Wednesday, 28 January 2009

My Friend Teddy

Great. I've Been Tagged... a photo one this time... get your 4th photo from 4th file. Never mind, thought I. I can Lie. Just get the nicest one and Blog. Easy!
Thought I would have a look at 4th photo in 4th File. What do I get? Me in Garden? Children frolicking in Wood? Husband looking handsome at Beach? Cute ones of kittens?
I get one of a Teddy. My 2nd son's Teddy. Somehow he has sneaked in a picture of Teddy (and his Friend) and now it sits as my 4th picture in my 4th File. The 3rd Picture was of Me and Husband Laughing Gaily in Garden. The 5th one was Sweet Daughter on Swing in dappled sunshine.
4th one... Stuffed Animal.
Bloody Marvellous.

Should say that Teddy is actually my Fifth child.
Have to check that Teddy is with us before every Visit to Grandparents or Friends.
He once got lost when we were staying in Very Large Pile in Scotland. 29 bedrooms. Where the hell do you start to look for Teddy in a House That Size?
Looked. Looked more. Turned every pillow, cushion, Suit of Armour inside out(yup!Suits of Armour!)
Checked all bathrooms. Library. Dining Room. Drawing Room. Morning Room. Boot Room. Round Room. Ball Room. (!)
Son had to go to bed Without Teddy. It was Unbearable. His little face, bravely facing a lonely night, was pale and anxious, and fighting back the tears.
Will we find Teddy, he wanted to know.
Course we will! we answered.
Left him in his room. All alone. In Huge Four Poster Bed. Looking small and lost.
Ran round the house like Mad Things. Oh, and the Garden. Just a Thousand Acres or so. (Not really, but must Exaggerate or it's a little dull, don't you think?)
The next morning I was in the kitchen. We had looked Everywhere.
Sat down in Exhaustion next to Huge Aga in nice comfy chair. Sighed. Felt, inexplicably, that One Buttock was higher than the other. Lifted it a little and lowered it again.
Shifted in seat. Got off it. Checked under cushion.
The Ecstatic reunion! The Joy! The Wonder! I Hugged Teddy Tight. Had tears in my eyes.
Ran to find Son.
The Look on his face...

So, Meet Teddy.
He's the Dude on the Right, by the way.

Tuesday, 27 January 2009

Stopped by the Police!

Thought we'd go to the Dump last weekend.
Filled car with the following...
One used and broken Car Tyre.
A huge and very smelly rug, rolled up.
Nine old and damp Cardboard Boxes.
A large yellow Plastic Box, with cracks in it.
An ancient Lawn Mower.
Some rusty broken chicken wire.
A Snapped Off bit of tricycle.
Several plastic bags full of total Crap not worth mentioning.
12 bottles (Empty)
Our recycling box for plastic bottles (full)
Our recycling box for newspaper (full)
Three Children
Well. Crammed them all in. Did up belts round anything that moved. Husband looking disbelieving.
'Can you fit all that in?'
'Just have, darling.'
Children looking like Refugees.
Drove very slowly along the roads like Very Old Lady.
Passed a Police Car going the other way.
Laughed a lot and said,'Phew! Lucky that police car was going the other way!' and such like.
Children asking 'Why, Mummy?'
'Oh,' I said, airily, 'Policemen don't like you to have too much in your car.'
I looked in my Rear View Mirror. The car was Crammed Packed Tight with Detritus. I couldn't see a thing out of the back window, as boxes were bunched up against it. One child had to sit with face squashed against window as Smelly Rug was positioned from gear stick back past children into boot.
You will probably be thinking.' Why the Hell has she got all the children in the car?'
They like coming too, OK? It is, apparently, a Big Deal going to the Dump.
Continued to drive like Very Old Lady. Saw sort of Flashing.
Damnation and Bollocks, I thought. It's the Police.
Sure was. The same Police Car that had passed me had seen my Unbelievable Load, and come back to Harrass me.
Slowed down and stopped . He got out. I couldn't move as was wedged in by rug and a few plastic bags.
I put my window down.
He looked Astounded.
Excuse me, Madam, Where are you going?
I felt like saying, For a Drive in the Country.
But didn't.
Said,' To the Dump. Have some stuff to get rid of.'
He noted the Very Old Lawn Mower, the handle of which poked out jauntily between Son and Daughter.
'Do you realise....' And he was Off.
Yes. I do. Yes. Yes. Yes. Very, very Sorry. Indeed.
Children looking Rather Interested in the back.
He asked me why I had so much in the car.
'Well, because I have to go to the Dump.'
Wrong answer.
'Because I am Very Silly and won't do it again?'
Right Answer.
He let me off with a caution. Told me to drive Slowly. Thought to self that couldn't go much slower or would Stop Altogether.
Drove off, leaving Policeman by the side of the road.
Continued on to Dump.
Enormous satisfaction seeing Smelly Rug disappear into sea of Household Waste. Lugged Ancient Lawn Mower down to other end for Metal Etc. Thought of endless summer evenings when I had pushed the Bastard round the lawn, with only a 4 inch strip (honestly) being Mown. Other 16 inches was Long Fat Grass. Hurled Ancient Mower into corner.
Children awed by Huge Machine that Squashed Stuff.
Hurled, threw and chucked. Everyone else doing the same with Slightly Sheepish Looks.
Got back into Empty but still rather Smelly car. Little bits of damp cardboard strewn round the place. Wet dust.
Yeee Haaah! We all yelled, several time each.
And Zoomed Home.
Could see out of Window! Could check rear Mirror! Children could sit Upright!
Drove Extra Specially Carefully, just in case Policeman was about.
He wasn't.
They Never Are when you have nothing to be Guilty about.
And they Always Are when you have.

