Sunday, 1 November 2015


It isn't often that I post something sad. But I really need to at the moment. You see, my dearest, funny, sweet, loving sister has died. Cancer crept in and finished her off in seven months flat. Although it was probably a lot longer than that. Cancer tends to be very quiet at the beginning, and by the end it is deafening.
What can I say? Sadness is exhausting. We are all exhausted. And yet, amongst all of this grief and red-eyed living, there is something else. You see, I really prayed that she would get better. Some days my belief was so strong that I could almost taste the healing, and feel the happiness it would bring. I prayed that she would be totally healed from cancer. That she would never be a victim to fear or anxiety ever again. That she would grow old bones.
But she didn't. She died.
That should make me angry, shouldn't it? That should make me enraged with the God I was praying to?
Well, I'm not angry or enraged.
I'm deeply sad but I'm not angry.
What has happened is that I have come to know God in a way that I never knew him before. I have spoken to him, virtually every minute of every day, for months and months.
I have discovered that he is funny. Smart. Fearfully honest. Extremely loving. He doesn't give a brass farthing for rules and regulations if they don't suit him. He would prefer a party full of drug addicts in a squat to a smart cocktail party with the elite. He doesn't like it when people are judgemental, and he hates it when we are 'holier than thou.' He can't STAND social injustice.
In short, he is daring, fearless and ridiculously loving.
So why would a God like that kill off a sister like mine?
Impossible. He simply couldn't.
And so I have to re-think my thoughts about God. He clearly isn't someone who will immediately heal someone. Because he didn't. I still don't know why. But what he did do was to push himself RIGHT INTO my life, so that I could no longer ignore his gentle whispers or constant encouragement. And he pushed himself right into my sister's life, what was left of it. There was no ignoring him. That was NOT an option.
My sister is not here any longer. So where is she?
She's with that God I was talking about. That daring, fearless and ridiculously loving God that I have come to know. And that knowledge makes me...happy.
I'm sad, so sad, that I won't be able to talk to her in her kitchen, or wander around her beautiful vegetable garden with her, and sit on that little seat at the end in the sun, and chat about all of our children. We have eight between us. Quite a feat. When I think that I won't see her again in my lifetime it feels utterly, utterly bloody awful.
But I can look ahead. To after that.
Yes, I'm one of those crazy nutters that believe in Heaven.
And I'm very, very glad I do. I just know that we WILL be together again. We WILL walk about in a vegetable garden one day, with a little seat at the end. We WILL chat about our children and laugh about stuff. We WILL live and live and live. And there won't be any cancer because God and cancer cannot live side by side. And there won't be any worry or anxiety because God and worry and anxiety cannot live side by side.
And so there isn't really any need to worry, is there?
But for the time being I will have my red eyes, and I will cry a lot, because I MISS her.
Who wouldn't? She was the best sister anyone could ever have. The best wife. The best mother. The best daughter. The best friend.
And after I have cried a lot, and some years have gone by, I won't be so sad. We won't be so sad.
And always, in all of that, we will know that we will see her again.
God IS good. It's just that we don't always get to know him because we are either too busy, or he just doesn't seem that relevant to our world. Only he is. Relevant. Vital. Real.  And now that I am beginning to know that, I know that he would NEVER take a life. He would only give one.
Thank God.

