29th’s the Charm

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Oh boy! It’s my boy’s birthday today. Happy birthday, Birthday Boy.

Rules Are Made To Be Broken

Taking an inadvertent blogging break due to all of the studying I’m doing, I came across a post I wrote (hey, poets need downtime, too, you know), about a deliberate blogging break I took in 2013:

When I have time on my hands like this, I start thinking about myself. Always a mistake.  Last time I had nothing to do, I set a few rules and general guidelines to make Tilly Bud Tilly Blooming Lovely, Inside And Out.  Tilly Blooming Lovely IAO is, I am sure, well-groomed, relaxed, affable, clean, and at peace with herself.  Everyone will love her. Tilly Bud: The Menopause Years, not so much.

Forgive the use of an old photo; I wanted to look my best for you.

The Rules:

Presentation:

• Tilly Bud shall forthwith cease and desist speaking of herself in the third person.
• I’ll stop the pompous balderdash as well.
• I will address the next lot of rules to ‘you’ because the use of first person negates the funny.  Take it as read that ‘you’ is ‘me’.

Diet:

• When you eat the last Malteser, don’t open another box for at least an hour.
• Stop eating: you cannot starve to death in a morning.
• Exercise is not the enemy.  Dance, be a flibbertigibbet, chase the Hub around the house.
• Galaxy Bubbles are not an acceptable substitute for Maltesers.  Nor are Galaxy Bars, Galaxy Ripples or Galaxy Minstrels.
• They can, however, be enjoyed as a side dish.

Home:

• Never miss an opportunity to clean.
• The synchronicity of a dust bunny behind the couch and a vacuum cleaner in your hand should never be overlooked.

Computer:

• Nothing bad will happen if you stay offline for ten minutes.
• If your hand resembles a claw, put down the mouse and step away from the laptop.

Family:

• It’s okay to be nice to the Hub.
• Really.
• Just because your child didn’t call doesn’t mean A) you are a bad mother or B) he doesn’t love you.  It means he’s a bad son who doesn’t appreciate your stretch marks.
• Dogs are not substitute children.

Blog:

• It’s okay to be nice about the Hub.
• Really.
• Serendipity gave him to you; keep him sweet by throwing out the occasional compliment.

General:

• Stupid is as stupid does: pick a side.
• Life is like a box of chocolates: you can be a soft centre and a nut.
• Really.
• Forrest Gump is not the Oracle.  And that’s all I have to say about that.
• Never miss an opportunity to laugh (the first point under ‘Home’ refers)

This post first appeared five years ago.  Tilly Bud has since learned that the rules only work if you adhere to them.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Fleeting Moment

The instruction is to find a fleeting moment on the street.  This photo was taken during the 2006 World Cup but it could be from any football tournament (including the current European Cup): that fleeting moment every England fan thinks we really could win this time.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Summer

If this is summer, it must be spring cleaning.  Yesterday was tidy up the garden time.  I fought pavement weeds, re-arranged the garden ornaments (old bikes, old pots, recycling bins) and braved the grass.

Today, I spent the past hour uploading photos and writing amusing captions, and WordPress has just lost them.

We are not amused.  And neither are you, because I’m not uploading them again.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Waiting

For the Family Silver to appreciate in the Vault:

For the Hub to outgrow his aeroplane obsession:

For this lovely boy to crawl:

 

And, of course, for Christmas!

 

Related articles

 

• Weekly Photo Challenge: Waiting (huffygirl.wordpress.com)
• Weekly Photo Challenge – Waiting (notyouraveragewhitechick.wordpress.com)
• Weekly Photo Challenge – Family (runningnakedwithscissors.wordpress.com)

Weekly Photo Challenge: Broken

I don’t know who this fella is, but I think he’s broken.  No whole person would put together that ensemble, and then go out in public.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Water

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Alexandra Park was given to the district of Edgeley by the Sykes family.  We can walk, fish (with a licence and so long as we throw them all back), go on the swings, picnic, play games.  It’s a nice park.

Every Tuesday afternoon, a bunch of old men gather on one side of the reservoir to sail boats and ignore passersby.

Why is that an interesting thing to do?  Same with remote control cars: why not drive the real thing?

I just don’t get it.

Tonight’s Moon

A Madagascan Dock

Big Tent’s prompt this week was a Wordle.

 

I managed to use all of the words in a poem that discusses a theme I keep coming back to. 

On A Madagascan Dock

A ship’s garbage pile
embellished by a child swarm.
Flies; debris; half-eaten food.

A prize: a mouldy loaf –
a feast for ribs, backbones,
fleshless faces.

Evidence of temporary joy:
laughter, chants, bloated pockets,
engorged bellies.

Tourists recoil,
sweep skirts aside;
fearing hunger’s contaminants.