Post Script
No children were harmed in the telling of this Tale. Exaggeration was used to Excess.

Saturday, 24 January 2009

Stain Day

Tucked Youngest in last night. After a jolly game with his Cars. Brrrmmm. Brrrmmm. Don't quite get the Rules. But play with Great Gusto.
We snuggled up together under his cosy duvet.
There was a silence.
'Mummy?' said Youngest. 'Is tomorrow a Stain Day?'
'A Stain Day?' I asked, a little puzzled.
'A Stain Day?' I repeated.
He looked at me, world weary.
'Mum -mee... you know, Stain Day. The day when Daddy Stays.'
Lights finally switch on in head.
Staying Day!
I hug him close.
'Yup, tomorrow is Stain Day.'
'Oh, good,' he said. 'Yeh!' and punched the air, as he does.
Stain Day.
I love my Boy.

Thursday, 22 January 2009

I've Been Arrested!

Had a somewhat bizarre time in our local village yesterday. Went to get Cat Litter. Bought it and staggered to car with enormous bag of the stuff. Tried to wave nonchalently to friend but it's difficult to do when both hands are under Heavy Bag and you don't have a spare one. Hand, that is. Managed, with great deal of eyebrow lifting and smiles.
Decided to go up the street to get Kidney Beans. Does it get more exciting, I hear you ask.
Well, yes.
As I was crossing the entrance to the car park I saw a rather dapper, elderly gentleman wave madly to his elderly lady friend across the car park.
'Guess what!' he yelled, 'I've been arrested!'
His face was as proud as if he had received an OBE from Her Majesty herself.
'Go on,' shrieked back his Friend. 'How on earth did you get to do that?'
'Well...' he said.
And wouldn't you know it, a large lorry came into the car park, right between me and the Arrested Man. Couldn't hear a bloody thing.
'Damn,' I thought to myself.
Short of going round the other side of the lorry and joining in with the conversation, I couldn't really see how I could stay standing there.
And carried on up the High Street. Bought my Kidney Beans.
Walked on up to the Bank.
There was my Convict! Looking terribly pleased with himself.
Could I go up to him and ask? I thought somewhat irrationally.
Didn't need to, because Convict was starting to talk to Cashier.
'Guess what!' my friend boomed. 'I've been arrested!'
'Never,' said the Cashier, eyes agog. 'Whatever for?'
Well, I thought. Here we jolly well go!
But would you believe it, in came one of my Rather Dull Acquaintance.
'Hiiiiiii.' she said, wreathed in smiles. And launched into Long Detailed Story about her mother and the New House.
I wasn't in the least interested in her mother or the New House. Was desperately trying to listen to Convict tell his tale to Agog Cashier.
Kept hearing things like, 'Police came..... asked me about....did I have my.....'
Never heard One Key Word about what the arrest was about.
Rather Dull Acquaintance finished her story, checked her watch and was gone, with a swift wave over her shoulder.
Well. Damnation and hell. Convict had finished his tale and gone.
Looked up and down the High Street, but there was No Sign.
Thought I had better get my Fire Lighters. (my husband sometimes says, what did you do today and I say shopping and he says with a fond smile, oh that must have been fun. Right.)
As I was emerging from Robert Bunce, as it were, was delighted to see Convict, once again in Deep Conversation.
Hooray! I thought and sidled up looking as if I was reading the instructions on the Fire Lighters Very Carefully.
'Well,' he said.
(here we go, I thought!)

