Smarties

I'm feeling guilty because I haven't swum a mile for a week, and the sponsored swim is coming up sooner than I had realised. Trouble is the chlorine is turning my hair into straw. I thought I'd do lots of walking instead and have been stomping a three mile circuit round the park regularly. There were some deer having a meeting by a stream today, and a heron chasing a crow. I haven't seen any bunnies for a while, which is a shame as I do like seeing them lolloping along.

Talking of bunnies, the Easter bunny came to Tesco's with me yesterday and threw three Smartie eggs into the trolley (I tried to fight him off but he wasn't having any of it). I automatically buy three eggs anyway, having three children and over twenty years of conditioning. Today, I was feeling a bit peckish and realised that one child is away until June and therefore will probably not notice not having an egg at Easter. I did enjoy eating it (apart from the modicum of guilt I was feeling at stealing from my child). There is something particularly satisfying about a Smartie. When I was a child, I used to sort all the colours into a type of Smartie bar graph (this was obviously when the poltegeists didn't want to play). It was always disappointing when the brown ones made the tallest column, which was often as in those days there were two shades of brown (interesting statistical angle to add to the fun). Another sad thing about Smarties is that you used to get the carboard tube and plastic lid combo with a letter on the back of the lid. Now you have those cardboard hexagonal tubes with a meagre opening that isn't quite big enough to get a good scoop of Smarties out in one go. You can't assuage that sad feeling of having run out of Smarties by trying to spell your name without half the letters you need. No wonder numeracy and literacy standards are going downhill in this country. Forget SATS, Smartie bar graphs and letter lids would sort it all out. Maybe that's why they're called Smarties!

'Did anyone remember to deliver Fibonacci's Easter egg?'

This is Going to Hurt Your Purse Just a Little Bit

I thought the dentist had been a bit slow sending out my 17 month check up reminder letter, so I made an appointment and went along this morning. I was a bit surprised to find that it was not 18 or 20 months since my last visit, but 5 years. How did that happen? Another shock was that the cost seemed to have escalated rather dramatically. £50 for the check up and another £50 tomorrow with the hygienist - and I hate going to the hygienist. She never seems happy until she has started a haemorrhage from between each pair of teeth with her gouging and scouring. Just as you start to gag on your own blood she tries to make polite chit chat. When you try to agree that the weather is indeed looking up, trickles of blood escape from the corners of your mouth, making you look like you've wandered off the set of a Dracula movie. For reasons I won't go into now, I do have a dracula cape in the wardrobe upstairs. Maybe I should get it out and wear it tomorrow.


'I say, fifty pounds seems a bit steep, but at least I have my lovely smile back!'

Anyone for Braised Fennell?

I went to the dump this morning, but arrived a bit too early. I sat in the car and read the Sunday Times and drank a cappuccino with lumps in it from a machine in the newsagents. Yes, lumps. Not sure how cappuccino can get lumps in it, but there we are.

So, as I inhaled fumes from the lorry waiting in front, and wondered what the ominous liquid was dripping down by its numberplate, I flicked through pages of glossy nonsense. Why wasn't I the sort of sophisticate that offered braised fennell to my dinner guests? Have my friends all been disappointed that this dish hasn't been offered to them over the years? Why don't I want to enlarge my breasts with stem cell therapy or spend £350 on a handbag? Why do I spend £2 every week on this stuff?

Once the gates to the dump opened and let us all in, I flung my TV over the edge, imagining for a brief but joyful moment that I was the lead singer in a rock band and the TV was flying over a balcony in a Caribbean resort rather than the retaining wall at the Council tip.

I strutted back to the car, dusting my hands off.

Back home for a decent coffee and the serious bits of the paper.

Hurry up, the clock is ticking!

I've just been to a performance of the St John Passion by Bach (well, Bach wasn't performing it, but you know what I mean). It was very stirring and inspirational. How could he have written so much fantastic music and how many people has he brought happiness to over all those centuries. What have I done? How annoying are these talented people as, although they make us feel happy, they also make us feel inadequate. It's a double whammy.

The wine and pizza afterwards helped.

So if you haven't reinvented music or strummed tunes that people will be playing for the next four centuries, quickly think of something you can do to make your presence on the planet worthwhile. Time is running out!


'I just can't be bothered to restructure western music today, I think I'll catch up on Eastenders.'

Blue Sky Thinking II

Read part I first silly!

I've just had a bath and while I was waiting for the conditioner to try to repair some of the damage chlorine has done to my hair, I contemplated what you can do to stave off the boredom of a tedious lecture.

a) You can have a rich inner life and retreat into it while wearing an expression of casual concern, which will be read by the lecturer as 'how can I improve my HR knowledge?'

b) Do your pelvic floor muscle exercises, you know you've been meaning to do them for some time. This will result in an expression of inward concentration, which will make the lecturer pleased.

c) Imagine the lecturer is actually a Matador, wearing snug trousers, broad red cummerbund and a bolero encrusted with bling. The bull is pawing the sand as the Matador cuts a flamboyant swathe with the cloak. Lots of concentration is required to keep this vision alive as the lecturer makes remarks about paragraph b subsection 19(i). The Matador will fling his tricorn hat in the air as he stamps his feet in an arrogant manner:

'take sprocket B squared and apply moderate torque' (yes, you might even find your brain re-lives sections of the Ford Anglia Owner's Manual to avoid the rules of electronic submission of form 9D(iii)).

The crowd get to their feet, roaring their approval, as the tea trolley comes in with one of those seriously disappointing hot water containers that just can't keep the water hot enough to make a decent cup of tea.

Blue Sky Thinking

Today was spent listening to a monochrome man with a monotone drone impart dull information in a dull room on a dull day. It was all a farce as he was very obviously bored delivering the lecture for what must have been the umpteenth time. We were all very obviously struggling to hide our yawns, especially as the room became overly warm.

The best thing about these sessions is that it feels really fantastic to escape at the end. I went on a brisk three mile walk around the park, delighting in the breeze on my face; looking at the sticky buds starting to open, the courting parakeets and the wild and windy sky.

Maybe it's all an elaborate bluff about improving efficiency, and corporate procedures are really there just to make sure we enjoy the rest of our lives better.



'I wish I could spend more time listening to lectures on HR procedures'.

Punching the Air and Shouting 'YAY!'

My bin was smelling a bit yucky, so I invested in some bin liners from Marks and Spencer that were not only scented, but decorated like a bone china teaset. I think the roses are meant to cheer you up when you try to remove your festering garbage from under the kitchen sink, and I admit, they are jollier than the usual funereal black. The scent really doesn't work, the combination of cloying floral hints from the plastic and the dust thrown off the green bits of bread make uneasy companions in my nasal passages. This morning the uplifting effect of the roses was lost fairly quickly by the smell and as I staggered to the front door the gooey lid of the marmalade made an escape onto the living room carpet.

I'm actually being very dynamic today. I always wake up way to early, and someone at work suggested I go in later as a) I've got lots of time owing and b) I must have lots I could do around the house before I go in. (This was said somewhat cheekily as I'm not known for having the cleanest house around).

Well, this morning I woke up at 4.30am, yes, that's 4.30am. I couldn't get back to sleep so read a chapter of a rather depressing book about a teenager dying, made a cup of tea and got back into bed with a Suduko (too easy today). By 5.30am I'm feeling restless and get up. I realised that the open air pool started an early birds swim at 6am, so, (be prepared to be impressed here) I had swum a mile before 7am this morning! It's still only 8.20am and I'm determined not to be at work before 10am. I have vacuumed, done a load of washing, filled up the dishwasher and put out the rubbish (see above). And now I am writing my blog! How much more can I achieve today? It's so exciting! I'm saying all this because I've read a self help book recently, in actual fact I will be prone on the settee by 7.30pm this evening (with a box of chocs in one hand and glass of wine in the other watching something that is unlikely to improve my mind).

So, how's your day going?

Big Bellies and Big Pants

I went on a tribal style belly dancing workshop yesterday. I can now undulate like a python and choo choo with alluring hip movements while I float diagonally across a room. That’s the image I had of myself anyway. The reality was I could feel each vertebrae in my upper back grinding away which gave me an expression not so much of inner serenity, but more of grimacing anxiety. The saucy, undulating movements looked more like I was suffering from stomach cramps and the hip flicks made me appear to walk with a bad limp.

It was my first session and I was pleased to spot that even bearing in mind the above I was still better than the tattooed lady who held her arms out like a policeman directing traffic, who had apparently been going for quite a long time. I enjoyed a smug moment. You need to enjoy these at every opportunity because I suspect that as you get older, they get less frequent.

I thought that belly dancing might be a good way to get fitter and slimmer. This seemed unlikely given that the two instructors sported a) plenty of belly to dance with after decades of doing the ‘Egyptian’ and b) bad backs.

To conceal a moment of gasping exhaustion I checked out the stall of harem clothes. There was a lovely looking ‘ashes of roses’ bra top and skirt. On closer inspection I spotted that the top had been sewn onto an M& S bra that looked like it had been worn for quite a while previously and was hoping to enjoy a new lease of life shimmying. It was a bit off-putting. The harem pants were voluminous and quite sheer. You’d need some Bridget Jones pants to ensure your modesty was left intact after doing the ‘Arabic’.

All in all we decided that the beautifully sunny afternoon might have been better spent with an ice cream on the beach, at least it would ensure we kept our bellies in a state of readiness if we wanted to take up the dancing again.

Sparkling water and Sugar Highs

I'm feeling quite virtuous, having cycled across the park to the pool for a swim and cycled home again. Everything was glowing in the spring sunshine, and the water was sparkling nicely. The swim was lovely, apart from an irritating person who did slow breast-stroke in the fast lane. This was annoying as I couldn't actually swim as slowly as she was going, so had to tread water with breast-stroke arms behind her. When she turned at the end, she saw me swimming very slowly and very badly and assumed she was faster, so didn't let me go ahead. Apart from that it felt quite easy, but I do need some goggles as everything is a bit fuzzy now. I'm also very hungry but resisted the urge to buy some of those seriously yummy Cadbury's mini-eggs on the way home. Once you open a packet it's hard to stop eating them, even though your mouth becomes clogged up with sugaryness. I find a cup of strong tea helps to keep them going down smoothly. You can get quite a lot done in the sugar high afterwards too.


I just can't wait to get to those mini-eggs, and get the vacuuming done

Frog Coasters and the Afterlife

I've just been for a walk in the park, and it was lovely; orange sunset and deer wading through the lake. On the way back, I saw a squashed frog. It's that time of year when they try to cross the road and end up flat and blackened by tyres. They look like they might be useful as mini frisbees or to stop nasty rings appearing on your furniture. The little red tendrils of intestines looping out of their sides might get in the way though. On the road they eventually get so black and so thin you hardly notice they're there. It's just their little trademark bent back legs frozen in that last leap to freedom - which actually took them to the afterlife - that gives them away.

Is there a frog afterlife? Do they spend all eternity in a pond, jumping from lily pad to lily pad (exactly half way to the edge each time)? Is it their final metamorphosis?

'But I was looking forward to being a butterfly'

Fairies, Bears and Ironing Boards

When I was little, I was really jealous of girls who had amazing toys. I remember being particularly envious of one girl who had the shiniest, smartest, loveliest toy ironing board in the world complete with bright red iron. It is hard to imagine being jealous of an ironing board now. If anyone tried to give me such a thing they would be in jeopardy of having it banged on their head. I also wished I had a fairy costume to wear to parties. The dainty girls had fairy costumes complete with wings and magic wand. They were the type that went to ballet classes. I had a hand-me- down bear outfit, which I had to be unceremoniously zipped into, and would then overheat in. I had a verse to recite while wearing it, which I can't remember now, but will probably come back in the middle of the night. I didn't want to be a bear. I wanted gossamer wings in cream and a multi layered net skirt in delicate pink. Not big leather paws.

Maybe this is why I dream of being Darcy Bussell in the bath.



I wish, I wish I wasn't a bear

Swimming with the Big Boys

I'm training for a sponsored 3 mile swim in a month's time, so yesterday I hopped on my bike, cycled to the pool and swam a mile. As it was the first sunny day of spring, it was really busy. I started off in the medium lane, but got rather frustrated by a slowcoach, so had to resort to the fast lane with the big boys, which meant doing front crawl. I don't have any goggles (found out they cost £15 - when did that happen?), so it was a bit of a challenge. I did manage a mile, and cycled home again. Trouble is, I had to spend the rest of the day on the settee recovering. I also popped into Tesco on the way home to buy a chocolate pudding to console myself.

All this getting fit is totally exhausing. I think I'll go back to dancing in the bath.

The Mighty Mojo

My mojo is back. I'm not sure where it went for a while, but I missed it. It's nice to have it back, like welcoming an old friend home. My mojo makes me want to bounce around and be spontaneously annoying to those around me with sudden, unexpected attacks of flippancy. Someone will probably leave a comment explaining that I am suffering from some unpleasant pyschiatric disorder, but it's not, it's my mojo.

It's probably a good thing they go away for a while. If everyone had their mojos going at the same time, life would get quite complicated.

If you do think you've lost your mojo, try to remember when you last saw it. It might still be there.

If you can't remember when you last saw it, it might be time to change your life.

Farming, Frosties and Darcy Bussell

I woke up too early again this morning, but it gave me an opportunity to sit in bed, cup of tea in one hand, Suduko in the other, listening to ‘Farming Today’ on the radio. I’ve now discovered a whole raft of new things to worry about; how more male lambs are born than female, should animals be electronically tagged for market? etc.

After recovering from this dawning of discovery, I consoled myself with a bowl of Frosties and then hopped into the bath. Lying on my back, I was enjoying swishing my head from side to side and feeling my hair follow in slow motion and feeling sorry for people who have always had short hair and have missed this experience. The bath is a bit short, so to get my hair properly wet, I have to stick my legs in the air. I took the opportunity to point my toes and practise a pirouette – if you are interested in taking up ballet, but missed the chance earlier in life, this is a good way to start. As I ‘landed’ the roaring approval of the crowd dimmed in my head as I realised my left toe was pointing at a patch of ceiling I had missed in my previous decorating exploits. I felt a bit better as I waited for the iron to warm up and had another short spasm of being Darcy Bussell in the kitchen.

