I Lost A Friend

Photo copyright RR Nichols

Her personal blog

Her political blog

Some of you read Laurie Nichols’ blog; more of you will have seen her comments on my blog.  For those who have been wondering, I’m sad to report that Laurie passed away on February 17th, aged 49, due to complications caused by her cancer.  Her husband Robert told me that he was with her the last 60 days of her life full time in the room, talking, and holding her hand and making sure she was comfortable.

Laurie was a beautiful woman, inside and out.  She was sweet and kind and lived life to the full.  She loved politics, gardening, travelling with her husband, cooking, movies, her dogs but, above all, she loved her family.

She was one of my greatest cheerleaders and we corresponded privately as well as through our blogs.  A favourite memory is the time she sent me some elephant ears, all the way from the US to the UK.  You can read about it here.  That post arose from another post (read that one here) I had written, and here is the conversation which ensued in the second post, which was the first post (hey, I may be missing Laurie but she’d expect me to write as confusingly as always):

Laurie: Love, love, love this! I bake Elephant ear cookies (Palmier cookies in French) so I thought that the bad man had thrown her cookies off the balcony, I never heard of a plant called Elephant ears. I would have been crying too if a bad man had thrown my cookies off the balcony, they are so delicious, flaky pastry dough folded umpteenth times in sugar and baked until golden and caramelized, cookie bliss. 🙂

TB: Drooling…

Laurie: Sorry about the drool, they are drool worthy though, next time I make a batch, I’ll be sure to send you some. 🙂

TB: The reading of this comment constitutes a legally binding contract under blog law.  Can’t wait! 🙂

Laurie: Don’t worry I honor all of my promises, you will be getting a surprise by the end of the month or the beginning of April the latest. 🙂

TB: Bless you!

Laurie: Anything for my Tilly 😀

And that’s Laurie in a biscuit tin.  The biscuits arrived as promised, and were devoured.  I still have the tin she sent them in.

I miss her.  I miss her a lot.

 

A Grand Day Out

Everything you need for village living

The conversation went like this:

Friend Pam: Look at these fabulous desserts at the restaurant where we took Mum and Dad for their anniversary.

Tilly Bud: Drool…

Friend Pam: I’ll take you there one day; you have to eat these puddings; they’re fabulous.

Will she, bud?: Droo…l

Friend Pam: Hang on a minute…your birthday’s coming up…I’ll take you for a meal on your birthday!

There is a God: Thank yo…r….oo…l…

And so it came to pass last Wednesday that I found myself heading out of Manchester and into Burnley.  To misquote Field of Dreams (and, in fact, tell an outright lie for comic effect), the only thing we have in common is that Pam came from Burnley; and I had once heard of it.

Pam suffers from a chronic condition: she cannot plan an event without it being a huge success and, as we were heading in that direction, she reasoned, why not go up the famous Pendle Hill (never heard of it) and be tourists in the famous Witch Trial/Trail area (never heard of it).  We could see the famous Eye of God (never heard of it) in the famous centuries-old church (never heard of it) where her husband had proposed to her (I’ve heard of him); call in at the Elizabethan Towneley Hall (never heard of it); eat lunch there (definitely heard of that!); call in to see her parents for some northern hospitality (we’re all famous for that up here); and finish off at the famous pudding restaurant (which sells other food but, seriously, who cares?).

The woman is a genius.

We had a fabulous day.  Pendle Hill was gorgeous; the witch business was fascinating and a little sad (hanging innocent women gets me like that; I dunno why).  The church was…open.  It was hard to believe we were in 21st Century Britain when we could walk into an open, unmanned church and be trusted not to damage/steal anything.  Amazing.  Of course, it probably helped that it was situated halfway up a mountain in the middle of witch country.

I forgot to take my camera but Pam obliged by taking photos with hers, including my request for a pic of the inside of the public toilet – it had a high cistern with a chain!  I was back in my childhood (complete with cold seat) particularly as, technically, it was an outside loo.  Pam and I have a friendly rivalry going to see which of us is most common and I think I win because I was born in a Liverpool slum and come from Irish peasant stock (hence the Liverpool slum): an outside toilet with a lock was a step up for me.

My favourite spot: The Long Gallery. Can you see me way back there?

