Tidy House, Tidy Mind

The house is on the market, and its quite a strain tryng to make it look appealing. It wasn't helped by a dog leaving a deposit next to the doorstep. I can think of better ways of starting a Saturday morning than poopascooping someone else's pet's doings.

Still, the vacuum cleaner is feeling loved, it hasn't been used this much before. It's quite an annoying vacuum cleaner. It was a bargain from Tesco, and as you swoosh around the house the collapsable handle keeps collapsing. The front of the cleaner has a handle for lifting it, but as you lift up the front drops off. I think it was a Rubik's Cube in a previous life.

The nozzle dropped off my Mr Sheen as well. Now I have to align my finger nail over precisely half the miniscule pipe to squirt the furniture.

I've cleaned the insides of the windows, but this just makes the outsides look worse when you look through. As the house is tall and thin, it is virtually impossible to clean the outsides unless you are an enthusiastic abseiler.

So if you happen to be good at Rubik's Cubes, love abseiling and have well manicured finger nails, I need you! Cup of tea and a bun await!

Planting Plutonium

My parents had a very long garden that backed on to some allotments. My father was quite territorial about the garden, and when he heard that planning permission had been requested to build a housing estate there, started hatching a plan. Most people would write to the council with their objections, but my father decided that a more effective way to deal with the threat would be to bury some plutonium at the bottom of the garden. He said this would stop anyone building anything there for a very long time indeed. What was worrying about this was that a)he could probably have got hold of some plutonium through his work and b) if it was too dangerous for other people to live near it, what about us in the house? Fortunately the petrol crisis intervened, and he became more concerned about burying petrol cans in the garden. I don't know whether anyone dug them up again after the crisis ended; any avid gardeners living there now will have a bit of a surprise one day.

What Makes a Good Cuppa?

I really love my cups of tea, and one day want to open a tea shop. In fact, I consider myself something of a connoisseur of the perfect cuppa. When I go into cafes and ask for a cup of tea, I anticipate a refreshing brew coming my way. I sigh with disappointment when a surly employee shoves a polystyrene cup of boiling water, with a tea bag bobbing along the surface, across the counter at me. If I ask for the milk, the surly person waves a hand in the direction of some, 'I can't believe its supposed to be milk' containers. When you fish the tea bag out there's nowhere to put it and I have to restrain myself from dumping it on the counter in protest. There's something about those polystyrene cups that makes the water go a bit foamy and unappetising too.

I also don't like those conglomerate chains that charge you a fortune for the tea, and then give you a twig to stir it with and a jug of milk that won't pour anything until you have to wrestled with the lid for a while. You end up sitting at a dirty table wondering why you keep going to these places.

The worst though has to be the cafes that really don't understand tea, and bring out a cup of hot water and a tea bag in a sachet. These are the places where you always have to remind them about the milk as well.

So, wait anxiously for the best tea room in the world to open. It might actually involve tea leaves (remember them?), tea strainers and the much missed tea pot. It might take some years to happen, but it will be worth the wait. Sticky buns at the ready!

Slithering through Household History

Cleaning out the junk under a bed today I first came across the Christmas decorations, then a bit further back some ear-rings I'd forgotten about, and further back still some photographic equipment that I'd inherited. The further under the bed I crawled, the further back in time the finds came from and the more dust that had accumulated. Flushed with the success of the first clear out, I attacked a very large wardrobe, and the same thing happened. I finally went back to circa 1989 with some of the children's school books. It felt a bit like being a household archeologist with the geological strata of events that unfolded. I think I need to buy a stripey jumper and start talking with a Somerset accent, 'and here we have a fragment from a wine glass, probably late 20th Century, showing that the occupants of this dwelling enjoyed some Cab Sav occasionally at social events'.

At least my house is getting tidier and I am finding all sorts of useful things I forgot I had. There is something fun about slithering on your stomach under a bed as well; reminding me of games of 'Hide and Seek'.

Anyone dressing for dinner?

I once went to a 'physical theatre' performance at the Edinburgh Fringe in a very small and airless studio room on a very hot day. We were sitting in the middle of a long row of seats, so no easy escape was available. A man and woman came out and danced around to some 'white noise' from a stereo. It was already fairly claustrophobic, but then the actors started taking their clothes off and ended up naked and extremely sweaty, writhing around in front of us. Not only was it was difficult to know where to look, but the cloying aroma of their 'glowing' bodies was way too intimate for comfort. Half an hour in I also had to resist a very strong urge to pick up the stereo and tune it to Radio 4, where even the shipping forecast would have provided some welcome relief.

