A New Start / Scribblings Of A Messy Haired Woman

Less than 24 hours ...

2012-02-18T15:07:00.006Z

Thank you all for your messages of encouragement and support.

I had a nice short leg stretcher of a run this morning, just a mile around the block, to help my muscles remember how to run; or at least that's how my friend, Charlie, describes it. Way back in the days when we were all young, beautiful and fit Charlie was an accomplished marathon runner - tucked thirty (that's 3 ... 0) under his belt before calling it a day ... now (two ankle replacements later) he acts as my voice of reason. I don't always listen to what he says, then I come a cropper and his voice takes on this 'Well I told you so' tone - he also has the good grace to concede that whilst he is pretty good at giving sound advice he never actually took any himself ... like that now legendry day when he ran the Hong Kong marathon in the morning and played rugby in the afternoon.

Anyway enough this post is not about him ... it's about me and my preparation for tomorrow. I just had to dash out (in the pouring rain) to buy some safety pins - to secure my race number to my running kit. I have decided not to take a bumbag (American = fannypack) and will stick my phone in the pocket of my Hi-Vis vest, money in a discreet zipper pocket somewhere about my personage.

And now all thats left to do is prepare and cook a delicious paella for tonights dinner, take a nice relaxing bath, set my alarm for 4.30 a.m., then settle down to an early night.

I don't know why I am making such a song and dance about this - it's only a half but it's the first bit of serious running I have done for almost two years and I am as jittery as the jitter bug that didn't get invited to the ball.

Two days to go ...

2012-02-17T10:55:00.007Z

I'm standing in the kitchen of our 12th floor flat looking at my 4 year old son ...

... he ought to be trembling but he isn't, he has incurred his mother's wrath and is being scolded ...

"I'm really sorry Mummy," he says, quite convincingly, "But sometimes the Naughtiness just creeps into me and I can't stop it."

It's been creeping into me a lot lately. Why only yesterday evening, after our run across the Heath, I ordered a burger and chips, and ate every single one, didn't offer my friends anything at all. I pretended that it was OK because instead of cider I ordered an orange and lemonade. And those 4lbs I lost? Well 1 has snuck back on this week - but its the carbo-loading ...

I've had a couple of very good runs this week and at this moment in time think that Brighton is an exciting prospect - tomorrow all the self doubt will creep in and by tomorrow evening I will be a sleepless, gibbering wreck.

Between now and then it's time to get my check list sorted -
1. Ibuprofen - yes
2. Deep Freeze gel - yes
3. Micro chip for my trainer - yes
4. Race number - yes
5. Clean running kit - yes
6. Treats to reward myself with after the race - yes
7. Do I know where and when the race starts - no

If you're reading this Jackie see you there - I've just checked the weather forecast Sunday is set to be a scorcher at 6C! Hope they don't run out of water ... did I say water? Oh quick add that to the list.

Do you remember when ...

2012-02-15T09:34:00.004Z

Do you remember when you bought a record and played it over and over until you had it word perfect? Shouting each word tunelessly, in your bedroom, all the time looking in the mirror to see how you would look when you were on the stage belting it out?

Do you remember that terrible time when you were out shopping with your mother and a group of friends spotted you? Your mother holding up some ghastly item of clothing for you to admire, (c'mon Mom you've got to be joking?) and you trying to pretend that you weren't really together?

Do you remember parties when you hoped Fitzwilliam Darcy would ask you to dance but he only had eyes for Becky Sharp and you were left fending off the advances of that plump ginger haired lad with a mass of freckles that all merged into one and thick NHS specs?

Do you remember the horror you felt when you first realised you were destined to become your mother? And by default be unable to talk about anything other than what was for dinner, if the weather was good enough to hang the washing out, how naughty your kids were, how clever your husband was and what a lovely knitting pattern you had stumbled across in the Womans Weekly?

Do you remember standing with six other girls in a small cubicle passing around one damp ciggie, trying not to throw up as the smoke sered your lungs?

Do you remember not being able to pass a reflective surface without taking a good adoring look at yourself and wondering why no-one else found you so damn attractive?

Do you remember being that nowty, unreasonable, hormonally charged, self-obsessed teenager who knew so much more than everyone over the age of 18?

SNAP ...

No matter how hard you try a teenager will not appreciate your efforts and will take you for granted ... believe me I was one once.

The Hit-man

2012-02-14T10:43:00.008Z

Last night as I was returning home, after Sci-Fi Reading Group (so later than usual but not late-late) I passed a man in the street.

I said 'a man' quite casually there. What I mean is I passed 'the' man in the street. I pass him most mornings on my way to the bus stop, I see him sometimes in the supermarket, or sitting outside a cafe drinking coffee. I would guess he is in his mid to late forties, he still has most of his hair and its still dark, not grey. He has an unfashionable beard and dark eyes that always appear to be half-closed, but in reality are observing all that goes on around him. His brow is furrowed, as if in deep thought. All year around he wears a light brown jacket and brown slacks - the only indication that it is winter is the addition of a brown scarf. Most of the time when I see him in the street he is smoking. I watch him raise the cigarette to his lips and take a long drag, inhaling deeply, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs before slowly exhaling. I have never smoked, so I am childishly fascinated by this process. I find this man neither attractive nor unattractive but I make up little stories about him in my head, I try to guess where he is going, what he does with his days. I measure the time by the moment I pass him. If I get to the bus stop before passing him then I'm early, half-way and I'm on time, closer to my gate then I'm late.

This morning I went for a run - the cold snap has broken, the snow has melted, the run was much faster and more pleasant then any I have had recently. I was buoyant. When I arrived home I rushed to my bedroom window to see if the snow had disappeared from my vegetable beds; it had, and all my bean stalks look to have suvived. I won't know for certain until I get down there at the weekend.

Just as I was turning away from the window I saw the man. He was standing in the doorway of the offices immediately behind where I live. He was not wearing his jacket, he was dressed for indoors, except of course he was outdoors, smoking.
"So that is where he works" I thought. That is why I see him so often. And now that I know I feel cheated and a little foolish - I had him ear-marked as an Eastern European hit-man at the very least.

Mag #104: Dreaming

2012-02-13T07:21:00.010Z

When I first saw this weeks prompt the words of a wise friend popped into my head - "Once I used to worry that men only wanted me for my body ... now? What I would give to hear just one say that."

We lay, my lover and I, entwined in each others arms,
Sleeping the sleep of the spent,
Recuperating, before resampling our magical charms.

I know, I know - but cut me some slack, it's Valentines day tomorrow ...

For more takes on this strangely erotic scene click here

Anniversaries

2012-02-12T10:12:00.004Z

Today is my second Blog Anniversary.

I'm not big on anniversaries - they come around too quickly. So instead of looking back over the past two years and shaking my head sadly, wondering where the time has gone to, I'm looking forward ...

The pavements on some of the back roads that I trundle through are still fairly lethal, today I had ear-marked a 9 miler and only managed 5 and a bit - which means that I have not done nearly as much as I need to have for next weeks half-marathon in Brighton. I will see how this week goes and make an executive decision next Saturday.

The rest of my weekend has been spent reading (two different Reading Groups meeting this week - Monday and Wednesday evenings, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until the end of the month for my verdicts on those two books), shuffling through my friends paper work and watching rugby.

This is the season that I most miss the menfolk in my life - Sean and my father were both keen rugby fans - at the end of every match there would be a lengthy discussion, phone calls, gentle ribbing. Of course now there are text messages and I have a number of friends messaging with outrageous banter and biased comments but it's not quite the same. So I'm afraid you chaps will have to indulge me here ...

England pulled off an unconvincing win against the Italians - well actually that is harsh, they were never in any real danger of losing, I would never say that to any English friends though.

And what about France vs Ireland - how did that happen? How (in this day and age) can an International fixture be cancelled 5 minutes before kick-off is due because the National Stadium is not match fit? I don't know whether to laugh or cry, but it proves there is at least one country in Europe less able to deal with prevailing weather conditions than Britain.

I have obviously saved the best until last - Wales vs Scotland was fairly brutal and not without some very exciting moments - Wales won comfortably in the end. My fiver is still safe (hoorah) - wonder if I should add more to it now that the Triple Crown is so tantalisingly close?

This week ...

2012-02-10T11:31:00.013Z

I am almost completely recovered! Just a few dirty smudges left on my cheek and a little purple shading around my eye - which could easily be mistaken for poorly applied make-up in a dimly lit room.

Exercise and curbing my greediness are starting to pay off. I have lost 4lbs since the beginning of the year ... oh I know it's not much, but Rome wasn't built in a day! I am convinced that slowly off means even slower back on; I don't have to breathe in quite so sharply to zip up my jeans but my size 12 dresses are still a little snug ...

I have managed 3 runs since Sunday, all about 2.5 miles, I wish it were further but the paths are still icy and I dread another accident. I am down to run the Brighton Half Marathon next Sunday (19th) but if these conditions prevail I can't see me being nearly match-fit enough.

More snow last night ...

... just as we were finishing our run across Hamsptead Heath it started snowing again. Large fluffy white flakes falling from the sky. There is something quite hypnotic about watching snow fall, even when you're standing in it ... with just your running kit on. Later, from the warmth of the pub (after we had showered and changed) we sat cradling our drinks and watched it sticking to the umbrellas in the outside smoking area. Perfectly sane, mature adults walked up to the windows, pressing their hands and faces against the panes so they could get a better view. My friend M said that this time next week he will be in Afghanistan, where apparently it is also snowing.

M is an artist, he illustrates brochures and stuff but he is also a war artist ... he paints and draws incredible scenes: I went to an Exhibition of his last year here in the National War Museum. Everywhere M goes he carries a little tin box of pencils and a small sketch pad; one of the pictures on display at his Exhibition was drawn whilst he was on patrol in Afghanistan and they came under enemy fire. He said that being under fire isn't like in the movies where it's all over in five minutes, dead bodies all over the place ... you can be holed up for several hours without anyone being injured, just sitting, lying, crouching, waiting for the other blokes to get bored and go away.

I like M - he's friendly, good humoured and incredibly modest. He will be out in Afghanistan for a while ... I wish him a safe journey and a speedy return.

And on that reflective note - those of you that I follow will know that I often leave comments on your posts. If I see that everyone before me has already said everything I want to say then I don't, it just feels silly saying ditto to Freds comment ...

Last week Isabel posted about an activity going on her neighbourhood which clearly distressed her. It wasn't pleasant, someone was laying down poison to rid the neighbourhood of feral cats and peacocks; her followers left encouraging/sympathetic comments - poison doesn't just wipe out those that it is intended to kill. However her post also attracted a response from our old friend Anon. Anon not only misunderstood (perhaps deliberately) Isabels distress, Anon choose to insult her, SHOUTED his/her opinion on the matter and made (as usual) a complete arse-hole of him/her self.

Isabels response was both intelligent and dignified ... something that Anon doesn't really understand - Anon bombarded her with such banal and offensive comments that I had to wonder what makes Anon tick. It's something I have noticed in other areas on the internet - offensive comments made under the cloak of anonymity. Unlike Anon I don't mind that there are people who don't agree with everything I say or do; Anon clearly has problems responding in a mature rational way.

I am always pleased to receive your comments - if you have an e-mail address I always try to reply personally but please Anon don't bother here - any stupid Anon comment will be deleted (although I am intrigued that I am getting penis enlarging ads - does Anon even know that I am a little old lady?)

Have a good weekend everyone - I am hoping to squeeze in that elusive 9 miler and maybe get a little gardening done, but I'm guessing it will probably be just another weekend watching rugby in the pub (Wales play Scotland on Sunday) and ploughing through the mountain of paperwork my friend passed over to me this week.

No Monday Morning Moping for Me

2012-02-06T10:42:00.005Z

As I step out onto the pavement outside our garden gate and dawdle thoughtfully to the bus-stop (a good minute and half away), I often see two cyclists on the opposite side of the road. They cycle slowly against the flow of traffic (which I think might be be illegal) one on the pavement, the other on the road. The pavement cyclist is a school-boy, he is dressed in his uniform wearing a yellow hi-vis jacket over his blazer, a helmet perched on his head and knee pads, over his long school trousers; there is nothing really unusual about him (apart from the fact that he is on the pavement) but his travelling companion always makes my lips twitch. He is an older gentleman, in his late 60's I would guess, dressed in black shorts and t-shirt(whatever the weather), ordinary black socks and shoes, an orange hi-vis vest and a black beret. He cycles very slowly next to the boy shouting instructions and making exaggerated arm signals indicating which way he wants the child to turn. They cycle this way to the childs school every day - even the most slow witted child would know the route by now.

By the time they have trundled past I have reached what I call (to myself) the half-way house. Not because it is half-way to the bus-stop (although that is also true) but because it is inhabited by a group of people who live forever in that half-way world, somewhere between sanity and insanity. There are always a few of them gathered on the little forecourt outside the house smoking. One of them stands a little way apart from the others, holding conversations with people that nobody else can see. The only woman in the group finds something to greet me with, a question about an item of clothing or a comment about my hair. She is always dressed in her nightclothes and slippers, often she has been in such a hurry to get out for her first gasper of the day she has forgotten to put on any underwear. Another of the group tries to bum ciggies from passer-bys, one sits on the little wall smoking and drinking coffee, watching the world scurry past.

When I get to the bus-stop I see my two Welsh friends, that I watch the rugby with, dashing off to the tube station. We wave a greeting, sometimes (if one of them has struck lucky) there is a young lady in tow (then I pretend not to see them) more often they are on their own. This morning, despite the freezing fog, we waved a little more heartily ... yesterday afternoons game still being replayed in slow motion in our minds.

February View (Two)

2012-02-05T18:15:00.006Z

Maybe I should have waited a couple of days before posting the February bedroom window view ...

The scape looks very pretty but it's starting to thaw now. Tomorrow it will be nice and gray and slushy.

There really was no hope of me getting over to Homebase to buy the manure I wanted.
(Can you spot the watering can?)

My beans and garlic are buried somewhere beneath this lot of white stuff. I reckon at least 5 or 6 inches fell here last night ...

... that's based on the fact that the wheel barrow was empty but now it is full.

I went running this morning - not the 9 miler I had planned more like a 2.5 miler. It was very heavy going because of the snow - my legs feel like lead!

And then because I really couldn't do anything in the garden I consoled myself with a trip to The Elephant to watch the best match of the weekend, Ireland vs Wales. Wales won by kicking a penalty in the final 30 seconds of the match - Cymru Am Byth! (I have a fiver riding on this tornament)

January Book Review

2012-02-05T10:12:00.013Z

The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald
I first read this book way back in my teens, after seeing the film with Mia Farrow and Robert Redford. Back then posters of Robert Redford adorned my bedroom walls and all I could think of as I read it was his role and how wonderful it would be to be Daisy; this time I think I have got over my school girl crush and actually appreciated the writing! The book is set in New York during the roaring twenties - it tells the tale of one Jay Gatsby, a wealthy young man with a mysterious background - he throws hugely extravagant parties in the hope of attracting a woman he once loved, Daisy Bucanhan. Daisy is now married to a wealthy polo-playing braggart, Tom, and has a daughter; the story is told through the eyes of Gatsbys nextdoor neighbour Nick Carraway (who by coincidence is also Daisys cousin). Fitzgerald has captured the time and class of people in this story beautifully. I disliked every character in the book - particularily the Bucanhans - but loved the actual story. The most moving part of the story is the end, when we finally get to meet Gatsbys father. I would highly recommend book.

The Midnight Fugue by Reginald Hill
My friend Jackie posted me this book after I mentioned to her that I had never read any of his books. Its a very light entertaining cop novel (Daziel and Pascoe). The story is set in Yorkshire, a classic tale of corruption and murder which the unlikely duo predictably crack in no time. I recommend to anyone who enjoys a good car chase!

Milligan and Murphy by Jim Murdoch
A fellow blogger, Dave King, alerted me to this book. His review is so much better than anything I write! The book is an amusing collection of conversations and happenings between two brothers (in their late thirties still living at home) who suddenly decide it's time to do something with their lives. I loved the dialogue, the odd characters the meet en route and the gentle pace of the book - a pleasing change from anything I have read for a long time. Jim is also a blogger of renoun, many of you have probably seen his comments on their own blogs!

Thank you all

2012-02-04T20:50:00.008Z

I just wanted to thank you all for your concern after I took that undignified tumble last week.

As you can see the swelling has gone down but the bruise has extended fairly colourfully and impressively ... the dark mark on my cheek is actually a dimple, and not a deeper purple spot. Please note the hair is mussed up because I wanted to show the full extent of the bruise and not just because I am too lazy to brush it.

I chalked up a good 5 mile run this morning in an attempt to punish the pavement - it's been snowing this evening (and still is) so I'm still not sure if I dare risk the 9 miles I had planned for tomorrow morning.

I spent the afternoon over in The Elephant, drinking elderflower cordial with a few Welsh chums who live near me - the Six Nations Championships started this afternoon - Wales are playing Ireland tomorrow ... in Dublin ... Wales knocked Ireland out of the World Cup a couple of months ago so this is being seen as a grudge match, no prisoners will be taken.

I doubt if I'll be able to take my wheelbarrow around to Homebase (here's the back of it taken from my bedroom window) to collect 8 bags of farmyard manure. Oh well there's always next weekend ...

February view

2012-02-01T08:12:00.006Z

1st February 2012

My new camera zooms in a little closer than the old one so you can see I have been working down there last month (in between brawling with pavements). For those of you out there who know about vegetable gardening - on the right (the bed that was covered with fleece in January) you can see my garlic pushing through and those green things in rows are my broad beans - now a decent height, on 1st January they were barely poking through. I am amazed by how much they have grown this month.

Big excitement for me - all my seed potatoes have arrived and this weekend I will lay them all out for chitting. Tomato seeds which I planted have sprouted up and will be transferred to pots this weekend and chilli seeds and aubergines will be sown and then placed in the a warm light spot in my home-made propogator (photos on Sunday) ...

Although it is only the beginning of February there is so much to do.

1st January 2012

Have A Go Hero Wrestles With The Pavement.

2012-01-29T20:00:00.006Z

Yesterday I fell ... I don't remember falling - just finding myself sprawled out on the pavement. At first I thought I was being mugged but I was quite alone, as I lay there I ran my tongue over my teeth, they were all there, phew! I touched my nose tentatively, it hurt but I knew it wasn't broken. I slowly pushed myself back up onto my knees and then stood up and wobbled home.

When I woke up this morning this is what I looked like. During the course of the day the bruising has spread so that by tomorrow I will look like a panda.
"Ouch - you look terrible." my friend said when I sent him the photo "Does it hurt much?"
"Only when I smile ..."

Serves me right for being so smug about smiling the other day.

Count down to Liverpool?

2012-01-27T22:21:00.003Z

I have just been organising my accomodation for the Livepool Marathon - I know its not until October but I wanted to make sure that my favourite Aunt, who lives about a two hour drive from Liverpool, would be around that weekend.

And then because I was thinking about it I checked into the website and watched the route video. I'm sure you will guess that I will be running at much slower pace but check this out!

I've another busy weekend; a long steady run in the morning, a 12 course Chinese banquet (with all my old Hong Kong friends) tomorrow lunchtime (celebrating Chinese New Year) ... then a Book Reading event in the evening. Another long run on Sunday morning followed by a couple hours of garden maintenance. And somewhere inbetween washing, ironing, house-work and a trip to the supermarket.

Where ever you are, enjoy yours too.

Go on Smile ... or at least just give it a try

2012-01-26T09:40:00.008Z

Once upon a time, in that far away place where we are forever young, I had a boyfriend. Actually a field full but, for the sake of this tale, we are focusing on one in particular.

He was what my mother described as 'Sturdy' which I took to mean not skinny, a year or so older than me, he had left school and was on his gap year when I first started going out with him. I thought he was so sophisticated ... he could blow smoke rings, he had political opinions, he scorned marriage and breeding, he was going to University to study Accountancy. I was young enough and impressionable enough to be smitten - we became inseparable, spending a lot of time in each others homes - so we got to know each others parents quite well.

We were at a function at his parents home once, we had sneaked away to steal a kiss and a cuddle when we heard his mother and a friend coming towards us. We pressed ourselves behind a pillar willing them to move on,
"Is that your sons girlfriend?" The friend asked, before adding "She's a pretty little thing isn't she?" I blushed demurely as he lovingly held me close. I strained to hear how my friends mother would respond.
"Yes." She said disapprovingly "She's quite the prettiest girlfriend he has ever had." I blushed again, lowering my eyes shyly, "But" she continued "You know looks aren't everything." My friend pressed my head against his shoulder trying, in vain, to block my ears. "Between you and me she is one of those girls that giggles a lot - always laughing at something or other. It drives me mad."
I was puzzled. What was wrong with laughing? I struggled out of my boyfriends embrace as she continued to confide in the other woman.
"My son is quite smitten with her, which is very worrying. I mean I don't want him to do anything foolish and end up having to marry her. Of course it would be brilliant for her - he's so obviously going places. I just don't want him to throw away a brilliant future, tied to such an intellectual lightweight ..."

I had heard enough, I rushed away blinking back tears. Afterwards I tried to analyse everything she had said, marriage to her darling boy had never entered my head and when I took a long hard look at him, through the fug of impressive smoke rings, I saw a young man being groomed to live a life his mother had mapped out for him. Everyone in his family deferred to her before making any decision - every detail of their lives were micro-managed by her; they were totally devoid of spontaneity. Oh and the intellectual light weight bit? I concede that I am no genius but that was harsh! I stopped seeing her son shortly after that party.

We did start seeing each other again a couple of months later but the heat of the romance had died, I had moved on, I was no longer impressed by smoke rings. We parted friends - I'm sure his mother disapproved but by then I realised that I didn't care.

The point of this story is that the other day through a mutual friend we stumbled across each other again. We exchanged details and photos of the last 30 years. He didn't become an Accountant but he did end up working in a Bank. He hasn't set the world on fire but he has led a very comfortable life, living in a nice middle-class house, in a nice middle-class area, with 3 nice middle-class kids. He showed me lots of photographs of things that are important to him, his house, his car, he and his wife on nice middle-class holidays. His mother must be so proud, because I really scrutinised the photographs and I didn't spot a single smile in any of them.

I wanted to say "Oh very nice, but have you just had a blazing row in this photograph? And this one? Oh and this one here?" My life has hardly been a bed of roses - far from it, but heck I think I know how to enjoy myself. I hope that I never appear smug or self satisfied but I decided a long time ago that there were enough mardy-faced buggers out there - laughter and smiles are contagious, honestly they never go unanswered. Go on smile ... or at least give it a try it ...

Which reminds me - I have been most remiss by not publicly thanking my blogger friend Colleen for awarding me with this:

Colleen is a talented young Canadian lady living in Norway with her Norwegian husband and gorgeous little boy William. Her posts are always very thought provoking.

I admit that I always marvel that anyone reads my blog - finds what I burble about remotely interesting but I am grateful. I am not good at passing awards on because I enjoy everyone I follow so please feel free to take it for yourselves.

Tallest to Smallest

2012-01-25T07:31:00.008Z

Yesterday my first-born child turned twenty-seven. Twenty-seven (!) can you believe it? This means that I have now been a mother for over half of my life. OMG.

I wish I had great pearls of wisdom to pass on to all those about to embark upon parenthood. I wish I could say what a brilliant mother I must have been, because look how well they turned out. That is a fluke because my style of parenting leans more towards the 'Survival Of The Fittest' theory.

My kids went to a playgroup where they played - neither could read or write when they started school, but they knew how tadpoles became frogs because we caught frog spawn and watched them develop.

Once they started school I was hopeless at enforcing a good homework regime; I believed it was far more important for them to be outside playing with their chums than sitting indoors studying or playing computer games (actually it was just easier - and they got tired out so they slept well), "Why insist on them studying more?" I asked - that's what the classrooms are for.

Teens were difficult, but no better or worse than any other family (I'm guessing) as they flexed their imaginery muscles, seeing how far they could push ever-changing boundaries. It seemed as if I was always fending off telephone calls from school teachers threatening to fail them if they didn't have projects in on time. "We work better under pressure" they claimed when I challenged their inability to manage their time better.

They both went to university and they both graduated but that was entirely their own doing. They both cause me less pain now than they did 10 years ago but that doesn't mean that it is always plain sailing.

Anyway heres to Birthday Boy (a day late) - may the next 27 years be as wonderful as the first !?!

Which reminds me, how did he go from being so small to this?

And how did I go from being the tallest ...

... to the smallest?

Magpie #101: Nightmares

2012-01-22T21:10:00.008Z

I dreamed I was floating on a fluffy cloud, looking down on a quilt of mismatched fields, all differing shades of green. I leaned further forward, trying to catch a glimpse of my grandmothers house and then with a sudden shock realised I had stretched too far. I tried to scramble back onto the cloud but there was nothing for my hands to clutch onto ... I began to fall ...

... waking with a sudden start, I saw immediately that I was alone, the passage light was still glowing. He wasn't home yet. Then I heard the lift shuddering to a stop on our floor, I guessed that the sound of it operating must have been what had woken me.

In that moment of wakefulness a playful jape suddenly occurred. I slipped silently and quickly from the bed to a position behind the front door. Suppressing a childish giggle I pictured how surprised he would be, when tiptoeing into the flat in an attempt not to waken me, I would jump from my hidy hole.

The key turned in the lock and as the door inched open I prepared to leap ... and then I heard another voice. He was bringing someone home with him and I, in my eagerness and not anticipating a guest, had failed to cover up ...