Towneley Hall was wonderful.  Walking through rooms which have been inhabited by who knows how many people over the past 500 years is one of my favourite things to do and I’m afraid my mouth got stuck in the Wow! position until it hurt Pam’s ears.  But that’s to be expected of a slumdog, of course.  I was, like, well impressed.

There was a slight change of plan when we saw the queue outside the restaurant door and, as we’d only had huge slices of cake for elevenses we decided – which is to say, Pam decided and I went happily along with any plan intended to feed me – to head straight for pudding paradise and eat there, calling in for a brew at Pam’s folks’ afterwards.  Which is just as well as Pam’s Mum was having her feet done and didn’t really want her guest to see that.  I don’t know why; I’ve got feet; I know how the whole thing works.

I am praying for the strength to dig in and climb out the other side

I forget the name of the place where we ate because I was too busy stuffing my gullet with a delicious carvery (which could have been called a spoonery because the meat just fell off the bone and the chef told me that sometimes he has to use a spoon to serve it) to write it down.  Pam tells me it’s called Sycamore Farm.  Check the desserts:

Now tell me it wasn’t worth turning 52 just for that.

We rolled out of there for the short journey to Pam’s parents’ house and I’m not sure that it wasn’t the best part of my day.  Her parents are lovely and her mother is adorable.  She hugged me despite never having met me before and then gave me an entertaining rundown of some of her neighbours, past and present.  They included friendly drug addicts who ran in to help during a crisis to the creepy bloke who introduced himself with the words, I’m not a paedophile and I’ve got a letter to prove it.  Pam’s Mum – or I should say, Pamela’s Mum, because that’s what she called her the whole time; no one ever calls Pam Pamela, she’s too friendly to be full-named;  but you know what mothers are like.  As I was saying, Pamela’s Mum wasn’t convinced by the not-a-molester, though she was glad to see him go when he was arrested for his cannabis farm and stealing his neighbour’s electricity to supply it.  I can’t decide which of her neighbours was my absolute favourite, but it’s a toss-up between the biker who stripped and rebuilt his motorbike many times over fifteen years, in the middle of his living room and partner and children; or the dominatrix who kept a dungeon in the basement but lived elsewhere.

Don’t think that any of this is my usual hyperbole; I swear I had it straight from the horse’s mouth – which was wearing its false teeth at the time, as she happily informed me.  Only the best for Pam’s friends.

I think I love her.

Thank you, Pam, for giving me a brilliant day, showing me a fantastic time, and for having a wonderful mother.

All photographs courtesy of Pam Robinson.

A-One, A-Poo, A-One-Poo-Wee

This is not the band you are looking for…but last night’s band did play this wonderful piece of music

Last night I went to a brass band concert with my friend Alison.  Brass bands are as vital to celebrating Christmas as chocolates and migraine so I was glad to go.

Alison has been renovating her house, so we called early, for a tour and a brew. She lives some distance from us so the Hub drove me there, and afterwards dropped us off at the hall where the concert was taking place.

Alison dotes on our dogs and asked us to bring them along.  As it had been raining all day we carried them in, to avoid their muddy paws marking her brand new and expensive carpets.  Although the paws weren’t muddy, of course, because the dogs refuse to walk in the rain and had been indoors all day.

The dogs adore Alison, in the purest form of cupboard love there is, because she brings them sausages (cooked especially) and treats whenever she visits.  As soon as they realised the car was heading her way, they whined and cried in slavering excitement.

We had the usual mad-circle run around and hysterical barking (not all of it from the dogs: I told you, she dotes on them) and it was all too much for Molly, who wet herself in joy, right there on the new carpet.  Fortunately, Alison is tolerant of their misdemeanours and assured me that the carpet could take bleach if necessary, and a little excited piddle wouldn’t harm it.  Her husband Pete smiled benignly, as he always does, being the easiest-going man I’ve ever known.

The Hub apologised, ‘It’s our fault; they haven’t been out all day because of the rai…TOBY!  NO!’  All heads whipped around to a perfect view of Toby’s backside, also known as crouching terrier, impending poo.  The Hub grabbed the dog and ran with him for the door, and the rest of us watched the plop-plop-plop of the unstoppable excrement as it carpet bombed the, well, the new carpet (and the couch: the angle at which Toby was snatched up allowing for a sideways trajectory).

Mortified, apologetic but laughing, I cleaned up the mess while the Hub and Toby stood out in the rain in disgrace.  The carpet was easily cleaned and looked none the worse for wear.  The miscreants were allowed back in.

