Today is going well so far. As well as becoming the proud owner of a brand spanking new standing lamp for my bedroom (thank you, mummy!) and an "air cooling unit" (translation: fan) for the living room, we are currently wading our way through the previously unseen (by us, that is) pilot episodes of Waking The Dead, brought second hand by yours truly on Friday for the princely sum of £2.
Also, it turns out that despite my great appetite for food, there is a limit on how much pineapple, melon and orange pieces that I can eat in one sitting before my body screams for mercy; the amount being half of a medium-to-large sized bowl.
So there you go. I bet you're glad that you know that now, aren't you?
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Thursday, 27 June 2013
I Don't Have An Adequate Title.
The Grandpapa just rang: Stan is dead.
Stan is a friend of his, and by proxy of mine, too. He and his long-time girlfriend/fiance Ann are...were...regulars in many of the Kidderminster pubs; the King & Castle (next to the railway station: The Grandpapa's 'local') especially. They ate, drank and socialized to the excess and were...are...very very much in love with both one another and life. Everyone who knows them adores them, and Stan and Ann adore...adored...them right back. Parties were a common thing, as were day trips and holidays. In-spite of their various ailments and age (advanced, in Stan's case) their lives were a hotbed of activity (no pun intended; their regular jaunts to a hotel in a nearby town that boasted not only king-sized beds but a walk-in shower that could comfortably house two people at the same time notwithstanding).
Stan is...was...nearly 90 and with a myriad of health problems - including stomach cancer - that steadily got worse in his final years, though he never complained about them. He was a quiet, well mannered man; a gentleman, just as the Grandpapa is.
Ann is about 25 years Stan's junior and until recently was his carer as well as his partner, though she is equally frail in her own way; in particular one of her hands was butchered when she was in her 30's by an incompetent surgeon and she was left partially paralyzed, having to give up the job she loved and become one of . She is also what used to be commonly known as a "jolly drunk"; a nicer way of saying that someone is an alcoholic, but an alcoholic that stays pleasant and non-violent and confrontational (albeit in Ann's case becoming increasingly ear piercingly loud as the day progresses and the tally of red wines and whiskies goes up) no matter how many drinks he/she consumes. She doted on her elderly sugar daddy and looked after him as well as she knew how - catering to his every whim - until the care became too much for her and had to be handed over to professionals a little over six months ago.
He went downhill rapidly after that. No sooner had he been transferred to a home so that he could receive round the clock nursing care that his mind began to deteriorate (a coincidence that hasn't gone unnoticed) and before too long he barely knew what day it was, or who Ann was, or what a knife and fork were for...
...I didn't go and see him.
My visits to see the pair of them when times were good were rare and sporadic, in part because it was difficult to fit the time in, in part because I'm not comfortable with large crowds - which they were almost always surrounded by - and finally in part because it was incredibly wearing to both cope with Ann's shrill shouting (she really IS loud. Painfully so) and their constant urges for me to allow them to buy me food and drink; especially drink. It's sad because not only are...were...they really lovely, but because (strangely) they thought the absolute world of me. But that was the way it was. The Grandpapa understood that and in any case, as I said; they were surrounded by admirers all the time anyway.
Then, when Stan got sick enough to be 'put away' as Grandpapa put it, my seeing of them dropped off completely, because... well because selfishly I just couldn't do it. The Grandpapa hinted, and told me, even, that it would be nice if I visited, that (while he was still there enough to do so) he asked after me, but I didn't, because I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to see that lovely, soft spoken man degraded to the degree he had been. I just couldn't. And now he is gone and it is too late.
UGH. I fucking HATE that death exists. WHY does everything and everybody have to DIE? WHY does it even exist?? Why does life and death have to go hand in hand, and why HAVE life if you're going to die anyway?? I am so sick and tired of it! And I think of The Grandpapa and The Grandmama and they are both in their 80s now and how much longer will it be before I lose them forever? Or my mum? Or my darling Bingo... And the idea of death scares me so much; it scares the crap out of me because I know that one day *I* will die too, and I'm frightened of that, because how will it happen and when? And will it hurt? Will it be quick or slow? How agonizing and terrifying it must be to take your last breath and then not be able to take any more: like asthma times several billion. And the stupid thing is that I can accept the idea of life after death for other people - heck, I can even sense it on occasion - but not for me. And on the few times that I allow myself to think about it - like right now - another part of me CAN accept there being an afterlife for me and that's perhaps even more terrifying than not existing any more, because what if I go to Hell? I just...UGH!
I can't talk anymore.
Thanks for listening, Blog.
Alice x
Another "...what??" Dream:
To entertain the masses! (all…one…of you) Here
are the details of the slightly weird dream I had last night:
To start with in this dream, I was walking in
town wearing a knee-length skirt (which is something I very rarely do. In fact,
I haven’t owned a skirt that sits above the ankle in
years) and green tights, a black vest top, a yellow cardigan, a brown leather
jacket and calf-high purple boots. I also had my (usual) large shoulder bag.
These details were very precise and clear.
Anyway, in this precise and very hip and fashionable
getup I was strolling – neigh; almost skipping – through a busy town with my
dog.
And my dog was behaving impeccably, which
should have twigged me that it was a dream, actually. On the whole I think he
is reasonably well behaved, but in a situation he is not used to, i.e.; a busy
street in town, with masses of sights and smells and sounds to distract him, he
would have been pulling me this way and that like a dog possessed, yet in the
dream he was trotting along by my side, good as gold as I almost skipped my way
along, looking about me appreciatively.
