The Good, the Bad and the New Year Resolutions

The good news is I have found the missing keys, I found them while retrieving my shampoo from the passenger footwell of The Skip when I went swimming. Inexplicably, they were under the front seat - can't work out how I locked the car, or got in the house without them, but life is full of little mysteries.

The other good news is I have dealt with the avalanche of paperwork that was obliterating my desk. Sadly, this lead to discovery that The Skip was due for its MOT a month ago. The second bit of bad news is that it failed the MOT and will cost around £600 to make legal, and as a chaser to that, won't be ready until the end of the week. I will try hard to think positive about the long train journey to Kent this afternoon, at least I will get the opportunity to do loads of Suduko and gaze out of the window in a melancholy daze, both of which are harder to do while driving.

On a happier note, in preparation for my new year's resolutions, today I can drink, drink, drink and eat as much chocolate and as many crisps as I want. At midnight I will become the epitome of abstinence, control and exactly the sort of person that doesn't have avalanches of paperwork awaiting attention. That is, of course, as long as I am not lying semi-comatose on the floor.

Wishing you all a very happy and healthy 2009!

Voodoo and Bubble Gum

There is a thick frost outside - at least it is outside. In my youth, living in a large (and haunted) house, that had no heating in most rooms, we used to wake up with Jack Frost crusted on the inside of the window panes. Marvelling at the intricate patterns and playing at being a dragon with the mist your breath made gave us something to do. The sheets used to be so cold when you got into bed that they felt damp. All this and a poltergeist to play with. Life was such fun!

I'm not sure where the ghosts came from, but it could have had something to do with the fact my father used to encourage us to employ the 'Juju' when we really wanted something to happen. We used to hold our arms in the begging position and flex our fingers chanting 'Juju, juju' . I thought all families did this sort of thing, it didn't occur to me that we were indulging in Voodoo witchcraft at the time.

My father was a firm believer in psychokinesis as well, and always used to have me throw the dice in Ludo for him as I could throw more sixes on demand than anyone else. He had done experiments on us to establish this, offering chocolate as a reward for throwing the required numbers. We used to play Ludo for money, and had rows of little milk bottles filled up with half pence pieces with our initials on them. My friend and I used to raid these bottles at weekends and go to the Mini-Store to buy sweets. 'Hubba Bubba' bubble gum was a favourite, which we used to chew a lot and then make 'washing lines' across the bedroom by sticking one end to the wall and stretching it across in zig zag patterns. Like I said, fun was hard to come by in the days before computer games.

Don't try swimming with your eyes closed.

My swim in the outdoor pool yesterday was made marginally more uncomfortable by the fact that my swimming costume hadn't dried out from the swim the day before. Putting on a damp cozzie and then running, in sub-zero temperatures, from the changing room to the water is a less than welcoming experience. At least the water was pleasantly warm (like the Caribbean Sea it says on the posters, designed to lure the reluctant swimmer in). I cruised along on my back, swirling my arms around, but the bright sunshine meant I had to close my eyes. Its quite tricky, swimming with your eyes closed, so I tried swimming with one eye closed and the other fixed on the lane rope, but after zig zagging down the lane bumping into a couple of people, realised this wasn't going to work. I tried breast stroke (not my best as I have never been able to stop my legs 'scissoring') but again had to close my eyes due to the sun. After nearly garrotting myself on the lane rope, I decided this wasn't a good idea either. At least I must have been providing entertainment for the life-guards.

I used to be a life-guard, it is as boring a job as it looks. Out of two year's work, I can remember two things; not being able to get out of the 'high chair' due to my vertigo (luckily no one drowned while I waited for a colleague to get back from his tea-break), and fishing for turds with a net on a long pole (its really hard, as they roll away from the net as soon as it is about a centimetre away and you have to be careful not to get into a 'smearing' situation).

So if you are going to do back stroke in a pool, keep your eyes open, make sure you have shaved your arm-pits and if you see a life-guard with a net its time to get out and have your shower.