Click here for more enchanting tales prompted by Tess Kincaids Magpie.

The New Look

2012-01-22T14:26:00.007Z

Thank you all for your comments on the new layout of my blog ... I just needed a change!

A few of you have asked about the new banner - a couple of years ago I ran the Brighton Marathon and a friend of mine placed this banner on a fence near the twenty mile marker. As I rounded the corner, and saw this, I almost burst into tears. It was just the uplift that I needed at that point, as others around me started hitting that invisible "Wall" I just kept on going; for those who have heard of Fat Boy Slim it was as I saw this sign that I overtook him for the last time (we had been swapping places for about 5 miles); he couldn't see me for dust after this (poetic license of course). Anyway the photograph is there to remind me that almost everything is possible.

And for those of you who want to see the new haircut here it is - in all it's glory ... the slightly deranged look on my face is not normal ... I was just waiting such a long, long time for my little sister to press the button on my new camera, that I think she caught me just as I was about to sit down (or stand up, can't remember which).

Phew

2012-01-20T12:04:00.005Z

This week I have taken giant steps in my decision making process ...

... I was asked to put my enrolment in the course I planned to do on hold - until I had been interviewed by our HR lady at work. I had the interview on Wednesday, she was very encouraging, I got lots of sound and practical advice - plus a thumbs up for sponsorship. Which is great because the main course was going to cost me more than I can afford - so I have a BIG smiling face now.

... I have also signed up for my third marathon. It's the Liverpool Marathon in October this year. 9 months to train for it, which is good. I am currently running 3 - 4 times a week and need a big goal to get me running with a purpose again. You never know by October I may even be able to pour myself back into my stunning purple frock.

... and the other decision I had to make - well that's all in hand too, and practically taking care of itself.

I am off to my Brother-in-Laws 50th Birthday Party this weekend - armed with my new camera (whoa) so lots of photos will be taken ... new haircut etc; I will be the one going blue in the face as I try (in vain) to suck my stomach in! These photos will also serve as the "BEFORE My Training Begins In Earnest Photographs" - with regular updates between now and Sunday, 14th October there should be a noticeable difference!

Have a good weekend everyone.

Magpie Tales #100: Stoneyfaced

2012-01-19T12:24:00.006Z

My mother stood a proud 5ft 1in tall, weighing in at 155lbs (11.1 stone or 70kgs) we reckoned she could pack a fairly hefty clout if one were required; we didn't test her. There was no need. Her Medusa-gaze could halt a charging rhino.

My mother was no rank amateur - she didn't narrow her eyes to tiny slits and pout her lips - that would have made her look like a sulking child. No-one is afraid of a sulking child.

As we pushed at the boundary between boisterous and bad behaviour a faint clearing of her throat would alert one of us; we would turn to face her. Once she had our attention my Mother would expertly empty her face of all expression, her mouth clamping into a thin, straight line. In horror we would be drawn to look upwards, towards her eyes.

And in those piercing grey-blue eyes we would find a singular glacial coolness. Not a flicker of warmth or humour would be permitted to show, for even a flicker would nullify the effect.

In that icy hypnotic stare we would find ourselves drowning in fathoms of disapproval. Bony fingers would reach out, beckoning us to step forward to within arms reach.

Fighting the urge to make that fatal step our feet would turn to stone, and then slowly, inch by inch, the rest of our small bodies would become immobilised.

Bad behaviour ceased. Mission accomplished my mother would turn and continue doing what ever it was we had so rudely interrupted.

Actually she wasn't that bad but why let the facts ruin a good story? Click here for more tales celebrating Tess Kincaids 100th Magpie.

Facebook You're A Life Saver!

2012-01-18T09:54:00.003Z

It's not often I say something so positive about Facebook but last night ...

... I bounded up the stairs in my flat and rushed straight into the kitchen to switch the heating on. Then I fed the poor half starved cat, took off my coat, went back into the kitchen to start preparing dinner.

Oh but what was this? Things left in the sink from breakfast time? I switched on the tap, letting the water run a while to warm up. But it didn't - in fact it just gushed out getting colder and colder, and then I noticed the heating had not actually gone on.

So I retraced my steps, coat was hanging up, half-starved cat still crouched over her food bowl, boiler switched on but a light flashing with a number F.22.

Calmly, sensibly, and rationally I reached for The Manuel. I read The Manuel. I read, but failed to grasp the meaning of the words "Water pressure too low to activate heating system."

A moment of sheer panic and then calm returned ... I would phone My Knight In Shining Armour. The one who came to my rescue last year when I had a leak under the sink. He would know what to do. He did know exactly what to do, he talked at me about pipes and valves and taps (whilst also giving directions to a taxi driver - sadly failing to make any sense to either of us) I was doomed.

I looked up on-line how to solve the problem and for a mere £22 the Expert would answer my question. I logged off and went back into the kitchen to stare once more at the boiler. Nothing sprung out at me.

So I then did what everyone does nowadays - I sat back down in front of my computer and posted my dilemma onto Facebook. Sympathy from friends far and near was what I needed.

My son returned home from work stared at the boiler shook his head (that boy is as useful as tits on a bull in times of mechanical crisis) and then pulled on an extra sweater. We ate our dinner wrapped up, wondering how much the plumber would cost, when he would be able to fit us in.

I got ready for bed but before going rang a girlfriend who knows all about things mechanical (having kept out of the clutches of men for 5 years she has learned stuff). She repeated almost exactly what My KISA said but was less technical - bits of rubber that look like bicycle pumps etc. I went back into the kitchen and stared at the boiler, her words meant nothing to me, she was unsympathetic.

Defeated I went to shut down the computer and spotted stacks of replies on Facebook ... oh goodie caring friends.

I checked the messages that had poured in, sympathy, advice (all that talk about valves and taps and pipes again) and there it was ... a girlfriend who had had exactly the same problem last week and she knew how to fix it! Within seconds my phone was ringing, her e-mails with photo attachments were dispatched and a minute later the problem was solved. Wow!

You see when those other folks kept repeating "Look at the pipes leading out of the boiler" etc and I kept scratching my head wondering what pipes and taps and valves, they had omitted to say "Take the panel away from the front of the boiler and then look at the pipes."

I still have a lot to learn about this independant woman stuff!

Cold and Frosty here in London

2012-01-17T10:52:00.004Z

I had been lulled into weather complacency. It was a mild Christmas Day, on New Years Day I was working in the garden with a T-shirt on; the following week I also put in an hours graft but in a long sleeved rugby jersey; even this Sunday I only pulled a sweater on after the light started to fade ...

... now it is freezing. The ground is white, it crunches underfoot, the glass in the bus shelter is frosted over. Motorists are struggling to open their car doors this morning, they run the engine for a while before climbing in. Everyone is bundled up against the elements, furry boots, hats, gloves, scarves, thick coats, faces blanched and pinched ...

... me? I am running with a smile on my face, well more of a deranged laugh really.

Guess who decided that what she needed to help move her Resolutions forward was a new look? Guess who boldly went out on Saturday and said to her hairdresser "I want it really short this time?"

On the plus side I feel quite light-headed now; light-headed as oppose to empty-headed.

Photos next week ... this week I cracked the lens on my old camera ... new camera in transit.

New Years Resolutions 2012

2012-01-16T11:21:00.006Z

OK its mid-January, abit late to be making my New Years Resolutions ... or is it?

Why do we make resolutions? Are we dissatisfied with who we are? Are we striving for a perfection that is impossible to acieve and maintain? Cursed forever to be a failure in our own eyes? This year my resolutions are aimed at not only being self-improving but achievable!

Apparently over half of us break our resolutions in the first week of January so perhaps putting off making them until the second week means I'll have a better chance of keeping them. Not convinced? Well ... the theory worked for me.

I am going to be 54 years old this year (sooner rather than later in the year), I probably started making resolutions when I was about 7 years old - always 10 points. 10 always seemed such a convenient number - it meant I could count them off on my fingers. If we write down our Resolutions we are more motivated to keep them (or so I have been told). Its there in black and white reminding us ... its gone from being just a thought to a declaration.

So here goes ... my New Years Resolutions 2012.

1. Don't bite my nails: This is an old favourite and always topped the early lists. I stopped biting my nails in my teens, it was a really disgusting habit, I keep it there at the top though just in case I get tempted to start again, and to remind myself that that I can do something if I really put my mind to it.

2. Loose weight: When you stand a mere 4ft 10in tall every extra lb counts, and last year I gained 16 of them. And I don't need to be told "Oh you look soooooo much happier now that you resemble the shape of a beach ball." That's what other porkers tell me to make them feel good about themselves, or skinny people who are secretly gloating at the unslightly blubber that has drifted and settled on what I once called a waistline.

3. Attempt to be as self-sufficient as possible: When one of your main pleasures in life is eating good food you become concerned about food sources. Its one of those "inevitable" things. I have a small patch of garden and this year I am going to attempt to grow as much as possible in it.

4. Don't smoke or take drugs: Yes this is another regular. Here's a confession - I have never done either, except a couple of puffs on a fag, standing around a toilet basin with about 6 other girls all sucking on the same dog-end during breaks at school. I'm sure I must have looked pretty damn cool trying not to throw up as the smoke burned my lungs and escaped down my nostrils, but sometimes - even now - I wonder what it must be like to enjoy smoking.

5. Get fit again: This isn't just a copy of number 2! Last year I spent too many hours sitting around stuffing food, hamster-like, into my bulging cheeks and not enough time pounding pavements. I still have 3 more marathons to run until I can tick that off my To Do List!

6. Finish all on-going projects: Every year this one raises its ugly head - so I actually made this one easier by throwing out a heap of unfinished projects which dated back over four years. All those more recent ones ... this is your year!

7. Start a professioanl qualification: Oh no can you believe this one? It has slowly dawned upon me that I may NEVER be able to retire. When I first started working I expected to collect my gold watch at 60 ... a couple of years ago, in the name of equality, our Government raised womens retirement age to match those of a mans (you can't argue with that one girls!) at the stroke of a pen another 5 years of employment was added. Last year the Government revised those figures, now my target is 66. Over the next few years that is bound to change again. To prevent death by boredom long before my shelf life is up I need to upgrade my current skills level. I am off to enrol tomorrow - seriously I have an appointment tomorrow morning.

8. Be tidier and more ruthless: I have always been a hoarder, you never know when those buttons or yogurt containers may come in handy right? Discreet piles of 'stuff' lurk in every nock and cranny ... not anymore. This year is the start of my minimalist year. The Charity Shops of North Finchley will be barring their doors to me by the end of 2012.

9. Don't get lured into any strange religious sects: I figured this is another of those that I might be able to keep.

10. Keep out of the clutches of men: My personal favourite - thank you Aunt Derry.
"If you can keep out of their clutches for 5 years, then I'd say you'll be safely cured of ever wanting to get back into marriage again. All that cooking, washing, ironing, cleaning and putting up with their BEHAVIOUR. Of course that isn't to say you shouldn't enjoy harmless flirtations and the like."

The Mag #98: Glendaloch

2012-01-02T19:06:00.009Z

This weeks picture reminded me of a recent trip I made to Ireland ...

It was a beautiful crisp, clear autumn morning; the sun played on the windscreen of the car, warming me so effectively that I peeled off my outer layers - folding them neatly in a bundle next to me, on the backseat, next to the picnic basket.

We arrived at the Loch, parked - still in the warm sunshine and started our gentle stroll, nothing too vigorous, just enough to work up an appetite. We crossed over a rickety wooden bridge, I made a mental note to watch out for the trolls living under it, then quickened my step to try and match those of my companions. Once we were over the bridge I noticed the grass on this, the unsunny side of the lake, was white with frost and crunched noisily under our feet. A heavy cold mist swallowed up the family walking in front of us, I shivered, as I listened to the echoes of the children as they called out to each other.

Too proud to ask how long the walk would be, too foolish to ask if I could run back to fetch my heavy coat, too slow to keep up with the purposeful strides of the youngsters I trailed behind pretending to be examining the non-exsistant flora everytime they stopped, waiting for me to catch up.

We reached the end of the first loch but the others, engrossed in their conversation didn't appear to notice, they ploughed on around the second - I lagged behind. As we completed the walk around the second loch they remembered the remains of an old mining village that they were sure I would want to see, of course I said I would. I followed at the brisk pace they set for a couple more miles, until we came to a pile of old stones that had once been a miners cottage. We grouped together fascinationed by a piece of long abandoned, rusting equipment and then turned towards the path that would eventually lead us back to the sunny side, the car, the picnic - how foolish of me not to have stuffed a sandwich into my cardigan pocket, I would have murdered for a mug of hot chocolate.

Determined not to get left behind on this the homeward stretch, I broke into a trot but still the others remained tantalisingly ahead of me, standing patiently every half mile for me to almost reach them. Is this what it's like to get old? I wondered, remembering the days when it had been me in the lead waiting ungraciously for the slower ones.

Glendaloch, County Wicklow, Eire - November 2011.

Click here for more Magpie Tales.

Decisions???

2012-01-01T15:28:00.008Z

Last year Rob - the Head Gardener - took the same photograph on the same day each month, to show the changing seasons; on the day he posted the last photograph he challenged others to do the same. I live in North Finchley, London and this is the view from my bedroom window. I share this tiny patch with my downstairs neighbours; they have the front half of the garden, crowded with swings, trampoline and childrens toys ... mine is the back part. Crowded with the toys of a messy-haired middle-aged lady. The apple tree is the dividing line - if it wasn't I would have shaken those damn rotting apples off the branches long before now.

I've been away from Blogsville - I wish I could say my absense has been because I have been busy having a raucous time over Christmas ... but thats not true.

I've been away from Blogsville because I have been pondering an important decision that has to be made - needless to say it remains unmade and I'll probably do what I always do, which is put it off until its almost too late.

In order to avoid making the 'Big Decision' I have spent the last week drawing little pictures of my garden and making notes about which vegetables I am going to grow this year; I have revised my running schedule; I finished knitting the jumper that I started this time last year and started the next one (with wool purchased in last years sale); I have been up into the loft and started the monumental task of sorting through things that were shoved up there the week we arrived in this flat almost two years ago; I have been to Homebase and looked at bathroom fittings; I have sorted through my wardrobe and taken a heap of things to the charity shop; I have ruthlessly thrown out projects that I have not even looked at for over 4 years - knowing now they will never be completed.

Yesterday, the last day of the old year, I took my wheelbarrow around to Homebase and made three journeys there and back with bags of compost. I didn't go out last night - just went to bed early with a new book and fell asleep long before midnight. I didn't miss the New Year though - a text message reminding me about the need to make my decision woke me long before then. Then I lay awake for another hour pretending to be pre-occupied with any one of the many other things that I have been doing all week.

My son went out with a shed load of friends last night - I think they all must have returned here with him, this morning every possible space was filled with a prostrate body ... I disappeared for a run, which wasn't as long as I wanted it to be because I was still stiff from yesterdays trips to and from Homebase. Then I went into the garden to lose myself.

I moved the compost bin the other day so that I could build a new vegetable bed in its old spot. Now the four beds on the left have been topped up, the middle five beds topped up and five new beds in front of the compost bin on the right have almost been built. (Check out the top picture taken before I went down there - see I was quite busy!)

The Rice Winnower needs a new protective coat

I can't believe how long the herbs have gone on this year ...

... Hope you all had a great New Year - I'll spend the evening catching-up with your posts, and avoid making any decisions until tomorrow.

December Book Review

2011-12-31T10:23:00.007Z

Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner

This was our Book Club book of the month - and it was such an easy going book that I finished it in just a couple of sittings. The heroine is an author of romantic novels and is sent away by her friends to recover, after doing something dreadful, to a hotel in Switzerland (hey friends I've done some pretty dreadful things this year - please any hotel will do). We don't learn what the terrible thing she has done is until about half way through the book - I loved that chapter the most. She suddenly showed so much spirit! There are only a few characters in the book, all the women I liked instinctively - even the ones I knew I would hate if I ever met them - but the men are all a little smug and self-centered. The book is short and has a tidy, almost predictable ending. I would recommend it to anyone for an enjoyable light read.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

This had been sitting on my bookshelf for a while ... waiting to be read. I read A Thousand Splendid Suns earlier in the year so knew what to expect. I can't say I enjoyed the book - I found it quite a compelling read though. The story of a young boys life in Kabul, in the 1970s and 1980s is told by the boy himself - I can't say at any point that I liked this character or sympathised with him. He was a selfish child - but his childhood comes to an abrupt and violent end when he witnesses his best friend being abused. The violence in the book is quite disturbing, but I found one of the central characters - a half-German to be totally unbelievable. Not that I don't think people like him exsist and thrive, I just found him unconvincing. The hero and his father escape from Afghanistan and move to America but years later he is drawn back there and that part of the story I found to be the most fanciful. Kabul under the Taliban must have been a vile place, of that I have no doubt, but the scenerio that developed here wanders into the realms of fantasy and I struggled to get through these chapters. The ending though is quite satisfying - it doesn't finish on a happy fairytale note and I found that much more realistic.

Mytahgo Wood by Robert Holdstock
A friend from the Sci-Fi Book Club recommended this one. I read it instead of the one the group choose because although I bought it I can't bring myself to read World War Z (a book about the aftermath of the zombie wars) - I'm not sure how I'll break the news to the group, maybe I'll opt for Orienteering that night. Mythago Wood is an enchanted wood which is inhabited by mythical folk. Robin Hood etc ... except that they are all much darker and more dangerous and they like killing each other. The story unfolds through the eyes of Steve, just back from World War II, who finds his mysterious mad father has died in his absense and his older brother - Christian has gone ever so-slightly bonkers and runs off to live in the enchanted wood. Steve falls in lust with an absolutley stunningly beautiful (naturally) young mythago who emerges from the woods - his demented older brother comes back to the family home (on the edge of the woods) and abducts her ... the chase is on. It was a predictable book but quite well written - I think I read it before though, when I was 10 years old and it was called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

And thats it - my reads for 2011! Happy New Year everyone.

Magpie #96: The Beard

2011-12-19T10:50:00.009Z

I looked at this late last night and thought it was a beard ... and then Ellen pointed out that it was a shadow - bang went my story about a friend acting in a blue movie disguising himself with a stick on moustache ...

He was smiling as he approached, yes smiling. He had kept me waiting for almost three hours and he smiled, his arms outstretched reaching to gather me into a bear hug embrace.

I crossed my arms deliberately over my chest, effectively shutting him out; then I smiled back, more of a grimace really, to put him off his guard. I was pleased that I had remembered to wear my sunglasses, the anger smouldering in my eyes couldn't easily be detected.

"Hello" he laughed, recovering quickly from my physical rebuff he was leaning in to kiss me.

No apology, no excuse. Beneath the surface my quiet rage started to bubble. With practised perfect timing I turned my head, he fell forward, his lips smacking thin air.

"You're angry." He stated, ruffling my hair as if I were a petulant child. His gesture, my posturing, all suddenly seemed ridiculous. "Take those sunglasses off, it's rude to wear sunglasses when you need to look someone in the eye."

I slipped the glasses to the top of my head and stared stonily up at him.

He took a step back, laughed again "Whao - you're very angry; I guess I should have phoned but in all honesty," his hands were outstretched showing the world what an honest, open, up front kind of man he was. "By the time I looked at my watch and realised I was going to be late it was already too late to phone." I continued to stare at him. I knew my voice would sound whiny and pathetic so I remained silent.

"Look don't be annoyed, I'm here now." His voice was getting a little louder, a tiny, very unattractive plead had crept in. I felt the pleasure and power of that pleading surge through me, and then the shame that I was enjoying making him squirm. I pursed my lips, shrugged and pulled my sunglasses back down. The inner self that I had just glimpsed disgusted me, I immediately lost the desire to make him feel uncomfortable or teach him that I was not to be messed with. In those brief moments I had seen how he would always handle any disagreement and how I would in turn react. I took a deep breathe, and sighed.

"Do you want me to stay?" He teased, sensing my anger drain away. But he had misinterpreted my sigh, he was overplaying his hand; with his teasing threat he was attempting to make me apologise to him for being annoyed that he was late. I nodded grimly - very clever, but not clever enough. In a flash I realised I didn't want to play this game anymore, it bored me.

"No." I smiled at him, "I don't think so." And then I turned and walked away.

The blue movie story was much funnier!

For more responses to Tess Kincaid's prompt click here.

Decorations continued ...

2011-12-18T16:11:00.007Z

Busy, busy week. Office Christmas Party on Wednesday evening - we went to Gordon Ramseys new restaurant, The Bread Kitchen. It was all a little chaotic, the staff on the desk didn't know who we were, where we were sitting and directed us all to different parts of the extremely busy three-level restaurant. Eventually someone located someone who knew how to read the booking list and after some sneaky seat saving, shuffling and squeezing we all managed to be sitting with our preferred groups. We had been sent the menu on Monday and after deliberating between the mutton pie and collar of pork for two days we were presented with an entirely different menu. Grrr. I was a little disappointed - maybe I was just expecting too much, the company was good though and that was what made the evening. After the restaurant we retired to a nightclub but I didn't stay long there - loud music is not my scene.

On Friday I attended the Christmas function of the Hong Kong group I belong to. A much smaller gathering than usual one, due to illness and people being away but it was a very pleasant afternoon - an eleven course Chinese meal. I sat with two old friends and managed to smudge my make-up, they made me laugh so much I was crying. "Who is that noisy woman?" I could sense some people wanting to ask. Later we adjourned to a pub - there was a power-cut but the beer was still being pumped so we took root.

Last week I posted a picture of my Christmas tree ...

... all week I have been mulling over how to decorate it. I know, I know it was almost perfect as it was but I just felt it had to have something. I thought I might have some tiny bells in my "Bits & Bobs" tin but they were too tiny (I have an idea what I'm going to do with them - but it can wait until next year). Digging around I found a pipe cleaner, two little purple pom-poms, some lace and purple seed beads. Its amazing what a slightly deranged middle-aged woman can come up with on the Sunday before Christmas

The hair is a little messy and it is a full week earlier than I usually decorate but I couldn't bare to put her away once she was finished.

And yes the wine rack has been replenished.

Christmas Decorations

2011-12-13T16:29:00.007Z

I opened my FaceBook page on Sunday and what did I see? Loads of my buddies posting photos of their beautifully decorated Christmas trees!

"Oh no," I thought "when did this become a competition?" And then "Why so early?"

When we were kids we always decorated our home on 17th December. Always. It is my sisters birthday that day and as a birthday treat she always got to put something special on the tree. Always. No-one begrudged her that - poor thing being born so close to Christmas she lost out a little with the focus being on Christmas and not her. Always.

It didn't occur to me until later that with four kids galloping about Mum wanted to have the decorations up for as short a period as she could get away with - I've inherited that from her (not the four kids galloping around, the other bit).

We didn't have a December birthday in our home and Sean was never really very interested so I got to make up the rules ... decorations go up on Christmas Eve and come down on New Years Day. That's it.

In the past I have quite enjoyed making our decorations - so no fabulous glistening baubles on our trees, home-made pom-poms and pipe cleaner people have generally been the rule - and silly little things that caught my eye. My Christmas box is a mish-mash of uncoordinated trinkets.

We haven't had a tree for the last three years. Mealy-mouthed? Not really. The places we have been living in were too small and a tree would take up too much room and what the heck, yes perhaps we were being a little mealy-mouthed.

This year I have decided it's time to repent - not bowing to peer pressure, no, no perish the thought. I bought a tree and it is up! Not decorated yet, I will save that daunting task until Christmas Eve - between now and then I have to make something small enough not to overwhelm it ...

Musings: The Two Ts

2011-12-12T10:08:00.010Z

My maternal grandmother had two brothers, an older one Ted and a younger one Tom.

Tom was married to my grandfathers sister Doris, Aunty Dode (it was a small village) and they lived in the house next door to my grandparents. They had a son, Roger. Roger came somewhere in between my grandparents before the war and after the war family; he was a plump, precious, bespectacled only child - a sharp contrast to my grandmothers five robust children.

Tom spent his days working in his greenhouses or on his vegetable patch. He was a solid quiet man - my mother always said it was because he was a "deep thinker and had a terrible time during the war." Tom had been captured in North Africa and spent a year or more as a POW. Although he lived next door to Gran and they shared a garden and yard I don't think I ever said much more than "Hello Uncle Tom" to him (and I saw him almost every day), in reply Tom would nod and smile, sometimes he would say "How do?" back at me. He came into my Grans kitchen every evening, stood leaning against the door frame with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his overalls, and his flat cap pushed back off his forehead, laughing at other peoples jokes. Sometimes he actually came into the front room, then he would take his cap off and lean against the wall near the door, I don't remember ever seeing him sitting down in there either.

By trade Tom was a Stonemason, which meant he could build fancy stone walls and do the lettering on gravestones. He supplemented that income by selling his surplus produce on a market stall in Oswestry town centre every Wednesday and Saturday; actually it was Aunty Dode who worked on the stall and when she wasn't selling Toms onions and tomatoes she helped the lady who sold material. Sometimes she would get some off-cuts and bring them home for us girls to make clothes for our dolls ... but I digress, this is not a post about Aunty Dode.

One year we kids all got roped into taking part in a sponsored walk, the money we raised was for the Old Folks Home that Gran and Aunty Dode worked in. Tom refused to sponsor us "Those old people get enough," he laughed - but when we completed the walk he quietly put his hand in his pocket and slipped us some money for ourselves and put an extra fiver in the "Fireworks" kitty.

