Monday, December 10, 2007
This is a real recording of schoolchildren who are presumably Catholic but I don't really know, primary (infant) pupils in an inner city Dublin school telling new testament stories in their own words.
Give it a minute to download and then listen to the wonderful innocence of it all.
You realise that we adults have religion and our attitude to living backwards. We should learn about religion until we are teenagers and then get kicked OUT of the church as adults not confirmed in.
Kids have their relationship with God sorted, it is grownups who pervert it for their own ends which very rarely have anything to do with peace on Earth.
40 years ago Stuart Hample asked just one question to a Nun.
In 1961 Hample was an author talking to students at St. Augustine's School in Larchmont, N.Y., about his book called 'The Silly Book' which had just been published. As he was leaving, he said to one of the Sisters "What do you think would happen if I asked them to write to God?" She didn't have a ready answer for him.
A couple of weeks later and his first set of letters complete with the Children's answers arrived from that same Nun. Hample went to the town's synagogue to ask for more. He went on asking in other schools, churches and houses.
"Maybe it was the hand of God. I don't know," said Hample, looking back on the start of what was to become an amazing journey. The questions--and comments--of small voices became Children's Letters to God, with editions published in 1967, 1968 and 1991 and sales of about 1.5 million copies.
"I wanted them to confront God as only a child can do," he said. "They're very open and truthful."
His publisher, Simon & Schuster, was dubious, refusing to give an advance, just royalties. The last laugh is on them as Hemple is still receiving royalties from that first 1967 edition.
"The first quote here is his personal favorite:
"Dear GOD,Instead of letting people die and having to make new ones,why don't you just keep the ones you have?--Amy"
"That went right to my sense of mortality and life," Hample says. "We would never say that. We would be afraid to, but we would think it.
It was one of the tragedies of my adult life to realise I no longer had the clarity and logic which are the thought processes of a child. "I eat jam because I like jam" suddenly develops
into "I don't eat jam because jam means toast which means carbs which mean getting fat which means I have to get bigger jeans which means I have to find the money for that. You know sometimes, I should just eat the damm jam with a spoon and forget about everything else.
What does it say of a mindset that pollutes pleasures with consequences?
The Irish poets WB Yeats and Patrick Kavanagh may have been at odds with their description of the Irish countryside of the early 20th century. Yeats described it as romantic and metaphysical. Kavanagh (who grew up working the land) described it as earthy and harsh.
.... but they both agreed the loss of innocence is something worth mourning.
Yeats wrote of his open jealousy of a small child dancing carelessly on a beach in 'To a Child dancing in the Wind ';
"O you will take whatever’s offered
And dream that all the world’s a friend....
.....But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue"
Kavanagh wrote of how bitter the loss of the innocence by sheer fact of over-living reduced the novelty of all new experiences in life in 'Advent';
"We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder."
Today I am just going to eat the jam .... as soon as I can find a clean spoon but then I should really do all the washing up and not just one spoon. If I am going to wash, I should do the drying too and if I am going to do all that, I should clean the crockery presses, I've only been putting it off for six months.
Perhaps I'll take the jam to the park and eat it off my fingers.
Below follow a section of of my personal favorite "Dear God..." quotes
Dear GOD,Maybe Cain and Abel would not kill each other so much if they had their own rooms. It works with my brother.--Larry
Dear GOD,I bet it is very hard for You to love all of everybody in the whole world. There are only 4 people in our family and I can never do it.--Nan
Dear GOD,In school they told us what You do. Who does it when You are on vacation?--Jane
Dear GOD,I read the Bible. What does "begat" mean? Nobody will tell me.--Alison
Dear GOD,Are You really invisible or is it just a trick?--Lucy
Dear GOD,Is it true my father won't get in Heaven if he uses his bowling words in the house?--Anita
Dear GOD,Did You mean for the giraffe to look like that or was it an accident?--Norma
Dear GOD,I went to this wedding and they kissed right in Church. Is that okay?--Neal
Dear GOD,Did You really mean "do unto others as they do unto you?" because if You did, then I'm going to fix my brother.--Darla
Dear GOD,Thank you for the baby brother, but what I prayed for was a puppy.--Joyce
Dear GOD,It rained for our whole vacation and is my father mad! He said some things about You that people are not supposed to say, but I hope you will not hurt him anyway. --Your friend,(I am not going to tell You who I am.)
