Hallowmoan

Common Sense, R.I.P.

Don’t talk to strange women.
No sweets from strange men.
Those are the rules, three-sixty-four.

Yet

when the dead come alive
on day three-sixty-five,
it’s fine to knock on a stranger’s door?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We never let our kids go trick-or-treating.  For one thing, we’re not American.  For another, it seemed hypocritical to warn them not to take sweets from strangers, and then send them out into the night to do just that.

We did let them dress up to frighten the children who came to our door.  There were never many because it is not a real English tradition, but an American import by British retailers.  The boys usually went to parties organised by the church (but not dressed as zombies and axe murderers).

I don’t know if we deprived them of an important childhood ritual, but it occurs to me that the retailers are the ones who enjoy Halloween the most; the boys were always happy to play duck apple at home, and eat the leftover treats.

No Spoilers Allowed

Image by xploitme via Flickr

Just watched the season finale of Dexter and I am shocked and appalled.  I did not see that coming.  It was the same for last Monday’s Spooks: completely unexpected behaviour by a certain character.  All I need now is for Wagner to stay in this week’s X Factor and I’ll have my own little trinity hit.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you: I don’t mind teasers but I hate spoilers.  A certain sister-in-law once told me the ending of a 1980s’ mini-series:

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‘Let me just tell you this…’

‘…No, I don’t want to know…’

‘…Yes, but she dies.’

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Another sister-in-law told me who copped it in Titanic.

Come to think of it, maybe it’s not spoilers I don’t like, but sisters-in-law.*

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*Only kidding, T, T, L, M, J, A, C.

Some Words

Image via Wikipedia

Bitch.  That’s what Plinky Prompts says I should write about today – my favourite word.  I love the sound of it, the way it bursts out of my mouth like an alien from John Hurt’s stomach.  Titch or itch or twitch; rich, witch, which; glitch/hitch/stitch – not even pitch, switch or ditch come close to the satisfying pop of the lips that saying bitch gives.

Sadly, I can’t use it; I’m a good girl.  I don’t swear: except at the Hub in an argument; but I defy anyone to live with the Hub and not swear at him.  It can’t be done.  Nor is it possible to avoid arguing with him in the first place.   We were squabbling the other day when Matt the Finisher was here and the Hub said to him, ‘Don’t get married, mate.’  To which I unfortunately replied, ‘Yeah,  do all women a favour.’  When he started crying I had to backpeddle quickly and explain that I meant men in general, not him in particular because I’m sure he is a very nice young man who can fix anything in the house and I bet he could catch mice; Barbara Cartland once said pinkly, ‘There’s simply no equality when it comes to mice.’  By this time the Hub was rolling in the aisle make him pay for it later and I gave a How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? shrug and retired to my kitchen.

Another favourite word is solipsism.  Also another one I can’t use, but this time because I can never remember its meaning, no matter how many times I look it up.

According to Dictionary.com:

–noun

1. Philosophy.  The theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
2. Extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one’s feelings, desires, etc,; egoistic self-absorption.

I’d say that describes every blogger on the planet.*  

*I know I don’t have to apologise for that one because the paucity of comments lately means that I can prove my readers don’t exist.**

**Except for slp and Viv, of course; thank you, dear readers.

The first time I came across the word solipsism, I wrote it on my A Level English folder, meaning to look it up later.  My tutor noticed it and said, ‘There’s a word.’  Then walked away and never mentioned it again.

Proving that sometimes it’s better to believe – to paraphrase The Sex Pistols – I am a solipsist.

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Looking for a suitable photo, I came across this website: http://www.moviedeaths.com/alien/kane/.  I thought I was a nerd – I have seen every episode of every series of Star Trek, you know; more than once – but these people are something else.  You should take a look at the comments. 

