Tag Archives: About me

It Was Twenty Years Ago Today…

27 Apr

This is what the Hub, Tory Boy and I were doing today in 1994, one of the best days of our lives: 

Not eating biscuits: queuing.

Not eating biscuits: queuing.

The first day of polling in the first Free & Fair South African election.

We were living in Alberton in the Transvaal at the time.  We got up early to be at the polling station for seven, when it opened.  We didn’t want to be stuck in queues all day long.  The government had declared a national holiday so that everyone could vote, and it seemed like everyone intended to.

We were first in the queue, but only just.  Not that it did us any good: we were still first in the queue come four o’clock in the afternoon.  There were no ballot papers at the polling station.  The election officials popped out periodically to tell us that they were on the way – in a helicopter now – would be here any minute.  None ever showed up, except on auction sites in the last few years.

In spite of this, and in spite of the news of bombs going off at the airport, the mood of the crowd was, well, joyous.  There was a lot of singing and a lot of braaing (barbecuing): those who came later and knew about the long wait brought their skottels (a portable gas barbecue) and fold-up deck chairs.  The Hub went home to make us some sandwiches and drinks, but I wish we had braaied instead.

Whole families turned out to vote.  We had four-year old Tory Boy with us.  I have another photo of him, sitting glumly on the kerb, unaware that he was participating in a truly momentous event in South African history.  He’s grateful now, of course.

We chatted to everyone around us.  There was a tearful old man who had never believed that he would ever get the chance to cast his vote.  There were Afrikaaners, resigned to the inevitable and taking it gracefully; and many who welcomed it.  I suppose those with strong opposition to the change were at home, planning protests.  People of every race, tribe, ethnicity, colour and political persuasion stood in that queue and waited with great patience for the ballot papers that never arrived.

There were no murmurings or angry voices, but there were a lot of rumours about what was happening in the rest of the country.  We were in a capsule, a moment in time when we were all in this together, all looking toward a happy and prosperous future; each believing that things would be better, fairer, and right.  We were in the mood to party, not fight.

No ballots came.

Because of our tired little boy, we wondered if we should go home and come back next day – the election was intended to be held over two days, but lasted three because of the issue of having nothing on which to cast your vote – but then we heard there was a magical polling station a few miles on which did have ballot papers, and even enough to go round.  We thought it was worth trying because we really did want to cast our vote on a day that would go down in history.  We wanted Tory Boy to be able to say that he was there. 

I don’t remember where either polling station was, except that the first was in a suburb and the other in a huge, unkempt field.  At the second, we joined a slightly smaller queue that we could see was moving, though it didn’t have the atmosphere of the first.    It took three hours but we got inside at last. 

The most bizarre moment of the day for me was when I went into the booth and there was a scruffy little stub of a pencil.  It didn’t seem fitting to cast a vote that would help change the political landscape of a nation, with a tatty bit of lead.  To this day, I’m not certain that I wasn’t expecting quills or expensive fountain pens. 

In the PWV area (Pretoria-Witwatersrand-Vereeniging) we had a choice of thirteen parties.  As brave as the National Party had been, I couldn’t vote for the architects of Apartheid.  I couldn’t vote for the ANC bunch of terrorists either, no matter how just their cause.  I didn’t think the KISS lot (Keep It Straight and Simple) was taking the whole thing seriously enough; and the Women’s Rights Peace Party was missing the point.  I voted for the Democratic Party.  Helen Suzman was a lone white protest voice in the wilderness of the Apartheid government for many years, so I voted for her party, which I felt had moral conviction.  As the vote was by proportional representation, I helped them to their seven seats.

I discovered a wonderful quote from Helen Suzman, via Wikipedia:

She was once accused by a minister of asking questions in parliament that embarrassed South Africa, to which she replied: “It is not my questions that embarrass South Africa; it is your answers.”

Our tiny piece of history made, we took our exhausted child home, probably collecting a takeaway on the way.  Once he had eaten I put him straight to bed.  We followed soon after.  History is important but it’s the mundane that keeps us going.

Relatives living further out told us they hadn’t bothered to vote on the first day when they saw the queues; they left it to the next day and walked straight in and out.  It seemed most people wanted to vote on the first polling day.  I guess we were not the only people conscious of history on that glorious day.

