Saturday, December 31, 2005
in with the new
breath dig cox snooze act give receive chortle hum accept reveal fight question answer might drive study work wish nurture grip spell respond surprise support observe ice-cream excite relate turn make lick quicken revolt spell arse renew plot Christine’s Garden dream move challenge savour release alchemy space balance sense tickle.
Friday, December 30, 2005
out with the old
Sloth torpor passive stolid static stagnant fallow gutless lax slack limp flaccid sluggish tepid weary idle aimless fear hesitant regret pies procrastinate avoid poison cheap chocolate filler fancy void inert arse defeat abnegate concede Eastenders hide abjure mass censor forbid abuse saturate cud cross defunct submit withdraw vapid grease numb.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
could try harder
This year is all used up.
I never grabbed it; never wrestled it into submission. Never tied it up, tickled its belly, and rolled it, dizzy and giggling, down a grassy hill into the nettles.
I never licked a finger and, touching it to a day, claimed that day mine.
I never grabbed it; never wrestled it into submission. Never tied it up, tickled its belly, and rolled it, dizzy and giggling, down a grassy hill into the nettles.
I never licked a finger and, touching it to a day, claimed that day mine.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
aslan product placement
We watched a trail for Narnia at school, on the interactive whiteboard.
What?
Every classroom in Mol and Zig’s school now has an interactive whiteboard: a superdooper connect t’internet and … interact … whiteboard.
And they both - that’s the Year 2 and Year 5 classes at least - watched a trail for the Narnia film.
This unsettles me hugely. They attend a Church Of England school because it is the nearest, it is a good school, and it’s important to Geroff and me for the kids to go to school with the neighbourhood kids. Not because it is CofE. Because it is CofE I can – sort of - understand the pimping of Christian allegory through the medium of interactive whiteboard, but shit and fucking hell, it’s advertising. Pure and simple.
How long and how, if not already, will the names creep in? Will McD’s ‘incentivise’ schools to display a small golden arsecheese at the top of the screen, which begins to blink at 11:45? Will Run Spot, run in Nike?
There is an interactive whiteboard pipeline direct to my kids in a place they trust. It won’t take long, the brands can smell it. If they haven’t already devised and funded it.
I don’t like this one little bit.
Wasn’t too keen on the film, either. Which, by the power of interactive whiteboard or otherwise, was the becoming traditional family cinema twixt Christmas and New Year visit choice for 2005. No adaptation betters my head Lion, Witch or Wardrobe, imprinted by reading the damn book. Simple.
The wardrobe is even at the wrong angle. I know. The kids, however, loved it.
What?
Every classroom in Mol and Zig’s school now has an interactive whiteboard: a superdooper connect t’internet and … interact … whiteboard.
And they both - that’s the Year 2 and Year 5 classes at least - watched a trail for the Narnia film.
This unsettles me hugely. They attend a Church Of England school because it is the nearest, it is a good school, and it’s important to Geroff and me for the kids to go to school with the neighbourhood kids. Not because it is CofE. Because it is CofE I can – sort of - understand the pimping of Christian allegory through the medium of interactive whiteboard, but shit and fucking hell, it’s advertising. Pure and simple.
How long and how, if not already, will the names creep in? Will McD’s ‘incentivise’ schools to display a small golden arsecheese at the top of the screen, which begins to blink at 11:45? Will Run Spot, run in Nike?
There is an interactive whiteboard pipeline direct to my kids in a place they trust. It won’t take long, the brands can smell it. If they haven’t already devised and funded it.
I don’t like this one little bit.
Wasn’t too keen on the film, either. Which, by the power of interactive whiteboard or otherwise, was the becoming traditional family cinema twixt Christmas and New Year visit choice for 2005. No adaptation betters my head Lion, Witch or Wardrobe, imprinted by reading the damn book. Simple.
The wardrobe is even at the wrong angle. I know. The kids, however, loved it.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
it might as well be spring
There are four tidal pools of pressies on the living room floor; they spread, wash into each other, then pull away, leaving some of their original and taking something new. This won't end peacefully.
I dipped a tentative toe into the business of assimilating them into the house today. A bottle of port is now in the bottle of port box. Go me.
Christmas has been hibernation. Warm, curled and nesting. With sprouts.
Molster has been at her best friend’s tonight, and has been invited to stay. She needs pyjamas, toothbrush, hairbrush and clean top and undies. I am uncurling, waking up and shaking out to walk them up the road to her. And stay for a drink, of course, now the antibiotics are over.
Big yawn and a stretch. Come on brain, wake up. You’ve got to think of conversation. And talk. And shit.
I dipped a tentative toe into the business of assimilating them into the house today. A bottle of port is now in the bottle of port box. Go me.
Christmas has been hibernation. Warm, curled and nesting. With sprouts.
Molster has been at her best friend’s tonight, and has been invited to stay. She needs pyjamas, toothbrush, hairbrush and clean top and undies. I am uncurling, waking up and shaking out to walk them up the road to her. And stay for a drink, of course, now the antibiotics are over.
Big yawn and a stretch. Come on brain, wake up. You’ve got to think of conversation. And talk. And shit.
Monday, December 26, 2005
all the food groups
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
And Christmas Pussy.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
And Christmas Pussy.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
god bless us, every one.
To the success of the feast
The success of the feast
To the boy who lived
The boy who lived
To the new Doctor Who
The new Doctor Who
And zombie penguins
Zombie penguins
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner:
Booze:
Saturday, December 24, 2005
ha bumhug
You probably noticed it. In the middle of last week, the Last Chance To Order Before Christmas!! emails gradually, depending on the companies’ faith in their courier service, changed to Sale Now On! Great Bargains!. As I’m sitting smug on a pile of bought and wrapped pressies for those I love, those I like and those I feel obligated to buy for, all were deleted unread.
Who wants to shop for after Christmas when we’ve yet to have the grand unwrapping? Damn, we haven’t even opened a box of mince pies yet. Have yet to do the sprouts.
Imagine my surprise when I check Geroff’s account online and see a £99.99 purchase from Play dot com, dated next Wednesday.
Imagine his surprise. It seems I don’t have a lovely post-Christmas just-sub-£100 treat on its way to me.
Apparently the Christmas holiday is beloved by gits who steal card details, for using those details. The buggers.
Card is now cancelled, the department that deals with refunding our account is closed until Tuesday. We wait to see what other joys they’ve ordered. I have an irritated head about this, an irrational Oh, Will They Give Us The Money Back? drama head, a mocking £99.99 Ha! Is That Your Best Shot? Head, but most of all is my throbbing Ow, Won’t This Blasted Abscess Ever Go Away thump skull against the wall head.
Merry Christmas, One and All. Yes, you too. Just this once.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; stop drinking for five days because of tooth abscess and antibiotics; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Who wants to shop for after Christmas when we’ve yet to have the grand unwrapping? Damn, we haven’t even opened a box of mince pies yet. Have yet to do the sprouts.
Imagine my surprise when I check Geroff’s account online and see a £99.99 purchase from Play dot com, dated next Wednesday.
Imagine his surprise. It seems I don’t have a lovely post-Christmas just-sub-£100 treat on its way to me.
Apparently the Christmas holiday is beloved by gits who steal card details, for using those details. The buggers.
Card is now cancelled, the department that deals with refunding our account is closed until Tuesday. We wait to see what other joys they’ve ordered. I have an irritated head about this, an irrational Oh, Will They Give Us The Money Back? drama head, a mocking £99.99 Ha! Is That Your Best Shot? Head, but most of all is my throbbing Ow, Won’t This Blasted Abscess Ever Go Away thump skull against the wall head.
Merry Christmas, One and All. Yes, you too. Just this once.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Friday, December 23, 2005
you cannot solder an abscess with air
Apologies, Emily.
So it's not as easy as I thought.
I still hopped between Paramol and Ibroprofen, and inched each antibiotic a little earlier than it should have been taken.
I still shoved a table full of food that needed chewing in front of family and friends, drinking a litre of smoothie for myself for the day.
I still made it through the evening and wished friends a very merry christmas at the door, before begging off cleaning up and going straight up to bed.
And coming straight back down to write fifty words or over about how ruddy tricky it is to function with a rave in my jawbone.
Tomorrow will be better. Tonight Frosty will visit to leave something in the kids' advent calendar for the last time in 2005.
I love my husband. He takes care of me. And frowns at me for not being in bed.
So it's not as easy as I thought.
I still hopped between Paramol and Ibroprofen, and inched each antibiotic a little earlier than it should have been taken.
I still shoved a table full of food that needed chewing in front of family and friends, drinking a litre of smoothie for myself for the day.
I still made it through the evening and wished friends a very merry christmas at the door, before begging off cleaning up and going straight up to bed.
And coming straight back down to write fifty words or over about how ruddy tricky it is to function with a rave in my jawbone.
Tomorrow will be better. Tonight Frosty will visit to leave something in the kids' advent calendar for the last time in 2005.
I love my husband. He takes care of me. And frowns at me for not being in bed.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
being a grown up
The seasonal sore tooth has got big ideas and become the seasonal abscess.
Seasonal because it happened four Christmases ago. Same tooth.
But my, my, my, how I have grown. Four years ago found me deep in disbelief that a couple of days of ibroprofen wouldn’t get rid of a sore tooth. When the infection reached my throat - on Christmas Eve, of course - I visited the doctor, not the dentist, got told it was viral and sent home to sit it out.
Oh pain. My theory is that toothache hurts so ruddy much because the tooth is relatively near the brain, so a tooth pain whisper sounds like a shout. Not that an abscess whispers.
Christmas day was spent pale and sideways. It was a poor, sorry sight that whimpered her pathetic arse to the emergency docs on Boxing Day four years ago. Antibiotics were finally dispensed, by an emergency doc that knew damn well it was dental but pitied me so much she kindly diagnosed an infected salivary gland.
And the healing began. But not until I learned just how easy it was to vomit when you can only open your mouth by half an inch. Answer: it is not at all easy.
Anyway: but my, my, my, how I have grown. This year I made a large pot of lentil soup and phoned the dentist yesterday, as soon as I knew the toothache was only going to go one way. An emergency appointment was made for first thing this morning, and antibiotics prescribed. We’ve left the tooth to be sorted out the other side of Christmas. Best not to poke it.
