A Run Down of The Past Few Days.

THE GOOD:
Mother has brought me an Easter Egg. And it's a posh one. Thorntons. In this country, you just don't get posher than that.
We are to share it tonight (Saturday, rather than Sunday, being our official 'Naughty' day).
All hail chocolatey goodness! Hooray!

THE BAD:
I saw a dead bird on the road on the way to work yesterday. It was a Long-Tailed-Yellow-Bellied Wagtail; a beautiful bird. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that there was another live Long-Tailed-Yellow-Bellied Wagtail hopping around nearby: it's mate, perhaps? I felt awful and at that moment wished bad things on both the inventor of cars and the person driving that particular one (though the latter blame perhaps was unfair; sometimes it's unavoidable rather than due to not caring).
Selfishly, I was grateful that I was on my way to work, because I knew that I would be able to be distracted, which I was.

Poor, poor little thing. I hate bloody cars. And I really really hate how bloody well necessary they've become.

THE UGLY:

My hair! Why does That Time Of The Month always cause two to three days of horrible feeling and looking hair? I get the cramps and the tiredness and the hormonal roller-coaster and various other delightful uncomfortable symptoms usually associated with it: why can't I skip that one?  

Also: the floor at work. No matter what I've done this week the result has been the same. I hate it when they use rock salt. You can't get anything bloody clean.

THE BRILLIANT:
My third volunteering session went well. It was only a couple of hours long - I don't have as much time on Fridays as I do Mondays - but I worked well and the manager is very happy with me and everybody I encounter there is still being friendly and I am now an official Sense Volunteer. I had to sign my name on the log in sheet and everything. It was great.
On Monday I am to undertake the health and safety tour. Having seen two other people go through it - with ground breaking things being warned about; such as "do not poke your fingers into sockets" and "do not try and leap head-first down the stairs" - I know it will be a riveting and fulfilling experience.

I'm getting dead good with the tagging gun as well. I think it's beginning to like me.
Oh, and the resident ghost seems to like me too (more on him later).
So, yay! It's going swell.

Ooh, also: The Grandmama gave me some of her costume necklaces and they're just lovely.

THE EVEN MORE BRILLIANT:
Mother and I saw a Heron yesterday evening whilst walking Bingo (before the weekly pilgrimage to The Grandmama's to pay homage to the greatness that is the Desmond Carrington radio show). It was hunting in the recently flooded wooded area near to the playground, and we were able to get very close - and thus get a good look at it with our breath held and our faces fixed with a probably silly looking "WOW!" expression -  before it got miffed and flew - very slowly and gracefully - away to settle by the stream a few feet away. By gum, it was amazing.

AND FINALLY, THE FUNNY:
A small child made me laugh on my way home from work on Wednesday, when he turned to his mother while they walked behind me and asked in a really loud voice:

"Mommy, what is that BIG FAT LADY wearing on her feet?? They're not SHOES are they? They don't LOOK like shoes. They're NOT shoes, are they??"

Mommy answered quickly and in an urgent whisper:

"No, sweetie, they're trainers, not shoes, and we don't say 'fat'."

"Oh," the small boy replied, with surprise evident in his voice. "Alright, mommy."

And I know that I've complained about this issue very recently, but I have to admit that I laughed, because, it was just - ah. Y'know?

Out of the mouths of babes...

To Make Up For The Last And Very Depressing Post, Here Is Another Dream From a Long Time Ago:

Brought Back To Mind By The Title Of A Recent Post:

 I Bring You "The Saga Of Geoff The Guinea Pig".

Enjoy.

A while ago, I went through a spate of having some very...odd dreams. Not so much whacky and so completely, completely unrealistic that it can't be anything BUT a dream, but stupidly unlikely while (at the time, anyway) rather plausible scenarios involving me, my family and my friends. Each and every one of them was funny, in their own way, and had me shaking my head and smiling when I woke up. But…BUT, my friends: not one of them was quite as funny and head-shakeable as the Saga of Geoff the Guinea-Pig. And it is that the dream that I am going to relate to you now.  

The dream began normally enough. It began with me waking up after a night’s sleep (you know, as you do), and taking Bingo for his morning walk.