While We’re On The Subject

19 Apr

Keats House Poets Forum's photo.

 

At the moment, I have no words.  It made me smile, then, as one of life’s little ironies, when I received an email announcing the launch of a new poetry ezine containing one of my poems – a poem about censorship, in which most of the words have been removed.

I may not be writing much but I do know how to make a short story long, so here goes.

My poem In The Tradition of ‘The Star’ appeared in the anthology In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights last year.

Earlier this year, one of the anthology’s editors contacted me, asking for permission to use it in a new ezine she and another editor were starting; and inviting me to read at the magazine’s launch in London at the end of March.

I gladly gave permission but had to refuse the invitation, commenting that I wouldn’t know how to read it aloud anyway.

She replied that she quite understood: her employer (a charity fighting female genital mutilation) had held a memorial meeting for Nelson Mandela and my poem had been read out at the meeting – with difficulty.

I sent a garbled reply about poems being like children and taking on a life of their own without you, once you’ve sent them out into the world.

I didn’t hear from her again, but that’s hardly surprising.  If you’ve read this far you’ll be in the same dazed state.

Anyway, to get to the point, here is a link to the new magazine, Writing in the Blackout.

Here’s a bit of the blurb, for the political amongst you:

‘Writing in the Blackout’ is an anthology of poetry and art work that explores the theme of arts censorship and freedom of speech:http://www.ideastap.com/Partners/keatshousepoets

It features newly commissioned poetry and art work from Keats House Poets and IdeasTap members, an interview with English PEN and much more! We hope you enjoy reading our anthology, and would be delighted to hear hear your thoughts on it and do forward it to any of your networks who would be interested in reading it. This project is a snapshot of some of the complex issues connected to censorship, and we are interested in continuing investigating this theme- do let us know if you know organisations who might support a ‘Writing in the Blackout’ workshop or performance. 
We will be hosting a poetry performance and discussion of ‘Writing in the Blackout’ on June 14th, 4:30-6pm at the Keats House Festival in Hampstead. Do follow @KHPoetsor check our blog for more event details http://khpoets.wordpress.com/  
You will find me on page 39 but the whole thing is well worth a read.

 

A Dry Write Season

17 Apr

I haven’t written a post in thirteen days; and if you haven’t noticed, then I haven’t written a decent recent post.

I don’t believe in Writer’s Block, preferring to call the occasional arid periods in which my fingers take on all the attributes of blank paper with none of its promise – rather like a British tabloid newspaper – ‘dry spells’.  I know I could write something if I neck a bottle of wine in one sitting; but you might not like what I’ve written.  Or understand it, come to that.  Rather like a British tabloid newspaper.

Fortunately, WordPress has been watching me (I knew it!) and sent me a prompt post entitled Five Posts to Write Right Now:

Mired in bloggers’ block? Pshaw — we’ll give you a push! Here are five posts you can publish right now, no matter what topics you usually blog about.

Thank you, WordPress; that’s really thoughtful of you.

1. The last thing that made you mad.

I can’t believe WordPress is spying on me!  What business is it of theirs if I don’t write for two weeks or two years?  Pshaw!

2. Your typical childhood lunch.

Large.

3. An ode to an object.

An Ode To WordPress, The Object Of My Affliction

When I don’t write
You prompt me to
Bloggers not blogging
don’t reflect well on you

When I do write
You spy on me
I must object
Tremendously

But let’s be fair
This ode is crap
Are you really sure
You want me back?

4. Self-psychoanalysis via your bookshelf or Spotify playlists.

Spotify?

I’ve seen it on Facebook as in Suchabody Withnolifetospeakof is listening to Songs For Those Too Lazy To Share The Dull Minutiae Of Their Lives Via Blogs Like I Do on Spotify.

Take the five books on your nightstand, the last five songs you listened to, the last five movies you watched or the last five blog posts you liked — what do they say about you? 

Three Brenda Jagger novels, Siegfried Sassoon’s War Poems and the Bible:

  • Lives in the past; hopes for the future.

Prepare Ye, Beautiful City, Day By Day, All For The Best, By My Side:

  • Lives in the recent past; hopes for the son’s future.

The Terminator, Terminator 2: Judgement Day, Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, Terminator Salvation, Dumb & Dumber.

