Lane'sWrite

Festival Days

2008-07-21T12:19:00.008+01:00

Yep, they're pink.

This weekend was spent at the Latitude Festival, courtesy of some free passes. For those who haven't heard of it, Latitude is like a mini Glastonbury, but with literature/poetry/dance and comedy as well as music. It's also achingly middle class and festival goers were awash with Boden kiddies and Cath Kidston wellies. It was actually quite good, partly because it's set in the grounds of an estate with stunning forests and lake all lit up with coloured lights and partly because we live not a million miles away so no need to camp amongst thousands of other damp revellers.

Anyway - for the writerly amongst you, the literature tent was my first real taste of seeing authors read, do Q&As and signings. There was Iain Banks whom I missed. There was Esther Freud and Raffaella Barker, both of whom I missed. There was A L Kennedy and Hanif Kureshi. Missed them too. See a pattern here? There were others writers I've never heard of but who read brilliantly and had long queues for their signings. Then there was a woman. We settled down to listen to her read. What we heard was hard core, expletive filled description of a violent act I had no wish for my kids to hear. I tell you, I couldn't get them out of there quick enough. I don't know how the rest of the audience reacted. Stunned I should imagine but with a small round of terribly British applause for being so 'edgy'.

I felt sorry for the lesser known writers with their little wheeled shopping trolleys full of books waiting to be signed. But not that sorry. They're still further along the road than me. One chap was so thrilled to have someone approach him that he wrote a veritable essay in their book, bless him. And note to self and anyone else who ever does a reading. Audiences are easily pleased. Don't just rush off the stage without thanking them for getting a numb bum whilst listening to your earnest offerings. The ones who smiled, thanked the audience or told a daft joke, went down a storm. Dave Gorman took photos of his audience and they loved it because now they have story to tell.

And the music? Well, out of about five stages and a staggering number of bands, I think I knew about three of them. One of those was Blondie. Good grief, that woman can still bring the house down. I think I may even have twitched a bit and mouthed all the words in sad old lady, 'I was there first time round' sort of way. Even The Teenager thought Ms Harry was cool - and that's saying something.

I'm (more or less) off blog for a few days. It's the end of term (hurrah) which means routines go bottoms up and I need to get some writing done. Otherwise I will never be one of those writers with a wheeled trolley, willing people to talk to me. Well I could be, but the trolley would be empty and that would be just weird. Almost certifiable in fact.

Piles

2008-07-16T11:12:00.007+01:00

Nik Perring, who is very nice and has great links and words of writerly wisdom, has asked his readers to do a 'sort of meme' and photograph our bookshelf. It must be as it is with no cheating, no tidying up (as if I would) and no slotting in some high-brows. Problem was, which shelf to photograph but I went for this one because some of my all time 'faves' are squashed in there. There is one book here I didn't finish. Can you guess which one it is? Hint. It's big (1488 pages). And the spine is white.

This is one of my TBR ('to be read') piles. Actually it's more like a heap than a pile. I have piles everywhere but thankfully they don't require cream or a rubber ring. I blame the local library. See the ones with the little yellow stickers? They were 10p each. Then there was a bookshop closing down sale. There are more ~~heaps~~ piles and one day, (that ever elusive 'one day') when I live somewhere where the walls can take it, I will have floor to ceiling shelves something like this or even this if I was feeling modern. Not sure about climbing ladders though. That's a book related accident waiting to happen. But just imagine all those shelves. Imagine not tripping over books everywhere you (I) tread. Imagine buying books and giving them a proper home. I now have complete bookshelf lust. I also have Penguin cover lust. Babaloo set my heart a racing when she told us about her latest book order of 36 of these beauties.

Aren't they completely delicious? I would need to arrange them on my fantasy bookshelf facing outwards. I feel a little light headed after all this book talk and may just need a banana for its calming properties and a custard cream for its ... well, nice properties. Do you have bookshelf mayhem that you fantasize transforming into wondrous, well ordered lines or do you have bookshelves to lust after? Do tell.