It was a beautiful morning. We pottered along, Bingo sniffed about and exchanged the usual doggy greetings with friends we met in passing, and then, as always, when fellow dog walker and morning walk companion Jan  arrived, we started off on our daily ramble across the playing fields. All very regular and above board in the normality stakes.

It was when we were joined by Margaret and her dog Rosie that things began to take a bit of an odd turn. Margaret and Rosie joining us was not an unusual incident in itself of course, as they often did join us. But today, Margaret had a problem. Geoff: her Guinea-Pig. He had escaped, and was currently racing about by the canal, sporting a minor injury to his rump - caused by the brambles that he scrambled through whilst making his escape - and, she wondered, would we be able to try and help her catch him…?

We looked at one another and shrugged. Fair enough. Damsel and Guinea-Pig in distress: why not? And off we went, dogs following, down towards the canal. Sure enough, there he was. He was dashing up and down between two rotting tree stumps, trailing a little droplets of blood from the little scratch just above his bum, and looking very lost, and frightened, and, very...Guinea-Pig like. Right. So this was Geoff. All well and good so far… 

We made our way as quietly as we could (considering that we were accompanied by four excited dogs) and, without speaking to one another, decided unanimously to divide and conquer; walking slowly and calmly until we had the little fuzz ball surrounded. This accomplished, we began to edge our way forward, bit by bit, inch by inch, till we were very close indeed. Close enough for one of us to grab him, but who would it be?

Before anybody could volunteer to take a shot at being The Guinea-Pig Grabber, however, Geoff took matters into his own hands and made a dash: straight between Jan's legs and into the canal. And it was right at that second that a question I had asked myself once long ago was answered. The question was; could Guinea-Pigs swim? The answer: no…no; they really couldn't, not at all.

So there we all were, with little Geoff drowning right before our eyes. Something had to be done. And t'was I, apparently, that decided to be the one to do it.

So in I jumped.

The rescue was brief and uneventful, or at least I presume so. One second I was jumping in, next I was standing on the bank again, dripping, and holding a (dripping) and considerably annoyed and belligerent Geoff in my arms.

Margaret noted, in some distress, that he was still bleeding, but that was no problem at all. Alice, The Great Guinea-Pig Saviour, to the rescue!

Kneeling down, I produced from my dog walking bag my Black Pencil Case, which, in turn, produced a collective sigh of relief from everyone in our little group (except Geoff, who was too bust squealing his little head off and wriggling). My Great Black Pencil Case, you see, was legendary.

As well as my inhalers, it was known to contain all manner of wondrous and useful things: scissors, plasters, painkillers, stamps...and in this instance I also (miraculously) had a sterile bandage (that was also miraculously the correct size) and a safety pin.

Injured Guine-Pig's rump, plus bandage, plus safety pin, equalled me endeavouring to bandage said injured Guinea-Pig's rump. Easier said than done when said Guinea-Pig was decidedly against the idea of having his rump bandaged, especially when said Guinea-Pig was dripping wet. I managed quite well, though, until just as I was about to snip off the excess (and was already congratulating myself on a job well done), Geoff made another break for it.

This time, thankfully, he did not jump into the canal. He instead led every single person into the undignified position of scrambling on their hands and knees as he waddled his way between every last set of legs he could find. And quite a sight it was, I can tell you. Three ladies (and two men. God knew who they were or where they had come from), one dripping wet, all scrabbling about with their bottoms in the air trying desperately to grab hold of one very annoyed and very very mischievous Guinea-Pig. And not one of us caught him. Away he waddled, this time trailing a few inches of clean white bandage rather than blood, which made him look even more out of place and conspicuous than he had done before. And then, right before our very (astounded) eyes, the little blighter waddled his way straight up a tree.

We spent a few minutes stood stock still, blinking up at him (with him stood stock still on a branch, blinking down at us), before Margaret had the idea of phoning her husband Brian to bring a ladder. She didn’t have a phone, and mine had no credit on it, so it was Jan to the rescue (the two men that had appeared from nowhere had vanished to the same place). So she phoned Brian, and told him what had happened, and he agreed to bring his ladder. He would be just a few minutes…

While we waited the few minutes for Brian to arrive with his ladder, we sat down on the grass, leaving the dogs to stand guard by the tree, and had a nice little discussion about the merits of carpets verses varnishing, and took turns taking swigs from a bottle of Cherry Cola that I had apparently (and inexplicably) decided to bring with me. Then Brian arrived.