  • Loves a good romance.

Posts I Like – I have to be discreet here so as not to offend anyone by not including them, so I’ll go for generic subjects instead of specific posts:

  • Hairless cats (funny)
  • Doctor Who (essential)
  • The return of old bloggers (old as in been around a long time, not old as in been around a long time)
  • Boobs with belly buttons (we’re back to the future again)
  • Jolly good news (even more essential than fictional doctors)

5. A mad lib.

I know mad libs are (is?) some weird American traditional game played at Thanksgiving and when the internet is down, but that’s all I know, so we’re back to dry spotify again.

Thanks for nothing, WordPress.

 

 

 

 

 

Googling Myself

12 Mar

It’s not that I’m vain, or anything, but I do occasionally Google my name (okay, I am vain; but can you blame me with this hair?).  At least I don’t check to see if I’ve got a Wikipedia page – no, really, I don’t, honest…

I have to Goggle myself when I’m submitting poems, because so many editors exclude poems already published online, even if it was on my now defunct poetry blogs which can no longer be accessed.

I Gaggled four poems and my name this morning and I was disappointed to find one of them in the 2010 comments section of a poetry blog, which means I can’t use it.  

The Haggle brought up a pleasant surprise, however – which isn’t always a given when you Giggle yourself; all I’m going to say is tea bags/washing line/shame…. Fortunately, I’m such a prolific blogger that the embarrassing photo is hidden way down in my Boggle listing.  

I discovered that a poem published by English Pen last year in their Dictionary of Made-Up Words was featured on their website earlier this year, as part of an ongoing promotion of the book.  I didn’t know it was there.  I’m chuffed!

Even better – it was retweeted!  It’s nice to be twit.

You may say it was coincidence, but I think it’s strange that I didn’t come across this poem until I had my hair cut.  I’m like an anti-Samson: all of my power was consumed by my long hair; now it’s short, I’m discovering my work in the ether and being invited to take part in poetry events which may or may not come off so I can’t say anything at the moment…except that the invites were issued after the haircut…

So, do you Wriggle yourself?  Or are you afraid to discover dirty little secrets of yours hiding out there in the ether?  Are there photos of you drunk at a party? Taking an illicit beach day from work?  Wearing flares?

I’ll find out, you know, when I Ogle you.

Short Cut

11 Mar

This was me last Friday morning:

IMG_3219

Me as Captain Caveman:

IMG_3213

This was me on Friday afternoon:

IMG_3223

What do you think?

My Left Arm: The Story Of Crusty Scabs

27 Feb

You may recall I took a flying visit to the pavement some weeks ago.  My left arm bore the brunt of the impact but it’s on the mend.  The scabs have almost gone and would have been gone long ago if I’d stopped leaning on the Hub’s face with my elbow.

Although it still hurts to stretch too high or too quickly – - – sorry, short break for hysterical laughter while I corpse at the thought of me exercising  - – - it is fully functioning.  That’s why I thought I’d be okay to give blood from it on Monday [the Hub interjected with something about getting blood from a stone-hearted...butenoughfromthegallery].

I don’t have a favourite arm (does anyone?).  I have great veins, according to many nurses, and they can siphon it from either side, so I didn’t think twice when I sat in a left-handed chair (this post is beginning to seem weird even to me); and maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference but my left arm was not happy with the way the Blood New Donation Executive – BloNDE for short though, in actual fact, she was a BruNeETTE: Brutal New Executive Trying To Extract.

I’m not sure she was new, if I’m honest, but it’s the only explanation I can think of for the way in which she hacked at my left arm with the needle, came back several times to wiggle it about, and smiled nicely at me in the most terrifying way.

The blood eventually seeped out, reluctant though it was.  I don’t understand it because I’ve donated blood at least nineteen times and never had a problem. This time, the area around my elbow was tight and ached and my left hand went extremely cold.  I was told to report it if it still hurt after my orange juice and Club biscuit (two Club biscuits…I was feeling quite sorry for myself) which it was, so I did.

Boy, was I sorry.  Yes, I was.  They sent me to the nurse.  It was like being back at school, except I didn’t come away with a cloth brick and two safety pins at the end of it.

