I’m So000oo Unstressed

I had a great week!

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Monday

A stressbuster workshop.  Ommmmmmmm…

We were given a lesson in basic meditation.  Not sure it’s for me because the only people I know with third eyes appeared in Total Recall, but the deep breathing tip really helped:

Nasty bus driver?  Breathe in…breathe out…

Unexpected bill?    Breathe in…breathe out…

Hub wants his dinner?  Breathe in…hit out…

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Tuesday

A.M.  Seven poetry books arrived from Amazon, thanks to my lovely friend Early Bird, who sent me a gift voucher.  I was able to buy collections from poets I love but can’t usually afford.  Thank you, EB!

Seven books for one reader!

P.M.  The dentist.  Ummmm…not what I’d usually consider a pleasant experience, especially when x-rayed teeth are involved, but I was so relieved to learn there is no infection in my mouth that I count the visit as the highlight of my day.

Every student bar needs the perfect setting.

Wednesday

A trip to Sheffield.  Ecky thump!  No one told me how pretty a city it is:

Such a pretty view…

A third of it is under the Peak District National Park and there are four trees to every person.  Spud loved it.

We toured the campus… i.e. the city centre.  Also one of the two student villages – there was a sports bar with a huge TV, which Spud took as a good omen.  We had our picnic lunch in the Students’ Union (voted No. 1 in the UK).  Everyone was lovely, friendly, helpful.  I loved it.

We had time to kill between events so we visited the museum:

The highlight of Spud’s day was the visit to the Psychology lecture theatre.   There were about fifty people in the room, half of them prospective students; Spud was one of just three males.  Apparently, it’s more popular with girls than boys; though all of the top Psychology people cited by the (female) lecturer were men.   The professor gave a fascinating talk, which left me half-inclined to enrol myself.

Spud came out of the room with a huge grin on his face.

Mum: Did you enjoy that?  I think you’re really going to love it here.  The course sounds so good.

Spud: Did you see the ratio of girls to boys??

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Thursday

A.M. To the doctor, to discuss test results and why I’m chronically knackered this year.

Doctor: menopause menopause menopause

P.M.

Earl Grey Tea in a fancy place in Manchester, with the stickiest, ickiest table I’ve ever been adhered to.

 

Click photos to see original links

That was followed by Seven Brides For Seven Brothers and a funny, rip-roarin’ romp of an afternoon.  Sam Attwater, former soap star, a winner of Dancing On Ice, can act, sing, dance and ice skate.  I’d never have married the Hub if I’d known the perfect man was out there.  I just needed to wait fifteen years.

Dinner at Café Rouge.  Yum, yum and triple-yum is all I can say.  Oh, and hic.

Who’d believe that between us we’re a hundred years old?

French Onion Soup, not made in Belgium

Champagne toast! (There was toast? Darn, I missed it)

A steak dinner, a bit of bubbly and the best company

Pudding. Why I’ll never be truly slim again

Thanks go to my lovely friend Louise, whose birthday treat for me it was; and who was also fifty this year, so it was a double celebration.

Thank you, Louise, for the wonderful, wonderful day.

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Friday

Ender’s Game experience (Photo credit: Todd Awbrey)

Ender’s Game opened.  At last at last at last!  How have I managed to go twenty years without a movie of my favourite book?

Contrary to expectations, I didn’t hate it.  I enjoyed it.  I’d have liked a lot more Battle Room scenes but there wasn’t the time.  The Battle Room itself was fabulous.  Asa Butterfield was good.  Harrison Ford almost made me believe he can act.  Great stuff all round.

There were some changes, naturally, but they worked, for the most part, so I won’t complain; but I did agree with this critic that the

overly dry script feels like it’s trying too hard to cram everything in, yet still feels insubstantial. The key character beats are all there, but because you move from one to the next in the blink of an eye, there’s no sense of character evolution – one minute Ender’s a raw rookie, the next he’s an accomplished leader and saviour-of-humanity elect.

Richard Edwards, SFX

By the way, if you think you’re going to see Harry Potter meets Star Wars, you’re not.  Read the book.

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After the cinema, I shared my final birthday gift with Spud and Hub: a £20 Nando’s voucher from my good friend Alison (who also bought me flowers on the day; as well as a meal and a trip to see Ghost the Musical).

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In conclusion:

A great week; a great summer; a great way to turn fifty.  Thank you to everyone who made it happen.  Old people don’t come more blessed than me 🙂

Donny Still Makes My Heart Go Pitter-Pat

I have been shocked at how her parents have neglected my niece’s education; nay, appalled. Casual conversation between the Hub and the niece revealed that she had not – I barely know how to express it; I’m overcome. Just give me a moment…the niece had reached the age of eight without ever seeing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It gets worse: she had never seen or heard of The Wizard Of Oz. I thought every person in the western hemisphere had seen both of those films. Several times. At least. Though if it was averaged out, there’s probably some Scrooge in Stockport (naming no Hub names) who has only seen each film once and an enlightened wife in the same general area who has seen them 732 times and needs to replace her worn-out videos with brand-spanking new dvds if anyone’s listening.

The Hub and I huddled together and conspired to fix the deficit. It’s too late for the poor nephew; once you turn thirteen that’s it: musicals are seriously un-cool, as is saying the phrase ‘seriously un-cool’; but the niece is young enough not to be seriously impaired by her lack of musical knowledge, and we have had three girly nights in a row making good on parental neglect: The Wizard Of Oz to set the bar, followed by Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. One film starts with a death and a celebratory song and has a child go off with three strange men; the other has the scariest nose in the ugliest suit I have ever seen and is guaranteed to give her nightmares about taking sweets from strangers, as well as making her think that offing the missus can be jolly good fun. I can’t believe she has never seen them.

I followed it up with The Sound Of Music – singing and Nazis; I might has well have put on Cabaret, old chum. She enjoyed them all but my stocks were running low because so many musicals are not suitable for eight year olds. I’m beginning to think that no musicals are suitable for eight year olds. Moulin Rouge – prostitutes and TB. Chicago – adultery, murder, miscarriages of justice. Even the seemingly innocuous early musicals are seething masses of misery: ‘Seven Brides For Seven Brothers – kidnap, domestic slavery and liars, anyone?

Fortunately, she missed nasty undercurrents such as Dorothy the Opium Eater because she was too busy plastering me in make-up and seventeen colours of nail polish. When she gets her first Academy Award (TrademarkCopyrightLegalBlahBlahBlah) she had better thank her Auntie Tilly for starting her on the road to success (but leave out the bit about how she covered me in so many layers of foundation, when I stood up my face was too heavy for my body and I fell head-first into the carpet, undoing all her good work).

Tonight I put on Joseph but she got bored with it and cleared off, leaving Donny and me alone. I was relieved: Donny Osmond is the only heart throb of my early years who still makes me weak at the knees (so long as I don’t see him in flares; flares make me nauseous). He is the only famous person who, if I ever meet him, will have to wipe the drool from chin. I hope for his sake he never meets me. However, I carry a spare pack of hankies on the off-chance. I’m not one to spit in the face of fate. Here he is, doing what he does best: