Everybody needs good neighbours, but that would have been a step too far

It’s time to get back to some sort of normality round these here bloggy parts, so let me start with a tip:

When you’ve got the raging hump and you decide to take it out on something, rather than someone, and you opt to tackle the three foot plus high stinging nettle forest that’s sprung up from seemingly nowhere in the garden at the side of your house to try to get rid of said hump (and nettles), don’t fling a handful of them while standing facing the wind when it’s blowing a hooley.

Because the wind will fling them straight back at you and you’ll end up with a face full of the buggers.

And they fucking hurt.

I consulted Google for remedies for stinging nettle rash – the obvious one being rubbing dock leaves on the affected area. I wouldn’t recognise a dock leaf if one came up and bit me on the bum, so that was out, although with hindsight I could have Googled that too.

Another one was to make a paste out of baking soda and water and apply it to the rash immediately after being stung. A quick rummage through my kitchen cupboards soon put paid to that idea – no baking soda. Ah, bugger.

The third idea, seeing as neither dock leaf or baking soda were handy, was to rub human saliva onto the affected area.

*blink*

I didn’t fancy the thought of standing there hoicking to produce enough saliva to cover my face. Nor, strangely enough, did the idea of knocking on a neighbour’s door and asking if they’d oblige really appeal:

Me: Hello Neighbour, I’ve been stung, could you lick my face please.

Neighbour: WTF??

Me: No, honestly, I Googled it. You need to lick my face.

In the end I settled for a cold, wet flannel.

My brain is a mess, I can’t even think of a title for this post

I’ve got ants in my pants.

Just to be clear, they’re metaphorical ants, but I’ll check anyway…

Yup, definitely metaphorical (good job most of you don’t know what I look like, because there’s a mental image you could have done without. For those that do know me… oops).

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat here to write a post* over the last week or so, with my fingers poised above the keyboard, but my each time my brain muttered, ‘You want me to do what now? Concentrate? I don’t feckin’ think so pal’.

So I tried reading blog posts instead.

Rolling its eyes and sighing, my brain said, ‘What part of ‘I can’t focus’ don’t you understand, you pillock?’

So I gave up, which made me miss my blog’s first birthday. My poor blog, sitting here, expecting a few balloons and party poppers, maybe some wine, definitely a cake with a candle, or at the very least a smidgeon of attention from me. Instead it had to hold itself a party for one, because it got nothing else, not even a cupcake.

I feel so guilty.

But wait.

I can go one better than that.

What was worse than forgetting my blog’s birthday?

I forgot my mum’s birthday.

That really did have me hanging my head in shame.

Luckily, she forgave me and totally understood why I forgot, the reason for which is one I’ll get to in a minute or two.

My blog couldn’t give a toss.

It wanted cake, dammit.

My restlessness did take a short break last week when I managed to sit in the hairdressers long enough to lose the Johnny-Depp-as-Sweeney-Todd hair colour I had going on.

I was in the hairdressers for three friggin’ hours. That’s how much grey there was.

The other morning, I looked the front garden with fresh eyes and realised the grass desperately needed cutting, and thought, ‘A-ha! Distraction tactics! Must. Cut. Grass.’ so I inserted my earphones in my ears, put my iPod on shuffle and got stuck in.

For some reason the grass closest to the ditch seems to grow fifty times faster than the rest of it. It was that long and swishy, I was surprised I didn’t discover a previously unknown species of animal amongst it.

At some point while I was cutting swathes through the jungle height grass, I inadvertently became a contender for the street’s She’s Off Her Head Award. My entry was unintentional, but when I listen to music (a.k.a. bangin’ choons), I start dancing. So there I was, lost in a world of my own, cutting the grass, while getting on down and shakin’ ma thang. In the front garden. Totally oblivious. In full view of the neighbours. It was very fortunate I didn’t start singing too.

In the back garden, I was involuntarily ‘treated’ to viewing pigeon porn. One minute there were two pigeons and the next thing I knew, there seemed to be pigeons at it all over the place.

Beak nuzzling and everything.

It wasn’t even pay-per-view.

They had no shame.

Or business sense.

Anyway, the reason for my twitchy, unable-to-concentrate-on-anything-for-any-length-of-time is because over on the other side of the world, Baby Wotsit is due to make an appearance any day now, but Eldest Daughter has put a request in for me to start writing again as she’d like something to read while she’s in labour.

“I’m in labour, fetch my laptop, I must read my mum’s blog,” she’ll command. Somehow, I think not. I’d be impressed if she did though.

Eldest Daughter and I have been chatting daily either on the phone or, even better, via webcam. A while ago it tickled me to learn that Baby Wotsit enjoys listening to Mozart. What tickled me even more, was being told Baby Wotsit also gets on down and boogies on hearing Michael Bublé. Or in the words of Eldest Daughter, ‘Not just a boogie... A full blown roll around, kick mum in the ribs party...’

She’s been asking for my pearls of wisdom regarding labour and childbirth, amongst which I offered this:

Make sure there’s nothing good on tv and that there’s enough petrol in the car.