Coins and Crowns

I forgot to mention that I won Miserable Git again this year, two years in a row - hurrah! I've decided to make notes of Miserable Git items as the year progresses, to aid my revision for next year's game and to retain the crown (albeit cardboard, covered in turkey foil). Today's Miserable Git moment is the 5p coin. I've just been sifting through a pile of loose change in a bowl on the window sill to make a very sensible pot of silver to keep in the car for parking meters. As I worked my way through the Polish zloty and two pence pieces, those little fives kept annoying me by deliberately avoiding my finger nails as I tried to scoop them up. Anyone would think they didn't want to spend the day in a car park in Kingston, although I suppose it would be very cold in one of those machines, and only the prospect of a grumpy attendant to talk to at the end of the day.

So, the five pence bit, what's the point? Answers on a postcard please.

Lego, keys and Celebrations

I've just been for a relaxing outdoor swim to try to make amends for the Christmas feeding frenzy, but then I undid all the good by finishing off some Celebrations that were shouting from the tin, 'eat me, eat me'. It must be something they do to the wrappers in the factory.

The swim was to relax after the shock of finding out that replacing my lost car key would cost £150. Yes, £150 - all to do with the squishy bit that works the lock being encrypted.

Before parting with such a massive amount of money for something so small, I decided to frisk the house one last time. This involved, among other things, delving into the deeper (and quite scary) reaches of the settee. I didn't find the key, but I did find £4 in small denomination coins, five pairs of socks, a couple of biros, an ear-ring and a bicycle pump, complete with wibbly bit that fits on the end. Strangely, I didn't find any Lego, a small lump of which usually appears at these moments - reminiscent of when the children were young and the soles of my feet permanently bore dimples to match the tops of the bricks. Actually, Lego should make special shoes that have inverted dimples on the soles, then a) you won't hurt your feet all the time walking over the mess and b) you can tidy up by jumping on the bricks (this would have the added benefit of making you taller as the bricks stick to your soles, it would also provide amusement for the children and give you aerobic exercise, saving on the gym membership). Being taller changes your height to weight ratio rather favourably and means you can succomb to those Celebrations again. Hurrah!

Miserable Gits and Donkeys

Wondering how to give your Christmas Dinner that added sparkle, that ‘je ne sais quoi’ every aspirational host needs? Well here are two tried and tested games to play once the food has been eaten, the wine quaffed and you want to avoid that embarrassing ‘what shall we do now?’ lull:

Miserable Git
A quick-fire game where everyone sitting round the table takes turns (in order) to say something that really annoys them. It can’t be a personal attack on anyone, there can’t be a hesitation or repetition and it must be a genuine irksome thing. You can challenge on all of these grounds, and if successful the person has to drop out, eventually leaving a duelling pair. The winner should have a cardboard crown to wear and an appropriate gift to take home. There are two interesting things about this game, real miserable gits will find an excuse not to play (so you know not to invite them next year) and for the following year, everytime something annoying happens, you suddenly experience a surge of happiness thinking, ‘Must remember that for Miserable Git’.

Donkey
Take a pack of cards and sort so that you have a set of four cards (ie 4 aces, 4 queens, 4 tens etc) for each person playing. Shuffle them up and remove a card and replace it from the remainder of the pack without looking at either one.

Put matches (or spoons) down the centre of the table, but one less than there are players.

Deal the cards so that all players have four to look at (without letting anyone else see).

The idea is to collect four of the same cards (ie 4 queens, 4 tens etc). To do this everyone picks a card from their hand to discard at the same time, slams it onto the table on their immediate left, then in unison moves their hand to the right to collect the discarded one lying there from the player next to them. Then everyone takes a quick moment to re-sort and find another card to discard, and repeat. As one set of four is a 'rogue set', you never know if you can get the complete four.