Dear GOD,Why is Sunday school on Sunday? I thought it was supposed to be our day of rest.--Tom L.
Dear GOD,If You give me a genie like Aladdin, I will give You anything You want, except my money or my chess set.--Raphael
Dear GOD,My brother is a rat! You should give him a tail. Ha ha!--Danny
Dear GOD,I want to be just like my Daddy when I get big but not with so much hair all over.--Tom
Dear GOD,Of all the people who work for You I like Noah and David the best.--Rob
Dear GOD,My brother told me about being born but it doesn't sound right. He's just kidding, isn't he?--Marsha
Dear GOD,I would like to live 900 years like the guy in the Bible.-- Love Chris
Dear GOD,We read Thomas Edison made light! But in Sunday school they said You did it. So I bet he stole your idea.--Sincerely, Donna
Dear GOD,The bad people laughed at Noah-, "You made an ark on dry land you fool." But he was smart, he stuck with You. That's what I would do.--Eddie
Dear GOD,I didn't think orange went with purple until I saw the sunset You made on Tuesday. That was cool.--Eugene
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I've wiki'ed TMJ. Funny enough:
there is no mention of under-blouse breast massage as pain relief for this condition on there, there is no mention of over-blouse breast massage as pain relief for this condition on there,
in fact there is no mention of massage at all as a recommended method of pain-relief.
One woman went back six times wearing tighter and tighter jumpers so he would find it harder to get his hands up 'there'. Ignoring the simple-mindedness of such a presumption or the mercenary afterthought (if there was one) SIX FLIPPING TIMES?????? How desperate do you have to be to have someone look after your teeth that you put up with being molested for the privilege?
The accused (allegedly, as he is currently on trial) managed to do this to 27 women before he was reported and charged.
Here in the UK, the Guardian reported "Large numbers of people are going without dental treatment and some even report extracting their own teeth because they cannot find an NHS dentist in their area, a survey reveals today"
The report went on: "..... 6% of the respondents said they were self-treating, which often included pulling out their own troublesome teeth. "Fourteen teeth have had to be removed by myself using pliers," said one Lancashire respondent. "Have pulled teeth out before, easier than finding a dentist," said one in Hull. "Because I could not afford the treatment cost, I had to extract my own tooth on one occasion," said one in Harrow. "I took most of my teeth out in the shed with pliers. I have one to go," said another in Wiltshire.
Some of the respondents show considerable ingenuity. "Filled own teeth - clove oil and Polyfilla," said one in Essex. Another fixed a crown with Superglue and a third used a screwdriver to scrape off plaque..."
This has to be all backwards. Surely it is the women patients of the good (sic) dentist in the US who should have be applying the pliers and the people of the UK should be returning again and again to their MPs to demand the dental care they are entitled to?
Because (yes, I know not to start a sentence with 'because' but this is my blog. So, if you want to go somewhere there are no sentences starting with 'because' then read /start yer own) if a dentist did that to me EVEN ONCE, I would go back.
Oh yes, I would, my Mother did not raise a coward (a work-shy shirker occasionally and a terrible grammartician more often than not) but never a coward. I would go back and I would bring a pliers and I would teach that sob a thing or two about being molested
Fortunately I am in the position of having a dentist who trained to be a vet and then decided to become a dentist looking after the ElizaF nashers. If I did have a complaint about the methodology of scraping / cleaning / filling (which I do not) of the excellent Dr. O'Conner, I am sure I would keep it to myself. She may have a pair of those things for filing the teeth of horse lying around somewhere.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
I have no objection to a woman having a wild night out. In fact with society being so hard on a girl, that is to say not knowing to adore us as a Madonna or whore (or both), then who can blame a woman for being someone who wants to run a house by day and let their hair down a few times a month?
If you are Lindsey Lohan (childless) or Amy Winehouse (childless) there is a certain media "ooh, look what the naughty girl has done now" attitude ......
If you are Kate Moss (1 child) or Britney Spears (2 children) there are media cries of "unfit Mother" ...
I deplore this double standard. Mothers are allowed to let their hair down too you know. They just can't be as spontaneous about it as their childless (brainless) counterparts. Until this week, I has been a sympathiser of Kate Moss too. No-one can do everything she is supposed to get up to and still be alive.... right?
Yes, I said, until this week.
However, Kate Moss wearing a priceless vintage Dior silk gown does come in for a slapped wrist...