It’s actually a pretty useful site.  I have never seen any of the Alien films and it gave me some interesting details, such as Hurt’s character’s name, and where he was at the moment of death: a sort of latter-day Kane and Table.***

***Pun. – noun.

1. A deliberate infliction of the wince factor on one’s faithful readers.  Punishable by desertion in droves, leading to the belief (correct) that only the self exists in one’s personal blogosphere.

Signs Of The Times

I got these from my Auntie Freda:

On a Septic Tank Truck:
Yesterday’s Meals on Wheels

In a Non-smoking Area:
If we see smoke, we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action

On a Maternity Room door:
Push. Push. Push.

In a Vet’s waiting room:
Be back in 5 minutes. Sit! Stay!

Sign on the back of another Septic Tank Truck:
Caution – This Truck is full of Political Promises

Blind Luck

To welcome our new kitchen we treated it to a vertical blind.    The Hub measured carefully, several times, because we bought it from the internet and had to fit it ourselves.  We chose a nice cream colour to match the walls.  Sigh.

I blame the blind company – fancy accepting orders from unlucky idiots.  Unlucky, because we absolutely could not foresee that, instead of painting the window sill, a new, plastic sill would be laid over the old one, thus raising it by several centimetres.  Idiots because, even though the colour on the website looked cream, the name was a bit of a giveaway: Sunflower Yellow.

I Heart Nepotism

Words fail me…my kitchen is finished.  Photos to follow.

Words don’t really fail me, of course; you know that’s not my style.  So here’s an update:

Tim the Tiler laid my kitchen floor yesterday.  A real jobsworth, he told me about every neighbour of mine – and there were many – who had abused him or complained, so that he was forced to down tools and walk out, never to return.  Suitably appalled, I plied him with tea, one sugars, the whole day, and kept my mouth shut.  He did a lovely job.

I have just re-read the Harry Potter books for the nth time and last night I started on the movies.  I had forgotten how long they are, though, and was up way past my bedtime as a result.   I was woken this morning at the debauched hour of 8:20 by Matt the Finisher.  Matt is the boss’s nephew and that is usually a bad omen but he is an impressive young man.  Not in looks: he is wearing a pyjama-stripe hoodie and is possibly malnourished, but his work ethic is outstanding.  He has sealed every worktop, socket and tile, including the ones behind the appliances; put back the vent cover, even though the vent was hidden and could reasonably have been forgotten; replaced two windowsills and a bathroom shelf; took out the toilet and sink and over-sink tiles and called in the decorator to re-do that wall because he wasn’t satisfied with how it looked; scraped cement mix off the kitchen wall that the floor man had left behind; and moved my fridge freezer and freezer back into the kitchen.  I could go on, but I think you have the idea.  The electrician who came yesterday warned me MtF was particular: he had come to move one socket because it was slightly higher than the two it was by, and when I said he could leave it as far as I was concerned, he shuddered and gave me to understand that Matt wouldn’t like it….

I can’t fault a man who is going to leave me with a perfect kitchen and bathroom and do it all on one cup of tea.  He wouldn’t take more because it interfered with his work time.  Nepotism rocks.

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The decorator was the same man as last time.  He asked if he could get some water for his bucket:

Me: Let me just move these breakfast dishes out of the sink.
Him: I thought you’d be finished by now.
Me: (Apologetically) I overslept this morning so I’m behind on my chores.
Him: No, no – I meant your refurb.

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I found this interesting – the recommended tags for this post included Nepotism, the People’s Republic of China, Government, Robert F. Kennedy, and the American House of Representatives.  It would appear that even the internet is jaded about politics.

Matt’s Got The X Factor

I was sorry to see John Adeleye go out last night; he has such smiling eyes and seems so genuinely nice that I wanted him to do well. 

  

Aiden was brilliant again:

I like Rebecca:

But Matt is still my favourite, and this is why:

This is my 500th post so here’s a Blondie song to celebrate:

 

Better Off Fed

Image via Wikipedia

Yesterday’s whinge was barely out of my fingertips when the painters arrived and magnolia-ed my kitchen.  They second-coated this morning, as well as doing the bathroom.  The plumber fitted half of the shower (the electrician has to do the other half) and the floorman coated the floor this afternoon. 