I speak, of course, from experience. When I was pregnant with Youngest Daughter, I didn’t know I was in labour until my waters broke as I got into bed. I waddled back downstairs, where my ex husband was settling down to watch a boxing match on the tv.

On being told I needed to get to the hospital, Mr Ex woke three year old Eldest Daughter and brought her downstairs. Then you’d expect to read that we all got into the car to make our way to hospital, but you’d be wrong.

Mr Ex made us wait while he set the feckin’ video timer to record the feckin’ boxing.

Do you remember how long it used to take to set a video timer?

No?

Several contractions, that’s how long.

Eventually, the three of us got in the car and on starting it, Mr Ex immediately realised there wasn’t enough petrol to get to the hospital, which was eight miles away. We had to drive in the wrong direction to the nearest petrol station, where I think he filled the car up a drip of petrol at a time, while I was trying not to freak out Eldest Daughter each time I had a contraction.

Reciting all the names from Thomas the Tank Engine, followed by singing endless verses of ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round…’ kept her amused, but I can’t say it did anything for me.

By the time we got to the hospital (with most of the journey spent by me alternately breathing through contractions and swearing quietly because I felt every.single.bump. that we drove over), I was unable to get out of the car unaided, let alone walk. A wheelchair was fetched, which I was helped into and Youngest Daughter was born a short while later.

Not in the wheelchair I hasten to add.



* Just so you know, it doesn’t normally take me very long to write a post – an hour or so. This one has taken me two days. TWO DAYS. Fucking ants.

Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the reddest of them all?

I did something this past weekend that I very rarely do.

I sunbathed.

I’m not opposed to getting a tan, but normally I get bored witless just laying in the sun. Any tan I get is acquired through walking or doing things when it just happens to be hot and sunny. But what with it being Easter Weekend and temperatures at a woah!-start-shedding-clothes-then-get-the-bbq-lit level, everywhere was just far too busy and I can never be bothered with all that faffing about driving somewhere, trying to find a parking space and putting up with crowds and crowds of people.

Being on a beach shoulder to shoulder with people does absolutely nothing for me. Nothing.

And don’t get me started on *shudder* having to use public toilets. All I will say is, much grossness.

Earlier in the week I’d got some books out from my local library, so I grabbed one, plus a couple of large cushions, some Pimm’s (would it have been anything else? What’s that? Water? I think not; water may be more hydrating, but feck it, the Pimm’s was far more enjoyable thankyouverymuch) and joined Youngest Daughter on the blanket she’d spread out on the grass.

We’ve realised that when we’re sitting or laying on the blanket, we’re not overlooked at all by any of the neighbours. If we were, then I wouldn’t have been out there – which is a bit odd when I think about it, because I’ve been on public beaches wearing a swimsuit or a bikini, and beaches are full of people I don’t know and I haven’t given a toss.

(Hmm. Waaait a minute, I’ve just sussed it. It’s not odd at all. I don’t want my neighbours knowing what I look like semi-clothed. I then don’t want to have to make eye contact with them when I pass them in the street, knowing they’ve seen me with very little clothing on - ick.)

(Oh and before anyone asks, no I don’t go topless. I’ve only ever done that once, many years ago, got slightly scorched in the nipular area and never had the desire to repeat the experience.)

After a while, Youngest Daughter jumped up and announced she was popping out into town to have a nose around the shops, which left me room to spread out on the blanket and make myself really comfortable.

So comfortable I fell asleep.

Before I get a ‘whaaaaaat?! You didn’t tell me that during our two hour phone call the other day!’ *coughMumcough* yes I did slap copious amounts of sun cream on; yes it was factor five hundred thousand; no I didn’t do my feet – I forgot; yes I did have a hat.

It was just so, so quiet; the only sound was that of various birds twittering. I distinctly remember thinking how lovely and tranquil it was, and how lucky I am to live where I do, when I got a ooh-I-just-need-to-lower-my-book-pull-my-hat-over-my-face-and-inspect-my-eyelids-for-a-moment feeling.

So I did.

Remember how when you were a kid there was great fun to be had in using your bed as a trampoline?

Well, the next thing I knew, Dopey decided my stomach would make a brilliant trampoline. Little fecker.

Talk about a rude awakening. The neighbours might not have been able to see me, but they certainly would have heard me casting serious doubt as to whether Dopey’s father was named on her birth certificate.

Once I’d launched got her off me, I realised I’d been asleep for a couple of hours. With that realisation came the oh-no-I-don’t-want-to-look-to-see-how-red-I-am moment.

I went indoors, looked in a mirror and expected to see colour something like this:

But I didn’t.

A-ha!

Don’t forget, I’d used factor five hundred thousand sun cream earlier, and it worked!

So to answer the question posed in my post title: not me.

My feet were fine too.

Thankfuckforthat.

Enough is enough

My parents have visited a couple of times over the last week or so and we’ve spent time in the garden.

With me prancing around her, ready to hotfoot it to another part of the garden if she came across what she calls ‘one of those things you don’t like’, my mum tackled the flowerbed and the rockery - weeding properly, as opposed to my pathetic attempts, which involve picking weeds, rather than digging them up.