The town wasn’t the town I lived in. It was somewhere big like London London
A few minutes after leaving the jewelers,
necklace in hand, I bumped into Stephen Fry (he is my favourite celebrity,
closely followed by David Attenborough, but he isn‘t involved in this), who greeted me as an old
friend, giving me a great big hug and squeezing my bottom before helping me put
my necklace on.
I chided my old friend Stephen for being drunk,
and he swore, whilst slurring his words and swaying a little, that he was sober
as a judge, as the saying went.
He invited me out for cocktails, which I
accepted. Bingo (the dog) wasn’t allowed
into the cocktail bar, so I hailed a taxi and popped him inside and instructed
the bored cabbie to take him home. The taxi drove off, and then Stephen and I
weaved our way to the cocktail bar, with Stephen pawing all over me like an old
letch whilst being overly camp and making overly loud comments regarding
passing males (neither of which he is known in real life to do).
While drinking the cocktails, he complained
about his live-in boyfriend Clive, and I moaned about my cleaning job. Then I
suddenly remembered that OH MY GOSH! I had left my laptop on the side on an
escalator! So up we jumped and off we went.
As we rushed along the streets - with Stephen
still pawing at me and making loud, lewd comments mingled in with recitals of
classic poetry - I agonized over the probable loss of my laptop. But when we
got there, it was still there, safe and sound, balanced perfectly on side of
the escalator (a real-life physical impossibility as the damn things move) and
beeping at me reproachfully as if it knew it had been abandoned and hated me
for it. I scooped it up into my arms, but wait; it was plugged in! But where?
The obvious choice was the follow the lead, which we did. It stretched for
miles, with us negotiating our way skilfully - despite Stephen’s drunkeness - through the crowds. By the time
we located the source, we were back in Kidderminster
and stood outside Shipley’s Amusements
in Worcester Street
I did not want to ever set foot inside that beastly place again, let alone have to explain what my computer cable was doing
inside their premises; but I could hardly send Stephen in the state he was
in, so in I went. The damn thing was actually plugged into one of their own
sockets, and I had to nudge the manager - the one who hadn’t liked me at all - out of the way to reach it and then engage in a tug of war to keep it, which of course with me being huge and him being tiny and shrimp-like; I won.
Having reclaimed it, I then beamed at the manager’s furious face, made my apologies for the intrusion and left.
Once safely outside wed made haste to leave the
area to hopefully avoid being arrested and I rang mum to enquire why on earth
she had decided to plug my laptop into a socket inside Shipley’s amusements. It had to be her, I reasoned to
Stephen (who wasn‘t listening,
having made a beeline for an attractive young male stallion and started
earnestly talking to him), because it hadn’t been me.
Her answer was simple. The thing needed
charging, electricity was expensive, and she wanted to get back at the sods
that had sacked me, so she decided to make them pay for charging up my computer
instead of us.
“What possessed you into thinking that was a good idea?” I demanded.
She started to repeat her previous statement,
but I didn’t hear it
because at the same time a homeless man approached me and asked me for money as
he was starving, and Bingo strolled up with what appeared to be a blooded human
foot (attached to an ankle) in his mouth and sat down in front of me, and
Stephen strolled up with a beaming smile on his face and said “Alice, we’ve been invited to an orgy! What fun!”
Bemused and exhausted, I looked at the tramp,
and at Bingo, and at Stephen, and after a few moment’s silence as I counted to
ten inside my head, I told them I had had enough and was going home.
I handed the homeless man the diamond necklace.
I told Stephen that I was sure he would manage at
the orgy without me.
I took the blooded foot out of Bingo’s mouth and threw it into the basket of a
passing bicycle, which then crashed into a bus, after which the bus took to the
sky and crashed into bumper first into a twenty foot electronic billboard
proclaiming that a jelly wrestling match between Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn
Monroe was going to take place in the Hippodrome Theatre at the end of April (first two rows free).
Then I walked off.
That was when I woke up. And sitting up in bed,
I said; “…what??”
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Happiness Is.... No.4
Happiness is.... eating a triple chocolate muffin in a cafe while you watch the wind whistling through the trees and the world wandering by.
T'is indeed. Yep.
=nods=
T'is indeed. Yep.
=nods=
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
While I'm Here...
...and avoiding the housework, I'll waste a bit more time and tell you something that I just found out.
It appears that I have had rather a lot of what's known in the Blogging trade as "page views" since I started.
Now, I didn't pay much attention to this at first, because I assumed that the majority of that would be me, looking at, logging into and correcting spelling and grammar mistakes on various posts (and yes, I know that there is a "preview" button. And a "spell check" button, for that matter. I just don't ever remember to use it), with the odd two or three coming from my devoted public (...all one of you. Hi fan!).
BUT! Today I was sat here having just confiscated the tennis ball (he's still sulking) and I was just about to log out when on a whim I pressed the "more information" link underneath "page views", and as it turns out, my original assumption is not so. There are indeed quite a few "page views" specifically by me, but some of them are from elsewhere in the UK. AND in fact, the UK and even the USA aside, it turns out that I have had people... lots of people...taking a peek at my Blog, from all over the world!
The list goes as follows:
It appears that I have had rather a lot of what's known in the Blogging trade as "page views" since I started.
