An Utter Declutter

Image via Wikipedia

 

We have a lot of stuff; we’ve always had a lot of stuff.  It didn’t matter in South Africa when the Hub had a warehouse attached to his office: we stored everything there and our home looked lovely; it’s not so great now that we live in a three-bed council house.  Part of the problem is that we hang on to things we might need later on, like every plug from every defunct appliance we’ve ever owned – bearing in mind that it is a legal requirement that every appliance sold in this country must come with an integrated plug, it’s like letting your older children leave home but keeping their feet in case the next one you give birth to needs spare tootsies.  Okay, that’s ridiculous; but so is hanging on to twenty-five years’ worth of electric waste.

Having built and filled our garden shed twelve years ago, the stars finally conjoined yesterday to give us sunshine, everybody home with nothing to do, and me in a we can do this if we only gird our loins and get on with it mood.  I needed to empty the shed (not the one pictured, but a good facsimile) so that I have somewhere to store the clutter from the kitchen (it must be emptied before they give me a new one).  The clutter in the kitchen came from the hall when I painted it.  The clutter in the hall came from the lounge when I painted it.  The clutter in the lounge came from my inability to tie the Hub to his chair and never let him shop.  I didn’t have the heart to put the clutter back in the lounge because I was able to see every wall for the first time since Spud was born.  I have been shuffling utter crap from room to room for months, and yesterday I decided it must STOP.

 

 

 

 

 

Tilly couldn't understand where the mess was coming from...

 

 

My family hate when that happens because it means work for them, and they weren’t wrong.  We sat the Hub in a comfy chair on the back step so that he could supervise the chucking-out and tell us what he really needed to keep: spare parts for his never-used scooter (we’re building our own ark here in Stockport) could stay because they will come in handy in 2027 when it is forecast we will finally have a dry summer and the scooter will need de-rusting; but three huge electric typewriters and seventeen pieces of mouldy mdf were defintely out.  A box full of baby toys might have stayed if the boys were ready to make me a grandmother, but I didn’t want to encourage them so they went on the skip pile.  An old tent we got from Freecycle last year was finally opened up to see if it was of any use.  It was: I now have waterproof bicycle and braai covers, albeit bright purple, and three groundsheets.  I couldn’t prise a Linguaphone box of 78s from the Hub’s crying arms, but I did manage to sneak out a couple of motorbike forks and carpet offcuts from a carpet we no longer have, when he was stroking the vinyl and saying Ciao, bella to himself.

We finished up with several piles:

• for the council skip (coming next week)
• recycling (how many fly-blown cardboard boxes do we really need?)
• Freegling (the beauty of decluttering on a public holiday is that people are free to collect straightaway)
• charity (the van happened to be coming this morning)
• to sell (to pay for my broken nails)
• might come in handy at some point if the Hub can hide them from me

We moved the stuff in the house that we really wanted to keep into the shed, where it will no doubt stay for another twelve years until we get our next sunny day.  The kitchen isn’t quite cleared but it’s getting there.  The hall isn’t quite cleared but it’s getting there.  The lounge – well, you get the idea.  I’m doing my best and if it sometimes feels as if I’m holding back an avalanche with sheer will and a roll of bin bags, at least it gives me something to blog about.

I Googled ‘declutter’ and I came across some excellent tips; I will give you the best ones and the sites they came from:

http://zenhabits.net/15-great-decluttering-tips/

• Declutter for 15 minutes every day. It’s amazing how much you can get through if you just do it in small increments like this.
• Whenever you’re boiling the kettle for tea, tidy up the kitchen. If the kitchen is tidy, tidy up the next room – it’s only 3 minutes but it keeps you on top of everything (helps if you have an Englishman’s obsession with Tea as well!)
• The One-Year Box. Take all your items that you unsure about getting rid of (e.g. “I might need this someday…”), put them in a box, seal it and date it for 1 year in the future. When the date comes, and you still didn’t need to open it to get anything, donate the box WITHOUT OPENING IT. You probably won’t even remember what there was in the box.

 http://zenhabits.net/18-five-minute-decluttering-tips-to-start-conquering-your-mess/

• Create a “maybe” box. Sometimes when you’re going through a pile of stuff, you know exactly what to keep (the stuff you love and use) and what to trash or donate. But then there’s the stuff you don’t use, but think you might want it or need it someday. You can’t bear to get rid of that stuff! So create a “maybe” box, and put this stuff there. Then store the box somewhere hidden, out of the way. Put a note on your calendar six months from now to look in the box. Then pull it out, six months later, and see if it’s anything you really needed. Usually, you can just dump the whole box, because you never needed that stuff.
• Pull everything out of a drawer. Just take the drawer out and empty it on a table. Then sort the drawer into three piles: 1) stuff that really should go in the drawer; 2) stuff that belongs elsewhere; 3) stuff to get rid of. Clean the drawer out nice, then put the stuff in the first pile back neatly and orderly. Deal with the other piles immediately!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1211647/How–declutter-home.html

• BE BRAVE  Most people find it hard to throw away stuff, but you can’t attach sentimental value to everything you own.  When your house is cluttered, nothing looks good. So, as you go through your possessions, ask yourself which of them you actually love or use. If not, why not?  Maybe it’s a wedding present you secretly hate, a dress that doesn’t suit you. Let it go.
• MAKE A MESS  To clear up your home, you have to turn it into a proverbial bombsite first.  The best de-cluttering method is to pull every single item from your shelves, drawers and cupboards and lay it all out so you can see exactly what everything is.  This tactic works well for clearing out your wardrobe; as well as gathering rags to chuck, you’ll ‘re-find’ clothes you’d forgotten about.

http://www.myhouseandgarden.com/declutter.htm

• This is my favourite: Start today  Procrastination is the major obstacle to decluttering.  So start now.

 

 

 

An Official Announcement

Today is a public holiday in Britain; the Laughing Housewife is taking a day off from blogging.  As usual, there are nothing but repeats on television.  In the spirit of the BBC, ITV & Channel 4, The Laughing Housewife’s blog is showing a repeat of a post that aired last year. 

I wouldn’t bother reading it; it’s even duller now than it was then:

I have a busy day ahead. I am doing the music at church this morning. If it goes as well as last time, it will be a fiasco. We have a new cd player only it’s not really a cd player but uses a memory stick. That’s fairly straightforward. It’s the tempo button that tripped me up. You can set the tempo for each song played. It sounds like a good idea and when I played them before the service and sang along in my head, the tempo was spot on each time. However, throw in a congregation – albeit small and composed mostly of old ladies – and the thing takes on a life of its own. At first it was too slow so I speeded it up; then it was too fast so I slowed it a little. Unfortunately, the ladies were still racing along with the fast tempo and they finished singing before we ran out of music. Some of them are also getting deaf and I had it too quiet, too soft, too loud, too blow the roof off. By the time the feedback whistle from one of the mikes started, I was past caring, and sat laughing hysterically in my corner. They must be pretty desperate if they ask me to do it again.

After church I have to come back, clean up, then go to buy some groceries. The Hub bought a couple of boxes of Honey Waffles and came to have some last night…he found enough for half a bowl. I would blame the children but they don’t like them, so I can’t. He knew it was me and if I want to save my marriage I have to replace them today.

I’ll get back in time to not watch the City game. I will be sorting through the crap I want to sell at a boot sale tomorrow. I am going with a friend. Unless it rains, in which case, Freecycle will be getting it all.

After that, it will be time to make dinner, eat dinner, clean up after dinner, and collapse in bed from the exhaustion housework always brings on in me.

A dull post for a dull day; but why should I suffer alone?

A Senryu For You

Writer’s Island prompt: if only.  I speak from bitter experience.

If Only…

…I had checked the sauce
bottle top was fastened tight
before I shook it…

 

For Big Tent, August 23rd

Image by churl via Flickr

This was a difficult one and I’m not convinced it’s finished; I’ve had some useful feedback from my online critiquing group but other critiques are welcomed. 

We had to do a manual task and observe the details, then write about it.  I wasn’t inspired but I thought I’d better write anyway, and as I sat staring at the blank page and watching my hand not write anything, inspiration hit.

 

Labour Pains

I write, hand tight.
Tense. Always:
past, present, future.
Knuckles hunch like ancient slaves.
Fear snares the words.
Fingers throttle the pen,
afraid I’ll say nothing.
I wrangle blank pages,
ignoring the void.

A Quickie

I follow a blog called The Conservation Report and he posted this today; I liked it so I thought I’d share it with you:

PS  Here’s a weird thing: the recommended tags for today’s post include the inevitable ‘love+sex’ (sorry, folks, I couldn’t think of a better title) but also, bizarrely, ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’.  I’m off to do some googling.