What a terrible thing to happen to such a beautiful dress.
The planning and the work that go into couture gowns make them works of art.
It is shameful that this woman, who knows the work that goes into the garment allows this to happen. Perhaps she should stick to shellsuits in future.
It is hard to imagine Isabella Blow treating a Philiph Treacy hat or Amanda Harlech treating a Chanel suit in this awful manner.
What is she going to do next, pee in the fountains of the Taj Mahal, stub out a cigarette on the Mona Lisa or flush a virgin mobile phone down a public loo?
'Cos there is nothing like biting the hand that feeds you AND ruining a work of art (mobile phones excepted) in the progress.
Ruin one, ruin all eh?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
It was all very busy, emotional and kissy-wissy seeing them off. Husband-person and I held hands and waved after them with misty eyes and forlorn faces.
Then the car disappeared around the corner.
"Pub?" said husband shaped person. He was talking to empty air as I sprinted inside to grab my purse.
So we went to Blackheath and entered a den of ill-repute licenced to sell alcoholic beverages etc. Then in a fit of alcohol-inspired bravado, we went to town on the train. Yes, town, out where the single and child-less people go to socialise. We went to Charing Cross blinking in the strange and glamorous street lights and glowing neon signs and trying not too look too surprised when the doorman of a salubrious looking gay underground drinking den actually let us in.
My open-eyed childlike wonder of this alien world soon evaporated when I realised that the reason for the locked door in the loos was related to the fact that couple inside were busily involved in doing the wild thing.
So I put on my best Mummy voice (which is a mixture of Ann Widdicombe and Lauren Bacall) and yelled:
"Get out, you can do that anywhere, I need the toilet NOW!"
..... and tried not to look too amazed when it worked. Out walked a sheepish looking man and woman.
"Disgusting" said a tall Queen behind me. "Where do they think they are?"
"Breeders, eh?" I replied betraying my orientation before I nipped into the cubicle and relieved my immediate need.
So now I am in work thinking unkind things about that last bottle of beer that I just had to have (it was the rotten one of the night) and longing for my bed. Not my bed with a husband-shaped lump in it. What do you think I am? A breeder?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Theodore Zeldin, who has spent a lifetime studying friendships, wants to celebrate his 74th birthday with everyone - but only if you promise to have a proper conversation with a stranger.
Professor Zeldin, the president of the Oxford Muse foundation, is a philosopher, historian and public speaker says the idea of friendship has, over the centuries, changed radically and has created a new pressing issue for humanity - the need for real conversation. It is not new lands we need to be discovering but other people's thoughts. "I think we have less and less time for conversation," he says.
I'm amazed by the number of women...who come to me and say 'I just can't find men who are able to talk' . What have we rebelled against? When have we felt isolated? What have been our most difficult conversations?
Now I am sure that the good professor is a very learned man. I am sure he applies experience, studying, reading and thought into all his conclusions.
However the simple fact is; I disagree with him.
I am not a woman who wants men who are able to spew forth on their rebellions, their isolation, their difficult conversations. If I had someone in front of me carrying on like that, I would baulk, walk away and leave them talking to themselves. Therefore, yes I know, creating a new example for their witterings.
The art of smalltalk or "talking shite" (pron. s(w)hite, where the w is silent) is an artform in itself. The willingness to engage in seemingly trivial chatter in person, on the phone or even on IM is something of a gift. One person's ability to pick their subject, add to it and to listen for a reply is worth ten thousand people holding forth meaningfully.
There are two men in a room. You know neither, one talks to you about his lonely years between Maya who left him to run an international hotel chain and Gabrielle who "was lovely, but wasn't Maya". One talks to you about something that was on the telly last night. You go for a drink. Which one do you come back and talk to?
Why, the funnier and better looking one of course.
Professor Zeldin has got it wrong, is it not quality of subject matter than is important to most women. It is the method of presentation and most women do not want heavy subjects delivered to them with a jackhammer. Einstein was clever but the pose that makes the poster was him sticking out his tongue.