Quite a long silence really.

'Have you tried Slug Pellets?'

That was it then. I wasn't going to find out.
So off I went.
Hadn't got past the Post Office when I heard that now familiar roar,
I swirled round, saw that he was talking to man coming out of Post Office.
'What,' said Man, looking amused.
Before I could stop myself I told him.
'He's been arrested.'
'No!!!' Man said, guffawing. 'What on earth for?'
Stared back at him. Lost for words, really.
'Better ask him!' I said, pointing jauntily to Convict.
And scarpered.
Had Quite Bad Giggles all the way back to my car.
Never did find out why Convict Got Arrested.
But it was Most Satisfactory to assist in the story.

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

Welcome, Mr President

Ok. It's Day One in your new job. You have a brand new sparkling office. Your desk is quite big and posh. Everyone is really Polite to you as you are the New Boy. They tell you where the coffee machine is and where the loos are.
Then they leave you alone in your Posh Office.
There is a silence. You stare out of the window. It is rather a Nice View.
Suddenly you get an overpowering feeling to dance. Excitement fills your bones. You stand up. And Boogie. For Quite A Long Time. I've Got The Jo-ob! I've Got The Jo-ob!
This is my rather fond view of Barack Obama this morning. Dancing for pure joy in that Oval Office. Doing a quick high five to the portraits round the wall. Shouting out of the window, 'I've Got The Jo-ob!'
But I think it was probably a little different.
Bet he was shattered.
Bet he was a little over-awed by that view.
Bet he longed for a coffee but didn't like to ask.
Bet he needed the loo but held on.
Bet he couldn't eat all his breakfast.
Bet he pretended to be Confident and President-like.
Bet he felt sick.

Good luck, Mr President.
You are going to do Just Fine.
You have to. We are all counting on you.

Sunday, 18 January 2009

The Queen Doesn't Have To Do This

I went out a couple of days ago, to meet a friend for coffee. She is quite a Scary Friend and I don't see her that often precisely because she is so Scary.
She is a Stickler for Time. And I am not.
We had arranged to meet in a nearby village Tea Shop at 10.00am.
At precisely 9.47 I collected my bag, got my keys and made my way to the front door.
Sniff.... sniff, sniff.
Someone hadn't flushed the downstairs loo.
I put my bag and keys down and went in to the loo, to flush away the evidence.
And saw, there in the bowl, the biggest Poo you have ever seen.
For a moment or two I just stared at it, spellbound. How on Earth did that Thing get out? It Was Vast.
Well, needs must and all that, so I flushed. And waited.
Stuck. Good and proper.
Waited a little longer for the cistern to fill. Flushed again.
Stuck. Still.
Or. What a load of Crap.
Off I went to get The Bucket. The one we use in Emergencies.
Filled it to brimming with cold water.
Hurled this with some considerable force down the pan.
Re-filled bucket.
Could Not Believe It.
Re-filled bucket for the third time. Went to find Red Bucket used in Really Bad Emergencies. Filled that too.
Got white bucket. Positioned Red Bucket. Hurled both down with milliseconds between hurling, as it were.
Water came worryingly high. Watched with bated breath...
Filled bucket one more time. Poured it down while piling in the Toilet Duck for good measure.
Clean, sparkling loo once more.
Closed lid, and door and went to pick up bag and keys.
Christ. Its 10.00.
Horror struck. Late.
Drove like mad woman the three miles to village and tea place. Parked the car and ran like a stag to Tea Shop.
Scary friend sitting at window table looking Cross.
Went in, full of apologies. Then stopped short. This Is Not The Friend you can tell all about Huge Turd.
'What kept you?' she asked, pulling her lips into a smile.
And do you know, I couldn't be bothered to dress this one up into a lie.
'I had to get rid of a poo the size of a small submarine,' I told her.
'Where was the poo?' she asked, incredulous.
At this point we both looked at each other. I pictured a poo somewhere on the road between me and the village, so big I had to move it.
God knows what she pictured.
We both burst out laughing at the same time.
'Does it bloody matter Where It Was?' I asked between shouts of laughter.
'No!' she splurted between shouts of laughter.
Talk about Breaking the Ice.
She's rather a good friend now.