There is no welfare; no child care.
They ask no questions.
There are no answers.

 

Twelve Pictures

We had a sprinkling of snow in the night

Cushion Kitsch

In honour of Twelfth Night, here is a picture of some of my Christmas cushion covers, as promised.  I have picked them up over the years at car boot sales and £ shops.  This is not all of them – an excess of turkey caused a slight problem with Toby’s bowels and I had to throw a couple away. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Included just because it's pretty

 

Ours is the end house. Taken from the flats across the road.Then it snowed a little more.

Because of the blog author's techneptitude, the caption for this photograph appears at the end of the caption for the previous photograph. Don't ask me....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look carefully to see splashes of colour

Our washing line

Top of the fence. In case you are wondering about the dull subjects, the point of these photos is to show how much snow fell in less than 24 hours.

Toby attacking a snowball

Tory Boy preparing for the hustings

The future's bright; the future's orange

Gorsey Bank - believe it or not, the grottiest place in Stockport. Another reason to love snow.

The Day The Boy Nick Knocked

It’s all about the dignity with me…

As usual, it’s gone as fast as it came; the cupboards are still full and the wallets still empty.  We had our usual quiet but lovely Christmas.  The Hub and the boys like it when it’s just us.  They get to play with their toys and sit around in pyjamas all day.  I prefer a full house but I have to say I like not running around after guests and just enjoying myself.

We went to the cemetery on Christmas Eve, as usual.  My Dad died on Christmas Eve, 2000.  He was a lifelong smoker and lung cancer was inevitable.  Thankfully, he had a short illness – three weeks from start to finish.  He was 64.  He is buried next to a week-old baby and that always reminds me to be grateful for the time he had.  I save one flower from his bunch and we go round to the other side of the cemetery, and lay it on the grave of one of Tory Boy’s best friends, who died in his sleep at sixteen, from an epileptic fit.  I look at my boy and I’m grateful he’s fit and well. 

My Dad, like me, was a scouser and tormented the life out of my husband for coming from Manchester.  He always teased the Hub that ‘lots of people come from Manchester but nobody ever goes there.’   The Hub likes that he had the last laugh – Dad is buried here in Greater Manchester.

We usually come home then, and crack open the wine; but this year we have a dog, so we took him for his walk to Abney Hall Park, which is just up the road from us and is famous for its Agatha Christie connection (see the link for details; this post is going to be long enough without historical asides thrown in). 

A new form of fly-tipping

The Hub and I walked around the frozen ponds while the boys went sledding, then ambushed us with snowballs.  To be accurate, they ambushed me with snowballs because they respect their father too much to attack him i.e. are terrified of him, as you can see>     The Hub had forgotten his walking stick so we couldn’t stay out as long as we’d have liked to, but I was ready for my wine so I didn’t mind.  On the way home we saw a snowman in an unusual place: .

In the evening, I went to the Christingle service at my church, where it was my job to cut the red tape and stick it on the oranges.  We were also encouraged to make plasticine animals to add to the nativity scene.  Perhaps because of the wine, my animal started out as a dog and finished up a dinosaur (a rather fetching stegosaurus, if I do say so myself).  The curate was very gracious and told me that all animals were welcome at the nativity, and no-one wondered at the paradox of a dinosaur worshipping at the manger.  Mind you, it was a purple dinosaur; and we all know they sing songs about love.

Someone reminded me of Spud’s first Christingle service, when he was three: he started crying when the candle was lit because ‘my orange is on fire.’   This year was the first one that I didn’t have a child with me: Spud has finally outgrown it, and Tory Boy gave it up long ago.   I don’t understand how they have outgrown the Christingle yet I still have to read them ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas’ before they go to bed on Christmas Eve.  One of those traditions that will always be a part of their Christmas experience, I suppose.  On our first Christmas together in 1982, the Hub bought me an expensive card with the poem inside and I kept it and displayed it each Christmas.  I started reading it to TB on Christmas Eve when he was two, and I have done so ever since.  These days, there’s a lot of messing about and joining in, especially the last line, but my thirteen year old son and his nineteen year old brother refuse to have Christmas without it.

We got to bed at a reasonable time (after midnight) and Spud had strict instructions not to get us up before seven.  Adhering to the letter of the law, it was 7:05; what he didn’t tell us until much later was that he had set his alarm for 6:59. 

The gift-giving ceremony was a little shorter than usual because the presents were more expensive, but there were no complaints from the crowd (hold your breath now because I am never a pretty sight in the mornings, and worse on Christmas mornings):   

 Netting a netbook from Santa:             An HD Ready Spud:       

Happy Christmas, Everybody

I'm King of the world!