Drama over, we all sat down to relax and drink our tea.  I felt suddenly warm and thought, but I haven’t touched mine yet, when I realised the warmth was not a hot flush if it was emanating from my lap.  I looked down to see Molly, squatting on my knees, doing the longest wee I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit under.

We think she must have seen Toby’s flight and thought she’d be better off with Mum than on the carpet.

If you thought a brass band was loud, you should have heard my scream of horror.  I jumped up, sending Molly flying across the room without the benefit of a Hub hold, and there was complete uproar – most of it from four people laughing uncontrollably, me the loudest.  I had lost it by this point and if I wet my knickers in hysteria, at least no one would know.

Alison gave me a cloth to disinfect my pants; I had a wash; and then sat on her bedroom floor in my sweater, socks and underwear, using her hairdryer on the crotch-soaked jeans because we didn’t have time for me to go home and change before the concert.

I sat in the hall, steaming quietly and stinking of disinfectant-combined-with-Brut (to disguise any unpleasant odour), and got quietly sozzled on a bottle of wine.  

It’s okay; I knew where the toilets were.

 

 

In Which I Eat Elephant Ears

You may recall my post about elephant ears and what a disappointment (of sorts) it was to discover that they were not, in fact, mammoth trophies but were…well, if you don’t know, you’ll have to read the post for yourself.

Now I discover there is another kind of elephant ears: the kind you can eat! The best kind.

Don’t worry, I might not be vegetarian (shudder) but even I would balk at a pachyderm pot roast.

No, my lovely American friend Laurie, who blogs at laurieanichols, sent a surprise parcel in the post – a tin of elephant ears: homemade biscuits, so-called because of their shape.

Sadly, the Hub has just been diagnosed as diabetic, so he couldn’t have any; Spud doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, so he had a taste, approved of them, but declined to eat any more; Tory Boy lives elsewhere; and I watch my weight these days.  

I value my friendships more than my figure, however, so I manfully swallowed as many elephant ears as I could.

At the risk of offending all of my other friends who have fed me homemade biscuits before, I have to apologise and say: these were the best biscuits I have ever tasted.

I will always remember them fondly.  And so will my waist.  Thank you, Laurie!

Sit There For The Presents

In all the excitement of Monday’s Big Birthday, I forgot to nag the Hub into taking photos.  He did take one of me at the end of the day, exhausted, on the couch; but that’s still in his camera and I’m not allowed to touch his camera because pictures have a habit of disappearing forever (and not just the fat ones).

As I don’t have photos of the Great Present Opening Ceremony (Subtitle: Gimme Gimme Gimme), I took a collective photo of all the gifts I had to hand.  I don’t know how to do that clever thing with lines and numbers and writing to show who bought what, so you’ll have to do without, I’m afraid.

The Birthday Morning Bundle

In case you were thinking, ‘At last!  The birthday madness is over!’ I’d better explain that at the bottom of the picture is a laminated note from my friend, Louise, which promises me an afternoon at the theatre, watching Seven Brides For Seven Brothers; followed by food. She also supplied that rather large box of Maltesers.  Have I mentioned I have the best friends?

Here’s a list of the pressies, in the order in which they appear:

• Flowers
• Almost all of the Dr Who series
• Notebook & Pen
• One of those Halogen Oven thingies
• Silver Celtic Cross
• Hot Chocolate Maltesers, thoughtfully provided by Spud; who knows how much I miss the real thing and who thought they might be a good substitute
• Fart Machine Mug, thoughtfully provided by Tory Boy, my ex-son
• Large Box of Maltesers
• Spare Ring
• Empty Box, home of my new Eternity Ring, which was at the jewellers, being re-sized
• £30 Amazon Gift Voucher
• Theatre Details
• £20 Nando’s Gift Card

Didn’t I do well?  This lot was on top of all the other generous gifts I’ve enjoyed in the run up to my birthday.

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE
who so generously donated to the cause, making fifty a big deal in the best possible way.

So, to recap: my birthday celebrations began in July and will cease at the end of October.  So much for all those celebrities with their week-long trips to exotic isles!  Four trips to the theatre and corresponding meals out over a period of four months is waaaaaaaay better.  I LOVE turning fifty!

Viv’s gift. I was wearing it when I took the photo and I forgot to include it.