Wednesday, 19 August 2015

I am Sailing

Have had simply marvellous fun sailing in the Mediterranean.
Well, not exactly Port Grimaud in large luxury Yacht.
More like very small 'Fun Boats', suitable for two people. Who are very small indeed.
But such fun!
Husband and I, plus Middle Son, Daughter and Youngest all holidaying in the South of France in the most idyllic of settings. Gorgeous pool, cicadas doing their thing day and night. Hot, sunny days lazing in the pool. Warm, sultry nights lazing in the pool.
After about ten extremely lazy days lazing by the pool. decided that Youngest was probably getting rather bored. This followed a conversation at breakfast (lazing by the pool) when he stated that holidays like this were probably more for 'old people'.
There was a brief pause.
'Are you saying that you are a bit bored?' we all asked, collectively feeling the punch of the word 'old'.
'Well, it is rather boring just eating and swimming and then lying down to sleep.'
Right, we thought...
And that is why we decided to go sailing...
Three boats (Fun Boats), all bright yellow and more like bath tubs than sailing boats. But they had sails on them and lots of ropes, so that was alright.
Husband was extremely excited and leaped upon the first Fun Boat, along with Youngest.
There was absolutely No Wind At All.
I clambered on to the next Fun Boat.
Middle Son and Daughter got on the third one.
Off we went!
Except that there was No Wind At All.
We sort of drifted around a bit, and occasionally there would be a tiny breeze that wafted us along rather nicely.
It was heaven. I sunbathed a bit more and we trailed our hands in the water and jumped off the boats a few times. Just because.
When we arrived back two hours later we had all decided that we needed to come back when there was a little more wind.
Which is why we returned two days later.
The only thing was that the wind was howling. Like in almost a gale. Like in Lots.
Beaucoup de vent, as they say around there.
The Fun Boats were available, every single one of them, and we clambered on board, this time swaggering a bit with our massive previous experience.
Within minutes our knuckles were white with the exertion of holding on to the flipping ropes, sails were crashing across (gybe ho) and we were SCORCHING across the water. It was marvellous!
The sun peeked through the clouds and then decided to come out completely and all was transformed. Sparkling water, a nice breeze and fast boats!
Well. It would all have been perfect if it hadn't been for a minor point.
Husband capsized. Not once. Not twice. Three times.
We never got to see the first capsize, as Husband very quietly righted the boat round the corner from where we were all dashing backwards and forwards across the water.
The second one was as Daughter and I were going at cracking pace across the same part of the bay. One moment there was Husband ahead of us, boat at jaunty angle.
"Hope Dad doesn't capsize!" chuckled Daughter and we shared a fond giggle. The next moment, Husband's boat goes from jaunty to jiggered and the entire sail disappears, with a small shout from Husband.
Daughter and I turn about (nautical terms coming out of our expert ears by now) and tear across to where Husband and boat are bobbing about. We are beaten there by Very Fast Rubber Sort of Boat with man from our sailing yard, who scoops Husband out by the shoulders and lays him flat, like a landed fish, on his Rubber Boat. Husband can't seem to get up due to tricky angle, so we see if we can help. Wind packs into our sail with a thump, and we are taken off, like a fierce tango dance, to the opposite side of the bay.
Daughter keeps reporting back.
"Dad is nearly sitting up."
"Dad has fallen back into the boat."
"Dad is being put back onto the Fun Boat."
Sort of thing.
Finally we see Husband flailing around with sails, but definitely the right way up, and in the right direction. Hooray!
With all sorts of shouting and sign language we decide that enough is enough, and that it is definitely time for a large Verre de Rosé for the adults and Lemonade for the children.
But not before Husband, with a tremendous roar of protest, capsizes for the third time, the boat whipping him off and into the water before you can say Domaine de Grange Neuve, Bergerac Rosé 2011.
With the deepest of shame I remember laughing heartily. So did Daughter. So did Middle Son. So did Youngest.
And after we'd laughed enough, we raced over to him, where Middle Son was extremely helpful and abandoned Youngest and their Fun Boat to assist his father in righting his wretched little dinghy.
For all their jumping up and down on the right bits, it didn't seem to be working, and so the very kind man who had already hauled Husband out once before, came dashing over again, and proceeded to do more hauling and righting of boats.
Youngest was now in a Fun Boat on his own, but with marvellous timing and grit, managed to expertly guide it back into the yard; this was no mean feat as the wind was feisty, to say the least. Daughter and I managed to get ours back too, and then we all watched as Husband and Middle Son brought theirs back. Would they capsize again?
Disappointingly, they didn't.
And we all piled into the car and drove to the nearest restaurant, where we partook of local Rosé and Lemonade, and laughed a bit more at Husband's expense. Who took it all on the chin.
"Shall we come tomorrow?' we all asked.
Husband looked a bit green. " I think we might leave it there for a bit," he said, slurping up a large mouthful of Bergerac Rosé 2011. And so we will leave it there. For a bit.
Looking forward to next time, when the wind will be kind and the boats will behave.
Even Husband's.

                                            (photo NOT of Husband, but very very similar!)

Friday, 31 July 2015

On taking sixteen bags to the Charity Shop

Staggered into local charity shop with ten bags of books this morning.
In bright voice to brisk lady behind the counter,
'Would you like these? I do have rather a lot.'
Realise that I sound like Margo from 'The Good Life.'
'I've only the two pair of 'ands,' says the brisk lady, who appears to be very cross. I'm not sure if it's my books, my Margo voice or the fact that she is battling with the price gun.
'Right,' I say, and think about asking where I should leave the books, or does she actually want the books, or should I sidle out again and try the other charity shop down the street.
I try again. Nice and polite.
'Shall I leave them here by the door at the back?'
'You can't go in the back. 'Ealth and Safety.' She glares at me, beady eyed,  price gun raised.
'OK, well, I'll leave them here, shall I?' I am determinedly polite, although my cheeks are beginning to ache with all the smiling. Perhaps I should just look as bloody cross as she is.
She doesn't answer, just crosses the shop and takes the bag from where I have put it on the floor.
I go back outside, across the road and down the street, where my car is waiting, boot gaping open like a landed fish.
I drag in another four bags, fingers cut through by the thin plastic handles.
'I've got some more!' I beam at the lady.
She looks positively fuming. Oh, dear.
I attempt to placate her again.
'Would you like me to take these books away? I don't want to burden you with them.'
She grimaces. 'We tike the yellow ones and put them out the back in the recycling.'
For a moment I feel rather like grimacing back. 'I don't think there are ANY yellow books in my bags, unless you mean, of course, Yellow Pages?'
She looks a bit blank.
Out I go. Across the road, down the street. My car boot gapes open, and I retrieve the last of the bags of books. There are six bags of Daughter's clothes. I pick up three. I hope she folded them all nicely. I can't be bothered at this moment to check. Back I go. Lady doesn't look up. I dump the bags and go and collect the last of Daughter's clothes and a brand new dog lead that we don't want. It's supposed to stop dogs pulling but kept getting in our dog's eyes. It is bright red, and very new looking. I hope that she'll be pleased with THIS, at least.
In I go. Heaving and panting with the last of the bags.
She barely looks up now, but grabs a bag from my hand and puts it by the door.
'Oh, I brought this.' I hold up the red lead.
'What's that?' she asks,' Is it a muzzle?'
'No, no! It's a dog lead that stops them pulling but it didn't work on our dog.'
'Does it go across their face and into their eyes?' she asks.
I am delighted. We seem to be getting on much better!
'Yes, yes! It goes over their nose and across their...'
She cuts across my explanation.  'Goes in their eyes. Very bad for them. They can't see.' And with that she walks away to the counter, grabbing the price gun, as if she would like to shoot me with it.
Well. Am by now feeling that I shouldn't have bothered carrying in sixteen bags of stuff but had thrown them at force through the door and scarpered.
I muster up the last bit of good will.
'Well, I'll see you soon. Bye! Have a good day!' The good will is almost killing me. I rake up a smile and nail it to my face.
She doesn't look up and I leave the shop.
For some reason I am filled with giggles. A lesser mortal would have clocked her one.
But needs must, and all that. I'll be back there with another sixteen bags next Saturday after clearing out another bedroom or two. Must make sure that one bag is heaving with yellow books.
And perhaps will take my own price gun with me. Pistols at dawn, and that sort of thing.
Might make the headlines.
'Charity Shop Drama. Local woman covered in £1.99.'