I think it also reawakened disturbing memories of my father coming home from work and stripping naked in the sitting room. He would then take up position cross legged on an armchair. His large stomach made him look a bit like Buddha and thankfully occluded the view of his manhood. It wasn't a great experience at the best of times, but after a hot day in the office, even less so. It was also quite weird eating dinner when one person wasn't wearing any clothes - 'No sausages for me, thank you'.

Slip Slidin' Along

I was getting into my car this morning, and my heel caught something and my foot slid sideways. It was one of my infamous compilation tapes ‘Dec 02 party – good’ in faded biro. ‘Hooray!’ I thought to myself happily, ‘I think I will enjoy ‘Dec 02 party – good’ for a change’. Off I drove, popping the tape in expectantly, vocal cords ready to sing along to the old favourites. Instead of the jolly sounds I was expecting, a miserable ‘wow, wow, wow’ emanated from the cassette player, and it wasn’t even Kate Bush (think that must be on ‘Dec 81 party – depressing’). So one more for the bin - another one bites the dust.

(‘Dec 80 party – fabulous’)

How can you look good when you buy your clothes from Halfords?

I was back on my bike today, it was great to feel my legs whirling around again, and I felt smug sliding down the sides of traffic jams. The only downside of this mode of transport is the attire. Its hard to look your best in padded lycra trousers, yellow flourescent jacket, gauntlet sized padded gloves and a helmet. Things get worse on arrival at work; taking the helmet off and finding your hair plastered to your scalp. The other choice would be not to wear the helmet and risk finding my brains plastered to my scalp. A no brainer really (pardon the pun).

At least driving you arrive looking the same as you left home, but feeling rather irritated because all the traffic lights were being spiteful and turned red as you approached every junction, and it cost you more than going on your bike.

Bikes are a bit more sociable, you can have a chat with other cyclists in the bike cage as you unlock your bike and get 'combat ready' in all the protective gear. I managed to get locked in the bike cage once. I had to plead with a passer by to let me out and pass my card key through the bars to her. Its not a great way to start the day, but at least I know how a hamster feels now.

Slightly Squashed Marmite Sandwiches and Wet Woods

One of life's joys is surely lying in bed and listening to the rain outside. The pattering is calming and nostalgic, reminding me of summer holidays. When our children were young we used to spend our holidays in Scotland, and go for walks in wet forests. There were generally enough trees to stop most of the rainfall getting to us underneath, and the smell of damp earth and sound of rain drops hitting the leaves were sublime. Our lunchtime fayre was generally marmite sandwiches, which tasted better for being slightly squashed in a rucksack and eaten while sitting on a mossy log. Some leafy glades felt almost enchanted, with a 'noisy silence'.

I like noisy silences, there's a place in Richmond Park that has one. I used to stop my bike on the way home from work to take it in. Then I would get a bit scared and peddle off home again.

What colour wool would you choose to knit a soul?

I feel quite detatached when I look at old photos of myself in childhood, as if it was someone else who was there. Then I thought that, as every single cell in your body changes over time, it sort of is someone else. What's left that's the same? Talking about this on a walk across the park this morning (for croissants and coffee), my sister reckoned it's your soul, but someone else piped up that its data and information that is the constant throughout.

I thought 'soul' sounded nicer myself.

We then got onto the subject of how thinking uses up calories, your brain requiring a good blood supply.

I feel very pleased about this, as I can now count my morning and evening Sudukos as a work out, even though I am sitting in bed with a cosy cup of tea. How fantastic is that? I was also reassured that it helps keep my ganglia in nice, straight lines thereby avoiding Alzheimer's.

Which reminds me of a photo in the paper this week, someone had knitted an anatomically correct brain in pastel colours. There was something disconcerting about it, but I can't quite pinpoint what. Perhaps it's visulising my lovely, well aligned ganglia as 'knit ones, purl ones' all tangled up around the needles.

It made me wonder what colour wool would you choose to knit a soul?

The Imaginary Bicycle

My sister and I used to share a bedroom, and have massive arguments over an imaginary bicycle that we kept propped up against a bed. The arguments became quite heated, with each of us trying to wrestle the 'bike' away from the other. My sister, being older, always won and kept the prize possession propped up at the end of her bed.