So, I am in big, huge, shapely, mouth, neck and ear abscess-sized pain, but I have the stuff to shoot it down this side of Christmas day.
Leaving me wincing but able. Able to wrap and dispense and entertain and cook and all without a drop of rough tough and rollicking Christmas booze.
Oh, bollocks.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Seasonal because it happened four Christmases ago. Same tooth.
But my, my, my, how I have grown. Four years ago found me deep in disbelief that a couple of days of ibroprofen wouldn’t get rid of a sore tooth. When the infection reached my throat - on Christmas Eve, of course - I visited the doctor, not the dentist, got told it was viral and sent home to sit it out.
Oh pain. My theory is that toothache hurts so ruddy much because the tooth is relatively near the brain, so a tooth pain whisper sounds like a shout. Not that an abscess whispers.
Christmas day was spent pale and sideways. It was a poor, sorry sight that whimpered her pathetic arse to the emergency docs on Boxing Day four years ago. Antibiotics were finally dispensed, by an emergency doc that knew damn well it was dental but pitied me so much she kindly diagnosed an infected salivary gland.
And the healing began. But not until I learned just how easy it was to vomit when you can only open your mouth by half an inch. Answer: it is not at all easy.
Anyway: but my, my, my, how I have grown. This year I made a large pot of lentil soup and phoned the dentist yesterday, as soon as I knew the toothache was only going to go one way. An emergency appointment was made for first thing this morning, and antibiotics prescribed. We’ve left the tooth to be sorted out the other side of Christmas. Best not to poke it.
So, I am in big, huge, shapely, mouth, neck and ear abscess-sized pain, but I have the stuff to shoot it down this side of Christmas day.
Leaving me wincing but able. Able to wrap and dispense and entertain and cook and all without a drop of rough tough and rollicking Christmas booze.
Oh, bollocks.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
capricorn
Winter Solstice, the day disappears from the ground up.
As it reaches the rooftops, I rootle for the secateurs, push my feet into garden shoes, and go out into the soft drizzle.
This year, the thing on the Close is preternaturally large inflatable Father Christmases, Snowmen, and one Homer Simpson (in a Father Christmas hat. He never seems to be fully inflated, so spends his days slumped, bob-feeding from nextdoor's wheelie bin). Last year and the year before the Close virus was gaudy outdoor loops and icicles of flashing bulbs. Last year’s bulbs meet this year’s inflatables, in a blink and a blur of where shop ends and home begins.
Inflatables, bulbs, and brash Christmas tunes from a party at the end of the Close. All lighting up the silhouette of rooftop against watercolour winter sky.
At the foot of the garden I hunt out the Blackpool of bushes, and cut its glitziest branches.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Genuflect
As it reaches the rooftops, I rootle for the secateurs, push my feet into garden shoes, and go out into the soft drizzle.
This year, the thing on the Close is preternaturally large inflatable Father Christmases, Snowmen, and one Homer Simpson (in a Father Christmas hat. He never seems to be fully inflated, so spends his days slumped, bob-feeding from nextdoor's wheelie bin). Last year and the year before the Close virus was gaudy outdoor loops and icicles of flashing bulbs. Last year’s bulbs meet this year’s inflatables, in a blink and a blur of where shop ends and home begins.
Inflatables, bulbs, and brash Christmas tunes from a party at the end of the Close. All lighting up the silhouette of rooftop against watercolour winter sky.
At the foot of the garden I hunt out the Blackpool of bushes, and cut its glitziest branches.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Genuflect
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
heliacally rising
In Prague, we were charmed by and bought a small nativity scene.
Joseph has the blue dress here, while Mary – the hussy – gets red. They both look happy and startled, as though someone they’ve fancied for quite a while has nipped them on the bum. Baby Jesus also looks startled: he’s not quite certain what it’s all about, but wahey. A definite touch of Hitchhiker’s Guide whale about this Baby Jesus.
A nativity scene isn’t something I thought of having before I saw this one. There’s no clutter of supporting cast: no shepherds, heavenly host, innkeeper, or three kings bringing Mould, Grrr and Frankenstein (honest, Zig, that’s what they took, ignore what the songs say, I'm your mum, would I lie?). Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, stable, and that star.
That star. I wink at the star and it winks back.
Christians the world over celebrate the story of the nativity as validation of the beginnings of their faith. I celebrate the story of the nativity as validation that two millennia of Church insecurity can’t knock what I do on the head. That central to the story of the birth of their saviour are some blokes interpreting a portent in the sky.
I skipped the carol service this year. Wonder if the vicar gave the same sermon as last. He is very sweet, and tries very hard to be open. I like him. He beamed as he called the magi astronomers. Astronomers. Oh, for fuck sake vicar, how does the methodology of astronomy find a Messiah? Come on vic, say the word, spit it out. Constantine was a long while ago, and you know the man had issues. Say. The. Word.
Just for me.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Joseph has the blue dress here, while Mary – the hussy – gets red. They both look happy and startled, as though someone they’ve fancied for quite a while has nipped them on the bum. Baby Jesus also looks startled: he’s not quite certain what it’s all about, but wahey. A definite touch of Hitchhiker’s Guide whale about this Baby Jesus.
A nativity scene isn’t something I thought of having before I saw this one. There’s no clutter of supporting cast: no shepherds, heavenly host, innkeeper, or three kings bringing Mould, Grrr and Frankenstein (honest, Zig, that’s what they took, ignore what the songs say, I'm your mum, would I lie?). Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, stable, and that star.
That star. I wink at the star and it winks back.
Christians the world over celebrate the story of the nativity as validation of the beginnings of their faith. I celebrate the story of the nativity as validation that two millennia of Church insecurity can’t knock what I do on the head. That central to the story of the birth of their saviour are some blokes interpreting a portent in the sky.
I skipped the carol service this year. Wonder if the vicar gave the same sermon as last. He is very sweet, and tries very hard to be open. I like him. He beamed as he called the magi astronomers. Astronomers. Oh, for fuck sake vicar, how does the methodology of astronomy find a Messiah? Come on vic, say the word, spit it out. Constantine was a long while ago, and you know the man had issues. Say. The. Word.
Just for me.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Monday, December 19, 2005
as the evening wore on
it softened.
The day-old fruit scone and luke-warm vomit-flavoured latte special at an anonymous American chain, softened to strawberry ice cream and gin and tonic on a banquette at my favourite theatre.
The sharp elbows and sharp voices of a pre-Christmas city department store, softened to whispers to partners and banquette hooching-ups for strangers.
The mouthings of Wanker to twats who block the busy road then pretend to ignore you, softened to applause, and a bit more applause, because we were in no rush to leave.
The evening wore on. That's a nice expression. With your permission I'll say it again. The evening wore on.
If you’re in the neighbourhood, pop in and visit the pooka.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
The day-old fruit scone and luke-warm vomit-flavoured latte special at an anonymous American chain, softened to strawberry ice cream and gin and tonic on a banquette at my favourite theatre.
The sharp elbows and sharp voices of a pre-Christmas city department store, softened to whispers to partners and banquette hooching-ups for strangers.
The mouthings of Wanker to twats who block the busy road then pretend to ignore you, softened to applause, and a bit more applause, because we were in no rush to leave.
The evening wore on. That's a nice expression. With your permission I'll say it again. The evening wore on.
If you’re in the neighbourhood, pop in and visit the pooka.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Sunday, December 18, 2005
and there was no room on the tree. bollocks, no.
Shayne!
Air was punched.
Anyway.
Because Fimo™ is generally too hard to fiddle with, it’s recommended that you tuck the blocks into your back pocket or your bra for half an hour or so before use.
Because we were using a fair bit for the bobbinses last week, and what with the cut of my jib there’s not an awful lot of room in my back pocket or my bra, I stuck it all on the radiator.
Because I am brilliant, I deduced that Fimo™ kept on the softening radiator would stay softened until we needed it again.
Because the days are cold, the nights were colder, the radiators rarely off, and Fimo™ bakes at gas mark a half, keeping it on the Fimo™ softening radiator all week until needed again did not go according to plan. (If anyone would like any cunningly crafted Fimo™ ... blocks ... of solid Fimo ... let me know.)
Because I bought a lot of Fimo™ from eBay (because, dammit, I was not going to be beaten in an auction) there was a bit left.
Because I had the arsehole™ with Fimo™, Geroff took over Christmas Fimo™ With Kids duties.
Behold! Bubba Gabriel:
And his très Matt and Trey heavenly host:
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Air was punched.
Anyway.
Because Fimo™ is generally too hard to fiddle with, it’s recommended that you tuck the blocks into your back pocket or your bra for half an hour or so before use.
Because we were using a fair bit for the bobbinses last week, and what with the cut of my jib there’s not an awful lot of room in my back pocket or my bra, I stuck it all on the radiator.
Because I am brilliant, I deduced that Fimo™ kept on the softening radiator would stay softened until we needed it again.
Because the days are cold, the nights were colder, the radiators rarely off, and Fimo™ bakes at gas mark a half, keeping it on the Fimo™ softening radiator all week until needed again did not go according to plan. (If anyone would like any cunningly crafted Fimo™ ... blocks ... of solid Fimo ... let me know.)
Because I bought a lot of Fimo™ from eBay (because, dammit, I was not going to be beaten in an auction) there was a bit left.
Because I had the arsehole™ with Fimo™, Geroff took over Christmas Fimo™ With Kids duties.
Behold! Bubba Gabriel:
And his très Matt and Trey heavenly host:
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Saturday, December 17, 2005
cold outdoor parties and hot indoor tension
The coldest Christmas party in the world today took place in the indoor barn of a Riding for the Disabled center somewhere high up in the north west of England.
Party!
but
Cold. So cold.
but
Party!
but
Cold. So cold.
And because I am nice and kind and giving in this season of niceness, kindness and givingness, I let Geroff keep warm by running around with Zig, while I stayed still and cold. So cold.
We came home to no mulled wine. Mulled wine would’ve warmed us from our thingies to our whatsits. Mulled wine was needed.
Note to self: next year, take a flask.