He may have concluded and proven that E = mc2 but people remember him more readily for: "If A is a success in life, then A equals x plus y plus z. Work is x; y is play; and z is keeping your mouth shut" or my own personal favorite: "You see, wire telegraph is a kind of a very, very long cat. You pull his tail in New York and his head is meowing in Los Angeles. Do you understand this? And radio operates exactly the same way: you send signals here, they receive them there. The only difference is that there is no cat"
These are deep notions presented trivially, the very essence of talking shite. Contrast Einstein to Freud: "Every normal person, in fact, is only normal on the average. His ego approximates to that of the psychotic in some part or other and to a greater or lesser extent"
Now who would you rather go for a pint with?
Monday, August 06, 2007
One year myself and my housemates decided to go to the Castlebar music festival. Now in Ireland, prior to Oxygen and The Eclectic Picnic, there was the aforementioned CMF and the Fleadh, and that was our lot as regards music festivals. One as much as the other "featured" just as many dodgy folk acts who learned to play the fiddle (badly) only last week as they featured decent musicians worth listening to.
The thing was, outside of the capital, there was no need to go to these big festivals to hear the big acts as they all played in local pubs which charged £0 on the door locally and £3 for the pricier venues.The £3'ers HAD to be good. FFS, money had been paid to hear them and Corkmen (and women) do not part with money easily.
Anyhow, Paul Brogan (who is incapable of using email) and Claire "Lovelyperson" (cos I can't remember her real name) Manu Nadal and Barbie Curly (don't ask), Paul's brother and I took the green seated rural train to Castlebar to the Fleadh one Summers afternoon in 1997.
And it rained...And we went to a pub...And it kept raining.....And we had a drink... And it kept raining .... And we kept drinking .... And we kept drinking with occasional wanderings into the land of talking shite....
Then we went to the concert where the only acts I remember are The Saw Doctors (excellent) and The Divine Comedy (sublime)
Later on in the evening, I met some Italians, I had previously worked with in Pizza Stop, who were caravanning locally while attending the festival. I sat with them and talked shite for a bit.
Suddleny remembered warnings about last trains to Cork (where I lived), searched for housemates in vain. No housemates to be found anywhere. Realised it was 3am and last train went an hour ago. Went back to look for Italians but no sign of them.
Did a mental juggle:I knew where the train station was. I knew there would be no train until the
milk train (5.30am). The Italians had asked to to stay but I had no idea where they or caravan park were. This was LONG before mobiles and t'internet were commonplace people. Decided to walk to train station. Once there, the kindly signalman took pity on obviously DEMENTED albeit quite sweet female and gave her his coat to sleep under in the signalbox while he slept in the passengers waiting room. The same signalman woke me with the second nicest cup of tea I have ever had in my life 10 mins before the milk train to Cork came the next morning. I think that was the moment that started my love affair with all things trains.
I went to work that day as well. As it was a Sunday, I worked 10 hours in a photocopying shop and 5 hours behind a bar that night. It is shocking how much energy we have to waste when we are young. If only we had the brains to know how to apply it as well
So rush ahead 131 years in my life.
Rup's cousin arranges tickets to a music festival but as we do not have "overnighter babysitters", I committed some emotional blackmail and went there without the husband or small people. Bad Mother. However, I do not pretend to be going for any MOTY awards and as Rups reminded me, it was way back in last September that I last had a night off from Mothering duties. Thanks for that, love.
Once at the festival, I wandered around in the sunshine and I drank this: (a lot)
and some of this afterwards:
Now, despite a jolly good (veggie) one of these at 7.20am:
I still feel a bit (a LOT) like this:
The lesson for the day is that I am no longer young enough to go to music festivals, drink a
bit (or a lot) listen to the Saw Doctors under the sun and go to work like nothing had happened. Now even with the comfort of a Holiday Inn to pour my bones into at the end of an evening's entertainment, I am still completely knackered afterwards.
Boo getting old.
Hooray to having a few more usable brain cells though.
Boo horrid Mummy waistline.
Hooray to wonderful husband and fabulous kids.
ElizaF, picture of a loving caring Mother .... drinking
mineral water as previously stated (ahem...)
Friday, August 03, 2007
Thanks to the "That Vegan B*S*" blog for the idea.
The most popular search is:
Definition of a good parent by a mile. Why not, as it is something all parents worry about. Am I doing enough, should I be doing more, am I doing the (obviously insignifigent) amount I am doing the right way?
tall thin girls hardcore (eughhhhh!!) Yeah as if you are going to find that here. I draw the line somewhere and bags of bones are not sexy. If you had not guessed, I am not a bag of bones. More like a bag of fillet steak :)
dirty photos Natasha kaplinsky (I know your ISP buster!)