He wasn’t too pleased with Margaret, it had to be said; berating her, not harshly, but firmly, for allowing Geoff to run loose in the garden while she changed the bedding in his hutch, because after all, sooner or later something like this had been bound to happen. But he didn’t lecture his wife for long, for Margaret quickly started to cry (which left him looking as though he felt extremely guilty) and in any case; there was a job to do.

He popped the ladder up against the trunk, and tied it securely all the way around it with rope. Then all that was left to do was for somebody to climb up the ladder, and (hopefully) retrieve Geoff. And guess who that somebody was? …Yep.

Alice The Great Guinea-Pig Saviour; lover of hardwood floors and usually an avoider of anything involving ladders and climbing, climbed slowly and carefully up the ladder. I had expected it to wobble disconcertingly, but thanks to Brian’s careful rope winding it didn’t so much as think about it. But all the same, it took a lot more courage than I had previously imagined I’d got to not only step onto it, but to keep stepping until I reached the top.

The ladder was, of course, the perfect height.

So there I was, at the top of a ladder, with me looking at Geoff, and Geoff looking at me. There was nowhere for him to go. He couldn’t reach any of the other branches, and the ground was a long way down, and anyway, there was a canal running through it, and I doubted he’d want to go in there again. No, it was simply a matter of me stretching out my hand and grabbing him up, and then climbing back down. There was no other way: I knew it, and he knew it.

So, I stretched out my hand. Before I could grab him, though, Geoff decided to show me that he had thought of his own solution to the problem. Skirting around my outstretched fingers with a dexterity and skill that belied his fat little body, he waddled along the branch until his little nose was directly in line with mine. Then, knowing that I couldn’t fight back, and with a really spiteful expression in that silly looking little face of his, he bit my nose. Hard.

I would have cried out, but any thoughts about pain and suchlike, were immediately sidelined by the fact that Geoff had clambered onto my shoulder. Clutching desperately at the ladder with one hand, I tried to clutch desperately at Geoff with the other, but he wasn’t having any of that.

Giving a single, defiant squeak – “Give me liberty, or give me death!” said that Squeak – he braced himself, and, to the horror of everybody else concerned, he hurled himself into space.

I really did scream then, and fell off the ladder, backwards.

As I fell, I saw Geoff falling too. It all seemed to be in slow motion, with me flailing my arms in a futile attempt (attempting what, I haven‘t the foggiest idea, but I know I was attempting something, and I know it was futile), and Geoff, stiff as a board and with limbs splayed outwards like a badly designed parachute. We were both going to die, obviously, I knew that; I just hoped that it wouldn‘t hurt much.

I also hoped that Bingo wasn’t watching…

…I landed with an OOMF! On top of a mattress, held at each corner by one of the four that had remained on the ground. I had no time to wonder where the heck that mattress had come from, or to feel grateful for the fact that I was still alive, or even to move, because a second later, Geoff landed squarely onto my chest.

I flinched, his nasty sharp little claws digging into my breasts - they were sure as hell going to smart later, I could tell that for certain - but was too shell shocked by recent events to do anything about it.

Geoff, for his part, looked about him, perhaps dwelling on the fact that he too was still alive, but soon enough his mind turned to more important matters….He waddled up to my chin. Lifting my head forwards, our eyes met. Mine were glazed over and stunned. His were glinting with malevolence.

Opening his mouth wide, he bit my nose again. Harder than before, and gave another loud, defiant squeak. “Haha! Take that!”, it seemed to say. Then he turned, and waddled off my body and onto the ground, and trotted merrily away, back towards the tree.

It was around about that time that I began to really hate Geoff…

…And then I woke up.

End of dream and beginning of day; I got up and washed and dressed and walked Bingo with Jan and her two dogs and met lots of other dogs as I always did, including Margaret and Rosie (though thankfully without the actually non-existent guinea pig) and then I had my breakfast and headed off to work. But at the back of my mind for the next few days the question remained:

Why the heck did I dream that??

