Careering Around

I've found a part of the BBC website that teaches you languages.  Having time on my hands I have started to learn Spanish.  This is in case I find myself up the Amazon later in the year.  At the moment I could only cope with emergencies that require the urgent ordering of coffee with milk and a slice of toast.  I hope that by lesson ten I might be able to articulate, 'Help, there is a crocodile and it looks hungry!'.

The adventure is a possibility because, in the depths of the work intranet, I found a page excitingly entitled, 'Career Breaks'.  I blew the cobwebs off and realised it was possible to have the gap year I never had.  I started dreaming of, well, of somewhere I haven't been and was therefore rather tricky to dream about. The worrying bit was, that while the title of the webpage suggests there is a career to be continued on return from circumnavigating the world on a raft or whatever, in reality this isn't the case.  I have to effectively resign and hope something suitable will come up when I get back.

'Live life adventurously' has been rattling around in my head, and having seen other, inspirational people leading alternative lifestyles, decided it was now or never.

After hours of searching around on the internet, interviews, phone calls, letters and e-mails, I now have three months booked being a volunteer in California, three months volunteering in Scotland, and the possibility of three months working for a charity in Malawi as well as the possibility of going up the Amazon on a boat taking medical advice to remote communities.  It all seems a far cry from my safe, suburban life where everything is quite cosy and comfortably predictable.  I realised comfortably predictable isn't the life I want to lead yet.  Maybe in ten years time that will be fine, but not now.

The travelling and meeting new people and having adventures isn't the scary part.  The scary part will be packing up my house to rent out, and being effectively of no fixed abode for a year.  

I will have to get rid of as many material possessions as possible.  Having moved house twice in the last twelve months, I have already rid myself of truck loads of stuff.  I will soon have to go through everything again to ascertain whether I need or like it enough to a) pay for it to be stored, or b) clamber up into the attic with it.  It will be very interesting to see what survives the cull.  

 

 

Iron Woman

I have been busy today, helping to forge brass, feeding pigs and spinning wool.  I have been, in short, Iron Age Woman.

It is a very pleasant way to spend a late summer day, sitting outside a round house chatting, tasting Iron Age food (delicious vegetable soup with yoghurt), teasing wool into yarn and then operating the bellows in a forge.  In between all this, I tried out sling shots - a leather pocket on a long thong (not something in a glass).  I am not so good with the shot as I am with an atl atl, but maybe that was just beginner's luck.

The forge was amazing.  A basic timber building with an earth floor and a hole in the ground for the furnace which was edged with a few loose bricks around the top.  Two large foot operated bellows charged the flames with oxygen as the crucible was lowered, on long tongs, into the pit.  Sparks belched several feet into the air with each compression of the bellows, and wild flames escaped sideways between gaps in the bricks.  Things became more frantic as the copper started to boil and equipment was assembled to pour the molten metal into the moulds.  It suddenly became a bit too exciting when the glowing crucible fell out of its support and red hot globules scattered over the floor.

More relaxing was sampling the unleavened bread with tasty chutney, and the soup was wonderful.  Some people were busy in the same round house painting wood with paint made from elderberries and other fruit. Others were dying wool in beautiful, natural colours and could be seen unwinding long skeins between round houses at various intervals throughout the day.

The clothes are very comfy and warm too, woollen tunic dresses and blanket shawls.  It all seemed rather a wonderful way to live, gentle and sociable, but of course we were sampling it in warm weather, with no fear of failed crops or diseased animals.

The ones who managed that really were the Iron Women.

Oooh! Get me!

Another lovely day on the river yesterday.  I won my third trophy - my second for punting.  This might indicate a talent for punting.  Sadly, I have to correct this foolish notion.  I still can't steer without grinding to a halt, and it generally comes down to luck who wins, ultimately whoever doesn't get caught up in the foliage.  Getting caught up is more of a problem on the bank side of the course.  The lane nearest the centre of the river is safer from the point of view of avoiding hedges and overhanging trees, but can leave you gently spiralling out of control, and out of depth for your pole.  This can be embarrassing.

I haven't really decided  which is worse, trying to reverse out of a shrub without falling in, or trying to look like you know what you are doing as you find your punt perpendicular to the bank and the top of your pole disappearing below the surface.