Wednesday, 18 March 2015

It's been a long time!

Oh, dear, I've disabled my chicken.
I'll explain.
We had a rather nasty visitor the other night in the shape of a fox.
He stole into our chicken run in the dead of night, and I awoke to the most appalling sounds of terrified birds and carnage at 4 o'clock in the morning.
After fifteen rather unpleasant minutes of chasing a fox away, and comforting those hens who were left, I and Husband, (who had joined me after hearing me yelling rather rude words to the fox) retired back to bed, leaving the poor old girls shocked and battered in their shed. All locked up. Again.
Two hens had died, and so we went about getting two replacements, who duly arrived a couple of days later from a very nice chicken farmer who lives down the road.
Our two new girls are extremely nice; one is called Margot, and the other one Betsy. Just don't ask why. They just ARE, OK?
Margot has taken to 'getting out' of the chicken run EVERYDAY.
How? The wire is high, there are no holes in the fence. She is clearly a Ninja chicken.
And so we, my husband and I, clipped her wings. Grabbed her while she was enjoying a perambulation around the vegetable garden, and with the use of my nice bright kitchen scissors, cut a couple of inches of wing off. On one side. Put her back into the chicken run and slammed the lock across.
Good job, we said, as we went back in for a cup of tea.
Looked out of window ten minutes later. Could see Margot BACK IN the vegetable garden, having a right old go at the left over mouldy old carrots.
Out we went again. We examined her wing, and reckoned that we needed to take two inches off the other wing.
Out came the lovely bright kitchen scissors again. Off came two inches of second wing.
Back we went to have another cup of tea, chuckling away at our wayward chicken. Ho ho ho!
Washing up my mug a few minutes later BLOODY Margot was back in the vegetable garden.
Out we went, Husband and I, determined that this chicken should not escape from the chicken run EVER again. What did she think she was; an ex film star from the film of that name?
Off came more wings. By now the poor chicken was looking decidedly dodgy, with tiny stumps of wings on each side.
'That'll do it,' muttered Husband as he chucked the feathers into the dustbin.
'That'll do it,' muttered I as I threw the chicken over the fence to fly down into the run.
Oops, I thought.
The poor chicken, having no wings, plummeted down like a rock.
Oh, dear, thought I. Have killed chicken.
But up she got, and started pecking away at another imaginary insect.
Phew, I thought.
Back we went inside.
Only to glance out of the window at the rather lovely sunset only MOMENTS later to see Margot BACK in the vegetable garden.
Right. THAT'S IT, we said.
We stomped out and grabbed the chicken and remembered just in time NOT to throw her back in the run.
How on EARTH did she get out?
It had now crossed our minds that the poor chicken was not so much Ninja as getting through fence somewhere.
It turned out that the fox had made a hole in the fence just next to the gate in his mad dash for freedom on being discovered.  It didn't look broken at all, unless you stuck your nose a couple of inches away from it. Which I did.
Poor old Margot. She looks a mess. Tiny stubby wings like a new born chick.
Mind you, am very glad that we realised finally that it was a broken fence that had her escaping like a chickeny sort of Steve McQueen, and not her flying out again. Goodness knows what we might have cut off next.
All's well now. Fence is mended, and Margot is quite content with the chicken run.
Now we wait for a hen to produce the first egg since the Fox Incident. Am missing my boiled egg in the morning.
We'll keep you posted. xxx