Forty minutes to go through my story, check for bruising, explain possible forthcoming symptoms, explain what to do in the case of possible forthcoming symptoms, explain what is on the other leaflet instead of the bruising leaflet which was all she had to hand but most of the possible forthcoming symptoms were the same on the one leaflet as the other and the advice anyway was to immediately phone this number and ask for advice about those possible forthcoming symptoms if I showed any of those possible forthcoming symptoms.

I didn’t have any forthcoming symptoms and I told the nurse as much when she phoned next day to check on me.  They really want you to go back and give more blood, you know.  Something about ‘saving lives’ and ‘helping research’. I’m not sure what exactly; I couldn’t hear her over the lump on my left arm.

The lump had almost disappeared by Wednesday evening and the ache had long gone, so I didn’t consider missing last night’s First Aid class.  My church applied for funding to provide this sort of education to the community and I thought it would be useful to attend, especially as it was free (I may be a Christian but I’m not made of money): if I ever deck a ReDHEAD (Really Doesn’t Have to Ever Ask DoesthiswhoppinggreatneedlethatI’mstabbingyouwithhurt?), it would be good to be able to revive her again.

The trainer was very funny and had us all singing Nellie the Elephant: half of the chorus sung twice amounts to thirty chest compressions.  First Aid has changed a lot since I took a course twenty-five years ago.  No more three breaths good/five compressions better; now it’s all assume-if-it’s-a-stranger-they-have-Hepatitis-and-don’t-give-mouth-to-mouth-unless-he’s-particularly-good-looking (though I might just have added that list bit to my notes without hearing it from the instructor first).

CPR was harder to do than I expected, especially the breathing; but I aced Burns – no butter!  No bandages!  No hot water! (how my mother once treated my sunburn).  Dealing with choking was easy enough to do on small dummies; however, I was the class dummy when it came to adults – bottom of a class of seventeen people.

The trainer put on a harness thing which had a large pad to protect her back when we whacked her – five times, having first bent her over our arms – and a simulated choking throat on her front (sponge in a bottle).  The idea was to stand behind her, make a fist and thrust up around the area of the diaphragm, five times; then go back to five whacks and so on.  Some people managed to expel the sponge fairly quickly, especially the men, who were stronger; but plenty of the women did it too.

I had a little trouble.  I have no strength at all and, although the spirit is willing, the flesh is as weak as one of my puns.  I grasped her from behind and looked for all the world like an enthusiastic Goldilocks desperately humping poor Papa Bear, and having as much success.

Jo is an excellent trainer and wanted to ensure that everyone went away knowing they could do this, so I kept at it until she’d have been long dead in real life – but I got that sucker out in the end!  Thank you, Jo.

Which brings me back to my left arm – nobody tells you that saving people’s lives is difficult.  Okay, perhaps they shouldn’t have to tell you that, it’s kind of obvious when you think about it, or doctors wouldn’t train for so many years so they could be sued for their BMWs;  but I hadn’t expected it to be so physical, and I could barely use my left arm last night.  Instead of using my left hand, I had to rest my right hand on my hypochondriacal damp brow.

I’m not sure I’ll bother using the skills I’ve learned (it’s not like I paid for them); it seems like so much hard work.  It might be okay for someone who I quite like, such as my children; but what if it’s an MP, or a telesales person, or the Hub? My arm really hurts as a result of all that being noble and brave guff.  I’d give my left arm for it not to be aching right now.

Cooking The Prompts

13 Feb

You’re at the beach, lounging on your towel, when a glistening object at the water’s edge catches your eye. It’s a bottle — and yes, it contains a message. What does it say?

Drink Me.  Oh, wait…you’re not Alice.  Damn rabbit!

*

Tell us about something you’ve tried to quit.

Blogging.

Did you go cold turkey, or for gradual change?

Cold turkey.  It was Christmas.

Did it stick?

What do you think?

What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?

The Hub.  If he’s not there, cheering me on and hugging me through my failures, I go to pieces.  I once incinerated a pack of chippolata sausages because he was in another country instead of my kitchen.  I have to burn food so I know when it’s cooked (I was one of the few people to take notice of all those safety adverts as a child).  I need the Hub there to tell me when ‘burnt to a cinder’ is too much.

What’s instant ramen?

*

You’ve been granted magical engineering skills, but you can only use them to build one gadget or machine. What do you build?