Fly Away

2008-07-14T15:12:00.001+01:00

This little chap can hop and flutter but not fly. We keep shooing him towards the hedge where his mum is still feeding him worms and probably doing his laundry. But he's not that bright and just keeps hopping down into the garden where there are dogs and a cat. And bigger birds.

In other news, (related news ... wait for it...) the second Novel Racers Meet took place in London on Saturday. I missed the first one so this was an opportunity to meet a great group of people. The venue was the massive Waterstones in Piccadilly. It's seriously huge. The restaurant on the top floor played host to us and the hours flew by. It was a blast and I left enthused and energised. Meetings like this help me ( and I think many of us) to stop hopping and learn to fly. You see ... there's the tenuous birdy link. Shoo. Spread your wings. Learn to soar. Ok you get the gist. I'll be singing 'Wind Beneath My Wings' in a minute - and that's just sad.

Nun Sensical.

2008-07-10T10:32:00.014+01:00

Since my last nun post, I've been thinking a little more about school days, something I've tried to forget for ...well, over thirty years.
It was the 70's. Schools were becoming progressive, embracing co-education, new teaching methods and encouraging individualism.
Not the nuns. This school was firmly rooted in a by-gone era - roughly 1900. It was strict and no nonsense.
I tried to find a google photo to illustrate the habit they wore but as nuns didn't pose for many pictures in those days, the nearest I could find was this one.

They wore full length robes and close fitting wimples (the white box on the head) and veil. Sometimes the wimples made their foreheads sore or pushed down their eyebrows. No hair was ever seen and of course we obsessed about this. Did they actually have any? Did they shave their heads? Once, a nun had a tiny wisp of hair showing. It was a talking point for days. It was red.

The nuns never talked about sex. Ever. I was reminded of this when reading a post by Ernest de Cugnac the other day. (He was talking about sex by the way and his blog is great. Go see). We were studying Romeo and Juliet (a strange choice seeing as it deals with love, sex and suicide) and the nuns managed to get hold of the Zeffirelli film from somewhere. This was big for us and involved much nun-flapping in order to get the projector set up. At last they managed to load the reel properly, the curtains were drawn and Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting crackled into life. We all ohh and ahhed at Romeo until ... there, on the screen ... was his bottom. The nuns sped into action, black veils flying, rosary beads clacking, as the machine was hastily turned off and the film reel slowed to a dying crescendo. We were ushered out for a brisk game of Stoolball followed by a stale bun and it was never mentioned again.

I also remember being taught about Saint Maria Goretti ( I had to look up her name) who died rather than be raped by an attacker. She was eleven and stabbed fourteen times but didn't 'submit'. We didn't understand. Her attacker was eighteen. One brave classmate asked the question we were all thinking. 'Sister, how did she stop him?'
' They are ways girls' said Sister Rosaria. 'There are ways'.
For a fourteen year old, that was not a helpful answer.

In surfing the web for an image of the Sisters of Mercy's habit I came across this. Ellie Mockler sailed from Ireland on April 12th 1912, aboard the Titanic. She survived and later became a nun in a Mercy convent in Massachusetts. She died aged 95, on her birthday, after 67 years in the convent. She sounds a jolly sort of nun. She loved a good cup of strong tea and a trip on Saturday to McDonald's for an order of fries. She called herself The Tourist Attraction because of her Titanic association. She was only a little older than our nuns and from the same small country and yet unlike ours, she liked a joke. I wonder if she would have made such a fuss about Romeo's bottom and I wonder too if she would have answered young girls' questions properly. I like to think she would.

Cor that was a long post. If you made it to the end, you may now need a cuppa.

Photo courtesy of srshistoryproject.org. The only image I could find with the right shaped wimple .

It's a Sign

2008-07-08T09:07:00.004+01:00

1.
Here is a very odd sign. This is in my local town and it causes me to gape in geeky wonder. Apparently busses is an accepted spelling but it looks mighty weird to me.

2)
And here is a very good sign. Actually it's an award and it's from Billy and from Cait. Thank you both very much.