Why didn't I just imagine another bike?

Why do some things make no sense at all?

Dante and Joe on the A293

My praise of the AA man was short lived, the repair that should have lasted at least 500 miles gave up after five and left me stranded again. Spent yesterday lunchtime in a grimy tyre shop getting shouted at by the staff who have yet to become acquainted with the concept of ‘Customer Service’.

Bravely decided to drive in again today, I was going to trust The Skip to get me here. Anyway, it was too foggy, cold and dark to ride my bike.

Joe Walsh’s ‘Funk 48’ was blaring away from an old compilation tape I found on the floor.

At some red traffic signals the brake lights of the triple queues of cars were glowing eerily in the mist. ‘Bit like the flames of hell with smoke all around’, I thought cheerily to myself, while ‘grooving to the beat’.

Was I soon to be buffeted by winds and not be able to steer properly?

‘I wonder if people think I’m mad when I jiggle around to music they can’t hear?’

Would there be a swamp I couldn’t drive through in the Morden one-way system?

‘All the pedestrians look sad; hoods up, hands wedged in pockets against the cold.’

Was there going to be a wasp inside the car that I couldn’t get out, tormenting me for miles?

‘Lights have gone green’.

Was I going to get stopped by a two-headed policeman with a forked tail at the next junction?

‘Now you’re being silly’.

What's in Your Deep Freeze?

Its always a mistake to think that everything is sorted out and working properly. The Skip, having had money lavished on it, was working rather nicely and I was enjoying motoring around in it again. Then, yesterday evening, there was a new noise, a flop, flop sound. When I was caught up in a traffic jam I peered out of the window and realised I had a completely flat tyre. Now, I do think I could change the wheel myself, but having paid the AA £100 a year for about twenty years, decided to give them a call. I have to say, I am now in love with my man who can. Within 40 minutes my tyre was repaired with some magic gunk and I was free to enjoy the traffic jam again.

When I eventually arrived home, there were some jacket potatoes doing their stuff in the oven, but younger son and I were too peckish to wait that long, so had a forage. 'What's in the deep freeze?' I enquired hopefully. Sadly the response was, 'Some penis shaped ice cubes and two packs of butter'. My son's expression was a combination of disappointment at the lack of carbs, and confusion as to why we keep penis shaped ice cubes.

I think Secret Santa has a lot to answer for.

Awful Ablutions

Our house had been completely replumbed by our father when we moved in. He was self taught - and sadly we had to bear the brunt of his ineptitude for many years. The water came out of the taps so slowly it took twenty minutes to run a bath. The house and bath itself were so cold that twenty minutes later the water would be tepid at best, so you would have to jump in and out in record time. In later years we had a shower put in. The success of this depended on no one else in the house running either a hot tap (making the water in the shower go stone cold) or a cold tap (making it scorching hot). My mother always had a slight smile on her face when she 'forgot' father was in the shower, turned on the hot tap at the kitchen sink and listened to the screaming from upstairs.

Two Pints and a Toccata

Music played quite a large part in our upbringing. My father thought he was the reincarnation of Bach, 'We even look alike' he would say, pointing to the miniature bust of the composer on the window sill. He loved Bach's music so much he learned to play all of it. This involved buying a rather large electric organ (complete with pedals) for the organ works, a harpsichord for Das Wohltemperirte Clavier, and most painfully for the rest of us in the house, a violin for all the sonatas. None of this compared to the piano accordion; the Toccata and Fugue in D minor never sounded quite the same again.

We children grew up clear in the knowledge that we were a disappointment to him, never wanting to sing three part harmonies in the evenings, gathered round the harpsichord. This was his most prized possession, and he was absolutely desperate that people should hear him play. Rather embarrassingly, this literally involved dragging people off the street to come and listen. I remember the milkman being very polite and patient with a ten minute pause in his round to hear, 'The Harmonious Blacksmith' and other favourites. The best music I heard him play was the honky tonk Pinetop Smith and co blues, which did sound pinpoint sharp on a harpsichord.

What would you like to go with your tea?