I shall give this weighty matter further consideration and let you know when I have finished ruminating.

I also took part in a skiff race.  It was a 600m course - not too bad I hear you think.  Sadly, to get to the start line, I had to row against the flow, weaving in and out of pleasure boats.  By the time I was at the start, I was exhausted.  Then I had to row back with great enthusiasm.  I was about two thirds of my way down the course, when I heard the finish bell ring for my competitor, which is fairly depressing, and those final strokes felt a bit dismal.

At the end of the race the pain is not yet over as you have to 'park'.  It is quite off putting manoeuvring a skiff while being scrutinised from the clubhouse by happy, alcohol imbibed visitors.  As I tried to look adept at easing my skiff into a small gap on the bank, I decided it would be easier to simply turn my blades round and row facing forwards.

A more experienced rower tried to help by indicating that I should row facing backwards while mooring, as is customary.  That would have required a rather complicated 360 spin by that point, so I pretended not to have heard.

I have now realised that you row facing away from the direction of travel so you don't get downhearted as your competitor puts more and more water between you.  It suddenly seems so sensible!

I'm off to polish my trophies now.  Carefully placed on my front windowsill so the neighbours can see them and who might be fooled into thinking I am an adept sportswoman.

Messing about on the River

Oh, I'm having a lovely summer messing about in boats.  I used to walk along river banks feeling jealous of people in boats, thinking you either had to be massively rich or sporty to take part. Since discovering the Skiff Club, I have realised that just about anyone can take part.  The good news is you don't have to wear lycra either.  The only mandatory article of clothing for regattas is a rather Victorian looking hooped (stripy to you and me) top.  That's obviously not the only article of clothing you would wear for a regatta, but you can wear any shorts or trousery things.

So, having gone from being the least sporty person in the universe, I am now winning (yes, winning) races in both punting and skiffing.  This is mainly due to the clever points system, which means that beginners only race other beginners, so there is a vague chance of winning a race once in a while.  

There is really nothing more fun than being on the river in the summer.  I am sometimes in punts, with fish jumping ahead and eels wriggling beneath, or in skiffs.  What is particularly nice is that as you potter along, people on the bank start chatting (luckily I am slow enough in both modes of travel to enable lengthy conversations that the likes of Sir Steve or Cath Copeland would generally miss out on).  I also tend to keep going up and down the same 100m stretch of river, so you can pass the same people and continue the thread.

One worry is that the punting takes place opposite a pub, where locals sit out on the river terrace to enjoy the view.  As I wobble across the Thames on my punt, I am acutely aware that the additional sport for these drinkers is the possibility of watching one of us fall in.  It is a very effective incentive to stay upright and also not to leave your pole behind.  It was very interesting in a regatta yesterday to see that the punt poles, left in the water by hurrying crews fighting for first place, looked all akimbo.  Rather like sewing needles that had fallen and become caught in fabric at an odd angle.  Someone in a motor boat has to go along after the race and pull them all out.  Crews carry spares in the punt for this eventuality.

My race was fun, my competitor couldn't steer too well either, and nudged me ever closer to the bank.  As if in slow motion, an overhanging bush came towards me and I had a flash vision of being hung over a branch like washing on a line. Luckily I ground to a halt, mid-root.  After a bit of punt position juggling, we lined up and set off again, and rather surprisingly I won.  Winning has the effect of making you believe you are close to joining the ranks of elite athletes, and making your enthusiasm for your sport start to take over your life.  This is how I find myself spending more and more time getting acquainted with the Thames. This morning I rowed nine miles.   If I did nine miles on a rowing machine I would be bored out of my mind, but being on the river was wonderful.  You have to keep alert and weave in and out of the path of other river craft.  In a single skiff, you are also much more aware of the water, and what it is doing around and under you.  You have to take constant references to your direction.  It all adds many more dimensions to the sterile experience in the gym.

Messing about in boats.  Why wouldn't you?

Epiphany Envy

So I went on my annual trek to my favourite Hebridean Isle, where every year I have an epiphany.  I've got to the point where I almost stand waiting for it to happen as soon as I get off the ferry.  Calmac could add it to the ticket package and charge more.