Eventually someone gets a set of four, and then takes a match (this can be done quietly while pretending to carry on playing by just moving the cards along without swapping them) or very fast. As soon as one match is taken, everyone else has to grab one of the remaining ones as quickly as possible. As there is one less match than players, someone is ‘out’. They get D on a scorechart. This continues until someone spells out DONKEY when they are really out. Eventually one person is left as the winner. Be warned, don’t have anything else on the table as this game can get quite rough, with people ‘agitated’ about getting a match. The one rule is that you mustn’t pretend to take a match as this causes intense grumpiness. Best not to have long finger nails either as these can cause the après dinner lacerations that the perfect host would best be advised to avoid.

Have fun!

Who's got the Lurgy?

People seem to be dropping like flies with the lurgy. I was just thinking, ‘lucky I don’t get that sort of thing’ and what do you know? Wake up full of it this morning. I keep sneezing (and isn’t it difficult to drive when your eyes close involuntarily?), my nose is running and my ears are buzzing. I’ve not been ill all year, and then, just when I have 11 days lined up at home to relax and enjoy myself, this happens. Blast.

Blast, blast, blast.

I will nurse my cup of lemon and ginger tea and eat some Roses (in spite of the label I’ve stuck on top saying, ‘you really don’t need another chocolate do you?’). I think Roses tins are manufactured by an offshoot of Weight Watchers. If they flog enough of them over Christmas, they can guarantee queues of customers at their meetings in the new year. In fact, maybe the government only needs to outlaw Roses to sort out the whole obesity problem.

Now all that typing has made me peckish, where did that tin go?

What's wrong with cassettes anyway?

I had a test drive in a BMW 730 last week (there are some perks to my job). Driving 'The Skip' will never be the same again. The ‘Fully Loaded Beamer’ is so comfy you are in danger of falling asleep, but they have thoughtfully put in a device that shakes the steering wheel if you change lanes while dozing off. Sadly, they have forgotten to put in the cassette player, so I wouldn’t be able to play my infamous compilation tapes (can I hear cheering in the distance?).

Shame, I would have bought one otherwise…….

Dishing up the Dirt

Someone I once knew had the unappetising job of being fat taster for a supermarket, he had to check the flavours of Trex v Mazola - not quite as exotic as being a wine taster, but I suppose it pays the mortgage. I was telling a friend about this today, and it brought back some unsavoury memories from my childhood. My father enjoyed all his food deep fried, and the kitchen was a slippery, nicotine and fat stained room that you skidded across if you stepped in with your foot at the wrong angle. Mother used to keep the same lard going in the deep fryer for, well, I'm not sure how long, the mind boggles. In order to keep the fat 'clean' (and I use the term losely) she used to get the burnt bits out by straining the fat through the gusset of some old tights. No one dared to ask whether or not they had been washed first, I think we knew the answer and just didn't want to confront it. My sister in law came round early on in her relationship with my brother, and my father cooked her a fry up. She cried because she thought he must have hated her to serve food that had so much dirt in it. We had to reassure her that it was alright, all our food looked like that and she wasn't to take it personally.

One dinner party my mother cooked duck a l'orange. She dropped the duck on the floor, it slid from the cooker to the door to where the cat was in a position to get to it before she did. Not to be outdone by the family pet, she bravely wrestled the duck back, popped it on the plate and served it to our unsuspecting guests.

Dismal Decos and the A Bomb

I saw a very sad sight on the way to work this morning, a prevously bumptious and bloated inflatable Santa had obviously developed a puncture, and was sagging, flaccid over someone's porch roof. I shall add it to my 'virtual' collection of dismal Christmas decorations (see 'Rusty Christmas).


I was chatting to someone recently over a work dinner about his career in the nuclear industry, and found myself reminiscing about how my father used to have framed photographs of Hinckley Point, Doom Ray (that's what my mother called it), and his favourite, the atom bomb's mushroom cloud with the sampler rockets vapour trails decorating the edges. I noticed the diner's face register surprise when I explained my mother had to take them off the walls and hide them when other Quakers came to tea.