It's called the Arte Y Pico and I have to pass it onto to five bloggers (those are the 'rules') who are, and I quote .... deserving of this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and who contribute to the blogging community, no matter what language they are in’.
So, Aims, Pacha, Bobo, Debs and Bart - it's over to you.

3)
Like busses - signs come in threes. Or is that bad things? I hope it's signs. I will look out for a third. There was an ant in my coffee this morning. Does that count? And if so, what does it mean?

Tudor Bratz

2008-07-03T08:33:00.010+01:00

The Younger One is a Tudor and off to a special place to be a Tudor all day. They will speak in Tudor, dress in Tudor and spend money in Tudor (groats). I was tempted to put Tudor food in her lunchbox but didn't think roast tongue and pottage would be as well received as a cheese roll and flapjack. You will note the lunchbox is not Tudor. Bratz weren't around then. Allegedly. I like to think that there were Tudor children dressing up their Tudor dolls and saying I prithee Sasha, knowest thou this - thy bodices art so verily cool. Not.
Good morrow.

New Balls Please

2008-06-30T07:31:00.004+01:00

And now another meme. Straight after the last meme, it could almost be construed as a glut. Don't you love that word 'glut'? I would like a glut of twenty pound notes or a glut of Shiraz. Would not be so keen of a glut of spiders. Or eels.

Ok. After moaning that I hadn't been tagged for this, Pacha and Karen kindly lobbed it my way. Can you tell it's the second week of Wimbledon? Tennis words are seeping into the prose? I will now give a volley of nonsensical answers, interesting only to myself and Teabag. Mind you, she finds flies interesting.

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I had a six month old baby and a six year old. That would be children not dogs although I had one of those as well. She was a Battersea dog and the sweetest thing on four legs. The children were nice too. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. That's all I have to say about that, to quote both Dickens and Forrest Gump in one paragraph.

Five things on your to-do list for today:
1) Bath Peg. She is crusty.
2) Go to bank
3) Find lost paperwork
4) Think of something, maybe even write something for Cloud Line
5) Buy The Younger One a pen. It must be a stripy pen and write in blue. It must be exactly the same as the stripy pen that wrote in blue which has just run out. Apparently it was perfect. I hope WH Smith haven't changed their range.

What are three of your bad habits?
1) Sulking (so grown up)
2) Losing interest in things too quickly
3) Dunking
4) Losing paperwork (I snuck in a fourth because it really is a bad habit)

What would you do if you were a billionaire?
I don't know about billionaire. A millionaire would be nice. Or even thousandaire. OK, I'd settle on being a hundredaire this week, what with petrol being £1.18 a litre and Munchies being 58p.

But, if a billion quids came my way I would .... up-sticks immediately to rambling lovely place, somewhere near the sea where it's warm. I would collect rescued animals, mainly dogs, horses and donkeys but other species welcome too (except spiders). I would write/paint/write/paint/write/paint/ and mess about with the menagerie like mad old woman who is too rich to give a monkey's. (Might even have one of those too)

I would also throw massive Lane'swrite Blog party and helicopter you all in (blow the carbon footprint. I've been good till now) and I would have Mr Bob Dylan and possibly the Stones play for us because they would be good mates with mad old rich woman. You'd like that wouldn't you?

What are some snacks you enjoy?

1) Feta
2) The cheese with apricots in
3) Peanut butter (smooth)
4) Marmite (on toast of course, not sandwich)
5) Giant Chocolate Buttons (I dunk them too)
I have already eaten three of the above this morning.

What were the last five books you read?

1) Tangled Roots by Sue Guiney (reading now)
2) Floor Sample by Julia Cameron
3) Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood
4) The Best of Katherine Mansfield's Short Stories.
5) No One Belongs Here More Than You - Miranda July

What are five jobs you have had?

1. Chicken Blood Tester (If you're a recent reader - it's here)
2. Book Shop Assistant (sacked)
3. Stall Holder - Covent Garden
4. Off Licence Shop Assistant
5. Teacher - sorry F.E College Lecturer

Five places you’ve lived
1) Hampshire - Born and bred
3) London - 20's and 30's
4) Suffolk - 40+

How sad is that?
Right, I'm going to smash this one over to Rural Villager and Babaloo.