This year I felt quite grumpy, because everyone else I was with had one. One person even had two.

Two!

I didn't have one at all.  That just wasn't fair!

When the first person had an epiphany in a certain place on the island, I resisted the temptation to hurry along, sit and wait for it to happen.  It was agreed that this was cheating, and that you can't piggy back on someone else's epiphany - however much you might want to.

So it was my first epiphanyless week there.  Maybe was the weight of expectation that fanned it away.  Had it hovered over me and I missed it?  Are we all walking around missing the most important moments of personal revelation because we aren't looking, or conversely, looking too hard?

What is the ideal frame of mind to catch the wafting, ephemeral moment I wonder?

Oh well.  I'm getting all metaphysical again.  It's a habit I keep slipping into lately.  Like finishing off all the biscuits, only more interesting.  Anyway, I hadn't really thought of epiphanies being like buses.  You either have none, or two coming along at once.

Back to the holiday. I just had to make do with the experience I had one day on a sailing boat trip to the Trennish Isles.  A school of dolphins played about the bows of the boat, leaping and twisting at the sheer delight of being in the water.  They were exuberant and joyful, and were so close you were almost soaked when they exhaled through their blow holes.  They drifted away after about half an hour, but then we saw a basking shark, its fin slicing the water.  All the while, puffins landed on the sparkling water around the boat.

Sigh.

Inspiring my Generation

Everyone keeps talking about how we are going to be so inspired by these Olympics we will all be fitter but I think we are all getting considerably lazier.  All this lying on the settee with a glass of wine and bag of crisps marvelling at the achievements of the athletes.  The only exercise most of us get these days is reaching for the tissues when our eyes involuntarily start watering to the national anthem and the sight of an athlete kissing a gold medal.

What I would also like to know is how someone like me who hates flags and national things, has been reduced to crying at the sight of the Union Jack?  AND  how is it that the national anthem is the only moment I feel like doing a bit of exercise, and carefully have to resist the urge to stand to attention, saluting the TV.

What about those horsey types too!  What are they made of?

Mostly platinum by all accounts.

Break your back, neck, rupture your spleen, pin it all back together, get back on a horse and win a gold medal.

They are so brave, jumping over terrifyingly high fences, designed to lull you into a false sense of security by looking like Toy Town.  I tried riding - once there were some logs lying on the ground.

I was scared as my horse trotted over them.

The gymnasts!  Spinning, whirling, bouncing, looking for all the world like they are made of rubber, as well as being superhumanly strong and bendy, and brave.

Really brave.

Then you have those cyclists, looking like aliens from another world.  Strangely half cartoon, half insect as they pick out an orbit in the velodrome.

I am in awe.

Traffic Jam

I spent some time motionless in my car today.  Pick a multiple, any multiple, and that's how much longer it felt it took to travel that particular two miles than it should have done.

As is the way with these things, the sun decided to come out for the first time in forever.  I was baking, motionless and with no alternative to hand, other than to relinquish my car to the verge and walk.  I didn't want to do this, having just paid a substantial part of my wages on a service.

So I decided to sit and think in a meditative mood, and try to imagine I was lying on a sunbed, under a thatched shade, on a Spanish beach.  It worked.  I started having relaxing, random thoughts.

One was about the why queues of motionless cars should be called 'traffic jam'.  This sounds like it should be something fun, tasty even.  Maybe the 'conserve' aspect of the title refers to the opportunity we are afforded to conserve our energy.  Hopefully no one feels 'fruity' while sitting, frustrated in their driving seats......

'Traffic marmalade' has a sunnier feel to it, with reassuring Paddington Bear connotations.  Everyone could get out of their cars and share a sandwich, 'elevensies' style. 


I don't think relating such situations to condiments would work.  Mustard should be English, French or wholegrain, not 'traffic mustard'.


Pickle, now that would be good, as in, 'we've all got ourselves in a pickle on this section of the M25'.  Traffic reports would be loads more fun to listen to, with 'serious pickles', 'chunky pickles' (where there are lorries involved), 'piccalilli' (if double yellow lines and those annoying yellow criss cross boxes were being ignored).