Now, I didn't pay much attention to this at first, because I assumed that the majority of that would be me, looking at, logging into and correcting spelling and grammar mistakes on various posts (and yes, I know that there is a "preview" button. And a "spell check" button, for that matter. I just don't ever remember to use it), with the odd two or three coming from my devoted public (...all one of you. Hi fan!).
BUT! Today I was sat here having just confiscated the tennis ball (he's still sulking) and I was just about to log out when on a whim I pressed the "more information" link underneath "page views", and as it turns out, my original assumption is not so. There are indeed quite a few "page views" specifically by me, but some of them are from elsewhere in the UK. AND in fact, the UK and even the USA aside, it turns out that I have had people... lots of people...taking a peek at my Blog, from all over the world!
The list goes as follows:
How cool is that?!
That makes 745 people - make that 697; apparently I've "viewed" my own Blog that often. Need to use those buttons, I really do - that have at least looked at, if not read bits of, my humble little Blog. Why, that's just a few hundred away from a thousand! Maybe not overly impressive on the ridiculously vast scale that the Internet tends to deal in, but still pretty damn good, don't you think?
I'm well chuffed with that. Yay!
Who are all these people, though? I must investigate further - anything to leave the vacuum and mop where they are - and see if I can find out.
And more to the point; if they came and saw, why didn't they leave a comment or two before they left?
It would make my day to have a comment from, say, a person from the Ukraine; it really would.
So come back, people, and bring your wit and insight with you! I won't bite, I promise!
Alice xxx
I Am Sitting On The Sofa...
...as I generally do when using Niles (Niles is, you will recall, my darling laptop); watching Bingo demolishing (and eating) a tennis ball.
He is being very careful about this; gently and precisely ripping green bit after green bit off before sampling the taste delights each bit has to offer. I know, as I watch this, that I should stop him; that eating the green stuff off the top of a tennis ball isn't a particularly healthy thing for a dog to be ingesting, but....I don't know, it's just so much fun to watch; he is being so meticulous about it. It was exactly the same when he received a cracker - an cardboard tube from inside a roll of lavatory paper wrapped in decorative paper - stuffed with dog biscuits last Christmas: he spent over an hour surgically removing tiny strip after tiny strip of paper and cardboard and sticky tape (the latter of which the unhelpful people who made the damn thing had used an inordinate amount) until was able to reach a layer of treats with his tongue which he would then happily munch on before beginning the whole process again. It's just...I don't know, the thought he puts into these things is astounding. He seems to be able to work almost anything out, and quickly too. Too quickly, at times. He's regularly one step, or even two steps ahead of me; the pack leader and member of a supposedly dominant species.
And yet, that said, this same genius will try to eat wasps. Or chase a squirrel and run straight into a tree. Or a cat, into a wall. Or in the case of one memorable outing, all three of the above; in quick succession.
=shakes head=
I swear, if that dog wasn't typically really stupid in other areas (as men tend to be; no offense but they are), his methodical way of thinking and high intelligence combined together would scare the knickers off of me...
...Ooh, ah, OK. He has now given up eating teeny bits of green stuff and is now ripping at the rubber.
Time to intervene, I think.
Fast.
EDITED TO ADD:
...and now the tennis ball has been removed, he is sulking in the corner, brooding over the unfairness of it all.
Poor doggy. What a mean Mommy he has.
He is being very careful about this; gently and precisely ripping green bit after green bit off before sampling the taste delights each bit has to offer. I know, as I watch this, that I should stop him; that eating the green stuff off the top of a tennis ball isn't a particularly healthy thing for a dog to be ingesting, but....I don't know, it's just so much fun to watch; he is being so meticulous about it. It was exactly the same when he received a cracker - an cardboard tube from inside a roll of lavatory paper wrapped in decorative paper - stuffed with dog biscuits last Christmas: he spent over an hour surgically removing tiny strip after tiny strip of paper and cardboard and sticky tape (the latter of which the unhelpful people who made the damn thing had used an inordinate amount) until was able to reach a layer of treats with his tongue which he would then happily munch on before beginning the whole process again. It's just...I don't know, the thought he puts into these things is astounding. He seems to be able to work almost anything out, and quickly too. Too quickly, at times. He's regularly one step, or even two steps ahead of me; the pack leader and member of a supposedly dominant species.
And yet, that said, this same genius will try to eat wasps. Or chase a squirrel and run straight into a tree. Or a cat, into a wall. Or in the case of one memorable outing, all three of the above; in quick succession.
=shakes head=
I swear, if that dog wasn't typically really stupid in other areas (as men tend to be; no offense but they are), his methodical way of thinking and high intelligence combined together would scare the knickers off of me...
...Ooh, ah, OK. He has now given up eating teeny bits of green stuff and is now ripping at the rubber.
Time to intervene, I think.
Fast.
EDITED TO ADD:
...and now the tennis ball has been removed, he is sulking in the corner, brooding over the unfairness of it all.
Poor doggy. What a mean Mommy he has.
Sunday, 16 June 2013
Oh. Well. As It Turns Out...
...I am not going to get my nap. Mother needs my help on the computer, desperately and urgently.
But the important thing is that under normal circumstances, usually I can.
So there.
=sticks out tongue=
I'm feeling very mature today.
xxx
But the important thing is that under normal circumstances, usually I can.
So there.
=sticks out tongue=
I'm feeling very mature today.
xxx
Happiness Is... No.3
Happiness is.... curling up on your nice, comfortable bed and allowing yourself to nap for a full hour and a half because it's Sunday, work is over with, your household chores are accomplished, dinner is prepared as much as it can be, there is nothing else urgent to be done, and best of all; simply because you can.