Good news!  Looking for the photos of my gifts, I came across the pic the Hub took; he loaded it onto the computer in a pre-emptive strike against the nagging he knew was coming his way.  Good ol’ Hub.  Though not as ol’ as me.

I cain’t party hearty no more; I’m OLD.

In case you were wondering: This post’s title is a slight re-write of the only thing I remember from reading Laurie Lee’s Cider With Rosie when I was at school.  Laurie starts school aged five and the teacher tells him to ‘Sit there for the present.’  Laurie waited all day but no present ever came; he was gutted; I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever read (Twilight hadn’t been written yet).

 

The Seven Stages Of Hair

I have to say, I love turning fifty!  I’ve been celebrating since July and it’s not over yet – it’s the birthday that keeps on giving.

My lovely friend Christine told me to keep last Saturday morning free.  She collected me at 8:30 and walked me up to her hairdresser’s, Hair @ 42 on Bloom Street in Edgeley, where I had a cut and blow and a manicure!  How annoying that I had showered in honour of our date.

Right now, Christine is on a cruise, celebrating her own birthday.  As she won’t be here for my birthday, spoiling me was the least she could do, I’m sure you’ll agree.  Christine knows I haven’t been to a hairdresser for about six years; and I’ve never had a manicure.  I have the best friends!

The idea was that we do the whole thing together – me for my birthday; Christine for her cruise – but she couldn’t get matching appointments.  She waited in the salon, however, denying boredom and taking barked-out camera direction from me, for your delectation.

Janet the Hairdresser was lovely but I’m not sure she was a real hairdresser because she wasn’t at all intimidating and she seemed genuinely interested in what I wanted done to my hair.  She was most obliging, as well, stopping to allow Christine to take a picture whenever I gave the word.  When it’s time for my next hair cut in six years’ time, that’s where I’ll be going.

The hair part was fun but the manicure was funner.  Christine knows Alison the manicurist well and we had a girly, giggly session, the likes of which I haven’t had since my teens.  I can’t tell you what was said because what happens in the nail room stays in the nail room; but I can tell you that I went to the toilet before we started (just as well, with all the giggling that followed) and I was so enthralled with my hair, admiring it in the mirror, wondering if I could ever reproduce the style, that I forgot to wash my hands.  Fortunately, I realised before I touched anything, and went back to do it.  I don’t think that has happened since I was a toddler.

Bet you wish that information had stayed in the nail room, don’t you?

*

Disgust

(On my part, when I worked it out and then had to say it out loud)

You’ll have to lose 2 1/2 inches if you want it in good condition.
Six years! Tch!

Resolution

Just do it!

Anxiety

Will the Hub ever speak to me again?

Acceptance

Take the picture, Christine: I don’t mind looking stupid.

Delight

I’m being pampered! I LOVE going to the hairdresser’s!

Vanity

Get me, all posh!

Gratitude

Christine&Tilly
Friends 4EVR

 

If You’re In Stockport Today, Join Us

Come to St Matthew’s Fun Day!

I’ll be running a poetry workshop on behalf of Stockport Writers;
it’s okay if you pretend not to see me.

 

I Stink Like Joey Tribbiani

Image from tumblr*

*Don’t those people know how to spell?

I have reached a point in my life – boys, you may want to look away now – when <whisper it> certain changes have begun to happen.

They are not particularly pleasant, though some make the men in my house run for cover, but they are not, so far, too dreadful.

Apart from one thing, which no one ever told me might happen (everyone run for cover now) – I stink.  I stink like Joey Tribbiani after three days’ fishing, no showers, fifteen hours’ sleep-catch-up in his clothes (I’m re-watching Friends).  I stink so bad, Charlton Heston offered me the use of his shower.

Friends (real friends; not fictional ones.  I’m menopausal, not crazy.  Though I’ve heard it’s hard for husbands to tell the difference) give me empathy and advice; my family give me a wide berth; Dictionary.com weighed in with today’s Word of the Day to explain what’s happening: it’s called hyperhidrosis, aka excessive sweating (I accidentally typed ‘excessive seating’.  I hear weight gain is another symptom).

But here’s the weird part – I only sweat in ONE ARMPIT.  I only stink in one armpit.

What’s that about?

The same armpit also burns in a mild way when I apply deodorant; though that may come from rubbing the pit raw in an effort to remove the stench.