Eventually I reached the conclusion that 'traffic glue' was the most suitable term.

How to get to sleep

I heard that this was the most searched for phrase online, so thought I would put it to the test and welcome all insomniacs to my blog.  

So, hello to you all.  I expect some might be reading this in the middle of the night, in your nightie or jim jams, maybe with a soothing hot drink, listening to owls hooting outside.  You will need soothing, because not being able to sleep is horrid, so you have my sympathy.

I have some nuggets of advice, which you can either take, or disregard and go back to staring at the ceiling in the dark, with occasional panic stricken looks at the alarm clock.


Firstly it doesn't actually matter if you can't get to sleep.  You will still function tomorrow.  You know this is true because there have been lots of other nights you haven't slept, and you are still you.

Secondly, you might actually be asleep some of the time you think you are awake.  I know it is maddening when people say this, but it is true.  I used to think I was staring at the patterns on the wallpaper, joining up bouquets of flowers into geometric designs, and yet would be snoring away.

How seriously disappointing is that?  My dreams are just like being awake. I still feel depressed when I think about it.  (I once had a dream about blocked toilets, that wasn't so good either).  I know people who have flying dreams.  Unfair, but life is like that sometimes.  Maybe I should also stop buying wallpaper that you can line things up on.  I do it with the bathroom tiles too - lie in the water and make zigzags that bounce off the corners of the room.  I'd better stop this, I'm sounding like a seriously sad person.....where was I? Oh yes.....


Thirdly, remember you are not alone, although it certainly feels like it in the depths of darkness.  There are thousands of people not sleeping at that moment as well.  People being kept awake by screaming babies, pain, noisy neighbours, snoring partners - lots of things.  There are also lots of people awake because it is daytime where they are, so think of them shopping in hot, sunny, exotic markets, buying strangely shaped fruit and vegetables (this is one thing I have particularly noticed on my travels, real fruit and veg comes in knobbly shapes, not uniform and vacuum wrapped).  Having radio 4 on very quietly helps, especially if there is a programme about politics or economics.  Keep the radio close by so it takes the minimum of movement to turn it off when you can't take comments on the Eurozone any more.  Have it about where your hand lands when you drop your arm over the side of the bed.  Don't worry about disturbing your partner, the Eurozone is so dull, it will help them sleep too.

You could always give up even trying to sleep and use the time productively, being artistic and expressive (quietly so as not to annoy everyone else in the household).  It takes a certain amount of courage to actively give up even trying to sleep, to turn the light on and do something else, because you will be panicking about counting hours of slumber.  I daringly suggest that it won't hurt to try - that if one pattern of behaviour isn't working, trying something different might be sensible.

Another really silly thing is about closing your eyes.  I know that sounds just the stupidest thing ever, but when you get anxious, I bet you are lying there with your eyes wide open.  So, let them droop closed and think about somewhere lovely you once visited, and walk around that place.  I have a walk I go on, on a Hebridean island.  I think about each step and the view, the breeze, the sea, the shapes the clouds make. Even if it doesn't send me to sleep, it makes me feel nice.

Try to lower your expectations.  Stop expecting to sleep, and aim to just relax instead.

So, to summarise; remember you are not alone even though it feels like it; it really doesn't matter if you are awake all night - that your panic about lack of sleep is almost certainly worse than the reality; and once in bed, make sure those eyes are closed.  

A Pilgrimage

I went on a pilgrimage at the weekend.

It wasn't a stone circle to dance naked.

It wasn't a shrine with half man, half beast sculptures.

It was better than all that.

It was to..............................

............................Eeyore's gloomy place!

It wasn't sad and boggy.

It was sunny and breezy and rather lovely.

I was keen to go to the Pooh Sticks Bridge as well, but was advised against it by a friend.  Apparently this is now a modern, square cement structure, and a visit could potentially make me....

very gloomy.