Wednesday, 1 January 2014

Village Pantomime

For my sins, once every couple of years or so, I produce and direct our Village Pantomime.
And this year it was time to do it again.
And so we sat down and sort of wrote a play called 'She Ain't No Cinderella' back in March, and then sort of wrote a bit more in April.  And carried on doing that during the Summer Months, until... hey presto!  A play was born.
Everyone in the village was very excited (we don't get out much) about the new Panto, and our meeting in September to 'gauge interest' was an enormous success with hundreds of villagers clamouring to be in it. (Exaggeration needed as 25 villagers sounds rather dull).
And when we started to rehearse in October, all seemed to be going rather swimmingly.  Each Scene had someone in charge who would report back to me how it was all going.
Easy peasy!
In November I managed to visit various scenes and do my best to make some sense out of the somewhat baffling scenes some people had concocted. (Eight Sugar Plum Fairies, four of which were men)
In December we had big rehearsals for all the cast, taking place at the venue where the play would be performed on the 20th and 21st December.
And finally, on December 15th, we held our Dress Rehearsal!  All too exciting!
The next day the stage was built, the lights were going up; it was all going wonderfully!
That afternoon I was sitting comfortably having my hair cut, while Middle Son reclined on the sofa in the sitting room, recovering from Pneumonia.  Hadn't I mentioned that? Or the fact that I was covering at work for a colleague who had had an operation?  Or that I had done no Christmas shopping owing to sick children and colleagues? No?  Oh, well.  Suffice it to say that I had been a tad Busy.
No, not busy.
Frantically, horrendously, tortuously Busy.
And so, sitting in my kitchen while having my hair cut was a total Luxury.
Until the phone rang.
It was Graham, fondly known as Boxy as he was in charge of the Box Office for the Panto.
'Proddy?' he asked.
Yes, I know.  Nick names are naff, but we like them, OK?
'Proddy?' he asked.  (short for Producer. DO keep up)
'Yes?' I answered in a dreamy kind of way.  People fiddling with my hair always makes me go a  bit cross eyed.
'Bit of a problem.  Our venue for the play doesn't  seem to have a Licence for the Entertainment.'
And so began the Nightmare.
Apparently, everyone needs a Licence (french accent) for any Entertainment they might be providing to their unsuspecting audience.  And the place where we were setting up for the panto Had No Licence.
Full Stop.
I won't bore you with the 'maybe we could put a stage in the barn' or 'what about the pub, could we fit it in there?' or 'Sod it, let's do it in my house' sort of thing.
Because WHEREVER you want to put on a play, even if you WROTE the BLOODY thing yourself, it makes no difference.  You have to have an Entertainment Licence.  And we Didn't Have One.
Oh, joy.
Oh, thrills.
Oh, bugger.
After I had had my hair cut and dried, and I had collected Youngest from school, and waited until Daughter was brought back by Very Kind Friend, I went for a walk with Milo, our dog.
It rained.
Very hard.
And as I walked in this Gale and Downpour I attempted to ring various Village Halls who might have a Sodding Entertainment Licence around and about who might be able to let us perform our weird and wonderful Panto.
No answer.  From anyone.
'Leave a message and we'll get back to you in March' sort of thing.
Arrived home battered from rain and hair looking distinctly Uncoiffured.
Message from Dial Post Village Hall.  Could I ring Alan Childs.
Yes, I could!
Rang Alan Childs.
Who said, 'Yes, alright, you can have do your Pantomime with a cast of forty five, with a 7 x 4 metre stage for two performances at the end of the week in our village hall.'
'Really?' I asked, a little stunned.
'Yes,' said Alan Childs.
'One thing,' I asked.
'What's that,' he said.
'Have you got an Entertainment Licence?'
'Yes,' he said.
'One more thing,' I asked.
'What's that?' he asked.
'Have you got a drinks licence?'
'Yes,' he said.
At this point I think I told Alan Childs that I loved him and could I have his babies.
Which might have caused a problem as am distinctly menopausal, and have perfectly good Husband who has already provided plenty of rather splendid children.
He took it all in his stride and continued to tell me the 'slight problems' that we might have to sort out.
'Oh?' I asked.  Full of optimism that any problems could be sorted. Hadn't we just found ourselves a Village Hall at the eleventh hour?
'Well,' he began. 'You won't be able to have your Dress Rehearsal on the Thursday night because there is Bowling in the hall.