Now I’m flexing my thawing dialing finger for the off. Shayne or Andy, Andy or Shayne? I’m torn. Shayne is from Manchester, and is every potwasher I ever mothered in my bar days there, the sweetie ... Andy did that thing with Lately last week … Damn it all, Brenda, where are you?
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Party!
but
Cold. So cold.
but
Party!
but
Cold. So cold.
And because I am nice and kind and giving in this season of niceness, kindness and givingness, I let Geroff keep warm by running around with Zig, while I stayed still and cold. So cold.
We came home to no mulled wine. Mulled wine would’ve warmed us from our thingies to our whatsits. Mulled wine was needed.
Note to self: next year, take a flask.
Now I’m flexing my thawing dialing finger for the off. Shayne or Andy, Andy or Shayne? I’m torn. Shayne is from Manchester, and is every potwasher I ever mothered in my bar days there, the sweetie ... Andy did that thing with Lately last week … Damn it all, Brenda, where are you?
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Friday, December 16, 2005
make it big. fantastic.
I can explain why Last Christmas is squeezed between Jockey Full Of Bourbon and Pas Si Simple on my shuffle. No really, I can. It’s for educational purposes. Training purposes. It’s for Molster.
Last night, in front of assorted tables of assorted mums, dads, brothers, sisters, and miscellaneous, Molster stood - all cloakless, tinsel-haloed prog rock god - at a fancypants keyboard, and played Last Christmas. Very well. With all the twiddly bits and everything.
All right, so there aren’t really that many twiddly bits to Last Christmas. In fact a lot – a lot - of Last Christmas goes:
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
Dadadadadadadadadadada da dada
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
And this she did. With the rest. The twiddly bits.
Despite people holding me down last night and force feeding me dirty booze, I managed to film it rather well. My video camera is decidedly non-digital, being the size of the suitcase you'd have to take were you only allowed to take one suitcase on a three month cruise, crank powered, and full of midgets chipping individual film cells into lumps of slate. Were it not I would certainly share the joy of Yamaha derderder with twiddly bits.
Mol, I am very, very proud of you. I can’t play Last Christmas on a keyboard, not the derderder, not the twiddly bits. I can’t even remember how to play Jingle Bells on the chime bars, which was the highlight of my childhood musical triumph. You, in Wham terms, rock.
So you see, I can explain why Last Christmas is squeezed between Tom Waits and Yann Tierson. Give me a minute or three and I’ll come up with an excuse for Wake Me Up Before You Go Go
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Last night, in front of assorted tables of assorted mums, dads, brothers, sisters, and miscellaneous, Molster stood - all cloakless, tinsel-haloed prog rock god - at a fancypants keyboard, and played Last Christmas. Very well. With all the twiddly bits and everything.
All right, so there aren’t really that many twiddly bits to Last Christmas. In fact a lot – a lot - of Last Christmas goes:
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
Dadadadadadadadadadada da dada
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
And this she did. With the rest. The twiddly bits.
Despite people holding me down last night and force feeding me dirty booze, I managed to film it rather well. My video camera is decidedly non-digital, being the size of the suitcase you'd have to take were you only allowed to take one suitcase on a three month cruise, crank powered, and full of midgets chipping individual film cells into lumps of slate. Were it not I would certainly share the joy of Yamaha derderder with twiddly bits.
Mol, I am very, very proud of you. I can’t play Last Christmas on a keyboard, not the derderder, not the twiddly bits. I can’t even remember how to play Jingle Bells on the chime bars, which was the highlight of my childhood musical triumph. You, in Wham terms, rock.
So you see, I can explain why Last Christmas is squeezed between Tom Waits and Yann Tierson. Give me a minute or three and I’ll come up with an excuse for Wake Me Up Before You Go Go
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Thursday, December 15, 2005
by the magic of television
He scores! Sort of! And it’s in the back of the net! And the crowd goes wild!
The image link should lead straight to a QuickTime download (no audio). If there are any problems, let me know. I won’t be able to solve them, as I haven’t a clue what I’m doing, but it would still be good to know.
No, that's not a dress, that’s a Junior League football top on a rather small six year old. Brownie points for anyone who can identify the superhero transfer on the back of Zig’s splints (it’s not Spiderman; Spiderman graced the last pair, and will probably grace the next, if only because the Evil Nemsesist NHS does not provide orthotic transfers of baddies. Curses).
A couple of seconds of this or similar Ziggy footage (arf) begins a current BBC trail for Junior League football.
I don’t know what to make of it, really. Stand on a chilly faux grass field for an hour or so on a Sunday morning. Shoot , reshoot and shoot again a small boy with C.P kicking / missing a ball into / away from a goal. Shoot, reshoot and shoot again that small boy cheering and celebrating with genuine fona bide Junior Leaguers. Fiddle with it all for a while and voila: Zig scores a goal.
Got to be good, hasn’t it? Still, when I watch it I feel as mixed up, muddled up and shook up as a Kinks narrative voice.
Thanks Reg.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
The image link should lead straight to a QuickTime download (no audio). If there are any problems, let me know. I won’t be able to solve them, as I haven’t a clue what I’m doing, but it would still be good to know.
No, that's not a dress, that’s a Junior League football top on a rather small six year old. Brownie points for anyone who can identify the superhero transfer on the back of Zig’s splints (it’s not Spiderman; Spiderman graced the last pair, and will probably grace the next, if only because the Evil Nemsesist NHS does not provide orthotic transfers of baddies. Curses).
A couple of seconds of this or similar Ziggy footage (arf) begins a current BBC trail for Junior League football.
I don’t know what to make of it, really. Stand on a chilly faux grass field for an hour or so on a Sunday morning. Shoot , reshoot and shoot again a small boy with C.P kicking / missing a ball into / away from a goal. Shoot, reshoot and shoot again that small boy cheering and celebrating with genuine fona bide Junior Leaguers. Fiddle with it all for a while and voila: Zig scores a goal.
Got to be good, hasn’t it? Still, when I watch it I feel as mixed up, muddled up and shook up as a Kinks narrative voice.
Thanks Reg.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
hoppit
I’m not a good partner. I’m grumpy and removed and not at all tactile. I frown and always have a better idea. I am not lightheartedly, quirkily, desirably at ease with my inability to keep a house clean or tidy. I do not use sex as a release from stress or a rumpshuss celebration of being together; rather, my libido is safely packed in three layers of bubble wrap until the day we land on a clean beach, with plenty of food, a promise of eternal good health for our children, a pleasantly appointed house where shore meets forest, which needs no repair or repainting, and no council tax bills. And no people. I am as prickly as an October conker shell.
I am solitary at heart. My superpower is a reddybrek glow of partner repellent ninety-eight point seven percent of the time, day or night.
But I do like the short phonecalls, the three word texts of abbreviated interest and concern. In Standard English only, please. I rely on them as lilypads across Monday to Friday.
And when it’s gone sixteen hours without a ring or a bleep from our capital city, I get a smidge unsettled. And glower from under my rock.
eta: ta
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
I am solitary at heart. My superpower is a reddybrek glow of partner repellent ninety-eight point seven percent of the time, day or night.
But I do like the short phonecalls, the three word texts of abbreviated interest and concern. In Standard English only, please. I rely on them as lilypads across Monday to Friday.
And when it’s gone sixteen hours without a ring or a bleep from our capital city, I get a smidge unsettled. And glower from under my rock.
eta: ta
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
solve et coagula
I cheer up a bit when I realise how much magic I manage everyday.
Just made the second batch of rice krispie cakes this week, for the second kiddies’ Christmas party. How many kids, since the fabulous Mr Kellogg flaked some corn and puffed some rice, have had their cooking annunciation by stirring melting chocolate in a bain marie, shaking in however much breakfast cereal it can hold, and stuffing a spoon of the glop into a bun case?
That’s the magic I’m talking about.
The mystery of magic is the mystery of alchemy is the mystery of cooking: it’s the gaps in our understanding. Within this understanding, it’s a bit easier to melt chocolate in a bain marie that it is to bubble nigredo in a sealed alembic. I’m unconvinced, but my days are rushed and I’ve yet to find Prima Materia in the homebake aisle. Even in Lidl.
I turn into a right Hermes Trismagistus in the kitchen, but don’t reckon I’ll be rushing to add Jamie Oliver’s Emerald Tablet to my Amazon wishlist.
If I turned chocolate to gold there would be a class full of pissed off bling six-year-olds tomorrow.
In this way the little world was created according to the great world.
Pucker.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Just made the second batch of rice krispie cakes this week, for the second kiddies’ Christmas party. How many kids, since the fabulous Mr Kellogg flaked some corn and puffed some rice, have had their cooking annunciation by stirring melting chocolate in a bain marie, shaking in however much breakfast cereal it can hold, and stuffing a spoon of the glop into a bun case?
That’s the magic I’m talking about.
The mystery of magic is the mystery of alchemy is the mystery of cooking: it’s the gaps in our understanding. Within this understanding, it’s a bit easier to melt chocolate in a bain marie that it is to bubble nigredo in a sealed alembic. I’m unconvinced, but my days are rushed and I’ve yet to find Prima Materia in the homebake aisle. Even in Lidl.
I turn into a right Hermes Trismagistus in the kitchen, but don’t reckon I’ll be rushing to add Jamie Oliver’s Emerald Tablet to my Amazon wishlist.
If I turned chocolate to gold there would be a class full of pissed off bling six-year-olds tomorrow.
In this way the little world was created according to the great world.
Pucker.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Monday, December 12, 2005
god rest ye irritating git
It’s not until I become irritated trying to rethread a bauble that I remember he died and was buried at this time of year.
I don’t have a shortcut to remembering the calendar details of his death and burial. I remember hanging the cerebral palsy angel on the tree, which means he died after we’d received Zig’s diagnosis; C.P angel’s legs were still tightly crossed that year, which means it was the first year we had her, which means it was 2000, which means he would have been 38.
Although I’ve got 36 in my head. Perhaps the edge to dieing suddenly, alone – allegedly – in bed aged 36, is dulled just slightly by its being 38. I don’t see it myself, but the drama of dieing young is a funny beast.
He would have loved the drama. The pathos. The grief of half a handful of women weeping at his coffin and his graveside. Which is one of several reasons I didn’t go to his funeral. The main one being I couldn’t be arsed, and felt irritated at having been asked.
