  Discovering that the swimming pool was used to dunk people in whilst fully clothed was a bit of let down too. Okay, so we were mercenary but 50p bought a lot of sweets in those days.

Religious studies in senior school were an eye opener.  We had two teachers: Reverend Double-Barrelled Surname (who had a very cute son) and Mr Groper, a lay preacher in more than one sense.  Not surprisingly, I preferred the Rev’s lessons as he was rather sweet and could be easily diverted into telling proud stories about his son.

The Groper would work his way round the room massaging shoulders as he preached fire and brimstone about impure thoughts whilst trying to find out exactly what kind of thoughts we had been having – it was an all girls school so he had plenty of shoulders to grope.  He only did it to me the once.  I snarled at him and he gave me a very wide berth after that.

Someone complained (not me) and he was replaced by an earnest young lady fresh out of teacher training college who tried to get us to sing hand-clappy songs but had to stop when the grumpy human biology teacher next door complained about the noise (we were not singing nicely).

In my twenties I flirted with religion to the extent that I got confirmed and for a while, was the anarchic leader of the church youth club.  Said youth club had been set up to occupy the time of the unruly choir, a rather wonderful bunch of teenagers whose company I found far more acceptable than some of the so-called Christians who’d push you out of the way in their haste to get communion before the wine ran out and had to be watered down and re-blessed.

The vicar and his sub were extremely nice people who were well aware that many of the congregation were less than Christian in their attitude.  If I learned anything about Christian charity, it was from them, not from the bigoted family of churchwardens who looked down on anyone who didn’t conform to their norm.

As the worst member of this particular family was going down for communion one Sunday morning, a spotlight fell from the ceiling and JUST missed him.   It may well have been an accident but I always felt that it was the old man up the lady flexing his muscle.

The vicar and his sub were also understanding when the youth club had a children’s tea party with jelly and ice-cream; a ham sandwich was found in a light-fitting some weeks later.  Food Fight!

They had the common sense not to come over to the church hall on Sunday evenings expecting us to be involved in bible study; more often than not the lights would be dimmed and we would all be bopping around to ‘Rocking the Casbah’ or ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’.  The bad taste Hallowe’en party at the Vicarage was perhaps pushing the boundaries a bit too far – especially when the head chorister turned up in a blood-stained loincloth as the Risen Christ.

Life moved me away from the church but the vicar’s sub got his own parish later and baptised both my boys.

For a while we did Midnight Communion at our local church because it made life more Christmassy;  especially the late comers who had lurched over from the pub in search of forgiveness or a sip of wine.

When the boys reached school age we moved on to Christingles.  Uni Boy quite enjoyed them but Gap Boy got told off because he started eating the dolly mixtures off his Christingle and wouldn’t blow his candle out when asked.

We made our own Christingles at home after that, and after extreme exposure to alternative religions at high school, both our boys are now decidedly atheist – but at least they are consistent in their attitude to religion.

I love old churches though.

I love the carved  wood, the cool stone and the solace that can come from a brief moment of quiet contemplation.

Not all churches have it unfortunately, and I know as soon as I walk in the door whether that something special is there or not.

If not I beat a hasty retreat.

I suppose I must still be a bit religious because I still can’t get to sleep without saying the Lord’s Prayer to myself. It is a bit like a mantra that keeps my beloveds safe I suppose.

I must be growing up slightly however, because I still have three Easter Eggs left and two hot cross buns that I forgot to have for lunch.

Happy Easter – and it is wholly up to you how holy your celebration is – just keep your hands off my Easter Eggs.

I shall go back to being unwholly tomorrow when Hub and I join the Bank Holiday throngs to buy exciting things for our new kitchen – but more of that to follow.

Apr 18 2014

‘Quite a Good Friday – really’

 

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Ups, Downs and Mis-deliveries

The day started well, with bright sunshine.

So bright that we had the covers off the table outside and the parasols erected ready for lunch al fresco. Scoob has his own parasol.