Fort Knocks

Tory Boy has been asking me to tell you this story. As it is twenty years possibly to the day since it happened, because TB was born in the April of 1990 and we took a road trip to Zimbabwe when he was four months old, which makes it August 1990, I might as well; an anniversary is as good an excuse as any.

We were living in South Africa and Tory Boy was four months old – cue cute picture of him at three years old because we haven’t got any scanned of him at four months; another job to add to my ever-growing list of things I mean to get around to before I die and probably won’t.

The Hub was working for Henred Fruehauf in Jo’burg, selling articulated trailers. He had been with them just over a year and was away a lot and I was a bit fed up of it, especially when he came home. Oops, sorry; accidental full stop there. Especially when he came home and told me about eating in expensive restaurants every night and staying in five star hotels. Such a hard life.

He was making a trip to Zimbabwe and his boss said he could take Tory Boy and me with him if we drove up; food & hotel & petrol would be on them. It was quite a good company for trying to keep the families of the salesmen sweet. When they returned from a trip, they were allowed to take their families for a meal as a thank you from HF for letting them go off and stay in five star hotels and eat caviar made from mermaid’s tails. The Hub, poor love, was sick to death of eating expensive food every night and just wanted a home-cooked meal – even mine; which shows how terrible eating steak & salmon & soul & the livers of lambs raised in gold palaces every night must have been for him – and would not want to take me out. We rowed a lot over this. I had been stuck at home alone for weeks with a baby…umm, at my parents’, actually, being spoiled rotten and run around after. But that’s not the point, is it? He should have taken me out, and didn’t. And I should have cracked him one, and didn’t; I’m the (dover) soul of restraint. Eventually, we reached a compromise: the occasional night out but otherwise takeaways on the night he returned home, inclusive of, but not limited to, a bottle of my favourite wine and enough main courses to do next night’s dinner as well.

I believe it was his guilt at keeping me chained to the house that led to him agreeing to the wife and sprog coming along on a business trip. Also, we had just bought a new car and the Hub was keen to give it a long run and a happy wife can be good company if she doesn’t talk too much.

The car was an Opel something-or-other and just twelve months old; it had been AA checked and the Hub had given it a good look over. We were all set. We woke TB at three in the morning – such a happy baby! Not at all grumpy in the mornings. I miss him. The one I have now hasn’t voluntarily seen daylight since 2004.

We drove through the night and early morning; made Beitbbridge in good time and were allowed to enter Zimbabwe on our British passports, South African passports being frowned upon and all that because of Apartheid. When we first married, we had ex-Rhodesian neighbours who described it as ‘God’s own country’ and they weren’t lying: it is stunningly beautiful. Or was, but that’s a genocidal maniac for you: no respect for scenery.

We had reached the town of Masvingo and the Hub was telling me it had just achieved city status – all three streets of it – when ominous noises and smells began to happen to the car. It broke down. The Hub spent a while fiddling with it; he’s quite handy and can do basic car maintenance, but magic new spark plug leads and a new distributor – both of which had melted – from stifling Zimbabwe air was beyond even caviar-eating-never-taking-his-wife-out-though-she-was-wonderful-back-then him.

This raised another problem: Opels were not driven in Zimbabwe and as a consequence, no Opel parts were available for us to repair the car. This was a country that had so few resources, you had to take back your empty cool drink bottle before buying a new one. Furthermore, there were no mobile phones in those days so he had to trudge the city streets until he found a public phone and a place selling cool drinks who would sell him a cool drink without an empty bottle to trade.

The whole event took several hours, and this brings me to the point of my story: Tory Boy, four months old and sitting in a car during a roasting Zimbabwe lunch time, was brilliant. He didn’t cry or complain or moan or whinge once. Granted, he couldn’t talk, but I’m an excellent mother and I could interpret every sound he made. Even today when he comes out of his room at midnight and grunts, ‘Fude!’, I know he’s actually saying, ‘Mother dearest, be a love and prepare some of your delicious vittles for my aching belly hole, wot can’t live without your egg & chips another minute.’