Tom died suddenly, without ceremony, in his mid-sixties. Here one day, gone the next.

Grans other brother Ted was the complete opposite to Tom; when Ted entered the room everyone knew he was there. In his tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, collar and neatly knotted tie, his hair slicked back, his neatly clipped moustache and his pipe, lit or unlit, sticking out of his mouth; he would sit at the table in the kitchen with a pack of cards in his hands, demanding people join in him a quick hand of this or that. If there were no adults in attendance then we kids would be dealt a hand and we would loudly play Cheat or Sevens.

People were drawn to Ted like magnets. As he greeted us he would pull our ears and a sweet or penny would suddenly appear, we would squeal with delight and beg him to do it again. He would grunt and tap us on the top of our heads, nothing would drop out from there "It's still empty in there!" he would declare.

During the War Ted had been posted to Manchester, working in Stores, offering comfort to the wives and sweethearts of the lads at the front. Ted finally saw action in the dying months of the War, "Hitler saw me coming and knew he was for it!"

Ted the smooth talker is on the right

Ted was also a Stonemason but I only remember him as the gatekeeper of the Cemetery "We live in the dead centre of town," he would joke "One in for bed and breakfast tomorrow" when there was to be a burial.

Ted was married to Aunty Nancy, a quiet mousy woman, they had three children; Tony and Diane were a similar age to Roger, the youngest (a late lamb) the same age as my sister (same name too). Ted came to my Grans house every Sunday evening but rarely bought any of his family with him. When I grew older I was shocked to discover that Ted had used the cover of going to visit Gran as an excuse to visit his lady friends. Everyone (except for Gran) thought that a great joke.

When Ted was in his late seventies he was told, by his doctor, to take more exercise. He joined the gym and went for a leisurely swim a couple of times a week, one day, as he was climbing out of the pool, he clutched his chest collapsed. I am told his last words were "I told that damn doctor exercise would kill me." The trouble is I can't imagine him saying it without that pipe sticking out of his mouth.

PS I have tried to upload the only photograph I have of Tom but Blogger was having none of it. He looked just like Ted only without the moustache.

Magpie Tales #95: Can't wave, I'm drowning.

2011-12-11T16:18:00.008Z

What an odd picture - my first thought was of games we played as children, taking turns to bury each other in the sand but then I saw something darker, the lines of Stevie Smiths poem came to mind. Sorry not a very cheerful thought.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

I bounced down the stairs, taking them two at a time, tripped and almost fell at the bottom. I laughed and swore gently as I tumbled into the kitchen, then suddenly stopped.

He was sitting alone at the kitchen table. His newspaper was folded neatly to one side, a mouthful of whiskey was left in the glass in front of him. The bottle, a new one that morning, was standing a few inches away. I made a mental note of how much was left, I couldn't stop myself making that quick calculation, I was surprised to see that it was more than half full. He often sat alone in the kitchen, reading his paper, listening to the radio, drinking, reliving his glory days, trying to work out when or where it had all changed, replaying that old record, what if he had done this instead of that.

He didn't bother to look up as I entered, just picked up his glass, twirled the contents around a little and then raised it purposfully to his lips for the last long swallow. He replaced the empty glass onto the table top and reached once more for the bottle.

"Are you alright?" I asked, something in his movements and silence worried me, he turned to face me for the first time and I realised he hadn't heard me enter the room, he looked away quickly but I had already seen that he had been crying.
"Just tired," he slurred. My glance moved instantly back to the bottle and I realised that this was not the same bottle that had been opened that morning. Was there any point in saying anything?

"Help me." He said simply. "I think I need help." I nodded and moved forwards to put my arms around him, to hold him, comfort him and reassure him that I was there to help. "I can't unscrew this damn top, it keeps slipping in my hand."

For more light-hearted thoughts click through to Magpie Tales and see other responses.

Magpie Tales #94: Choices

2011-12-05T09:23:00.010Z

I loved this weeks prompt - so much but at the same time so little is going on in the picture. Perfect!

Bamboozled by the selection of sandwiches on the notice board I stand momentarily indecisive, roast chicken and stuffing, chicken tikka salad, prawn cocktail, tomato basil and mozzarella? I lean forward and say, apologetically,

"I really just want a plain cheese and pickle."

"Sandwich or baguette" the serving girls asks, a hint of disdain in her voice.

"Sandwich, please." I smile.

"Brown or white?" she ignores my smile.

"Brown." I reply. She reaches for the brown bread, she is already bored with this transaction.

"Butter or margarine?"

"Butter." She pauses for a moment, her eyebrow slightly raised in one of those 'Are you sure fatty?' looks, her moments hesitation is there for me to change my mind to the perceived slim-line option. I continue smiling, pretending not to notice the kindness she is offering. Her knife hovers over the butter ... one last chance fatso ... and then with an almost imperceptible tut she plunges in.

"Tea or Coffee?" The next girl asks, as I take my bagged sandwich and place it on the tray in front of me.

"Tea, please."

"With or without milk?"

"No milk, thank you" I glance back at the sandwich maker hoping she has heard, look at me choosing the non-fatso option this time, but she is already busy with the next customer on the conveyor belt.

"Eating in or out?" The boy on the till asks.

I glance around at the heaving mass of humanity and spot one last tiny space on a table near the window.

"In." I say, paying for the privilege.

When the brief transaction is over I take my tray and shuffle towards the one last tiny space on the table near the window, strangers make room for me without bothering to look up. In joyful silence I unwrap my expertly prepared cheese and pickle on brown buttered bread and take a first tentative bite. Delicious. I take a sip from my cup of tea, smiling inwardly when I remember my first cup of the day, bought to me in a far less crowded room. And then I sit quietly ruminating on whether to wear my grey or purple dress to next weeks Christmas party, as blissfully unconcerned about the thoughts of my fellow diners as they are of mine.

For more takes on this weeks prompt click here and enjoy.

Imelda Marcos ...

2011-12-01T20:28:00.012Z

New Shoes, Two Shoes
Bright, shiny Blue shoes ...

Whenever I think of shoes a favourite story of my fathers springs to mind. He grew up in a small village, nestled in the Welsh mountains; back then if you were spotted wearing new shoes all the other children would jeer at you with cries of "New Shoes, New Shoes". On the first day he wore a new pair he would claimed he would feign sickness, but his mother (being a cold hearted monster) sent him off to school; then he would spend the rest of the day walking through puddles and mud, scuffing them until that brilliant new look was quite worn out - such was the dread of being taunted by his peers.

I'm not like that - I like new shoes! My problem is that being only 4ft 10in tall, and having perfectly proportioned feet, it is almost impossible (in this country) for me to walk into a shop and buy a pair of size 3 shoes (A British size 3 is the equivalent of a European size 35.5 and an American size 5.5). So I have to settle for shoes that fit rather than styles I like, which makes me feel sad sometimes (ahhhh) as I have outgrown T-bar sandals and Velcro fasteners.

The other day I spotted something in my Blog Feed - I looked more closely and clicked onto the post; I couldn't believe what I was seeing and left a comment. The comment was answered later that morning. I had boldly asked my blogger friend Pen where she had purchased her fab new shoes from and she had replied "Clarks, on-line". I have never bought a pair of shoes on-line, believing that you must try them on in the shop first, and Clarks are one of the worst stores for NEVER stocking size 3 but what had I to loose?

With a couple of clicks I was there staring at - Pennys Purple Pumps and they had them in size 3! I ordered them ... then peeped at other shoes ... and recklessly ordered another two pairs.

Heavens three pairs of shoes in one day! They arrived yesterday; as soon as I got in from work I tore open the package and tried them on. I felt just like Cinderella, they were all perfect; well almost perfect - there was a little pinching in the right ankle boot. Then I realised I hadn't removed all the packaging - once I had hooked it all out it was as if they had been made to measure. I paraded up and down, I twiseled and twirled around and around, on tip-toes, on flat toes, I jumped, I skipped, I hopped, I slouched, toes turned in, toes turned out, and then like Dorothy I clicked my heels ... oh look at me now I know where to buy size 3 shoes that fit perfectly ...

Thank you Penny!!

Our Song, a romantic gesture too far.

2011-12-01T09:31:00.013Z

We all know people who have an "Our Song"; couples to whom a certain song brings all sorts of shared memories. If they are at a party and Their Song gets played they leap quickly into each others arms ... are they worried that someone else might muscle in and spoil the special memory This Song holds for them? Sometimes it's a song with deep meaningful lyrics, other times it's just a song that was playing when they first met.

I am not one of those people. I have no Special Song, although there are songs that other people have dedicated to me ...

... that have failed to melt the ice that surrounds my stone cold heart.

When I was sixteen year I had a boyfriend who dedicated Lovers' Leap to me. Aghhh how romantic. It was all about a girl with beautiful BLUE eyes ... mine have always been decidedly brown.

In my early twenties I had an ill fated romance with a handsome but very clingy young man. It all ended rather unceremoniously one night in a pub, after I had told him I was staying at home and instead went out with another group of friends. I mean how was I to know he would still go out when I had already told him I wouldn't be there? Afterwards, he sent me a recording of Carly Simon singing You're So Vain. Perhaps it made him feel better, having the last word so to speak.

The other day, right out of the blue I received an e-mail with a YouTube link to The Man Who Can't be Moved. I'm hoping it's a joke, that this is his way of making light to the end of a summer fling. If it isn't a joke it could be a little embarrassing at the Christmas Party ...

... because if this sort of gesture didn't impress me when I was a flighty young snippet of sixteen it's not going to impress me almost four decades later.

November Book and Film Review

2011-11-30T09:49:00.013Z

Book Reveiw

Idlewild by Nick Sagan
November was my first month with the Sci-Fi Reading Group and this was the book we discussed.
It was quite an easy book to read; the story is about (yet) another virus which wipes out mankind, the solution this time round is to get 10 little kids (the guinea pigs), build up their immune system by growing them in pods, wiring them up to computers so that they live their lives in a virtual world and hope that by steering them down certain career paths they become genius scientists, find a cure for the virus and re-build the worlds population. Far-fetched? Well that's Sci-Fi for you...
I wasn't impressed - the characters were under developed, the story line weak and unoriginal. I don't think I'll be reading the sequel.

The Judges of the Secret Court by David Stacton
Another Reading Group choice. The book is about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Now my following statement may shock my American blog followers but I didn't know (other than he was shot in a theatre by John Wilkes Booth, who later died whilst being arrested) anything about this part of your history. I was disappointed that such an interesting topic was so boringly tackled - it reads like a school text book. I appreciate the author was not trying to present this as a work of fiction but a little dramatisation would have spiced it up. The trial only takes place in the last fifth of the book, the rest of the book is the long drawn out build-up to it. All things considered it is frightening to think how this trail was ever permitted to take place and where ever your sympathy lies it is obvious that there was a great mis-carriage of justice! It also struck a chord with my fellow Reading Group members - that business of keeping the political prisoners in solitary confinement with hoods over their heads, being tried by military courts? All that was missing were the orange jumpsuits.

The Wasp Factory by Iain Bains
A dark compelling read this book had me enthralled from the start. The novel is set in a remote part of Scotland and tells the horrific story of a bizarre family from the prospective of a singularly unpleasant and twisted youngster. Just when you think the story cannot get any worse ... it does.
Try it, but not if you are in the least bit squeamish!

Film Review

The Help starring Viola Davis, Bryce Dallas Howard, Octavia Spencer, Emma Stone
When I was in Dublin, at the beginning of the month, my daughter and I went to watch this film together - armed with a fizzy drink and big bag of cheesy popcorn.
The film is set in Missippi during the 1960s - at the start of the Civil Rights campaigns. A young white woman, a wannabe journalist, persuades two black maids to help her to write a book about what it is like to be a black maid working for a white family. I had read the book earlier this year and was disappointed with the film adaptation. It leaves out quite important chunks of the book which means the story doesn't flow correctly, although there are some outstanding performances - in particular Octavia Spencer as the maid who never learns how to stop speaking her mind. It's a controversial topic, more so in the States than over here, and I felt the film glossed over some of the uglier parts of the book, perhaps to make it more acceptable to film audiences. If you haven't read the book seeing the film ought to encourage you to - the book is much better.

Magpie Tales #93: The Old Family Sofa

2011-11-27T17:34:00.014Z

The old family sofa - not that I can really remember one particular one, more the impression of one, looming largely in the living room; I thought about the thousands of sweetie wrappers stuffed down the sides, the pet hamster burrowing down there making a nest, cushion fights, stolen first kisses and later steamy frantic fumbling ... but then I remembered it's importance in an annual Family ritual.

In early November my mother would go on a frenzied search through our wardrobes, desperately searching for suitable items of clothing to be worn for the Christmas Photograph. This was the photograph that would be copied dozens of times and then carefully inserted into the hand-written letter that was sent out to all those on her Special Christmas Card List; not to be confused with all those who were on her Not So Special Christmas Card List, mere acquaintances who didn't receive a hand-written letter, or those who lived near to us, who were able to monitor our progress without the photograph or her letter.

More often than not suitable clothing could not be found so it was off to the shops, all four of us, to buy a new 'best' outfit. Us three girls all had to wear the same dress, Mum would choose it and we would try it on - I don't recall there ever being a choice of more than two. One year the shop had the same style in all three sizes, but only the same colour in two of the sizes. What a dilemma! She decided we would all wear it in different colours, after a great deal of huffing and puffing and foot stamping, (two little prima-donnas both wanting to have the pink one) we left the shop, my sister smug in her pinkness as I sulked in orange. I remember the year I finally refused to wear the same dress as my younger sisters, but that was much too traumatic an experience to write about here. My brother (thankfully) was spared this annual humiliation, slacks and a nice sweater would do for him.

"Boys," my mother would state accusingly "are soooooooooo much easier."

For the whole week before the photograph my mother would threaten us with dire consequences should any of us do anything stupid, like daring to fall and present a scabby knee. Sometimes, if (when) we were badly behaved she was given to making threats about excluding us from the photograph. A threat which we knew she would never dream of carrying out but nonetheless hung over us until the wretched thing was taken. Then it was back to the more normal threat of writing to Father Christmas, to report our misdemeanors.

The Christmas photograph was always taken with us sitting on the sofa, trying to look natural. An impossibility! Four children in such close proximity and not squabbling? Some years Pops would try an experiment to make it look less staged, me reading to the younger ones for example - it didn't work. More often than not three would be smiling, one momentarily distracted, looking elsewhere. Our teens, presented the greatest difficulty; all squashed together in our mish-mash of assorted 'best' clothes, staring fashionably and sullenly at the camera.

This was our first Christmas photograph, with the four of us. All sitting comfortably, not bickering, pinching, pushing, or shoving. Four small children, all scrubbed clean, hair resplendent with perfectly tied bows, all so proud of each other.

Mum would be so pleased with this one, taken on Boxing Day last year, somehow all squeezed in, not quite so comfortably; it's only taken forty-seven years but we all finally managed to be looking at the camera, at the same time and smiling.

Opps - I mean this one,

For more Magpie Tales check here.

A Fairy Story

2011-11-24T11:10:00.012Z

"With this Ring I thee wed ..."

I remember the day we went to buy my engagement ring. We had already established that we were going to get married, even started planning our honeymoon, but we hadn't got officially engaged. Not in Sean's mind anyway. Officially engaged meant a ring, a sparkly thing that told the world you were committed. I argued that it was a waste of money, I didn't have the right shaped hands to carry one off ... but Sean insisted that we do everything properly.

The two of us walked into the jewellers, me reluctant, he enthusiastic. I stared disinterestedly as tray after tray was placed before us. Nothing caught my eye, and after a while each tray began to look the same, gleaming white and gold. Sean was getting tetchy.

Finally something twinkled at me, a sapphire with three small diamonds on either side. I looked again, and saw it beckoning to me ... "try me on" it whispered.

Hesitantly I picked it up and slipped it on my finger. It fitted perfectly, like Cinderellas glittering glass slipper, but it looked enormous on my small child-like hand.

"Um," said Mr. Grumpy. "Is that the one you want?"

I nodded then reluctantly replaced it on the tray when I caught sight of the price tag.

"It's too expensive. I told you it would be a waste of money."

I loved it, no I more than that - I was bewitched ... I needed it. I was annoyed with myself, I had started out with no expectations and now here I was Gollum-like, coveting something that would cost more than two months wages. I shrugged, turned away and left the shop. Sean followed just behind.

"Well that was a waste of time" I said, grimacing, hoping to hide my disappointment. I slipped my arm through his and suggested lunch.

"Lunch?" he spluttered, then laughed "Let's get some quickly before the transaction goes through." He took a small box from his pocket and handed it to me, he was never much of one for giving gifts, always a little embarrassed and awkward.

The only problem with that ring was that it was an odd shape, my wedding ring had to be specially made so that the engagement ring could fit into it. The two were made to be together, a perfect fit.

I wore them every day for nearly seventeen years, then I noticed one of the diamonds had come loose ... lost. I was devastated. I took the rings off, placing them somewhere safe, only wearing them when we were going out somewhere special. I thought he hadn't noticed but he did and after a while asked me to put them back on, it didn't matter that one of the stones was missing.

Later we went through a rough patch in our marriage and I decided to take the rings off again. This time it was calculated to hurt. Sometimes its difficult to forgive, and the longer it goes on the harder it becomes. The rings stayed in their tiny box, a symbol of my defiance, disappointment, rage and later guilt.

It was my daughters Graduation the other week. I wished that Sean could have been there - he was always so proud of both of our children. I put the rings back on, so that he could be there with me. They still fit perfectly, even though my hands must have swollen and become more knobbly in the intervening 30 years. Wearing them doesn't alter what has happened (proving that not all Fairy Stories have Happy Endings), but they sit so well and I suddenly feel more comfortable with myself again, so I think they should stay where I can see them, where they belong.

Just for a laugh - QWERTY keyboard challenge

2011-11-23T09:34:00.005Z

I saw this on Brigids page, then clicked back to the Docs - I'm abit behind the times Doc but I didn't see you had two blogs on the go ...

Sitting in a restaurant the other day I overheard some ladies discussing the contents of a luncheon they had attend ...

"Queer Walter" Edwina rasped "thought Yanick used istrich."
"Ostrich!" pedant Anna, searching desperately for garnishes, hopelessly 'jected.
"Kangaroo." laughed Zena, xpanding comfortably.
Vera belched "Not mongoose?"

Some poetic license used there but I think it makes sense!

Whoa ...

2011-11-22T13:25:00.003Z

A quiet weekend - starting in The Elephant (where else?). I met my old friend, the one with all the business problems, for a couple of drinks. We spent a long time discussing a Business Plan he needs to throw together - he came back on Saturday morning and we stared at spread sheets, highlighting figures, working out formulas and generally having the sort of great time one has on those occassions. On the plus side he did cook for me!

And then of course Sunday afternoon came along, for those of you keen to know how the mumbo-jumbo went ...

... I'm really sorry to disappoint you but I decided I didn't want my dreams interpreted after all, let them remain a mystery. I couldn't go through with the Face Reading, Palm Reading, or the Tarot Cards; I was almost tempted by the Iris Reading but then I reminded myself that people have told me I have cold unsmiling eyes, well only people who have a beef with me have told me that, but nobody else has leaped to their defence so perhaps it's true and I didn't need a stranger to confirm my doubts. My friend went for a Palm Reading ... she was delighted with what she was told, nothing that anyone with a few good observational skills couldn't have managed!

So what did I do whilst my friend was having the lines of her hand expertly examined? I went for an "Uplifting Facial". I had no idea what to expect, and as I lay somewhat apprehensively on the bed the masseur told me I had beautiful skin. Your flattery means nothing to me (I thought) I overheard you saying that to the wrinkly old lady just before me so don't I set any great store by your judgement. Actually she was very good (once she stopped talking), it was very relaxing and I came away looking almost a day younger. They tried to persuade me to hold an "Uplifting Facial Party" (along the lines of a Tupperware affair) I gushed about how wonderful that sounded, (looking away so they couldn't see the insincerity in my cold unsmiling eyes) then quickly left before they could press any literature into my clammy mitt.

But that is not the news I was going to tell you from the heading ... no, no, no. What I am so excited about is that the seeds I ordered last week have arrived and that I spent yesterday evening sorting through them, putting them into planting order (sad but true) and then (as if that wasn't enough) I made labels for all the little sticks that stand neatly at the end of the rows, so I know what I have planted (on a scale of one through to ten how anal is that?). This weekend I had better get out there and plant the garlic and broad beans or I will have missed the window of opportunity - so fingers crossed nobody invites me out anywhere. The potatoes, strawberries and blackcurrant bush won't be here until after Christmas, something to look forward to - Whoa!!

Magpie Tales #92: The Kiss

2011-11-20T21:38:00.011Z

Looking at this weeks prompt I was reminded of something I posted a while back - this is the follow on to that post.

I looked up, blinking with the sudden flood of light and there he was, strolling over, hands in his pockets, rolling back thirty-three years with his lazy smile, back to a more carefree time, a time unburdened with complicated commitments and life's disappointments ...

He laughed and threw his arms around me as I stood up, hugging me close and kissing me on both cheeks. We ordered drinks and took them back to the table, now suddenly shy as memories of what we had once meant to each other overwhelmed us. We both spoke at once, stopped, laughed, each urging the other to continue, "filling in the gaps.” My stomach was knotted, I was looking at a grey-haired man in a blazer and chinos but was seeing a seventeen year old in faded blue jeans and a white cheesecloth shirt; I was listening to a middle-aged man telling me about his daughters and grandson but hearing a teenager expounding his theories on life.

"Let's grab a bite to eat." he suggested. I nodded, the wine was starting to go to my head and I needed some food.

Walking out into the daylight I blinked, almost slipped my arm through his (to steady myself), then remembered who we now were and stopped; instead we walked side by side, hands almost touching, talking about which foods we both preferred.

Over lunch we became more relaxed and afterwards we strolled, jackets slung carelessly over our shoulders, along a path by the river. We stopped, leaning against the embankment wall, watching the world drift by. I became aware that I was talking too much, he smiled, slowly leaned forward and caught a stray curl; he teased it between his fingers, a gesture I had long forgotten. I touched his hand and he dropped my hair, smoothed my cheek and tilted my chin towards his face; I could have turned my head away, but I didn't. At that moment I was once again a girl of seventeen, allowing myself to be seduced by the lazy afternoon and his boyish charm.

For more romantic encounters click on Magpie Tales.

Oohhh watch this space ...

2011-11-18T15:50:00.010Z

I was at the monthly company meeting on Wednesday night. The company I work for are consultants who all work away from a central office, mostly on our clients sites or at home, so it's nice to get together for feedback and a bit of socialising.

Anyway this week a colleague was quite excitedly telling a group of us about a charity event a friend of hers is organising this weekend - it sounded very interesting, my colleague had us quite intrigued. Then, like the experienced saleswoman she is, she gently tugged at the line and had us all signing up for Dream Interpretations, Readings, Facials, Pedicures, Massages, Face Readings ...

So without consulting my calendar I signed up and now I am missing an orienteering event and going to this instead! Is this the start of a slippery slope?? Or did I secretly hope something would prevent me from going to the orienteering?? The venue is on the doorstep of a former close friend.*

*For those who have been following the saga that romance has been sharply nipped in the bud (for reasons too lengthy and mind-numbingly boring to go into) and I am now footloose and fancy free again - and more than happy to be so! Aunt Derry will be so pleased!!

In celebration of innocence

2011-11-16T12:05:00.003Z

I had met the people I was staying with in Ireland twice before. Both times in Cape Town in 1997, they are vaguely related, cousins of my late husbands father (that sort of distance), it means nothing to most people, but to the Irish it means everything. I was treated like an honoured guest and in return I greatly appreciated their hospitality.

They have a field full of much closer relatives, sons, daughter, grandchildren etc but luckily, having so recently entertained dear Aunt Derry, I was familiar with all of them and where they featured on the Great Family Tree. As a non-blood relative it's all very intriguing.

The week before I arrived their youngest sons wife delivered a healthy baby boy, their fourth, so there was sort of muted great excitement (if that doesn't sound too much of an oxymoron). Proud (and by now very practical) grandmother offered to look after the eldest two boys (aged 6 and 4) to give mother, father, toddler and new baby a bit of a break. So for a couple of evenings I shared the fun with them.

These two youngsters were such charming lively little imps! They talked excitedly about dinosaurs, what costumes they had both worn when they went Trick or Treating, their new baby brother, how fast they could run, a bit more about dinosaurs, a computer game they both loved (the younger watched as the eldest played), how much chocolate they ate on Halloween, oh and did I mention dinosaurs? (I am always so easily entertained by small children who are articulate and speak with perfect foreign accents) They cheated incredulously when I played Noughts and Crosses with them, drew me fantastic pictures "explosions of colour" they called them, and giggled loudly in the bedroom next door to mine, tip-toeing past my room to the bathroom at all hours of the night.

On Saturday morning I was going into town and knew the boys would be heading home whilst I was out. I went to say goodbye to them; the eldest showed me how to play the computer game he was playing, generously allowing me a turn. The younger was no-where in sight.
"Oh dear," I said "I really wanted to say goodbye to him, I have so enjoyed his company."
"He'll be sorry to have missed you," his brother conceded, then in a loud stage whisper behind his hand "I tink he's down the corridor." indicating the direction with his thumb. I nodded knowingly, the TV room was down the corridor. I walked down calling the youngsters name. No reply. I opened the door, the TV was switched off and there was no sign of the little one. I called again,
"I'm here, look behind you." A little voice answered. I swivelled around and there he was, in the room opposite the TV room, sitting (with his little feet dangling about a foot off the ground) on the lavatory ... surrounded by toilet paper. He must have taken off the whole roll. He was smiling with his big blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and waving at me.
"Are you going now?" He asked, totally unabashed.
"Yes I am. I just wanted to say goodbye and tell you what a pleasure it has been to meet you."
"Same here. Have a great day won't you."