An Ode (don't worry, it's not anything to do with electricity)


I've been to a gloomy place
that wasn't sad and boggy
I didn't take my orb or mace
and it wasn't even foggy

I've been to a gloomy place
that had trees and ferns and stream
I wasn't wearing leather or lace
But did stop later for an ice cream

I've been to a gloomy place
A place where morris men dance
Fields and tracks and moss on gates
And lots of green plants

I've been to a gloomy place
and now I'm running out of rhyme
so I will stop and go and face
the music for this crime!

Sunny Spain!

I've just spent a week in sunny Spain - and very wonderful it was too.  I can't remember when I have spent so much time relaxing.

While relaxing, I found it was easy to invent things that might one day make me very rich......

Firstly, there is the large, rotating platform you desperately need at the bottom of those thatched sunshades on the beach.  It would have to have a wide enough diameter to take two sunbeds, and have a winding handle on the supporting pole.  You could have a little crank every so often to make sure you are optimising the sun or shade, as appropriate, without the bother of having to attain a vertical attitude which obviously should be reserved only for another icecream or cocktail.

After a while of staring at the underside of the thatch, I found myself thinking about how I needed to paint my ceiling, and how this would be annoying as the drips would land on my furniture.  So I invented the inverted paint brush umbrella.  A mini upside down umbrella attached to the handle of the brush, so that any drips are caught in the fabric as you paint your ceiling.  No more worrying about whether your suite is going to look like it came off the set of '101 Dalmations'.

Having spent a disappointingly long time in a queue at the airport on the way home, I found myself wondering why EasyJet don't produce their own in flight bag, to the exact dimensions of their testing cage arrangements (I was a bit anxious that my holiday shopping had been rather ambitious for hand luggage).

After a lot longer in the hot queue to get on the plane, I decided the bag could come with a pocket, ready filled with stamped, addressed cards to the Chief Executive of EasyJet, and a pen tied to the zip fastener, so you can easily write your complaints and have them ready to post on return to your home country.

After even longer in the queue, I thought the bag could have an inflatable armchair attached, then maybe even a bed, with a pull out blanket on an inertia roll like seatbelts in cars.

When the queue eventually started to move, painfully slowly, I invented the travelator extension, that moved every passenger to their seat, ejected them into the sitting position, while a metallic arm punches out from the ground and bounces the above mentioned bag into the overhead locker.  This would be a fully automated system, so that everyone would be seated in the minimum time, and offer no opportunity to dither over 'aisle or window', 'over the wing or at the front' etc etc yawn yawn can't you get a move on some of us are hot and bothered here.

Getting off was just as tedious, it was hard to understand why the mobile corridor operative had only just realised we had taxied into a parking space half an hour after arrival, when air traffic control must have known we were coming for the past three hours.

I haven't invented a cure for that one yet, but I am working on it.

Blind drunk.....

Came home from work yesterday, smell of stale alcohol, and yes, shards of green glass all over the kitchen and sparkling wine dripping from every surface.

Twice?

What is going on?

I've put the other bottles in the fridge, it's not worth getting blinded by Prosecco.

Fizz - Bang

 I woke up in the middle of the night last night, to the sound of a small explosion.

I did what any sensible person would do in that situation.

Rolled over and went back to sleep.

This morning, when I went into the kitchen, bleary eyed and aiming for the kettle, I noticed water on the kitchen  surfaces.  Looking up, I saw water drips on the ceiling.  Remembering the explosion, I started to wonder whether my water tank on the floor above had burst.

After a bit of modest detective work (it was a bit early for that sort of thing really, but I did my best), I discovered that a bottle of bubbly, left over from the house warming party that had been stored on top of the wall unit, had burst.  It was actually champagne dripping off the ceiling.  

This is the second alcoholic explosion I have suffered in recent months.  The other one was a very alarming bang, when the small can of tonic I had left in the deep freeze to chill, then forgot about, burst. In so doing, it blasted open the freezer and flew across the floor.  My friend and I thought someone had broken in, and had to hold hands to summon up the courage to investigate.

Quite nice to know you can still do that as an adult, hold hands for moral support.

The Ice-cream man comes again

After a particularly long day at work, I was nearly home and saw the aforementioned ice-cream van driving down my road, blaring 'Oh, oh Antonio' again.

There was something reassuring about the worn, gaudy pink livery, until I read it.

'One lick and you'll come again'.