Irritation was more than a floral top note of our relationship. Last night I wrapped (ignore that if the idea of wrapping pressies already gives you a bit of a panic) a stocking-filler for Zig: a pair of zeppelin-shaped magnets that crackle like the devil when you throw them together. That was our years together: a constant, electric, polar crackle.
Bloody irritating.
I was irritated at my assumption that I was self-aware enough at eighteen to find a true friend and lover for life. Irritated that I couldn’t chop off all the bits of my drives and dreams and personality that would make me the perfect fit for his. Irritated that he would want me to be.
He was irritated that I would never behave. Irritated that I’d question his absences, and then question and question again his lazy, careless, clumsy lies. He was irritated that nobody else smelled like me, and that I didn’t act the way I smelled.
I was irritated that his full chest laughter would have me laughing along, every time. Irritated that, although he liked big boobs, the black lacy bra he gave me one late Christmas was both padded and two sizes too small.
We were both insanely, underskin histamine inflamed irritated that somehow some glitch in the narrative made too hot, too cold, too big, too small, too hard, too soft, of what should have been just right.
He was irritated that I was Liz; I was irritated that he was Billy, and he knew that I didn’t want milk.
I was irritated that he was scared of growing old, and I wanted someone to grow old alongside. Irritated that when he learned that growing old was not at all bad; that being a faithful partner had a lot going for it; that being a parent was a terrible, ecstatic experience, it wouldn’t be safe to sit alongside him in a pub with a couple of pints of Thwaites and wonder about the wonder of it all.
Even though we has no shared friends at the end – although I only lived a couple of dozen miles from him, I was very careful that he never found out – I heard about his death on the day they found his body.
I put the phone down and howled. Screamed and stamped and wailed and rent and gnashed and and kicked and stomped and dripped gunge and all that. I thought I was sad that he would never learn that growing older is not at all bad; that being a faithful partner has a lot going for it; that being a parent is a terrible, ecstatic experience.
I thought I was grieving.
It’s not until now, today, feeling irritated by a bauble that doesn’t want to be rethread, that I recognise in the irritation a portion, a shaving, a whiff or a sniff or a ghost of this time five years ago, and realise I wasn’t grieving.
I was bloody furious.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
I don’t have a shortcut to remembering the calendar details of his death and burial. I remember hanging the cerebral palsy angel on the tree, which means he died after we’d received Zig’s diagnosis; C.P angel’s legs were still tightly crossed that year, which means it was the first year we had her, which means it was 2000, which means he would have been 38.
Although I’ve got 36 in my head. Perhaps the edge to dieing suddenly, alone – allegedly – in bed aged 36, is dulled just slightly by its being 38. I don’t see it myself, but the drama of dieing young is a funny beast.
He would have loved the drama. The pathos. The grief of half a handful of women weeping at his coffin and his graveside. Which is one of several reasons I didn’t go to his funeral. The main one being I couldn’t be arsed, and felt irritated at having been asked.
Irritation was more than a floral top note of our relationship. Last night I wrapped (ignore that if the idea of wrapping pressies already gives you a bit of a panic) a stocking-filler for Zig: a pair of zeppelin-shaped magnets that crackle like the devil when you throw them together. That was our years together: a constant, electric, polar crackle.
Bloody irritating.
I was irritated at my assumption that I was self-aware enough at eighteen to find a true friend and lover for life. Irritated that I couldn’t chop off all the bits of my drives and dreams and personality that would make me the perfect fit for his. Irritated that he would want me to be.
He was irritated that I would never behave. Irritated that I’d question his absences, and then question and question again his lazy, careless, clumsy lies. He was irritated that nobody else smelled like me, and that I didn’t act the way I smelled.
I was irritated that his full chest laughter would have me laughing along, every time. Irritated that, although he liked big boobs, the black lacy bra he gave me one late Christmas was both padded and two sizes too small.
We were both insanely, underskin histamine inflamed irritated that somehow some glitch in the narrative made too hot, too cold, too big, too small, too hard, too soft, of what should have been just right.
He was irritated that I was Liz; I was irritated that he was Billy, and he knew that I didn’t want milk.
I was irritated that he was scared of growing old, and I wanted someone to grow old alongside. Irritated that when he learned that growing old was not at all bad; that being a faithful partner had a lot going for it; that being a parent was a terrible, ecstatic experience, it wouldn’t be safe to sit alongside him in a pub with a couple of pints of Thwaites and wonder about the wonder of it all.
Even though we has no shared friends at the end – although I only lived a couple of dozen miles from him, I was very careful that he never found out – I heard about his death on the day they found his body.
I put the phone down and howled. Screamed and stamped and wailed and rent and gnashed and and kicked and stomped and dripped gunge and all that. I thought I was sad that he would never learn that growing older is not at all bad; that being a faithful partner has a lot going for it; that being a parent is a terrible, ecstatic experience.
I thought I was grieving.
It’s not until now, today, feeling irritated by a bauble that doesn’t want to be rethread, that I recognise in the irritation a portion, a shaving, a whiff or a sniff or a ghost of this time five years ago, and realise I wasn’t grieving.
I was bloody furious.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Sunday, December 11, 2005
q
The sort of queues I don’t mind … mum observed, in the car on the way to Bury, on the way to the tram, on the way to Manchester - I’m filling her suspenseful pause with this lengthy ellipsis … are the kind where you stand in a line.
It was about here – no, it was exactly here – that Gruff and I made plenty of room for an even longer ellipsis.
So we caught the tram to the city and had a mother daughter Saturday pre-Christmas thorough exploration of my mother’s queue preference.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
It was about here – no, it was exactly here – that Gruff and I made plenty of room for an even longer ellipsis.
So we caught the tram to the city and had a mother daughter Saturday pre-Christmas thorough exploration of my mother’s queue preference.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Saturday, December 10, 2005
bob bob bobbins
When you’ve got kids, you can:
· Gather up your scrap pieces of Fimo™, stick them in a plastic bag, and keep them in your back pocket, squished against your bum, until they soften.
· Spend half an hour of therapeutic venting punching, pummelling, plaiting and pleading with the scraps to mix, until you get brown. Crap brown.
· Holler the kids, and with them rip the brown lump into thirteen smaller lumps, punch and pummel it some more, add little red, white, black and gold Fimo™ dabs to the brown, in approximately biologically appropriate places, and stab each through the head twice, with a pin.
· Cook them, string them up, and post them off to relatives who are contractually obligated to go oo and ah
· Give crap.
I’d like to assure anyone who might be concerned, that our robins will not be homed separately. They will travel to their new trees in groups of at least two, usually three. Robins being aggressively territorial, so this should be a laugh. Thirteen Fimo™ robins were pummelled, stretched, mangled, squeezed, rolled, pulled, poked with holes, baked, and strung up for the making of this seasonal art project.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
· Gather up your scrap pieces of Fimo™, stick them in a plastic bag, and keep them in your back pocket, squished against your bum, until they soften.
· Spend half an hour of therapeutic venting punching, pummelling, plaiting and pleading with the scraps to mix, until you get brown. Crap brown.
· Holler the kids, and with them rip the brown lump into thirteen smaller lumps, punch and pummel it some more, add little red, white, black and gold Fimo™ dabs to the brown, in approximately biologically appropriate places, and stab each through the head twice, with a pin.
· Cook them, string them up, and post them off to relatives who are contractually obligated to go oo and ah
· Give crap.
I’d like to assure anyone who might be concerned, that our robins will not be homed separately. They will travel to their new trees in groups of at least two, usually three. Robins being aggressively territorial, so this should be a laugh. Thirteen Fimo™ robins were pummelled, stretched, mangled, squeezed, rolled, pulled, poked with holes, baked, and strung up for the making of this seasonal art project.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Friday, December 09, 2005
the season for giving
A home day. Zig, coming down from the adrenaline of one dress rehearsal and two days of performance Joseph, has collapsed in a coughing, groaning heap on the sofa.
So Molster had a solo walk to school. One of the hefty responsibilities of life as a class counsellor is to go in a bit early on Fridays, to help chop all the gubbins for Fruity Friday – they like their Fridays fruity in Lancashire. It’s a simple walk, a few hundred yards up a single straight road.
As the sun was lower as it would be if she left at the normal time, I lifted a reflective armband down from the hall keyhook, and worked it up around her right coat sleeve. Changing my mind, I dragged it off, and hooked it back up on her left arm. She walks on a right-hand path up to the school, so the armband would be on the side of the oncoming traffic.
Mol reckoned the armband might be of more use on her right arm, all the better for unexpected oncoming cars to see her as she crossed the couple of quiet residential roads between home and school.
I pulled it down off the left and hooked it back up onto the right.
And off she went, with a kiss and no gloves and a hope for a good day, the sky pink and one-eyed around her.
She’s growing up. I’m paying out the cord between us: bright, white nylon, guy rope tough. Should I forget, or resist, wrapping it round my wrist and a rock while I reread a clause in my mother contract, she tugs and discovers it gives.
I’m useless against this. This give. When my nine year old suggests her reflective armband would be better on the side of the sudden, unexpected traffic, I mutely move it across.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
So Molster had a solo walk to school. One of the hefty responsibilities of life as a class counsellor is to go in a bit early on Fridays, to help chop all the gubbins for Fruity Friday – they like their Fridays fruity in Lancashire. It’s a simple walk, a few hundred yards up a single straight road.
As the sun was lower as it would be if she left at the normal time, I lifted a reflective armband down from the hall keyhook, and worked it up around her right coat sleeve. Changing my mind, I dragged it off, and hooked it back up on her left arm. She walks on a right-hand path up to the school, so the armband would be on the side of the oncoming traffic.
Mol reckoned the armband might be of more use on her right arm, all the better for unexpected oncoming cars to see her as she crossed the couple of quiet residential roads between home and school.
I pulled it down off the left and hooked it back up onto the right.
And off she went, with a kiss and no gloves and a hope for a good day, the sky pink and one-eyed around her.
She’s growing up. I’m paying out the cord between us: bright, white nylon, guy rope tough. Should I forget, or resist, wrapping it round my wrist and a rock while I reread a clause in my mother contract, she tugs and discovers it gives.
I’m useless against this. This give. When my nine year old suggests her reflective armband would be better on the side of the sudden, unexpected traffic, I mutely move it across.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Thursday, December 08, 2005
teatowels
Oi, lady with the head.
I’m concerned that you sticking your head in front of my camera over and again might compromise your www anonymity. I’d hate for someone to snatch this photo of you, for use in advertising cheese, or bad hair porn. Your head has the random bounce of a parent in her first year of Nativity play attendance. That’s sweet, but I’m sure you won’t mind if this old hand of six Key Stage 1 Nativites in a row raises that old hand to flick your ear. This is my last Nativity play, you see. Now shift.
Oi, bloke with the head.
I know you. I like you. My son likes your son and your son likes my son. But when my camera auto focuses on your head because you are sat in the front row – and probably missed lunch to nab those three seats for yourself, your nice wife and nice mother, and didn’t think to save a couple more for my adequately lunched self and my husband, also your friend – that, I don’t like.
Ta for showing me your perfectly focused, unobliterated-by-mass-head front row shots of my son.
My son. Joseph. The one in front of your son. A shepherd.
Yes, you’re right, they’re great shots. And yes, I would very much like copies. Ta.
(Your neck looks fat. Just saying.)
Oi, ghost.
It's not big, and it's not clever.
Oi, shaky hands.
Damn you, shaky hands.
Oi, Joseph.
Nice dress.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
I’m concerned that you sticking your head in front of my camera over and again might compromise your www anonymity. I’d hate for someone to snatch this photo of you, for use in advertising cheese, or bad hair porn. Your head has the random bounce of a parent in her first year of Nativity play attendance. That’s sweet, but I’m sure you won’t mind if this old hand of six Key Stage 1 Nativites in a row raises that old hand to flick your ear. This is my last Nativity play, you see. Now shift.
Oi, bloke with the head.
I know you. I like you. My son likes your son and your son likes my son. But when my camera auto focuses on your head because you are sat in the front row – and probably missed lunch to nab those three seats for yourself, your nice wife and nice mother, and didn’t think to save a couple more for my adequately lunched self and my husband, also your friend – that, I don’t like.
Ta for showing me your perfectly focused, unobliterated-by-mass-head front row shots of my son.
My son. Joseph. The one in front of your son. A shepherd.
Yes, you’re right, they’re great shots. And yes, I would very much like copies. Ta.
(Your neck looks fat. Just saying.)
Oi, ghost.
It's not big, and it's not clever.
Oi, shaky hands.
Damn you, shaky hands.
Oi, Joseph.
Nice dress.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
distant drums
Highways Dept workmen have been messing around on the road outside for a couple of weeks now. Spreading half a dozen rectangles of orange tarmac, leaving it for a couple of days (the excitement, orange tarmac, what could it be for? Will it be an admittedly risky chessboard? A communal arts blank tarmac canvas project to lure the teenagers back to the straight and narrow with a brush and an invitation to Create! Flowers! Birds! Hills!? Have Bury MBC developed a yen for a bit of warm Mediterranean?) before returning to daub SLOW in white across the centre of each.
Gosh, thanks. Give it to them, they wrote each SLOW the right way round for the respective carriageway; there will be no bumps, prangs or scrapes as drivers strain to work out what WOIS is warning them about. WOIS? Wois a WOIS? Is it like a Woozle?
Drivers, go careful, drive WOOZLE.
As it’s getting near the end of the financial year there’s previously sat on chunks of budget to be used up sharpish on rivers of orange tarmac, oceans of white paint. Still, as a traffic calming measure it stinks: they haven’t given us bumps to make certain drivers going above 15mph will Bo and Luke it against the roof of their Corsa; they haven’t lowered the speed limit from the standard 30mph for built-up areas. They’ve given us a white word on an orange rectangle.
I knew when they were working, by the low, distant drumming of their generator. I heard it when I woke at 6:30 this morning, and thought they’d got an early start. Taking the kids to school I realised the road was clear, the SLOWs gleaming up through the frozen fog. I could still hear the generator, though, and shook away a Richard Carpenter image of ghostly, grudge-holding workmen slowly banging on each front door. Waiting, just waiting, until the awful moment when some fool will open, to be given an orange tarmac-stained mug of tea, as orange as ... tarmac, and a copy of yesterday’s Sun.
Sadly this was not to be. It would have been wonderful for house prices, and easy to get a foreigner done on driveway resurfacing, so long as you don’t mind orange. With a big WOOZLE across it in white.
The distant drumming is in my head. A brand new tinnitus tone, to join Barbershop Hum, Spincycle Whine, and 1970’s BBC1 After 11:30pm. It’s me that’s got the workmen in.
It might be that I’ve seen both Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Vanilla Sky this year, but I’m wondering how long it will be before they get busy. That woodland track we walked through Bradfield Woods in 1994: did we really step across that rectangle? That large, orange rectangle? Charles Bridge in 2002: beneath the Czech vendors’ stalls of enamelled pendants and wood carvings, could I really see that large S, a T, a bit of a P?
Nah, I’m being daft, these are workmen. They haven’t even had their second brew yet, not even glanced at the sports pages. My memories are safe.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink; scrounge; drink; drink; drink; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Gosh, thanks. Give it to them, they wrote each SLOW the right way round for the respective carriageway; there will be no bumps, prangs or scrapes as drivers strain to work out what WOIS is warning them about. WOIS? Wois a WOIS? Is it like a Woozle?
Drivers, go careful, drive WOOZLE.
As it’s getting near the end of the financial year there’s previously sat on chunks of budget to be used up sharpish on rivers of orange tarmac, oceans of white paint. Still, as a traffic calming measure it stinks: they haven’t given us bumps to make certain drivers going above 15mph will Bo and Luke it against the roof of their Corsa; they haven’t lowered the speed limit from the standard 30mph for built-up areas. They’ve given us a white word on an orange rectangle.
I knew when they were working, by the low, distant drumming of their generator. I heard it when I woke at 6:30 this morning, and thought they’d got an early start. Taking the kids to school I realised the road was clear, the SLOWs gleaming up through the frozen fog. I could still hear the generator, though, and shook away a Richard Carpenter image of ghostly, grudge-holding workmen slowly banging on each front door. Waiting, just waiting, until the awful moment when some fool will open, to be given an orange tarmac-stained mug of tea, as orange as ... tarmac, and a copy of yesterday’s Sun.
Sadly this was not to be. It would have been wonderful for house prices, and easy to get a foreigner done on driveway resurfacing, so long as you don’t mind orange. With a big WOOZLE across it in white.
The distant drumming is in my head. A brand new tinnitus tone, to join Barbershop Hum, Spincycle Whine, and 1970’s BBC1 After 11:30pm. It’s me that’s got the workmen in.
It might be that I’ve seen both Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Vanilla Sky this year, but I’m wondering how long it will be before they get busy. That woodland track we walked through Bradfield Woods in 1994: did we really step across that rectangle? That large, orange rectangle? Charles Bridge in 2002: beneath the Czech vendors’ stalls of enamelled pendants and wood carvings, could I really see that large S, a T, a bit of a P?
Nah, I’m being daft, these are workmen. They haven’t even had their second brew yet, not even glanced at the sports pages. My memories are safe.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards: buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Thursday, December 01, 2005
eh? early morning discussion
Even though I’m different from everybody else at school because of my cerebral palsy, even though, if I didn’t have friends, know what? I think I’d be bullied.
…
If someone feels so unhappy that they want to bully someone, it doesn’t matter what the difference is. It could be that they don’t like your haircut; it could be that they think your nose is a funny shape; it could be that you speak in a different way; it could be …
… that you have three nipples …
… yes, perhaps you’ve got three nipples …
… or webbed feet …
… yes, or webbed feet …
The discussion went sort-of sideways from there.
…
If someone feels so unhappy that they want to bully someone, it doesn’t matter what the difference is. It could be that they don’t like your haircut; it could be that they think your nose is a funny shape; it could be that you speak in a different way; it could be …
… that you have three nipples …
… yes, perhaps you’ve got three nipples …
… or webbed feet …
… yes, or webbed feet …
The discussion went sort-of sideways from there.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
more roaring greasepaint, more smelly crowd.
That’s the Brownie play over for another year. 2005’s Dr Who and the Missing Christmas lacked a little of the sparkle of last year’s Panto Idol. Perhaps once you’ve had a six-legged pantomime cow anything else seems, I don’t know, muted, no matter how many [nine] Bahumbug aliens sneak onstage to nick Christmas. No matter the tardis sound effect; no matter the revelation that the man in red [who spat out her gum this week] and his [many] helpers are From Another Planet*; no matter the balloon whisk, sink plunger allusion to Dr Who’s uber baddies; no matter the sherry-soaked transformation of Dr to Dr.
It must be that six-legged pantomime cow.
Which is making an appearance this year at the Brownie pack up the road’s Christmas bash. Word’s getting round that there are some plays. For Brownies. With six-legged cows.Brown Owl Claire wants to send my plays off to the Guiding Magazine. Soon all Brownies in the UK will Find the Cow, have their chance to Be the Cow. It’s only fair.
Thing is, obliging though I am, I’m not certain how successful these plays will be in the coming years. The knack of a good Brownie play being, freak cows aside, to hook into the zeitgeist. Brownies love a good bit of zeitgeist. Last year I pipped the Shrek 2 DVD release to the post with Panto Idol, this year I’ve anticipated the Dr Who Christmas special.
That’s my talent, my gift, my curse. Oh woe. Oh sigh. Ah me. I get a tickle at the back of my nostrils that tells me the way to go, to show the shift before the shift shifts. If only I could make it pay. Reckon I’ve promised not to pre-empt the zeitgeist for personal gain.
It’s a right arse.
Of course, it can’t all be zeigeist; you’ve got to tip your hat to the classics. This year the narrators used that metre known technically as te tum tum te tum tum te tum tum te tum. The one from Twas the night and The Grinch.
The Bahumbug’s planet
Was dark, sad and grey
And Christmas was always
A planet away.
Away, high in the distance
Sparkled a star
With bright season’s greetings
But oh, so, so, far!
How they wanted to reach it
And share in the fun.
They started to study
How it could be done.
They read “The Grinch”
And saw how he got plenty
But their copy was missing
Pages thirteen to twenty.
The Doctor wanted to help them
And had an idea
Of how to give the Bahumbugs
Some real Christmas cheer.
For his idea to work
Doctor Who had to plan it
With the help of the
Bahumbug’s neighbouring … planet.
The star that sparkled
A bright Christmas light.
*Can you guess who they are?
You might just be right.
Thank you Thank you. I know. It’s my gift. My curse.
The Slade stayed.
Narrator 2 beholds Queen Bahumbug
It must be that six-legged pantomime cow.
Which is making an appearance this year at the Brownie pack up the road’s Christmas bash. Word’s getting round that there are some plays. For Brownies. With six-legged cows.
Thing is, obliging though I am, I’m not certain how successful these plays will be in the coming years. The knack of a good Brownie play being, freak cows aside, to hook into the zeitgeist. Brownies love a good bit of zeitgeist. Last year I pipped the Shrek 2 DVD release to the post with Panto Idol, this year I’ve anticipated the Dr Who Christmas special.
That’s my talent, my gift, my curse. Oh woe. Oh sigh. Ah me. I get a tickle at the back of my nostrils that tells me the way to go, to show the shift before the shift shifts. If only I could make it pay. Reckon I’ve promised not to pre-empt the zeitgeist for personal gain.
It’s a right arse.
Of course, it can’t all be zeigeist; you’ve got to tip your hat to the classics. This year the narrators used that metre known technically as te tum tum te tum tum te tum tum te tum. The one from Twas the night and The Grinch.
The Bahumbug’s planet
Was dark, sad and grey
And Christmas was always
A planet away.
Away, high in the distance
Sparkled a star
With bright season’s greetings
But oh, so, so, far!
How they wanted to reach it
And share in the fun.
They started to study
How it could be done.
They read “The Grinch”
And saw how he got plenty
But their copy was missing
Pages thirteen to twenty.
The Doctor wanted to help them
And had an idea
Of how to give the Bahumbugs
Some real Christmas cheer.
For his idea to work
Doctor Who had to plan it
With the help of the
Bahumbug’s neighbouring … planet.
The star that sparkled
A bright Christmas light.
*Can you guess who they are?
You might just be right.
Thank you Thank you. I know. It’s my gift. My curse.
The Slade stayed.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
eau de thomas, mary, taz, ned, morrin, toby, spray and cee jay
Wedding anniversary. Seven years. We’ve been together eleven years since the 5th. So there are cards and gentle stuff. It’s a change time, so gentle is good: change of job for Gruff; change of stress pattern as mebbe cancer scare turns out to be water on the nad; change of jumper for me because I smell of pony.
That is, a change of jumper if I was a nice, honouring the anniversary by showering and smelling purty sort of wife. But I’m a cosy jumper, like the smell of pony, shower when I’m good and ready and start to itch sort of wife. Which is the best there is.
I’ve been volunteering at a local Riding For The Disabled school for a few weeks now. Molster and Ziggy have been going for a couple of months, paid lessons are provided for standard issue kids at the weekend to help cover costs, and we give a voluntary contribution for Zig’s. Molster likes the gentle, friendly, black Cee Jay, Zig – a little bugger for a little bugger – loves with admiration the obstreperous white ex show pony, Toby. He arrived as a loan, originally, whiter than white. After two weeks of rolling in almost vertical mud in almost vertical fields, they knew they could never get that colour back, so kept him.
Started the morning by grooming the biggest … when does a pony become a horse? Thomas must cross the line. Have heard he can nip a bit to search for treats, so treats have been banned. Also – ha - he likes to lean on you when you clean his hooves. However, he was a perfect gent: looked attentive as I rambled on with brush, currycomb and conversational monologue; lifted his soup plate hooves one at a time as requested, the better for me to pick out half a field of mud, leaves and horse shit; obliged me – as most do – with a long, companionable, hay top noted fart as I brushed the dust from his broad rump.
Then onto Mary, a piebald grandmother who can get depressed. The next largest. I whispered into her ear that she was Gruff’s favourite, but shhh, don’t tell.
And on along the ponies, brush and hoof pick, and dust clouds and filthy fetlocks, and oh those farts.
I rode Ned: slightly stiff of joints, honourable, not quick to trust, looks like Hitler. To the moustache. The first time up on a pony in over twenty years, and I’m proud to say I came off the right way. But, oh, the rising trot is a different animal these days. I don’t know what’s happened to my thigh muscles. Didn’t I used to have thigh muscles? Although not tenor lady material, I’m glad to be a lady with no water on the nad.
That is, a change of jumper if I was a nice, honouring the anniversary by showering and smelling purty sort of wife. But I’m a cosy jumper, like the smell of pony, shower when I’m good and ready and start to itch sort of wife. Which is the best there is.
I’ve been volunteering at a local Riding For The Disabled school for a few weeks now. Molster and Ziggy have been going for a couple of months, paid lessons are provided for standard issue kids at the weekend to help cover costs, and we give a voluntary contribution for Zig’s. Molster likes the gentle, friendly, black Cee Jay, Zig – a little bugger for a little bugger – loves with admiration the obstreperous white ex show pony, Toby. He arrived as a loan, originally, whiter than white. After two weeks of rolling in almost vertical mud in almost vertical fields, they knew they could never get that colour back, so kept him.
Started the morning by grooming the biggest … when does a pony become a horse? Thomas must cross the line. Have heard he can nip a bit to search for treats, so treats have been banned. Also – ha - he likes to lean on you when you clean his hooves. However, he was a perfect gent: looked attentive as I rambled on with brush, currycomb and conversational monologue; lifted his soup plate hooves one at a time as requested, the better for me to pick out half a field of mud, leaves and horse shit; obliged me – as most do – with a long, companionable, hay top noted fart as I brushed the dust from his broad rump.
Then onto Mary, a piebald grandmother who can get depressed. The next largest. I whispered into her ear that she was Gruff’s favourite, but shhh, don’t tell.
And on along the ponies, brush and hoof pick, and dust clouds and filthy fetlocks, and oh those farts.
I rode Ned: slightly stiff of joints, honourable, not quick to trust, looks like Hitler. To the moustache. The first time up on a pony in over twenty years, and I’m proud to say I came off the right way. But, oh, the rising trot is a different animal these days. I don’t know what’s happened to my thigh muscles. Didn’t I used to have thigh muscles? Although not tenor lady material, I’m glad to be a lady with no water on the nad.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Fragment (consider revising)
Preternaturally warm morning. The sun arrived ready-baked, all spring, summer and autumn kneaded together and crispy from the oven.
Pots are parched, a bit of a withered invitation to the door. Mind you, not one for tidy gardening, specially not this year, when neighbours to the side of me, neighbours in front of me are embracing pattern imprinted concrete, conservatories and fencing. Our garden is untrimmed. A catchall for escapees. The bugs need somewhere to scuttle to. Or buzz off to. The hedgehogs need a hiding place.
The whole Unbreakable Vow thing, (which of course has been preceded by a former Unbreakable Vow which overrules the terms and conditions of later UVs rendering them null and void. And not just because I fancy Snape a bit) has got me thinking about the lovely things that JKR creates and then drops. How often in this book could we have done with Hermione’s time-turny thing? If I remember rightly, Prof McG warned against their overuse and took it back at the end of Azkaban, but still. Is it not tucked away in a cupboard somewhere? If it was thought suitable for one girl to thoroughly overuse for an entire wizardly academic year, could Mac not just dig it out from behind the juicer and breadmaker, for justice and righteousness, just once?
(Liking the idea of a breadmaker for justice and righteousness, I'm thinking of removing the last comma in the previous paragraph. The Panasonic SD253a, with dispenser for nuts, raisins, justice and righteousness. So you don't have to drag yourself up from in front of Eastenders when the programme beeps, and scatter it in yourself. That's such a nuisance)
I first typed the above as having a dispenser for nits, raisins, justice and righteousness. Think on.
Perhaps Mac's like me. Clutterbugging up her life with Justin Case for years, til rampaged by the furious ice-blast ice age of yearned-for minimalism and clear, white surfaces.
Perhaps that's what you get for cleaning out your cupboards. Maybe the boxed sandwich toaster I've Freecycled will give me a forehead slapping moment when I face the cheese and pickle toastie worshipping monsters of doom.
Damn.
Pots are parched, a bit of a withered invitation to the door. Mind you, not one for tidy gardening, specially not this year, when neighbours to the side of me, neighbours in front of me are embracing pattern imprinted concrete, conservatories and fencing. Our garden is untrimmed. A catchall for escapees. The bugs need somewhere to scuttle to. Or buzz off to. The hedgehogs need a hiding place.
The whole Unbreakable Vow thing, (which of course has been preceded by a former Unbreakable Vow which overrules the terms and conditions of later UVs rendering them null and void. And not just because I fancy Snape a bit) has got me thinking about the lovely things that JKR creates and then drops. How often in this book could we have done with Hermione’s time-turny thing? If I remember rightly, Prof McG warned against their overuse and took it back at the end of Azkaban, but still. Is it not tucked away in a cupboard somewhere? If it was thought suitable for one girl to thoroughly overuse for an entire wizardly academic year, could Mac not just dig it out from behind the juicer and breadmaker, for justice and righteousness, just once?
(Liking the idea of a breadmaker for justice and righteousness, I'm thinking of removing the last comma in the previous paragraph. The Panasonic SD253a, with dispenser for nuts, raisins, justice and righteousness. So you don't have to drag yourself up from in front of Eastenders when the programme beeps, and scatter it in yourself. That's such a nuisance)
I first typed the above as having a dispenser for nits, raisins, justice and righteousness. Think on.
Perhaps Mac's like me. Clutterbugging up her life with Justin Case for years, til rampaged by the furious ice-blast ice age of yearned-for minimalism and clear, white surfaces.
Perhaps that's what you get for cleaning out your cupboards. Maybe the boxed sandwich toaster I've Freecycled will give me a forehead slapping moment when I face the cheese and pickle toastie worshipping monsters of doom.
Damn.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
toto, we’re not at summer school anymore
It’s very simple, Gruff. All you have to do is get up before me, and set a place at the table, complete with napkin and side plate, glass, cup and saucer, and jug of orange juice.