Game, Set and Match.

Doing It and Don'ting It

2008-06-27T09:17:00.009+01:00

Some days our hair does not behave. Peggy will vouch for that.
Since attempting to dye mine brown, it has now faded to a sludge and sits like a fresh cow pat on my head. A greasy ochre shade of cow pat. The answer is to go back to grey/white gracefully or worse still, visit a hairdresser but I don't do hairdressers. Never have.

Anyway, since no-one has tagged me for the 10 years ago meme, no-one,(which is rather a relief as 10 years ago is a bit blurry) I have snitched this one from the spectacular Sarah Salway. If you haven't read her books, you're missing out.

Some personal Dos and Don'ts of writing....

I do write when I have a nice notebook.
I don't write when they've run out but then they never do when you have a notebook habit.

I do write when I'm in the car (stationary or as passenger)
I don't write in cafes, waiting rooms, or any public place except trains. I can do those but that's only about twice a year. Or planes but that's even less. Boats - never.

I do write when it's very quiet. Well, I say quiet. Today there is a mad blackbird right outside my window. I know he's protecting his young but I suspect this particular one is Regional Blackbird Health and Safety Inspector. He's manically hopping around, controlling all bird activity and he has a clipboard. Honestly. I swear I saw him make our cat sign a form last night. In triplicate.
I don't write when the TV is on - except Wimbledon.

I do write when I have tea/coffee nearby.
I don't write when I need a wee.

I do write when I've finished a painting
I don't write when I'm actually painting but ....

I do write when I'm not physically writing. It's all in the head you see.
I don't write when I have a headache. Heads don't work properly then. Or eyes.

I do write when the dogs are contented (notice dogs not children)
I don't write when they give me 'the look'. See photo. Actually that photo doesn't really capture 'the look'. 'The look' is more plaintive. I will delay their dinner by ten minutes. That'll give me 'the look' to photograph.

I do write when I'm toasty warm
I don't write when my hands/feet are cold. That's all the time barring heatwaves.

I do write when I'm desolate but it's always scrapped later.
I don't write when I'm just marginally sad.

I do write after a someone has said something encouraging about my writing
I don't write (for a few whole hours) after a really bad crit (as happened this week). It makes me want to lie down and whimper. In fact that may have happened.

I do write when I'm in bed.
I don't write when I'm really, really knacked out. Who could?

Ok. I'm getting 'the look' and it can't be ignored. Walkies.
Have a good weekend chaps.

Discomdogulation

2008-06-24T14:10:00.006+01:00

No I didn't dissect the dogs in an attempt to construct a SuperDog. And I'm not being arty.

This is what happens when you go on a picnic. This is what happens when the camera ends up in the picnic basket. And things leak.

Luckily I have a spare. Somewhere.

Back to Cack

2008-06-18T15:07:00.009+01:00

Firstly, thank you for your exceedingly nice comments on the previous whinge-fest post. They really .. really cheered me up. You're a very astute lot you know.

The cold is almost gone which is a shame really as I quite like a late night Lemsip. The back is still irksome.

Now, the trouble with a stiff back is that everything suddenly seems ridiculously low. The washing machine, the oven, the floor. But the lowest of the lowest are the dogs. When I went to the rescue home on that fateful day, I should have been sensible and brought home leggy dogs. Dogs you can harness up without bending. But I could bend and swoop then without thinking about it. Always could until last week. Instead of sensible dogs, I bought doglets, who require their owners to bend double in order to cater to their every whim.

Teabag is not too much of a problem because she's very springy. She can leap up onto virtually anything and I can hook up her lead - no problem. However, Stout Peggy is lacking in the spring department. She can just about manage to get up onto the sofa or bed, so I have to cunningly hide her lead (under cushion) to save going through the rigmarole of trying to hoist her out of her hiding places. (I think she may have a touch of the agrophobias)

So far so good. But, and there's always a butt when it comes to dogs. There's the problem of picking up their butt stuff when out. The least painful way is to crouch down or actually get on my knees but I'm aware that can look a bit odd in public. It could seem like I'm not so much Pooper Scooping as Pooper Perving. I'm considering borrowing my mother's Handy Grabber (although I don't think 'borrow' is strictly the correct term). Or maybe growing longer arms. Or shorter legs. Or even a new back.