Gap Boy had been up most of the night yakking at his US mates so he was tucked up in his bed when we arose in a leisurely fashion.

Scoob was happy because he got treats and a walk with Hub. he also liked the fact that there were no postmen and no delivery men: the bin men took him by surprise however.  He can’t and won’t like them.

I was happy because I had Hub to myself, I had indulged in a very long and very intense discussion with Uni Boy which ended in exhaustion but also with the exhilaration of knowing that we have bought both our boys up to have minds of their own – not just me and Hub clones.

Hub bought me a glass of Marsala when the conversation ended.  I needed it.

Bezzie Mate was coming to stay; I was cooking a cake to celebrate – rhubarb crumble cake with ginger –  and we were having Chinese takeaway for dinner.

All in all, a good Good Friday.

We did a minor shopping trip – too big for a handbasket, too small for a big trolley so the small trolley was just right – bit like Goldilocks and the Three Bears meets Tesco really. Even the checkout man was in a good mood.  the sun seemed to have brought out the best in everyone.

Lunch in the sun on the patio.  Scoob was slathering after our bread and cheese.  Depending on his posture, he was either sitting in a pool of drool or wearing an unattractive soggy patch down his curly black frontage.

Hub very kindly laid out the ingredients for the cake and whilst I didn’t exactly do a Jon Richardson and pretend that I was on a cooking programme, it made the whole process more amenable having an array of bowls, spoons and other implements all ready for my use.

The cake went in the oven and Hub very obliging hoovered the lawn and the front room (misnomer really as neither machine used was actually a Hoover).

I was in contact with BM throughout his journey North, and we were actually on the phone when a large white delivery van pulled up outside – much to Scooby’s consternation.

Hub placated Scoob, I dispatched GB outside to fetch the parcel and busied myself between making sure GB’s mince didn’t burn and trying to turn my cooled cake out on to a rack – oh how Mary Berry am I!

GB returned, grumbling and clutching a card. He informed me that the delivery man had delivered my parcel to a different house and that he said it was up to us to go and collect it.

Boom! Ballistic me!

So GB gave the card to his father to go and collect the  parcel from the wrong house that it had been delivered to.

Unhappy Hub. He had been sitting contentedly reading his ‘Which’ magazine and like me, waiting for BM to arrive.  BM meanwhile was on the phone listening to me rant about the delivery man, and giggling.

Hub went off to collect the parcel.  GB had forgotten to tell him though, that the people who had my parcel had now gone out – which is why the delivery man had told us we would have to collect the parcel later.

I picked up the phone and complained to the company from whence came the parcel; no names, no pack drill but they share their name with a very long river.

The young lady I spoke to was very apologetic and very helpful, so my anger subsided. It takes a very good customer service person to calm me down.  She was extremely good.

BM arrived in the midst of the furore and was much amused by my transition from Mrs Angry to Mrs Placated.

Hub, BM and I had planned to pop down to the local tavern for a small cider and to watch the sun set, so I wrote a suitably nice note to the person who had my parcel and included my phone number so that they could contact us when it was convenient to come and collect.

As we were turning into the road, a white van came hurtling out and missed us by inches.  I knocked on the door of the wrong delivery house and was told that the delivery driver had just collected my parcel.

So we went back home again; the parcel had been received by GB, and I had a conciliatory email from the company requesting the outcome.

Off to the tavern; a tad chilly now but the sight of the sun setting behind the power station was one to behold.  The cider was pretty good too.

Chinese takeaway ordered, collected and eaten.  A pleasant evening  filled with wine, good conversation and more dog slather than you can throw a stick at.

Hub has now gone to bed (early shift tomorrow), GB is out on his motorbike, BM is watching ‘The Bourne Supremacy‘ and I am tappetty-tapping to beat my midnight deadline.

It has been a pretty Good Friday and we all have Easter eggs to look forward to – and rhubarb and ginger crumble cake.