I waved politely at him and then beat a hasty retreat, before his grandmother discovered him.

So now I know I'm back to normal, I'm not afraid of children anymore.

October Book and Film Review

2011-11-15T09:44:00.006Z

Gasp - yes despite all that was going on I managed to read a couple of books and watch a film! Remember how one of my New Years Resolutions was to be more cultured and try and get to the cinema at least once a month? Well I have failed miserably, this is only the third film I watched this year.

Book Review

The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstad
This month I got to choose the book we were reading for Book Club, and this was my choice. The book tells the alleged true story of a family living in Kabul, the journalist who wrote the book is Norwegian and she lived with the family for some months gathering her material. I enjoyed the book whilst I was reading it, although it made me very angry in parts - angry about the Taliban and their barbaric attitudes, angry about the men in the book, angry about the women. I realised this was a typical Western Womans attitude towards the story and that I should try not to be blinded by my own prejudices; I was looking forward to the group discussion, in particular what the men in our Book Club group would think!
Actually they bought a much more balanced view to the table. One of them produced a report stating that the author has been successfully sued by one female member of the family for defamation of character and that the rest of the family are now taking legal advice. Another person in the group told us about a personal experience in Kabul which was really very interesting. Another person commented that they doubted very much that any Muslim male (in Afghanistan) would have opened up so much to a female journalist, pointing out that she must have used a great deal of poetic license in some of the chapters.
I would recommend this book because I think it does have an interesting point to make, but I have strong reservations about the "truth" behind some of the story lines.
On a more sombre note I read yesterday of the stoning and then shooting of a widow and her daughter in Afghanistan after the Taliban accused the women of 'moral deviation and adultery'.

Staying On by Paul Scott
This book has long been on my "Must Read" list. It was first recommended to me by my father.
The story is set in India during the early 1970's and tells the story of an elderly English couple, a retired Colonel and his wife, who stay on in India after independence - when all of their contemporaries move on. My father had a great fear of becoming a 'Tusker Smalley', a man who couldn't return to Britain - having spent too long away from his homeland but never belonging in his adopted country. It happened to so many people we knew in Hong Kong. I loved the book and wish I had read it when it was first recommended. If you don't read anything else from my book list this year - read this classic!

Film Review

Contagion starring Jude Law, Kate Winslett, Matt Damon and others
I went to watch this film with a friend, not my usual MO - I have discovered I much prefer watching films on my own (for reasons to be revealed)This is yet another re-hash of a deadly virus which spreads around the world like wildfire, killing within days of contracting - with no known antidote. Gwyneth Paltrow is the person that contracts the disease initially, a virus started when a bat eating a banana is startled, flies off and drops the banana into a pig farm in Southern China, pig eats banana then gets dragged off for slaughter (still with the unconsumed bat dropped banana in its mouth), chef in a restaurant spots the banana still lodged in the pigs mouth takes it out and whoa before he gets to wash his hands is called out to pose in a photograph with Gwyneth and they shake hands. Oh yes totally feasible - whilst our poor anti-heroine manages to infect every person who breaths the same air (including unbelievably the waiter at the table where she first contracts the virus) her husband, Matt Damon is immune. Matt puts in a pretty unconvincing performance as her distraught husband and nothing is made of the fact that he alone seems to be immune to the plague that fells all around him - no chance of him standing alone, Charlton Heston like, in a fountain pouring his own blood into phials urging the zombies to take it (reference Omega Man). There were some interesting shots of Hong Kong, although unbelievably they staged a broad daylight kidnapping taking place right outside the Police Officers Club (OK so only an old Hong Kong hand would know that). Other than that this film had absolutely nothing going for it - seriously if you have something better to do, watching paint dry, or grass grow I urge you to do that instead, you will never get this 1 hour 45 minutes of your life back! Had I not been with someone else I would have exited after the first 10 minutes.

Remember Me?

2011-11-14T12:52:00.013Z

I've been away ... life in the real world suddenly took over, sister-in-law visiting (our trip to the Tate Modern):

Family holiday in Norfolk:

A trip to Dublin, culminating in my daughters Graduation:

Then a splash down to earth, coming home and catching up with cleaning, cooking, gardening etc.

I was going to write all about the events of the past few weeks but realised it would take too long, I'd forget the order things were done in so instead I'll slip the snippets in when and where it seems appropriate.

Yesterday was Remembrance Sunday. My father was in the Armed Forces until I was 19 years old; all my formative years were spent living with, going to school with, being friends with, other kids whose fathers were in the Armed Forces. Not long after I first started school my father went away to Aden, to an armed conflict there:

He was away for 3 or 4 months; I remember the night he came home. We kids were all allowed to stay up to wait for him. He arrived back, tanned and with a moustache, none of us knew who he was. Throughout my childhood someone I knew had a father away from home working in hostile conditions; every year, where ever in the world we happened to be on this Anniversary we wore a poppy in our lapels and attended some sort of Remembrance Day service. When I was a child Remembrance Sunday was just another parade, our fathers looking smart, marching up down. It was always a cold day and we resented standing still for two whole minutes in silence; noses red and runny, mothers glaring at us if we dared to twitch.

A number of my former classmates went on to become aircrew, soldiers, sailors, marines, police officers; we were the generation involved in the Falklands, Northern Ireland, Bosnia. Remembrance Sunday suddenly took on a different meaning after the first of my fellow classmates was KIA. I have given up spouting about the futility of war - it was ever thus and will be ever more. Now when I stand and reflect during the two minutes silence I think of all the boys I knew who joined up, not to be heroes, but because it was the only life they had ever known; the boys who went off to fight in long forgotten conflicts and never came back.

Yesterday there was a little parade in the street outside my flat. There is a War Memorial just down the road, a band of air cadets came striding past at about 10 to 11, followed by sea cadets, army cadets, police cadets, a little group of beavers, cub scouts, and scouts. They all marched up to the War Memorial just outside the United Services Club where local dignitaries were laying wreaths. The flag was lowered to half mast, small clusters of people up and down the street stopped, bowed their heads to observe the two minutes silence; when the last post was played to indicate the end of the silence people began to slowly pick up pace again, briefly the world (or this little corner of it) had stood still to Remember.

Magpie Tales #89: Click Clack

2011-11-01T11:34:00.003Z

Years ago I had to sit a typing test (30 wpm) in order to get a job I didn't much care for, but that I needed! I practised for what seemed like hours ...

"Ah Jane, do please come in, sit here, make yourself at home." Such pleasantries were more than I had expected. I smiled appreciatively and sat down, hanging my handbag over the back of the chair.

"Oh" I thought checking my posture, "this is nice it has wheels" I couldn't resist a little swivel, then a quick slide forward and one to the side.

"Please don't worry about this little test, it's very simple, preliminary."

I nodded politely, then made a show of checking that everything I may need was at arms length; ruler, tipex (bottle and strips), a couple of sheets of carbon and a pile of fresh paper.

I fussed over the ribbon, oh yes nearly new (nothing worse than having to change your ribbon half way through).

"Quite comfortable?"

I grimaced, inserted a sheet of blank paper, placed my hands in position on the keyboard and began ...

The quick browna gpx jumpes kocer the la\y dog
The qaick brown fox jumps icer the lazy dog
The quixk brown foc jumps over the lasy ...

I didn't get the job.

For more stories from the Dark Ages check out Magpie Tales here.

In Dublins Fair City

2011-10-26T11:07:00.005+01:00

Last night I had a phone call ...

"Now dear I'm not sure if I gave you the instructions for finding Aoifes house last time we spoke? Well if I did or didn't it doesn't matter I'm phoning now to make sure you know the way because it can be a little confusing. You know I did phone last night but your son said you weren't in, he said you were still at work. We had a nice little chat him and I, but you know he doesn't seem to be a great one for chatting on the phone. You know I have a great deal with Talk-Talk. It's all part of my internet package, I can talk for up to an hour anywhere in the world. My son, the one who lives in Zanibar, well he's always saying I should get onto Skype but really anyone can see when you're on-line and then they phone and if you really wanted to speak to them, you would have already phoned them.

Now where was I? The thing is dear the house is really easy to find, you just get on the bus - I don't know which number, but ask the driver you'll be wanting one going to Cornelscourt - now once you're on the bus watch out for the University, not Trinity the other one, and then you come to this large department store, Dunnes. Stay on past that, now I'm not sure if it's one or two stops - perhaps you could ask the driver or someone on the bus? Now what's the name of the place you want? Oh I know the Magic Carpet Pub.

The Magic Carpet Pub that's where you want to get off. Oh let me tell you its a great pub, the sessions I've had there. You would laugh, well we all do there. Once you get off the bus you can nip along down the side of it to get to their place, of course you son't have to go along the side road, that's the short cut, there is a long way round too if you're not sure about the short-cut route. Now I'm not sure of the number of the house, or the street name but its just down the side there behind the Magic Carpet. Not just behind it as such but sure its not a long walk from the bus stop and you being a runner and all you'll have no problem getting there.

OK so what time are you arriving? I'm sure you've thought about trying to avoid the rush hour - not that it's anything like those London rush hours, all crammed in cheek by jowl, pushing and shoving - standing room only. Oh it's nothing like that back home but you don't want to be troubled with it. I'd say you've got plenty of time to meet your daughter for lunch then go to Aoifes, unless of course you think you should go to them first then come back into town to meet your daughter. That would be a good plan too. Save you dragging all your luggage around with you.

Are you carrying much? Well you wouldn't be would you? Not with Ryanair charging as much again for you to take a piece of luggage. You can fit 15kgs into your hand luggage, and for heavens sake wear as much as you can bear to, although not so much that you can't fit into the plane seat; they give you really tiny seats by the way, bolt upright all the way! They cram a good two extra rows in that way, and sure I know its only a short flight and all but it's just typical of their penny pinching ways.

Now the other thing you have to remember is to check-in on line and to print off your boarding cards, Ryanair'll charge another £20 if you forget to do that, oh there's a charge for this and that - you have to read all the small print. Did you remember to de-tick yourself for travel insurance? That's another little one the beggars sneak on if you're not careful. That's £12 ..."

Yes it's countdown to Dublin and my daughters Graduation ...

Magpie Tales #88: All-seeing

2011-10-24T14:16:00.011+01:00

I thought I saw a face in the side mirror - of a backseat passenger; it reminded me of the days when I was a back-seat passenger, childhood journeys in our old family car - happy occasions, all singing old favourite traditional (and some not so traditional) songs. Big smiles - but then I remembered other trips ...

Blodwyn was a black ford, designed to comfortably hold four average sized adults, two in the front, two in the back; or perhaps two adults in the front and four small children in the back; or perhaps two adults in the front, with a small child sitting on the knee of the front seat passenger, four small children and another adult in the back.

Us three kids in the back glowered resentfully at our youngest sibling sitting smug with mum in the front (oh yes I know, but there were no seat belts back then and no-one knew any better), elbowing and pinching each other, forcing one of us to perch forward on the edge of the seat, whilst mums fat-bottomed friend spread out taking up over half of the back row, her own child bouncing around on her knee.

"Very kind of you to offer me this lift David." she said to the back of my fathers head, whilst her ghastly tot threw itself backwards and began drumming it's heels into the back of the front passenger seat.
"Well," my father replied "I couldn't leave you standing there with the little one."
And why not? I could hear my mother silently hiss, as the child, squashed uncomfortably in its mothers arms began to wriggle and squeal; laashing out as it attempted to escape the hands that were trying, in vain, to restrain it's thrashing legs.

Why not indeed ... I leaned forward to wind down the window, not all the way - just far enough to get a breeze blowing through; in that moment one of my siblings slipped back into the space I had momentarily vacated and I was the one forced to perch on the edge of the seat. She quickly looked away in order to avoid my scowl, tossing her hair into my face, pretending she was unaware of the terrible crime she had just committed. No point protesting, it would be just be smacks all round for displaying bad manners in front of a guest, although she deserved no less!

So, it was perched on the edge of the seat, plotting my revenge on the usurper, that I first noticed my father glancing into the side mirror. I knew he used the rear view one inside the car, I had witnessed adjusting it hundreds of times, but this one on side too? Wow what power it gave him, to see all around without having to turn his head at all.

For more responses to this weeks prompt visit Magpie Tales here.

Food vs Noise

2011-10-21T12:23:00.005+01:00

After another hearty meal in the Magdala (BTW did you know it was National Steak Week?) we became engrossed in an enthralling conversation about training for a marathon, we were, in fact so engrossed that we hardly noticed her entrance. A pretty girl, on her own, with a pint of Pride and a bag of crisps. I was vaguely aware of her walking over to the table on the opposite side of the room, tearing open the packet and taking a sip from the enormous man-sized glass. Then she picked up her mobile phone, stared at it for a while, before putting it to her ear.

She was angry (really angry), with the person on the other end of the line. There was no gentle build up, she just launched straight into it. As her voice rose the buzz around the room lulled, people turned to look, then quickly turned away again. Some brave few continued with their conversations but in the end curiosity got the better of them too, we all found ourselves straining to understand the source of her ire, whilst maintaining a perfect air of polite indifference.

"He doesn't appreciate her efforts!" One of us finally whispered.
"And he treats her like shit." Added another.
"Actually I thought she had caught him with someone else in their flat."
"Well would you believe it?"
"He hadn't made her any dinner tonight, even though he knew she was working late. The ungrateful bastard!"
"He hadn't made her any dinner because he was too busy entertaining the other person in the flat." Someone hissed.

"Don't you dare accuse me of being drunk!" She screamed, "I'm only sitting on a pint here! All I'm asking is for you to use your intuition."

"Aha," whispered the wise one in our midst, "That's it - his ESP failed him."
We turned our attention back to our drinks and training schedules - none of us appeared to notice when her tirade stopped.

"One thing you can say in the Stags favour." Someone ventured, we all looked at him questioningly, "The music was too loud to ever hear what anyone else was saying."
We all nodded sagely - what you gain on the swings, you loose on the roundabouts.

Magpie Tales #87: Window Displays

2011-10-17T19:43:00.008+01:00

Does Tess have a sixth sense? Did she know that at round about the time that she was posting this prompt I was stepping into my favourite Dim Sum restaurant in Londons China Town?

Meet 11 a.m. at Leicester Square The text said, and because he is notoriously late I got there at 11.15.
Here I am - where are you?
Stuck in traffic ... another half hour

I wandered up through the streets and stood watching the shop keepers dragging rails of brightly coloured silky shawls and scarves out onto the pavement, listening to the orders being barked at the young assistants helping set up the eye-catching displays. I let my hands run through the scarves, feigning an interest in purchasing, killing time. I walked further up, passing the Chinese Medicine shops, fruit stalls and advert for a Thai Model - first floor; I glanced at my watch, noticing I had lingered longer than intended and wound my way back down to the station.

Here his message proclaimed. I could see him on the other side of the road and waved.
"Are you hungry?" I asked as he crossed over. He nodded, I took his hand and led him back up the street I had just come down, it was now bustling with Sunday shoppers and tourists. We stood for a moment outside the restaurant, smiling at the familiar sights, sounds and smells.
"Trable for two?" Asked the waiter before we had even walked through the door, "Got a lice one just by the windrow."
We laughed, it was also just by the flattened ducks and bright orange octopus, dangling unappetisingly from hooks.
We examined the menu, selected an assortment of dishes and watched the world walk by ...
... except they didn't walk by. They stopped at the window and peered in at the flattened ducks, took photographs, some even pointed and laughed at the two westerners expertly wielding chopsticks over baskets of steaming dumplings, watching, waiting, willing one of us to drop something.

For more tales of Oriental delights click here.

A bang not a whimper ...

2011-10-17T15:13:00.009+01:00

We were all there with the boys, tears rolling down our cheeks belting out Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau ...

... the whistle blows and we are off; a few minutes of ball fumbling, missed passes, both sides need to settle down, then great - Wales get an early penalty and whoosh straight over the posts - Hookie manages to put us in the lead after 10 minutes ...

... but oh no Adams Jones leaves the pitch after an injury in the first scrum. Not Adams Jones? Not Adams Jones the Caveman, our World-Class prop? Noooo ...

... still reeling from the shock of losing Adam Jones, our World-Class prop, the unbelievable happens; Sam Warburton (our gallent captain) dumps Yachvili on the ground, snatches the ball, the whistle blows and Allan Rolland reaches into his pocket for ...

... for a red card. A red card? What? A red card? Nobody is denying it wasn't a robust tackle but a red card? A red card in the semi-finals of the World Cup? The nation hangs its head and weeps ...

... in normal circumstances your team is penalised by 7 points for a 10 minute sin-binning, but miraculously Wales played for the next 60 minutes one man short and the French didn't score a single try ...

... and they made stacks of mistakes, which if James Hook had been wearing his kicking boots, instead of his Strictly Come Dancing Ballet Pumps, might have made a difference ...

... the handsomest man in Wales scored a brilliant try (did I mention we were one player short for over 60 minutes?) but again the conversion didn't happen so ...

... we bowed out of the World Cup, 8 - 9, but at least we went down fighting ...

And this week Elise over at Goddesswrite has awarded me with her Goddess Award. Thank you Elise I am very flattered.

Socialising

2011-10-14T11:15:00.005+01:00

Last night, after running around the Heath with my fellow orienteerers, we took our valued custom to The Magdala.

On every previous occassion in the last six months we have adjourned to The Stag - but last week £4 for a ramekin of matchstick chips was (we decided) one piss take too far. So the Magdala it was ...

...the Magdala became infamous when Ruth Ellis (the last woman to be hanged in Britain) shot her lover, David Berkley, outside it. The bullet holes are still in the wall.

We must have looked an odd bunch - our ages range from mid-thirties to early-sixties; the tallest is 6ft 3in and me the shortest at 4ft 10in; four women, eight men; some of us are married, some single; some of us have adult off-spring (and grandchildren), others are just expecting their first babies; some of us are slim and athletic, some of us a little more comfortable (easy to guess which range of the shape spectrum I fall into); amongst are doctors, accountants, teachers, IT specialists, architects and even an army illustrator! We had a great evening. Twelve people from totally different backgrounds sitting around laughing, drinking, conversing, telling ridiculous stories, eating (not £4 ramekins of matchstick chips), laughing some more, everyone making sure that everyone is included in the light-hearted banter.

That's how good evenings in pubs should be. I have (over the last thirty-seven years) spent a lot of time socialising (or not socialising as is sometimes the case) in pubs. Pubs in this country and many more besides, I understand the difference between a good time and a terrible one.

Which is why I knew after last Sunday in The Mayflower that it was time to step back and call it a day.

Off to The Elephant tomorrow morning very early to watch Wales vs France - the conversation there will only be about one thing.

A Thursday Morning Rant

2011-10-13T11:13:00.008+01:00

I was listening to the news yesterday - OK I listen to it everyday but some days I get a little more worked up about it than others.

Restart: I was listening to the news yesterday, to an item on unemployment. Specifically the number of women that are now unemployed.

I listened to an unemployed woman giving her side of the story, sadly they choose a very poor example. No disrespect to the poor woman they interviewed, she was on the verge of tears throughout the experience and really didn't come across at all well.

Then I listened to the experts giving their expert opinions. Again no disrespect but where do they dig these people up from?

The one glaringly obvious fact that they all hedged around had me shouting at the radio - nobody mentioned that the reason so many women are now unemployed is because of the huge cuts in the Public Sector; the Public Sector have a large % of female workers.

Why do the Public Sector have more female workers? They have more female workers because they are compelled to tick all the boxes - how many women work here? how many ethnic minorities work here? how many homosexuals work here? how many disabled people work here?

What really needs to be addressed is why the Private Sector is reluctant to take on more women. And the answer is really very simple, young women, women of child bearing-age, are too expensive an option!

If a woman leaves work to have a child she is entitled to one full year maternity leave. Full pay for the first few months, then progressively less for the rest of the year. Employers pension scheme in-put has to remain the same, as does holiday allowance accrual.
For the year that she is on maternity leave her post can not be advertised and only temporary staff can do her job.

So if I were a small business employer and I had two candidates to choose from, and one was woman of child-bearing age there would really be no option for me. Simple arithmetic.

It follows that because women didn't get those Private Sector jobs in the early part of their careers they later loose out because they don't have the work experience required. Most of the top professional women that I know are childless.

Not once in the interviews was this mentioned (!) and yet every employer I know clocks it up automatically, only in the Public Sector they can afford to be more tolerant. Well actually they couldn't/can't afford to be more tolerant but that is an entirely different rant.

On a lighter note - only one and a half sleeps until the World Cup Semi-Final ...
Cymru Am Byth!

Magpie Tales #86: 14 Down

2011-10-11T09:54:00.007+01:00

This weeks prompt has reminded of me a little ritual I must have witnessed every night for years.

Pops bought his paper from the newsstand on his way to the office. He would read it during the course of the day, then he would fold it neatly, put it into his briefcase and pass it on to Mom when he got home. She would quickly skim through it, spread out on the dining room table in the evening, after dinner. Then she would turn to the crossword, fold the paper again and take it to 'her' armchair.

"I'd love a coffee." She would say, to no-one in particular. We kids would pretend we hadn't heard, and avoid eye-contact. She would repeat her wish, but this time name a specific child. The chosen one would get up gracelessly, shooting daggers at the others - now all suddenly lively and alert, safe in the knowledge that they hadn't been asked. She would be effusive in her thanks, making us all feel small and petty about resenting this 'one' little treat she allowed herself in the evening.

Coffee cup in place, she would light up a cigarette, pick up the crossword and a biro, then tuck her legs neatly up under herself and begin. First of all she would check the previous day's answers.

"Damn." She would mutter, "I should have known that. Oh, well of course now I see." Then having satisfied herself that she had done as well as possible, and that all of her answers had been correct, she would commence her battle.

Puff, puff, scribble, puff, sip, scribble, puff, sip.

She was a demon on the Daily Telegraph crossword. Glancing over you could see her workings out along the margins, circles of neat letters or a series of dashes with letters filled in at intervals. She always used a biro - it was a mark of her confidence, pencils and rubbers were for the meek.

Scribble, puff, sip, sip, scribble, puff.

She would fill in as much as she could, without the aid of a Thesaurus or Dictionary, although both lay next to the coffee cup - waiting for the harder clues. Eventually she would put it reluctantly to one side. Unfolding herself, she would pick up her empty cup and wander through to the kitchen to pour herself another drink. Pops, sitting on the other armchair, would pick up the discarded paper and casually glance at her work. He would scratch in a few answers then re-place the paper on the side table, before she returned. Upon her return she would immediately spot the biro was not at the exact angle she had left it. She would light another ciggie.

Puff, puff, sip, puff, sip.

Feigning disinterest she would pick up the paper to see what he could have possibly spotted that had eluded her. She would say nothing, but you knew if he had ever put in a wrong word all hell would break loose.

Scribble, puff, puff, scribble, sip.

For more Magpie Tales click here.

Through to the Semis

2011-10-10T09:37:00.007+01:00

I hope everyone who leaves comments doesn't think how monumentally rude I am for not replying here - if you have an e-mail link I normally reply personally but understand that not everyone wants to leave an e-mail link ... especially as my address is a little odd (how I got it is a long story! Aren't they all?) I'm sure most of you looking at it would think "Oh no another nutter" and delete it as Spam straight away!

Following my last post I realised (after Ellen and Mikes comments) that it was very arrogant of me to assume that everyone knows all about how our wonderful democracy works over here. So for anyone who didn't understand the reference to the Shadow Cabinet ...

... The Cabinet is our term for the collection of ministers that rule our country - it comprises of the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of Exchequer, the Deputy Prime Minister and then all the other Ministers i.e. Defence, Education, Health. There are 20 odd (not necessarily odd as in peculiar but "If the cap fits" as the saying goes) members. The Opposition Party (Parties), the ones NOT in power, have their own pretend Prime Minister and pretend Ministers in the Shadow Cabinet. The Shadow Cabinet can have all sorts of people in it, they can come up with all sorts of loony ideas because they are not in power and so all they are really doing is posturing and saying what they would do if they were in power ... it's all hypothetical because they are not. Ed Milliband introducing 11 women onto his Shadow Cabinet is (as far as I am concerned) a meaningless, vote attracting gesture. It does not mean (however much we want to believe it) he would appoint that many women if he were in power!

Isobel I am flattered that you would want to follow me (on Twitter) my user name is whirlingninja (don't worry I won't be in the least bit injured if you are just being polite), I am not sure that I ever say anything remotely interesting though; I am, by the way, delighted to read about Rattys progress! Wonder if we'll be meeting Oz in the Final?

Had a great walk on Saturday by the way - all part of my Tube Bagging experiences click here for the photos.

Lastly, this weekend Wales got through to the semi-finals of the World Cup by beating Ireland, if you could see me now I am grinning from ear to ear, wearing my Welsh rugby jersey, punching the air and nursing a very bad hangover. Sad but true!