Only half my body is affected by the change.  Is that why they call it perimenopause?

Male readers, I suggest you unsubscribe now.  The next five years are not going to be pretty.  And it’s all your fault.  Take the Hub with you while you’re at it.  

He’s begging you.

 

I’ve got a golden ticket

Here’s my blogging friend, Kate Shrewsday. She writes fascinating articles linking weird stuff like toilets and ice cream (she may not have done that one, but it’s the kind of thing she would do).

She has the chance to go for a Britain-wide walk with her kids and dog but she needs your votes to do it.

Please take a moment to read the post and click the link to vote for her.

I promise NOT to eat a Malteser for every vote you cast (I’m on a diet and I need the motivation).

Thanks!

Kate Shrewsday

Let’s just, for a moment, overlook the fact that Grandpa, in that classic first make of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, is not the one who has won the golden ticket.

He’s happy.

In fact, the ticket winner is little Charlie. Cheer-up Charlie. Charlie, against whom the odds were stacked so high they must surely have crushed him. Charlie, who stood for honest-to-goodness integrity in the face of gluttony, avarice and greed. Whilst others got their parents and promoters to spend outrageous sums for the one thing they could not have automatically, Charlie relied on fate to bring the golden ticket to him.

But we all join Grandpa in being elated. In incredulity that finally, just perhaps, the tide of unfortunate events might be about to change.

And of course, for Grandpa, and for Charlie, life was about to alter forever.

This does not happen in real life.

View original post 275 more words

I Thought About Writing This Post But…

Photograph  © janetsnotebook.com

Daily Prompt: Shape Up or Ship Out

Write a letter to the personality trait you like least, convincing it to shape up or ship out. Be as threatening, theatrical, or thoroughly charming as is necessary to get the job done.

*

Dear Procrastination,

How are you?  You haven’t replied to my previous three emails so I don’t know.

You need to get your act together and start writing some posts about the visit of your blogger friend Janet.  Not only has she written nine posts about her time with us, she has also compiled them into a fabulous, free ebook which exposes the dirty underbelly and large overbelly of life in Tillybudland.  She puts you to shame.

She even included new photographs!  The one of us in an old pinny and yellow hairnet is rather fetching, if you like your unflattering pictures in multicolours (I know I do).

If you want to read or download the exposé ebook, just visit Janet’s Notebook.

Lots of love, 

Your Better Self

PS Sorry this is so late; I’ve been meaning to write it for ages but never got around to it.

 

Old Friends Are Coming To See Us Later

I’m making a roast dinner today.

Yummy!

It’s almost worth having visitors.

Roast chicken, the most commonly eaten white meat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Go here to join in Six Word Saturday

 

Lynn Noxin, This Post Is For You

Time to catch up on a few Daily Prompts.

Draft a post with three parts, each unrelated to the another, but create a common thread between them by including the same item — an object, a symbol, a place — in each part.

I went one better and did it in four parts, with four disparate questions:

• Normal is as normal does
• A review
• World hunger eradicated
• A party

The object: a friend.

*

Is being “normal” — whatever that means to you — a good thing, or a bad thing? Neither?

‘Normal.’  I’ve heard of it.  Can’t say I know what it’s like.

A true story: a friend and I were chatting.  I consider her a left-leaning hippy. She considers my a right-wing…well, let’s not use any swear words on a family blog, shall we?

We were chatting about the nature of eccentricity.  I asked her if she thought I was eccentric and she replied yes.  My face fell.

She asked me if I thought she was eccentric and I replied no.  Her face fell.

I was too polite to tell the truth.  I hope she was, too.

Normal is over-rated.  If I was normal, I’d have three followers and no five-day visits to and from complete strangers who become best friends.

*

Write a review of your life — or the life of someone close to you — as if it were a movie or a book.

I have a lovely friend who is a left-leaning hippy.  She moved away.  Pity.  Next to her, I look normal.

*

If you could get all the nutrition you needed in a day with a pill — no worrying about what to eat, no food preparation — would you do it?

This has to be the dumbest question yet.

Of course I would.  No cooking, ever?

Duh.

*

Plan the ultimate celebration for the person you’re closest to, and tell us about it. Where is it? Who’s there? What’s served? What happens?

I have this lovely, left-leaning hippy friend who promised to visit me last Easter. I’m still waiting.  I’m sure she’ll arrive soon, because I have a whole party prepared for her…my lounge; me; I’ve even prepared a delicious dinner of pill.