I was a trainee nurse for a year after I left school. It was a daunting experience, especially as my first ward was male genito-urinary; a bit of an ordeal by fire for an 18 year old. Doing the bottle round was fairly unpleasant, collecting what seemed like gallons of foul smelling urine in every shade of green, yellow and brown you could imagine. The warm bottles smelt the worst. I had a little trolley to fill up and then wheel to the sluice to empty. The most worrying job though was when I had to shave a man's credentials ready for theatre. It was very nerve racking skimming the razor across the round and baggy skin when you weren't used to it. It took ages too. I was a bit taken aback when, having just finished, the barber came up to the ward asking which patient needed his attention. More embarrassing than that experience though, was the old chap who called out, 'Nurse! Nurse! I need my slippers'. I ferreted around under his bed and in his locker, but couldn't find them. He then said, 'Not to worry, I don't need them anyway', whipped back the blankets and added, 'because I haven't got any legs!'. I was left speechless, staring at two well bandaged stumps.

Quite often on this ward, it seemed, men would call out, 'Nurse, nurse, I need the bedpan, I think I'm going to have...' whereupon there would be a moist raspberry blowing noise and the final word would come out slower than the issue of concern had, '....diarrhoea'. The hospital at the time didn't approve of nurses wearing latex gloves for 'messy' jobs, and it was with a sinking heart that you approached the poor patient and started to clean them up.

I was also taken aback some time later on another ward when a very well spoken, very elderly and very frail 'Miss' was given a Cadbury's chocolate swiss roll to go with her tea, which she held up appreciatively and said, 'Oh, it's rather like a black man's cock dear'.

Guilt is a Negative Emotion and Other Chants

As a child, I used to spend a lot of time staring out of the window. This more closely resembled fun when it was raining, and I could watch the drops zig zagging their way down the window pane. Life became massively more exciting with the new television that arrived in the house one day. It was black and white, and had cupboard like doors to open with an intriguing black sun shade contraption that fitted across the top of the them. Trying to make out what the picture was was challenging. This big contraption was soon replaced with a portable model, with little knobs with numbers on, 625 and 475 . You could change between the two (yes, two) channels by clicking the knob. There was a bit of a palava over where to put the aerial, and one person quite often had to stand holding it in different attitudes while the other person dictated where the picture quality was best. Frustratingly, this always seemed to be when the other person (usually me) was behind the set and standing on tip toe holding the aerial high above their head. Not a brilliant viewing situation. Later on, we were one of the first families in the road to get colour TV. We had a Sony Triniton and had to chant, 'Such clear definition! Such wonderful colour!' each time we turned it on to keep my father happy. Chanting was quite a common occurance in my family. There was a very expensive tea service kept in the spooky 'window' cupboard upstairs which was used on Saturday mornings. When we got it out, we sang a fanfare, 'The paragon! The Paragon!'. Other chants were the ones to make sure we stirred our father's tea well enough; three renditions of, 'Nothing but the best is good enough for Daddy Gnome' (I'll come on to the bit about the Gnomes in later posts). Then there was, 'Guilt is a negative emotion' and 'Money spent on female education is money down the drain'. This sat badly with the chants that came out when school reports were brought home, 'Roedean and Girton!', 'Chemistry, Physics, Pure and Applied!' leaving a female of the species Gnome somewhat confused about parental ambitions. This was further compounded by the fact that marrying money was seen as the required thing to do. When I had a small motorbike my father actually seriously suggested I drive into the next Rolls Royce I see, whereupon the guilt laden (although it is a negative emotion) driver would visit me in hospital, fall in love and marry me, ensuring a healthy bank balance for all eternity. I actually fell off my motorbike on a roundabout and was nearly squashed by a juggernaut. I don't think this quite matched my father's ambitions.

Happy and Horrible Houses

Heavy rock music is pulsating through the house, someone is drumming away on their desk upstairs in time to it. It's a bit of a contrast to the Chopin that was being played on the piano earlier. I love the house being full of noise and energy like this and the cosiness of the real fire roaring away, keeping the house warm.

Sometimes the house can glow with extra energy. It's like the walls radiate something back of the atmosphere they have absorbed over the years. Maybe the house is feeling happy. Perhaps it swaps round sometimes, we fill the walls with memories and energy, and every so often it returns the favour.