All good news for me…except that I like eating.  I like it so much that I cook.  In my kitchen, which is wet from floor to ceiling and a no-go area for 24 hours (if we want to be on the safe side).  The floorman caught us by surprise at three this afternoon and told us to take what we needed from the kitchen; but we couldn’t get the stove past him.  We had to raid Spud’s moneybox and buy chips for dinner.

I miss real food: roast dinners and rice and vegetables and homemade gravy.  Stews and soups.  All cooked with non-processed ingredients and by my own fair hands.  It might not taste good but it keeps the bones strong and the gullet full.  We haven’t eaten a fresh potato in this house for three weeks.  If I don’t eat something soon that hasn’t been prepackaged, flavoured, coloured and enhanced, I’m going to be a little grumpy.  I need to shake off this microwave-induced headache and rip into some meat.

So This Is What Ungrateful Feels Like

Image by id-iom via Flickr

 

I’m getting them for nothing; I shouldn’t complain, but I am sick to death of the kitchen and bathroom refurbishment.  The work has been going on since September 23^rd.  It should have been September 22^nd but they were running a little behind. 

That was the first clue that I should have stuck with my forty-year old cabinets.  Better the cupboard you know.

Since that date, workmen have been in and out of my house, leaving the door open for opportunist thieves and letting the cold in; drinking my tea; not cleaning up after themselves.  I’ve had kitchen necessaries in my lounge and kitchen extras in every bedroom and a stonking great fridge freezer blocking my front door for three weeks.

Men come, look around, go away again.  Other men give me dates and no-one shows up.  Anonymous vans deliver wallpaper and plumbing supplies that stand around for days, gathering dust and my impotent rage.  The rubbish that the men do clear up stands uncollected outside my house, a prey to foxes, because half-eaten sandwiches go in the bags as well.  I’ve got nothing against foxes except that, like council workmen, they don’t clear up after themselves.

We were promised that this week the tiling and decorating would be done, and the shower fitted.  Monday, the tilers came in, drew in a long breath and said they couldn’t tile because there was a tiny hole that I couldn’t see that needed plastering; then went away again.  The plasterer came, filled the hole, and went away again.  The tilers tiled. 

Tuesday, the decorators came, stripped the paper, drew in a long breath and went away again because there were holes underneath that the plasterer etc., etc.  The plasterer came in the afternoon and plastered.  This was his third time here as he had plastered prior to the cabinet fitting.  As we are as good as related by now, I joined him via my leftover birthday wine.  I don’t know why, but suddenly it was all so much easier.

The decorators came back yesterday morning and papered, then went away again because – draw a long breath – it wasn’t their job to paint. 

This morning, Paul the person in charge knocked to tell me that I was down to have my floors done today.  This is the same Paul who told me on Monday that my floors would not be done until the decorating was finished.  Phrases using words like ‘elbows’, and vulgar alternatives to the human posterior spring to mind.

While all this is going on, I have been shuttling kitchen necessaries such as kettles and microwaves from kitchen to lounge to kitchen again.

On top of all that, we are going camping on Sunday.  Twelve years without a family holiday and we opt for one that has us living with a kitchen-come-lounge for a week.  Somebody, please – pass me the wine.  I need to get plastered.

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The prompt for Carry on Tuesday was to use the words, ‘Close your eyes, have no fear’ from John Lennon’s song, Beautiful Boy.  I only have one thing on my mind, so here it is:

A Bit Of A Carry On

Close your eyes; have no fear:
the end’s almost here.
Fitting & tiling & joinery’s done;
wallpaper is up; painting’s to come.
Add a new shower and two shiny floors:
A beautiful kitchen (and bathroom) is yours.

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Coincidentally, I wrote this one yesterday:

Lines On A Refurbishment 

At present, my writing life’s quite unexciting.
I shouldn’t be bitching, I have a new kitchen.