Star Trek TNG‘s food replicator.  

But then I wouldn’t need the Hub…what to do, what to do?

*

What’s the household task you most dislike doing? Why do you think that is — is it the task itself, or something more?

Previous answers refer.

*

Write a post that includes dialogue between two people — other than you. 

A True Story, almost

The Hub: Where’s your Mum?

Tory Boy: In bed.

The Hub: Where are the boiled eggs?

Tory Boy: On the ceiling.

The Hub: She cooked?

What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned from the person you’re the closest to?

To leave the cooking to him.

Actually, not any more; his M.E. means that he can’t cook these days.

So I guess the lesson is, marry someone rich enough to afford takeaways.

*

It’s January 26. Write a post in which the number 26 plays a role.

Hello?  I’d like to order a Number 26, two 14s and a 32, please.

*

Tell us about the nicest thing you’ve ever done.

Stopped cooking for my family.

*

If you could fast forward to a specific date in the future, when would it be?

The day the replicator is finally invented.

*

I’ll Never Catch Up

9 Dec
chevy chase, ass

chevy chase, ass (Photo credit: “Cowboy” Ben Alman) Kind of what I’m doing, without the retired movie star

My week last week:

  • Dog walks every day, many long
  • Baking mince pies for vulnerable people (sneaking a few to four freezing workmen who heckled me on my walks between the vicarage oven and church)
  • Doctor’s
  • Creative Writing class
  • Studiously ignoring my homework
  • Welcoming home Tory Boy with ALL of his stuff
  • Finding room for all of Tory Boy’s stuff
  • Cooking 
  • Cleaning
  • Catching up with ironing
  • Yawning
  • Recuperating all Thursday on the couch
  • Grocery shopping (huge)
  • Reading old jokes
  • Christmas shopping (a bit)
  • Helping a friend with something
  • Church
  • Stockport Writers’ Christmas do (playing word games – great nerdy fun)
  • Coming down with a stonking head cold

So that was my week, with the dull bits left out.

Sorry to have abandoned you.  Again.

I’ll be honest, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

 

101/1001 (Week 137)

8 Nov

The last time I updated you about this challenge was in May.  If I don’t want to write a post five pages long in 41 days’ time, I’d better update you on my progress now.*

*Short break while I update the 101/1001 Page*

*Long break while I updated the 101/1001 Page

There’s rather a lot to tell, so I won’t bother with it all today.  I will just share some of Task 15:

Expose myself to twenty new experiences (14/20)

1. I tried a gin and tonic.

Writer's Block 1

Writer’s Block 1 (Photo credit: NathanGunter) After one G&T, I’m guessing

It was offered to me at, of all things, a church luncheon, by one of the wardens.  We were in her home and she found it at the back of the fridge, I hasten to add – she doesn’t keep it stashed under the cassocks for emergencies.  

I don’t think.

I had never drunk gin before.  And I never will again.  Foul stuff.

One thing in its favour, however, is that it gave me the courage for new experience number

2. Said, ‘I am a writer.’

The idea of the church monthly bring & share lunch is that people get to know each other.   One way of getting to know each other is by asking questions about each other.*

*Based on this paragraph, I think saying, ‘I am a writer’ may be a disservice to writers everywhere, at the very least; and an outrageous lie at best.

I asked an other what she did; she told me. For the purpose of our story, I won’t bore you with the details; you will have to be content with the boredom emitting from this long-winded paragraph instead.  The other then asked me what I did.  I opened my mouth to say, as I have done for the past twenty-three years, ‘I am a housewife,’  but what came out was, ‘I am a writer.’

I’ve been published in many anthologies, hard copy and online; I’ve been placed in several writing competitions; I regularly critique others’ work, some of which has been published; I have been posting on this blog for three and a half years; I am a member of poetry group Write Out Loud;  I give poetry readings; I run occasional writing workshops (even more occasionally, people turn up for them, but my writing flesh is at least willing even if their spirit is weak); I am a founder member and de facto manager of Stockport Writers.

I think it’s okay now to say, ‘I am a writer.’

Besides, I’ve never earned money from it: writing credentials don’t come any better than that.

Fresh (and flushed) from that triumph, I followed it up with

I am a writer.