***********************************************************

Postscript. Since drafting this post, the back has miraculously improved. I think it may have something to do with last night's wine. In fact I'm pretty sure of it! My mother's Handy Grabber is safe for the moment.

Snuffle Bustle

2008-06-16T20:19:00.008+01:00

I've been a bit of a rubbish blogger lately. So much so, that I've considered exiting until things are a little less frenetic this side of the screen. (Sorry for the cryptic cryptosities). Several long time bloggers have packed up shop recently and they will be missed. It's always sad to lose someone's insights and observations but I admire the considered way these bloggers bowed out - explaining and thanking their readers. I like that. My fear is that I will just fizzle out - poof - into a Blog of Nothing. I'll try not to let that happen. Anyway I can't stop completely but it may be a bit sporadic for a while. Besides, I'm too much of a sticky beak to stop reading yours.

I just thought I'd let you know that.

Apart from that, I've hurt my back. Ouchy ow and am walking like an Edwardian lady in that odd S shape. All I need now is a bustle. Oh and I've an achy cold too. Stiff and sniffy is not a good combination. Have I got your sympathy yet? No? Good. Save it for those with proper woes.

And .... as a blog post without a picture is like, well, chips without vinegar, here's a lovely 'beautiful heart' award from the very busy Carol. I'm passing it onto Babaloo and Tomfoolery - bloggers with big hearts.

Wannabes In London

2008-06-11T10:20:00.006+01:00

We last met in January. How things have changed since then. The Teenager didn't worry at all this time. In fact she was quite blasé, having heard me talk about these blog friends a lot. On the morning she looked me up and down and advised me to ditch the scarf. I ignored her. She checked the train situation and seeing there were delays and cancellations, threw me out the door earlier than scheduled because It's better to get there early, than be late and have to rush. Luckily I didn't ignore that bit of wisdom and me and my scarf made it bang on time.

What else has changed? Well, we all know each so much better thanks to our weekly chats and writing group. One member of our group, the lovely Annie, is on her way to publication, having been taken on by a top agent. I can't tell you how much Annie deserves this and it won't be long before we're all plugging her book. We sat outside in a courtyard on a pleasant, sunny London day and indulged in a chilled glass or three. And chatted. A lot. A couple of our group were missing due to unavoidable circumstances. They were sorely missed but this is going to be a regular event for a long time to come and it's all thanks to our Right Honourable Leader, the veritable Jane Wenham-Jones for bringing us all together. There were also a few new faces and I was thrilled to meet the lovely Helen at last. I think I can say, a good day was had by all.

I'd told The Teenager to cook some pasta for dinner as I was going to be late. Just as we were leaving, she phoned. We've got spaghetti but we haven't got any pasta. Sometimes I wonder.

A Recipe

2008-06-06T08:07:00.002+01:00

Take one small dog.
Add new squeaky toy in shape of beer can.
Put both on trampoline.
Leave to play for ten minutes.
Enjoy.
(Wipe trampoline of drool)

Now you see why I have to hide the Squeakies at night.

Have a good weekend chaps.

Joon

2008-06-04T14:02:00.005+01:00

Sporadic posting at the moment. It's seems our old friend Real Life is getting his claws in good and proper. I wish I was one of those people who need only two hours sleep a night but I'm not. I spent two nights last week writing into the early hours and the rest of the week recovering.

So ...