Thomson local girl in catsuit, Model in blue catsuit, Thomson local catsuit. Is anyone seeing a theme here), Thomson local directory cat, Blue catsuit Thomson local. Enough with the damm cat searches!!!! - Go to the Thomson website if you want to perv at the model in the tight blue lycra. Jeesch!
Richard Hammond, Did Richard Hammond make it to the Pole? The answer is yes, I think.
Sweet transsexuals, Is Rene Russo transsexual? (Eh?)
John Barrowman, Gay Dr. Who, Is John Barrowman gay? (Like YESSSSS!!!), Barrowman Torchwood gay
So there you go, from parenthood to hardcore skinnies, pervy looking lycra wearing cats, transsexual actresses to the camp Tardis passenger, this blog is your one stop commentary shop.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Based on my habit of talking about homosexuals, blow-jobs, hand-jobs, willies, poo, snot, weird solo sex acts, promises to get my racks out for all to see , transsexuals, matching underwear and the woman in the catsuit for the Thomson ads, I thought my ratings would be quadruple X's.
And what do I get? Does the mere asking of the question stress out the server so much that it explodes at the sheer dirtyness of my blog?
This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
- suck (1x)
The mind boggles.
Friday, June 29, 2007
As far as I can see it, the process of how to save a blog for our coming generations to gasp at in wonder of the simplicity of it all is an area fraught with difficulties:
How do you decide what to save?
Who makes the decision?
What media do you record the bogs to?
Do you keep updating the media every time digital recording media changes or try to preserve the hardware the blogs are readable by?
Do you make the records publicly available?
How long after publication for?
I am not a professional nor someone with a vested interest in the field of in which the Author writes but it does strike me that as honourable as the intention of preserving e-journals is, what is just as important is preserving the media the journals are saved to and ensuring it is constantly transferred as technology changes to ensure the journals can be accessed and referenced.
There are a lot of big decisions to be made and I am glad that I do not have responsibility for making them.
It almost makes me long for the writing on cave walls method of recording representations of day to day life. At least the technology there was never in danger of becoming obsolete. There has not been a lot of changes in the eye - to- wall user compatibility in the last few thousands of years.
Technology simplifies life? I think not but it does keep me in a job and for that I am grateful.
Monday, June 25, 2007
I mean it, I really need to know.
I am sitting in the cellar / office / laundry room / general dumping room area in our house with a pile of paperwork up to my knees genuinely trying to figure out why my invites for the Summer total one BBQ and a birthday party that I have to get on a plane to Ireland for, yet my children have 12...yes.....12 birthday parties to attend. Once Mummy has taken care of the business of answering the invites of course. After all the Mummies of South East London expect a considered reply rather than the "just turn up with a bottle" attitude of my partying contemporaries.
That is not the only thing bugging me.
I was known in our school circle for having a bit of a rant on the subject of children's parties. The exact phrase I used was "present reaping exercise" This 'who can be seen to be buying what for whom' trend is ridiculous.
Last Summer I dug my heels in, I banned presents and told anyone turning up they could bring a contribution towards the party if they liked but if they brought anything in the way of toys, I would throw them, the guests, out. So we blew up the pool, turned on the hose-pipes, distributed a few cheepie water pistols, warmed up the BBQ, cooked the ton of salmon that was contributed and guzzled some vino under the heat of a lovely London Summer day. Result: cheap party, wet kids, wet daddies, everyone stuffed to the guilds with good food, Mummy well oiled on white wines and there was a burnt pizza somewhere along the line. (Hey, I didn't say it was a perfect party)
As the Grand-daughter of two farming families, this is as fancy as I get but tends not to be quite good enough for the Mummy brigade around here, not that I really care. Getting into a "mine is bigger than yours" competition with the skinny dyed blond Jeep drivers of SE3 is not my thing and I refuse to change my stance on that even if I am working this year.
Chateau d'cardboard and paddling pools are open for visiting mid-July. If you bring any toys, I will feed them to you.
Now where was I? Oh yes, "Dear Simone de Monsterrate the 3rd, we would love to come to your party being held in the large dining hall of the Royal buildings in Greenwich park...."
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Once upon a time there was a lovely logo for the London 2012 Olympics of the Olympic colours in the shape of the Thames ribboning its way through the numbers 2012.