I am a writer. (Photo credit: DavidTurnbull)

3. When asked my occupation on an official form, I wrote, ‘Writer’.

I still blush at my temerity. It’s one thing to say it with your mouth; something else altogether to say it with a pen.

At that same church lunch (who knew these events were so exciting?) I also

4. Drank ginger beer for the first time.

But not lashings of it, Famous Five fans!

It was…okay. I didn’t taste ginger and I didn’t taste beer, but it washed away the taste of gin and tonic, so that’s a big thumbs-up from me.

Virgin Trains First Class

Virgin Trains First Class (Photo credit: David McKelvey)

5. Travelled First Class

My London adventure refers.

It was on a train, not a plane, but I’ll take my free inedible sandwich where I can get it, thank you very much.

6. Went to a university Open Day

We never did it with Tory Boy because he spent a week or two at Lancaster the summer after his GCSEs and knew that Lancaster was where he wanted to go. I always felt a bit cheated, but the second son made up for his brother’s defect by dragging me to Sheffield a couple of weeks ago, as I told you.

There you have it!  These six things I had never done before bring me up to 20/20 new experiences, but that’s not quite it.  

However, this post is already too long for a Friday afternoon, so you’ll have to wait for the rest.

The Truth Is Out There

13 Sep

From Tumblr

*

Caught myself writing this to my friend this morning:

I’m supposed to be preparing for tomorrow’s workshop so I’m finding other things to do instead.  Cleaned the kitchen window and put up a new net this morning.  I’ll probably blog about it later.  

Now you know the truth: my life is as dull as a net curtain.

Even worse, I inflict it on my dear readers.

Please don’t abandon me.

*

Single curtain on one side of a window, net cu...

Single curtain on one side of a window, net curtain, and horse statuette. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)  Photo taken by someone with a life as dull as mine.

You know what makes it worse?  I added ‘Net Curtains’ as a tag.

Save yourselves!   There’s no hope for me but you should get out while you still can.

Only Six?

25 Feb

Many of us think of our lives as boringly normal, while others live the high life. Take a step back, and take a look at your life as an outsider might. Now, tell us at least six unique, exciting, or just plain odd things about yourself.

Odd Facts from Modern Wonder Magazine 1939

Odd Facts from Modern Wonder Magazine 1939 (Photo credit: Smabs Sputzer)

  • I can curl my tongue and my toes at the same time
  • I can tap dance
  • I cannot blow my nose in public or while wearing glasses
  • I have been on telly several times
  • I can read upside down
  • I cannot tell a joke without forgetting the punchline
  • At one time or another, I have boycotted every supermarket in which I could afford to shop
  • If you mispronounce a word in my presence, I will not hear anything you say after that
  • I have dual nationality
  • I alphabetize CDs and DVDs; books are filed in size order
  • I cannot drink coffee, or kiss anyone who has it on their breath
  • I advocate organ donation as the ultimate form of recycling
  • I have a loud and irritating laugh
  • I have had my present phone about two years and I still cannot switch it on without help
  • I am shy and easily embarrassed (not unique but probably surprising to regular readers)
  • I don’t understand people who don’t vote
  • I am short with large feet, rather like a hobbit (I dress like one, too)
  • Stray apostrophes set my teeth on edge
  • I once had a one-act play staged at the Everyman Theatre in Liverpool
  • I like to trot that last one out at every opportunity
  • My definition of ‘unique, exciting, or just plain odd’ is surprisingly dull

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Renewal

20 Feb

This challenge was issued in November of last year, so I’m a little behind. Actually, the Hub says I’m a big behind, but he phrases it another way.

Blame the last nasty bug/Christmas/visitors/the dogs/the Hub/the kids/an overflowing inbox/the latest nasty bug for my tardiness.  Whatever.

The latest nasty bug keeps morphing into something else and, if I ignore having to type this in the bathroom, I think I’m pretty much over it now.

I am not so over it that I feel like taking my own photographs, however, so I will see what Zemanta has to offer.  

I am no longer a sick woman, much.  I am renewed.  I went from looking like this:

Multifari - human view

Multifari – human view (Photo credit: 0olong)

To feeling like this:

Ack! Thpppt!!!

Ack! Thpppt!!! (Photo credit: JD Hancock)

And in a day or two I hope to feel like this:

Sunshine

Sunshine (Photo credit: sarah 30 is still around, just workin)

Watch this space.