Thursday, 15 January 2009

What a bummer

I am going to have to Slap My Vitals again.
Got an email from Calm Lady of Woman & Home.
Blah blah blah, not doing feature right now, blah blah, editor changed mind, blah blah, can I keep your details, sorry, blah blah. Oh, but we will do feature later. Yeah, right.
Was obviously Very Disappointed.
Also feeling a tad foolish for telling Great Britain and most of the European Community. Oh, and my mother.
Am rather pleased with myself. It hasn't changed one iota (what IS an iota??) of my determination to do this writing thing.
In the past have received the slightest negative vibe and have deflated faster than a popping balloon.
Not this time. Am surprised at optimism that just won't go away. Hope. And a semblance of peace that at last I know that writing is something that I enjoy Hugely and something that I want to take further.
So... out come those Brown Envelopes again. When I have a whole day to myself which will be next week, I will fill them up and send them off. I might even work out how to do those email attachment thingies and send emails crammed with Stuff all round the globe. Or possibly Not. Calm Lady had wanted a photo of me so I sent her one. Only I didn't send one. I sent two by mistake. Second photo was random photo of beach. What on earth???

Thank you for all those comments. (I know, I know, I don't ever read them or count them) (21)
Can you hold those kind words for when I might, just might, need them again?

Right. Now it's time to iron.
(Did Jane Austen Ever Bloody Iron?)

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

Ringing in My Ear

Well. Big Excitement here.
On Friday I thought to myself, am going to have a go at Getting Published. Am fed up with not doing it. So, will do it. Easy, I thought!
So... spent hours and hours looking through old posts and printing them out. Wrote a covering letter. Punchy, is what you might call it.
Why did I do all this? Because my mate Vodka Mom did.
And I like her style because she makes me Roar With Laughter.
Finally got all the bits and pieces together and prepared to send off four Big Fat Envelopes.
NNNOOOOOOOOOOOO! I can hear you all shouting.
Right. Let me explain. I tried. I really did. Almost as much as trying to get those links on the page which Troy so kindly and at length explained, and What I Still Can't Do.
Tried and Tried. Swore a bit. As you can imagine.
That was when the Big Brown Envelopes came out.
Crammed them each full with covering letter and four bits of writing.
Took them to post office. Stuck on the stamps and kissed them each good bye.
Got home this evening from Day From Hell with school taking up until 3.30, then off to take children to bloody trampolining and then Brownies and sodding Youth Club (the latter a new one. Not sure about it, as all they seemed to do was play on a Wii and have fizzy drinks.)
Anyway... got home. Oh, the relief. Phone ringing as we opened front door, so we all yelled,
'DON'T GET IT!' to Youngest, who has habit of answering phone just as I am Very Busy On The Loo, or about to take first mouthful of Delicious Sunday Lunch.
Too late. He was already on first name terms with lady at the end. I snatched it off him and spat into the receiver...
'Hello, is that Helen?'
A quiet, calm voice told me what she was ringing from Woman & Home Magazine and was very interested in doing a feature on me.
Well. Slap My Vitals.
I changed my What The Hell Do You Want voice to Hello Am Thrilled To Hear You voice.
At this point, Youngest decided to try out new Alarm Clock.
Let me explain. I have a Very Nice Friend indeed. We give each other strange presents. I gave her a yoga mat. She gave me an Alarm Clock. It is bright red, with a picture of a nun on it saying, I can feel a sin coming on... It is an old fashioned REALLY REALLY LOUD ALARM CLOCK THAT YOU COULD HEAR A SODDING MILE AWAY.
Youngest lets rip with this eighteen inches from my left ear.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG. It went on. And on. Over the Unbelievable Volume I was able to communicate to Youngest that I was Not Pleased. With eyebrows waggling and Heavy Frown he soon got the message that it wasn't really a very good idea.
The other two were finding it Enormously Amusing. And Laughing. Quite Loudly Really.
After a few excrutiating seconds I had to tell the Calm Lady down the phone my predicament.
I shouted, 'My youngest child has got a very large and noisy alarm clock which he is holding very close to the phone. Would you please excuse me while I deal with it?'
'Of course,' said Calm Lady. Well, I think she said that. I couldn't hear a bloody thing.
There then followed some frantic and explosive whispering, with lots of Spit.
Youngest, looking very cheerful, left room. So did the others. I slammed the door shut after the lot of them, and came back to the phone.
Calm Lady said could I email her with details of what I do, with a picture.
Could I send it to her in the morning. Here was her email address.
I wrote it all down, still standing there in my coat.
Put phone down.
Well! Fancy That.
Am not sure whether to be pleased. Or not. A feature on me? I want to write the bloody feature, not be written about.
Still, it will be a Larf ( as my mother says).
And when the ringing in my ears has died down, I might just phone my Husband and tell him what has happened.
Exciting, really.