Saturday, 15 June 2013
A Quick Moan:
=stands on soap box. clears throat=
Now folks, I KNOW that cannabis has been moved from a 'class B' to a 'class C' in illegal drug terms. And I KNOW that this equates to the police having the power to do no more (providing that the amount is fairly small) than confiscate what you are found to have on you and give you a "don't do it again" lecture. And I KNOW that this; added to the fact that there are fewer and fewer patrolling policemen on the beat, means that the odds of you a) getting caught and b) actually being in any way punished if you do are next to nil.
I am also aware of the various benefits to be had by the - sensible - use of cannabis as opposed to say, the effects of long term partaking in alcohol, and I agree that it should be legalized (along with all other drugs, but that's a soap box for another day); truly I do.
BUT THAT BEING SAID: please, for the love of God, STOP smoking spliffs - that's what they're called, right? - as you make your way down public streets. Not only is the smell positively disgusting, even more so than cigarettes; but for people that suffer with breathing difficulties, it can be catastrophic, again, even more so than the effect of breathing in cigarette smoke.
I am FED UP of my nose suddenly being assaulted and feeling my throat trying to close up while some tracksuit bottomed, baseball cap wearing yob* saunters along ahead of me enjoying long, carefree drags of whatever type of cannabis he has been able to get his hands on; willfully ignorant that the noxious fumes are billowing out into the airways of everybody else around him, at best making them feel sick and at worst causing a possibly life-threatening asthma attack.
People, please: while I completely support your right to abuse your system with whatever drug you choose, the saying "your right to swing your fist ends at my nose" is still prevalent. You can do what you want, but only providing that it effects nobody else; i.e.: in the (private) comfort your own home.
Thank you. That is all.
=gets down off soap box. walks off=
* I know it's stereotyping, but honestly, all of the cannabis users that I have encountered - the ones that smoke the damn things in public, anyway - wear tracksuit bottoms and a baseball cap.
Now folks, I KNOW that cannabis has been moved from a 'class B' to a 'class C' in illegal drug terms. And I KNOW that this equates to the police having the power to do no more (providing that the amount is fairly small) than confiscate what you are found to have on you and give you a "don't do it again" lecture. And I KNOW that this; added to the fact that there are fewer and fewer patrolling policemen on the beat, means that the odds of you a) getting caught and b) actually being in any way punished if you do are next to nil.
I am also aware of the various benefits to be had by the - sensible - use of cannabis as opposed to say, the effects of long term partaking in alcohol, and I agree that it should be legalized (along with all other drugs, but that's a soap box for another day); truly I do.
BUT THAT BEING SAID: please, for the love of God, STOP smoking spliffs - that's what they're called, right? - as you make your way down public streets. Not only is the smell positively disgusting, even more so than cigarettes; but for people that suffer with breathing difficulties, it can be catastrophic, again, even more so than the effect of breathing in cigarette smoke.
I am FED UP of my nose suddenly being assaulted and feeling my throat trying to close up while some tracksuit bottomed, baseball cap wearing yob* saunters along ahead of me enjoying long, carefree drags of whatever type of cannabis he has been able to get his hands on; willfully ignorant that the noxious fumes are billowing out into the airways of everybody else around him, at best making them feel sick and at worst causing a possibly life-threatening asthma attack.
People, please: while I completely support your right to abuse your system with whatever drug you choose, the saying "your right to swing your fist ends at my nose" is still prevalent. You can do what you want, but only providing that it effects nobody else; i.e.: in the (private) comfort your own home.
Thank you. That is all.
=gets down off soap box. walks off=
* I know it's stereotyping, but honestly, all of the cannabis users that I have encountered - the ones that smoke the damn things in public, anyway - wear tracksuit bottoms and a baseball cap.
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
#Singing In The Rain#
...or in my case, squelching. It absolutely poured it down while Bingo and I were out on our walk. Half way along the canal, we were, when the heavens opened and several bathtubs worth emptied themselves out on top of us. By the time we got home we were both drenched and required the aid of several towels, along with the warmth of the gas fire, to dry ourselves off.
It was a nice walk, though. Very enjoyable. Saw geese with goslings, ducks with ducklings, a distant buzzard circling overhead, and through my soaked and steamed up glasses I got a misted but close up glimpse of the heron.
Anyhoot; dinner's nearly ready, so over and out for now.
Alice xxx
It was a nice walk, though. Very enjoyable. Saw geese with goslings, ducks with ducklings, a distant buzzard circling overhead, and through my soaked and steamed up glasses I got a misted but close up glimpse of the heron.
Anyhoot; dinner's nearly ready, so over and out for now.
Alice xxx
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
A Solution To An Ongoing Argument:
Having been arguing the toss of the Who Does The Mid-Week Shop debate for some time, I finally hit upon a solution.
I simply went and got it.
I warned mother beforehand, letting her know in no uncertain terms that I wasn't asking her permission. It caused her to purse her lips and looked disapproving, but no more than that. She is so flat out exhausted and frazzled now, really, that I think that for the first time the idea actually appealed to her. She wasn't happy though; and stubborn to the last, I saw her pale, haggard face light up when I casually mentioned that I wanted her to leave me a list and some money.
Oh, how triumphant and magnanimous her smile was then, thinking that she'd found a loophole and she'd won. Of course she would agree! Then if she 'forgot' to do those things, well, I just wouldn't be able to do it, would I, and oh well; what a shame. How smug she was, sat there in a crumpled heap and smiling and nodding in that placatory manner that elder people tend to use when dealing with younger.
