Tag Archives: Lancaster

How Exciting!

24 Feb

Tory Boy is on the radio right now (20:18 UK time) until ten p.m.

If you happen to be visiting me as I post this you can hear him at http://www.bailriggfm.co.uk/live/#

He’s the one with the distinctive laugh and frightening hair (there’s also a webcam feed).

Baby Love

17 Apr

Forgive the babygro - I was a new Mum; I bleached everything

Tory Boy is home for the weekend; hooray!  We haven’t seen him since January.  He has a head of curls that would make  Shirley Temple See full size image  weep with envy.  I don’t know how the people he doorsteps can take him seriously.  He is going out canvassing with the local prospective MP today; the people of Stockport will probably beat him up for that fuzz.  He is getting a hair cut tomorrow; I promise before and after photos.

I use the term ‘home for the weekend’ very loosely, of course.  He was out canvassing in Lancaster all yesterday and expected to get in about midnight; then he phoned to say he would be home at seven, which he was, for half an hour; two friends picked him up and returned him to our care around eleven, and he went straight to bed.  As I mentioned, he will be out all day today.  It is his birthday tomorrow and he plans to sleep all day, then he’s back to uni first thing Monday morning, unless I can tempt him to stay by cooking his favourite meal.

The menu this weekend is as follows: a choice of crumpets or pancakes for breakfast; roast lamb with all the trimmings tonight; lobster tomorrow; whatever lunch he wants if he is here; mince and pasta on Monday if he stays.  The last one is a much tastier meal than it sounds and TB loves it.

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Yesterday’s prompt was to write about a memory provoked by a smell.

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My Babies

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I miss my children as babies

They would make a commotion

Reek of baby lotion

Pass many a motion

Inspire devotion

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Before neglecting them

I would throw myself

In the Arctic Ocean

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They let me feel

The best emotion:

Unpolluted love

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Happy Easter

4 Apr

Today’s blog title has nothing to do with what I’m going to write about, but I wanted to wish you all a Happy Easter so, Happy Easter!

Incredibly, my theme for yet another day is ‘big’.  It is entirely by accident, I assure you, that I am sticking to the theme of NaBloPoMo, even though it is not a requirement of the sign-up.

Big Day For TV:

The new Dr Who made his first appearance last night.  I have to say I was impressed.  Yes, he’s ugly, poor fellow, like some neanderthal throwback; but he can act and he took over the role with confidence.  Steven Moffat’s script helped, of course, though it wasn’t as terrifying as ‘Blink’.  I don’t think I’m going to miss David Tennant as much as I expected to.  The new sidekick was pretty good as well; the Hub and Spud both agree, though they stopped before ‘good as well’.

Big Day For City:

The Hub and Spud are walking on metaphorical air: as well as Man City’s 6-1 win over poor Burnley* yesterday, Tottenham were defeated, pushing City into fourth place with a game in hand, and – cherry on the cake – so were united.   Woo-hoo! or words to that effect.

* I am not a true sports fan because I always feel sorry for the losers

Big Day For Tory Boy:

Wiliam Hague is visiting Lancaster tomorrow and Tory Boy is going to be one of the minions showing him around and screening out nutters.  What a great opportunity (to fall flat on his face/say the wrong thing/let the wrong nutter through).  No pressure, my darling.

Big Light Bulb Moment In The Middle Of The Night:

I sat up in bed at three in the morning, having suddenly realised that I have not stuck to the conditions of NaBloPoMo.  Someone on NaPoWriMo posted that they had not commented on other people’s poetry; I didn’t realise that we were supposed to do it and checked the terms of the pledge.  I couldn’t find anything, yet I remembered reading something about twelve comments a day on other posts.  It was for National Blog Posting Month, of course, and not for National Poetry Writing Month, as I remembered in my sleep.  I have only commented once, I think, and that was by accident because I thought I was commenting on a poetry participant’s post.  Ah well.  So many acronyms; so little mind.