 

Apr 17 2014

‘Mouldy Thursday and other misconceptions’

runcorn bridge

 

Personally, I think Mouldy Thursday sounds better anyway.  If you observe Lent and have been depriving yourself for weeks you’ll be feeling pretty mouldy by now.  I gave up eating brussel sprouts, cauliflower and drinking tea for Lent.

I have been remarkably successful.

As a child, for me Mouldy Thursday conjured up visions of elderly people looking disconsolately at small, smelly leather bags of gone-off chocolate coins bestowed by the Queen – or rather by one of her accompanying ladies in waiting – she wouldn’t want to get her immaculate gloves dirty after all.

When I found out the real name and the meaning of Maundy Thursday, I felt better knowing that the Queen was actually rewarding a bunch of nice elderly persons who had been doing good for the community, and that it was real money and the bags weren’t mouldy at all.

Phew!

I don’t think I was particularly deaf as a child so I can’t blame my hearing for my misconceptions, but I was certainly very short-sighted.  This may well explain my misreading of the word ‘Metropolis‘ in Batman comics.  I fantasised about the city of Metropols and was sorely disappointed to find that it wasn’t a special place after all but merely a name for any large city or urban area.

My Father swore blind that ‘Pepys Avenue‘ was pronounced  Peepiss – much to amusement/embarrassment of the rest of the family.  Was he serious?  I’ll never know.

My Hub tells me that he was very disappointed about the pronunciation of ‘Antipodes‘  or Auntypoads in his mind.

Uni Boy  followed on in the family tradition when he was much younger (he asked me to emphasise the MUCH).  He was fascinated by cars and at the age of six, Parker’s Car Guide was his constant companion.  He couldn’t get his tongue are ‘Cinquecento‘; it became Twinkletwinklechento in his terminology.

It’s still in mine even if they don’t make them any more.

UB was also very keen on cooking things in the Michaelwave.

Gap Boy was less inventive.  When asked what he was doing, his usual reply was ‘stuff’‘, which covered a multitude of his inevitable sins.  He was responsible though for the christening of the Nuncle Bridge  (Runcorn) whenever we drove off into North Wales.

I loved it when my Lovely Mum and her sister R sang about

Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wooden shoe?

and the explanation;

If the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey,
Sing “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.”

There was something very special about it that makes me smile even now – or perhaps it is the memory of them singing the song and laughing.

The natural progression from my family’s misconceptions is the mondegreen or misheard lyric.  The most famous being Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Kiss the sky‘ being heard as ‘Kiss this guy‘  – the name of one of the most popular misheard lyrics sites:  http://www.kissthisguy.com/ Some of the mondegreens are a bit contrived but others made us giggle.

The favourite for Hub and me – and the one that we were singing our hearts out to in the car as we drove South – is Sue Lawley by the Police (So Lonely).  We are also rather partial to Red Olive (Radar Love) and Mice Aroma (My Sharona).

Strangely enough, there are no misheard lyrics connected to Rubber Bullets by 10cc – which is absolutely the best ever to sing along to VERY VERY LOUD in the car – but only when there are no children present because they will only tut and look disapproving..

Happy Mouldy Thursday anyway and may all your eggs be chocolate.

 

Apr 16 2014

‘Sixteen – Over halfway’

So I’ve passed the halfway mark now and managed to put something on my blog site every day for the past sixteen days.

Some days have been easier than others.

There have been mornings when I’ve had to get out of bed early because something wanted to jump out of my head and my fingers, and onto the keyboard.

On other mornings I’ve dragged myself  out of bed and stared zombie-like at my ergonomic keyboard, waiting for the elusive muse to hit me. My muse is not a gentle soul.

Inspiration has come from some familiar and other more bizarre quarters.

Writing isn’t confined to early mornings though; frantic to get something written before midnight, I have now discovered that WordPress is in a different time zone so I have an extra hour to play with – which is nice.  Technically though, I have actually been burning the midnight oil on more than one occasion.