It's June. How did that happen? I always look forward to June. It always rains but the greenery is so green at the moment it's almost luminous. I love the build up of light to the longest day. It feels like we're still on the right side of the year. I love the promise that we may get some long hot days. We can hope. I love the fact that Wimbledon starts and I'll hoik the little portable TV into the kitchen so I can watch as much as possible whilst tapping/cooking/napping. I find the sound of Wimbledon soothing. I used to go there every year when I was young, in the days of McEnroe/Wilander/Navratilova and it was magical. I always liked wandering around the outside courts in the last low rays of the day.
What else in June? Well, for the next few weeks I have courses to attend for the job that's not yet a job.
Then there's an exhibition of Bob Dylan's paintings at the Halcyon gallery in London which is a must of course.
And next week it's off London to meet some friends from our writing chatroom again. We're all at various stages in our wips and as usual I'm lagging so we've set deadlines. Mine is September 1st. Eek. Trouble is, I'm very dry of brain at the moment. Do you think there's a cream for that?

Nun Education

2008-05-28T11:55:00.008+01:00

Wednesday already? My excuse is that it's half term. The weather is appalling but just right for indulging in a bit of hibernation complete with reading, lots of writing and a few naps. Next week things start to get busy so I'm enjoying the calm before the storm.

I've also been helping The Teenager revise for her exams. By 'help' I mean asking questions from a book with no idea of what I'm actually asking and marking test papers with the help of the internet with no idea of what I'm marking. There are some gaping gaps in my education particularly in all things scientific. I blame the nuns. They didn't have a scientific nun within their clan and therefore absolutely no science was taught. I vaguely remember there was a Bunsen burner somewhere in the convent but god knows what it was used for (although even He may be confused. Distilling holy water?). My entire school life was completely devoid of a periodic table or a theory of any kind.
Religion was taught, but only one religion of course. And English. Lots and lots of English. Maths was courtesy of a lay teacher. Art was taught by a French woman. French was taught by an English nun. Everything else was taught by Irish nuns apart from Stoolball which was taught by an Old Girl. And if you're stumped by Stoolball, it's a game dating back to middle ages, similar to cricket and played in the south east of the country. I was rubbish at it. We wore heavy skorts. Yes skorts. I was also rubbish at sewing dirndl skirts, making banana custard and learning the polka. Even now, I struggle to see what those nuns envisaged as our future. Oh and do you know another thing that they taught us? How to make up a bed for a sick person, without cutting off the circulation in their feet. You have to fold in a pleat you see. Now that could be useful, couldn't it?

It Was One Year Ago Today ...

2008-05-23T07:55:00.003+01:00

It was one year ago today,
Sgt. Lane joined the blog to play
~~She's been going in and out of style~~!-- But Teabag's guaranteed to raise a smile - etc etc better not use too many copyrighted lyrics...
La la la la la la la la la
So may I introduce to you
The act you've known for all this year,
Peggy Flobbins' Lonely Hearts Blog Band.....
We hope you have enjoyed the show....

One year old this week.

So, one year of blogging, 158 posts and an average of 450 'unique' visitors a week (so says that old stat counter).
I wrote about how I feel about blogging back here so I won't bore you with a repeat performance. The summary was 'Blogging enhances my day, expands my outlook and feeds my innate nosiness.' It still holds true.

The very first person who left a comment was Fiona (soon to be published!) and we've since become good friends as have other people I've met along the way. I'd just like to say thank you to all of you good people for reading and commenting. I'm glad I found the blog this time last year. Very glad.
Thank you.

See how nicely Teabag (above) poses for her blog birthday photo? See how Peggy can hardly wake up? Or maybe she's throwing you a wink.

Have a good (bank holiday if you're in the UK) weekend chaps.

Finalitea

2008-05-21T10:25:00.004+01:00

Red Mug was distraught by Pink Mug's rebuff.
He sought counsel from Blue Tea Caddy who knows that the best way to overcome rejection is to get back on the mugly scene as quickly as possible. He advised Red Mug to drop the macho Rocky Bar act and go for something a little softer. Red Mug grabbed a Custard Cream and who should come running but Luscious Lips Mug, complete with her calorie controlled snack and impressive cup size. Red Mug couldn't believe his luck. It was like all his tea breaks and coffee breaks rolled into one.

There the story ends. Things in Tea Town are now as happy as could be after enduring kettle death, addiction, grief, dating and a series of unhealthy snacks. Tea Town is now presided over by New Cheapest Kettle On The Market who will never match Red Kettle in terms of excitement but is doing a sterling job. And so we leave them there and hope that the coffee pot doesn't break down any time soon.