For those of you who are new-ish to this blog (and haven’t spent six hours reading everything – sorry, I’m still gobsmacked about that), hello, my name is Bub and I have a worm phobia which pales into insignificance compared to my fear of snakes; not that there’s many of those round these here parts – I hope… although my mum has bought up the subject of slow worms which yes, I know are technically lizards, BUT;

lizard + no legs = snake.

She told me they are a protected species, so I couldn’t do anything to harm one should I ever come across one.

Harm one.

Yeah, right.

We then had a discussion about fight or flight.

When it comes to worms, snakes and now slow worms, I’m firmly in the flight category. There’s no incentive big enough to make me want to get anywhere near one, let alone harm one, not even if it involves my children.

Years ago, when Eldest Daughter was about six years old, we were walking to school, Youngest Daughter was in the pushchair and it started to rain. Being early summer, we had no coats or umbrellas, so Eldest Daughter grabbed her book bag from the tray underneath the pushchair and held it over her head.

We got to the school door, Eldest Daughter lowered the bag and I bent down to give her a kiss. I didn’t get as far as doing it, because to my horror there was a worm on the top of her head. It must have been kicked up by the pushchair wheels, got stuck on the book bag, which she’d then used as a rain shield.

I tried to contain my freakedoutness as best I could, so as not to scare the bejeebers out of her and told her to shake her head, as she had something on it.

The bastard thing stayed put.

By now, I was battling full-blown panic, Eldest Daughter was shaking her head like she was having a fit, and Youngest Daughter, being totally oblivious, was happily exploring the contents of her nose.

To my eternal shame, my I’d-do-anything-to-protect-my-offspring instinct upped and fled. “Fuck that shit,” it declared, looking over its shoulder as it disappeared into the far, far distance.

The teacher standing in the doorway, clearly wondering what was going on, came out and I, by now being unable to speak, just pointed at Eldest Daughter’s head as I backed further away. Looking at me like I’d totally lost the plot (which in all fairness, I had), the teacher calmly removed the worm.

To this day, being unable to save my own child still haunts me.

Although I’ve lived with this phobia for all these years, I’ve finally reached a point where enough is enough.

I know it’s illogical, ridiculous and downright daft.

I want to be able to comfortably walk outside after it’s been raining, with my head in the forward position rather than looking down all the time.

I want to stay calm and not have to peel myself off the ceiling if I catch a glimpse of a worm or snake on the tv, or in a book.

I want to be able to get out there and fuck things up learn from my mistakes regarding planty things in the garden.

Most importantly, I want to be able to save my children and/or grandchildren from worms on their head.

So.

Investigations are currently being made about getting this problem sorted professionally.

One day, in the not too distant future, I really hope I write a post which will include a picture of me (well, one of my hands) holding a worm.

Current Phobic Me: Gack!

Future Phobic Free Me: Bring it on!

Was it a bird? Was it a plane? No, it was a pig

As I lay in bed yesterday morning, slowly waking up, something seemed different.

I spent a few moments trying to work out what it was.

Then it dawned on me.

‘Holy crap, it’s the sun.’

I hastily scrambled out of bed, flung open the curtains and was met with a clear blue sky. Hurrah!

After drinking my two obligatory one-straight-after-the-other cups of coffee, I decided the day was too gorgeous to waste. I bounced into Youngest Daughter’s room to find her buried underneath her quilt, fast asleep. But not for long - her feet were poking out from the end of the duvet and my fingers just happened to tickle them.

‘Wtf??’ said Youngest Daughter.

‘Just making sure your feet weren’t cold,’ said I, innocently.

‘Nnnrrghhhphwrrrrffmmpphh,’ she replied, wrapping the duvet around herself more tightly.

‘Well, seeing as you’re awake now,’ *cheesy smile* ‘it’s a beautiful day out there, so you should get up,’ I said in a slightly I-may-sound-friendly-but-that’s-an-order sort of voice.

‘Wassamatterwivyoo?’ she mumbled.

Ignoring the question, I cut to the chase and said the magic words to get her up. Seven words guaranteed to make her shoot out of bed and get downstairs faster than a rat shoots down a drainpipe. Seven simple words that currently give me oh so much power.

‘Your crops will be ready to harvest.’

They had the desired effect; she immediately sat bolt upright, slid out of bed and was downstairs in front of the computer, logging onto Facebook and Gourmet Ranch (a cross between Farmville and Café World, if anyone’s interested) before I’d even got to the bottom of the stairs.

Result.

The reason I wanted Youngest Daughter out of bed was because I wanted to do some gardening and I wanted her to help me.

Yes, you read that right. Me. Gardening. Pigs have been seen flying, as have elephants, hell must have frozen over, and for once the moon was blue. If you catch any news reports about any of these occurrences, I am the reason behind them.

While I was waiting for her to tend her crops, I wandered into the garden, then wandered back indoors again to grab my camera.

 

 

 

I love seeing ladybirds, and am always struck by the contrast of their colour against weeds green foliage. Sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I do know ivy isn’t a weed, but it bloody grows like one.

 

 

 

 

Yes, I do know it’s a weed, but… but… it’s so pretty!