And how smug I was, too, smiling and nodding back in the self same placatory manner - as younger people also tend to do when dealing with elder - knowing that in spite of her brilliant scheme to stop me, I was going to do it anyway.
That's why I like to have a small buffer in the bank put aside from the pittance of my wages. It's to pay for necessary and unavoidable expenses, such as medicine to be paid for from the chemist or unexpected rides on public transport or, as in this case; a to foil a mother who can't accept, even though her soul is weeping with nervous and physical exhaustion, that she needs help. Y'know; those sort of expenses.
So I did it, and then I carried the supposedly too-heavy-to-lug without-a-car bags (there were two; one containing bread) home. Including the actual picking up, queuing and paying for as well, the entire thing took less than twenty minutes.
When I got back and had put the various items into their rightful places, I sent her a text.
"Done the mid-week shop," I said: "Brought loaves x2, milk; semi-skimmed and skimmed and some cheese for MJ. Should anything else be needed I'll nip to the Tesco Express this evening."
Two hours later I received a text back. One word. "Thanks".
Ha. That got her.
...Really, really; should have thought of that a lot earlier than I did...
I simply went and got it.
I warned mother beforehand, letting her know in no uncertain terms that I wasn't asking her permission. It caused her to purse her lips and looked disapproving, but no more than that. She is so flat out exhausted and frazzled now, really, that I think that for the first time the idea actually appealed to her. She wasn't happy though; and stubborn to the last, I saw her pale, haggard face light up when I casually mentioned that I wanted her to leave me a list and some money.
Oh, how triumphant and magnanimous her smile was then, thinking that she'd found a loophole and she'd won. Of course she would agree! Then if she 'forgot' to do those things, well, I just wouldn't be able to do it, would I, and oh well; what a shame. How smug she was, sat there in a crumpled heap and smiling and nodding in that placatory manner that elder people tend to use when dealing with younger.
And how smug I was, too, smiling and nodding back in the self same placatory manner - as younger people also tend to do when dealing with elder - knowing that in spite of her brilliant scheme to stop me, I was going to do it anyway.
That's why I like to have a small buffer in the bank put aside from the pittance of my wages. It's to pay for necessary and unavoidable expenses, such as medicine to be paid for from the chemist or unexpected rides on public transport or, as in this case; a to foil a mother who can't accept, even though her soul is weeping with nervous and physical exhaustion, that she needs help. Y'know; those sort of expenses.
So I did it, and then I carried the supposedly too-heavy-to-lug without-a-car bags (there were two; one containing bread) home. Including the actual picking up, queuing and paying for as well, the entire thing took less than twenty minutes.
When I got back and had put the various items into their rightful places, I sent her a text.
"Done the mid-week shop," I said: "Brought loaves x2, milk; semi-skimmed and skimmed and some cheese for MJ. Should anything else be needed I'll nip to the Tesco Express this evening."
Two hours later I received a text back. One word. "Thanks".
Ha. That got her.
...Really, really; should have thought of that a lot earlier than I did...
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Am I Being Overly Sensitive Here?
Said by a woman as we walked past one another and after she had stared at me for a few seconds:
"...that reminds me! You know that big fat girl that works in the coffee shop...?"
...I mean...!
Am I imagining that? And if not, couldn't she have waited 30 odd seconds till I was out of ear shot? Or at least until she wasn't looking straight at me? It didn't upset me, as such; just...well, just made me sigh, give a wry half-amused smile and shake my head at her, because, y'know? Tact! Learn it!
People.
=sighs. gives wry smile. shakes head=
"...that reminds me! You know that big fat girl that works in the coffee shop...?"
...I mean...!
Am I imagining that? And if not, couldn't she have waited 30 odd seconds till I was out of ear shot? Or at least until she wasn't looking straight at me? It didn't upset me, as such; just...well, just made me sigh, give a wry half-amused smile and shake my head at her, because, y'know? Tact! Learn it!
People.
=sighs. gives wry smile. shakes head=
Saturday, 8 June 2013
A Pleasant Evening:
On Friday evening as we (Mother, The Grandmama and I) were
listening to the Desmond Carrington
radio program, we were treated to the sight of not only sparrows making use of
the bird bath and a family of starlings – two sets of harried parents and
around sixteen well fed fledglings – loudly squabbling and playing about with
one another as they pecked a fat ball to shreds, but also to the magnificent
sight of a male greater spotted woodpecker hopping about on the fence before
seeing off the starlings and sampling the delights of (what was left of) the
fat ball for himself. In the lowering sunlight his wonderful colours were
illuminated to perfection and all three of us sat there barely daring to
breathe – the window was open – as he feasted just a few feet away from us.
Backed as it was by the music coming from the radio, it was
an awesome thing. Even the wood pigeons (which The Grandmama hates with a
passion) making a belated appearance and mopping up what was left of the liquid
in the bird bath didn’t spoil the mood.
The sight of two pheasants – a male and a female – waddling
slowly through along the paving of the communal garden, idly picking up the
leftovers as we stood up to leave capped the evening off nicely and we left
feeling as happy and nourished as the birds hopefully did.
Good company, good music, good display of wildlife:
A jolly pleasant time all round, I thought.