 

I was in a panic all of yesterday: Tory Boy phoned to say he wouldn’t be home until 7:30 tonight.  The weather is forecast to be dreadful today and I’ve been worried sick.  To take my mind off my problems, I cleaned.  I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until I was sick.  Of it, that is.  But my house looks lovely and I don’t have to bother with it for another year.  All of the washing is dry and I am just going to iron it this morning.  My turkey is in the oven and the gammon will follow. The dog will be bathed after his walk.   All gifts are wrapped. 

I went up to the bedroom last night to do the last-minute presents, thinking it would take about forty minutes.  I told the Hub I was going to bed afterwards and his face fell; but he is understanding and he knew I was shattered, so he let me go with only a small whinge.  Forty minutes!  I was kidding myself.  Two hours later I was nodding off over ribbon when the Hub begged to be allowed in the room.  I told him to come in quickly before Spud saw anything, but the Hub hung around the door, shiftily scanning for gifts.  I was irritatedly telling him to hurry up and shut the door, and I don’t mind mentioning that I was a little shrill, when the Hub suddenly told Spud to come in.  I opened my mouth to shriek – and then really did: Tory Boy walked in!  I have never been so glad to see a child in my life.  I have had sleepless nights all week, fretting that he wouldn’t be home for Christmas.  That horrible pair planned it a month ago and the weather played right into their hands.  Once I had stopped shrieking for joy and hugging the boy, I gave them a good telling-off, frightening me like that.  The Hub pointed out that the ratio of fear to relief was worth it, but he hasn’t been not sleeping in my bed, has he? 

It’s not the first time TB has pulled a stunt like this, and he’s in danger of me not believing him in future and finding his room – like last night – full of wet washing.  The best part is that Spud came to me yesterday saying that he had overheard his father whispering on the phone, ‘Okay darling; love you sweetiepie,’ and – being of an age when friends’ parents are splitting up at the rate of a banker’s bonus – stayed to listen, terrified that his father (who hardly leaves the house, by the way; and almost always with me when he does) had another woman.  When he heard the Hub say, ‘Your Mum will be pleased,’ he knew his Dad was talking to TB.  He had a nasty fright but that will teach him not to eavesdrop in future, and bless him for looking out for me.  I think he told me about it because he needed a reassuring cuddle. 

The thought did occur to me that the Hub and TB were planning a surprise early visit, but I have been so worried and they are such good liars that it flew right out again.  TB will make an excellent politician, to his mother’s shame; and I would certainly never know if the Hub was unfaithful without employing Spud the Spy, because the pair of them can lie off the top of their heads and without blinking, and I believe them.  What puzzles me is how the Hub got out of the front door (beneath our bedroom) and the car off the drive (beneath our bedroom window) without me hearing him; and back in again with TB.  Whatever: I’m not one to look a gift child in the mouth.  He’s here and I’m happy; that’s all that matters.  

I would post a Christmas photo of TB but they are all the old type, taken before the digital camera was affordable.  We don’t seem to have any Christmas photos for the last few years, and that’s because we always video Christmas.  It wasn’t a problem until I started blogging.  I’ll have to learn to use either the scanner or the Hub’s camera for next year. 

Thank you for sharing my happiness today.  Whether you are a regular visitor, an occasional, or just dropping by, I wish you and your family a happy and peaceful Christmas.

Retail Therapy

Retail therapy – why do they call it that?  Why not call it what it is?  A purse lobotomy.  I hate shopping.  I’ve hated it ever since our honeymoon in 1985.  We went to Cape Town in winter and there wasn’t much else to do, once we’d been to the Castle and up Table Mountain.  The beaches were too cold to visit, though we did accidentally stumble upon a shrivelled little fellow on a nudist beach.  That was fun.

I’m a little grumpy because yesterday I had my fortnightly trek into Stockport to pay bills.  I usually go in on a Thursday but went Friday instead: it was awful.  Christmas season is horribly upon us.  Add to that a cupboard bare of anything except a stale packet of pretzels and three bags of sugar, and I had to go grocery shopping last night.  I hate shopping; and I hate shopping twice in one day squared.

I’m aching all over from walking and pushing shopping trolleys.  I’m undernourished because I didn’t eat properly with being in and out.  And I’m hung over with guilt for accidentally abusing my dog. 

Post Traumatic Stressed Dog

As I left the house yesterday, I accidentally shut him into the kitchen.  Not a big deal for most dogs, but ours was kept locked up for about twenty hours a day in a freezing-in-winter- boiling-in-summer conservatory for the first eight months of his life, by his previous owners.  As a result, he gets terribly distressed if he’s locked in.  We came back to find he had scratched paint off the door from trying to dig his way out; pooped, which he stopped doing indoors once he realised we meant him no harm; and vomited, which is another sign of his distress.  We stuffed him full of treats and gave him a new toy that was supposed to be for Christmas.   I have to say, we are the soppiest pair of dog owners I’ve known since my in-laws; but he was genuinely upset. 