I'm going to laugh every time I hear those chimes now.

Manna on Wheels

Ah.....  Here I am at last.  Sitting in my (new) back garden, in the early evening sunshine.

I was listening to the birds singing earlier, when their call was rudely interrupted by an ice-cream van blaring out, 'Oh, oh Antonio, he sells ice-cream' on ultra-amplified chimes.  It reminded me of a very elderly lady I nursed a few decades ago (am I really old enough to say that sort of thing?  Help).  She was very frail and lay in her hospital bed staring at the ceiling, all the while singing, 'Oh, oh Antonio'.  During one particularly dull shift she taught me all the words.

Anyway, I felt a bit annoyed with the van, and was relieved when it went away.  After a few more minutes, I could here the dulcet tones of 'Antonio' a few streets away to the right, then after a little longer, more muted and further round to the left.

I remembered where I grew up was on a main road, so we never had the benefit of an ice-cream van, and I was jealous of my friends who lived in side-streets where this vehicle of dreams would appear randomly,  dispensing treats.

As I fell into a slightly depressed moment of nostalgia, I noticed some ants worrying around the patio.  They zig-zagged around, looking for something more interesting than the next bit of paving stone.

To one side of the garden, a bee landed on a flower a little too weak to support it, and the stem sagged, forming a rather pleasing parabola (the maths degree evidently wasn't a complete waste of time). The bee bungied along with it, and hung on in there.

I realised we were all looking for manna.

At last!

It happened.

 It really happened.

I had a list of jobs to do, but realised NONE OF THEM WERE URGENT, and LAY ON THE SETTEE STARING AT THE CEILING to enjoy the moment. 

Burning Money

I've moved and I'm in!  Hooray!

I'm having stuff done, like you do when you move. 

Today I had to go to the bank to get a large dollop of cash to pay for it.  Having queued for ages at two different desks, I finally got to the teller (regular readers will remember that I am not keen on queuing in banks).  He had processed my account, and was just reaching for the notes, when the fire alarm went off.  We exchanged a look.  Mine was of acute panic,  his was of supreme empathy.  He tried, he really did.  His hands were on the notes, but a manager was ushering me out of the doors.  I looked round, arms straining for the desk, akin to a male passenger on the Titanic reaching out for a lifeboat.  I was unceremoniously left on the pavement as they locked the doors. 

Not knowing how long the fire was going to burn (although there was an absence of both smoke and fire engines),  I went to another bank to do other stuff I needed to do, then to another one for yet more stuff (I have power of attorney for an aging relative - I do not have money in this many banks).  At the third bank, they asked for identification.  I reached into my handbag for my passport.

It wasn't there.

It had been there earlier.

Now it wasn't.

'Is this really how my day is panning out?', I thought in despair.

Eventually I remembered the man in Barclays had probably left it on the photocopier, so I hurried back.  It was there, thank goodness.  I was also now back in the right place to regain entry to the bank that had my money on the counter.  The same teller was there, as I queued up again.  We exchanged another look, of smiling relief.

So apart from all that, rain running through into my newly decorated living room, the small matter of a live wire in the upstairs ceiling (how much had I paid for that electrical survey?), and British Gas making it as difficult as possible (unbelievably difficult actually) to register with a new meter reading, life is pretty good.

In fact, I have had a sudden, unexpected attack of happiness.  Probably due to getting my sound system up and running with an ancient party compilation CD.  Time for a dance around, swirling my arms in the air.

Lucky no one can see me.

On Being Stubborn

I've been showing the 'sinister' weed letter around at work today.  I think I got off lightly.  One person knew someone who had had abuse graffitied over the whole of the front of their house.

When I got home, the contrary and stubborn parts of me (these friends make an appearance every so often) went to the garden shed, got out the fork and started WEEDING THE BACK GARDEN!

Take that you 'RESIDENTS'!