Very striking, very simple. Told the story.
Then some ad executives watched a lot bad 80's pop videos, drank a lot of Moosehead beer and when they woke up the next morning and realised why the Canadian beer is so-called, they decided to take their hungover tempers out on the people of London by stiffing them to the tune of £40-500,000 (depending on which paper you read) for a new logo.
These naughty execs also thought it would be a jolly wheeze to make the colours flash and change therefore alienating the epileptics from looking at it. Although in retrospect, this may be an unintended kindness.
Then the people of London said: "this logo sucks" in a chorus of MANY voices. Although one person (me) realised it was more of a hand job than a blow ....
So the executives said "well you'll learn to like it" and "get used to it".
As time passes people just hate it more and more.
The end. Really.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
This sounds the best thing ever, a miracle, a blessing, the answer to the prayers of so many sufferers and their families and much more than my humble oratory can ever express.
wowowowowowo wooooow woooow and other such expressions of delight.
Unfortunately this non-cure is none of those things. Neither a cure nor a miracle. Although I sincerely wish it was.
In Ireland, there is a tradition of the Faith Healer. The men or women who travel around with their ministries curing people of their ailments with 'the touch' and prayers over those affected. The cruellest part of their act was to tell those who dared to say the cure did not work that the reason it did not work was because their faith in God was not strong enough and this was their punishment.
These healers rely on the age-old trick of psychological manipulation. All they do is convince people that they have cured others and suddenly the latest believer is cured. It is a great show but Bobo the part-time elephant trainer in the big top is more likely to cure you than these clowns.
At least Bobo and the other circus folk set out to swap you entertainment for money in an open way. The Faith Healer and his entourage offer you a show disguised as your ailments cured. Not even Jerry Springer goes as far as to claim to cure the minds of the truly mad.
There is a reason penicillin is called the wonder drug of the 20th century, it works, it does it. If you have an ailment it can cure, you take it, you are cured. Job done. There is scientific and personal verification of the effectiveness of the treatment. That is the definition of a cure.
How sick in your own head do you have to be to announce that you have cured aids? How would you sleep at night knowing that there are 42million people whose hopes you have raised and now are about to dash? How could you live with yourself? Could be the thought of all the rich people with bulging wallets and aids rushing to your door for the cure which really keeps you sitting upright in your chamber?
Mr. President Alhaji Dr. Yahya Abdul-Azziz Jemus Junkung Jammeh, can I just say how funny (strange) it is that your wife's section of your govenment's website makes no mention of your claims eithear. Also unendorsingly silent on your fabulous discovery is Chery Gregory Faye, UNICEF representative in The Gambia.
Do you think perhaps, you are mad and/or a liar? Just a thought. I merely throw it out there for debate.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
I was complaining about the garage chez Fiennes being attacked last week.
This week it was the turn of our neighbours, who, instead of having the brain-dead drug-addled modern day pale immitation of Raffles come to visit, had the 80mph London winds.
Our garden and garage .... a couple of viciously placed twigs deposited here and there. We were scarred too I tell you. Scarred!
Sunday, January 14, 2007
You could say there is a certain romance colouring my view of the English burglar and as I have never met one, that impression was likely to continue on unsullied.
Until this morning.
I looked out at the frosted glass window of our garage door and wondered why the condensation was so heavy. "That is not condensation" said Rups (he who knows all) "someone has put a sheet over the door"
The rest was all a bit of a cliche, dash to the shed, discovery of the place in tatters, things taken and a general spirited rant or two (me).
They didn't take much, all that is in the garage are things which are either on the way to eBay, the bin or the charity shop. I think the total was a box of books, some old jeans (I mean 12 years old) a broken wireless router and a broken buggy. The problem is that they slashed, threw about and generally tore the shed up. What REALLY bugs me is that I spent two hours out there before Christmas tidying the place up so we could put the desk out there to make more space for our annual Christmas party. Had we been done over then (as I believe the parlance is) their pickings would have included the home office - printers, a working wireless router, PC etc. So I suppose that is quite lucky.
I am worried that they are going to sell the buggy to some unsuspecting family. The brakes are broken (it has a complicated bike brake arrangement) and we had tried to get them fixed prior to selling the thing but it can't be done. Hopefully they will discover this and dump it rather than putting a baby at risk.