My father was an unusual character, he always worried about 'marauding gangs' beseiging our house. To outwit them, he used to order those huge hampers of food from the back of mail order catalogues (John Moores) and put them in the breakfast room cupboard. My mother used to regularly run out of things (I well remember my father shouting from the toilet, 'Why oh why can't you buy a spare toilet roll?') and pinch a tin or two from the 'iron rations'. The stock depleted quite quickly, and all that was left was a meagre supply of 'squid in its own ink' and similar 'delicacies'. I used to have nightmares about having to sit in the dank air-raid shelter in the garden, eating only 'Squid in its own Ink' while the marauding gangs did whatever marauding gangs did on the surface. My father used to be quite smug about how the air raid shelter could also be used as a nuclear bunker. If you've seen it, you will realise why 'Blast from the Past' is one of my favourite films ever.

Maths and the Munchies

My son was explaining combinatorial optimisation problems to me last night (we like a bit of light banter over dinner), and as coincidence would have it, only that afternoon I had struggled with a severe combinatorial optimisation problem of my own in Woollies. I had rushed with the crowds to elbow my way to the Pick ‘n’ Mix and grabbed my plastic (small - I’m proud to say) cup. Having selected ‘small’, I then wanted to cram as many goodies in as possible, and after a moment’s thought realised that putting the biggies in first (mint creams if you must know), then the mediums (American hard gums) and then (my stoke of genius) filled in the gaps with lots of little dolly mixtures. I felt quite smug, and that was without even realising I had solved a complex combinatorial optimisation problem that has been foxing mathematicians for years!

The mint creams are yummy, but I feel a bit gloopy having just finished them off.

Light the blue touch paper and retire

I think the strangest Christmas present ever given in our family was something my father bought my mother one year. My mother has always been something of a pyromaniac, and took a great delight in having huge bonfires in the back garden. We were used to seeing quite good furniture on them, but there was the particularly memorable Bonfire Night when, as the embers died away at the end of the evening, my father croaked in a voice loaded with emotion, 'Are those the cones from my best speakers?'. Mother replied as always in these situations, 'oh well, you didn't want those any more did you?', accompanied by a sly smile.

If the bonfires were slow to get going, she would get a can of petrol and sling it enthusiastically from a long distance. My children thought it was a big treat to be 'the chosen one' who could throw the match on to light it - my parents' child minding skills did leave something to be desired. My father (having spent his career in the Health and Safety industry) decided the best way to avoid disaster was to buy her a flamethrower. Most wives want diamonds or lingerie for Christmas, but my mother was delighted with her new acquisition. It was quite odd watching her clad in gardening wellies and old suede coat, striding purposefully down the garden with a full size flamethrower.

Plants and plummeting

Two spider plants in the bathroom make all the difference. They distract the eye from the wobbly wallpaper and cracked toilet seat (its still there), and you find yourself admiring fronds. Almost looks like something from 'Homes and Gardens' now. I finally got around to scraping the floor tile glue off the bath, so when I sit in it my backside doesn't get scratched - total luxury.

Went to a concert of military Christmas music last week, a strange combination of Peace on Earth and the Ghurka's garrotting dance. I thought they should replace the cutlasses with cheerleaders'pom poms. Perhaps that is the answer to the problems in Afghanistan and Iraq. Just swap the guns for cheerleaders' sticks - much more fun to watch on the TV newsreels and no one gets hurt (apart from the occasional incidental blow to the head). This has reminded me of when I took my sons to a canoe class one holiday. The over enthusiastic teacher made me join in the oar game. You had to balance an oar vertically, let go and move to the next one in a circle without any of them falling over and knocking you out. She then made me get in a canoe, and we made a 'raft' of canoes by lining up alongside each other. Everyone had to take it in turns to get out, run along the backs of all the canoes, then return, running gingerly along the fronts. I just caught sight of mischief in my older son's eye, had time to shout, 'Don't you dare', as he moved his canoe sideways and I plummeted into the Thames. Ahh, the school holidays, happy memories!

