Wednesday, 28 April 2010


Talk about sweet.
Youngest was walking home the other day. He had been playing on the cricket field, as we do every fine day after school. Youngest and his best friend were the only ones left after a while, and they had played over by the hedge on the far side of the field for ages, seemingly perfectly happy to be mucking about doing Not Much.
Meanwhile I had been nattering away with best friend's mother. Realising the time, we called the boys over and all set off for home, Youngest and I sauntering back down the road to our house. The others getting into their car.
And as we walked away, Youngest calls back to his mate,
'Bye then! Love you!' Just like I say to him every morning as he goes into school.
'Bye!' comes the call back.
He notices me looking at him Askance, trying hard to keep a straight face.
'What?' he asks, somewhat impatient. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'
And he scuffs the ground with his shoe.
I stuff my laughter right back into my mouth.
And ruffle his hair and smile.
Because he is so right.
We SHOULD tell our friends we love them.
It's just that he is so SMALL to be so wise.

And here he is.

Sunday, 18 April 2010

Bottoms up!

Unbelievably frightful programme on telly tonight as we had our rather late tea after mucking about in the garden all day.
Called Embarrassing Bodies.
So the clue IS in the name, but we didn't know, OK?
'This looks rather fun,' said I, munching a scone dripping with raspberry jam.
And so we watched it, on our tiny kitchen telly, the five of us.
Suddenly, across my consciousness, came the word, Weak Bladder.
'Crikey,' I said, 'I thought that lady said Weak Bladder.'
'That lady DID say Weak Bladder,' said Husband, crunching his way through a ginger biscuit.
We all chewed contentedly for a few seconds. When, all of a sudden, the Lady whipped off her knickers and was showing the Entire World her Bare Arse.
We all, as one, spat out the contents of our mouths.
And screamed. Howled with horror. And then started to laugh in earnest.
Could not contain ourselves.
More Bottoms were shown. Full on bottoms. Youngest's eyes were out on stalks.
Could not get strength in legs to get up and turn off the Carnage.
Huge Breasts came out. A Rectum.
We were Beside Ourselves.
'Ker'ist,' gasped I, 'Think I will have Weak Bladder in a moment.'
And at last the Torment was over and we were able to turn over to The Weather Lady. Never have we been so glad to see anyone, Ever, before.
We wiped our streaming eyes, poured more tea and settled ourselves down.
'Glad we didn't see a Man,' said Youngest, conversationally, 'Or we would have had to look at his Willy.'
Spat out remaining tea and gave up to Hysteria.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Buried another hen on Sunday.
The Burial was not quite as Respectful as the last one owing to Certain Distractions.
As the day turned to dusk, and Husband and I were clearing detritus of gardening from Said Garden, Husband turned to me and said,
'Shall we bury the chicken?'
As you do.
'What chicken?' I asked, looking over to the chicken run, where our four remaining Girls were having their last moments of pecking about before bed. There didn't appear to be a dead one.
Husband reminded me that Dead Chicken was in garage.
'Christ,' I said, remembering. 'She's been dead for about two months.' There had been No Time to bury her when she died, owing to Too Much To Do Syndrome. So I had shoved her into a box and put her in garage. As you do.
'Precisely,' said Husband, in that precise way of his. 'So maybe we should bury her today.'
And so we did.
While Husband was digging a hole near where the potatoes will be sowed next weekend, I busied myself fetching the cardboard box, inside which was Peggy, who had Pegged it at least eight weeks ago.
Rather gingerly, I opened the box, to see that the old girl was looking largely the same, only a tad smellier. And dead, of course.
Spent the next five minutes knocking up a passable cross for the grave (all our pets require such attention) and lugged box and cross over to Husband, where the hole was ready.
Unfortunately, Husband had started an extremely Smoky Fire next to potential Grave.
Thick, yellow smoke swirled about, right where the hole was.
Coughing and spluttering, we hurled poor old Peggy into the hole and staggered back out of the range of smoke.
'Should we get the children?' I asked Husband.
'Naaaaah,' he said, 'Let's just get on with it and then we can have tea.'
'Okeydoke,' said I.
'Shall I say some prayers?' asked Husband.
'Go on, then,' I said, and we held hands and Husband spoke these words.
'Thank you, God, for Peggy, who has probably been in heaven for quite some time now, owing to the fact that my wife has left her to rot in the garage for several weeks.'
We exchanged a Married Look.
He continued.
'Thank you for all her eggs.....' At this point the smoke became so thick and pungent that we couldn't actually see each other, and therefore had to move back some distance, to get into some fresh air.
After some coughing Husband continued once again.
At this point the wind had whipped up a treat and was enveloping us in Hollywood Type Billowing smoke.
Barely able to make out each other's nostril hair, let alone the grave, had to abandon Funeral Arrangements and go inside to make a cup of tea.
And so we did, after hurling earth on top of dear old Peggy, shoving the cross in over the grave, and taking a last look at our newly sown veggie patch. And, for very clear practical reasons, moving the Dish washer from the middle of the lawn, where it had been put after a clear out of one of the sheds. Which made us swear in quite a Rude Sort of Way.
And as I made our cups of tea, I took a look out across the garden to where our Peggy was buried.
And hoped that she didn't mind the Shambles that was her funeral.
R.I.P. old girl.
And thanks for all those eggs.