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Yesterday’s prompt was to write about what scares us.  I have a serious reverse senryu  and a lighthearted rhyming ditty for you.  Don’t judge me too harshly on the ditty: I know it’s not finished but we are supposed to post them anyway; the important thing is to be writing.

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Superstition

I cannot give voice to that

which I most fear,

for that might leave me childless.

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What I’m Most Scared Of

Bees and wasps, for they have stings;

every kind of crawling thing. 

Heights and depths and swimming pools. 

Angry men with power tools. 

Rapists, paedos, muggers, thieves;

the scratching sound in my house eaves. 

The aspirations of local chavs:

have-nots who’ll take to make them haves. 

Console games my children play,

teaching them that violence pays. 

Living in this Big Brother state:

it talks of love and foments hate. 

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But of NaPoWriMo I’m most scared:

I can’t believe I ever dared

agree to compose daily words.

For sheer hard work I was not prepared.

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Will Smith: An Apology

26 Mar

  Dear Will, I’m sorry we are both happily married to other people because, with your ears and my size we’d have been perfect for a remake of ‘Dumbo’.  Love, Tilly Bud.

I love Will Smith; he’s a natural actor and incredibly funny.  I declare today Will Smith Day, for no other reason than it gives me an excuse to think about him.  I loved him in The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.  I didn’t know then that he was a rap star and I often wondered about the funny little fellow who couldn’t act who kept making guest appearances (DJ Jazzy Jeff, his rap partner). 

My two favourite movie lines of all time are Will Smith’s in Independence Day, and they both occur in the scene where he and Jeff Goldblum are attempting to plant the virus that will wipe out the alien invaders: ‘We have got to work on our communication’ and ‘I ain’t heard no fat lady!’   Doesn’t sound interesting flat on the screen like that, I know; it is definitely one of those moments where you had to be there.  Like Frank Carson, it’s the way he tells ’em.   If you haven’t seen Independence Day – what is wrong with you?  I have seen it about twenty times.

Do you know what?  I have seen ID about twenty times and it has just occurred to me: what happened to the dog?  Remember how Jasmine risked her and her son’s lives to call Boomer in the tunnel when Los Angeles was being blown up?  And he was in the truck when she was driving around saving what was left of the population?  Boyfriend turns up to rescue her and all of a sudden – no dog.  He’s never seen again in the movie.  

Does anyone know if Will Smith claims to be vegetarian? 

I saw Mr Smith in an interview and he described how, after his first record went platinum or he won Grammy awards or something, he went home and told his Mom and she said, ‘Yes, very nice, now go and get some milk; we’ve run out.’   With a mother like that no wonder he’s grounded.

Speaking of mothers, I am a bereft one.  Tory Boy has not come home for the Easter holidays because he is out canvassing for the prospective Parliamentary candidate for Lancaster.  If he’s not careful, he won’t get a good degree because he’s too busy living the politics to study it.   He has promised to come home for his birthday in April (presumably because there will be presents), so I have that to look forward to.   That, and my forthcoming movie, in which large blonde dogs band together and betray humanity to an alien species.  I call it Independence Day: Boomer’s Revenge.  Tagline: The Day The Dogs Bit Back. 

 

Visitgate

9 Jan

Mother cut the apron strings but still found it difficult to let go

 

Tory Boy is on his way back to uni this morning.  It has been wonderful having him here.  When he was here.    He arrived on Sunday afternoon and went out on Sunday night.  Monday afternoon; Tuesday night; stayed out all of Wednesday night, arrived home at 4pm on Thursday; then it was just a last jaunt out last night (Friday) before leaving five minutes ago.  Yes, it was lovely having him home, though he does have a tendency to treat it as if he lives here. 

Being a possessive sort of mother, I worked out how much time he was actually here: if he arrived at two-seventeen last Sunday and left just now (making 141.3 hours); spent 73.6 hours visiting his mates; 82.13 sleeping; and 7.7 hours on bathroom and personal duties, I calculate he spent 9.8 minutes in our company.  Scandalous!   

