Audio Blog - deer

I am planning on branching out into audio blogging, so see what you think of this (deer bellowing in Bushy Park):

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Don't be confused by the 'download this song' option, unless you think the stag was giving a rendition of his favourite tune.

The Round Robin

I've received a Christmas Round Robin and it's still only November.

I find Round Robins challenging (particularly when they underline the fact that someone else has bought, written and posted their Christmas cards before 1st December). There was an exception to this one year when I was featured rather flatteringly, and in my fickle way, decided I actually really do love them. So I think it's a love hate relationship. I love hearing everyone's good news. The 'hate' has something to do with the fact no one writes the tough stuff, so you get a glossy, possibly slightly fake overview of the year, which makes your own year look rather less perfect than you already suspected it to be. Are all these families really having such a great time? Does no-one else settle down to watch a spot of TV and have to wrestle with difficult moral questions like, 'Do you mind if I roll a couple of joints while I sit here?'. Didn't some of those gap year expeditions cause sleepless nights when the last communication with the loved one in question was, 'I feel really ill' and then nothing, nothing for several days, by which time you have decided they have died and no one has found the body yet? Does no one think, 'Hey, I can't afford that holiday in Thailand, I'll go self catering in Wales instead!'

Did no-one have a nothingy year, where nothing special happened and they just plodded on regardless? Granted, this wouldn't make an exciting read, so I suppose there is natural selection in that it is only those successful, confident and dynamic families that will send Round Robins out.

So this is a request, that if you are sending a Round Robin, it is truly rounded and includes some of the grim stuff that will make everyone else think their year wasn't so bad after all, otherwise feature the person you are sending it to in glorious technicolour so they can't complain.

Happy Birthday Buttered Toast!

Buttered Toast Blog is one year old today, hooray!

Thank you for all your support and comments, keep them coming!

Washing Powder and Asprins

Those Persil ads used to really annoy me. Those sad women on TV who hold their children's beach towels up and discuss washing powder. As if.

The TV company over expose the whiteness so it has a sort of halo. Check your bath towel to see if it has a halo. If it doesn't, check whether it smells 'lemon fresh'. You should wear an expression of having just achieved a drug induced high while doing this. Then phone a friend to discuss it all.

No? Don't blame you. Life's too short.

I will think of this next time I pull the sludgy mass of washing out of the machine. Running my fingers round those horrid rubbery edges to the drum and coaxing the load to come out always makes me feel uncomfortably like a midwife. However hard I try, it always lands in a mess on the kitchen floor or a sock spills onto the stairs when I carry it up to the bedrooms. Luckily I gave up nursing in the early stages, so never made it to Midwife. (I've just experienced a nursing flashback here, of shaking a thermometer really hard and smashing it against a bed rail. Little globs of mercury rolled around in every direction. I went to get a dustpan and brush, and was a bit surprised to get back to the bed and find police style tape cordonning off the area and men in white paper jumpsuits and masks looking like they were playing marbles with the little grey spheres. I hadn't just broken a thermometer, I'd created a 'mercury incident' which was quite exciting.)

There is something very impressive about those people in the paper jump suits and masks. You see them on the news quite often. They really look like they know what they're doing, it's more effective than even having a stethoscope round your neck. It's science in action!

On a separate but still medicinal note, I was thinking about the word 'paradox' yesterday. It's a nice word. Sounds like something you might dissolve in water to cure a headache. Take two paradox three times daily. Your headache won't go, and you will certainly be feeling quite confused by bedtime. Which also reminds me of those headache adverts, with more annoying women (maybe the same jobbing actresses?) clutching their foreheads with a pained expression on their faces, then looking like they have discovered Utopia when they see a packet of asprin. So, if you're a woman reading this, remember to act up big time over the headaches, and make sure all your party conversations are centered around the whiteness of your washing.

Blood Money, Bombs and Broken Bodies

How can it be that the best way we can think of in the 21st century to solve problems is war?

The repeated images in our media of the miserable processions of coffins down the main street in Wootton Basset and glossy photos in the colour supplements about our brave servicemen and women, smiling from their wheelchairs, remind us of the cost.

The smiles disturb me. These people have staggering injuries that will keep them struggling to cope with day to day life, all the way into 2069 and beyond - why do they smile?

We are the lucky ones. We can turn the TV off if the howls of grief stricken families become too harrowing. We can turn the page in the newspaper to something less demanding if the photograph of a twenty year old with no limbs disturbs us. We can absolve our responsibility because, after all, it's up to the politicians - isn't it?

How about the others we hear less about? The ones who will never have a good night's sleep again because they wake up screaming in terror from the horrific things they have seen? The families that become fractured by stress and depression? What about the Afghan casualties, the children and civilians that have parts of their bodies blown off by our bullets and bombs? Is it because these don't make such good photographic based stories? Or is it that the emotive sight of coffins and brave young people in wheelchairs raises support to continue an unpopular battle?