Dreaming of Escape.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday night I dreamed that I was a tall, slender, dark haired, slightly olive skinned young woman.

I was a captive. A slave.
We - there were many of us - were being kept in a walled/fenced 'community' that consisted of several barn like buildings and a few open spaces of grass/mud land. There were various wild stock - cows, chickens etc -  meandering around. There were many men - guards - patrolling up and down. And there were us. The women.

Why exactly we had come to be there, I don't know; details were blurred sketchy. It wasn't classed as a prison, though prisoners we undoubtedly were. The men guarding us called us "girls", regardless of age. Their tone and manner when they addressed us was leering and condescending at best, and brutal at worst. Most of the time they were brutal.

There were so many of us; young, middle aged, old...and we were trapped there. We worked the open spaces - farming type duties; what exactly we did was blurred and sketchy, just as the reasons for being there were - and washed our clothes and ourselves in tin baths filled with cold and grimy water (the guards watched the cleaning of ourselves), and huddled together at night on bare mattresses for warmth and comfort.

A single man lorded it over all. It was this man that decided who came and went, who said and did what, who lived and died. And who bore his children...

Many of us - including me - were heavily pregnant. We were his 'wives' and he had us any time he wanted. No woman, young or old, was pardoned. The actual having was something the dream lacked (thank goodness), but the bumps were there for all to see, and the shame and fear and anger and despair reverberated through the commune. All children born - those that survived the pregnancy and birth that is - were whisked away from the mother within seconds never to be seen again. No-one knew what happened to them, though rumours abounded. We knew there were other 'communities' that The Lord (that was what we called him: The Lord) ruled over; maybe they were sent there.

Nerves were jangled and there was an air of living on a knife edge. Nobody was safe, not woman nor guard, from the Lord's  wrath. If you displeased him, you suffered. If you displeased him enough, you died. The methods of death and torture were whispered about and sent shivers of terror running down the spine.

The only women spared death or torture were those who were pregnant. This was temporary, just until the child was born. Any transgression declared to be a 'crime' was punished as soon as possible after that. Many mothers were executed seconds after the child had been pushed out and taken away. But while the fetus grew in the Girl's belly; nothing happened to her. Nothing.

So just nine months of reprieve. Nine months to do whatever you liked before you went into labour and after losing the child to heaven or The Lord you most probably lost your life.
To most of us, that meant the opportunity to try and escape. And we did try. Over and over. Frantic and insane plans were thought of and then put into action. The details of each individual attempt are blurred (again), but many of them involved me and the end result was always the same: with me, looking up at the sneering face of a guard, and then being brought into the presence of The Lord. Each time He looked at me, lips pursed, eyes cold and glinting. He said nothing, just looked at me, then he waved his hand to the guard at the door and I was taken away and placed back into the 'community'.

With every passing month I got bigger, as did many of us. During a transportation on a bus from one 'community' to another I and another woman - an elderly lady called "Withered Girl" - led an attack on the guards and forced the driver to pull over. The majority of the guards recovered in time to grab most of us, including me, but a few escaped. Withered Girl was among them. She hesitated at the door of the bus, looking back at me as I struggled in the iron grip of the man holding my arms. I urged her, urged all of them that hadn't been grabbed, to run; run as fast and as far as they could, and may whatever deity that may have been watching over us have mercy on them and grant them safety somewhere...

For me, that bus ride was the beginning of the end. The guard holding me, loosing his temper with me as I kept struggling, threw me down to the floor, where - to the horror of everyone watching - he kicked my eight months swollen stomach, as hard as he possibly could.
I felt a searing pain, and a few moments later felt the blood seeping down between my legs. I knew then that it was over. He had killed the child inside of me and it was over.

It was over. The guard would be killed, I knew, as well as me; to kill an unborn baby was a crime punishable by hanging drawing and quartering. I wasn't certain what my fate will be, though I knew death would be the end of it, and as my dream faded away to nothing I should have been afraid, but I wasn't.
More than that, I felt - as I lay there in a blooded, aching mess - that I had won.
I would die.
Heaven awaited me. Soon, very soon, I would be free; and I would never be caged, dreaming of escape that could never be, again.
Never again...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So there you go. That was it.