Going away for the weekend was a little tricky.  The hotel we stayed at provides free wi-fi but only for one device.  As we are a two-phone, several Kindle and a laptop couple – some’s gotta give.  The laptop won and I managed to get my words online in time whilst Hub snoozed over his Sudoku.

Yesterday was more problematic.

Back home and our internet provider didn’t.

No wi-fi!

The router was fine – everything was fine at our end  – but gremlins in our provider’s garden shed caused internet grief throughout the country.

You forget how many things you use the internet for: FaceAche, Twitter, ThisismyJam, Amazon, the news (BBC and Yahoo), my Fitbit (Google it) and online banking to name but a few.

Gap Boy feigned disinterest and played a game on his computer that he’d been meaning to have a go at for ages.  He also ate us out of house and home.

Hub and I cleared junk out of the garage and did shopping (to replace all the food that GB ate) but in between times we both sat down at our computers and cursed the provider (and the wi-fi, and the computer, and anything else that seemed remotely connected to the computer – poor mouse).

Mafeking was relieved  – and so were we – when the internet came back to us just before dinner.

For all his disinterest, GB was back online and bellowing at his buddies within a very short time.

Hub and I checked everything out to make sure it was all okay.  Life returned to normal – ish.

Peace returned to the household.

The internet has been a bit sluggish today but we have had other issues to occupy our time.

I had to make a phone call that could have been patronising but as I started to talk I realised that it was me that had made the error, not the company concerned. My tone changed from officious to extremely apologetic within seconds and after some minor grovelling the awfully nice lady agreed to sort things out although it wasn’t strictly company policy.

The tip trip and charidee shop were supposed to be next on the menu but first, I decided to conduct a scientific experiment.  I was making chili in the slow cooker for dinner and discovered that I’d made too much. so I put half in the slow cooker and half in my lovely purple casserole.   The slow cooker was put on low and the casserole in the oven on gas mark three.

Which one would be better?

Only one way to find out.

Finally got rid of the rubbish, and the better stuff was happily received at the charity shop.

Onwards to M&S for some totally indulgent shopping and a phone call from GB who woke up and smelled the chili.  He was gutted to hear that he couldn’t eat it for another couple of hours and whinged for food.

Home again and GB was right, the whole house did smell of chilli.  We waited impatiently till six o’clock and as Hub and I tucked into our sensible-sized portions, the mother in me was gratified to see GB wander past with a huge bowl of chilli in his hands.  He was at pains to point out however, that real chilli doesn’t have beans in it.

Mine does.

And chickpeas.

GB came back for seconds and having emptied the purple pot, made a start on the slow cooker.

Tomorrow’s dinner.

GB’s scientific analysis.  Both edible but they still shouldn’t have beans in and how dare I smuggle button mushrooms into his slow cooker as well?

Sneaky Mum.

B and T gave us some homegrown rhubarb yesterday so I may spend a little time trawling the net for some nice recipes.

All this domesticity is most unusual for me.  I have no housework gene and my enthusiasm for cooking is sporadic at best. Perhaps I am being spurred on by the fact that by the time Hub and I reach our 26th wedding anniversary I will have a new kitchen – fingers crossed.

A new kitchen with a Belfast sink, drawers that don’t fall apart in your hands, cupboards with doors and LOADS of sparkly black quartz worktop space.

For now, I will just have to move a few piles of flotsam around in order to clear a space for some rhubarb chopping.

Night all

Apr 15 2014

‘Hidden Treasures’

In a fortnight’s time we are having a new kitchen.

This is the first kitchen we have ever had designed and built for us in the twenty-seven years we’ve been together.