Even the cold and unwelcoming house I grew up in occasionally did this. Most people who came to the house didn't like it, and some thought it was haunted. It had been two very large maisonettes which my father knocked into one house. It was quite odd as there were two of everything, two bathrooms (one was used as a dark room), and two kitchens (the one upstairs was a store room for tools). We had the two front doors for some time as well. I have a friend who is convinced that knocking down walls upsets the atmosphere of a house, and I think she might have a point. Upstairs there was a particularly strange window embedded in a wall with a cupboard built around it. It still had the net curtain hanging between the glass and the brieze blocks. The upstairs kitchen had a 'back door' which used to lead to a wooden staircase into the back garden. This was deemed unsafe and knocked down, so left the house with an outside door on the first floor that lead to nowhere. There was a huge attic, with a make shift hatch flap. When it was windy, the flap would fly open, exposing the cavernous area above. Birds used to get into the attic and it was common to hear noises akin to bodies being dragged across the ceiling. Occasionally they would fly out into the main part of the house when the flap fell. To this day I feel really uncomfortable walking under ceilings where tiles are missing, or there are openings above me. There were industrial strength fire extinguishers fastened to the walls in various places - I suppose my mother's pyromania encouraged this precaution.

My father played correspondence chess, an impossibly slow hobby, but meant that he could work out the perfect move with no time pressure. To help with this, he mapped all the positions of the pieces in a notebook. He had a large, square rubber stamp that made the impression of the chess board in bright red ink, and filled the details in by hand. He always left the board set up over night as well. One morning, he asked who had moved the pieces, he knew for sure they weren't as he had left them, but no one had. My mother used to complain that someone was rattling the empty wine bottles outside the dark room, but again, no one was there. There were many minor strange things like this that went on.

After my father died, my mother had to live in this huge house alone for several months before it was sold. She hated it, having never spent a night alone there before. No one wanted to be alone in that house.

The problem was, you never felt like you were actually alone.

Hilly the Chilly Guru and Mine's a Pinter

It's very reassuring to have The Skip back again, I enjoyed the journey to work this morning, listening to my favourite (ancient) compilation tape. I know all the words off by heart and can sing along as loud as I like, and even felt happy when there was a traffic jam as I had more time to join in with Rod Stewart and Long John Baldry. When I say my tapes are old, I mean old.

There was a pause there while I went to chisel bits off the frozen Hilly Con Carne I'm warming up for dinner (best one ever according to younger son - this is quite something, because he's been eating one a week for the whole of his life - so high praise indeed).

Where was I?

Oh yes, ancient music.

(He used to pick out the kidney beans though).

I wish I hadn't put the Beatles on, 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' doesn't work next to the brilliant music and lyrics of the Stones' 'Sympathy for the Devil'.

(You can make the Hillys hotter and hotter over the years, so you sons are ready for the Vindaloo and Lager stage of life - I don't think the child rearing gurus mention that one).

When I recorded my compilation tapes, I didn't really think about how long I would be listening to them for, so ten years later that rogue track must have niggled for several hours in all. As does the dodgy first few bars where I didn't line up (dare I say it) the vinyl on the turntable properly.

(You know you'e been a success as a parent when you get to the point when you are standing in a pub and your child says, 'Can I get you a drink?')

How do you become a guru anyway? Maybe I should style myself 'Hilly the Chilly Guru'.

Sick Cars and Cappuccino

I get The Skip back from the garage tomorrow, after it has been made better after suffering from a nasty bout of MOTitis. Health care for cars is pricey, £700 to make it legal to drive again. Maybe we should have an NHS for cars. I can see it now, an old fashioned ward with 14 cars lined down each side, each with curtains to pull round to save those embarrassing moments when the 'doctor' wants to look under the bonnet, or examine the exhaust pipe. Mechanics in smart, starchy aprons could rush around with bedpans to collect the oil from leaks, and the tools could come laid out on stainless steel trolleys. The chief mechanic could call to a minion, 'spanner, size 10' (or whatever spanners are measured in) while delving around pulling at bits of gaiter, grommet or gasket with a serious expression, 'this could be expensive nurse'. Weeping owners could have therapy rooms to be told the bad news when the car is ready for (use a hushed tone here) the scrap yard.

No, I can't see it happening. I'll just have to go to the dingy old garage tomorrow and cough up (so to speak). At least I won't have to travel by public transport again for a while, although I'll miss being able to warm my hands on a large cappuccino while waiting for the bus.