Friday, 7 June 2013
Choir Practice and Other (Un)related News:
* Choir practice yesterday was brilliant: after a few rehearsals of feeling like a complete and utter idiot due to be forcibly ejected from the hall any moment for ruining the music, finally things have begun to click. Admittedly I had done a bit of practicing (three times in 2 weeks. And two of those three were supervised by my mum: I am such a grownup), but I found that even the (two) pieces I hadn't worked on now...well, worked. The 'natural ear' that all of my music teachers raved about me having came into its own and I suddenly and unexpectedly I realized that ooh; I could DO this! Wow!
Fun.
Maybe I won't be forcibly ejected from the rehearsal hall and banned from coming back after all.
* The dog ran into my legs again on Wednesday evening. This time I saw it coming but it happened so quickly that I only had time to partially dive out of the way. Still, at least I only had one dead leg this time rather than two.
* Is it just me, or do the majority of male teenagers today closely resemble zombies?
Not the fast moving un-dead runners of modern Hollywood (I'm sorry, but come on! Zombies running? How wrong is that??), but the slow, lumbering gait of the Night Of The Living Dead-esque originals.
Honestly! Don't you think? I do. Maybe its just here...?
Anyway, it occurred to me when a group of them plodded their way past me; their clothes similar, their walk identical and their faces fixed with a gormless blank stare. Truly; it is eerily uncanny. They meander around, mostly silent bar the odd grunt or groan (how is it that they understand each other), facing forward and never diverting their gaze to anything around them or even one another, their eyes glassy and sightless... Disconcerting. Very. Every time they drag themselves past me I find myself wondering 'is this it? Is today the day that they actually turn out to be real zombies and I get eaten?'
Melodramatic and stupid and scientifically impossible, I hear you say? That could only be because you've never seen them. Creepy doesn't even begin to describe it.
=shudders=
To make things worse; if they are not feet dragging zombies, they are drunken and hyperactive overgrown chipmunks on speed, weaving about over the pavement (and the road) fighting with each other and innocent members of the public and shouting nonsensical abuse at passersby.
In Kidderminster, at least, there doesn't appear to be an in-between.
And I am not certain which I prefer...
* Things are warming up here. This is good news for all of the "where is summer?" people, and the nice bright sunshine everywhere is pretty lovely and everything, but it is terribly bad news for hayfever ridden people, i.e; me.
I'd take something stronger to ease the symptoms, but the problem is that there isn't anything. I am taking as much as I can and then am doubling it (against doctors advice, but with respect to their vast professional experience, they can kiss my arse. Without the 'unsafe' 20mg of Loratadine I am assaulting my system with per day, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed, let alone go outside), but I still feel one small step off from having the flu the majority of the time.
Add that to the Special Time Of The Month and all those members of the great British public that I have encountered that are not suffering from hayfever and are not currently experiencing the delights of That Special Time Of The Month are lucky that I let them live this week.
* As the poorly teacher that mother has been covering for is still poorly, she has been sentenced - er, I mean 'recruited', of course - to work another two weeks at the school until the poorly teacher has another medical review to see if she can come back. If not, mother will carry on. Which is great, finance wise, but at the same time the school that mother usually subs at is getting a bit sniffy that their supply teacher is being stolen from them (don't ask) and mother is being mentally crippled and driven to the limit of complete exhaustion and beyond by the pressure of the paperwork (another rant for another day).
To be honest I'm not sure how much more of this she can take.
And to be even more honest, I don't know how much more of her not being able to take anymore that I can take.
* I made my second beef hotpot yesterday. Go me.
Don't laugh: I know that hotpots aren't that different from casseroles, which I've made plenty of times, but I've only been cooking for the past year or so and every foray into anything new is a big step, ok?
Anyway; twice, so far. I had split the 500g wedge of stewing beef up, you see, into two portions, because it looked like there would be too much to fit in our modest sized casserole dish once the vegetables and stock and so forth were added. It turned out I had been mistaken and it would have fitted quite well, but at the same time I think it allowed everything in the crock-pot room to breathe a bit which couldn't be bad. And in any case; what was done was done and I froze the other part of the meat ready to use the following week. Cue yesterday.
After defrosting the beef slowly over Wednesday night I had another crack at it, and boy; was I thrilled with the results. Mother had eaten both portions last time (using the smaller amount of ingredients it made two generous sized portions) because I was eating out two days in a row and I wanted her to eat something filling and good, so I hadn't tried it until now. It was really tasty. There wasn't that much to it, just the beef and a few roots; parsnip, onions and carrots and the potatoes to top it, but as I ate it and enjoyed it I felt really proud (possibly childishly) that I had cooked something that tasted that nice. Admittedly I used a packet of stock mix rather than making one from scratch (God bless Tesco. Their own version is much nicer than the ones created by Knorr or Oxo or any of the other big brands like that), but still. I think I did well.
Plus there's the added bonus that as meals go it isn't all that expensive. I get the meat relatively cheaply as part of a deal at either Tesco or Iceland; three packets for £10 (this time it was from Tesco and I purchased the 500g stewing beef, a pack of 2 nice sized chicken breasts and a packet containing 6 pork loin steaks) and when you add that to the price of the vegetables and the stock it works out at around £2.50 per (two portioned) meal. Which, considering rising prices on all food stuffs, isn't bad, not at all.
* There's a tennis championship going on at the moment: the French Open. With the added channels that the digital television we in Britain have been forced to switch to mother has found that all of a sudden she is able to watch things like that (when she is in and has the chance of course) and right now is in heaven because she is back early from work and two of her favourite players are competing in the semi-final and are half way through into their fifth set, which in tennis terms is apparently very exciting. She is a happy woman indeed.