Somehow the image of Raffles reclining in his velvet smoking jacket after relieving some obnoxious Duchess of his diamonds does not quite tie in with the type of person who takes a buggy. They were not to know it was broken. We could have been reliant on it for a baby. I mean a router and all that is fair game but a child's buggy. Pretty damm low.
Ach well, they'll get theirs, karma and all that.
I'm off to read Wodehouse. There is one account of Bertie Wooster's failure to steal a cow creamer that never fails to make me smile. Now, if you want respect as a burglar, there is a target to go for.
What sort of an inbred descendant of a Muppet and a numpty plank steals a decade old musty smelling box of jeans???
Monday, January 08, 2007
I took down the decorations and put out the tree last night.
According to Jack (4), I have broken Christmas. Lucy (20 months) keeps pointing at the places where balloons were hung from and going "aaaaloooon" with a pout on her face.
So I am the devil, the Grinch, Jack Skellington, Herod and the pied piper of Hamilton combined. I even feel guilty but I am vaguely aware there is nothing to feel guilty about. At least I don't think there is.....
You know, I never even wanted kids. Prior to having them, I never even liked them. Now, of course I am completely converted. To the point where I put my foot in it with one of my husband's distant cousins last night by making some sort of statement like "when you have kids". This was to someone who has chosen not to have them. Och, I can feel my toes curling up under my feet.
When did I go from someone who was allergic to the little beasts to someone who presumes that everyone wants them?
I guess the answer is the first time I held Jack in my arms. He might have been a "want none, get one free" offer but he, his sister and his Father are the best things to ever happen to me.
Have kids and become a cliche for free. The thing is, I am actually happy about it. I mean, wouldn't it be more weird if I still could not understand people having kids even after having them myself.
On a related note, the ticket-getting process for Glastonbury has just got more complicated. Another obstacle between me and my former childless self.
I guess next year, I am going to find another approach to this decommissioning of Christmas business.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Bad - you're gonna get big. Your former cottage figure is now going to turn into a stately home of an establishment complete with stables and greenhouses.
Good - In that "losing weight slowly" (or not at all) period after giving birth, you now have a handy bit of camouflage.
Never a big fan of being photographed anyway, as I tend to look dopey, horse-faced, uncomfortable, fat or all four at once, I usually hid behind the camera. Whilst reviewing the ravages of nine months of curry, toasted cheese sandwiches and ice-cream on my body and thinking "oh fuddit, I have my gorgeous baby, I don't care" I realised that Mr. (and later on Ms.) small people were the perfect foil to the camera recording said ravages.
Hidden behind hair and a baby in Hong Kong
Change of tactics in Melbourne - hiding behind a hand, which is practically naked for me
No, the title does not refer to some sort of exotic self-preformed sex act. It just means the Lord and Master of the house is in foreign climes in the name of his job (again)
Among the fleshpots of Milan no less.
I miss him when he goes away especially when the kids do or say something funny. I turn for him to say "look....." and it is crap when he is not there.
Of course, I really miss the warm husband shaped lump in the bed beside me at night. I have this complicated routine of wearing his t-shirt, making a hot water bottle and trying to sleep with a pillow alongside me. It doesn't really work but it the best I can come up with.
Not that he does not have competition. There is this really cute local blonde guy who is very keen to occupy my husband's space in the bed. There are nightly enquiries about the likelihood of his being allowed to take the hallowed position and nightly he takes the rebuff with very good grace. However, my resistance is weakening. Hubby has been away for most of the last two weeks out of three and I'm only a woman after all.
Rups, come home soon or your four year old son will be in your space and you'll be in the bunk beds!
Your loving wife
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Old spotty arse herself
He is a fine thing and no mistake.
The only thing is that he keeps up this silly pretence of being gay. Not ANOTHER one. Someone should tell him that the days of having to deny your sexuality to get ahead in British theatre are soooo over. While they are at it, they should also tell him that I have a free pass.
Hang on, has someone done that already?
OMG, I see the light. He HAS heard about the free pass. From all available evidence, he has also heard about the drooping flesh coloured Mummy balloons and the glamerous snot rags as well.
"He's so happy, so happy and so gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay"
Mr. Barrowman, in an attempt to continue with his gay facade went and got married this week to some bloke he claims to have been in a 16 year relationship with. Yeah right. You know John, it's ok to say you just don't fancy me. The lenghts you are going to with the gay thing are a little extreme.