There’s quite a bit of this on the rockery, although I’ve no idea what it is. I was just enchanted by the water droplets on the petals.

  Again, not a clue what it is, but I like it. So I didn’t pull it up. Besides, I’m fairly certain it’s not a weed.

I do know what this is – it’s heather. I think.

Youngest daughter finished her virtual farming, got dressed and I set her to work in the garden weeding the flower bed, while I concentrated my efforts on the rockery, keeping a squinty eye out for worms. Didn’t come across any, thank goodness, although Youngest Daughter did. Which is why she got the flower bed. I’m not totally stupid.

Gardening is thirsty work, so I popped indoors for a quick drink:

Had to be done.

Then I headed back outside and lobbed some snails into the field next door.

It wasn’t only pigs that flew yesterday.

Brain Before Mouth - What A Novelty!

It’s been bitterly cold outside and just as the last lot of snow eventually cleared away, we got dumped on by another load.

Once again the fairies were snowed in, in the rockery:

 
Hope they were stocked up with goodies to see them through.
 
 
The goblin/gargoyle/whateveritis looked a bit sorry for itself:

Mind you, I'd be more than pissed off if I was up to my ears in snow.


And the spiders no doubt dug out their thermals:

I know I did.

And on the observation deck at the Empire State Building, Eldest Daughter got the giggles.

*Cue screechy needle-across-a-record noise*

Eh?

What have the Empire State Building and the snow got to do with each other?

The answer is absolutely nothing. Nada. I just liked the snow pictures.

However, the reason Eldest Daughter got the giggles was because after a bit of nervous waffling, Captain Oz dropped down onto one knee in front of her, held out a ring box and proposed.

I knew before they went to New York he was going to ask her, because he asked for my permission.

I would like it noted I was very proud of myself for not saying the first thing that came into my head when he asked me. I gave him an ‘oh how lovely!’ response, rather than the ‘damn right you will; you knock my daughter up and you think you’re not going to marry her?!’ response that popped into my head first (perhaps my brain is gaining control over my mouth at long last. Wonders never cease).

When Eldest Daughter managed to pull herself together, she said yes, and came home with a sparkly ring on her finger.

Awww.

I Could Have Enjoyed Breakfast In Bed

Hello to flosears at The Rabbit Warren. She has a post here that made me laugh out loud, and it reminded me of this one – OMG WWII on Facebook! - apart from being funny, it’s very cleverly done; if you read it, look at the dates and times - they correspond with the date and year events happened.

During my early morning foray into the garden the other day, I noticed the ditch, which winds its way down to the river, was getting starting to get dammed up in places with branches, twigs and rubbish.

Why can’t people dispose of their rubbish properly?

Significant Other used to keep the ditch clear, but it has now fallen to me to do it. There’s only one other task I dislike doing more than clearing the ditch, and that’s *shudder* cleaning out the hair trap in the shower.

I did consider jumping down, but the chances of me either landing face down in a load of brambles, and/or ending up on my arse in the water were extremely high.

Jumping out of a plane?

No problem.

Jumping into a ditch?

Feck off.

Once I was safely down (the wussy way), I started picking up the crap people couldn’t be arsed to throw away in a bin.

There really is no excuse for people to do this; it’s sheer laziness and utter thoughtlessness on their part.

I gradually made my way along the ditch, but because the mud is so soft, I couldn’t actually walk along in the water – I’d have ended up sinking into the mud.

I know this for a fact, as it almost happened to Significant Other a few years ago. He was standing in the water chatting away not realising, until I pointed it out, that he was sinking. Heh.

You’ll notice from the picture above the ditch is reasonably deep, but it’s important to keep it clear because after prolonged heavy rain, it can fill with water:

Apparently in the past, flooding in gardens running alongside it has occurred. So as well as litter clearing (I felt like I was one of those people serving a Community Punishment Order – all that was missing was the fluorescent jacket, oh, and a misdemeanour), I also cleared some of the vegetation:

In the process of pulling up some pretty tall weeds and launching them onto the bank, I got splattered in stinky ditch mud.

Several times.

Lovely.

Some of the rubbish I retrieved can be seen below:

People disgust me sometimes.

So that was how I spent yesterday morning – some people get breakfast in bed, some read the Sunday papers.

Me?

I cleared other peoples shit.

This morning’s task is much more enjoyable; sorting out something to wear for my hot date tonight.

Oops.

Did I type that out loud?

*wink*

I Don't Do Mornings...

...but this one was worth it.

I’d just about fallen out of bed long enough this morning to make my bleary-eyed way to the bathroom. As soon as I got in there, I noticed an orange glow through the frosted glass window.

I didn’t have my glasses on, so my initial thought was, “Shit, the shed’s on fire,” but then the tiny part of my brain that was more awake than the rest piped up with, “Don’t be stupid, if it was alight you’d hear it and definitely smell it.”

So, having sussed the shed wasn’t burning, there was only one other thing it could be – sunrise.

Phew.

I grabbed my glasses, then the camera and ran into the garden.

It was a good job I couldn’t be seen by any of the neighbours; a wild-haired woman (I could have given Medusa a good run for her money in the scary hair department), wearing a nightdress and slippers, waving a camera around, would definitely have got me talked about.