'Oh,' I said.
'And you won't be able to get into the hall until 12.00 midday on Friday because of Badminton.'
'Oh,' I said.
'And you can't go into the hall on the Saturday as there is a party from 1.00 until 6.00. for twenty five four year olds.'
'Oh,' I said.
'And while you are setting up on the Friday, there's an Old People's Lunch in the meeting room.'
'Oh, 'I said.
'And on the Friday night there is also a Bingo Christmas Party in the meeting room where you would be changing, so you'll have to change in the hut outside.'
'Oh,' I said.
'But apart from all that, it shouldn't be any problem at all.'
But do you know, it wasn't! A problem at all.
We went to the village hall the next morning to check that it was going to work with our stage there.  Me, Boxy, Chas and Nick.  Chas was one of us who wrote the play, and Nick was doing all the sound.
We enthused and cheered as we saw that it Might Actually Flipping Well Work.
We cheered a bit more when we saw the hut where we would all be changing on the First Night.
We cheered again when we saw the immaculate kitchen where we could flog all the drink.
We clapped when we saw the meeting room, where we could change on the Second Night.
We clasped Alan Childs warmly by the hand as we told him how grateful we were.
And then Chas had to ring the Scaffolders who had just spent four hours putting the stage up in the old venue. And ask them if they could they take it down and put it up again in another hall?
'Yes,' they said.
'When?' they asked.
'Friday,' Chas said.
'Fine,' they said.
Honestly, aren't people flipping gorgeous?
Boxy got the lights.  Nick sorted the sound.  I emailed everyone to say there was No Need To Panic but we weren't in the old venue owing to an Entertainment Licence Absence, and we were now in Dial Post Village Hall. Could anyone help on Friday?
Tsunami of offers back to help on Friday.
The unbelievable kindness was extraordinary.  These people are seriously SERIOUSLY nice.
By Friday our stage was up, our lights were up, the sound system was up, our spirits were up, and the doors opened at 6.30 to welcome the first of our audience.
Oh, did I mention that Boxy and his wonderful Wife rang around to make sure that everyone who had bought tickets knew of the change of venue?  Or that the stage people took another 4 hours to set up the new stage with not One Cross Word.  Just smiles and hard work.
Did I say that the entire cast turned up at the dress rehearsal and calmly got on with it without lights, or a stage?  Because we had to practice in our old Venue owing to the Bowling in the new one.
Did I mention the small fact that NONE of us had actually REHEARSED on the STAGE before the actual PERFORMANCE?
The Panto brought the house down.  I sat with Boxy who was also doing the lights. (Did I mention the fact that he hadn't been able to practise the chuffing lighting cues until the FIRST PERFORMANCE?)
And while I sat with him, watching his careful moves with the lighting cues, seeing the terrified faces of the cast through the makeshift curtain, hearing Nick behind us muttering about the next sound cue, doing everything PERFECTLY, watching Scene One as it started, the Ugly Sisters (Husband was one... black wig and lipstick....) and Pantomime Cow (as you do) doing their utterly crazy but hilarious Scene, I felt SO proud of my wonderful, mad, generous DEAR cast. .
That can be told on Monday that their entire play was to be moved to another venue. And to carry on with all changes so calmly and with such good humour.
We added a bit to the play. At the last minute. Simon, our Village Tenor (has the voice of an angel, so does his wife Sarah) started the play by becoming a member of the Horsham District Council,. and demanded to know it we had a Licence for the Entertainment.
Dunno, said Chas (Step Mother). 'Audience, do you call this entertainment?'
'NO!' came a roar from the audience, already somewhat lubricated by the extremely well stocked bar.
Horsham District Councillor was then gagged and  'frogmarched' down the aisle by myself and Mandy (Fairy Godmother).
Brought the house down.
The applause at the end was thunderous.  And I looked over at the cast (I was up on that stage as well owing to a small part in Scene 3) and every single one of those darlings was smiling fit to burst, gazing out at their friends and relations who were yelling their appreciation for a fourth curtain call.
And I thought to myself that it doesn't get much better than this.
Because, quite frankly, it doesn't.
Thanks, Cast!  Here's to the next one.
And can someone sort out that BLOODY Entertainment Licence before the Dress Rehearsal.
(Exit Producer, followed by Horsham District Councillor with clipboard)