I just can’t write in a mess, I guess.

Good News

Sometimes, you don’t have to know a person to feel happy for them.  Today, I feel happy for 33 Chilean miners.

The Veneer Of Civilisation

Image via Wikipedia

It’s manky teeth time again.  I have the worst teeth in the world.  When Americans whisper behind their hands about British mouths, it’s me they’re thinking of. 

I had root canal treatment on my front tooth, twenty-odd years ago.  Being dead, it got greyer and greyer until I begged my dentist to help me.  He suggested veneers – in the plural, because one’s front gnashers should match. 

I told my friend Flo about it and she thought it was a great idea until she spoke to her own dentist.  Next time I saw her, I asked her if she was going to have her own teeth done but she fobbed me off.  She didn’t want to upset newly-veneered me, or make me feel uncomfortable.  I knew she was fobbing me off by the way she blushed and ran to the other side of the playground every time teeth were mentioned.

I never did learn what horror story her dentist told her about veneers, but I can take a good guess.  First of all, installing them hurts.  My teeth were sanded down to nothing and every time I breathed (which I do a lot of; there’s no getting round it) it felt like a gale force wind was prodding them with a skewer.  Then the cement used to stick on the veneers was so adhesive, it dried before my dentist had time to remove the excess.  My mouth spent weeks looking as if it had been grouted to match my bathroom.

Worst of all, the cement only seems to work on the gaps between the teeth: my veneers have fallen off several times and had to be glued back on.  Last night it happened again.  ‘I don’t know why it does that,’ I said to the Hub as I finished my chewy lollipop.

 

I had intended to attend the monthly session of Stockport Write Out Loud last night, but I don’t go out with a broken mouth.  It’s one of my rules.  My new dentist has agreed to fix it this morning.  She keeps a spare appointment just for me: I am forever losing crowns, fillings, veneers and bits of old tooth that I don’t use anymore.

I hope my children read this as a cautionary tale: brush your teeth twice a day for three minutes.  If you don’t, I’m warning you: I’m going to smile.

The First Time Ever I Saw This Is A Mad Factor

Red is the new Black.  Half of the text refuses to change from grey to black and I must have uniformity for my sanity, so it’s all red from now on, like the mist before my eyes.  WordPress grey is like a Stockport summer sky and I just can’t do wishy-washy; it’s not in my nature.

Phase Three of the X Factor started on Saturday, with the live shows.  I was disappointed in Matt’s performance; it wasn’t terrible but he’ll have to get better if he’s going to win.  I preferred his boot camp audition.  He starts singing at 1:40.

Mary was fantastic but I don’t think she’ll win. 

Aiden Grimshaw was the stand-out performer of the night.  I hadn’t rated him but the Hub, in his infinite annoyingness, spotted him from his first audition.  Although I’ve loved the song in all its incarnations, I never really understood just how mad a world it is until I watched his interpretation.

Perhaps the song needed a teenager to bring out the real meaning: it seemed to me that on Saturday Aiden was channelling Monday-morning Spud.  Today’s Drama of the Week was initiated by odd socks.  If my boys are anything to go by, grunge fashion extends as far as the feet; my sons never wear matching socks if they can avoid it.

 I’ve another pair at home just like it.

Spud has to wear black socks for school on pain of being expelled, but I compromise by buying multiple pairs of the same pattern so he has matching socks but they are not necessarily from the same pair.  Aren’t I clever?

This morning, he had a hissy fit because he had no school socks – and he had brought down his washing basket at eleven o’clock last night.  I can only assume I should have set my alarm early and got up at five to wash them.  I don’t have a tumble dryer but that’s not a problem because the morning screaming I do would provide enough hot air to send him off to school with the toastiest toes in Stockport.

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Perhaps my child’s descent into typical teenagerdom inspired this bleak senryu, which came from the latest Writer’s Island prompt, ‘envision’.  It was five stanzas long at first, but you need to know the Book of Revelation to appreciate it, and it was so grim I couldn’t bring myself to post the rest.