Women in the Shadow Cabinet

2011-10-07T13:56:00.003+01:00

Having ranted (or as near as possible to a rant that I could be bothered to muster) about Facebook last week I decided to try Google+. Really not sure what the point of Google+ is at all, it seems to be jumping on to the "social networking" bandwagon but without having anything new or remotely useful to offer; in fact all it has done is hinder my logging into this blogging account!

On Wednesday night I was having dinner with a friend, he was laughing and telling me about his "Tweets" - Lord, this man is a dinosaur and here he was bragging about his "Twitter" account. I suddenly remembered mine ... I have one but I hadn't logged in for months - February in fact. I have lots of friends who "twitter" all the time, "Here I am standing waiting for the number 82 bus." I try to get excited but can't. I used to sometimes look at the Trends and make comments but so many of of them are to do with what is showing on the box and as I don't have one the content is lost on me. Anyway the upshot is I retrieved my Twitter account from mothballs and sent in a couple of tweets.

Today I looked to see the Trends and saw "Reshuffle" - oh goodie the shadow cabinet reshuffle, what a topic. I scooted over to take a peek, praise is being heaped on Ed because he has included 11 women in his new look shadow cabinet. Now it's taken me two paragraphs to get to my point - as far as I am concerned it matters not a hoot how many female faces sit on the benches! It matters not at all the ethnic mix, how many are over 6ft, how many have frizzy red hair, how many have green eyes, how many are fat or thin - what matters is if they are the best person for the job! I am sick to death of all this affirmative action pandering. If I was one of those women I would now be wondering if I got the job because I was brilliant or simply because of my gender - and if it was the latter I would feel a complete fraud.

A day in the life of ...

2011-10-05T10:14:00.005+01:00

Yesterday I woke up early; ever since I signed up for the Brighton Half Marathon my alarm has been set for 6.15. I don't always get up then but I am convincing myself that the good intentions are there. I have my schedule drawn up and yesterday was down for quick 30 minute run.

I got up, fed the cat (already frantic for food), pulled on my running kit, ankle strap, trainers and now (because winter is on its way) my hi-vis jacket. Out on the street I turned north and ran up through the almost empty High Street; a few people are out at the bus stops and one loan paper boy stood outside the newsagent with his hi-vis satchel slung across his chest. None of us acknowledged each other, this is early morning London (I love it). At the High Barnett Council offices I turned left, ran downhill for a while, then left again through the back roads - not a soul on the roads. Sometimes, if I run this route on a Saturday or Sunday morning, a horn hoots at me. I know who it's going to be but still it always takes me by surprise "Hey Jane, bella!" a loud voice booms, it's my Italian hairdresser. He has no regard for his neighbours slumber and continues to bellow at me as he drives alongside for a couple of yards, then gives me a final blast on the horn and waves goodbye. Gian Franco has lived in London for about 10 years, he still doesn't know the rules.

Now that downhill bit begins to bite me on the bum as I have to climb up a very steep hill to get back to the High Street level - I was knackered when I got home. I guzzled a glass of water, and with sweat still pumping, did my sit-ups. Yes this is crazy, a little fat old lady doing her 50 sit-ups. My son tells me that it won't make me any slimmer, it just builds up the muscle under the layers of blubber, I am convinced that this is not true,
"Show me a fat guy who does 200 sit-ups a day." I argue.
"Mum you don't do 200 sit-ups a day."
"I know but I'm working on it." He rolls his eye balls.

Then it was time for a shower, hair wash and breakfast. Over breakfast (a bowl of cereal with strawberries and grapes) I checked my e-mails, sometimes at this point my sister phones. The other day as she was talking, and I was typing a reply to someone, still eating, I dropped my mobile into the cereal bowl - proving that their is a limit to multi-tasking. Yesterday she was phoning to wish me luck, I was going for my first ever mammogram.

The Finchley Memorial Hospital is about half a mile away (I know because that is part of my sprint run that I do once a week) and yesterday a mobile screening unit was sitting in the car park. The Government have a screening programme for all us old-timers. I walked down, found I had misread my appointment time, so made a quick executive decision - should I sit here for 45 minutes or nip down to the grocery shop about 10 minutes away? I only needed a handful of chilli's and some coconut milk but the walk beats sitting in the tiny waiting room reading the Health Awareness posters plastering the walls.

I got back with 10 minutes to spare. On my return I was ushered into a small cubicle, told to remove my bra but put my t-shirt back on. The nurse pointed to another poster on the wall - this explained that North London Health Services don't provide gowns in the Breast Screening Units to save on laundry bills. Fair enough.

I hadn't had a mammogram before. I have heard differing horror stories, the verdict varies from "excruciating" to "mildly uncomfortable". I found it mildly uncomfortable - maybe this is when having floppy, flabby breasts is a bonus? The nurse is aware that most middle-aged women are uncomfortable standing topless with one breast pressed into a machine like a photo-copier and tries a little light-hearted banter to put me at my ease. I hope she interpreted my monosyllabic replies as nervousness and not what it really was, boredom. It's not her fault. I was somewhat bemused when she repeatedly said "Excellent", was she commenting on the shape, size or the fact that I was able to follow her instructions?

I got back home by 10.30, yesterday I opted to work from home - the beginning of the month is all about collecting data and transferring it to spreadsheets. This is done just as easily from home as in the office. I sat at my computer, switched on Radio 4, sipped a cup of Rooibos, answered e-mails, checked data, drank more Rooibos, harassed the consultants that hadn't sent in last months details yet, drank more Rooibos, played on-line Scrabble, drank more Rooibos, for the next 4 or 5 hours. I did stop at lunchtime for a bowl of homemade vegetable soup, and to prepare the evening meal but mostly it was just flickering from screen to screen.

My sister phoned at about 5 to found out the screening went - a bit of an anti-climax I told her. She agreed. Then I had another phone call, great-aunt Derry. That lasted a mere 54 minutes, but I did manage to squeeze in at least 10 minutes of conversation myself ... I was overly pleased with some new tactics I have adopted to make sure that the conversation is not all one-way.

My son arrived home at 7, the perfect excuse to cut the gibber-jabber, and actually cook dinner.

As we sat down to a meal of chicken and rice I was mulling over a report I had heard on the radio about Amanda Knox. I have written before about her ... Meredith Kerscher was a friend of my daughters, they worked together as guides on the tour buses. I can't begin to imagine the pain this is causing her family and I can't bare to think that Amanda will spend the next few years being treated as some sort of Celebrity; maybe it was just a very unfortunate interview on the radio but I could feel the bile rising as the woman being interviewed spoke about the Home-Coming planned. As my son and I ate dinner we discussed the whole murder, exchanged our views on the trial, the verdict and now the over-turning of the verdict. It wasn't a rant, except for maybe at the Italian prosecutors, who probably did mess up the evidence!

After dinner I indulged myself in the only TV of the week (watched on the computer); it's the second series of Downton Abbey, originally screened on Sunday night but which I catch up with on the iPlayer ... an hour of drooling at the costumes and marvelling at the highly improbable story line. I took out my knitting and unpicked the last four rows (yet again) I just cannot get the pattern right. It's all a matter of concentration I suppose - once I had picked up the stitches I threw it into the basket again. Last night I wasn't in the mood for knitting.

A friend is coming over for dinner tonight so I prepared everything last night, when Downton Abbey was over. And then I went to bed with the Reading Groups October book, The Book Seller of Kabul.

September Book Review

2011-10-04T19:17:00.008+01:00

Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran-Foer
This was our Reading Group choice in September. It is quite interestingly told in two different styles - Jonathan is a young American-Jew who has travelled to Ukraine to find the people that saved his grandfather from the Nazis, he meets Alex, a Ukrainian, his guide and interpreter. The novel is told through Alexs letters to Jonathan and by return of post the novel Jonathan is writing. (That sounds more complicated than it is) The start of the book is quite humorous but as the stories unfold they become darker and sadder. I enjoyed the book, although there are parts that just tend to ramble, the ending is quite sad but that was to be expected.

When Will There Be Good News by Kate Atkinson
I read one of Kate Atkinsons novels earlier in the year, I should have read this before that one. Quite an entertaining detective novel - but definitely not as good as the her next novel - quite a nasty twist near the end.

This by the by is my 200th post!

Magpie Tales #85: Look Mum I Can Fly ...

2011-10-04T07:17:00.010+01:00

I looked at this weeks challenge and thought 'Jumbo Jets' (what else?) but decided not to write about one, or the improbable flying pig tale. Instead I remembered a sunny holiday morning and two excited little children being followed by a practical mother and impractical father.

Strolling down the seafront we stumbled across a small fair.

A row of yellow cardboard ducks stared at us, waiting to be shot - Go on Daddy, if you hit three you can win that giant panda - and he, no better than a child himself, so desperate to show off his skills, not thinking about who would have to carry the wretched thing away.

Sticky pink candy floss sold in see-through plastic bags - Oh, please Mummy, we promise we'll still eat all our lunch - and who has to wash the sugar out of your hair later?

Tinny trains trundling into the Tunnel of Fear - Can we Mummy? Oh no we're not tall enough - It's too too scary anyway, it'll give you nightmares.

Scratchy music, cheap tawdry prizes, children squealing, laughing, crying, running from ride to ride, mothers calling "Don't run! You'll fall!" ... too late. Fathers indulgently digging deeper into their pockets for the elusive pennies - don't want to break into a note, you'll always be short-changed.

Finally we find the perfect ride ...

Again Mummy please?

For more Jumbo tales click here

The Tube ... late at night

2011-09-30T11:09:00.004+01:00

I travel on the London Underground (The Tube) a lot. I am nearly always alone and a number of my journeys are late at night.

I remember the first time I used the tube alone, late at night. I was a little apprehensive; my late husband (a former Police Officer) was full of the dangers a woman on her own, late at night, faces. I would never dismiss his concerns out of hand but in reality there are thousands of people travelling on their own - the law of averages dictates that only a minute percentage (albeit a very unlucky minute percentage) end up becoming a victim of crime.
"True," he would say "But I don't want you to be in that minute percentage."

OK, so I take my chances. I rather enjoy sitting on the train people watching - and believe me late at night there are plenty of interesting sights.

Last night, on my way back into town (after an Orienteering event way out in Loughton), as I stepped on board ("Never get into an empty carriage" Sean always warned) two couples came in behind me. They were all formally dressed, slightly flushed and giggling. They sat opposite and began a game of 'Stone, Paper, Scissors' one of the girls was trying to introduce a 'Fire and Water' element. The other's were having none of it. She carried on with her own rules regardless.

Further down a young man about town was engrossed in a book, a pretty girl sat down next to him and within minutes they were chatting amiably. If this journey were taking place 4 hours earlier she would have left him to read his book.

A group of now tie-less 'suit's' stood around the doors, good humoured banter rang out, as the train progressed the group diminshed, the laughter subsided until just one was left; he leaned into the corner, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly, lonely without his hearty mates around him.

A young woman wearing sturdy boots, laddered stockings (they are all the rage now) and shorts was reading a paper. Her hair was spiked up in all directions and I wondered how long it was going to take her to remove all of her make-up.

Two Polish workmen, still in their work clothes, boxes of tools at their feet chatted animatedly. They both drank openly from cans of beer, even though the drinking of alcohol is banned on public transport.

An elderly lady, who I see quite often, was sitting in the corner reading. She looks as if she might be a nun, she wears plain clothes, has a large cruifix around her neck and normally clutches a rosary. I would love to know what she is doing out and about so late at night.

I felt perfectly relaxed and safe in this carriage, at 11.30 p.m. heading out to High Barnet.

More Status Updates

2011-09-28T14:31:00.003+01:00

I was beginning to loose faith.

Days go by and all the Facebook updates are notices (in capitals so I guess that means shouting) instructing me to repost this message if I care about the number of soldiers killed in Afghanistan, or if there is someone in heaven that I miss every day, or what a real friend truly is, or if I am against bullying, or if I love dogs ...

... and if I don't repost does it means that I don't care about dead soldiers, or don't have anyone in heaven (actually I'm not sure if that really is where all my dearly departed went to), or am a fake friend (whatever that is), or am pro-bullying, or hate dogs?

Used to be Facebook was all about witty things to write on your status and at a glance you could see by clicking onto one page (which had all your friends on it) what their status updates were. Now I have to wade through pages of updates to see what is really going on.

Used to be that someone would post something funny and within the hour 20 people were joining in the on-line conversations. I can even remember the days that I could walk into the office and we would all be laughing about the what had happened on Facebook the night before.

This is what my kids warned me would happen when they let "oldies" in. Facebook would become "Having a great time looking after grandson Jack," with a picture of a cute little kid covered in chocolate and hundreds of friend cooing saying "oh lovely".

What's happened?

A special thanks to my friend in Spain who reminded me of the good old days on Facebook
"How do Spanish people differentiate between penne (pasta) and pene (penis)?!"

Sundays in Rural North Wales in the early 1940s.

2011-09-26T20:29:00.005+01:00

Forgive me - this may seem lazy but I wanted to share another snippet from my fathers memoirs. He talks here about his childhood and in particular how he spent Sundays. If you enjoy this have a peek at this post too.

Cousin Geoffrey and I hated Sundays. Outdoor games were prohibited – even hopscotch and Orange and Lemons. We were sent to church for the morning and the evening services. The poorly-paid but resplendently-robed parish priest, the Reverend Eve, was no servile peace-peddling preacher. His last parish had been on the tropical isle of Trinidad, but he raged and ranted against sin and sinners, threatening eternal damnation in the fires of Hell, as though he had spent his life in the American Bible Belt. We knelt for the ritualistic mumbling of prayers, stood for the hearty singing of hymns and cowered in reverent silence to hear the Spoken Word. We children knelt to pray, eyes closed, hands together, but grown-ups just leaned forward in their pews, lowered their heads and, frowning, pressed clenched fists to their foreheads. Our version of Christianity resembled the old Manichean religion in which two polarised forces ran the world: an Evil Force of Darkness which had to be fought and a Good Force of Light that thrived on praise. We didn’t go to church for the love of God, but through fear of this awesome deity.

Sunday lunches were at my father’s parents’ home in the nearby village of Marton. There we, Jean (Geoffrey’s sister), Geoffrey and I, were to be seen and not heard, not to touch things and to eat up our greens before being allowed any pudding. Grandmother, dressed in a severe black long-skirted dress, sensed our reluctance to eat the overcooked vegetables surrounding a morsel of meat just large enough to bait the hook for a medium-sized trout. She had a fixation about us eating everything on our plates. She would shake her head sadly, the grey hair rigidly held in place by a large tortoiseshell comb. ‘Think of the thousands of starving people in Africa who would just love to have a meal like that,’ she would say. I wondered about them, would they? After lunch we walked around the garden looking at the runner beans, cabbages, sprouts and other things growing there. We knew that we would be tormented by them at future Sunday lunches.

Some Sundays, I was also taken to visit my mother’s grandparents – my great-grandparents – whom everyone said were marvellous for their age. They had met on board ship as they sailed back to Britain, discontented with Canada, whither they had emigrated. Great-grandfather was Welsh and returned to his native land, the land of his fathers, with his new bride. He became bailiff to the Earl of Powys, managing one of the Earl’s farms and looking after his herd of deer. After retirement, great-grandfather ran a smallholding with a few cows, sheep and pigs. He disliked motor vehicles and would not sit in one, instead riding everywhere on horseback. When he took great-grandmother out, he would harness up a pony to a trap.

The grandparents and great-grandparents were stiff, remote figures who made no attempt to communicate with us, their grandchildren, except to repeat Benjamin Franklin axioms like ‘Time is money’, ‘Waste not, want not’ and ‘A stitch in time saves nine’. Their sombre, old-fashioned clothes never varied with the seasons – they always looked as though they were going to, or coming from, a funeral. They seemed to regard us with a permanent air of disapproval. There was no laughter in their houses and conversation was formal and restricted to adults. We only spoke when we were spoken to – so different from today when it is the children who do all of the talking and the adults listen, or do they?

One Sunday, the vicar announced that this was the last Sunday in Advent. Not understanding the mysteries of the church calendar, I took this to mean that there would be no more Sundays, no more dreary church services, no more walks around the cabbage patch, no more Sunday lunches and afternoons of aching refinement under the watchful eyes of a stern grandmother. I was happy; it was like being released from prison. Even before I learned the words to Happy Days Are Here Again, I found I had been tricked when, the following Sunday, we were sent, with shining shoes and slicked-down hair, to go though the same old ritual yet again. God must get bored having the same pleading prayers every week throughout eternity, even if they are punctuated by happy hymns of adoration.

I realised then that adults couldn’t be trusted. The extent of deceit practised by grown-ups became apparent as time passed: there was no Father Christmas, no Tooth Fairy, no Easter Bunny and babies were not placed under gooseberry bushes by storks. So much of what they had told me was untrue: carrots will make you see in the dark; bread crusts will make your hair curl; men have one less rib than women; ostriches bury their head in the sand; masturbation sends you blind; Britannia rules the waves. All as false as advertisements for healthy hair and slimming pills. In the face of such blatant dishonesty, it is little wonder that the naïveté of the curious child, believing everything it is told, is followed by the cynicism of the rebellious teenager believing nothing at all.

Magpie Tales #84: The Telephone Call

2011-09-25T21:56:00.010+01:00

"I'm sorry," the voice on the end of the line sobbed.

That was all, or at least that is all I heard. There may have been more but perhaps I just imagine that, the only words I remember were I'm sorry. In my head another voice was already screaming,
"No. You're lying. It can't be true. It's a stupid joke."
Of course I knew it wasn't a lie, or a joke, and I replied, automatically,
"I'm sorry. Thank you for phoning. I'll let everyone know." Afterwards, when my brain replayed the conversation (the conversation I don't think I ever really heard), I worried about whether I had interrupted him to say those words, had I hung up before he finished speaking?

All I remember is the numbness, from the moment I heard my father sobbing I knew that neither of us had ever felt so desperately lonely in our lives. A tidal wave of grief swept over us. I replaced the receiver carefully. Did I say anything to anyone? I don't remember. My husband held me, kissed the top of my head, but I don't remember which platitudes we mumbled. I walked into another room and telephoned my sister, was I crying when I spoke? I don't remember. I telephoned my other siblings and our aunt - I said the same few words to each of them and hung up before they could ask me any questions. Then I pulled on an old waxed jacket and my green wellies, called the dogs and went for a walk.

It was pouring with rain as we three trudged up the muddy country lane, water ran in rivulets down either side of the path; I know by then that I was crying, salty tears streaming down my cheeks mingling with the rain. My hands were shoved deep into my pockets but I didn't pull the hood up, I wanted to feel the rain beat down on me. Water started to trickle down my neck, soaking my jumper but still I didn't pull up the hood. Did I think that getting soaked would wash away the pain or bring her back? I just know that it felt absolutely right that I should be stumbling through the fields, my hair plastered to my head, wet and comfortable as I thought about my mother, whose empty body was now lying in a room I would never visit, and whose voice I would never hear again,
"What a terrible day for drying isn't it?" she would have said.

For more Magpie Tales click here

Brighton Half etc

2011-09-23T10:37:00.000+01:00

I seem to have posted quite abit lately without really saying much. Which I think is maybe a theme with my posts.

Two weeks ago I took part in the City of London Ultra Sprint doesn't that sound impressive? Over 1,000 runners from over 25 countrys took to the streets of London armed with a map, dibber and compass - then raced around like headless (in my case) chickens trying to find all the checkpoints. It was brilliant fun ... I got hopelessly lost but did eventually finish (which makes it a positive experience because I could have just thrown in the towel). I know exactly where I went wrong and vow never ever to be so damned stupid again ( and now that's here in print for the world to see!).

The day after the City of London Ultra Sprint (I like the sound of that so repeat it to myself quite often) I was supposed to be meeting my new beau (the one I wrote about a couple of weeks ago) but he was unforgivably late and I was unforgivably annoyed. End of romance ... but we are still friends and he has been very generous about completing a task for me (scanning some of my old photos and negatives), I always prefer to end on friendly terms, meanness about one's ex's is too easy. One of the photos he sent across was this family classic - proving beyond any doubt that I was once taller than my kids!

So what after that? I helped an old friend to file for bankruptcy ... a sad (and too often seen) sign of the times. My friend is very low and there are no bright and breezy platitudes I can trot out to make him feel any better. Thousands of small, hard-working independents (and more than a few much larger businesses) have hit the wall since 2007; thousands more struggle on wondering when/if things will ever pick up again, keeping an eye on the balance sheet, hoping they can weather the endless storm. At work we keep a watchful eye on our clients, chasing up late payments has become the norm and when a client settles promptly we stare in disbelief at the bank statement. The press talk about a double-dip recession - I can't remember coming out of the first dip, did I blink and miss it?

I want to end on a positive note so here is my latest big announcement - I signed up for the Brighton Half Marathon (Feb 2012) this week. An orienteering friend of mine was talking about it last week and over the weekend I decided I needed a new goal, the training will also help shift some of the unsightly blubber I have accumulated this summer - being wined and dined and entertained ... which I miss.

Who am I?

2011-09-22T11:18:00.000+01:00

Lydia posted a Self-Portrait today and it made me think about how other people perceive me, or if indeed they do perceive "me" at all.

"Oh have you met Jane? She's ...

... Lucy/Doug/Alf/Em's grand-daughter,
David/Nancy's daughter.

Graham/Ann/Susan/Clive's niece,
Julie/Barry/Joanne's older sister,
Julian/Mark/Rachael/Sarah/James/Hannah's cousin.

Lizzie's best friend,
Ian's girlfriend,
Stan's assistant,
Rob's bird.

The office union rep,
Eileen's running partner,
Sean's financee,
Marie/Padric's daughter-in-law,
Jackie/Louise/Irphan/Dean's sister-in-law.

Conor/Kiera's mother,
Fiona/Calli/Liam/Amy/Amanda/Ashley/Sam/Fred/Zara/Georgina's aunt.
Nik/Freya/Troy's owner,
Akela/Brown Owl.

The Village Shop keeper's wife,
The Postmistress,
The Clerk to the Parish Council.

The Accounts Department,
Sean's widow.

"How do you do? I'm Jane Healy ..."

Magpie Tales # 83: Slithering

2011-09-21T14:03:00.000+01:00

I looked at this weeks Magpie for a long time before I could bring myself to tell you all about a childhood shame ...

Every Tuesday in school assembly the headmistress would announce, in a loud clear voice unencumbered by childish inflection, that the "Speech Therapist" had arrived and would all those children with "Speech Impediments" please stand (just so the whole school can get a really good look at you) and go to such and such a classroom. For good measure she would read out the names of those afflicted, there was no escape, no pretending that it wasn't you she was talking about.

Oh how we snickered at those kids! We would nudge each other as they clambered over us and in loud stage whispers mock their unfortunate defect.

I was 6 years old when, like lots of other kids of that age, I lost both of my front milk teeth. It caused me to speak with just a slight (or so I thought) girlish lisp.

My name was read out in assembly ...

We were herded into the classroom and expertly assessed; Sshh Serapissed gave us all special exercises to do. I remember I had to hold my forefinger an inch away from my mouth and say something about a fat sailors wife hanging out the washing, I had to touch my finger with my tongue at the end of each word.

A few poems were written in an exercise book and I had to take these home and repeat them until I sounded normal (!?!)

In between being outraged by the schools lack of common sense and stiffling chortles, my father listened to me sissing through the poems, my speech improved, or maybe my adult teeth grew?

I spent weeks practising and drawing colourful doodles down the margins of the exercise book, repeating over and over

Sammy the Snake
Slithered along
The slippery path ...

For less embarrassing revelations visit here.

Lists

2011-09-20T14:00:00.000+01:00

I know this may have been enforced for some time but guess what? It was only today I noticed a little "ALERT" in my Facebook sidebar encouraging me to put all my friends onto lists - school friends, colleagues, family, close friends, casual acquaintances, lovers, friends pets, etc. Is this in case I am too dim-witted to remember which of my 77 friends belongs to which group?

No, no - it seems FaceBook is one step ahead. You list your friends appropriately and then only friends from certain groups get to see your status up-dates/photos etc. So you don't want Great-Aunt Derry to see your Friday Night escapades? Easy put her on the "Mad Old Aunts" list and then bar that list from seeing the album!

You don't want unpopular friends to know about that fab party you have planned? Simply shove them on the "Don't Invite At All Costs" list and they will never see that status!

OK none of your colleagues must know you're dating a co-worker but you want all your friends to see that you are finally dating a real man? Just exclude your colleagues and allow your friends to see the photo's of your weekend away.

Perfect - this is social exclusion at its best because (wait for it) FaceBook promises not to let any of your friends know which list they are on (oh thank you FaceBook). I'm just going to have to spend all weekend deciding who is entitled to see what or just continue to do what I do now ... don't want anyone to know? Don't post!

A Killer In Our Midst

2011-09-19T07:30:00.000+01:00

She came to us when her owner, a single woman in her 50s, died (not unexpectedly) of cirrhosis. She was 11 years old then.

She spent the first week of her time with us hidden under my daughters bed, the second week she ventured out as far as the bedroom door, by the end of the third week she had stopped running and hiding every time anyone approached her but kept her distance from the two large dogs that also lived with us.

When she had been with us for three months she went outside for the first time. It was raining but that didn't deter her, apparently she had spent months watching the lay of the land from my daughters bedroom window.

In all the weeks she had been with us she hadn't made a sound (she was mute), but after her third trip outside when she returned she headed straight into my daughters room and made a sound. Except it wasn't her making the sound ... it was the large rat she had bought in to kill before my daughters horrified eyes.