No, wait!  He did watch six minutes of Celebrity Big Brother with us when he came in on Tuesday.   Woopdedoo.  To rub salt in the wound caused by my First Born shoving a knife in my back as he stepped over my prostrate body on his way through the front door to visit one of his 733 friends also come home to ignore their mothers, he casually commented this morning that he would miss the dog and Sky News.  No mention of the woman who suffered no contractions, no swollen ankles and no morning sickness for nine months, other than a slight nausea, alleviated by a magic pill from my doctor.  Outrageous.   And no mention, either, of the twenty-two kilos I grew about my person on his behalf.  Ungrateful. 

On his way out he raided the freezer for goodies: cheese, German sausage and potato hash; eschewing vegetables, naturally, and any attempt on my part to offload the stuff that we never get around to eating but which is too good to throw away.  I can’t chuck it because I know there are starving children in Africa; but if I post it to them it will have gone off by the time it arrives.  I think he’s rather selfish not to think of them and eat up my leftovers on their behalf. 

You might not be aware of potato hash: it is the ultimate comfort food, particularly in this weather; a delicious meat mush.  It is the Hub’s mother’s recipe and requires two key ingredients to lift it above the average stew – celery and a pressure cooker.  The celery was the Hub’s Dad’s idea, and I’m sure he bought his entrance ticket to heaven with it.  You can’t taste the celery, but the hash is utterly dull without it.  The pressure cooker means it’s ready in a couple of hours.  This is vital, or you would be drowning in slaver because of the gorgeous aroma wafting through the house and distracting you from important cleaning work. 

There is a slight drawback when I prepare this meal: I am afraid of the pressure cooker.  It sits hissing atop the stove, daring me to adjust the temperature and just waiting to explode the moment my back is turned.  However, a greedy stomach will always find a way.  The Hub supervises the making of the meal: More potatoes!  Less leeks!  Vary the onion size! so he merely adds to his not-at-all onerous duties by sending me to look at which red line the top knob is at; report back; and adjust the heat setting up or down, as necessary.  I’m too scared to enter the kitchen when the pressure cooker is on the stove so I stand in the doorway and check it out; if it needs adjusting, I send in one of the children. 

Well, that sounds like the Hub at the door, back from taxiing TB to the station.  I expect him to be grumpy because he got slow in his sneeve when he was scraping the car.  He was also annoyed that I told him eight times to remind TB in the car to phone me when he gets in to Lancaster in an hour’s time.   TB tends to complain after my fifth reminder, so I offload it on the Hub.  I just like to know where TB is; what he’s doing; who he’s with; if he has enough money and a clean handkerchief.  It’s not unreasonable, is it?   

If you are reading this, Tory Boy, behave yourself: Big Mother is watching you.

Happy New Year

31 Dec

A long time ago, in a New Year's party far, far away...

The Hub, Spud and I will be spending New Year’s Eve watching a movie here in Stockport.  We will sing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, drink a toast, then chuck Spud out of the house so he can First Foot us.  Tory Boy is at a party somewhere in Lancaster, and will probably phone us just after twelve.  And that’s the extent of our celebrations.  I can’t even blame it on being parents because we’ve never made a big deal of New Year, apart from one many moons ago, when we were over here in the UK on holiday from South Africa, and went to the Brother-in-Law’s (see photo); and another in 1994 when we had family staying with us in SA, and we hosted a karaoke party.   We had people coming from all over and it was the height of summer, so extraneous rellies pitched their tent in our garden; and a nephew slept in the bakkie (a pick-up truck with a lid). The most memorable thing about that party was not the discovery that I have to be pretty tipsy to get up and sing, and then I’ll bash you about the face with the mike before I’ll hand it over; but the next morning, when a cousin, his wife and two toddlers found themselves eating tent canvas for breakfast, our Dobermann having chewed the guy ropes in the night.

I wish you and yours a very happy New Year: may your cupboards be full, your newspapers report only good news, and your credit have no crunch.

Happy New Year!

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