Place a generous bowl of fruit, plate of croissants, selection of boxed individual cereal portions and choice of yoghurts at the other end of the table.
I will come downstairs, make my selection from these, sit at the laid place and pour myself a glass of juice.
You will approach to politely enquire, Would you like any tea or coffee, Madam? Any toast? I’ll decide that I would quite like some coffee and, yes, some toast. Thank you.
You will bring this across, quickly. The toast cut into triangles and filling a toast rack… Sorry?.. Well, perhaps you could go out and buy one, then.
You’ll then enquire, politely, mind, Would you like a cooked breakfast this morning, Madam? I’ll ask for everything that is veggie, please. This you will bring. Quickly.
Oh, although speed and attention to detail is, of course, key to the smooth running of this operation, what makes the breakfast, the thing that without this the entire breakfast experience would fail, is that you are friendly. And smile.
Oh, and it also helps if you are young and full of the sparkle of anticipated relish and success in life that being an Oxford undergrad working through the holidays brings.
Okay?
Thanks, love.
Do you have any brown sauce?
Place a generous bowl of fruit, plate of croissants, selection of boxed individual cereal portions and choice of yoghurts at the other end of the table.
I will come downstairs, make my selection from these, sit at the laid place and pour myself a glass of juice.
You will approach to politely enquire, Would you like any tea or coffee, Madam? Any toast? I’ll decide that I would quite like some coffee and, yes, some toast. Thank you.
You will bring this across, quickly. The toast cut into triangles and filling a toast rack… Sorry?.. Well, perhaps you could go out and buy one, then.
You’ll then enquire, politely, mind, Would you like a cooked breakfast this morning, Madam? I’ll ask for everything that is veggie, please. This you will bring. Quickly.
Oh, although speed and attention to detail is, of course, key to the smooth running of this operation, what makes the breakfast, the thing that without this the entire breakfast experience would fail, is that you are friendly. And smile.
Oh, and it also helps if you are young and full of the sparkle of anticipated relish and success in life that being an Oxford undergrad working through the holidays brings.
Okay?
Thanks, love.
Do you have any brown sauce?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
tNE AQU 3rd squ nSA TA 6th
Waiting for a phone call, a text, about Hairykid.
Hairykid is the best dog in the world, ever. He is my mate, in English terms. He lives with my big sister and is ten and a half.
I like seeing Hairykid. He has long since tagged me as alternate Alpha Female. He jumps onto my lap and stares with triumph and disdain down his big, long, black and white Hairykid nose at my kids. Who love him. And cuddle him. He tolerates it.
I like Hairykid’s company. We spent last week at my big sister’s, so look after Hairykid and the cats while they tented it off down to Brands Hatch for bike stuff with each other, and down to Kent for beach stuff with daughter-niece and the other, newer, more typically doggy dog.
I had Hairykid’s company for a day or so. Sharing every chair or sofa, doggy smelly back to my front; doggy smelly belly exposed for tickles; big, long black and white Hairykid nose against my cheek. Snoring, snorting doggy breath.
A phonecall to my big sis, a phonecall to me, and we popped Hairykid along to his vet’s for a couple of days residency.
Hairykid had had a nasty bellyache a couple of days before, a nasty belly ache a couple of months before.
The blood tests were back.
Hairykid stayed with the vet until Sunday afternoon, and offered me his belly on return. Stuffed his big, long, black Hairykid nose into my hand. We left the Hairykid and drove the couple of hundred miles up, across and home.
Hairykid is having more blood tests today, but, from what I understand, they are not necessary.
Pacreatitis, acute necrotizing pancreatitis, means that his enzymes are eating him away from the inside out. There isn’t a cure that has worked.
Love you, Hairykid.
Hairykid is the best dog in the world, ever. He is my mate, in English terms. He lives with my big sister and is ten and a half.
I like seeing Hairykid. He has long since tagged me as alternate Alpha Female. He jumps onto my lap and stares with triumph and disdain down his big, long, black and white Hairykid nose at my kids. Who love him. And cuddle him. He tolerates it.
I like Hairykid’s company. We spent last week at my big sister’s, so look after Hairykid and the cats while they tented it off down to Brands Hatch for bike stuff with each other, and down to Kent for beach stuff with daughter-niece and the other, newer, more typically doggy dog.
I had Hairykid’s company for a day or so. Sharing every chair or sofa, doggy smelly back to my front; doggy smelly belly exposed for tickles; big, long black and white Hairykid nose against my cheek. Snoring, snorting doggy breath.
A phonecall to my big sis, a phonecall to me, and we popped Hairykid along to his vet’s for a couple of days residency.
Hairykid had had a nasty bellyache a couple of days before, a nasty belly ache a couple of months before.
The blood tests were back.
Hairykid stayed with the vet until Sunday afternoon, and offered me his belly on return. Stuffed his big, long, black Hairykid nose into my hand. We left the Hairykid and drove the couple of hundred miles up, across and home.
Hairykid is having more blood tests today, but, from what I understand, they are not necessary.
Pacreatitis, acute necrotizing pancreatitis, means that his enzymes are eating him away from the inside out. There isn’t a cure that has worked.
Love you, Hairykid.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
what spell...
... did Harry Potter use to reach the roll of ancient parchment from the top shelf in the library ... ?
scroll down -
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scroll down -
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Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Hooe's on first
I have address envy. Just posted a book (a rather bad book, which helps me feel just a little better) to a woman in a small town in Devon. A woman who lives on Yonder Street.
I want to live on Yonder Street.
I want to live on Yonder Street.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
ork and chips
G: Zig, Do you want to come with me when I help out at Molster’s Brownies? We’ve got owls coming to visit, and perhaps a hawk.
Z: A HAWK?.. Like in Lord of the Rings?.. Coming to Brownies?..
G: …
…
No Zig, that’s an Ork. If there was going to be an Ork at Brownies tonight I don’t think I’d be rushing to help out. Unless it had really good tattoos. This is a hawk. A bird. With wings. That hovers. And eats mice and stuff.
[Later. At Brownies]
Owl Lady: Can anyone tell me what the owls eat?.. Yes… Yes, that’s right… Hmm… not really anything that big… Yes, all the birds here eat mice and rats and day old chicks.
Z: They eat day old chips?
Today, we’ve moved on. Today, after the excitement of holding a Great Grey Owl that was about as tall as him on a gauntlet longer than his arm (picture to follow, I hope), he has other things on his mind. Apparently, it’s not right that willies don’t have bones, however, it’s good that air is see-through or we wouldn’t be able to find the chocolate biscuits.
Z: A HAWK?.. Like in Lord of the Rings?.. Coming to Brownies?..
G: …
…
No Zig, that’s an Ork. If there was going to be an Ork at Brownies tonight I don’t think I’d be rushing to help out. Unless it had really good tattoos. This is a hawk. A bird. With wings. That hovers. And eats mice and stuff.
[Later. At Brownies]
Owl Lady: Can anyone tell me what the owls eat?.. Yes… Yes, that’s right… Hmm… not really anything that big… Yes, all the birds here eat mice and rats and day old chicks.
Z: They eat day old chips?
Today, we’ve moved on. Today, after the excitement of holding a Great Grey Owl that was about as tall as him on a gauntlet longer than his arm (picture to follow, I hope), he has other things on his mind. Apparently, it’s not right that willies don’t have bones, however, it’s good that air is see-through or we wouldn’t be able to find the chocolate biscuits.
Friday, June 10, 2005
glass houses
If your curtains pong of months of joss stick. If the pong slices the top off fresh, new summer (Summer! Now Fresh and New!!). If this doesn’t exactly help you not feel trapped, trapped, all is suffocating, will I never clear this torpid smother from my house and heart, it’s all ooze, it’s all ooze and smothering, suffocating, vile, endless, lifeless drear and drudge.
Then it might be an idea to pop them in the washing machine.
If then there’s a small, dense indiarubber thunk against the window, it might be a small garden bird, believing it can fly right on through from curtainless back window to front, and you might reach it just as its beak stops open-shutting and its heart stops trembling, and you might even though it's dead find it a box with some hay and lay it there before it cools and keep it on the shelf above your computer for the entire day and try to block the indiarubber round calls of the bird’s mate / parent from the garden, and you might curse the joss and the curtains and the windows and the torpid, smothering, suffocating, vile, endless, lifeless drear and drudge of being here and whose bloody idea was this life and joss and curtain cleaning thing anyway?
And a few days later you might be up at three, again, and typing away and tea slurping away you might reflect that really it was one of the better parts of the week.
Hulk Visits the Eden Project: Grrr, use hemp and make fetching strawberry growers from old grain sacks or I'll get really, really angry.
Then it might be an idea to pop them in the washing machine.
If then there’s a small, dense indiarubber thunk against the window, it might be a small garden bird, believing it can fly right on through from curtainless back window to front, and you might reach it just as its beak stops open-shutting and its heart stops trembling, and you might even though it's dead find it a box with some hay and lay it there before it cools and keep it on the shelf above your computer for the entire day and try to block the indiarubber round calls of the bird’s mate / parent from the garden, and you might curse the joss and the curtains and the windows and the torpid, smothering, suffocating, vile, endless, lifeless drear and drudge of being here and whose bloody idea was this life and joss and curtain cleaning thing anyway?
And a few days later you might be up at three, again, and typing away and tea slurping away you might reflect that really it was one of the better parts of the week.
Hulk Visits the Eden Project: Grrr, use hemp and make fetching strawberry growers from old grain sacks or I'll get really, really angry.
Monday, May 16, 2005
VIP
We spent yesterday’s Mars Uranus conjunction suitably enough. Four unexpected VIP passes to the first Paralympic World Cup (I’ve just had to add ‘paralympic’ to my Word dictionary; get it together, Microsoft.)
VIP passes = free breakfast buffet and unexpected neighbours. You know that half-glazed staring thing you do when you wonder if you know the woman walking past from the school playground or the chemist. Sometimes it clicks when the woman clocks your half-glazed stare and gives a grin that would keep the chaps at Aardman busy for weeks:
Me: Molster, the Prime Minister’s wife is just over there
Molster: Who’s the Prime Minister
[Wups. The girl’s nine. She needs enlightening.]