Over the next two years I lost count of the number of rats she gifted to us; I became immune to the number of mouse gall bladders (which cats so neatly leave) I would find lying around; I got used to my daughters blood curdling screams as she stuck her foot into a shoe that a dead shrew lay in.

Early one morning as I prepared the shop for opening I looked out of the window and my heart lurched - I saw her trotting calmly up to the brow of the hill and cross the road to the fields opposite. I thought I would never see her again, she would be killed on the crossing back. I was wrong, of course. I didn't see her return just heard my daughters screams as a small live rabbit was deposited in the living room. She lay purring in the doorway before calmly decapitating it, eating the head, leaving the ears and the body. And yes I even got used to her doing that, eventually.

We left Headley and, despite the girls in the stable yard behind pleading with us to leave her, we took her with us to South London. The street we lived in was infested with cats; cats that were tame, cats that were semi-feral, big cats, small cats, fat cats, thin cats ... our old girl was not impressed. She fought with the those cats every day, we learned that although she was mute she could still make that low growling noise that warns other cats off.

One morning she silently climbed out of the open bedroom window, slipping quickly down the roof, lodging herself in the guttering. A loud, long, strangled mew alerted us to her whereabouts. Sean had to fetch a ladder and wrench her out, getting clawed and spat at for his pains.

She ruled her tiny patch for 18 months before we bought her up to North Finchley, transporting her on the train, tube and bus in her "Cat-Taxi". Throughout the journey she lay with her face pressed against the bars, observing the changing scenery, purring loudly when my son tickled her ears.

Its a very genteel life she now lives, following the sun around the flat all summer, hogging the radiators in the winter. She follows my son everywhere and when he leaves she watches him walk up the road from the balcony. Once he is out of sight she goes into his bedroom, makes a terrible wailing sound and drops languidly onto his bed, clutching her toy banana.

She is not a particularly friendly cat. She doesn't sit on your lap or crave cuddling. She pads silently around the place, suddenly appearing at your feet (but not rubbing against you) mouthing her silent greeting. Every morning she jumps onto my bed and runs up and down a few times before sitting by my head, purring loudly until I get up and feed her.

She feigns deafness most of the time but she can still hear a spider scuttle across the floor, she stalks and dispatches it with calm determination, then flops next to the shrivelled carcass, eating it lying on her back.

She has been sharing a home with us for 5 years today. Happy Anniversary Cat.

Elephants, Foxes and Squirrels

2011-09-15T10:22:00.000+01:00

Reading through the blogs posted since I last checked (yesterday) I spotted a post from Little Hat - I have posted in his comments that we Londoners do not speak to strangers and thought of this true story that happened just two nights ago ...

Picture if you will a balmy mid-September evening, two friends meet and decide to have a quiet refreshing pint before an evening meal; they enter a busy (but not crowded) north London pub and spot a spare sofa, conveniently placed near the bar. One friend moves to claim the seats the other stands at the bar waiting to be served.

To those of you unfamiliar with the London pub scene - this is what always happens, the one at the bar asks the other,
"What are you having - a pint of Pride?" (London Pride is a popular beer over here).
The other one pulls a face (not a mean face, but a "oh let me think about that" face) and comes over to examine what else is on tap.

"What are you having?" He asks, hoping my choice will inspire him perhaps?
"I'm having a half of Aspalls." The seat saver pulls a real face now but is still undecided - no hurry the barman hasn't spotted us yet.
"Fiery Fox" a small voice to my right whispers ... I turn and there stands a short (only a couple of inches taller than me) man that I have never seen before.
"Fiery Fox," he suggests holding up a full glass and nodding. Does this stranger expect to be included in the round?
"Fiery Fox?" I repeat a little unsure of myself.
"It's a lovely drink, very sweet and refreshing." continues the stranger, smacking his lips as if to prove a point. "Fiery Fox." He repeats again.
I have been in this pub many times before (it's The Elephant, the one directly opposite my flat) I know they don't serve Fiery Fox cider here.
"Pint of Discovery," my friend decides - putting pay to any further attempts to discuss Fiery Foxes.
We stand staring ahead hoping to catch the barmans attention.
"Red Squirrels." The little man says. Is he attempting to list all brands named after animals?
I snicker, my friend stares at the optics, and the little man repeats himself.
The barman (a young Aussie) arrives, acknowledges us and says he'll be over in a moment.
"Red Squirrels." The little man persists. "Do you know what has happened to our Red Squirrels?"
I snicker again - my friend stares really hard at the optics, shakes his head and under his breath says "No."
"I'll tell you what's happened to our Red Squirrels - Grey Squirrels!"
The barman returns to take our order, my friend tells him what he wants and then turns to me - expertly avoiding eye contact with the man now standing very close to me, and says,
"Sorry what did you say you were having?"
"A fit of the giggles." I reply as the sad fate of our countries squirrel population is explained to me, "Oh and half an Aspalls."
"Speckled Hen" the stranger calls out as we pick up our drinks and move away ...

And that in a nutshell (pardon the pun) is why Londoners do not engage strangers in conversations.

Magpie # 82: One Brown, One Green

2011-09-11T21:26:00.003+01:00

As soon as I saw this weeks prompt I thought about this very dear friend of mine, it's a true story, and we are still best friends. I dedicate this vignette to him (even if he doesn't read it!)

The first thing anyone noticed about him were his eyes. One was brown, the other green. The brown one turned in towards his nose, as if he were squinting at a fly perched on the end of it. In the beginning I was fascinated by that eye; it always stayed in that corner, it never moved, (as his other one did) to focus on anything other than that fly. Sometimes, if we were in a group, it was impossible to tell who he was talking to, I was left wondering which eye was on me - the brown one or the green one. Nobody ever mentioned his eye, nobody ever mocked him about it, not even when he wasn't there - which was unusual, we were all sixteen and frighteningly critical of every ones appearance.

I must have stopped thinking about it eventually, or perhaps just stopped noticing, he had an infectious laugh, a wicked sense of humour and was everyone favourite "naughty boy". Perhaps that was why no-one ever mentioned the eye.

I didn't see him again for thirty-three years, but the moment I saw him I spotted the two different coloured eyes. The brown one was still trained on that invisible fly.
"I'm blind in the brown eye." He said to me unexpectedly, I was embarrassed, had he spotted me staring? I wasn't sure what to say.
"Have you always been?" I asked, thinking back to those distant days at school.
"Oh yes." He replied "Funny no-one seemed to notice at school." I was silent for a moment,
"You ever thought of becoming a rugby referee?" I ventured ...

For more Magpie Tales click here

Pink Shirts

2011-09-08T12:20:00.000+01:00

"Women like men who wear pink shirts." I was told the other day. I said nothing.
"Men comfortable in their sexuality wear them." He continued.
"Is that why you always wear pink?" I asked.
He put his arm around me (he was wearing a soft pink polo shirt)
"Women feel more secure and safe with a man in pink." He kissed the top of my head.

Do women really look at men wearing pink shirts (or any colour come to think of it) and make a quick mental assessment of how safe or secure they would feel with him.
I wanted to burst out laughing ... actually, come to think of it, I may have burst out laughing. Secure? Safe? My father wore pink shirts, along with every womaniser I know. That's not to say that every man who wears a pink shirt is a womaniser, just every womaniser I know wears a pink shirt.

One evening, a couple of years ago, we were sitting in that small house in South London, watching rugby (what else) on the television. For those that don't know - rugby players are (by and large), big, burly men - its a VERY physical game. Anyway on this particular occasion Stade Francais were playing, they ran out onto the pitch, sporting their new strip. Sean spluttered, went all red in the face, thumped his fist onto the coffee table, he almost choked to death. He was enraged that his sacred game could be defiled in such a way. I started to laugh, his anger was blown out of all proportions, the players all looked quite beefy - but I wouldn't feel safe or secure with any of them.

I can't remember his exact words (well I can and they're not printable) but somewhere in his rant I Sean mentioned that I should NEVER trust a man in a pink shirt ... they wore them to lull you into a false sense of security.

First Day

2011-09-06T10:31:00.000+01:00

This morning my youngest niece started Secondary School. A tiny little thing (she really is a tiny little thing) in a roomy uniform she will (hopefully) grow into, an out sized back-pack, hair neatly pony-tailed, giggling nervously as she waited for her older brother to finish his breakfast and take her up the road with him.

It's a scene that must be taking place in households all over the country today. It reminded me of my first day at school ...

Mum was at home nursing a hugely pregnant belly and minding my two younger siblings, so Pops had to take me.

Hand-in-hand we walked the half mile to school. I don't remember anything we said, although I'm sure we must have chattered all the way, I don't remember what I wore but I bet it was embellished with big ribbons (Mum loved BIG ribbons). I do remember the playground though, lots of mums and kids, no-one else there with their dad! We stood apart from everyone else, Pops looking a little out of place in his army uniform, me hanging onto his hand nervously. With the benefit of hindsight I bet he was praying for the bell to ring so he could disappear, rush off to an environment he was more comfortable in - but he stayed with all the other new kids mums and walked with me into the classroom.

The teacher welcomed us and told us to find seats - I had never seen a real desk before and was eager to find a good place to sit ... Pops ruffled my hair (Mind my ribbons Daddy) and said something like "See you later" and that was it ... whoosh he was gone. I looked around the classroom, all the posters on the walls, books on shelves and then quickly found a desk and sat down - the first kid in the room. All the other kids were still clinging to their mums skirts (mums didn't wear trousers back then), some even crying! I noticed (of course) that some of them were being coaxed to stay with promises of sweets if they were good!

I don't remember anything more about that day, except that at home time my dad was back in the playground waiting for me, in his uniform, ready to hear all about my First Day - no sweets in his pockets though.

August Book Review

2011-09-04T21:48:00.000+01:00

We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
This was our Book Club read of month - not one I would have ever have chosen. The novel takes the form of letters written by the mother of a teenage mass murderer to her husband. I have to admit it has taken me almost the whole month to read it - the first quarter of the book just dragged and dragged; it was so depressing that I couldn't manage more than a few pages at a time. I went along to Book Club mid month and had to admit it had defeated me ... of the 9 of us there that evening 5 had finished it, 4 of us were struggling. The 5 that had finished it urged us slackers to continue, so I persevered and I am very glad I did. It was one of the most disturbing books I have ever read, I did guess the ending but those that didn't were absolutely enthralled. So if you want to read something very controversial I would recommend it - it's not for the faint hearted and the ending has a horrifying twist.

Next months book is much lighter and I will have several others ready to review too!

Magpie Tales #80: One for the road.

2011-08-30T09:54:00.000+01:00

This weeks prompt reminded me of cold, wet winter nights ...

I huddled tightly into my raincoat, shrinking back from the pavement edge as the traffic splashed through soaking me from yet another angle. Clutching my umbrella in my fist I struggled on, the rain bounced back off the pavements soaking through my fashionable (but not waterproof) boots and I thought "Why?"

Why I was bothering with this meeting? What did it prove? That I was reliable, dependable, would turn up in all weather; but what did that really say about me? Lonely, desperate, in need of company.

Suddenly the bright lights of the bar were in front of me, I pushed the door open; the damp smell of others sheltering (having nothing to go home to either?), hit me at once. Noisy, quick drinks with colleagues ... blaming the weather for having to stay for a second and then third drink, the storm would have long passed before anyone would venture back out.

I stood by the entrance, searching quickly for familiar faces, I spotted them clustered near the roaring fire, delighted with themselves for securing that much coveted spot. I shook myself, wiping my sodden feet on the mat, I moved almost shyly towards them. Someone turned, perhaps sensing my approach, and boomed out a greeting. I smiled with relief, accepted the offer of a drink, a warm sense of belonging crept over me; then, like the others, I began to ridicule those not courageous enough to make the effort to join us.

"Us", the fearless ones, putting off the inevitable, the loneliness of a cold empty home.

For more Magpie Tales check here.

Colours of the Rainbow: YELLOW

2011-08-24T12:54:00.000+01:00

Yellow-belly, Yellow pages, Yellow-Submarine, Sun-flowers, Daffodils, Hi-Vis ...

When I think of Yellow the first thought is Sunshine ... beaches ... hay-making.

In the village any time from late-June to mid-July one lone old boy could be seen trundling up and down the fields in his tractor, first cutting the grass then a few days later baling it. One year our daft neighbour Douglas (the one who owned a couple of fields behind us) had a big argument with the old boy about how to do the job properly; big mistake to have an argument with the only man in the village who knew how to make hay and bale it, and had been servicing the village for almost 50 years! Douglas was left with half a field of cut grass ... and no baling done. But Douglas knew best, and hired an OUTSIDER to finish the job. Yes you read those words correctly - an OUTSIDER came along to finish the job, but only after it had rained a couple of times on the cut grass, and it was starting to get a little manky. And then of course the village MAFIA refused to buy any of it so he was left with a barn full of the rotten stuff. After that Douglas let his fields out to a couple of women with horses so it didn't need cutting again - but it did need rolling. And yes only one old boy in the village had the right equipment, and guess who that was? Douglas never really fitted into the village.

Yellow is a cheerful, happy colour and wearing it is supposed to signify you are of a sunny disposition. It's not my colour I'm afraid, it makes my skin look sallow but I like it and lots of the quilts I have made had yellow in them.

When my children were small they both had blonde hair - living in Hong Kong this was quite a rarity and as they walked down the crowded market streets people would touch their heads for good luck. I don't often indulge myself like this but here's a favourite photo taken on my daughters first birthday.

Do I look fat in this?

2011-08-23T11:32:00.000+01:00

"Do I look fat in this?"
"Er no ... No, not in that dear."
"Oh so what do I look fat in?"
"Ah ... er ... that thing wore yesterday and ..."
"And? There's an and?"
"... the other thing you had on the day before that."

I give up - why do we feel compelled to ask something which we know will upset us?

Magpie Tales # 79: 21st Birthday Surprise

2011-08-22T10:45:00.000+01:00

I loved this weeks prompt - the excited, expectant faces - it reminded me of so many car journeys. But the one that sprang to mind first was not one that I made.

Back in the old days, before I was married, and was called Jane Varley, we celebrated 21st birthdays in a different way. Back then they were big family affairs, they were special birthdays, and probably the last one that relatives sent you money for. It was coming up to my 21st birthday and I was travelling from Kent up to Nant-y-caws, to a party that my Gran had organised for me. My parents were living in Hong Kong and they had sent Gran a cheque to cover the cost of hiring a room and organising food and drinks.

It had been the topic of a great deal of correspondence and when I had been at Grans for Christmas we had talked of little else, or so it seemed. A room had been hired in the pub that one of Uncle Teds girlfriends owned (Ted was in his mid 60s then and was a confirmed adulterer) and my aunt (the one that was a Domestic Science teacher) was in charge of the catering. It was going to be one of those proper old-fashioned 21st birthday parties, grand-parents, uncles, aunts, rarely seen cousins and their off-spring ... room for a couple of "special" friends only.

I travelled up with my sister and our then beaus; my best-friend Tess was coming over from somewhere dark and mysterious, Stoke or somewhere like that. We all arrived sometime on Friday and were hitting Oswestry Town Centre (along with favourite relatives) for a night out before the more formal do on Saturday. Sitting on the mantelpiece at Grans house were a pile of cards from people too far away to make the grand affair, I spotted the telegram from Hong Kong, tore it open and read a loud the message,

"Have a great day and party ... wish we could all be there with you, love Dad, Barry and Joanne".

I looked at my Gran, who was sitting smiling, my sister leaped up and snatched the telegram from me. We looked at each other, jumped up and down, then screamed,
"Mom's coming."
"No, no shes not." Said Gran suddenly alarmed.
"Then why isn't her name on the telegram?" I reasonably asked.
"Your dad just forgot to put it on."
"Forgot to put Moms name on? C'mon Gran you know what she's like - she would never miss a family party, nor a chance to surprise us all! Now we've just got to work out where she will sleep." Gran looked at her tiny cottage already bursting at the seams,
"I swear to you girls Nance isn't going to be here. She hasn't said a word to me."
My sister and I laughed, Gran was notoriously hopeless at keeping a secret!
A car pulled up and I screamed again,
"She's here!"

It was my aunt pulling up with one of the cousins. Three times that afternoon cars pulled up, three times I screamed, three times another female relative got out; I had been previously unaware of just how many little, plump, middle-aged women I was related to.

We little band of pre-party goers got ready and hit Down Town Oswestry that Friday night; we forgot about the telegram.

The next morning we were sitting in my Grans living room, nursing our collective hangovers with steaming cups of milky, sugary tea, going over the very last, last minute arrangements for that evenings function; almost unnoticed a taxi pulled up on my Grans drive ... almost unnoticed a little, plump, middle aged woman's face peered out of the back seat window, almost unnoticed she struggled out ... almost unnoticed she paid off the taxi driver ... almost unnoticed Mum had arrived.

Catch other memories over here at Magpie Tales

Missing mobile

2011-08-18T16:11:00.000+01:00

For years I resisted owning a mobile phone, well of course I did - this is the woman who doesn't own a TV, I was hardly likely to embrace a gadget that would have me at every ones beck and call 24 hours a day.

I didn't get a mobile until January 2007 so I could telephone Sean to let him know which train I had caught home. And then the office gave me one.

I hated it - I had to carry it around with me all the time, so that even when I wasn't at work colleagues could contact me to ask questions that couldn't possibly wait until the next morning. I guarded my number jealously, my colleagues all knew it and my family knew it but no-one else, I regarded it as an invasion of my privacy. I had the phone a year before I even recorded my voicemail message!

And then one day I was sitting in the office and I received a text message. "In town tomorrow, fancy a drink?" The phone then became my link to a much more exciting life, it never left my side, I didn't dare leave it lying around anywhere. In the last two years I have never left home without it. What was life like without it?

I use it to keep in contact with everyone, if I'm meeting friends I use it to locate them when I arrive in a crowded area. When I met my blogger friend Andy the other day we used our mobiles to identify each other!

This week I was on the train coming home when my phone slipped out of my pocket, I missed it as soon as I got off the train - as soon as the doors closed behind me and it pulled out of the station. As soon as I got home I started the process of reporting it missing and putting a bar on it. I had my old mobile so I just needed to pick up a new sim card in the morning, activate it and I would be in business again.

I have difficulty describing how sad I felt about the loss of my mobile, I had saved special sentimental texts, recorded some of the messages that had been left on it. The thought of someone else reading them or listening to them made me feel quite angry; but then I became angry that I had become so dependant upon such a tiny object! I had cancelled the phone before anyone had a chance to use it, so I guess whoever picked it up has simply removed the sim card and wiped it clean.

When I reactivated my old phone I was surprised to see that I still had 29 old messages stored on it; one from my daughter telling me she was queuing up to get Gok Wan to sign her book, one from my son telling me he was stranded in Berlin, one from a friend offering his sympathy when my old dog died. Lots of others of a more dramatic nature, which made me realise how far I have moved on. I carefully deleted them all.

A Visitor

2011-08-17T20:24:00.000+01:00

Yesterday Seans Aunt came to stay the night. She was going to one of her cousins 70th birthday party in Chelsea and had nowhere to stay. This particular Aunt is quite a character and has a marvellous gift for story telling!

Of course my son and I were invited to join her at the party, I was already attending the final of the Summer Park Events (Orienteering - I won a prize by the way but that isn't part of this story) so declined (Ah I understand Jane dear, sure you wouldn't want to arrive at a grand party like this in your sweat-stained running suit) but I was quite surprised when my 26 year old son said he would love to go (You'll love it - she assured him - Sure the craic will be great and I need to show all those oldies there that I still have the where with all to arrive with a decent looking young feller).

I met the Aunt on Tuesday afternoon and from the moment I met her to the moment I left, one and half hours later, she barely stopped to take a breath. I was positively reeling from the amount of information she could impart in any given minute.

I returned home long before the two party-goers but I did hear their arrival home. They sat in the living room chattering for what seemed to be hours (Is your mother asleep - sure she's abit of a light weight isn't she? I knew she would be one of those early to bed types)

From the moment she woke to the moment she left this afternoon she kept up the conversation, never shying away from what others may consider a delicate subject. (Tell me Jane do you have a feller in your life now? You know I was your age when my husband died, within a year I had had 3 proposals of marriage, none of which - as you can clearly see - I bothered to take up. Now if you manage to escape their clutches for 5 years you're home and dry; you won't be tempted to tread that path again, sure you can enjoy their company but you don't want to be at their beck and call, cooking and ironing and all that stuff)

I learnt more about that side of the family in the day that she was with us than in the 28 years that I was married to Sean!

Reflection on horrors.

2011-08-10T11:53:00.001+01:00

This isn't a political or moral rant - it's just a reflection on horrors.

Growing up in Hong Kong we lived every summer with the threat of typhoons; we listened avidly to radio announcements, praying for a number 8 signal because it meant a day off school. We didn't think about the consequences of a typhoon hitting us, just the excitement of an extra unexpected day off.

I still remember the first time I ever lived through a typhoon directly hitting us. All day the typhoon had been getting closer, we had been sent home from school and as we had travelled home we had seen dustbins being overturned, trees bending as the winds picked up strength. That night my parents moved our bedding into the long corridor of the flat, safe from any flying debris that may smash into the windows and break them; our childish giggles subsided as we lay listening to the howling winds, felt the building sway slightly and caught the genuine fear in our parents hushed whispers. Eventually we slept, and the next morning we woke to nothing. No sounds of traffic, no winds lashing the building, no birds calling ... just nothing. We rushed to the windows to see what was happening, trees lay uprooted everywhere, we could see a partial collapse in the hillside behind us, six feet of mud and rubble blocked the road, further down the valley we overlooked water flooded down gullys, sweeping away everything lying in its path. At that time about 20 families lived in little huts in that valley, their makeshift homes had been destroyed, we watched in horrified silence as rescue workers dug out the bodies of those caught in the sudden mudslide.

After the initial shock of the scene, my parents dressed and went outside to meet other neighbours to see what they could do to help. I remember my father being one of the group of men who started clearing through the rubble so that at least one lane of traffic could pass through on the road. The gas we cooked on wasn't working and I can still see my mother boiling endless kettles of water over an electric fire she had placed on its side. Nobody said anything they just got on and did what had to be done.

On Monday evening I watched with horror the scenes taking place in the city that I live in. The building burning in Croydon was one I passed every week when I lived in South London, those streets awash with mindless looters were the same ones that I shopped in. I noted that the actual area we used to live in didn't feature at all in the riots, perhaps all the disenchanted youth of that neighbourhood had been drawn to the bigger action going on in down-town Croydon. Burning cars and buildings were a weekly occurrence in South Norwood, there are no shops to loot in that district.

The area I live in now is not a particularly "posh" area - we have no designer boutiques, shopping malls or large chain stores. It is one of those areas that has a mish-mash of ethnic groups, the shops and small businesses are owned mostly by Eastern Europeans, Turks and Iranians. They have no faith in the British justice system, they are quick to arm themselves to "robustly" protect their livelihoods and they take no prisoners. I'm not defending them but we had no trouble here when other areas, not that far away, were burning.

On Tuesday morning when I woke up I felt the same way as I had done years ago as a child, numbed by the enormity of the previous nights events, and just as helpless.

Magpie # 77: Misjudged

2011-08-08T11:54:00.000+01:00

She had spent hours preparing the perfect seductive seafood meal; the wine was chilling, the lights dimmed, a selection of subtlety romantic recordings playing unobtrusively in the background.

Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed, her make-up was discreetly but expertly applied, an expensive (but casual) coral two-piece showed off her perfect figure. A glance in the mirror confirmed that she looked stunning.

As she twirled in front of the mirror she thought about him. He was refreshingly innocent, unlike all the others she had known, he hadn't tried to push himself onto her, she was intrigued that he had been able to resist her charms.

At five minutes past the appointed time she heard a gentle tap on the door, her heart lurched, but she didn't rush to the door; she took a deep breath and began to count to one hundred then drifted over to let him in.

He stood on the stoep waiting for her, perhaps she hadn't heard him knocking. Should he try again? He could hear the faint sound of music playing and once again wondered what he was going to say to her. He had never met a woman so beautiful, confidant and classy before. Every moment spent in her company left him feeling excited but slightly unnerved - what did she see in him? What had he to offer her?

The door opened and they stood looking at each other. Her tanned skin glowed, her golden curls cascaded around her head like a halo, he was suddenly conscious that he should have stopped on the way and bought a bunch of flowers.

She looked at him and saw a gawky young man in ill-fitting cheap jeans and a slightly crumpled t-shirt ... suddenly she didn't want to invite him. She pulled the door closed behind her and wondered what she was going to say.

Before she had a chance to say a word he began - he stuttered an apology, he had double booked, his friends were expecting him to join them at a bowling alley, in the distance a car horn hooted and his friends called out. She was relieved but immediately furious that he had been the one to cry off. She listened to his excuse impatiently, cursed herself for bothering to make such an effort with the meal and her appearance. She shrugged off his excuse, smiled at him politely and said goodnight before he was able to finish and arrange another date.

For more Magpie Tales click here

July Book Review

2011-08-05T08:04:00.000+01:00

Whistling for the Elephants by Sandy Tocsvig
My sister is a great fan of Sandy Toksvig - she goes to see her live at every opportunity - even treated me to an evening of fun with her a couple of years ago. Anyway I was up in the attic sorting through a few boxes of books when I came across this. From the first chapter I was hooked by the bizarre story and clever turn of phrase. It will come as no surprise* that the novel centres around a number of eccentric women, told through the eyes of an odd little girl. I loved it and would recommend it to anyone who wants to read something with a difference.