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

A drain on the resources?

On Saturday we unblocked a drain.  It took 7 bamboo sticks, 2 hose pipes, 2 blankets, 1 pair of pyjamas, (don't ask) 12 saucepans and 3 kettles of boiling water, plus half a pot of bicarbonate of soda, a bag of salt, and 5 bolshy and bad tempered Garnetts.  That's us, by the way.
Husband was seen after lunch brandishing bamboo sticks, and disappearing up to his neck in the two drains close to our kitchen.  Each time I looked out of the kitchen window I  could see him, head deep into the drain with his boots sticking out onto the grass. 
'What are you doing?' I asked him cheerily as I came out to join him.  
'Clearing out the drains,' he said, wiping a rather grimy hand over his hair, leaving small bits of suspicious looking bits in it from the drain.
'Want some help?' I asked, hoping he'd say no. 
And so I pulled on a pair of boots, plus a pair of marigolds, and got stuck in, as it were.
Man, it was fun!
There was a blockage between the two manholes (????? sounds rather unpleasant) which needed to be unblocked. 
First of all I got a huge bucket of water, and hurled it down the manhole nearest the kitchen. Then I ran to the other manhole to see if the water came out.
Like Pooh Sticks!
Only it didn't.  Nothing came out, except the stuff that seemed to be on Husband's hair.
Husband started shoving the hose up the drain. 'Grab it when it comes out!'  he yelled, into the bowels of the drain.  
'I can see it!'  I shouted back into the bowels at my end.  As it were.   The ground was all wet so grabbed a couple of old blankets and laid them down at each manhole (that word is not getting any less savoury) so we wouldn't get soaking wet. And grabbed the end of the hose and pulled it through.  We see-sawed it back and forth with the hose, as Husband instructed, removing rather nasty looking bits of stuff, and then pulled the hose out.
'Let's tie a knot in it and put that through,' says Husband.  I look at him to check he's not joking.
He isn't.  He is tying a knot in it, but it's in the hose, not anything rude.
Then he carefully shoves that into the drain,and we yell at each other from one end to the other when it comes out the other end, and repeat the see saw thing, and then pull the hose out.  Even more stuff comes out!!
'I know,' I say, thinking that I am a perfect natural with drains, and maybe I should be a plumber.  'Let's attach something to the hose, and then pull it through,and that should bring out even MORE stuff!'
'Yes!' agrees Husband, and we carefully attach a pair of my pink pyjamas, long relegated to the 'rags' drawer in the workshop.
And then back the hose goes, into the drain.  And we PULL!  PULL! PULL!
Only this time there is a wee tiny problem.
It gets stuck.
Oh. Dear.
The hose is straining so much it might actually snap, and there appears to be no way at all that we can get  the hose out.
Husband is looking Rather Agitated.
I yell at the children to come and give a hand pulling the damned hose out.  And all five of us, (Eldest is in London) have a go pulling the hose.
It is stuck hard.
'I know!' says I.
Husband is not looking very hopeful.
'Let's boil all the saucepans, and the kettle, and pour it down the drain, so that it melts all the nasty fat in the drain!'  It appears that the hose can't get through because of huge deposits of fat along the pipe.
So in we go, leaving Husband up to his armpits in the drain, trying to pull bits of fat out.
There's lots of jolly chat about what will work best, and what saucepans we should use, and who will pour them out and what will happen then.
The saucepans finally boil, and out we troop, four of us with brimming saucepans.  Back I go to get the kettle.  And with a ONE TWO THREE we pour the boiling water down the drain at the same time, and watch with bated breath for a result.
There is no result.  Nothing happens.  Bugger all.
There is a thin drizzle of rather dark looking fluid that seeps out of the end of the drain.
Husband says nothing but lowers himself again into the drain with a very gloomy expression on his face.
'Let's pull on the hose!' I suggest, and we all have a heave and a ho, but the hose stays resolutely where it  was.
'Back we go!' I say, with a forced cheer, 'Let's boil some more saucepans!'  And back we go and boil all the saucepans again, this time loading them up with salt and bicarbonate of soda, as someone has read on Google that this is what is needed with fat in drains.
Out we go again, with the four saucepans and the kettle.  We all say ONE TWO THREE,  and WHOOSH!  Down goes the boiling water, and we tear to the other end of the drain and watch with barely suppressed excitement for a result.
There is no result.  Nothing happens. Bugger all.
That thin drizzle thing happens again.
Husband looks like Eeyore.
We heave a bit more on the hose.  Daughter is convinced she can hear the hose snapping.
'That's not the hose,' says Husband, 'That is my foot.'
'Back we go again!' I say.  Children are beginning to grizzle a bit about the repetition of boiling saucepans and kettles and one of them wanders off to watch the telly.  Middle Son roars at them to come back.
They do.
And so we wait another 7 minutes for the water to boil, and then out we go again.
We aren't very optimistic.
ONE TWO THREE!  WHOOSH.... and down goes the boiling water.  There is a gurgle and then silence.
'Let's pull the hose!' I shout.  My enthusiasm is quite genuine, but I can see that my optimism is not matched by Husband or by children.
We heave.  We heave a bit more.  And oh JOY, the hose starts to move a little.
Husband starts to shout orders.  'Stop.  Start.  Pull. Stop.'
Thoroughly confused we stop and start, and then feel the hose REALLY moving.  And then, with a slurp and a whoosh, OUT comes the hose, and we all yell and shout with joy.
My poor pyjamas.  They are utterly disgusting.  Clinging to them are bits of fat and grease.
There is a healthy sound of rushing water, and out comes the most disgusting display of fat and detritus.
'Ewwwww,' we all say, awe at such a revolting sight.  And we cheer and dance and pump the air.
And after that we clear all the bamboo sticks and saucepans away, and take Milo for a walk, our patient labrador, who had been watching the entire episode sitting on his haunches, with his beautiful head on one side.
Such fun, as Miranda would say.
Am definitely going to train as Plumber.  Clearly very gifted with kettles and boiling water and old pjamas.

Saturday, 14 September 2013

What next?