* It is The Grandmama's birthday on Monday. She had previously ordered the cooking of six cakes (six!) by mother as her birthday present, so that she could have a little coffee morning type party with the few residents of the complex that she can actually stand. Mother, who hates cooking (which is a shame because she is terribly good at it) but agrees to make cakes for people's birthdays because they are so good as to be in demand, looked dismayed at the prospect of three rounds - as she makes two per sitting - of cake making. But she agreed with calm grace to her beloved if batty mother's request and brought all of the ingredients including a hell of a lot of eggs, only to be told that whoops; not only does The Grandmama not need the cakes until a week after her birthday, but also as it turns out she only needs three.
Whoops indeed. So mother has a massive load of eggs that are only just in date long enough to last another week and are also twice as many as she will actually be using. Great.
We have a very egg orientated week coming up, me-thinks.
* Had another letter from our sponsored child in Niger*: Zourera. She was delighted by our last letter (it always says that) and her family is doing well, with her husband having returned from a successful and "happy" trip to a neighbouring village to acquire temporary work as a farm hand (and he came home with a bike, as well! Working bikes are a rare commodity in that part of the world) and her baby boy - Abdoulage Zakari - thriving. The rainy season was coming to an end at the time the letter was sent (six months ago; it takes so long for the letters to be written, then translated, then posted) ready for the start of the cold season, so all hands were on deck to gather the harvest.
Good good.
...Anyway, that's it for me for now. I've got to go now and get dinner ready.
Guess what we're having?
Alice xxx
* it's a project run by a group called Plan. You pay a monthly amount and it goes toward helping a particular impoverished village, in this case, Niger, with letters and gifts etc being directed at a particular child; in our case Zourera. After all this time, she isn't a child anymore of course - nineteen and married with a child - but the money still helps the village and by proxy, her and her family. It's a good system and seems to work well; the money seems to actually go where it is needed. It doesn't solve every problem in Africa, of course it doesn't, but at least it helps a little. That's better than nothing. Right?
Fun.
Maybe I won't be forcibly ejected from the rehearsal hall and banned from coming back after all.
* The dog ran into my legs again on Wednesday evening. This time I saw it coming but it happened so quickly that I only had time to partially dive out of the way. Still, at least I only had one dead leg this time rather than two.
* Is it just me, or do the majority of male teenagers today closely resemble zombies?
Not the fast moving un-dead runners of modern Hollywood (I'm sorry, but come on! Zombies running? How wrong is that??), but the slow, lumbering gait of the Night Of The Living Dead-esque originals.
Honestly! Don't you think? I do. Maybe its just here...?
Anyway, it occurred to me when a group of them plodded their way past me; their clothes similar, their walk identical and their faces fixed with a gormless blank stare. Truly; it is eerily uncanny. They meander around, mostly silent bar the odd grunt or groan (how is it that they understand each other), facing forward and never diverting their gaze to anything around them or even one another, their eyes glassy and sightless... Disconcerting. Very. Every time they drag themselves past me I find myself wondering 'is this it? Is today the day that they actually turn out to be real zombies and I get eaten?'
Melodramatic and stupid and scientifically impossible, I hear you say? That could only be because you've never seen them. Creepy doesn't even begin to describe it.
=shudders=
To make things worse; if they are not feet dragging zombies, they are drunken and hyperactive overgrown chipmunks on speed, weaving about over the pavement (and the road) fighting with each other and innocent members of the public and shouting nonsensical abuse at passersby.
In Kidderminster, at least, there doesn't appear to be an in-between.
And I am not certain which I prefer...
* Things are warming up here. This is good news for all of the "where is summer?" people, and the nice bright sunshine everywhere is pretty lovely and everything, but it is terribly bad news for hayfever ridden people, i.e; me.
I'd take something stronger to ease the symptoms, but the problem is that there isn't anything. I am taking as much as I can and then am doubling it (against doctors advice, but with respect to their vast professional experience, they can kiss my arse. Without the 'unsafe' 20mg of Loratadine I am assaulting my system with per day, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed, let alone go outside), but I still feel one small step off from having the flu the majority of the time.
Add that to the Special Time Of The Month and all those members of the great British public that I have encountered that are not suffering from hayfever and are not currently experiencing the delights of That Special Time Of The Month are lucky that I let them live this week.
* As the poorly teacher that mother has been covering for is still poorly, she has been sentenced - er, I mean 'recruited', of course - to work another two weeks at the school until the poorly teacher has another medical review to see if she can come back. If not, mother will carry on. Which is great, finance wise, but at the same time the school that mother usually subs at is getting a bit sniffy that their supply teacher is being stolen from them (don't ask) and mother is being mentally crippled and driven to the limit of complete exhaustion and beyond by the pressure of the paperwork (another rant for another day).
To be honest I'm not sure how much more of this she can take.
And to be even more honest, I don't know how much more of her not being able to take anymore that I can take.
* I made my second beef hotpot yesterday. Go me.
Don't laugh: I know that hotpots aren't that different from casseroles, which I've made plenty of times, but I've only been cooking for the past year or so and every foray into anything new is a big step, ok?