The Hub contacted his biggest customer as I sat in the car with Tory Boy and watched the slowest man I have ever seen shift in his seat slightly: we had stopped beside veld and I gradually became aware that a tall, thin man was sitting there, watching us. He never came over or spoke to us, he just watched. Silent; still; expressionless. It took him three minutes to turn his head to one side. The seat-shifting took what seemed like an hour. He reminded me of that old story where someone is sitting somewhere and says to someone who asks what he is doing (okay, the details are a little sketchy), ‘Sometimes I just sits and thinks; and sometimes I just sits.’

The Hub came back and the man watched that too, and the Hub said that his customer was going to send a driver for us the next day and arrange for the car to be towed back to South Africa. We were to stay in Masvingo’s best hotel. Also its only hotel, but it was clean and welcoming and our night was only spoiled by the Hub’s incessant squabbling with the mosquitoes storming the room. The Hub was terrified that one of them would bite Tory Boy, who had no net over the cot. I think the Hub had already had malaria by then, which would explain his paranoia.

The baby survived the night thanks to his vigilant father keeping me awake, and I was only a little grumpy in the morning. Only a little, because I was staying in a two star hotel and eating plain food and really enjoying myself.

It was at breakfast that I realised we were the only white people in the hotel; I hadn’t noticed until then. I mention it because South Africa in 1990 was tense due to the struggle against Apartheid, and South Africans were very aware of who was white, black, brown, purple or whatever. In Zimbabwe in 1990, the struggle had been over for quite a while and President Mugabe wasn’t emulating Stalin’s best bits at that point; the country’s atmosphere was warm and welcoming and skin colour really wasn’t an issue. It was a wonderful moment for me; it makes me sad to think of Zimbabwe now.

Our driver arrived in a huge Mercedes around noon, and delivered us to Meikles Hotel in Harare a couple of hours later; most definitely five stars and guaranteed to make me smile twenty years on at the memory of it. I had a happy week of shopping (excellent exchange rate), eating mermaid’s soles in expensive restaurants and room service for a treat, and generally being in a good mood and speaking to the Hub for at least half of every day.

The Hub had promised his little boy a present for being so good while we were stranded, and he scoured Harare’s stores until he found the very thing: a wooden fort. Just what a four-month-old baby needs: war lessons. The Hub and I argued a bit about it, but he persuaded me that it would be a good present because it was expensive, well-made and would last him a lifetime if he looked after it. And he has. He has it packed away now but he played with it a lot over the years, and even let Spud use it on high days and holy days.

He doesn’t remember his trip to Zimbabwe, of course; or his first flight home, on a plane that had the same initials in its registration as he has in his name (this snippet comes to you courtesy of the plane geek who is his father), but he told me the other day that he remembers receiving it, young as he was. We gave it to him around the time of the photo on this post and he has loved it ever since. The Hub was right to buy it: it’s not a toy; it’s a happy memory. For all of us.

Those Who Can, Sleep

I’m tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I blame, well, everyone.

Tory Boy used an angle grinder to unlock his door; he said it was the key but I know a power tool when I hear one in the middle of the night as I’m just dropping off.

Spud did his thing of feeling ill at about two a.m. and standing over me until I woke up. It’s terrifying and one day he’s going to get a fist where he don’t want it because my barely-conscious mind will think he’s too big to be my baby and must be an intruder.

The Hub was the worst offender because not only did he collect Toby from our room to put him out for a wee, he also offered to stroke my hair to help me sleep once he had seen to the dogs, then took me at my word when I told him not to worry about it; he also left the hall light on so he could see not to fall over Molly in the dark (something we do a lot of). I can’t believe how selfish he is sometimes.

He should have more sympathy because he hasn’t slept properly himself, for several months. It got so bad that he finally agreed to see the doctor and it turns out he has something wrong with his sinuses that interrupts his breathing and wakes him up; and restless leg syndrome, which causes pain and wakes him up again. Or maybe it was just a cold and a bruised shin. I dozed off while he was telling me. He shouldn’t talk to me when I’m not interested; I can’t believe how selfish he is sometimes.

*

This is for Haiku Heights; the prompt was festival:

Edinburgh Festival

A magical land:
my adult self rues what my
teen self did not find.

*

I always wanted to go to the Edinburgh Festival and it is one of my very few regrets that I have never made it there. Or, being a glass half-full kind of girl, perhaps I should say it’s on my to do list of unfulfilled ambitions.