Went shopping with Youngest.  Started at the Post Office where I had large amounts of Cash to pay in, and where Youngest had brought all his savings, wanting to exchange his twenties, tens and pound coins for lots of £5 notes.  This was because he wanted to be able to 'throw them all up into the air'.
As you do.
So we did that, and out came Youngest with £130 worth of £5 notes.  I managed to stop him from throwing them all up into the air before we got home, and also managed to get them out of his clutched hands, in case he dropped the damned things.
Into the Pet Shop we went, to get yet more rabbit food.  This is clearly for our  rabbits, two of them, rescued some years ago for the gasp inducing price of £200. At the Pet Shop they cost £25 each.
Long story, but due to having to have 'inspection' from the Rabbit Rescue Place where we had visited, after our dear old Milly the rabbit had died.  We passed this fearful examination.  I lived in agony for three days before the Rabbit Lady came, attempting to make our garden a Rabbit haven, and not the Dump Ground it had been for old lawn mowers, rotting furniture and rusting ironware...)
We were then allowed to pick up our rabbits from the Rabbit Centre, which was THIRTY MILES AWAY and then go and get a VAST rabbit cage as our one wasn't big enough.
Husband had very nice colleague at his work who didn't want her old rabbit cage (vast) and so off we went in a Rented Van costing £100 for three days to get the double rabbit hutch from FORTY FIVE MILES AWAY, ditch our old one, plus get the sodding rabbits, who cost £120 as they had been stuffed full of every vaccination possible known to Rabbit-kind, plus a Donation which quite frankly I felt like stuffing up the Rabbit Lady's dungarees.
Anyway, I digress.
So into the pet shop we went today, and while purchasing Said Food, had a conversation about Antlers with the sales lady, as you do.
Dogs rather like chewing the things, and in particular Antlers, and there were a whole lot of the rather sinister looking antlers for sale. Youngest listened earnestly while Sales Lady talked about how strong the necks were on Deer, owing to the Antlers, and how huge the Antlers were, and wasn't it amazing.  Clearly we agreed, and after another minute or two about Antlers and Necks and Dogs, we left.
'What next?' asked Youngest, as we dragged the Rabbit Food along the street.
'Co-op,' I said
'No, what's NEXT,' asked Youngest again.
'CO-OP,' said I again, loudly and clearly.
'No, Mummy, what's NEXT?'
This time I think I shouted it.  'CO-OP!!!!'
'No, Mummy, I said, NEXT.  What NEXT?'
Oh, my dear Lord Almighty.  If I had a choice I might have smashed my aching head against some nice thick concrete and achieved the blessed oblivion of the dead..
But I didn't.  Clearly I wasn't getting what Youngest was going on about.
So with an admirable display of Patience and Motherliness I asked him what he meant.
'Next'.  He said.  'Next.  What next?'
I wondered then about his sanity.  'We. Are. Going. To. The. Co-op.'
Youngest then spoke in Patient Tones as if to a moron. 'Mummy, NECKS.   What NECKS?'
Oh, Ker-ist.  Necks!!  It dawned, finally, like the promise of light at the end of a very long Tunnel.
'You mean the necks, with the antlers?' I ask with barely suppressed excitement.
'Yes!' he replied,  'What necks?'
And with relief and a fair amount of giggling, I explain that they are Deer Necks and very strong.
And with the odd chuckle from both of us, we enter the Co-op and continue our shopping.
Honestly, whatever next.

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

Oh, deary, deary, me.  It's NOT good.
Youngest has done it again.
We were talking about what present to give my friend whose birthday is on Friday.  Last year gave her the most enormous pair of pants EVER.
HUGE.  SO vast that two grown men can fit, one entire body in each pant.  As it were.
Why? Why did I give her enormous pants?
Absolutely no idea.
It is her birthday again, so thinking caps were on, and my three children were all having a thought about what I could give her.
Giant thongs? asked Middle Son, guffawing and spitting out tea.
Youngest giggles hard.  Obviously finds that very amusing indeed.
'What's a thong?'
We all spit out our tea again, and try to explain what a thong is.  Difficult to keep it clean.
As it were.
Anyway, we all agreed that it's NOT a great idea, not in the grand scheme of things. Thongs.
Big silence while we all think again.
'Giant condom?' asks Daughter, hardly able to get the words out.
After we've all shouted EWWW and told her how disgusting that is, and NO, I WILL NOT buy giant condoms, we all settle down again.
Youngest still giggling.  You can see the think bubbles working.
'What's a condom?' he asks, clear voice slicing the quiet air like a knife.
Oh, no.
'Well,' I say.  'Um.'  I absolutely can't think of a nice, clean way to explain this one.
The other older children looking across at me with grins as wide as the M25.  Wondering what on EARTH I am going to say.
Youngest pipes up.  'Is it a Love Bag?'
That's it.  We've all had it.  Tea, biscuits, spit, all comes out in total hysterical bout of painful laughter.  Youngest looking on, all interested and amused that he has caused such a riot.
Middle Son horrified and delighted at the same time.  Daughter pealing with laughter and unable to talk, let alone stay on her chair.
'Love bag?' I ask feebly, unable to frame words with mouth that is so wide open in mirth it has stopped functioning as tool for language.
'Yes, is it a Love Bag?' asks Youngest.  You could even HEAR the capital letters as he said the words.
It was no good.  I couldn't answer as paralysed by hysteria.  Gave up.  Washed up and ran bath for still giggling Youngest.
And as I did so, mused in confused sort of a way WHY Youngest would come up with Love Bag?? But have to say that it is rather brilliant way of describing said item.  New marketing tool?

And so Youngest now believes that condoms are Love Bags and that thongs are pants without a bottom.
Great conversationalist, my kids.
And so my friend's birthday?  What will I get her?  I thought a nice book and a bunch of flowers.
Am SO not asking my children for any more advice.  EVER.