As I stood looking across the field, between the non-burning shed and the ditch that runs alongside, I wondered why my vision was blurry. The still asleep part of my brain decided my eyes weren’t awake properly. The sighing, you-are-an-idiot rational side of my brain then kicked in, and I realised I’d put my reading glasses on by mistake.

Clearly, mornings are not my forte.

After getting the correct glasses (I think it may be time for varifocals – oh joy) I took a few photos. The photo below is the first one I took and in my opinion the best – it’s so dramatic. I haven’t mucked about with it in Photoshop - apart from cropping pictures, I don’t have the patience.




Click on it for a bigger picture.


Totally worth the draft I got around my legs this morning.

Apparently, I Know Satan

Hello to Keith at West Cornwall Photos. I somehow stumbled across his blog the other evening and very pleased I did. For the gardeners amongst you, he also has another blog, Trewidden Garden Blog. There are very few words on either blog – they’re not needed – they’re full of marvellous pictures.

This is where I intended to be this week:

But when I looked at the weather forecast (rain, rain and oh look! more rain), I decided not to go.

I love going to Cornwall at any time of the year, and don’t mind if it’s cold, but rain is a big no-no if I’m only there for a couple of days.

Instead I got my arse into gear and phoned my friend/ex-neighbour whose son deals in scrap metal. He’s the sort of bloke you’d cross the street to avoid if you don’t know him, with an extremely potty mouth (yeah, I know – pot, kettle, black), but he’s as soppy as they come really. Although I did feel a little disconcerted when he told me he has 666 tattooed on his head.

It made me wonder if my friend/ex-neighbour is married to Satan. Did we unknowingly live next door to the Devil? He seems so nice. Ooh, it could come in handy though if someone pisses me off – “’Ere, Satan, be a love and do me a favour, sort ‘em out.”

As I may have mentioned before, Significant Other was a hoarder of shite useful stuff. There were loads of bits of metal lying around – I mentioned some of it here – but there was far more than that. My neighbours must look at my front garden and try to pretend it’s not there. Even I pretend it’s not my front garden sometimes.

Well, now it’s all gone, but I still have some more things to do before I get my neighbours approval (actually, when I think about it, sod the neighbours – with the exception of one or two, they’re a load of feckin’ twats whose heads are so far up their own arses, you wouldn’t believe it not very nice).

My other task was to find out what was wrong with The Beastie. The battery kept going flat and I crossed my fingers and anything else I could cross that it wasn’t the alternator playing up. Beastie + new alternator = mega money. Out came my trusty multimeter and thank goodness the alternator was working fine (yes, I have a multimeter and I’m not afraid to use it).

As the battery was still under guarantee, I trundled off to Halfords to get it changed. When I got there, the child assistant bought the store’s testing equipment out to my car and I opened the boot lid so he could test the battery.

Child Assistant: Blimey! Your battery’s dead flat, it’s not even registering on the meter.

Me: Really?

Child Assistant: Yeah, look.

Me: Um, if it’s dead flat, the boot lid wouldn’t have lifted and the boot light wouldn’t be on.

Child Assistant: *scratching head* Uh… hang on.

Off he toddled back into the store, returned a couple of minutes later and reconnected the meter to the battery.

Child Assistant: That’s better, the meter wasn’t charged properly.

Me: So what’s it reading now?

Child Assistant: Your battery’s knackered luv (oh no, he called me ‘luv’).

Me: Uh huh.

Child Assistant: I’ll go and get you a new one and fit it for you.

Off he toddled again, and returned a couple of minutes later with a new battery.

Child Assistant: Righty ho luv (grr, do not ‘luv’ me, you child), I’ll just… oh, hang on, I’ve got to get a spanner.

Off he toddled.

When he came back he discovered he’d bought the wrong size spanner out with him.

Off he toddled.

On his return, once again he’d bought the wrong size spanner out. As he walked away across the car park, I made sure he was almost at the store entrance, then I called out, “YOU WANT A NUMBER 10, IF THAT’S ANY HELP” (heh, consider that payback for calling me ‘luv’).

I was tempted to change the bloody thing myself while he was gone, because yes, I happened to have a spanner in my handbag (look, some women have lipstick or tampons in the bottom of their handbags, I have a spanner okay? and a tape measure). But he came back with a number 10 spanner, changed the battery and said, “There you go luv, all sorted.”

‘Luv’…

…I should’ve set Satan on him.

Then, rain notwithstanding, I should’ve buggered off to Cornwall; I could have holed myself up in here for the duration:

Ah well, it’ll keep.

I Love To Go A-Wandering

Welcome to Melissa at Redoing It – with DIY and PSE. I’ve been stalking you following your blog for a while now and I have one thing to say to you – I want your house.

Sigh.

 
I decided to have a bit of a tidy up and do a little housekeeping on the computer. Over the years, we’ve taken hundreds of photos and although I’d set up topic folders – family, friends, building work, holidays, weddings and so on – we’d got very a little lazy and ended up uploading the photos any old where things became a wee bit untidy.
 