The Hub Says Sometimes I Can Take Recycling Too Far

I’d like to be sent off in a cardboard box.  A great big shoe box – white, so that people can scrawl messages on it: Best mother EVER; Can’t believe you were never recognised as the greatest writer who ever lived; Nagging will never feel the same again; We love you so much we can’t live without you; Won’t miss your cooking.  That sort of thing.  I’d like it to be colourful and messy and then the Hub should take photos of it so the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and their grandchildren (I plan on being around for a while yet) can take a bit of me home and know how much I was loved and admired and respected.   Um, better make it a real shoe box….

I mention this because I just read Novaheart’s blog about a friend’s send-off.  A Harley Davidson and big tvs – that’s what I call a celebration.  Like Novaheart’s friend, I also want to donate my body to science: it’s just a shell; I won’t need it.  The Hub hates the idea; he says the boys need something to bury.  I say well, for starters, you have to burn me because I don’t want to take up valuable floor space for one thing and I don’t want to be neglected floor space as they rightly get on with their lives for another.  However, he is adamant that I’m not going to be someone’s boring lecture (been that all my life as far as my kids are concerned), and he’ll be the one organising things (assuming he isn’t doing time for needing the organising in the first place) so I don’t have much choice. 

To be fair to him (ouch; that hurt), I don’t feel as strongly about it as he does, so I’m letting him have that one.  But they do have to whip out my bits and re-use them: that’s not negotiable.  I’ve been a kidney donor since I was eighteen – not an actual donor; on the list, I mean.  I’m a registered organ donor, a blood donor, part of a cancer study, and on the Anthony Nolan bone marrow register.  I mention all this not to say how wonderful I am (though I am), but to direct you to read my post Save A Life: Spit In A Cup if you haven’t already, and to remind you to do something about it if you have and are eligible. 

People are dying, folks, for want of things you don’t/won’t need or can reasonably spare. 

• Giving blood takes an hour (including travel) every four months, and you get to eat a biscuit without feeling guilty about breaking your diet.
• The cancer study involves one blood sample every five years and a questionnaire.
• There are organ donation forms all over the place and you can do it online these days; it doesn’t take long.
• Joining the bone marrow register means just spitting: how difficult is that?  Okay, at some point you might have to have a needle in your bum, but isn’t it worth it to save a life?

Despite my passion for donating bodily fluids to complete strangers, I’m not in favour of an opt-out clause i.e. everybody’s a donor unless they tell the government they don’t want to be.  I prefer nagging (my future coffin refers).  So do something amazing today: listen to me.

 

 

 

Sorry, Miss; The Dog Ate My Will To Live

Umm, I was going to slot in a You Tube video of scary music here but it worked so well I’m too freaked out to use it.  Just say Dum-dum-derrrrrr! to yourself instead.

Today is a scary day: it’s school uniform shopping day.  I loathe school uniform shopping day: schlepping around from store to store in pursuit of black and white clothes and a blazer with a bright yellow trim, arguing sotto voce with the Hub about nothing in particular, and certainly nothing school uniform-related.  The only thing that makes the day even a little bearable is that we don’t have to pay for it: Spud receives a generous uniform allowance as part of his bursary so we get to spend spend spend and send send send the receipts to school to claim it back.

I don’t like shopping for it but I do like a school uniform; it’s a great leveller.  No-one knows your circumstances (unless they see you arriving in your little Citroen from their Maseratis), and everyone looks smart.   Also, if you are attacked by the students wearing them, it’s easier to identify the culprits if you know which school they are from.  You think I’m joking but I’m not: a girl from a local school hurled abuse at the Hub one day as he was waiting in the car for her to cross the road; he knew her uniform and was able to complain to the school; they tracked her down; and she sent a letter of apology to him.

Think of me out there today, cast adrift on a sea of striped ties and grey socks with only a grumpy Hub and a bored teenager for company.  I could be doing something interesting, like cleaning.

*

Pointless Headline Of The Day: Pop star due in court on drugs rap.