Me: Well, he sorta would like to think that he is in charge of running the country. He’s not, but he’d like to think so. That’s his wife. She’s a judge, like you’d like to be when you’re fed up with being a pop star.
Molster: Is she the one who came to see us at Brownies… or was that the Mayoress or somethin’
Me: The Mayoress or somethin’, Mol.
VIP seats are not of gold, but standard blue plastic, neither do they have even the humblest cushion for buttock relief to impede the regulation flip-up seat. They are altogether different in every way from the blue plastic flip-up seats to the left and right, however, as each one has a 3 by 2 VIP sticker on the back rest.
So that’s all right.
Taking piks of paralympic track events with a digital camera with a frustratingly delayed shutter action is… interesting. A click as the athletes run or otherwise propel themselves past gives you this:
Or, if you’re lucky, this:
This learnt, I pressed the shutter while Tanni Grey-Thompson was still a smudge in the distance. And got this:
The lovely woman is 11 Paralympic golds fast, after all.
And there was this marvellous chap from South Africa. 18 years old and, well, bionic. I pressed the shutter for this shot…
…shortly before he was conceived.
(Good pole.)
I feel happy in ways that seem to jiggle outside the shape of the word, that Zig has sat in the sunshine with Professor Gangrene and watched people in chairs and with prostheses and guide runners and, most pertinently, cerebral palsy run and jump and throw in a serious competition. With medals, and cheers and television cameras
and just the right attitude.
He now wants to throw the javelin. Time to hide the pencils and the cats.
A day when even the shadows were technicolour:
VIP passes = free breakfast buffet and unexpected neighbours. You know that half-glazed staring thing you do when you wonder if you know the woman walking past from the school playground or the chemist. Sometimes it clicks when the woman clocks your half-glazed stare and gives a grin that would keep the chaps at Aardman busy for weeks:
Me: Molster, the Prime Minister’s wife is just over there
Molster: Who’s the Prime Minister
[Wups. The girl’s nine. She needs enlightening.]
Me: Well, he sorta would like to think that he is in charge of running the country. He’s not, but he’d like to think so. That’s his wife. She’s a judge, like you’d like to be when you’re fed up with being a pop star.
Molster: Is she the one who came to see us at Brownies… or was that the Mayoress or somethin’
Me: The Mayoress or somethin’, Mol.
VIP seats are not of gold, but standard blue plastic, neither do they have even the humblest cushion for buttock relief to impede the regulation flip-up seat. They are altogether different in every way from the blue plastic flip-up seats to the left and right, however, as each one has a 3 by 2 VIP sticker on the back rest.
So that’s all right.
Taking piks of paralympic track events with a digital camera with a frustratingly delayed shutter action is… interesting. A click as the athletes run or otherwise propel themselves past gives you this:
Or, if you’re lucky, this:
This learnt, I pressed the shutter while Tanni Grey-Thompson was still a smudge in the distance. And got this:
The lovely woman is 11 Paralympic golds fast, after all.
And there was this marvellous chap from South Africa. 18 years old and, well, bionic. I pressed the shutter for this shot…
…shortly before he was conceived.
(Good pole.)
I feel happy in ways that seem to jiggle outside the shape of the word, that Zig has sat in the sunshine with Professor Gangrene and watched people in chairs and with prostheses and guide runners and, most pertinently, cerebral palsy run and jump and throw in a serious competition. With medals, and cheers and television cameras
and just the right attitude.
He now wants to throw the javelin. Time to hide the pencils and the cats.
A day when even the shadows were technicolour:
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
there's an alien here inside...
When your child has Gemini Sun Mercury conj in the 9th, it can take a while to brush their teeth.
So many new ideas that need to be shared now with the captive audience of the brusher.
This morning, in between, around and through electric brush buzz and spray splutter of Colgate fuzz, Ziggy expounded that:
All lost balloons floating up to space could be caught by their string by aliens. Who would then have a balloon and be happy aliens. We are all aliens coooooozzzzzz, coooooozzzzzz, aliens live on a planet in space, and we live on a planet in space.
Just before I hauled him into his chair for the walk to school, he spelled out I love my mum and dad in magnetic letters on the filing cabinet.
When your child has Aries Sun conj Pisces Mercury Mars and Saturn in the 9th, she might remove her brother's my as superfluous.
The meaning's the same.
So many new ideas that need to be shared now with the captive audience of the brusher.
This morning, in between, around and through electric brush buzz and spray splutter of Colgate fuzz, Ziggy expounded that:
Just before I hauled him into his chair for the walk to school, he spelled out I love my mum and dad in magnetic letters on the filing cabinet.
When your child has Aries Sun conj Pisces Mercury Mars and Saturn in the 9th, she might remove her brother's my as superfluous.
The meaning's the same.
Monday, May 09, 2005
for his beltane birthday, we gave him...
...The Forced Root Vegetable Of Darkness, below, a hunk of space debris that landed in China yonks of centuries ago, and a fisheye from these chaps.
We skipped off on our won holiday weekend (Now With Added Hotel Pool).
To Leeds Castle, onetime dowager home of the widowed queens of England. Now the wellest of well-oiled heritage machines and, um, behind me somewhere.
And other places where we saw apple trees and that it is spring.
And we saw cows.
And a cockerel in a box saw us.
But we didn't see our fishies
Or our cats.
Cos they were at home.
And a jolly good time was had.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Jack!
Hello C!
Lovely to hear from you. Yes please, I'd like an extension form.
Jack has not done me in; I do like the chap. I've had to prioritise
some paid work, business plans and the like.
I *have* mired myself in the form of the exercises, despite your excellent advice. It's learning scales, isn't it. Am pushing myself to complete these exercises thoroughly, so that the form becomes subconscious, if you get my meaning. It's a good discipline, but my head will wriggle through the gaps in the text, take off its socks and go paddle and splash. However often I order myself to sit and work the work workishly, dammit – and the Exercise 6.d document is open on my comp all the time – it's so much simpler to watch birds through the window and download Rufus Wainwright than it is to try and stir the necessary sludge of the format to find the gold.
I'm keeping my goal in view. I'll get there.
Have been doing a lot of playing around with charts as narrative. It's something that's just tingling away in the corner of my head; something I'd like to develop in the future. It dissolves Word tables.
Am very much looking forward to Summer School. Had my name down for a workshop with Melanie Reinhart in my old home town this Saturday: 'Revisioning Jupiter'. However, Jupiter decided that he would rather be in practise than theory right now thankyouverymuch, and his backing up into Uranus gave me an unexpected competition win of an all-expenses family weekend in Kent. (Kent?). We'll have a top time doing all things… Kentish, I won't be churlish, and it is ole Beltane husband's birthday on Saturday, but still, I'm so thirsty for things such as that workshop – reckon that's what the tight square between Cancer Moon in the 5th (conj SA) and Libra Jupiter in the 7th in my Solar Return chart is all about. Great stuff either way, but not both at the same time.
Still – Sun, Ur and ME are conj in the 1st, and with just 5' between the latter, I've no doubt that by the end of the year I will be a fair way further toward my goal than am I now.
Hope all's well with and for you. Am glad it's taking an extension to complete Mod 3, as I do enjoy having you as my tutor.
Bests
Gin
On 4/26/05, C wrote:
> Dear Ginny
>
> I just thought that I would write because I hadn't heard from you for a while.
> I fear Jack has done you in!
>
> In fact, your 6 month tuition period runs out on 2nd May, and please accept my
> apologies for not being on the ball and reminding you sooner. How are you
> getting on with Jack? Is there anything I can do to help? Let me know if you
> need any input of any kind from me. Also, if you would like to extend for
> another 6 months, let me know and I will forward on an extension form to you.
>
> I hope things are well with you - looking forward very much to hearing from you,
>
> All best wishes
> C
Lovely to hear from you. Yes please, I'd like an extension form.
Jack has not done me in; I do like the chap. I've had to prioritise
some paid work, business plans and the like.
I *have* mired myself in the form of the exercises, despite your excellent advice. It's learning scales, isn't it. Am pushing myself to complete these exercises thoroughly, so that the form becomes subconscious, if you get my meaning. It's a good discipline, but my head will wriggle through the gaps in the text, take off its socks and go paddle and splash. However often I order myself to sit and work the work workishly, dammit – and the Exercise 6.d document is open on my comp all the time – it's so much simpler to watch birds through the window and download Rufus Wainwright than it is to try and stir the necessary sludge of the format to find the gold.
I'm keeping my goal in view. I'll get there.
Have been doing a lot of playing around with charts as narrative. It's something that's just tingling away in the corner of my head; something I'd like to develop in the future. It dissolves Word tables.
Am very much looking forward to Summer School. Had my name down for a workshop with Melanie Reinhart in my old home town this Saturday: 'Revisioning Jupiter'. However, Jupiter decided that he would rather be in practise than theory right now thankyouverymuch, and his backing up into Uranus gave me an unexpected competition win of an all-expenses family weekend in Kent. (Kent?). We'll have a top time doing all things… Kentish, I won't be churlish, and it is ole Beltane husband's birthday on Saturday, but still, I'm so thirsty for things such as that workshop – reckon that's what the tight square between Cancer Moon in the 5th (conj SA) and Libra Jupiter in the 7th in my Solar Return chart is all about. Great stuff either way, but not both at the same time.
Still – Sun, Ur and ME are conj in the 1st, and with just 5' between the latter, I've no doubt that by the end of the year I will be a fair way further toward my goal than am I now.
Hope all's well with and for you. Am glad it's taking an extension to complete Mod 3, as I do enjoy having you as my tutor.
Bests
Gin
On 4/26/05, C
> Dear Ginny
>
> I just thought that I would write because I hadn't heard from you for a while.
> I fear Jack has done you in!
>
> In fact, your 6 month tuition period runs out on 2nd May, and please accept my
> apologies for not being on the ball and reminding you sooner. How are you
> getting on with Jack? Is there anything I can do to help? Let me know if you
> need any input of any kind from me. Also, if you would like to extend for
> another 6 months, let me know and I will forward on an extension form to you.
>
> I hope things are well with you - looking forward very much to hearing from you,
>
> All best wishes
> C
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