Anyway; twice, so far. I had split the 500g wedge of stewing beef up, you see, into two portions, because it looked like there would be too much to fit in our modest sized casserole dish once the vegetables and stock and so forth were added. It turned out I had been mistaken and it would have fitted quite well, but at the same time I think it allowed everything in the crock-pot room to breathe a bit which couldn't be bad. And in any case; what was done was done and I froze the other part of the meat ready to use the following week. Cue yesterday.
After defrosting the beef slowly over Wednesday night I had another crack at it, and boy; was I thrilled with the results. Mother had eaten both portions last time (using the smaller amount of ingredients it made two generous sized portions) because I was eating out two days in a row and I wanted her to eat something filling and good, so I hadn't tried it until now. It was really tasty. There wasn't that much to it, just the beef and a few roots; parsnip, onions and carrots and the potatoes to top it, but as I ate it and enjoyed it I felt really proud (possibly childishly) that I had cooked something that tasted that nice. Admittedly I used a packet of stock mix rather than making one from scratch (God bless Tesco. Their own version is much nicer than the ones created by Knorr or Oxo or any of the other big brands like that), but still. I think I did well.
Plus there's the added bonus that as meals go it isn't all that expensive. I get the meat relatively cheaply as part of a deal at either Tesco or Iceland; three packets for £10 (this time it was from Tesco and I purchased the 500g stewing beef, a pack of 2 nice sized chicken breasts and a packet containing 6 pork loin steaks) and when you add that to the price of the vegetables and the stock it works out at around £2.50 per (two portioned) meal. Which, considering rising prices on all food stuffs, isn't bad, not at all.
* There's a tennis championship going on at the moment: the French Open. With the added channels that the digital television we in Britain have been forced to switch to mother has found that all of a sudden she is able to watch things like that (when she is in and has the chance of course) and right now is in heaven because she is back early from work and two of her favourite players are competing in the semi-final and are half way through into their fifth set, which in tennis terms is apparently very exciting. She is a happy woman indeed.
* It is The Grandmama's birthday on Monday. She had previously ordered the cooking of six cakes (six!) by mother as her birthday present, so that she could have a little coffee morning type party with the few residents of the complex that she can actually stand. Mother, who hates cooking (which is a shame because she is terribly good at it) but agrees to make cakes for people's birthdays because they are so good as to be in demand, looked dismayed at the prospect of three rounds - as she makes two per sitting - of cake making. But she agreed with calm grace to her beloved if batty mother's request and brought all of the ingredients including a hell of a lot of eggs, only to be told that whoops; not only does The Grandmama not need the cakes until a week after her birthday, but also as it turns out she only needs three.
Whoops indeed. So mother has a massive load of eggs that are only just in date long enough to last another week and are also twice as many as she will actually be using. Great.
We have a very egg orientated week coming up, me-thinks.
* Had another letter from our sponsored child in Niger*: Zourera. She was delighted by our last letter (it always says that) and her family is doing well, with her husband having returned from a successful and "happy" trip to a neighbouring village to acquire temporary work as a farm hand (and he came home with a bike, as well! Working bikes are a rare commodity in that part of the world) and her baby boy - Abdoulage Zakari - thriving. The rainy season was coming to an end at the time the letter was sent (six months ago; it takes so long for the letters to be written, then translated, then posted) ready for the start of the cold season, so all hands were on deck to gather the harvest.
Good good.
...Anyway, that's it for me for now. I've got to go now and get dinner ready.
Guess what we're having?
Alice xxx
* it's a project run by a group called Plan. You pay a monthly amount and it goes toward helping a particular impoverished village, in this case, Niger, with letters and gifts etc being directed at a particular child; in our case Zourera. After all this time, she isn't a child anymore of course - nineteen and married with a child - but the money still helps the village and by proxy, her and her family. It's a good system and seems to work well; the money seems to actually go where it is needed. It doesn't solve every problem in Africa, of course it doesn't, but at least it helps a little. That's better than nothing. Right?
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
Happiness Is.... (No.2)
Happiness is… catching a fleeting glimpse of a pair of
yellow bellied long tailed wagtails frolicking in the early morning sunlight as
you trudge your slightly sleepy and very sorry way to work.
Made my day, did that.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Overheard In The Park:
~START~
(Scene begins with an attentive mother and her small child stood by the lake, watching the birds. After telling him the name of each bird carefully, mother then points at a swan)
MOTHER: Now then, what's that bird there, Charlie?
CHILD: (eagerly and confidently) Swan!
MOTHER: (astounded and delighted that he got it right) Yes, Charley! Well DONE! That is a swan! Clever boy!
CHILD: (smiles proudly) Yes mommy.
(Mother and child start to walk away in happy silence, until child spots a pigeon pecking at a seed nearby. Child then points at the bird excitedly)
CHILD: (eagerly and confidently) Swan!
MOTHER: (looks at pigeon, then child before sighing a small, defeated sigh) Not quite, Charley...
~END~
(Scene begins with an attentive mother and her small child stood by the lake, watching the birds. After telling him the name of each bird carefully, mother then points at a swan)
MOTHER: Now then, what's that bird there, Charlie?
CHILD: (eagerly and confidently) Swan!
MOTHER: (astounded and delighted that he got it right) Yes, Charley! Well DONE! That is a swan! Clever boy!
CHILD: (smiles proudly) Yes mommy.
(Mother and child start to walk away in happy silence, until child spots a pigeon pecking at a seed nearby. Child then points at the bird excitedly)
CHILD: (eagerly and confidently) Swan!
MOTHER: (looks at pigeon, then child before sighing a small, defeated sigh) Not quite, Charley...
~END~
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)