*Sandy is famously a lesbian comedian in this country. A very clever but very eccentric woman herself.

The Murder Room by P. D. James
I always enjoyed a good P. D. James and settled down to this one quickly. P. D. James has an easy style - but I was a little impatient with the long build-up to the murder. I knew instantly who the victim would be and correctly guessed the murderer within the first few pages of the discovery of the body. There was a slightly odd twist to the second murder but still it was all too obvious - maybe P. D. James is losing her touch, getting too old or I've read too many of these types of books. Its an entertaining read but not brilliant.

Minding Frankie by Maeve Binchey
Another comfortable easy read by an old favourite. A typical Maeve Binchey, with a cast of thousands, the story revolves around a young alcoholic who suddenly finds himself the father of a little girl, that a social worker is desperate to remove from him. Of course it all works out well in the end, despite some odd twists throughout - Minding Frankie isn't all roses though and there are some very sad parts to this story - so be prepared to shed a tear or two.

Where in the World ...

2011-08-02T12:01:00.000+01:00

Apologies all round - I have been absent from Blogville and missed good posts - still busy catching up, so if you find comments on posts you thought were done and dusted, I trust you'll be pleasantly surprised.

OK so what have I been up to? (You are no doubt desperate to know, sleepless nights spent wondering "Where is that short messy-haired woman?"). The truth is I have been busy with the London Park Orienteering Events - honing my map-reading skills, visiting weird and wonderful parks in parts of London I have never ventured into before; I have been socialising with old (and new) friends; I have been "dating" one particular new friend; and last weekend I met one of my first blogging buddies Andy Jones. I took him to ChinaTown so that he could cross off "92. Eat Noodles in London" from his 100 Things To Do List. There are photos to prove that this event took place but Andy is recently engaged and not as quick to post as he once was! (Sorry Andy my photos were all bleached it was so bright down at Piccadilly Circus) It was a real pleasure to meet Andy and I hope he enjoyed the selection of dishes I ordered for him in the Dim-Sum restaurant, and fair-dos (as they say where I come from) he did try everything!

I have never gotten into the Bloggers Award thingys - or recommending other blogs, never really sure that my recommendations would appeal to anyone else. I follow different people for a variety of reasons, but after meeting Andy I got to thinking about you all as real people not just a mysterious post that I was reading. Through blogging I get to see and read about a whole range of topics, emotions, politcal views and just everyday life from all over the world.

I see that Glenda was thinking pretty much the same as me. I have recommended her before but if you missed out then do read her tales about Olive (now sadly deceased) the Polish Hen.

Then there is Brigid over in Ireland. I always enjoy Brigids post - she has a charming style, her re-posted (that I missed the first time round) post struck a chord because secretly I always wandered (when I was a teenager) if anybody would ever want to marry me, or more to the point why they would want to. By the time I was 19 I had grown out of that state of mind and declared vehemently to anyone that asked (mostly elderly relatives) that it was a mugs game and only a fool would ever commit to it. And yes a few years later I became one of those fools. I have never discussed marriage with either of my children - mine ended up not being a great example and I don't really feel qualified to encourage or discourage them. I just hope they both find happiness and if that is with or without marriage then that's fine by me.

Whilst I am on the subject of favourite bloggers - I couldn't not mention Ellen from Texas. Ellen is so down-to-earth, honest and talented that she scares me (sometimes). We have become great friends (I hope) and I love it when I see an e-mail arriving in from her. She has got me and my air-headed ways down to a "T". Thank you Ellen for trying to keep me firmly grounded and telling me how it is!

So, some of are asking now (I imagine in my deluded sense of self-importance) what about this new friend she quietly slipped in a few paragraphs back? Early days yet chaps - he is quite presentable and a great romantic, which is a little bit odd because I'm not really used to that sort of thing. We have had some very interesting "dates", walking along canals, exploring odd parts of London, enjoying different restaurants or going on picnics. It's all very grown-up and uncomplicated - if there is anything more to report I'll let you know.

Now back to you people, I love reading all your blogs from whichever part of the world you are in, where else would I learn about a trip to Vanuatu and IKEA (both totally unrelated) other than at - Little Hat's over in Oz or what about in Nairobi Otieno who recommended an obscure film about a young Maori boy - I managed to get a copy of it very quickly and watched it that night. I thoroughly enjoyed it, thanks for the heads up there!

On a more serious note I read Colleens blog and felt deeply moved. Colleen lives in Norway, the events there have shocked us all. Colleen is an inspirational young woman and I love her posts - I don't have her strong faith and I admire her strength and determination tremendously. The truth is that none of us will ever know why so many children were in the wrong place at the wrong time - doubtless over the next few years it will be the topic of a number of debates and books, but no explanation or words of comfort will ever be enough to the parents who have lost their loved ones in such a senseless show of extremism.

There are lots more besides these great few but this post was in danger of becoming an Oscar Award Winning Speech - thanks all of you for contributing to a great social network ... and remember if you are ever in London and want to cross "Eating a bowl of Noodles in London" off your list give me a shout, I know a great little place.

PS I didn't meet my new beau via the internet - I still believe quite firmly in real life for some things.

Magpie Tales #76: Birthday Memories

2011-08-01T16:04:00.000+01:00

I looked at the prompt this morning and had absolutely no idea what it was! Then a stirring in the old grey cells ... it reminded me of the cigarette cards we used to attach to the spokes of our bikes when I was a kid.

I had stood enviously watching the boys pedalling furiously up and down the lane after school, shouting, hooting, blazers flapping in the wind, delighting in the rush of speed.

It was my birthday next week and I might, in my wildest dreams, have a bike of my own. I imagined it - a red chopper with red streamers flying from the handlebars, I couldn't make up my mind between a hooter or a bell, and I had collected all the cards from the sweet cigarette packets for weeks. I studied the boys riding techniques - they free wheeled down to the bridge and then stood up on the pedals to gain speed as they started to climb the other side of it. On the flat stretches they let go of the handlebars all together and some dare devils even rode with their hands behind their heads. I knew it would take practise but I fancied I would eventually be able to do a wheelie, and the lads made cycling up a wooden plank then launching themselves off, as far as possible, look dead easy. In one week that would be me.

Time dragged by.

The morning of my birthday arrived and Grandad stood in the bedroom doorway, holding a tray with a boiled egg on it, and a plate of buttered soldiers. Behind him stood the rest of the family giggling and nudging each other, holding presents wrapped in newspaper; they were singing Happy Birthday to me. Mum had explained the night before that I might not be getting everything on my Birthday List and I had guessed she meant the bike. I hid my disappointment and smiled as the family presented their gifts of books and pencils, and thanked them for my "Breakfast in Bed Treat".

Grandad sat on the bed watching me as I ate, I smiled at him, he ruffled my hair and we chattered about the books - which I was grateful for, but still it wasn't the same as a bike. After breakfast I pulled on my dressing gown, and wondered what I was going to do with all the cigarette cards I had hidden in the pockets. Grandad put his hand out for me to hold as we went downstairs, the others had gone down before us and I could hear them laughing in the kitchen. Everyone went quiet as we walked in but then they all started talking at once, asking how I liked my gifts. I was sure I had been genuine when I had thanked them for the books but I could see they knew I was just acting. Suddenly the back door opened and my uncle came running in, he couldn't contain himself any longer, he was pushing something in through the door.

"Take that outside." He was scolded, "Clive you ought to know better than that."

OK it wasn't a red chopper, but it was red, it had streamers, a hooter and a bell, and inserted in the spokes of the front wheel and the two back ones were hundreds of little cigarette cards - boy was I going to cut a figure as I charged up and down the back yard.

My apologies to the cute kid on this trike - but it was the perfect image!

For more Magpie Tales click here

Magpie Tales # 75: The World Famous Dog Show

2011-07-25T09:31:00.000+01:00

By the time I was 6 years old I had lived in Tripoli and Berlin; I spoke fluent Italian and a smattering of German; but when I was 6 we were living in a small village in England, whilst my father was studying Cantonese at SOAS, how romantic and exotic an up-bringing!

But it wasn't good enough, too ordinary for one little girl ...

At school I told everyone my family belonged to a travelling circus; I had learnt Italian from the acrobat Gian Franco, a short muscular man, completely bald but with a heavy black beard and a big gold ear-ring. Gian Franco was part of a big Italian family; all short and swarthy - they waved their arms excitedly when they talked and smelled of garlic. They wore glitzy tight costumes as they sprung off boards, somersaulted through the air and landed on each others shoulders. Gian Franco was the strongest, he was always the man at the bottom of the pile that held the rest of the family up. We knew him so well because his caravan was always parked next to ours; his wife Nicolina made great bowls of steaming spaghetti, far too much for just the two of them, they were always inviting us over to share with them.

Oh didn't I mention that we lived in a caravan? It was a long red one and along both sides in huge gold lettering was the proclamation "The World Famous Varley Family Dog Show". That was my Dads act, the preforming dogs. He had two poodles, a Yorkshire terrier and two border collies. The poodles and the yorkie wore the dearest little tutus, my mum made the costumes herself, we kids helped by sewing on the sequins. All day my dad trained the dogs to walk backwards on their hind legs and jump through hoops, there were all sorts of trade secrets I was forbidden to divulge, but lets just say we spent a small fortune on dog biscuits! My mother was so grateful for the mounds of spaghetti that Nicolina prepared for us each night. Of course it was a little crowded in the caravan, what with the 5 dogs, 4 kids and my parents, but we were happy. I drew hundreds of pictures of our "World Famous Act", the best ones were framed and hung outside the Headmistresses office.

Children in my class would gape as I told them about my mothers act (she had been in another circus before she met my father), some of them had seen the plump little lady pushing a pram with my youngest sister in it, my brother hanging from the handle bars (tethered to it by one of those leads that people used to attach their wayward kids to them), waiting for me at the school gates; "It's true," I would glibly tell them "She rides a bike across a tight-rope. I'm not sure which act I want to do when I'm a grown up, I think I'll do the bike and tight-rope until I get too old and fat, then I'll take over my Dad's Act."

Roll-up, roll-up for more Magpie Tales click here ...

Magpie Tales # 74: The Masquerade ...

2011-07-18T11:33:00.000+01:00

The three of us get out of the car, no words spoken, just a quick straightening of a tie, tug at a skirt, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust - then with an almost imperceptible reassuring nod, and tight smile to the other two I turn to face the gathering; small clusters of friends and family standing, waiting for us. I step forward with a friendly fixed smile, holding out my hand,
"Oh David, good of you to come; Adrian bless you its nice to see you ..."

We move, seemingly relaxed, mingling, reluctantly accepting our unwelcome role as hosts; chatting, waiting, willing the time to pass quickly but at the same time dreading each passing moment.

The doors open and we are approached by a softly spoken man in a dark suit, gently guiding us through, in hushed tones pointing out our seats.

We three don't look at each other, just walk, (backs straight, heads held high, knowing everyone is watching) to our places ... places we didn't ask to have reserved for us. We can't turn around to chat to the people behind, we can't even speak to each other, we just stare blankly ahead, alone with our thoughts.

And what do you think of whilst you are waiting for your husbands coffin to appear?

"Let's get this over and done with."

I glance quickly at my watch, and as if on cue music starts, throats clear, whisperings stop; I want to turn around but daren't and then all too soon it is placed in front of us and we have to stare at it - nowhere else to look.

I hear a quiet sob, I know it hasn't come from me and calmly I reach into my handbag for a tissue, without looking I pass it to my child. And then I focus on the coffin, can't escape from it - do all the wonderful, and not so wonderful, memories come flooding into my head?

No.

All I can think is "You bastard, how dare you do this to us! How dare you force this vile scene onto our children!" and I keep those angry thoughts ticking over because without them the mask of careful composure is in danger of slipping.

I have missed the last couple of Magpies but I'm back this week. For more masked thoughts visit Magpie Tales.

Rainbow Colours: ORANGE

2011-07-13T15:02:00.000+01:00

Funny that oranges are orange ... if you catch my drift. I mean we don't call bananas yellow or yellow bananas - why oranges orange?

What do I think of when I think of ORANGE? Oranges, Fire, Sunsets, Saris, Hari Krishna, The Dutch, The Marching Bands ...

... Sherbet.

When I was a child we used to get given pennies by the adult members of the extended family to nip down the road and buy them a packet of fags from Mrs. Barnes corner shop, (in those days it was considered perfectly normally for children to do this) with our pennies we would buy a twist of orange sherbet and a packet of candy cigarette sticks. The cigarette sticks were white with a red tip - we would suck them in imitation of the way adults smoked, to make our play more realistic we would dip our fingers into the orange sherbet until our fingers were stained that delicate shade of nicotine that all the adults had. Oh did our sophistication know no bounds?

In one of those trains of thought that drift through your mind like a game of Chinese Whispers I leapt from orange sherbet to all the sweets we had as children; my mother was the worlds meanest when it came to sweets (but I didn't have my first filling until I was 25 so really I am grateful to her).

Each month my mother would buy a selection of sweet bags, she would open them and empty them into a large tin; each evening (as our treat) we were permitted to choose 4 sweets from the tin.

A Dolly Mixture was one sweet, a Jelly Baby was another, two stuck together were two sweets not "Oh you're lucky Siamese twins", I suppose we were lucky we didn't live in a cardboard box or have to nail newspaper to our feet and pretend they were shoes. Anyway back to the sweets, I was thinking about the sweets, the tastes and colours that I haven't thought about for years.

Was it with these images swirling around my head that induced me to buy the frock I am going to wear to lunch on Saturday? Was it the comforting image of a Liquorice Allsort that I was dreaming of?

Wearing orange implies you are creative and energetic! It apparently SCREAMS sexual energy! Now here's my confession I have never worn it before - but I'll let you know!

Rainbow Colours: RED

2011-07-11T14:28:00.000+01:00

The other afternoon a friend and I were sitting enjoying a quiet drink in the pub opposite my flat; we were a little surprised by the large number of young black girls that were wiggling and wobbling around on astonishingly high heels and unbelievebly glamourous outfits; then we realised they were attending a Wedding Reception being held in the Restaurant above. We couldn't help staring, the colours were amazing ... why do we Brits dress so conservatively?

So that got me thinking about colours and the idea for my next lot of themed posts was born.

"Red, Red, You wet the bed ..."

A RED-rag to a bull, RED-faced, RED Cross, RED letter day, Lucky RED Lai see envelopes, RED light-area, REDS-in-the-bed ... Fire-engines, Superman, the Welsh Dragon:

Red - the colour of danger and excitement; in China red is the luckiest of colours - traditionally Chinese Wedding dresses are red.

According to the experts wearing red means you are a confidant, outgoing person; I bought myself a new pair of red shoes this weekend - and yes I know what wearing red shoes implies but the were too irrestible.

The first date I ever went on with my future husband we ended up in the RED Lips Bar, in Hong Kong. We knew each long before we started dating and I thought he had only invited me along to make up numbers - or at least that is what he coolly implied. We had dinner with another couple (friends of his visiting Hong Kong on holiday) in a very up-market restaurant; afterwards the friends decided they wanted to do a tour of some of the more salubrious establishments on offer in Hong Kong, so we tottered off to that area in town and ventured into the Red Lips Bar. The Red Lips was famous because it had the oldest prostitutes in town working there ... I had never been in it before and even though I considered myself a "Woman of the World", a "Girl about Town" I was pretty shocked by what greeted us that night!

Heavily made-up ancient hookers pawed over the men, latching onto their arms, imploring them to "Buy me one drink mister?" It may be the oldest proffession in the world, those girls looked as if they were there at the start.

If the working girls were a shock, nothing prepared me for their customers! Ah it's all a long time ago now and a lot of water has passed under the bridge - that was our first date ...

I thought about all the famous brands there are in the world and wonder which brilliant advertiser got this internationally recognised brand to adopt red? We all know this fella changed the colour of his traditional suit to that of red to fit in with their advertising way back in the early twentith century.

Next month I am off to Cardiff to watch Wales playing England; I'll be one of those little red dots way up on there on the top tier - shouting and cheering,

The June Book Review

2011-07-03T10:41:00.001+01:00

A Confederacy of Dunces by Jack Kennedy Toole

Another book recommended by my son. The novel is set in New Orleans and follows a period in the life of one Ignatius Reilly; a morbidly obese man in his thirties, still living with his drunken mother, with a strange outlook on life. I enjoyed sections of this book tremendously, other sections I found difficult to keep reading through. The characters are brilliant, the story ridiculous and the ending (as is too often the case with me) disappointing. After I finished the book I read about the author, a gay man, troubled with depression who committed suicide after this (his only novel) was turned down by the publishers. I would recommend it, but be warned it is not a light read.

A Favourite of the Gods by Sybille Bideford

This was our Reading Group book of the month. The fly leaf said it was a story about three women - grandmother, daughter and granddaughter - covering the period before the Great War until almost the start of the Second War. In actual fact the granddaughter barely appears in it ... it was a laborious read and I would go days without touching it because it bored me so much. Everything just seemed inevitable and to be honest a little tacky. I forced myself to read it because I had to - I really don't know what there will be to discuss about it at the next Reading Group meeting. Massive thumbs down I'm afraid.

Over and over and over ...

2011-06-29T14:08:00.000+01:00

In another life time Sean went off for a round of golf with some friends ... he loved golf, played it when ever possible, and was (apparently) quite good at it. Anyway on this particular day he arrived and his usual partner had dropped out of the game - no problem though, the friend had sent along a substitute. Naas Botha.

Now I know not everyone has heard of Naas - but in his day he was a pretty big hot-shot rugby star; he also played a mean game of golf. Sean was somewhat overawed to be partnering such a famous person and it showed ... he sliced shot after shot. Naas was getting pretty upset that he had agreed to play with such a klutz - finally he shook his head and looked at Sean, and said "I have never played with anyone who makes the same mistake shot after shot after shot." (only with a really strong Afrikaans accent) If it had been anyone other than Naas Botha saying that I think Sean would have clubbed them.

Last night I was running in an Orienteering event down in Battersea Park. Changed and raring to go I waited at the start line ... once I was given the nod I grabbed the map, dibbed out (or was that dibbed in?), and charged off.
Just as in every other event I raced off to check point 2 before dibbing into check point 1. No problem, quick double back - dib, dib - and then I was charging off again.
In what seemed like pretty good time I was dibbing in at checkpoint 12, by now I was feeling a little smug ... thought I had it all under control. Ha! No make that hahaha ... it took me almost 15 minutes from the time the thought "This is pretty easy" crossed my mind to the time I dibbed into checkpoint 13.
Confidant I now knew where I was going I found the next few checkpoints quickly ... that old smug feeling crept up on me again and I went charging off in search of checkpoint 18 - no sorry checkpoint 17, except that I had actually already been to checkpoint 17 and 6 minutes later I found myself happily dibbing it again without even realising that I had been there before.

It's the story of my life ... the same mistake over and over and over again. Some people learn by their mistakes ... am I one of them? Or am I forever doomed to just keep running in the same circle?

Magpie Tales #71: Thanks Mom

2011-06-27T13:41:00.000+01:00

"Oh Gemima, Look at your uncle Jim,
He's in the duck pond learning how to swim.
First he does the breast stroke, then he does the side,
And now he's under water swimming against the tide!"

When I was a little girl, even smaller than I am now, my family lived near the beach. Every day after school we would be in such a rush to tear off our uniforms, slip into our swimsuits, throw on a towelling jacket, shuffle into our flip flops and wait forever for Mom to stuff some sandwiches, sun-screen and towels into one of othose huge "Mummy" bags before heading off.

My Mom was a great swimmer ... seriously she was - she could swim to the raft and back in front-crawl, back-crawl, breast-stroke, side-stroke and (if she was really showing off) underwater! When we got to the raft she would climb into the water in a lady-like way then launch off into a back-stroke start, or do a standing graceful swallow dive, or throw herself off into super racing start!

She spent every afternoon throwing us kids into the water, letting us use her knees or shoulders as a diving board; gently correcting our posture - showing us how to use our arms properly, grimacing as we mis-calculated and belly flopped instead. All four of us swam like fishes from an early age, thanks to her.

We raced each other to the raft, played tag in the water, dived through each others legs, ducked each other, climbed on each others shoulders and fought; we had no fear. Mom taught us that if we didn't want to play anymore (and everyone HAD to respect this) that we should just lie back, completely flat, arms and legs outstretched like star fish, head resting on a wave pillow, face turned upwards towards the sky, our eyes closed ... gently floating ... drifting ...

I wasn't sure about today's prompt - but after staring at it for a long time memories of floating in the sea came back to me ... for more imaginative work visit Magpies Tales

MagpieTales #70: Trapped

2011-06-22T14:09:00.001+01:00

Willows picture this week had (I thought) an eerie haunted look about it ...

Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I stood unable to move - watching the scene unfold.

I say "watching the scene unfold" and yet I was one of the central characters in the scene so I couldn't have been watching it unfold could I? I must have been having one of those out of body experiences at the time.

Something had been said, I had my back to him and wasn't listening - so I failed to make the right response, I heard him stumble towards me, then felt his hands catch my shoulders, before quickly moving around my throat and his voice in my ear,
"I will not be IGNORED ... answer me!"

At first I thought he was joking, had put his arms out to steady himself as he fell forward, I had no inkling that my neck was the intended target. His grip tightened as he dragged me off my seat, I struggled to a standing position, clutching at his hands as they began to squeeze. Instinctively I lowered my chin into my neck, forcing his hands to grapple with a larger area - I thought if could make some space I could push my own hands between his and my neck then I could break the hold. I lashed out with my foot, catching his shin; it made no impression, like a fly buzzing around a horse.

"He means to kill you." A voice in my head whispered - "Don't be foolish!" I replied,
"Foolish?" He hissed "Foolish? You think me foolish?" He shook me again as I twisted and scratched at his hands.

Suddenly I saw the only option open to me and bit at the back of his hand, not hard, just as a warning. He stopped immediately, released me, threw me forward, away from him - my hands were at my throat, rubbing it. I turned to face him, his hands were covering his face, muffling his sobs. He was begging my forgiveness - he hadn't known what had come over him ... he said.

I was horrified, but strangely unafraid, I moved away but did not turn my back again. I needed to remember the look on his face as he said those words ... so that I would recognise it, the next time.

For more Magpie Tales visit here.

The Seven Virtues: 7. Chastity

2011-06-20T12:28:00.000+01:00

For as long as I could remember my mother had a fondness for that wise young lady, Chastity. Tales of what would happen if we didn't heed her sound (and yet boring) advice haunted me. I never sought an introduction, but blow me she always seemed to pop up at inappropriate moments and drag me off to do something much less interesting.

Mom did, of course, have her reasons for inflicting this boringly sensible playmate on us girls; her mother had given birth to her just five short months after she was married, tongues in the village wagged for decades! If that lesson wasn't enough my paternal grandmother ran off with a close family friend when my father was in his early teens - we had a double whammy of "irresponsible" genes! Mom was just looking after what she considered to be our best interests.

"No self-respecting man will look at a woman who is deemed soiled goods!" she warned.

And that I'm afraid was the problem ... fingers may have pointed at my maternal grandmother - but what of my grandfather, six years older than her? Oh he was wonderful the way he stuck by her, did the decent thing! What of the man who lured my other grandmother away from her unhappy marriage - oh Ivor Griffiths he was a lad and a half wasn't he?

Whilst not exactly encouraged to sow his wild oats, my mother had a totally different attitude towards my brother. Lots of nudging and winking went on when he phoned up at impossible hours to say he was staying the night away from home ... with his girlfriend. We girls had to hand in a detailed description of who, where, what and when before we were allowed out on a Friday or Saturday evening!

I have written before about the huge difference in attitude between male and female promiscuity; male friends of mine openly tell me about their affairs and conquests ... for each liaison there must have been a co-respondent, this they fail to acknowledge. At dinner the other evening a group of friends started to talk about the adventures of a particular married woman we were all acquainted with - it seemed they all knew of half dozen or so not-so-secret-liasons she had conducted over the years,
"Come on," I said looking at them all "That's chicken feed compared to the affairs that you or you have had." They looked completely bewildered that I should suggest there might be any sort of hypocrisy on this score!

Now of course I understand that in women of child-bearing age there are important issues to take into consideration, paternity being the most obvious - but what of older people? Apparently the incidents of STDs (since the wide-spread use of Viagra) has increased by some 80% in older adults. 80%??? Wow !!! It makes the mind boggle.

My paternal great-grandfather left his wife in the 1920's - he ran off with a woman of ill-repute; but before he disappeared he left his wife (my great-grandmother) with a parting gift which resulted in her going blind.

Oh what sordid lives we lead ...

The Seven Virtues: 6. Kindness

2011-06-19T21:14:00.000+01:00

This is one of those controversial subjects - I don't post about this sort of thing often but today I have heard enough ...

It is on all the chat-shows, everyone has an opinion - or so it seems - on the hot topic of the moment, the final great Act of Compassion - the right to allow someone to "Die with Dignity".

I was brought up to believe that the taking of life was wrong - even if it was your own. "We didn't choose to be born," I was told "How we die is not our choice either." For years I agreed wholeheartedly with those sentiments (you know back when life was simpler and the biggest decision of the day would be which shoes to wear with which dress). I still adhere to that principal - I can't help it; it's something of a luxury isn't it choosing the time, method and place?