On Being Weedy

Yesterday evening, getting home from an eleven hour day, I picked up the letter lying on the doormat. It was addressed to, 'The Occupier', with my address, and had a franked stamp, having been sent through the post. Nothing unusual there, although somehow my antennae were wiggling. The lettering looked a bit angry. On opening, a sheet of A4 paper that had been roughly cut across the top came out, with' the following: 'Dear Neighbour' then, 'PLEASE COULD YOU DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE UNSIGHTLY WEEDS AT THE FRONT OF YOUR PROPERTY. Many thanks from the Residents.' I was aware that I am temporarily living in a road where parking in one of the (public use) bays outside anyone else's house is considered a crime deserving of public execution, and you get asked to 'move on' by rather sad, bored people, who all have garages anyway. I hadn't realised there was also a type of 'Weed Watch' going on as well. It was of some concern that the 'residents' must have walked past my house to get to the postbox, presumably too scared to walk up my front path in case they were identified, although they might have been alarmed that the triffids would turn on them. What is particularly galling about this is that, apart from the fact it is essentially an anonymous letter, in the last few months the front of the house has been considerably improved. I have had a huge ivy plant removed, sagging soffit boards replaced and have done a spot of painting. I've also planted pots with the exciting promise of 'growing my own bouquet'. In fact, I had admired the green shoots on my way in last night. I hadn't noticed the weeds at all. These weeds, I should point out, grow in a very small border, along the pavement side, and aren't really very tall either. I was a) perplexed that anyone should be disturbed by their presence and b) that they send a slightly intimidating anonymous letter about them. Being a bit stubborn, it made me absolutely determined not to pull them out. In fact I am going to get a sign made, to stick in the border next to them saying something along the lines of, 'I am weedy, and proud'. Fortunately I move out on Friday, not a day too soon.

Fitting for a Glove

I have been exploring the concept of gardening lately. This involves pulling up a lot of nettles. I was bold about this, wearing what looked like a robust pair of gardening gloves, in reassuring, sensible grey. I was somewhat annoyed to be stung quite aggressively by a nettle, and my fingers were throbbing inside the so called protective outer wear. The stings hurt like I had forgotten they could (been about thirty years since the last sting), then my fingers swelled up and went all itchy.

I was reminded of my oven gloves, hand crafted by an ancient relation who died about twenty years ago. The gloves were, and still are, too thin. Every time I get something out of the oven, I risk taking a layer of skin off my hands. Twenty years of this seems a bit daft. I have finally decided to treat myself to new oven gloves, packed full of some new lining that could fend off the sort of heat Red Adaire faces daily. I will also buy some gardening gloves that could roar with laughter at those cactii you see in the distance in Road Runner cartoons. The ones that keep repeating when he runs anywhere...... that was so disappointing in cartoons. I felt cheated.

Just like I feel cheated by my oven and gardening gloves.

Dangling by my dongle

I've got a brand spanking new laptop.

If only I had a broadband connection to go with it.....

I've been wrestling with a dongle.

Life was better before I discovered this device.

I don't claim to be clever with computers - oh no. But when I paid £10 of my hard earned cash, I had misread the advertising blurb that appeared to promise that my £10would give me internet access for a month.

'Bit pricey' I thought, but worth it to be able to fully connect to the world and so I made my first premium rate phone call on my mobile.

How naive am I?

I watched a TV programme about Sandhurst (fascinating why anyone would want to be shouted at and treated like dirt for nine months and then risk having their limbs blown off, and incredible to hear a General bemoaning the problems caused by trainees when their conscience about possibly having to kill people got in the way).

When I got up the next morning and tried to connect, my dongle wasn't playing. Another expensive premium rate phone call later, I was made to feel very dim indeed when it was explained I had bought a giga something, and that I had to use it up within a month.

I protested it had only lasted a day, and it was again explained that I had paid
for this giga thing, not a month's usage, but the employees's English wasn't great and my hearing isn't great, so it took a while to get to that point. A while on a premium rate phone call from a mobile remember (no landline either, life has been a bit frustrating lately).

It was quite a good TV programme, but not £10's worth. I grudgingly had to pay another £15 to be connected again, and this time will make sure to only use it for e-mail and blogging.

The strange thing is, that having got the computer going, it thinks we are in Austin, Texas, that it is six hours ago, and that we are basking in a balmy 76 degrees, rather than wet, cold April in England.

The dongle thing is way too complicated, but if I am indeed in 76 degrees in America that would be worth £10.