Incredibly depressing, huh?

*shrugs* 

Hopefully tonight's venture into the lands of slumber will be happier. We'll see. 

An (ongoing) Argument:

~ START ~

{Scene is set: Alice and Mother are sat in the living room, having a discussion regarding the mid-week shop. Alice works PART time, and thinks that as Mother works FULL time, that Alice should be the one to fetch the bread and milk etc. that the Collison's tend to purchase every Tuesday from the supermarket on her way home from her morning shift. This argument is strengthened by the fact that not only does Alice have more free time than Mother, but that on Tuesday mornings she tends to actually VISIT the supermarket, to meet with a friend in the cafe for a cup of tea and a chat. Mother, however, thinks that two loaves of bread and two (small) bottles of milk and the occasional (small) block of cheese is too much for one person to walk (twelve minutes) home. This is a bone of contention between the two that has been passed back and forth for some time and has yet to be resolved.}

ALICE: (attempting to be firm) Look, it's SILLY, you driving down specially just to fetch a couple of bags of shopping. It's not that much; I can carry it, honestly!
MOTHER: (breezy) I disagree.
ALICE:  It wastes petrol. And you're tired! You work full time, I work part time. I have more time than you do; time that could be spent doing useful things, like picking up the mid-week shop.
MOTHER: (stubbornly) It's too much to carry, and too far.
ALICE: (frustrated) It's two loaves of bread and two little 2L bottles of milk! Oh, and cheese. And it's a twelve minute walk.
MOTHER: (still stubborn) Sometimes it's more than that!
ALICE: Not often, it isn't, and it's never much more. We're talking three bags worth, tops. And one of those is filled with two loaves: not exactly heavy, is it? And anyway, you're forgetting something.
MOTHER: (anxious) what?
ALICE: (triumphant) On a Tuesday morning I am actually IN Tesco...with Emma. We meet there for a drink. So I can just pick up the things while I'm there.
MOTHER: (whining) But...
ALICE: (exasperated) oh for goodness sake! What's the problem? You're rushed off your feet all day teaching; by the time you finish of an evening you're exhausted. I work part time; the money I give you for living here is a pittance. We agreed that I would make up for this by cooking, cleaning and running errands:  this is an errand!
MOTHER: (pouts then smiles triumphantly) well, maybe you could do it in the future, but THIS week I have to fetch something, so it has to be me.
ALICE: (nonplussed then realization dawns) This wouldn't be because you want to buy me an Easter Egg, is it? (mother looks shifty) well that's no problem, is it? It's not exactly a surprise gift, is it? I can fetch it.
MOTHER: (sighs) look; I want to do the mid-week, alright? I like doing it.
ALICE: But WHY? You're so tired...I just don't understand why you wont let me help you.
MOTHER: I just like doing it each week. I like doing it; I enjoy it.
ALICE: (cross) That's not true.
MOTHER: (innocent) Is so.
ALICE: (cross) Is not! You're lying!
MOTHER: (innocent) I? Lying? Of course not. I like doing the mid-week shop.
ALICE: (smiling) Liar.
MOTHER: (smiling back) Not so.
ALICE: Is so! Alright, go on then; swear on your soul that it's true.
MOTHER: (eyes widen. swallows. pouts) I... ... ...I don't want to discuss this anymore.
ALICE: (hoots with laughter) SEE? I KNEW you were lying....Oh, God, that's funny! You are such a fibber!
MOTHER: ...(sulks. then smiles)...
ALICE: (still laughing) You realize that I'm going to write every last word of this on my Blog, right?
MOTHER: (sighs) Yes.
ALICE: Good. Just so's we're clear.

{Scene closes with Mother leaving the room to make her fourth cup of tea in fifty minutes and Alice turning on her computer.}

~ END ~

Apart from my little quip about my new snow boots, I hadn't intended to post today....

But THIS is too big a thing to stay quiet about.