Actually like so many other people I have to admit I am afraid of growing too old - afraid of out-living all I hold near and dear, becoming that doolally old girl who shouts at people on street corners - some time ago I read a book by Mary Wesley "Jumping the Queue" ... I thought that was quite a nice way to go, certainly kinder than spending my final years incontinent and dribbling in a corner of an old peoples home. But that method is for someone able bodied and with a certain presence of mind; the Great Debate at the moment is about people who are suffering great pain with terminal illnesses.

A few years ago a woman called Jane Tomlinson was often on the news; I admired Jane tremendously, she fought every inch of the way, inspired so many people. I watched her every day on the news when she was on one of her long cycle rides ... she was receiving treatment whilst she was doing that ride - she knew her illness was terminal but was determined to keep going for as long as possible.

I don't know how long I would last in great pain but I know I could not ask someone else to commit a mortal sin to help me - it would be too unfair on them.

The Seven Virtues: 5. Charity

2011-06-14T09:40:00.000+01:00

What's happened to me lately?

Did I run out of things to say?

Have I exhausted every avenue?

Oh Fear Not - it was just that I had so many stories to tell under this heading that I had to write and rewrite it several times.

I was always a sucker for volunteering (or being volunteered) - took a long time to adopt the trick of looking out of the window or staring into the middle distance when the question was poised.

My first adult foray into the world of volunteers should have taught me a lesson ... my sister (same one who sang "I'm a Little Teapot") decided she wanted to be a nurse, she thought it would look great on her CV if she could include that she had worked as a volunteer in a hospital. Enter eldest sister - sitting idly thumbing through some brochures about canoeing holidays on the Amazon. OK I thought I could afford to donate an hour a week (from my oh-so busy schedule) reading to poorly kids in hospitals - might even enjoy it; so a "man" came out to our home and interviewed us, two nice middle class girls keen to help the less fortunate ... he was delighted and arranged for us to start immediately at the nearest hospital ... on Sunday mornings.

Our local hospital was St. Marys at Etchinghill - on Sundays in rural England there is no bus service so we would have to walk (not a problem - it was only 3 miles away). St. Marys at Etchinghill was a Geriatric Hospital - our "work" was to be on the "Rehabilitation Ward."

That first morning we got up bright and early, not sure how long it would take to walk 3 miles; there was a light (but steady) drizzle as we trudged over the wet fields - we got an electric shock when we climbed over a fence, and splashed by a passing car when we re-joined the road. We eventually reached our destination, feeling a little more bedraggled than when we had started.
"We're the volunteers." We told the Irish Sister in charge of the ward. She raised an eyebrow as she looked at us, wet hair hanging long and limp.
"Well isn't that lovely." she beamed, "Now you'll be wanting to tie your hair back, clean your hands and put on these white overalls."
I wasn't sure why we would be needing to do all that just to read a few copies of the "Peoples Friend" to some old girls who had misplaced their specs ...
"Now have you made beds before?"

We spent all morning stripping and changing beds, dressing the occupants, even lifting some of them on (but not off) commodes. When we weren't doing that we were mopping floors, wiping bedside tables, cleaning the bathrooms, wheeling the in-mates into the day rooms. We worked harder than we had ever done in our lives! At the end of the morning we made to go home,
"Oh No," said the Sister "You can't just disappear, there's lunch laid on for you girls in the canteen. Come on now you've earned it." She marched ahead of us.

We followed behind, delighted that our efforts had not gone unnoticed. We smiled in a modest saintly way as the Sister introduced us to the cooks,
"These young girls have been working hard on the ward all morning. They must be starving, give them both a meal please." We stared down as the two lumps of mash, a portion of greasy chicken, a mush of over steamed cabbage and then some stuffing (gravy optional) were dolloped onto our plates. As we reached the end of the line I will always remember the cook on the end distastefully eyeing us both up and down, knocking the condescending smiles off our faces as she hissed,
"I know you think you're better than me because you work for free ... but you're getting paid really, this grub don't count for nothing. You make me sick ... the way you scrounge off the needy." I half expected her to spit on the plate.

My sister got accepted to train as a nurse about a month later, (34 years later and she's still nursing!) she was only 17 and had to wait 6 months before she could start ... every Sunday for 5 months we made that 6 mile round trip, in all sorts of weather. We didn't ever accept the offer of a meal in the canteen again though. I can't pretend I enjoyed it - in fact I would go so far as to say I really disliked it, I would never work in a hospital again, but what I took from my experience at St. Marys was not to be smug about one self - that no matter what you do, how ever good your intentions, there is always someone ready to criticise - and so long as you bear that in mind you'll be OK.

Magpie Tales #69: Sunshine and Sand

2011-06-13T10:30:00.000+01:00

By the time I had hit 40 I had spent only 4 years of my life away from the immediate coast. So inevitably beaches play a great part in my memories.

Smearing ourselves with suntan lotion as soon as we arrive on the beach ...

Soft wet sand slipping through our toes as we stand at the waters edge ...

Splashing and squealing as we kick in the warm salty water ...

Scooping water into our buckets then struggling up the beach to our building site ...

Surfing on belly boards or submerging ourselves attached to snorkels ...

Scouring the beach for seaweed, sticks and shells to decorate our sculptures ...

Scrambling across the rocks, searching for the tiny tidal puddles of life left by the retreating waves ...

Sipping warm fizzy drinks or licking dripping lollies ...

Smelling and tasting the salt on our skin ...

Sleeping in the car on the way home, sand sticking to our oiled bodies, our sun kissed faces shining ...

For more pieces inspired by Willows prompt visit Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales #68: The Look

2011-06-06T21:51:00.000+01:00

This weeks prompt gave me the shivers until I remembered this little scene from my childhood.

My mother was a short, pleasantly plump woman; she went to the hairdressers every Friday so her hair was always immaculate, she had beautiful soft creamy skin, her nose was straight and slightly hooked at the end - but what struck you most when you looked at her were her clear grey eyes. The twinkled when she smiled or laughed but when she was angry, wow they cut straight through you. My siblings and I knew immediately if we were stepping out of line ... one withering look and our knees would be knocking, I'm pretty sure even Medusa would have trembled at it. It certainly had the desired effect on us children - if you dared to "carry on" after it had been given well ... who knows what would have happened, none of us were ever brave enough to find out!

My sister and I had been rehearsing all week for the Concert at Sweeney Mountain Chapel. I had selected a little poem about Jesus wanting me for a soldier of the Lord (that would get the grandparents smiling and nodding indulgently) - there were actions, as I recall, that involved marching - swinging my arms backwards and forwards, and stamping my little feet.

My mother taught my sister a simple song - something about being H, A, P, P, Y. My sister wasn't a very good singer and she was upset that her piece didn't include proper actions (like mine).

My mothers brother took her to one side and taught her another little ditty that did have actions - she was to keep it a secret though ... this was going to be a big surprise ... for everyone. My sister wasn't very good at keeping secrets, but that one she kept!

The day of the concert arrived and dressed in our Sunday School best we skipped up the road to the Chapel, well probably not all the way ... it was a good mile and we were only little squirts. My grandparents came along behind us, my aunts and uncles - our two youngest siblings hair all neatly combed, faces scrubbed. I saw a photograph of the Chapel the other day - it doesn't look big enough to hold more than 30 people but on that day it seemed crowded.

We performers sat on chairs placed on a little stage at the front of the Chapel, when it was our turn to entertain we got up and walked to the centre of the stage - well obviously I marched, after all I had been practising all week! I said my little piece, nodded smugly towards the appreciative audience when I had finished and marched back to my seat. Then it was my sisters turn. She stepped out boldly onto the stage, cleared her throat ... saw our uncle giving her the thumbs up sign and a quick nod ...

She placed one hand on her hip and the other arm crooked outward - the hand facing away from her,
"I'm a little teapot short and stout" she began in her childish voice (she was only three at the time so she was excused that) "Here's my handle and here's my spout"

The sharp intake of breath, the barely perceptible mutterings that travelled swiftly around the room, my sister must have been aware that this sort of behaviour was not "Chapel", she stopped suddenly and glanced at my mother ... her face had frozen, the eyes had widened, the lips had clamped down into an invisible line ... oh no my sister had over stepped the mark! Her bottom lip quivered as she realised that she had made a BIG mistake, I leaped to my feet - I had to drag her back to her seat before she started to cry. Just as I reached her my grandfather stood up and said in his beautiful rich voice "When the tea is ready hear me shout ..." we looked at my mother, she was laughing as everyone in the room chanted "Tip me up and pour me out." I stepped back and let my sister take her well deserved bow, but in that moment I couldn't help noticing my mother glaring at her brother, he was getting the full "Look", oh boy he was going to fetch it when we got outside - but he seemed totally unconcerned.

For more eye-catching tales go over to Magpie Tales

Pandoras Gift.

2011-06-06T09:39:00.000+01:00

Years ago some wag painted a slogan on the bridge of the station at Hinchley Wood

"Abandon all Hope, Ye who enter here."

For those of you unfamiliar with Hinchley Wood it is a village in the wealthy commuter belt county of Surrey ... it's an up market "village" which grew up around the railway station, which transports most of its residents into London each morning.

Over the years I have often visited Hinchley Wood, one of my sisters lives there; in Hinchley Wood there are lots of very nice over-priced houses, people look after their gardens, wash their cars, love their children, hold street parties to celebrate National holidays; people there talk about share prices, where they are going on holiday that year, the lovely restaurant they went to for dinner the other night; its all very safe (some might even say dull), the most exciting thing that has happened there in the last 15 years was when the residents took on McDonalds and succeeded in preventing them from buying the local pub to turn it into a fast food outlet - maybe it was a McDonalds fan that sprayed the quote on the bridge.

However, Hinchley Wood and the desperation of a frustrated McDonalds fan are not the point of todays post ...

Pandora was gifted a jar by the Gods, with instructions not to open it. But she was also gifted Curiosity; Curiosity ate away at her soul until she could resist it no longer ... she opened the jar and all the Evils trapped therein escaped and ravaged the earth; instead of life being heavenly idyllic it became ... well, life as it is now - plagued by misery, famine, pestilence, greed, war. Horrified by her actions Pandora slammed the lid onto the jar, but as she did so she heard a little voice calling to her, she lifted the lid gently, peered into the jar - the little voice said "Pandora, let me out, please, for I am Hope." Pandora fell for it - she was tricked into releasing Hope ...

"One of the wonders of human nature is our ability to hope"

Oh excuse me - have you never seen the look on your dogs face as you open the fridge door?

Glenda over at As Life Happens wrote about her chicken Olive and the little chick she was raising ... until the other day. It got me thinking that perhaps animals give up when they realise there is no point expending energy on futile causes, did Olive instinctively know that Rube was too injured to get better?

Is that what makes us different? When my Mom telephoned to say that she had some tests done ... we all hoped the mark on her lungs was just a smudge on the x-ray sheet ... and then we all hoped she would respond well to treatment ... and then we all hoped the end would be quick and merciful ...

Our ability to hope during those last harrowing months of her illness amazes me now, like ostriches we stuck our heads in the sand and hoped for the miracle cure. Now I wonder if it was wrong to hope, to build up unrealistic expectations ... only my Hinchley Wood sister knew there was no hope and the best we could do was take each day as it came.

This week Curiosity got the better of me - I found out something I really didn't want to know ... but "Heigh Ho that's life", from now on I'm not building anymore impossible dreams (but I will continue to play the Lottery - because don't you just know the week I don't buy a ticket my numbers will come up) ...

"Hope is a pleasant acquaintance, but an unsafe friend."

Oh and one more thing before I give up on hope completely - I hope blogger fixes the problem I am having leaving comments on peoples posts, it keeps telling me I am not logged in, even though I am! It's very frustrating.

The May Book Review

2011-05-29T18:48:00.001+01:00

A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka

This had been recommended by Sue over at Scribble-n-Paint some time ago, so I had been looking out for it. I have to say that I really enjoyed it ... at first I thought it was just funny but then it began to remind me of a rather personal bizarre situation that my siblings and I found ourselves in. Without going into all the gruesome details, my father had a girlfriend forty years his junior - after Mom died she pestered and pestered him to make an honest woman of her but even at his most delusional he held fast and we were spared the embarrassment of having a step mother almost twenty years younger than ourselves. That's not to say she didn't manage to bleed the old man dry because she did ... just like one of the main characters in this book! My verdict is that the book is funny, in a sadly macabre way. Thanks for the nod on this one Sue!

The End of the Affair by Graham Greene

This is the first book that I have had to read for the North London Reading Group (Group 17). I read it years ago (when I was a kid of 19) but I couldn't remember anything about it! It tells the story of a love affair that the anti-hero Bendrix has with a married woman Sarah. I fully understood the desperation of the affair, how it consumed his every waking moment, how distressed he was when it ended, but I couldn't empathise with the woman at all - she turned to Catholicism when the affair ended and all that loving God stuff just went "whoosh" straight over my Bush-Baptist head. I also found the chapters following her death a little surreal, Bendrix should have felt more guilt, I didn't like the attempt to turn Sarah into a saint, I felt sorry in some respect for her husband ... but not overly so. I also felt the funeral was inadequately dealt with - my husband was a Catholic but hadn't been to church since he insisted the children were baptised as Catholics - but in the last weeks of his life he went to confession, got absolved of all "sins" and wanted a Catholic burial. I could not have gone against his wishes, even though I didn't share them so I found that episode in the book unbelievable. I'm sure it will be a little controversial and am looking forward to hearing the rest of the groups opinion on it.

A Small Island by Andrea Levy

I read (and reviewed) The Long Song a couple of months ago so was keen to read more from this author. I wasn't disappointed, in fact I think I preferred this book. The story is told from the four main characters perspective; and it follows them through the Second World War until 1948. A young Jamaican who volunteers for service during the war then after decides to move permanently to a land he thought was full of opportunity, England. It tells of the discrimination that he and his young wife faced in post-war England. I really enjoyed it and would recommend it to others, an unusual but almost predictable ending!

Magpie #67: The End of The Affair (not by Graham Greene)

2011-05-23T15:10:00.001+01:00

Regular readers will know that I love good food ... I am lucky, I have (over)indulged myself on every Continent, eaten in some of the finest restaurants in the world, enjoyed the company and love of friends and family around over-filled tables for many years - but this tale isn't from one of those happy memories ...

Come out to lunch on Saturday. Penny and you will get on so well, don't be anxious she's perfectly fine about us being lovers ...
"And so what have you been up to this morning?" he asked with a cheerful smile,
What had I been up to this morning? Is that the sort of question your soon-to-be-former lover asks you when he invites you to lunch, to meet his wife? What have you been up to this morning? I took a deep breath, found my own cheerfully plastic smile and replied,
"Oh this and that."
"We've been shopping" Well really? How interesting, you've been shopping? Do tell ... shopping? I've been to the supermarket does that count? I pray the smile is still stuck on.
"Oh that sounds er ... um very nice." I reach for my wine glass, should I drain it in one gulp or sip politely? I change my mind and pick up a glass of water instead - maybe it would be better to keep my wits about me.
"Yes, yes it was ... Penny bought a pair of shorts."
"Shorts?" I splutter, almost choking on the water ... Penny smiled her own special I'm-very-cool-about-meeting-my-husbands-little-bit-on-side smile. Nodding vigorously, fluttering her eyelids, she raises her hand to the back of her neck and pats her short hair.
"Corduroy," she explains "Brown corduroy" I am busy mopping up the water I spat out, with my napkin,
"Mmmm brown corduroy you say? They sound very er ... um ... er nice." What the hell am I doing here? Should I just pick up my jacket and handbag now, before I even look at the menu and make a dive for the door? Too late the menus are on the table.

I delve into my handbag for my specs, and peruse the menu, with its lists of pretentious sounding dishes; I sneak a quick glance at the next table looking for inspiration? I spot the waiter laying down a plate with a couple of decorative matchstick thin chips next to a minuscule slice of chicken, resplendent with sprigs of tarragon - I quickly look back at my menu.

"I shan't have the pork darling," Penny says still playing with the hair on the back of her neck, "It would be a complete waste after the delicious way you prepared it last week." She widens her eyes at me, "Duncan does the most divine roast pork, he always gets the crackling just right." She makes a little OK sign with her fingers, graciously pats the back of his hand, then gives one of those nervous little hiccups that I have already noticed punctuate her sentences.

Inside my head sirens are screaming and shame washes over me, for here I sit that most despised and loathsome of all women ... that other shameless hussy, only in this case this couple are "cool" about each others affairs; they embrace each others lovers. I glance at Duncan who sits basking in the glory of a man being praised for his achievements in the kitchen, smiling confidently to himself, look at me sitting with my lover and my wife ... I don't believe I have ever seen such a self-satisfied smug look on anyones face before. Leave now before they take your order the voices are screaming at me, but I don't, I sit and stay, and tell the waitress that I will have the nettle soup followed by flash-in-the-pan fried mackerel, and no thank-you to anything else.

"How's your ankle?" Duncan smirks. I show him the strapping, mumble something about a hip problem causing pressures on my ankle. He nods sagely, Penny suddenly becomes animated - tells me how I should learn to walk properly before I run. She triumphantly shows me, witht he aid of her fist pressed into an open hand how the hip joint works. I sit watching her movements ... this woman I have just met tells me how I should learn to walk properly before I run. Picking up my jaw, which I am sure I heard clunk onto the table I look to Duncan for support, but he is staring intently at Penny, no doubt fascinated by her extensive knowledge on how the hip joint works.

"Did you go to that Exhibition by the way?" Duncan asks. What Exhibition? Oh the one you wanted me to take your wife to? The one I have already told you about two or three times?
"Yes, yes it was really interesting." I turn to face Penny, to tell her about it, but I need not have bothered, there is nothing I can tell this woman. She knows it all ... and as she tells me about the Exhibition, that she didn't even see, I notice that she is not looking at me at all, but smiling and batting her eyelashes at her husband. I feel like the pork sausage at the Barmitzvah, I glance at him to see if he is making the same silly faces back at her, but he is staring blankly at his cutlery, rocking his fork backwards and forwards.

Finally the food arrives; I wish I could say how sweet the nettle soup was ... it wasn't ... it was vile, too sharp and too green like the plastic matting that was fashionable in the fruit and vegetable sections of supermarkets twenty years ago. I wish I could the mackerel was cooked to perfection ... well it might have been but too late I remembered how much I dislike picking over the bones of the small fish; too late I realised that in this sort of pretentious place you have to order your vegetables separately. The mackerel looked very lonely on the plate, garnished with a drizzle of butter, in a fit of pique I turn down the pork crackling nibbles that Mr and Mrs 21st Century are devouring - closing their eyes with ecstasy as they bite and chew.

I watch as Mrs spoon feds Mr some of her soup, "Mmmm," he smacks his lips. Here have mine I think but instead smile and pretend I'm trying to figure out the flavours. I watch Mrs shovelling those matchstick chips onto the back of her fork, they fall off onto the plate and table; I look away so that I don't have to watch her eat her burger with a knife and fork. I listen as Duncan tells us some fascinating story about cobs, I wince as his wife painstakingly gushes about her allotment - that was my fault, I must remember not to feign interest, some people think you seriously give a damn about the soil in Yorkshire.

My throat dries up and I gulp more and more water, I think I must have consumed almost two jugs. I stare at the other tables and wish I was sitting there, listening to their stories, laughing at their jokes. Finally I give up on the mackerel, I have barely spoken two words throughout the meal ... both times it was "Delicious" when the waiter asked how was the food.

Duncan excuses himself; left alone Penny pats the back of her neck, nods at me and smiles her tight smile. "So are you busy at work?" she asks.
I smile sweetly back at her, "Yes quite." I start to say what I do but let my voice trail off as I notice she is not looking at me but at the table behind me, she is flicking her fingers through her hair. In the silence Penny begins to tell me about her work, how she leaves all the paperwork to Duncan because he is so marvellous at all that sort of thing. All the time she is speaking she fails to make eye-contact. Now for the first time I realise she didn't really want to meet me at all, she was doing all this to prove a point, prove that she is oh-so-comfortable in this fabulously unconventional marriage. Duncan returns to the table and I rush off, the second jug of water proving to be too much for me. I stay away as long as possible, chat aimlessly with other ladies in the cloakroom, then finally I reluctantly force myself back to the table,
"Dessert?" Duncan asks sweetly. I have known him for eighteen months and I have never once eaten a dessert with him.
"No, thank you." I reply, smiling, pretending that I am not in the least bit hurt that he doesn't remember. Can I leave before dessert? Would it be too rude? I realise now that I am never going to see either of them again anyway. But I don't, I stay transfixed by the horror of the ordeal, watching them both stuffing sickly sweet puddings into their gaping mouths.
"Mmmm," Duncan smacks his lips together, dabs at them with his napkin, pushes his chair back - oh the smugness of the man "Well that was delicious." Is he actually patting his stomach? Penny nods and rolls her eyes at him again, smiling indulgently. She begins to tell me about their favourite place to eat, it's so wonderful she has forgotten what cuisine they serve; then she launches into where they are going to holiday,
"Sailing, I can't wait. Duncan and I love sailing." I am the only one not congratulating myself on a splendid performance. I am sickened by the charade, disgusted with myself for accepting the invitation, I look for that hole which is supposed to appear to swallow one up in moments like this, it fails to materialise.

Finally Penny stops wittering, perhaps even she has noticed that Duncan is no longer looking quite so smug ... he is leaning forward, concentrating on playing with a piece of unused cutlery. She excuses herself.

And now the moment I have been waiting for; Duncan and I alone together, we stare at each other ...
"Well thank you for a very nice meal." I say, lulling him into a false security, he almost smiles ... almost thinks I am just being coy and shy with this unusual 21st Century experience, "It has been quite the most ridiculous meal I have ever eaten." I say in the same tone, with the same plastic smile still stuck on "I never felt so uncomfortable in my life."
"I'm sorry that you feel that way." A hurt look twitches across his face,
"Oh for Gods sake," I snort, but manage to keep smiling "Even you must admit that we are all trying far too hard to be awfully civilised about a bizarre situation."
He suddenly becomes defensive, "What do you propose we do about it?"

And in a blinding flash I see him toppling onto the floor with a knife sticking out of his chest, his shirt stained red, his hands clutching at the hilt trying to remove it. I blink and look again but he is, in reality, just sitting there looking from my face down to his clasped hands. I smile back at him, he relaxes, I stand, picking up my handbag and gathering my jacket I say,
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm off, please give Penny my apologies." And glancing quickly at my handbag - to make sure it's closed, don't want to spill its contents onto the floor - I sweep dramatically out of the restaurant.

For more delicious tales visit Willows Magpie Tales here

Magpie #66: Memories of Prep

2011-05-17T13:22:00.000+01:00

My old boarding school friend Jackie sent me a link this week to Radio 4 article - coincidentally the item before the one she had linked me to was about boarding school - so perhaps its not surprising that when I saw this weeks prompt I was reminded of those far-off days!

Every evening (except for Saturday), after supper, the Prep bell summonsed us to the large room in the attic of the boarding house, a room lined with rows of single desks and chairs all facing the large dark teachers desk at the front.

Nobody wanted to be the first into Prep, heaven forbid, but if you were too tardy the only empty seats were those right in front of the Duty Mistress - it was a fine art, timing your arrival. Armed with exercise books, text books, pencil cases and rulers we made our way up to the top of the building. There were no set places, although there was an unwritten understanding that a junior girl had no right to the back row.

Prep for the juniors was about 40 minutes long, for the senior girls an hour; we all had to attend, roll-call ensured that.

Before Prep began the Duty Mistress would read any notices aloud to us, once notices were delivered we would start our work; homework for some, preparation for the next day at school for others.
"There is no such thing as "I have no work Miss!" If by some strange chance you have completed your set tasks then there is always revision."

For the first 15 minutes heads were bent in earnest over our books, the only sound the scratching of pen on paper, or the turning of pages. Then it would start ... an almost imperceptible signal, someone clearing her throat, a gentle thud as a flicked piece of chewed paper made contact with the back of a head, a ruler being twanged, a pencil case being gently eased off the corner of a desk, the ripple of misbehaviour creeping contagiously around the room.
Notes were passed,
"Look at Twiggy, her hairs coming undone ... pass this on."
Giggles stiff led,
"Check out swotty Dotty ... her slip is showing ... pass this is on."

Of course discipline depended entirely upon which Mistress was supervising, Fossie Foster was a pushover; Miss Fordyce and you could hear a pin drop. Before Prep even began Miss Fordyce would have spotted potential trouble makers,
"Jane Varley, there is a vacant space right in front of me that I would prefer you to be occupying." She beckoned to me with a long bony finger - no protesting there, just a resigned shrug as I gathered my books together and moved to the spot she was indicating.
"Carol Murphy the chair has four legs, do not assume that you can sit more comfortably with only two of them resting on the floor."
"Jackie Launchberry please step forward with that note you are about to pass, immediately."
"Janice Lemmon I have instructions from your Geography teacher, Mr. Browning, that I am to sign your homework. Please bring it to me before you leave."
And she noticed all of this without raising her head from the piles of books she was marking!

After 40 minutes (50 if it was Twiggy McLaren) the younger girls would be dismissed, unless of course they wished to stay. As the disruptive element disappeared silence descended on the room once again ... only now the sound of running in the corridors below, shrieks as one gaggle of giggling girls pelted another with pillows seeped up through the floorboards - the Duty Mistress would gather her books together,
"Looks like I'm needed below," sighing, she would excuse herself and leave the remaining students to continue with their work.

For more bookish postings check out the link to Willows Magpie Tales.