Monday, 12 January 2009

Horrid Mummy

Apparently I am a Big Fat Poo.
After wiping a bottom (not my own) I was instructed by my four year old (it was his bottom) to go and get his pants. He wanted clean ones. I said, not surprisingly, that he could go and get his own pants.
I might as well have told him to perform Brain Surgery.
'Mummy, I Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't.'
'Yes, you caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.'
Then it got really nasty.
'You are a Big Fat Poo.'
'I hate you, Mummy.'
'My Mummy is Stoooooopid.'
As I clattered round the kitchen, getting tea ready, I could hear him overhead, chucking his cars round and stamping, hard, on his floor. Making a Big Thing of getting his own pants.
He got them. Put them on. Found his trousers. Put them on. Mutter. Mutter. Stupid Mummy. Mummy is A Poo.
Made the tea. Called them all in.
He sidled in, arms crossed. Bottom lip out. A Very Cross Look on his face.
'Right.' I said, in my Bright Mummy Lets Forget All About It voice.
'Let's play the grapes game after you've had your food.'
The grape game is Just Brilliant for getting grapes down his throat.
I pretend to write down the names of each of the chickens on about 10 grapes. (just don't ask, OK?) I put them down on the table, to give to the chickens later. And Youngest eats the lot. He LOVES the look on my face when I see that all the grapes have gone.
Giggle. Giggle. Wriggle. Wriggle.
So he ate his tea. We played the grapes game. The others joined in valiantly to boost the roaring at the end.
And now I am downstairs again. I have just tucked Youngest in.
'I love you, Mummy,' he told me. Wrapping his plump arms tight round my neck.
'Love you, too, my darling.'

Don't think I'm a Poo anymore.

Friday, 9 January 2009

Radio Star

Had the most Entertaining Trip down to Devon and Mother In Law over the holiday period.
It's a four hour trip from here to there. Same old roads. Dark. Bloody cold too. Icy.
On my own. (bliss)
Husband and children had Gone On Ahead. I had delivered Eldest to station as he was off out with friends.

I got bored. Driving alone is a blissful state, but I was eager to reach the other end and have a stonking great big supper because I was Starving. And a Bloody Great Big Drink because it was New Year.
Listened to Mamma Mia for the 347th time. Decided to listen to Local Radio. Always a Hoot, as full of discussions about hedges or dog homes or Natural Remedies for Boils. Once I was listening to Radio Suffolk where they had a competition. The prize was a Book Mark. Classic stuff.
Listened in to Radio Solent, Southern Counties FM, Radio One, Radio Two, and the odd flurry of Radio Coast. They all had phone ins. Hooray, I thought. And set about phoning each and every one.
Hangover cures (Solent), Rock and Roll favourites (Radio 2), New Year Resolutions (Radio 1), and the odd Favourite Book or Have you ever seen a Famous Person, sort of phone ins from the others.
Texted, phoned, and generally had a bit of a private giggle. Thought to Myself, Hope they don't want me on the radio!!! Arf Arf!!
Well, became swamped with clamouring DJs.
Had to keep stopping so could speak, live, on yet another Radio Programme.
(Was once parked in someone's back garden. Thought it was a park. Sorry, whoever it was)
Became a little Hysterical. Decided that I was Quite Amusing. Mike from Radio Solent thought I was. We had long talk about skate boards and Mankinis. Oh, after the Hangover Cure. (large Bucket of Bloody Mary with half a ton of pepper and Worcester Sauce)
Arrived in Devon Flushed with Success. Right, I thought. New career. Radio. Obviously My Thing.
Ran into house to Greet my family. (Yes, my family always comes before my Career)
They were all neatly bathed and ready for bed. (not Husband or Mother In Law)
Totally Not Interested in my New Career.
'Did you get any crisps?' asked Youngest.
'No,' I answered. 'Bit Busy talking to DJs and all.'
'Oh,' he said, and wandered off, scratching his balls.
'Well..' I said, coyly, to Husband, a little later on, when children were in bed.
'What do you think? Radio or Television? Probably have better Voice for Radio. Mind you, telly needs a Good Voice too.'
'Yeah,' said Husband, looking at Whisky Bottle. 'Drink?'
'Yes, please.'