The Family Holiday

Trips to Devon for holidays were always quite daunting. It took two days to get there (must have been pre-motorway era). We had a Ford Corsair, but as there were five in our family and I was the youngest, I had to sit on the lumpy bit in the middle of the back seat. There wasn't anywhere for my feet, which had to dangle down each side of the drive shaft lump. Between the two front seats was a handy storage box with hinged lid, which my father called, 'The Sweety Mine'. In it was a plethora of boiled sweets. To keep us quiet, we were given a constant stream of these. Unfortunately, my mother's driving was rather erratic, and when she did an emergency stop (which seemed to happen more often than one would expect) I nearly always swallowed the sweet whole. It lodged in my throat, causing me to choke and I generally thought I was going to die. My father would offer soothing comments, like 'it will be fine in ten minutes', which it was, apart from the bruised feeling it left. My father was a chain smoker, and refused to open any windows in the car, so the whole experience was not improved by spending hours in a thick fog of tobacco smoke. Maybe that's why my mother did so many emergency stops, she couldn't see properly. Added to this, he always wanted to find something better to listen to on the radio, and constantly twiddled the tuning knob, so the car was full of crackling, white noise.

When we arrived with Grandad in Devon, we slept in a strange room with no furniture, and a make shift washing line across it, from which hung several pairs of very holey socks. I was fascinated by these, and the lighthouse we could see blinking in the distance.

The Curious Incident of the Machete

There were several psychiatric hospitals around Epsom in the 1970s, and my father visited 'half way houses', where patients were able to gradually rehabilitate back into the community. One chap in such a place was really interested in machetes, and my father, eager to please, made a life sized one out of cardboard and tin foil. He roared with laughter when, the following week, the 'Epsom and Ewell Herald' carried an article about police marksmen being called to a house where an ex-psychiatric patient was causing mayhem by weilding a machete in a threatening manner.

My parents also employed a patient to come and do our gardening. He was called George, but spent his hour digging in the same place, so my mother had to go out every ten minutes or so to move him on. He also couldn't tell the difference between bedding plants and weeds, which meant the garden wasn't necessarily improved by his attention. Once he brought his girlfriend along, and this caused some chaos as she proceeded to remove all her clothes and dance across the lawn. I remember being forbidden to look out of the window while the drama unfolded, but was told afterwards that it wasn't a pretty sight, the girlfriend being of enormous proportions and her dance moves consisting mainly of impersonating a windmill with her arms while leaping energetically sideways across the garden. George just carried on digging with his trowel, seemingly oblivious to the display behind him.

Spend! Spend!

I've just plugged in a new keyboard, and have been out and bought a 'clearance' desk light, so I can now see and type properly, which is bound to enhance my efforts. Mind you, I don't want to see the inside of a shop again for ages, I'm all shopped out.

I remember this feeling in my youth. Father used to take us on 'Spend! Spend!'s where we would have to spend as much as possible in a fairly short time. This was difficult, as there were five of us jostling for use of his one credit card, and he couldn't walk very far due to a motorbike accident that had damaged his leg. Invariably the time ran out, and the only person to have managed to make a purchase was him. He used to get very annoyed with shop assistants if they couldn't find what he wanted, 'I'm trying to spend money here, and you're making it difficult for me', he would exclaim as we all hid, red faced, round the nearest shelves and pretended we weren't with him. We all knew the line that followed, 'Get me the man who can sack you.' Being about 12 or 13 I just wanted to die rather than stand and be associated with this exchange. He would compound the embarrassment by walking up to us and giving us a 'head pat', which a) made it difficult to pretend you didn't know him, and b) ruined any street cred - if any was left at this point. He also had a tendency to sing Bach cantatas at the top of his voice as we walked around. I've never really enjoyed shopping since, although like being able to blend into the crowd when I do go.

Flinging Fronds

Lovely New Year's Eve in Kent. The train ride was fun, and the dirty windows created a sepia look to the views. Even housing estates on the outskirts of Rochester took on a romantic appeal - although that could have been due to the alcohol still running through my veins.

All the decorations are down now, the vaccuum cleaner kindly agreed to work without complaint and there is a satisfying smell of Pledge dusting gunge in the air. The bath plughole has been enthusiastically plunged and once again the water creates a satisfying whirlpool as it disappears into the bowels of the earth. Having thumped the dishwasher heartily it spluttered back to life and is struggling to put that sparkle back into my dinner service (if its not pretentious to call crockery from Asda 'a dinner service'). I am trying to contain my excitement about the prospect of needing my sun glasses to protect my eyes from those laser beam glints you see on TV ads for 'Finish'. Beef is roasting in the oven, so its time to fling some fronds of the Christmas tree on the fire and have a well earned slump on the settee.