On the way in to work, I was listening to an inherited ‘Favourites’ tape and came across a really beautiful choral piece. As I sat in a traffic jam in Morden’s gyratory system I tried to imagine angels darting out of the clouds. I wondered whether they would stop for a rest on top of a street light, or line up like crows on the telephone wires.

Finally got to work, no angels, no crowd roaring its approval as I executed an elegant gravity-defying leap. Just an overloaded in tray and a list of e-mails.

At least I arrived without the help of anyone in a satellite (be it John/Virgil or the woman who sounds like Mrs Thatcher).

Has Virgil got a Girlfriend at Last?

I was so impressed by the Sat nav the other weekend and goaded on by my work mates, I rushed into Sainsbury's and bought a bargain one for under £30.

After a kind colleague had read the instruction book and explained it all to me, I wizzed out of work at the end of the day to put it in my car to test how good it was on the drive home.

The posh lady (up there with Virgil or whichever Thunderbird it was in number 5) really wasn't any good at directions, which was something of a disappointment. I was on a lovely dual carriageway (or 'George Cabbageway' as my children used to call them) heading in a nice straight line for home. 'Turn left' she said. 'Turn left now' in a firm, no-nonsense voice reminiscent of the Thatcher years. I ignored her, knowing I didn't want to mill around the next town in the opposite direction. She went quiet and sulky for a bit (giving Virgil a hard time I expect). When I got to the next main roundabout where it was obvious I should turn right she said 'Turn left', trying to get me to that town again. This was getting very annoying. She had a thing about turning left, and at a huge set of traffic lights where there wasn't even a left turn said 'Turn left', 'Turn left now'. I glared at the annoying device and it responded by pinging off the windscreen and dropping onto the dashboard.

By the time I got home (and after another attempt at her sabotaging my route by telling me to turn left when I needed to go right) I was completely disillusioned.

I need Virgil to sort her out, and preferably take over.

Did Mrs Bach need Relationship Counselling?

At a wedding last weekend, my son was playing the piano for the guests. The piano had seen better days, and the C sharp wasn't working. As one piece (Chopin) was in C sharp minor, this did cause a few problems. It did make us wonder that maybe Chopin's piano wasn't up to much, and had a dodgy C, leading him to compose a lot in C sharp minor. It conjures up images of a bewigged Chopin thumping the broken note and going 'Doh!', tearing up his draft Fantaisie Imprompu in C major, throwing the bits over his shoulder, and starting again.

Was Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor a result of a local church organ needing a repair on the D pipe? Had he been bugging the verger to get it repaired for months and then become bored waiting and tried D minor instead?

What would Bach do when he got bored?

Ask Mrs Bach if she needs help putting the rubbish out? (What would he be humming when he did this?)

Did she ever shout, 'Stop that infernal racket Johann and get yourself in here for your tea'?

Did Mrs Bach sit at her neighbour's kitchen table complaining that she didn't know what to do with him as he spent too much time at his harpsichord?

Did his children need nagging to get their violins out and start practising scales?

Maybe it wasn't all perfect harmony in those geniuses' households.

What makes the Perfect Holiday?

Fluffy duvets that create a sea of foam around you while languishing on squishy settees
Chick flicks with predictable plots that involve lots of rugged men singing and dancing
Chocolate in any of its forms - solid and cold, warm and wet, squisy and creamy
Endless cups of tea
Saunas, jacuzzis, water beds and incense sticks
Good red wine (helps make the predictable plots more challenging)
Not too difficult book of Suduko puzzles (to make you feel cleverer than you actually are).

Zen calm awaits!

— U | — U | — U | — U | — u u | — —

I am now a devotee of the sat nav. I've always enjoyed reading maps and have eschewed the bossy lady to date. Last weekend I borrowed a friend's gizmo to find my way around country lanes in darkest Devon and found her an extremely helpful person indeed. She was quite patient when I made a wrong turn, no anger, no scathing comments, just an efficient, 'Recalculating!'. Being a townie, I forget what it is like being in places that DON'T HAVE STREET LIGHTS. You realise that YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE THE ROAD in some places, which can be scary. Having the sat nav is like having Virgil in Thunderbird three looking after you. A cosy feeling reminding me of boiled eggs and toast soldiers in front of the TV in years gone by. It must have been boring for him stuck up there in that spaceship waiting for someone to help. I expect that's why he started writing all that clever poetry. Perhaps he is up there now, waiting for someone to have a crisis with their dactylic hexameter.