Sat Nav and Thunderbirds

I was wizzing round a one way system with a friend this week, relying on the sat nav to get us to a furniture shop in the deepest reaches of darkest Newbury. The sat nav couldn't work out where we were, and kept giving us conflicting instructions. At one point we found ourselves shouting back at the bossy woman in her satellite, 'You're wrong! You're wrong!'. Eventually she corrected herself and we found the shop (which was shut - such is life). Made me think about people floating alone in space, which lead me to think about John Tracy in Thunderbird 5. How did he remain so cheerful with no friends around? Why can't Mrs Sat Nav be cheerful too? Perhaps she needs a pale blue uniform and little pillar box cap.

Got the fluffy rug for the bathroom, still looks a mess. The good news is the kitchen floor has been laid and I feel like rolling all over it and luxuriating in its smooth lines and cleanness. I've also had a go at skidding along it in socks - not quite as much fun as I remember this sort of thing being.

Defrosting my bike

There was such a thick frost yesterday morning, I had to bring my bike into the house to defrost it before I could ride it. There is nothing quite as uncomfy as sitting on a frozen saddle.

Today, I switched on my home computer and had the blue screen of death - its been on a go slow for some time, so I should have done something about it sooner. My bike is also making the knocking noise again, so I'm hoping the chain doesn't seize and I have to do the bus thing again. The good news is a man is coming to lay my basement floor tomorrow, so things might get restored to normal again soon.

Work is stressful today (it can happen sometimes), so I'm consoling myself with a lovely cup of tea and a chilled Mars bar. They're definitely best chilled so the chocolate is a little bit crunchy. I'm resisting the urge to bite off the chocolate all the way round and saving the yummy, gummy bit for last, as these things are best done in private.

Cool Pool

I've just been for an invigorating swim in Hampton (open air) Pool. It was amazing, as the pool is so warm and the air so cold, mist was swirling off the water. I enjoyed stretching out and cruising along backstroking, watching the aeroplanes and their vapour trails in the bright blue sky. As I lay on my wobbly, watery bed looking up I thought how clever it is that gravity stops me spiralling off into space - and I can't even see it. Then I feel quite insecure, so have to go back to thinking about my DIY projects, or something else mundane to get 'grounded' again.

Talking of DIY projects, I finished the bathroom, but will never, ever try to lay floor tiles again. It was such hard work and the end result is a bit of a mess. I realised I didn't have the edges properly matched up when I tripped over one I had laid earlier (that was sticking up badly), and went flying across the landing. I think I can cover up most of the mess with extravagantly fluffy mats. I managed to get glue all over my clothes and was in danger of never being able to get up from the settee again after a brief sojourn. I think I've gone off the idea of decorating the whole house, and will watch 'Property Ladder' and 'Grand Designs' with a more reverent attitude from now on.

Dark Park

I've been for a walk in the park in the dark. It was very beautiful, there was a strand of mist hanging just above the ground. The plants had gone a little frosty and crunched underfoot. The sky was amazingly clear and I could see more stars than I've seen for a long time. Orion was low, like he was reclining on the horizon propped up on one elbow. Strange shadows were cast in the mist by the neon lights in the distance shining through the trees. The silence felt quite loud. The chill air made my face ache. I felt sorry for a pair of ducks, silhouetted against the silvery water of the lake.

Christmas is going Rusty

My bike is now repaired, but is still in the back of the car. As I drive to and from work I wonder whether I can tell colleagues, 'I've taken my bike to work', and look healthy and virtuous.