Rain, Rain Go Away; Come Again Another Day (But Not In October Half Term, Please)

Image via Wikipedia

Tory Boy says my posts have been dry recently; so here’s a wet one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• If you are a UK resident this is a good site for the rain forecast.  Or you could just look out your window.
• Rainfall is classified as light if not more than 0.10 inch per hour, and heavy if more than 0.30 inch per hour.
• If the earth were a body, the Amazon rainforest would be its lungs, and it’s got emphysema.  Rainforests used to cover 14% of the earth; now it’s only 6%.  Forty more years and it’s Hello Gobi.  Dull as he is, Sting is on to something.
• A single pond in Brazil can sustain a greater variety of fish than is found in all of Europe’s rivers. 
• Raindrops can fall at up to 22miles per hour.
•  Louisiana is the wettest state in the US; 56 inches a year.
•  One single tree in Peru was found to have forty-three different species of ants.  Okay, they can chop that one down as far as I’m concerned.
• There is a famous actor called Rain.  Heard of him?  Me neither.
• Acid Rain is a real phenomenon; natural precipitation reacts chemically with air pollutants and becomes acidic.  Ouch.  We’re poisoning the ecosystem.  Where’s Sting when you need him?
• Made out of copper, the Statue of Liberty is corroding because of acid rain; the acid discolours and dissolves the copper.
• Mt. Waialeale in Kauai, Hawaii, has up to 350 rainy days every year.  If you think that’s a lot, try living in Stockport.
 
 
 
• Raindrops change shape as they fall.
• The world’s heaviest average rain fall (about 430 inches) occurs in Cherrapunji, India, where as much as 87 feet of rain has fallen in one year.
• Rain that freezes before it hits the ground is known as frozen rain.  I got that from a site called ‘Interesting facts about rain.’  I should sue them under the Trades Description Act.

 

• All the water in the world is all the water we will ever have. The rain and floods we are experiencing are like sloshing drinks from one glass to another; that must make the people of Pakistan feel a whole lot better.
• The umbrella started life as a parasol.                                                                                                                                                         
• You can make your own rain!  From http://www.essortment.com/all/kidsweatherrai_rsdj.htm 

 TWO WAYS TO MAKE SOME RAIN 

If you want to make some rain, here is what you do: 1. Fill a glass about half full of water.
2. Cover the glass tightly with some plastic wrap.
3. Put a rubber band around the glass to hold the wrap in place. Make sure there are no holes in the wrap over the top of the glass.
4. Put the glass of water in the refrigerator.
5. Wait one or two hours and check the glass. When you see water droplets on the inside of the glass on the plastic, you know your experiment is working.  The longer you wait, the more water droplets will form. You can even wait until the next day.
6. When you see plenty of droplets, take the glass out of the refrigerator and set it on the table or counter, or some other place where it won’t be in the way.
The water has evaporated up to the top of the glass where the plastic is. The plastic is kind of like clouds. Pretty soon, as the glass begins to warm up, the plastic will have more water than it can hold onto, and the drops will rain back into the glass. YOU JUST MADE RAIN!

Here is another way to make rain. This works very quickly, but YOU WILL NEED AN ADULT OR BIGGER PERSON TO HELP YOU. 1. Take a glass measuring cup and put 6 to 8 ounces of hot water into it.  Do not use a regular drinking glass, because it may break. The water needs to be very hot. Near boiling is best.
2. Cover the measuring cup with plastic wrap.
3. Put a rubber band around the cup to hold the plastic in place. Make sure there are no holes in the wrap covering the top of the cup.
4. Set the measuring cup where it won’t be in the way. The plastic may bulge up a little.  In about five minutes, you will see water droplets on the inside of the cup on the plastic. 5. Put the cup in the refrigerator and wait a few minutes. Take the cup out and you will see the droplets begin to fall from the plastic back into the cup. You might want to tap the plastic to make the droplets fall. YOU JUST MADE MORE RAIN!  

                                 

 

Six-Word Memoirs

This was a fun exercise, found here (via Vivinfrance; thanks Viv). Take the same headings as mine and write a six-word memoir for each one. You can be as honest or as vague as you like.

Best Advice Given Or Gotten:

Don’t put it down, but away.

Milestone Birthdays:

Eighteen: my parents set me free.
Forty: my age set me free.

Holiday Traditions:

Tree up together; tree down: mother.
Everybody’s home; everybody eats; everybody laughs.

A Memorable Meal:

The Spur: Christmas Dinner. Steak sucks.

Siblings:

Two brothers; one older; one younger.

Cheating Death:

Eldest Child: Pool. Slip. Alert friend.
Youngest Child: biltong: slap: sore back.

The Trip That Changed My Life:

First flight to South Africa. Sigh.

What A Child Taught Me:

We’re polite to strangers, not family.

Revenge Is Sweet:

But it belongs to the Lord.

The Worst Mistake I’ve Ever Made:

Paid ten cents: saw modern art.

Met Very Young:

My husband; our marriage matured us.