Of course, going through photos inevitably meant tripping down memory lane.
 
Significant Other had far greener fingers than I do (not difficult, a two year old could do better than me), and I think he’d have found the blogging world - regarding growing things - fascinating.
 
When we moved here, there was a greenhouse in the garden. The first year, we did nothing with it – it was a bit of a dumping ground. The second year, we cleared it out and Significant Other started growing things. Not only did he use the greenhouse, he cleared the garden at the side of the house and planted veg there too.
 
He grew peppers, strawberries, cucumbers, onions, spring onions, beetroot, sweetcorn, rhubarb, horseradish and tomatoes.
 
Ah, the tomatoes.

He was very successful with the tomatoes; he grew seventeen plants - beef tomatoes, cherry tomatoes and ‘ordinary’ tomatoes.

That summer, I perfected the art of making tomato soup and we also had tomatoes with almost everything we ate.

SO: No tomatoes?

Me: Um, it’s a roast.
SO: Aw, just slice me a tomato. Please?
Me: O-kaaay.
SO: You not having any with yours?
Me: No, I’ll pass. I’ll have a tomato for dessert. Maybe I’ll have it with custard. Yum.
SO: Stop taking the piss. You don’t like custard.

The following year the greenhouse was pulled down.

We’d decided to pave over the area where the greenhouse had stood. Significant Other had been a little over-enthusiastic in laying the foundations, so when my dad came to lay the paving, parts of it were too high.

Out came the kango breaker drill. Being the hands-on-I’ll-give-anything-a-go-just-let-me-get-my-hands-on-it-and-I’ll-show-you-how-to-bloody-do-it type of person I am, to give my dad a break from using it, I helped.

Perhaps flip-flops were not the best choice of footwear – my mum had a fit when she saw the photo, and I had to count my toes afterwards to put her mind at ease (all present and correct) – but, and it’s an important but, I did wear gloves. You see, what people don’t realise is: kango + gloves = total foot protection. I'm not stupid.

Another photo I came across was one of Youngest Daughter.

A couple of years ago I’d got up at some unearthly hour to get myself ready for another day of copping a load of abuse fun-filled, trolley pushing, coffee serving day in the sky, when I saw my youngest offspring asleep.

To save her any future embarrassment, I wasn’t going to take a picture, but quickly thought ‘nah, sod that’, grabbed the camera and snapped away.

By the way, the room the photo was taken in was the forerunner to The Pit – she was just honing her skills in readiness to really go for it later.

She’d been out the night before and came home absolutely rat-arsed a little worse for wear. The bed was clearly a hop, skip and a jump too far, so she just lay down on the floor, covered herself with her dressing gown and passed out.

My daughter.

I feel so proud right now.

A Gardener I Could Be

Welcome to Spanky (and fellow Cancerian. Crabs – gotta love ‘em) at that’s fun to say. The whole Twilight thing has so far passed me by, but after a friend raved about it, I have the first book sitting in a pile of stuff waiting to be read. I too may become a teenage smut novel whore. *virtual fist bump*

Also welcome to Biobabbler. Your photos are stunning – I got lost for ages in your blog. I can also tell you that cleaning cat sick out of a computer keyboard is no fun. So I didn’t - I bought a new one. Just glad it wasn’t a MacBook.

 

I wrote a while back about my Boston fern slowly giving up the ghost. I decided that for a change, I wasn’t going to idly sit back and do nothing to help it, so I consulted the oracle that is Google to find out more about it.

I discovered that the most likely cause of its decline was that its position was wrong – it wasn’t getting enough natural daylight, so I moved it.

And I’m more than delighted to report that it’s picked up. Yay me!

After checking on the orchid (alive and thriving) and noting that the fern looks reasonably healthy now, my mum looked at my hands a couple of days ago and declared them to be a watery green.

Eh?

My brain was having a slow day, so she had to explain it to me. In simple terms.

“Green. Fingers. You. Can. Grow. Things.”

Who, me? No way – holy shit!

To celebrate, I went and bought myself a new vacuum cleaner.

I had to buy a new one, as cleaning The Pit dealt my current one a fatal blow. I used it the other day and as I was pushing it round, I realised it was making all the right noises, but there was no suck. So I cleaned out the dust filter (gawd almighty, where does it all come from?) then started to take it to bits so I could check to see if there was a blockage.

Then I stopped and put gloves on. Just in case the blockage was a wrapper…

There was nothing bunging up any part of it (phew), so I turned it back on and it seemed a little improved, but then it died. It just cut out and no amount of CPR, or swearing at it, would coax it back to life.

I jumped onto the internet, reserved one online, and then drove to the shopping centre to collect it. None of this ordering online and waiting indoors all day like a total mug two days for delivery for me – when I want something, I want it NOW. Yesterday would be even better.

Before I collected it, I wandered around the shops and bought a few things (but no shoes. Hmm, I must be coming down with something). I also browsed through the books in Waterstones and WHSmith.

(To the mother of the child who was repeatedly blowing one note in short bursts on that feckin’ recorder:

I don’t care if your prodigy was expressing himself musically; it hurt my head and made me grind my teeth.