Christmas is fast approaching. I'm allergic to some of those Christmas decorations, you know the ones, flashing reindeer and elves on see-saws that glow in the dark and emit a buzzing noise like you're standing under an electricity pylon. In Kingston there is one particularly gruesome looking Santa that waves mechanically, with his head moving from side to side (in a permanent,'no you can't' fashion). His painted smile is reminiscent of something out of a Steven King novel. There could be thermo nuclear war, and somehow, this Santa would still be waving and wishing 'Peace on Earth' to the flattened landscape.

Then there are the over sized hydrocephalitic bears in the shopping centre which parents push unsuspecting babies up to in their buggies to help stop them screaming - the combination of synthesized musack and howling children doesn't work for me in creating an atmosphere of Christmas cheer. I went to the assembly halls in Slough in May one year, and there was a large snowflake decoration still attached to the front wall of the building. The rain had made it rust, and there was a long, tapering, brown stain underneath it. Strangely I quite liked it, reminded me of out of season holiday resorts, and picnics in the rain.

Don't get lost in the Winnersh Triangle

I have always been intrigued by 'Winnersh Triangle'. It's called out as one of the stations on the Twickenham to Reading line. It sounds so exotic, reminiscent of 'The Bermuda Triangle'. Does anyone get off there? Does anyone ever come out of it again? I was discussing this with friends and we were thinking we would have to visit Winnersh Triangle to find out what it’s really like. We could take a triangular picnic, sandwiches cut diagonally, Toblerone, Doritos, Bass Beer and pizza slices. On the train we would read about Euclidean geometry while wearing tricorn hats. Every statement would have to involve three main points and we would have to wait until 3rd March 2009 to visit.

This started a whole new concept of days out, because after the excitement of the Winnersh Triangle, we could visit Russell Square with square crisps and play dice games on 4th April.

The next place would have to be the Pentagon on 5th May 2010, and apparently there is a shopping centre somewhere helpfully called ‘The Hexagon’ (must eat honey off the comb).

Not sure whether there is anywhere called Heptagon, but you would have to pay for the trip using only 50p bits.

Going off at a tangent, Piccadilly Circus could be visited on 22nd July using the Circle Line and we could eat Chocolate Oranges. I think that’s my favourite.

Metamorphosis and chips

Three suduko already this morning, two 'tricky' and one 'moderate'.

Last night I went for a meal in a rather upmarket pub. When I selected pollack and chips I half expected the tomato and tartar sauces to be splattered artistically over the fish. The chips were piled up like a game of Jenga - so I had to stop myself pulling the bottom one out with my fingers.

The broken bike is still in the back of the car awaiting some attention, which is stopping me going back to the DIY shop to take the bath panel back and swap it for some flooring. So, can't finish the bathroom until I've sorted out my bike (I don't want to keep loading and unloading the car). I am awaiting that 'butterfly out of a chrylsalis' moment when, from all the chaos that is my house, something beautiful appears. I'm rather hoping this might be before Christmas, but this seems increasingly unlikely.

I had an iced finger bun yesterday, the icing still sticks to the inside of the paper bag. We can send a man to the moon, we can genetically engineer life itself, so why can't we find a way of keeping icing on buns?

My name's Hilary and I'm a Suduko Addict

I really enjoy Suduko, but its getting to the point where I curl up in bed with one at night, and lunge for my extra big Suduko book first thing in the morning. There is something comforting about those little numbers that can only go in one place and one place only. If it is very early, and I'm feeling foggy, I have to trace up and down the columns and rows with a finger to keep my place, and having the memory span of a goldfish, have to mutter the number to myself all the time. I realised that this would look very strange to a bystander, me poring over a book, making the sign of the cross, while chanting, 'six, six, six'.

