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Showing posts from February, 2013

It's official ... *RANT* warning !! ...

I am invisible. Proof of my absolute invisibility was confirmed at 7.35pm today. I had been suspicious before - the daily, school run, single-track rural lane, near misses as I swerve off-road in my diminutive, I-am-most-definitely-not-a-four-wheel-drive, yellow box-on-wheels while the behemoth yummy-mummy-cars (always black) which are designed to climb Ben Nevis, never deign to put a pristine wheel onto the verge ... they might get muddy for heaven's sake! Do they see me? Ever? Or are their bonnets too high/sunglasses too dark/breast enhancements too extreme? Grrr! Then proof ? -  Happy little yellow car taking Eldest along nice wide roads to rail station, unwittingly arrived at the station car-park intersection at 7.35pm - otherwise known as desperate-London-commuters'-dash-for-home time. Clearly, London-commuters are so hell bent on avoiding eye contact with any other commuter on the train that they develop tunnel vision. Which means that when they get into their cars

Recipe for a roaring success

Ingredients: 1 adult, woken by usual canine "We're hungry and our bladders are full!" alarm. At 6.40am. On a Sunday. Several hours pre-Christmas, of back-strain-inducing labour in the garden, moving felled hedge and fallen tree 1 bowl of porridge. Dried blueberries. 1 apple 1 flask of coffee 2 over-excited "Are you taking us for a walk?" dogs 1 Sunday Times newspaper (last week's - the three headline words Vicky , Pryce and Trial , innocently lacking their new running mate, Farce . Hah! Spluttering isn't a sign of old age, is it?) 1 pair of wish-I-could-wear-them-all-the-time Muck boots (Sigh - definitely a sign of ageing - not in the senile I-want-to-splash-in-puddles-because-I-think-I'm-a-little-girl way, but due to the ... arthritis!!! ... in my toes and because Muck boots have memory foam soles and they're all cushiony and walking-on-cloudsy. Oh dear, now I do sound like a senile little girl!) 1 day when the wind is in a SS

Old friends, photo-shoots and vile-dins.

Friendship, to slightly misquote Lord Byron, is love without the wings attached. It has to be worked at, but if dropped can be picked up again. It sticks around; true friends are there in the background of our lives. It's not fickle, doesn't depend on the vagaries of our hearts and is not thrust upon us by family ties.We choose our friends and they choose us. But sometimes, we loose them. Sometimes our lives move on; we move away; we make new friends and only a chance happening - a place, or a sound, or a smell, will make us stop for a moment and wonder, "What is she doing now? How has his life turned out?" Usually, unless we make an effort, the answers are as elusive as the moments that made us think the questions and we skip back into our present lives. Maybe, there's a twinge of regret; a fleeting feeling of guilt that we didn't try harder - that something about our friendship wasn't strong enough for us to keep in touch. But still we look ahead,

Bones, bouncing Bertie, beautiful boys and beds

Give one dog a bone = happy dog. Give two dogs one bone = garden warfare. My fault! But the consequences were quite interesting: Bertie Baggins knew not what a marrow bone was. Something smelt interesting, but the butcher's plastic bag was a bit worrying - in a crinkly, why is that being shoved in my face sort of way. As for Four-legged-friend - he smelt the smell and his rear-end took on an entire life of its own, one that could only be done full justice to by the attachment of a kilt: he could barely stand, it was swaying so frantically ( dog kilts  - probably do exist, but why put your dog in clothes at all? They're covered in hair. It keeps them warm. They moult several tog values all over the house when the seasons change. They don't need clothes and Four-legged-friend would be confused and stressed if made to wear anything other than his collar - the only kilt he'll ever wear is the one animated onto a photograph ... the photograph inside my head - the one

The clock is ticking

Tick! Tock! There are a few life skills that are unattainable, like catching up with time, reversing youth and cracking the caffeine habit ... and chocolate habit ... and  I-love-hugs habit ... and procrastinating habit ... with these tempus is always-against-us: tick tock. There are some that could be attainable with better organisation such as losing weight, getting fitter, slowing down, doing one's accounts on time, sending thank you letters before it gets too embarrassingly late to send them and weakly blaming it on the post, learning something new, getting through the growing pile of must-read-impulse-purchased paperbacks stacked on the bed-side table, washing the car and dogs with sufficient regularity to avoid the dirtiest little car/dog in the county label, learning my grammar better and whether the difference between practice and practise is the same as for advice and advise. Or not. At least, I usually get their and there correct - I also need to relax and not shout a

Fox poo, eating little men, modelling careers and dreaming

Hmm - to post a photo or not to post a photo ... now I've got you worried. You don't want a picture of fox poo. Really? Fox poo smeared all over Bertie Baggins's front legs, up the right side of his chest and spread thickly behind and sneaking under his right ear. No? The same fox poo that had us running out of the kitchen and eating breakfast with our noses firmly pressed into fists full of sleeve. The same fox poo that proved remarkably resistant to wiping off and only gave up its mission to cling on, when attacked with a car wash brush, its hose attachment reservoir filled with dog shampoo. Sure you don't want to see it? To see a picture of a remarkably happy, dirty, stinking pup. Okay. I didn't take one anyway. So, what would you like a picture of? How about little brown men? Apart from the purchase of cardamon seeds, instructions re oven use and the washing-up of a few utensils, I cannot claim any significant part in their  manufacture. Eldest and Littlest