Why do we trust our politicians, many of whom have been shown to be corrupt in the way they manage even their own affairs, to send these brave and selfless people into an Armageddon that will last way beyond the political war?

Some people will be getting very rich on trading the arms to keep the battles going. Who exactly are they and what is their influence on this confusing conflict?

Do their consciences keep them awake at night?

Existential Despair on a Park Bench

I was early for an outdoor meeting in a local town this morning, so I bought a lovely cappuccino and sat on a bench by a clocktower, enjoying the view. I was rather surprised when two older women walked past, and gave me a leaflet entitled, 'Comfort for the Depressed' with a soft focus photograph of female with the sort of expression that cleverly combined both existential despair with new found relief. The two women were hovering over me in a 'caring' way, exuding the sort of comfort they obviously thought I needed. I handed the leaflet back, saying thank you, but I wasn't depressed. I could have sworn one of them looked decidedly disappointed, as she tried to press the leaflet back in my hand. No, I said, more firmly, but with a large smile, 'I'm not depressed, I'm quite happy thank you'. They gave each other a look and walked off, I suspect they must have thought I was in denial, why else would I be sitting on a park bench in November? It's an odd pastime, looking for people who are depressed. I think they should be careful, as someone who was only just on the happy side of life might be swayed back into gloom by their ministrations. The leaflet could rustle up more customers by itself, it was mainly a funereal black, and just looking at the miserable woman on the front could turn an alright day into something more glum.

I recounted this story to a colleague back in Prefab Towers, who said I must be the only person who worked there at the moment who wasn't depressed. Those ladies should try their leaflets where I work, they would be a lot happier with the success rate.

The Bells, The Bells

I've taken up bellringing again. I'm quite surprised. The last time I bellrang was about thirty years ago. What has also surprised me is how difficult it is to ring a bell - I'd forgotten - but also how satisfying it is when you get it right. There is a lovely rhythm to pulling on the end of the rope and then the sally (the fluffy bit), and the bells make a nice noise too. Quite an ancient sound, echoing across the centuries. I was also surprised to end up feeling sea-sick. When I was sitting watching the experts ring I realised with some unease that the floor was moving around and making my chair wobble. I tried to focus on the windowsill to see whether the whole tower was going to collapse, but it is impossible to tell whether it was me moving, or the bricks. I realised that it would take quite a while to escape the tower in a disaster, the winding staircase seemed to go on for eons, and was specially built to avoid stairwell confrontations with swords or something, so only one of us at a time could squeeze down.

I put these morbid thoughts to one side and decided to have a read of the boards, which were jiggling around ominously. They explained who rang a peal of what and when and how long it took. About 5 hours for Grandsire Triples in 1804 apparently. I secretly hoped that one day I would be in a pub quiz team and there would be a round (forgive the pun) on campanology, and I would triumph to congratulatory slaps on the back and smile generously as the bottles of wine and handfuls of money came our way.

I wasn't deemed ready for Grandsire Triples or even Plain Bob. I did manage some straight rounds and even received some applause at the end for getting my bell dinging in the right place. I would have said 'round of applause' but you can have too many types of round and it gets confusing.

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You can hear the ropes flicking on the floor.

Popping and Banging

It's Firework Friday. You can tell this from where I am sitting by the sirens echoing off into the distance and the occasional squeal and bang as a rocket takes off. There are more people than usual padding up and down the street. Arms pressed straight down their sides, hands as far into their pockets as they will go, heads bent forward with hoods flopping over their brows. It's also raining. It reminds me I have a gutter that needs sorting out as there is a steady splash of water onto my front doorstep, about the speed of tea coming out of the pot. The splashes creep in under the badly fitting front door and make the carpet there a bit soggy.

I don't mind not going out fireworking, I have someone coming for dinner, and I have enjoyed pottering in the kitchen, rustling up something that is smelling gorgeous in the oven. While the meat was browning I enjoyed finding tracks on CDs I haven't heard for ages, playing them very loudly on the huge speakers and dancing around, imagining I was the most beautiful, sensual creature to walk the earth. It involved a lot of waving my arms around, like 'Music and Movement' in primary school, only better - much better. Every so often the image was spoiled by catching a glimpse of someone quite odd in the reflection from the window, or the pictures on the wall. I'm not sure who they were, but they really couldn't dance.

Anyway, Vanessa Mae did the best fireworks of the year - you can't beat the electrified excitement of Vivaldi with the sky metamorphosing into a maelstrom of colour. I don't need to see a puny rocket wobble out of a milkbottle and worry about whether it's going to take my eyes out. My idea of fun doesn't include a trip to A&E to wait on a trolley for several hours.