 

Don’t Mess With The Sick Girl

15 Feb
2013_01_160002 we are second tired of these people

2013_01_160002 we are second tired of these people (Photo credit: Gwydion M. Williams) Nothing to do with being ill but funny so I had to share it

As you may have noticed – and if you didn’t, leave me a compliment to make up for it – and if you do that, I’ll know you really don’t pay attention – I haven’t blogged for two days (jokes don’t count).  I’ve been sick.

The last time I spent more than one day in bed, another person came out of me (Spud: Let’s hope THAT doesn’t happen).  His nasty germ transmitted itself to me because, when Spud got sick, he told his father he must stay away; but that I had to look after him (Spud).  Being a mother, I did; and he repaid the love by infecting me.

How he wishes he hadn’t.

According to the Hub, I am a terrible sick person.  I am grouchy and mean and pathetic.  ‘Imagine your mood if you were permanently hungry,’ is how he put it.

Don’t make me hungry; you wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.  

The Hub has now started with the same symptoms, so Spud ignoring him for days obviously didn’t work.  The Hub’s M.E. always aggravates whatever he gets so that he gets it worse than the rest of us put together.  

Day One: The Hub reckons he feels so bad, he could be in a Findus pie.

Daily Prompt: All About Me

12 Feb

All about me are full of coughs, colds and headaches.  I’b goid the same way.  

Poster encouraging citizens to "Consult y...

Poster encouraging citizens to “Consult your Physician” for treatment of the common cold (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Expect the occasional terror to crepe into my tie pin.

You no WHatI’m all about hat the moment?  Self-pity.  At list thAt way I get a party.

Sea you on the other side.

I’m In!

31 Jan

Well, here I am in my writing space:

DSCN0916

Only four days behind schedule.

I had intended to move the desk on Saturday but Spud begged for time to clear it first, only he just had to watch the City match; do his homework; learn his lines.

I gave him 24 hours and I spent a couple of happy hours moving in, arranging and re-arranging my poetry books, writing books, other books, my collections and bits and pieces onto two shelves.

DSCN0914

I had intended to move the desk on Sunday afternoon, but I received an email which took most of the afternoon to deal with, so I gave him another 24 hours.

I had intended to move the desk on Monday afternoon but he got another 24 hours because I had arranged to help my friend sort church paperwork at the vicarage into our brand new filing cabinet (well, it was new when it was delivered three months ago).

Before filing, we put three poster-sized papers up on the wall and mind-mapped the whole thing down to the last detail.  We had three starting points which we broke down into groups, groups-within-groups, categories-within-groups-within-groups, off-shoots-within-categories-within-groups-within-groups…you get the idea.

Once we’d broken that lot down we were able to label the hanging files in the drawers.  We organised the files into what-is-likely-to-be-most-accessed order, then alphabetically within that.  We then filed three pieces of paper (easily) before noticing it was home time.  If there has been a better organised from the start filing system anywhere in the galaxy, I’ll be surprised.  I’ll also be surprised to learn of two people who had more fun than us on Monday afternoon.

DSCN0912

On Tuesday morning I attacked Spud’s desk.  I filled two large bags with stuff from school, Christmas (2012), much small change, more Christmas (2011), books he was supposed to have returned after his GCSEs last year and even more Christmas (2010).  I don’t know why I buy him cheap stocking fillers if he’s just going to leave them lying around and never use them.

Once rested and lunched, I moved the desk.  It is small and light and I had no trouble.  The eight p.m. exhausted sleep I fell into was induced by exposure to Spud’s dormant past, I’m sure.

I spent all afternoon – having had the foresight to walk the dogs early and grab something easy from the freezer for that evening’s dinner – happily arranging my desk.  When I came in on Wednesday morning, the Hub had left me a love note to start me off as I ought to go on – smiling; and loved.  

DSCN0919

Note the cow.  Perfecting Motherhood blogged about the Yahoo purple cow, which I loved.  She suggested I have one in my space.  I promised to get one.  I drew this.  I don’t have a purple pen so I coloured it blue because he’s Fresian… If you can’t read the writing, it is entitled, The Cow Who Mooed Because He Cud.

It is now Thursday and the novelty has not worn off.  Moo.

 

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