Growing Old Together:

We’re grey, cuddly and in love.

My Life Overall:

Has been happier than many another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writer’s Island Prompt Number 17

Hitler: An Argument In Favour Of Abortion

The worst mistake ever made:
Your Ma’s readiness to get laid.
Curse the dawn that gave you breath:
It led to sixty million deaths.
Cry for those who passed your way:
Disabled, Gypsy, Jew and Gay.
The saddest tale ever told:
You lived too long; you died too old.

*

We were asked to consider time travel: when & where we would go back to, what we would re-live or change.  I immediately thought of an old poem that I wasn’t quite satisfied with and I re-worked it for the prompt.

 

A Woman Needs A Fish Like A Man Needs A Bicycle

Viv is one lazy goldfish.  The Hub says she’s the kind of fish who takes a note into school each week to avoid swimming lessons.  She sits in a corner of the tank and even lies on the gravel and doesn’t move all day; unless there’s food going, in which case she’s Speedy Gongoldfish and the others better not get in her way.  She’s the smallest but the fiestiest.

I thought she was sick; I thought she was so sick she was going to die – which was the moment I realised that naming pets after living friends is not a great idea: imagine poor Vivinfrance’s shock if she reads of her demise on my blog. 

I’m thinking of changing my fish’s name, but she looks like a Viv.  And how would I go about it?  What’s the equivalent of the human deed poll?  A fish stick?  Owwww.  I’m cringing even as I write it.  Fortunately, my non-Yankophile readers won’t get it.  And maybe some of my American and Yankophile readers as well, if the reaction to the marshmallow joke is anything to go by.

I think I’ll just go lie on the floor and wait for someone to feed me.

 

 

I Paint, Therefore I Am

Tired.

One whole day + five doors + five skirting boards + five  door frames + half a bannister =
three coats and three tins of paint. 

Who knew there was so much maths in DIY?

Why Are Pirates Pirates? Because We Arrrrr!

 

I haven’t told you about my secret life as a pirate.  That’s me on the right, impeccably dressed as always.  The person on the left is Captain Kate, my boss.  My AKA name is Dangerous Daisy (and if you’ve tasted my cooking you’ll know why).

Our church has an annual week-long summer holiday club, for 7-11s.  I have managed to avoid it until now but I felt it was time to do my bit when somebody asked me, ‘Isn’t it time to do your bit?’  Spud had shacked up with his PS3 for the duration so I wasn’t needed at home and thus had no excuse to get out of it. 

The club has a different name each year to tie in with the theme.  This year’s theme was pirates and the club was called Landlubbers.  Which is odd now I think about it, because pirates tend to live on the sea, don’t they?  Aaarrrr!

At the meeting to dole out jobs we were asked who was good at drama; being a moron, I said I was: I had visions of directing the children in happy activities, you see.  ‘Great!’ came the reply, ‘You can act in the play every day.’  As compensation I also got to make the mid-morning snack: preparing food – just where my skill lies….

The week is about sharing Jesus with local children; numbers are rising, they like it, and don’t seem to mind us throwing in a bit of religion so long as we have plenty of fun activities for them to do like crafts, singing, games and, this year, den building.  Weirdly, it was the girls who built the dens and the boys who sat and watched.  I guess they’ve lost the use of their thumbs after all those hours in front of Playstations.

Or perhaps they were afraid for their lives: one of the games was called Cannonballs and involved two teams throwing soft balls at each other.  When the whistle blows, the team with the most balls loses, their ship having been sunk by the cannonballs.  Or in Child B’s case, the mouth in the most pain loses.  She was hit in the face with a soft ball thrown so hard (by a boy too weak to build a den) she burst into tears.  Still, at least she wasn’t Child A, frozen in fear when a ball hit the light above him and broke the shade, which crashed to the ground millimetres from where he stood.  They say a little religion is a dangerous thing. 

The children had a blast and I must confess that they weren’t the only ones.  Running around pews chasing villains, pulling sharks from my pants, being bonked on the head by a milk bottle (thrown by the vicar, not the audience; I didn’t realise my acting was that bad), hamming it up and improvising when I forgot my lines (despite having the script in my hand): what a great way to spend a week!  I sent up a little prayer of thanks each day: Dear Lord, thank you for making up with a sense of humour what I lack in acting ability.  Amen.

I can’t wait for next year; I hear they’re looking for actors.