I have to stop feeling guilty because Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, says they live in the now; and Toby doesn’t seem any the worse for his misadventure – at this moment in time he is stretched out on a chair, snoring away.  Just like the Hub.

The Host Of Christmas Past

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Look what I got in my stocking

I couldn’t sleep last night – I ran out of decaffeinated Earl Grey on Monday and I don’t shop until tomorrow – and I lay awake thinking of past Christmases, so I thought I would share one with you; it’s an easy way to fill a blog.  Christmas 2006 was not a vintage year.  We got our turkey on Christmas Eve and it showed –  I have never been so disappointed in a frozen bird; it was as if that particular turkey didn’t want to be someone’s Christmas Dinner.  No meat on it at all.  Luckily, we also had gammon and duck, though the duck was an unpleasant surprise – so much fat on it, I know now why they don’t get cold on winter ponds.  We didn’t have gravy so much as artery-killer. 

Luckily, only Mum was having dinner with us that year, Dad having had the good sense to pop his clogs Christmas Eve 2000, once he heard I’d be cooking.  He wasn’t so lucky the year we had 22 for dinner and I remembered everything except the setting of the table, so everyone ate wherever they could grab a seat, some inside and some in the garden (in South Africa, don’t worry); and the greedy lot gobbled it up so fast that by the time I served the last plateful (mine) everyone had finished and I sat in lonely and tearful state with the Hub.  On the plus side, the washing up was done by the time I was. 

We had no problems at all in getting Spud to bed in 2006: he no longer believed in Father Christmas; hooray for the death of children’s fantasies!   – although he did wake up at three in the morning.  He managed to go back to sleep after rummaging through his stocking, but woke Tory Boy at 5:45, to TB’s vociferous displeasure.  Spud then climbed into our bed with the apparent intention of him no sleep, no one no sleep, so we gave in and were up by six-twenty.  Grandma was already awake, so it was simply a matter of toilet breaks, tea all round, video camera at the ready, and then the boys were allowed into the living room to receive their gifts.  Once they’d had a good poke around their booty piles we all sat to unwrap the under-the-tree gifts.  That took a good two hours, what with all the squealing and ‘thank yous’ and sorting of gift wrap, bows and ribbons into appropriate recycling bags.  

The Hub is a great gift giver.  That year, I got stuff from the White House, including a tree decoration, pin, and cufflinks which I am going to wear every time I have on a long-sleeve blouse, if I can only find them.   Unusually, no underwear, but furry socks and a large bag of Maltesers and lots of stocking fillers.   He also bought me the bread maker I so desperately desired.  I must be the only wife in the world who doesn’t hurl a new kitchen appliance at her husband on Christmas morning.  I had wanted one for ages and I used it every day for a fortnight; then about once a month; and now it’s just another dust-gatherer on top of a kitchen cupboard.   Why am I cursed with such a listening husband? 

The boys bought me thoughtful gifts: Spud bought me the Take That cd I was after (I had to have a little patience but I got it in the end) and a large box of Maltesers.   TB bought me a £10 book voucher and a large box of Maltesers.   How I love my children, especially when they spend their own money.  

I also love my mother, who bought me The West Wing.  Need I say more?  

Christmas dinner was delicious, reluctant turkey, oily gravy and all, and afterwards we watched a new dvd while Mum snored. 

Boxing Day was buffet day; a sort of ‘all-you-can-eat’ for the greedy amongst us, with me at the front of the queue.  I always do a buffet on Boxing Day because my Mum always did a buffet on Boxing Day.  I set it all out on a table in the lounge and we stretch out in front of the tv we taped but didn’t have time to watch on Christmas Day.  The only year since I’ve been cooking Christmas that I didn’t do a buffet was the year I didn’t cook Christmas because we were invited out.  That Boxing Day, the Hub and his offspring insisted I cook Christmas Dinner on Boxing Day because it didn’t feel like a proper Christmas without my Christmas Dinner.  Something to do with them missing the kitchen hysterics and burnt smell permeating the air, apparently.  Happy days! 

  

  

The Tooth, The Whole Tooth, And Nothing But The Tooth

I read a story on Parentdish about a child who drew a picture of his mother in which she appeared to be a pole dancer but she was actually selling shovels, and it reminded me of a similar story from my childhood.  My Dad worked shifts and when he was on nights  my Little Brother would come home from primary school, wake him up, and wrestle with him.  LB’s baby teeth were loose and one time when he was wrestling Dad, a couple fell out.  Two days later we had a social worker on our doorstep.  It seems that LB had gone into school next day and a member of staff had asked him what had happened to his teeth; LB had innocently replied, ‘Oh, my Dad kicked them out.’

Mum had a hard job explaining that away.

Celebrating our release from prison for child beating