Apocalypse

Envision a world
where fowl gorge on the flesh of
kings, and hope is dead.

 

10.10.10

Today is the Hub’s birthday.  What a shame he isn’t ten, thirty or a hundred; I like number neatness. 

 

Spud and I woke him with presents.  He always manages to guess what we’ve bought but we fooled him this year by not getting him anything.

When we were very young

 

Just kidding; I’ve been saving for months and I had £3.71 to splurge with (remember my Christmas savings jar from last year?).  Apart from a box set of Goodnight Sweetheart, I got him packets and packets of Buttons and Haribo; some Christmas card tags; and a magazine.  This is where the fooling came in: he loves Airliner World and can’t afford it so he had asked for a copy.  I bought Airways and gave him that instead.  He smiled resignedly, knowing that I never get these things right – if he says ‘no’ to coffee, he gets one anyway; if he asks for Galaxy, he gets Buttons; if he gets a dvd box set of Goodnight Sweetheart, he already has four of the six dvds in the set sitting on his shelf.   

He said it was okay, he was quite happy to read that one.  He is a geek, after all; it’s what they do.  Spud then gave him a large flat packet that confounded all the Hub’s present guessing instincts – don’t worry; don’t lose the faith; it was just a blip: how many people, no matter how irritatingly excellent to the point of spoiling everyone else’s fun at guessing they are, given pound shop sky lanterns on their birthday, would instantly guess what it was they’d just been given?  Especially if it was a decoy gift: inside was the latest copy of Airliner Nerds of the World Unite magazine, just as he’d requested, plus a war movie to get him in the party mood.

We got him gooooood.  Of such small triumphs is happiness made.

The Birthday Boy gets to choose dinner on his birthday – sort of a last meal in reverse, though sticking to the spirit of the-condemned-man-celebrates-with-food-that-turns-into-ashes-in-his-mouth, given who’s doing the cooking.  The Hub always chooses sandwiches, falling as they do into ‘least likely to be burned’ category. 

That was today’s plan until Tory Boy phoned to say he wasn’t coming home Friday and going back today but just coming for the afternoon because he had been offered extra working hours.  Any activity that doesn’t require me to fund it is to be encouraged, so I asked him what meal he would like for his too-short visit: Lost Child trumps Old Man every time, I’m afraid.  He chose a roast and, to add insult to injury, the Hub was going to have to get up from his birthday couch to go buy all the ingredients for his usurped meal as my fridge is still by the front door due to the ongoing kitchen refurb.  However, Tory Boy saved the birthday because he phoned this morning to say he was free on Wednesday so he would come through on Tuesday night instead of today: he gets his roast; we get to see more of him; and the Hub gets his birthday sandwiches.  Once he’s been to the shop and bought the ingredients, that is.

WordPress My Eyeballs Into The Back Of My Skull; You’re Doin’ My ‘Ead In

Is anyone else having problems with WordPress?  Fonts that change colour at will; spaces that appear and grow larger with each touch of the ‘Save Draft’ button; paragraphs that shuffle around the page so my usual nonsense makes no sense?

Aaaaarrrggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Bad! Moon Rising

Image by smileykt via Flickr

A late post today because we’ve had visitors.  An old school friend of mine and her husband came bearing dinner: home-made cottage pie; yummy.  Friends often bring me food; I’m not sure if they feel sorry for the Hub or they believe for no reason that I can think of that I have cooking issues.  It happens so often that the Hub says where other people have take-out, we have take-in.

It should be me looking after her, really: she has just waved off her brave and lovely eldest son to Afghanistan.  She said that about fifteen people went to the station to say goodbye and everyone was blubbing or tittylipped so her strapping young soldier boarded a packed train, found a vacant window, and mooned the lot of them.

Afghanistan has no idea what’s about to hit it.