*

Lull

Alan Rickman. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Things are winding down before they gear up again.  Most of the Christmas shopping is done.  Half of the Christmas cleaning is done.  The bulk of the wrapping so far is done.  I’m waiting to do my fresh bits shop at the weekend and for my two house guests to arrive on Sunday; then the fever starts in earnest on Christmas Eve.

Liam Neeson (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Friends came to my house last night, banished the menfolk to the bedrooms, ate pizza and crisps, drank a lot of wine and ogled various male actors in Love Actually.  One likes Karl (so pretty, we never got beyond his character’s name); another likes Alan Rickman (go figure); the third tussled with me for Colin Firth until she spotted Liam Neeson.  I took Hugh Grant as a bonus. None of us had drunk enough to ask for Bill Nighy.

Bill Nighy (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had a good time but my head is banging this morning.  Not from alcohol – I’m such a lightweight, I get drunk just on the excitement of being in the same room as other people who are drinking.  One glass of wine and I’m hogging the karaoke machine; two, and I’m fast asleep in a corner.  

It was the late night and not enough sleep that had me fighting Spud for the paracetamol before he left for school: he also had a late night; he waited up to eat the leftovers.  I suspect that Toby also ate leftovers on the sly – he came downstairs this morning to throw up by the back door and went back to bed without asking for his breakfast.  As he is a dog who hassles Spud to get a move on in the mornings because he knows he will be fed as soon as Spud has left, I was all for calling an ambulance.

The banging has been interspersed with intermittent ringing.  Tory Boy phoned for a chat.  Ninety minutes later, he fobbed me and my sweaty ear off because he was on his way out to try to find a greasy spoon serving a full English breakfast. He lives darn sarf; he didn’t hold out much hope.  Southerners just don’t do greasy little cafés full of germs and tasty sausages like we northerners.

Colin Firth  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had just come off the phone when my friend called to tell me she found her lost keys.  Her husband dropped her off here last night and the Hub took her home because her husband was on an early shift.  Pity she had to wake him up to let her in.  Her keys were in his car.  Then my brother phoned to talk about THIS SECTION HAS BEEN CENSORED DUE TO THE DELICATE NATURE OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT EXCHANGES.

Hugh Grant (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I spent the morning watching a bit of Johnny Lee Miller in Elementary and then trawled through old posts to find something of interest to tell you.  I’ve got nothing.  December 2009 it was all snow.  December 2010 it was all snow and the worst head cold I’ve ever had.  December 2011 it was all the worst head cold I’ve ever had.  I know September 2012 I wrote about the worst head cold I’ve ever had.  Either the germs are mutating each year to attack me with more virulence, or I’m a bit of a drama queen.

When I’ve lain down on my chaise longue for a while in my flowing robe, and rested with lavender cloths over my eyes, we’ll talk about it.

Dutch Treat

Dutch Treat Club – [cover drawing?] (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

Dutch Treat or, The Kind People You Meet In Blogging.

*

Knock knock!

Who’s there?

The courier.

The courier who?

The courier who’s bringing you a parcel and would like to get home for his dinner after a long day of traffic jams, bad weather and suspicious people who won’t open the door and take this *%^£! parcel off my hands so I can get back to my own wife and family.  We celebrate Christmas too, you know; they’d like me to be there.

An unexpected parcel arrives.

I open it (obviously).

Who sent me a notebook?

A broken notebook, because I hear rattling?

No, wait!  It’s even better than an electronic gadget – it’s…food!

Dutch food, from my kind and generous blogging friend, KiwiDutch. Please visit her blog, because it’s cheaper than sending a ‘thank you’ card.

We have eaten the perishables (yummy) and saved the rest for Christmas.

Thank you for the lovely surprise, KiwiDutch!

thank you note for every language (Photo credit: woodleywonderworks)

And while I’m thanking people:

Viv’s Home!

I would like to thank you all for the good wishes you sent to Viv, even though many of you don’t know her.

I’m happy to report that she’s back home, blogging, poeming and commenting. This is what she had to say:

I am overwhelmed with all the support and good wishes. Thank you all from the bottom of my newly repaired heart, which is very happy to be home at last.  

If you would like to read the story of her mishap with a hospital gown, hop on over to her blog.

Welcome back, Viv!  I missed you.