We have no picture of Peggy, so here's a picture of Another Brown Hen, sort of like Peggy, with Dilly, one of our Silkies, and Milly, the rabbit. Who, incidently, thinks herself to be a chicken. Welcome to my world.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

A Little Note to Lost Followers

Dear Followers who have decided to Scarper this week,

I am aware that I tend towards the Lavatorial side of life. And that I have probably passed the Decency Boundary by describing the passing of a thread through my child's bottom. And the pulling out of Said Thread from Said Bottom. From one end to the other. Not a story for the weak hearted.
But you see, I was just so PLEASED to reach 130 followers. Tickled pink I was.
And then, just as I got used to the dizzy heights of 131 followers, it was snatched from me, like a sweetie from a child's hand.
I mean.
When all is said and done (quite literally, I think, on my blog)... does it matter that you have to read Said Blog with a stiff drink, a sick bag and a good healthy dose of Humour?
It does? Oh, dear. What if I supply the Sick Bags? No?
Righty Ho.
AM very sorry to have offended you and all that. Hope you come by soon when I write incredibly clever stuff about the General Election. Or what to do with cardboard boxes when they are wet.

Dear Followers who have decided to Stay.

Good on you!
What lovely people you must be to stick around through such Horrendously Visual Stuff and STILL remain cheerful. I salute you all!
Now, as you are all still here, and not recoiling TOO much from Over Descriptive Passages, as it were, will make Huge Effort to write posts that are Thoughtful, Informative and Incisive.
But would you mind awfully if I started that sort of thing next year? Just a few more posts to squeeze out, as it were, about the usual sort of stuff. But will then Turn Over A New Leaf.
I promise.
Unless something comes up. Or Plops down. Or something.
In the meantime, how kind you are to follow such a load of Nonsense.
I Really, Truly appreciate it.
Thank you!

Saturday, 3 April 2010

Messing about on Mountains

We have just had our First Ever skiing holiday en famille.
A holiday we have been saving up for, for what seems like a life time. The children had thought about how to make some dosh, and then sold leeks, flowers, raspberries, and all sorts, at the end of the drive.
Kind locals had bought vast amounts of Complete Rubbish to fund our holiday which was frightfully kind of them. Might have to buy them a drink to make up for it.
The children managed to make about £200 by selling this Stuff. How brilliant is that. Every penny was counted and put into a jar. Which slowly filled up over the summer.
We arranged a savings account. That built up slowly over the months. And filled with the pennies from the Selling At The Gate. And Husband decided that we would use some money he had invested ages ago.
'Because you can't take it with you,' he said, over a large whisky, in front of the fire.
The children got quite sick with excitement as the weeks passed, counting down the days. I became more and more thrilled with the idea that I could show my darling husband and children the skiing venue of my childhood. Lech. In Austria.
It even SOUNDS idyllic, doesn't it.
Well, it is.
And so I took them there, finally, on 21st March.
Flying into the magnificence of Innsbruck, the plane ducking and diving round the considerable mountains, and finally coming to rest on the tarmac. My children gazing out of the tiny windows, seeing the Alps, heavy with snow, for the first time.
We piled onto the coach, with our considerable extended family, my sister and one of her sons, my brother and sister in law, and four of their children. And us. (My parents were staying there too, and had arrived a day or two earlier.)
And then we were nearly there.
I went quiet, looking down the road ahead of us, knowing that at any moment I would see the twinkling lights of Lech as we turned that final corner.
And then we did. And there was Lech. Just the same. A cosy cluster of houses nestled in the most beautiful valley in the world.
Can you imagine the fun I had showing my family the village, the ski slopes, my favourite places for lunch, the church, the school, the people.
IMAGINE how wonderful to ski down the Rufikopf, the loveliest mountain of all, and to look back at the crocodile of children and adults, my family, skiing together. Youngest steaming down like a train. Daughter and Middle Son bent like real skiiers, zooming down like pros. And the white of the snow and the blue of the sky dazzling us all.
And then at lunch. A long table of happy and tired family, chatting and giggling together. Huge glasses of beer and wine, juice and water. Plates filled with hearty, delicious food. The sun beating down. Mountains rearing up on each side, white as white. The sky the deepest blue. And me. Smiles from ear to ear. Happy as bloody Larry, whoever the hell he was.
Quietly and stealthily, Lech worked its magic on all my family. They started to remember the names of mountains and lifts and people. They spoke german when asking for their drinks and food. They swaggered up the main street with their skis slung over their shoulders, just like any hardened skier. They tumbled down the 1.5 km long toboggan run, beside themselves with giggles, all the way down.
They bloody loved it.
Youngest cried as we left. The others were quiet as we made our way back up the windy road out of Lech on that final day.
And Husband, who had never really wanted to come in the first place, turned his sun and windburned face to me, eyes shining, and said, 'We'll come back, I promise.'
I so, so look forward to it.