My mother, as this Blog had no clue about, is in TWO orchestras: The Wyre Forest Symphony (amateur) Orchestra and The West Midlands Light Orchestra. It is the second that I intend to mention today.


The WMLO (as it's called by Us In The Know) is a truly brilliant thing. People travel for miles around to listen to their concerts - that feature "songs from the golden age of music" - and the hall they rent out from The Stone Manor Hotel (situated near Kidderminster) is always packed. Mother is part of the string section; playing a viola.
They've already made a CD - imagine! My mother playing in an orchestra that has its very own official CD! - and now it seems David Etheridge, the orchestra's conductor, has decided to up the ante. Because now, you see; it has been advertised on a radio programme.

Yes! The West Midlands Light Orchestra is now famous (well, in Hereford and Worcestershire, anyway)! There was an actual whole segment within the show with David talking about the band and a few bits and pieces from the CD being played.

How cool is that?
Mother was so thrilled.

"The WMLO" is on the radio!" she sang: "That piece is from the CD! I played in that! I'm on the radio!"

Well, you can imagine how chuffed we both were, can't you?

Funnily enough, I actually heard a snippet of the show as I arrived for my taster volunteer session at the Sense Shop yesterday, but as I only heard a few seconds (the very beginning of the segment, as it turned out) before being led upstairs, I mistook it for a few-second advert regarding the upcoming concert this Sunday evening. Which is grand enough in itself, actually, now I come to think about it. But anyway, I thought 'hey, cool! That's the WMLO advertising on local radio! How did Dave swing that! Rock on!' And then I forgot all about it, till today; when mother asked me to check her email account for her* and we found two messages from David.
The first, sent about a week ago, was all about landing a slot on the BBC Hereford and Worcestershire Radio Show. The second, sent yesterday evening, was a link to the show itself.
And here it is:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p015lwxj . 

The bit with David in is about 18 minutes long, between 31.24 and 49 minutes into the show, and that particular show itself will probably remain active on the BBC Hereford and Worcester site for a few days or so, so listen to it quick, all (one) of you!

Ooh, and while we're on the subject, if you want to learn more about the WMLO, how about you read about it at source: http://www.wmlo.org.uk/ . There's even a picture of my mum in it! Hold on...

...There she is! **

She is last on the right, the nearest one to the camera with her viola sticking out at an angle. Don't mind her frowny expression; the picture was taken during the recording session for the CD and she's concentrating hard.

Anyway, pretty good, eh?

Whoops, got to go. There's only about 45 minutes till we are due to leave for The Grandpapa's and the dog (who I might add has already had TWO walks so far today. Smallish ones, I'll grant you, but still) is staring at me, meaningfully. So! I must go and find my faithful blue waterproof, pull on my boots and face the mini snow storm. Wish me luck.

Tara! 

Alice 

xxx

* my mother's hate-hate relationship with computers is a long, long story for another time.

** if you ever meet her, don't for the love of God tell her that I have put her picture on here. The internet freaks her out something chronic. She's peeved enough with the idea - when she allows herself to think about it which thankfully isn't often - of being on the WMLO website and therefore mentioned on the World Wide Web at all, let alone being talked about on O.F.G.A.H.T by me, and If she found out I'd posted a photo - and a rather unflattering one of her at that - on this Blog...well. I don't know precisely what she would do, but I do know that it wouldn't be good. So let this be our secret.

T'is Snowing.

*walks on*

It's snowing.
The weather reports indicate that we could have a few inches by tomorrow morning (which here - don't laugh - is a lot). But I don't care; for I have a pair of funky and brilliantly grippy snow boots.

Thank you. That is all.

*bows. walks off*

Just A Quickie* Before Bed:

Back By Popular *coughs* Demand!

Yes, folks! You guessed it!

It's Time For Alice's Fun Friday Fact! Whoo!

DID YOU KNOW that...

...the tune to 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' is exactly the same as the tune to the 'ABC Song'??

True Fact that is (definitely, this time) true.

And as an aside: It is also true that 99% of people reading this that know both songs will now sing them, just to check if that's right.

Which it is. They're identical. Honestly.

Yep.

*nods*

Alice 

xxx


* minds out of the gutter, people, please.