Please be extremely grateful for the remarkable restraint I showed in not grabbing it and shoving it where the sun don’t shine - then seeing whether you could blow it as well as your child could.)

I found myself strangely drawn towards the gardening sections. I think reading quite a few blogs about gardening/growing veg and then being told I have pale green fingers – well, what can I say? It enthused me.

I browsed through quite a few books, but many of them seemed a bit intimidating, so I looked at gardening for beginners but ruled them out as it means I would have to dig (garden + digging = worms).

Then I moved onto growing veg in containers. Ooh, more promising. I spent quite a while flicking through various books.

And I bought one.

Yes I did.

You want to know what it’s called?

Well, I’ll tell you.

It’s called…

wait…

are you sitting comfortably?

The book I bought…

is titled…

Slow Cooker, Quick and Easy Proven Recipes.

It was only £2.99 and far more useful to me than a bloody gardening book.

There is a slight problem though.

I don’t own a slow cooker.

Yet.

But I am now the proud owner of a vacuum cleaner that’s full of life. It also happens to be the same colour as my toenails – a deep wine shade. Pure coincidence. I did NOT buy it for that reason. That would just be such a girly thing to do.

FYI - if you think I spent five minutes singing ‘I’m Too Sexy For This Carpet’ à la Right Said Fred to the new vacuum cleaner while I pranced about with it when I used it for the first time yesterday afternoon, you’d be wrong.

It was more like fifteen minutes.

Which Came First - Mouth Or Brain?

Welcome to Kyna at Crystal Coast Gardener. She loves the way I write, I love the way she writes. A whole lotta mutual admiration going on there (I was going to type whole lotta lovin’, but felt that was a bit too up close and personal, seeing as we’ve only just met).

She also kindly allowed me to steal the cancer logo from her blog, one that she stole from elsewhere. As a receiver of stolen goods I will, in future, to protect my new friend, deny all knowledge of where it came from.

Something I wrote in my last post got me thinking about something I’ve been aware of for a while (hmm, two something’s in one sentence – [shaking head] my vocabulary is poor, very poor. Oh no [sigh], did it again).*

Let me start again.

There was something I wrote in my last post about something that

In my last post, I wrote something to do with something about

In the previous post I wrote, I said something and it got me thinking about something to

Oh stuff it.

I wrote:

“…I’m wandering off topic. I seem to do that a lot, I can’t help it, it’s the way my brain’s wired.”

I do find it’s vastly easier to contain any meanderings while typing, than to curb them while talking. I read what I’ve written, think ‘eh? you what?’ then backspace until RSI sets in, thereby saving you the bother of thinking wtf?

(Actually, I was being disingenuous (heh – now there’s a word). What I really do is cut, paste and save it to another file if it’s not relevant, but I like it. The file is named ‘Bank Or Lose Later Otherwise Could Keep as Substitute. I’m thinking it’s a bit wordy though. I’m thinking I need to find a way to shorten it.)

Over the years I have unconsciously and accidentally mastered the art of distracting myself, but not only do my thoughts wander while writing, they take a stroll while in the middle of conversations. I other thing I excel at, is engaging mouth before brain.

A friend once said I should come with some sort of warning. I was insulted for about a nanosecond, but then decided to be flattered. It was easier.

I will give you examples. First off, we have distraction during conversation.

Talking to Wise One on the phone:

WO: We’ve got everything ready for [grandson’s] christening on Sunday.

Me: That’s great. Hope the weather holds out for it.

WO: The forecast is good. There’s over forty people invited and the house isn’t that big, so we’ll be able to use the garden.

Me: If the forecast is good that’s… Oh! You’ll never guess who I bumped into while I was shopping today.

WO: ???

Me: It was [someone we used to work with]. She was with her daughter.

WO: Oh, how is she? I haven’t spoken to her for ages.

Me: Me neither. She’s fine, looking forward to her holiday in a couple of weeks. She’s getting really fed up working at the school. Says it not the same as it used to be and she's thinking about looking for another job. What were you saying before?

WO: Er…

Another example (although, I think I can be forgiven for this one).

Talking to my dad on the phone:

Dad: I’m waiting for the plumber to turn up to put the radiators back.

Me: When’s he due?

Dad: Well, he was supposed to come Monday but…

(I was in the living room and while he was talking I heard a crunching noise.)

Me: [squealing loudly] OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!

Dad: ???

Me: [still squealing] Grumpy’s got a bird. A BIRD!

Dad: Oh good grief.

Me: [Shrieky voice] GET OUT! GET OUT!

Dad: Is it dead?

Me: I BLOODY HOPE SO.

I chased Grumpy through the house into the back garden and shut the door. Then looked out of the window to see her eating the bird.

Me: URRGGHH! SHE’S EATING IT! (Why I was surprised I don’t know – she’s a cat. Duh. That’s what cats do – catch things. Except Dopey. She couldn’t catch a cold.)

Dad: Is it dead?

Me: Yeah, ewww, wait, I’m going to get it off her.

I put on gloves, got it away from Grumpy and flung it into the field. Some fox probably came across it and thought it was its birthday. Grumpy wasn’t impressed though, I got the ‘what the hell did you do that for?’ look.