End of conversation.
End of Career.
Oh, well. Best to Leave a Party at its Height as my mother says.
Thing is, party hadn't really started.

Bloody Good Fun while it lasted though. Can't wait for next solo trip in car. Might have to buy hands free set at Vast Expense.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009

Exploding fowl

I saw a pigeon explode yesterday. PPPPPoooouuuuufffffffffffffffff.
As we sped in the car towards the cloud of soft downy pillow feathers, dancing and drifting in the cold, I spied my friend, Alice. Driving the other way. Mouth as wide as a motorway tunnel, eyes bulging with horror. Arms stiff on the steering wheel. A shadow of her former self.
She had hit the pigeon with a Glancing Blow, and it had left, poor thing, an imprint of its body on her windscreen. Pigeon meeting windscreen at 50 miles an hour is Terminal.
Needless to say, we had Plenty To Say about driving into birds and animals in the playground, just a half hour later.
As Alice regaled the tale it turned out that everyone had a 'I killed a ... story.'
'I killed a deer.'
'I ran over a sheep.'
'I killed two pheasants at the same time.' (me)
'I ran into a cow.'
Poor pigeon.
On its way to Pigeon Home. And Boooomph.
End of. Finito. All Done In.
Life's short, girls and boys.
Enjoy it.

(This post just SO should have been called Pigeon Post. Dammit, why didnt I think of that?)

Tagged Out

I am Still Wading through a tag from several weeks ago... have done about 2 things. This is the third, and I think final bit. I could go on and on about 7 this and 7 that, but just can't be arsed.
So here are seven things that I just cannot do... (including Finishing Off Tag Duties)

1) Ich kanne nicht gespeaken keine language mit grossen confidenze aber ich kannen getten byen in der restaurant iff Ich haben to.

2) Cannot sew.
Have sewn object I am making to the clothes I am wearing on many occasions. Used to Have To Make Smock Dresses for the 'poor children' when at a Convent School many years ago. 'Poor' children, having to wear the Thing I scrunched together with pins and then attempted to stick together with needle and thread. My hands would sweat with the effort, and the pretty white material would turn a dank grey over the term. In the end an impatient nun would finish it. My needlework report...
'Helen works hard at her sewing but has difficulty in getting her garments completed on time.'
Never finished one. Ever.

3) Cannot read a new book without sneaking a look at the final page. Must see who, who with, what, and why before I start to read it. Absolutely cannot delay gratification.

4) Cannot have sex with the light on, as laugh at Husband Having a Serious Face. Try hard not to laugh as it Puts Him Off.

5) Cannot water ski. Am quite worried about doing this, since friend (girl) went water skiing and had a Very Nasty Experience with the water and her Bottom. Girl bottom, if you see what I mean. When she told this to small crowd of friends at smart cocktail party there was Aghast Silence. Horrified giggles. No one knew quite where to look. Certainly not down near her nether regions.
So. Not going to go water skiing. Ever.

6) Cannot help Lowering The Tone. If someone says anything with slightest Double Entendre I am off. Not just giggling like a school girl. I roar. With laughter. You can see my tonsils. I have friend living nearby who is the same. We once misheard, together, someone talking about their Heavy Box. We both thought they said Hairy Box. Beside ourselves, we were. Unable to greet our children coming out of school. Couldn't see for tears. Children thought we were ill. If anyone now mentions boxes, lunch, or otherwise, we are away.
Our children think we are Just So Childish.

7) Cannot think of anything else that I can't do. This does not mean that I can do anything. It means that I have rarely, if ever, tried to do something that I can't do.
Therefore I don't know what I can and cannot do.
So... get this, blogger friends. This is the time to try out those things. Try something new. Do something different. Be Brave. Go for it.
'Oh, I can't play the oboe.'
'Oh, I can't sail.'
'Oh, I can't tap dance.'
'Oh, I can't write a book.'
Well, here's the thing. We can. If that stroke-paralysed guy with no movement in his entire body except for his eyes can write a book, through blinking, then I think I can Bloody Well Have A Go. (fab book, by the way, 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly' by Jean-Dominique Bauby)

There. Done it. Finally tagged out. Now really must get on.
Books to write. Languages to learn. Life to live.

Oh, one last thing...
Can you remember hot weather? Here's a quick reminder. Because the last thing I cannot do, absolutely not, is wait for next summer...
Roll on.