The construction of our new kitchen will take ten to fourteen days and we are prepared for the fact that we will have to live on takeaways, bottled water and spend even more time soothing Scoobs.  He likes the builder who will be bashing down walls, inserting an RSJ, stripping the tiles off and skimming the walls, but the idea of strange men making loud noises in the kitchen will undoubtedly cause him to freak out a bit.

We have to prepare for the upheaval.

The flat packed kitchen is being delivered the day before the building work begins and we have been supplied with some string and a blue balloon to tie to the gate and entice the delivery men.

More frightening is the fact that we have to clear a space in the garage to store all the packages.

Gap Boy is disgruntled; he NEEDS ALL the garage for his new motorbike.

Uni Boy will not come home to visit now until the new kitchen is well and truly installed.  Good job too as his room will be used for kitchen storage for a while.

Lovely friends are coming to help us clear out the unnecessary things in our old kitchen; they are far more ruthless and have no attachment to the piles of junk that fill every cupboard and cover the mean worktop space.

Before then however, there’s the desperate need for space in the garage for GB’s bike and an entire fitted kitchen.

Something had to go.

It is almost two years since we cleared out my parents bungalow after my Stepdad died.  Most of the household contents had been redistributed to family and to charity but at the back of the garage there were half a dozen boxes that were still wrapped up in packing tape.

Filled with resolve we decided to tackle the garage today.

Some of the boxes were easy to unpack; glassware and small china ornaments from the days when my Mum ran an antique stall, framed prints that were bought on their holiday travels and books about World War I and II.  I could cope with them but it was the photographs, some framed, some stuck on Christmas and birthday cards, others in SupaSnaps wallets, and a few loose or tucked into books.  It was the photographs that made me sad.

I did my best to divide up the last contents of their lives: charity shop, the tip and ‘put-it-in-this-bag-and-we”ll-look-at-it-later‘. I sat on the tailgate and used the open back of the car to sort out the boxes.

By lunch my heart was heavier than it had been for nearly eighteen months and the sadness of packing up their bungalow came back with a vengeance.

We took a break for lunch, dreading the thought of having to go back out on to the drive and continue with the unpacking.

Lovely Hub was sorting through boxes whilst I was dragging out my bread and cheese for as long as I could.  Not easy to do when you have an adoring but drooling dog on your feet just waiting for the crumbs to fall.

I heard voices. Then someone called out my name.

We are very lucky with our neighbours (apart from the couple that argue vociferously and the man with the drinking problem) and our nearest neighbours are the nicest.  They spend their retirement buying and selling antiques and oddments.

Their attention was caught by my assortment of boxes which were cluttering up the drive. My neighbour T, his nose twitching like a bloodhound, was in the boxes and rummaging before the car door was shut.  His wife apologised and having found out that we were sending the stuff to the charity shop, offered to re-sort it and extract those objects that might fetch us a few pennies at auction.

Before lunch I was sad because it felt like the mementos of my parents lives were just going to end up unloved and on a dusty charity shop shelf for years.  The obvious delight with which T was rummaging and holding up each new find with glee – and I was happy again.

We spent rather a lot of time chatting and putting the world to rights.  So long in fact that Scoob had to have his lead on and sit on the tailgate with me because he was lonely.  This was a bit traumatising for the cyclists, dog walkers and innocent bystanders as his bark was definitely worse than his bite (no biting as he doesn’t and anyway he was attached to me by his lead).

T and Hub sorted everything left over into charity shop and trip to the tip but we spent so long putting the world to rights that it was too late to deliver it – so it all went back into the garage for us to deal with bright and early tomorrow.

GB grumbled because he was hungry, we hadn’t gone shopping or picked up his new bike mirrors from the parcel depot, and because the boxes were too close to  his motorbike. Oh, and because he grumbles a lot anyway.  Hub and I are a great disappointment to him. Tough.

It was all remedied within the hour however, and as I write, GB has gone out on another of his nocturnal meanderings.

No early night for us then.

Thank you B and T for finding the treasures that I had stopped seeing, and for brightening up my day considerably.