Me: Urrrrgh, gross, gross, gross.

Dad: She won’t go and get it will she?

Me: I hope not. What were you saying before?

Dad: Er…

Moving on to mouth-before-brain category.

There are loads of instances of this, but I’ll pick two favourites – ones that people still recall.

While sitting in the staffroom when working at the primary school, there were three of us having a girly chat about shaving legs during the winter.

I’d never given any thought to how hairy some ladies legs are. I now know I’m lucky to have legs that are not particularly hirsute.

Friend 1: I can’t be bothered to shave during the winter.

Friend 2: Neither can I, unless I’m going out for the night.

Me: I know what you mean. Especially as I spend most of my time in trousers.

Friend 2: Yeah, there’s no point is there?

Friend 1: I should really though. They need doing.

Me: That bad?

Friend 1: Look.

She raised her trouser legs.

Me: HOLY SHIT, I’VE NEVER SEEN LEGS THAT HAIRY! (Brain to Mouth: Good one. How to win friends and influence people.)

Luckily enough she has a very good sense of humour and she is still my friend.

My second example:

Last year I had to have an operation on one of my feet to remove a lump from the ball of my foot.

On the day of the operation there were two other patients and each of us were to be operated on under local anaesthetic. I didn’t feel nervous about the procedure at all. Although maybe I was without realising it.

I was sitting in the chair next to my bed trying to read a book, and the nurse was talking to the lady who was across the ward. I reckon the patient was fifteen to twenty years older than me.

It was so quiet, I couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying.

Nurse: Just going to check your blood pressure.

Lady: Ok.

Nurse: That’s fine. Let’s just check your temperature.

Lady: Ok.

Nurse: How are you doing now?

Lady: Not too bad. It’s been nine months since [husband] died. What really annoys me though, is people telling me time is a great healer.

Me: [loudly] That’s a load of bollocks (Brain to Mouth: Nice work. You've never seen these people before, and you're swearing. You disgust me.).

Both of them looked at me.

I apologised, sank lower into my chair and didn’t make eye contact with her anymore.

The nurse was bustling around doing what nurses do. I was in my chair, trying to become part of it, when she asked if I was ok, as I looked petrified. I was surprised and told her that no, I didn’t feel scared, but I was very tired due to having to get up at stupid o’clock to get to the hospital. (Hmm, so now I know that when I’m tired, I look scared witless.)

Enter the consultant surgeon.

Mr CS: Morning ladies.

The three of us chorused a ‘morning’ back.

To me:

Mr CS: How are you this morning?

Me: Well according to the nurse, apparently I look petrified, but otherwise, apart from being tired, I’m fine.

Mr Consultant Surgeon, with a concerned look on his face, sat down on the footstool in front of me and said:

Mr CS: Are you nervous?

Me: If I thought this was the first operation you’d ever performed, then yes I think I would be somewhat nervous. But I’m sure it’s not (Brain to Mouth: Way to go Mouth. Did you just sort of question the surgeon’s ability?).

Mr CS: I can assure you it’s most definitely not the first surgical procedure I’ve performed.

That told me then.

Mr CS: Did you not sleep very well last night, or do you often get tired?

Me: Depends how much wine I’ve drunk (Brain to Mouth: The correct answer was ‘I got up very early this morning’ you prat. Mr Consultant Surgeon probably thinks you have a drink problem now).

The nurse then told me it was time to get changed into the hospital gown. She drew the curtains around the bed. I’d just turned to place my bag on the chair when:

Mr CS: Mrs D’Lub? Is it ok to come in? (Yes, that’s right, my name is Bub D’Lub – sad but ‘true’.)

Me: Yes of course.

He appeared from the other side of the curtain and said:

Mr CS: I’m sorry, I just wanted a quick word and I wanted to make sure you weren’t in a state of undress.

Me: I have been known to shed my clothes quite quickly on occasion in the past. However, the nurse has only just drawn that curtain and even I’m not that fast (Brain to Mouth: SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUTUP).

Mr CS: Hur hur.

My mouth's final moment of glory that day came during the operation itself. As well as the surgeon and myself, there were also two theatre nurses present. There was a bit of chit chat, and then:

Mr CS: How long did you say you’ve had this lump?

Me: About ten years.

Mr CS: It’s much bigger and deeper than I anticipated.

Me: Oh.

All went quiet. Then:

Mr CS: It’s a boy!

Me: Blimey! I thought I was here for an operation on my foot. I had no idea I was… You’ve got really gentle hands. (Brain to Mouth: I give up. You. Are. An. Idiot.)

Much laughter from the theatre nurses. I hid my face under the blanket.

In a file drawer somewhere are my notes. And on the cover of those notes I strongly suspect this might be stamped:

                        

* In my last post I wrote a sentence which made me think about something I’ve been aware of for a while. (HAH!)

UPDATE: Not only have I pinched a logo from Kyna, I've just realised I've also sort of [ahem] 'borrowed' one of her post titles. This was totally unintentional and I apologise unreservedly. Plus I can't be arsed to change it.