Friday, 26 April 2013

In which Youngest becomes a Pirate

Youngest and Husband are off for on a Rugby Tour today.
Staying in a Caravan for two nights.  Not exactly the Dorchester, but should be good fun.
Rugby all day Saturday, and nearly all day on Sunday.  Otherwise mucking about with lots of other eight/nine year olds, doing all sorts of eight/nine year old sort of stuff.  Kicking balls. Throwing balls.  Scratching balls.
Youngest had some worries about Stuff.
I asked him fondly what it was that was worrying him.
'Well,' he 'pondered.  'I think that I am a bit worried about the caravan.'
Well, so am I, my angel.  So am I.
'And I think that I am a bit worried about the Pirates.'
It seems that he is a Pirate for the weekend.  Has to take some Pirate costume sort of thing.
Husband had come home from work this afternoon, with about an hour to spare before leaving for Rugby Tour, and started to think about what sort of Pirate things they could take.
(he's had about two months to think about what sort of Pirate things they could take.)
He had found two eye patches in a shop.  Hooray!
Nothing else.  Naught.  Nada.
Right. OK then. Time for Motherly Intervention.
And so together we find two spotted handkerchiefs.
Full. Stop.
'I think Youngest might need something else apart from a spotted handkerchief and an eye patch,' I said, hurling Youngest's pajamas and socks into suitcase.
'No!  He'll be fine with this,' says Husband, hurling pajamas and socks into suitcase.  His own.
Youngest arrives home from school.
'Daddy is the stupidest daddy in the world,' he tells me as he hurls pajamas and socks into a suitcase.  Apparently I had packed it 'all wrong'.
'Why?' I asked, repacking the hurled pajamas as soon as they touched the suitcase.
'Because all I have for a pirate is a stupid hanky and a stupid eye patch.'  He scowls at the socks and stuffs in about fourteen t-shirts.  I take them out, fold, remove twelve of them, and stuff them back in.
'Better make one then,' I say nonchalantly.
I can feel him staring at me, appalled.
'Make one?'
'Yes.  Make one.  We need a really tatty pair of trousers and we hack them to pieces. Got any?'
His eyes light up, hope shining bright. He searches his room.
'This pair?' and he holds up a longish pair of shorts, hideous shade of goose poo green, and never worn.
Our eyes meet and we grin at each other.
'Come on!' I say, and we TEAR into the kitchen and race over to the scissors.
I grab the orange pair. They cut like a dream, and I start to cut jagged lines up and down the hem line.
Youngest gets really excited and pleads with me for him to have a go.  He attempts to make holes in the shorts.  I warn him not to have huge holes in the wrong places.
'Or all your friends will see your pants.'
Youngest finds this hysterical, which doesn't particularly help with the cutting.
But we get it done and within five minutes the shorts are tattered and beautifully Pirate like.
'Right.  Now all we need is a top with horizontal stripes.  WHERE will we find one of those?'  I look suitably doubtful, knowing full well there is a top with horizontal stripes sitting in his chest of drawers.
'WAIT!' he shouts and dashes out of the kitchen.
Twenty seconds later he is back.  Brandishing the top with horizontal stripes.
'HOORAY!' I shout, and we grin some more.
He tears off his school uniform and puts on the new Pirate costume, along with spotted handkerchief so despised five minutes before.
And with the generous loan of my gorgeous eye liner ready to be applied later to create a suitable moustache, my darling Youngest and Husband are off, grinning like Cheshire cats.
As their car crunches over the gravel I wave and wave.  Youngest is waving back, all reservations gone, looking JUST like Jack Sparrow.
Only MUCH more handsome.
I SO love being a mother.
Have fun, Youngest.  And don't you DARE lose my eye liner.

Friday, 1 March 2013

So Much Chocolate, so little time

Daughter decided to make pudding the other night to welcome Grandmother who was staying with us.  She took ages to choose which one, and then eventually went for a Chocolate Swiss Roll.
Goody, we all thought.  And left her to it.
From the kitchen came the sounds of cooking and pans being moved about. 
We lit a fire in the sitting room.  I sat back knowing that the casserole was in the oven, potatoes cooking nicely, and vegetables ready to go when needed. 
Delicious smells from the kitchen.  And not long later we all sit round the table.
And finally pudding arrives.
Proudly, Daughter places it in the middle of the table, next to the candles.  We all stare at it, spellbound.  It is beautiful.  A chocolate swiss roll, all delicately powdered with icing sugar, cream gleaming from the carefully folded rolls of chocolate sponge. 
Youngest stares at it too.
There is a short silence while he thinks.
And then he speaks.  Oh, dear God, no...
'Now THAT is exactly the size of Middle Son's poo,' he announces finally, in triumphant tones.
For DAYS he has been trying to describe the size of said Son's poo, viewed with incredulity one morning before school in the downstairs loo.
There is an appalled silence. 
And then chaos.  I cannot keep in the bellyful of laughter, and heave great wheezing gasps of mirth.  Daughter gives out peal after peal of giggles, which makes us all go off again.  Middle Son is utterly appalled and then totally pole-axed with laughter.  Mother in law goes pink, and then is off herself, giggling helplessly.  Husband is seen bend double over his glass of wine.  On close inspection he is crying with laughter and cannot sit upright.
And so it continued, for about 3 minutes of solid (do beg your pardon) laughter, until with hiccups and sighs and 'oh dears' we gradually stop.
Husband gallantly takes up knife to serve pudding.
'Right, who wants a piece.'
And we're off again.
Honestly, you really can't take us anywhere.