Don't get on a bus in the rain

The knocking noise on my bike didn't get better by itself - I should know by now they never do. I started cycling home and the chain seized up completely. I tried very hard to free it, turning the bike upside down, and pulling very hard in every direction, getting covered in oil in the process. I couldn't free it at all, which made me decidedly huffy, so I locked the bike up to a lamp-post in the darker regions of Morden and thought about getting the bus to the station. I was just fixing the lock and looked up to see my bus drive past. I waited for the next one, feeling self conscious in my fluorescent jacket covered in oil, clingy leggings and tatty trainers, without the vital accessory that would make sense of my satorial style, a bike. The bus finally came and loads of people got on, several with buggies, some with screaming occupants. The hoods and covers caught me as they squeezed past. The insides of the windows started to fog up with that black condensation you only seem to get on the inside of bus windows. People shook umbrellas that sprinkled rain everywhere and left miserable streams running down the gangway. Low browed youths sulked and skulked with their headphones drumming out tinny rhythms. A 'Heat' reader was whining into her mobile phone. When we got to the station, I went up to the platform and got on the train, it was only when I arrived at Kingston that I realised I had forgotten another vital accessory, a ticket. I went up to the guard and explained I had forgotten to buy a one. He was a bit grumpy and asked how I could forget when I had walked past three ticket machines at Raynes Park. I indicated my oil smeared attire and said I didn't normally travel by train but my bike had broken. I then got a lecture on how I would get charged £20 for fare evasion next time but eventually he grudgingly let me go without having to pay.

As I was in Kingston, I took the opportunity to go Christmas shopping. In John Lewis I bought a couple of kitchen knives, and quipped with the nice bloke behind the counter that I had one for each wrist in case the bus home was too depressing. He took it a bit seriously and I had to explain it was a joke, and smile a lot to convince him that my life wasn't that bad really. Well, as long as I never have to get on a bus in the rain again.

There's a strange knocking noise in the back

Today, as I cycled in to work I was rather concerned about the knocking noise my bike was making. It seemed rather odd to have a strange noise on a bike, on a car - yes, on a bike - no. Each time I changed gear there was a clonking sound, and then my legs span round on the pedals so fast one foot slid off. On a seven mile journey this became tiresome, and I did wonder whether I should brave the scary roundabouts, or get off and do the pedestrian light thing. I don't want to get smeared round the axel of a juggernaut because my legs are doing moves more suited to 'Strictly' than those required to follow the Highway Code. In the end I stayed on the bike, and braved the famous 'Fountain' roundabout. Don't get lulled into thinking I must have an attractive, water featured journey to work. The Fountain is one of those roundabouts where the council are forever rebuilding the decorative brickwork after someone, presumably worse for drink, has tried to take a short cut, or maybe thought they could get their car washed for free.

It is scary cycling in every day. I wear a rather fetching luminous cagoule (yes, they do still exist), a helmet that slides forward all the time reducing my forward vision, and some fingerless gloves. I've even have a rather professional looking panier to put my carrier bag of necessities in. To the untrained eye, I might look like a 'serious' cyclist, but after a few moments viewing, the fact that I take some time to overtake pedestrians would put paid to that idea. I still don't understand how it takes me 50 minutes to do the seven miles. I also don't understand why I don't look like Claudia Schiffer by now - everyone knows exercise helps you lose weight. All that happens to me is my thighs become more akin to those of a Sumo wrestler than a supermodel. The Belgian buns don't help - is everyone in Belgium Sumo wrestler sized I wonder?

When I get home, I have to drag my bike through the back alley (which reminds me, my mother in law used to have a corridor off her kitchen she called 'the back passage' until the continued smirks became too much when she said things like, 'I must put some carpet down in my back passage'). The back alley is narrow and full of overhanging plants that catch in my helmet (which has already nearly blinded me) and get tangled in my handle bars. One night, I sneaked out with a pair of secateurs and started 'pruning'. It was very embarrassing when a kindly neighbour stopped and started chatting to me about what a lovely plant it was and asking me for growing tips. Its hard to look inconspicuous in a fluorescent jacket, I should have thought and taken it off first.

Time to put the kettle on and try to get the bun out of the paper bag without the icing sticking to the inside.