Trouble inTea Town .....

2008-05-20T07:21:00.005+01:00

The union of Pink Mug and Red Mug was not to be. Discovering that he was a recovering Tannin Addict and still grieving for Red Kettle, she decided there was too much baggage. And she flinched at his Rocky Bar.
Being a somewhat narcissistic mug, she was looking for a partner to mirror her own charms and she found the perfect match in Pink Mug The Elder. They fill their days with French Fancies, the occasional Hob Nob and Darjeeling.
Red Mug is alone again. Will this cruel rebuff send him back to the tannin he's worked so hard to kick? We'll see.

Tea Goes On...

2008-05-19T13:47:00.001+01:00

Red Mug, so stricken by the loss of Red Kettle, almost hit the tannin again. Driven wild with grief, he started hoarding old teabags but was saved by his new love interest Pink Mug.
See how he chooses the manly Rocky Bar whilst she opts for the Iced Bun. Do you think he's dressing to impress?
I think it may be a match made in heaven and just what the teapot ordered.

I was going to ...

2008-05-16T10:12:00.006+01:00

I was going to tell you about trying to dye my hair brown after the sun had turned it white and witchy with all the texture of dried candy floss. It is now the colour of rotting straw.

I was going to tell you about The Teenager, joining in on the change of hair colour scene and managing to get dye on the bathroom rugs, walls, mirror and ceiling. I fear she succumbed to an urge to practise a few dance moves whilst applying the potion. The room looked like she'd danced around swinging roadkill.

I was going to tell you that Peggy has developed a complete addiction to her squeaky Hamburger toy. If I don't remember to hide it at night, she wakes up just give it a little squeak. Freaky in the middle of the night as it sounds as if the life is being squashed out of a large rodent. Slowly.

But as it's Friday, I won't go into detail. I will leave you with this clip I saw on Nik's blog . If you haven't already visited him, pop over. His blog is full of useful information, links and all round good bits.
For anyone who has written a book, is trying to write a book or is thinking of writing a book (ie everyone) you might like this. I did. It's a writer called Dennis Cass talking about promoting his book. And it's funny.

Have a good weekend chaps.

Seeing Red

2008-05-14T11:26:00.001+01:00

Time of death 6.45a.m
Cause of death - Limescale Overdose.

This was a kettle who lived fast and died young. It packed more into its short year than many do in a lifetime. Often up before six, it would be on and off the boil until the early hours. Burnout was inevitable and the pressure proved to be too much. After several stints in rehab for limescale addiction, it finally succumbed to an overdose. Its circulatory system, ruined by the hard water types that it mixed with, finally collapsed. Resuscitation at the scene was futile.

Red Kettle left no immediate family but will be fondly remembered by its biggest fans, Red Mug and Red Plate. Red Mug, himself a once a victim of Tannin Abuse but now clean, spoke for everyone when he said, 'Red Kettle will be sorely missed'.

Life's a Beach and Then You Dye

2008-05-12T12:01:00.002+01:00

Sorry about the title but I couldn't resist. Yesterday was our first hot day at the beach. The Younger One had her bucket and spade. The Teenager had her dark glasses. We all had our picnic. The sun was bright, the boats were out and the sea was brown. There's nothing remotely attractive about the colour of the North Sea. It was windy and I burnt on the places that cream forgot so now my neck looks like it has been dyed bright red. Turkey necks are not a pleasant feature. Bright red turkey necks are even worse.

Still, The Younger One had a lovely time. She's always on the look out for heart shaped stones and shells and yesterday she found two. Result.

In other news Blogger has been locking me out of the blog with its 403 Forbidden message so if I've been quiet on your blog, that's why. I can read your post in Google Reader but can't comment - obviously. Talking of Google Reader, I know I'm late to this particular party but I spent ages loading all your blogs into it last week and now I'm not certain if it's particularly useful. Sure, you can see who's updated but it's a bit overwhelming to log on and see there are 37 new posts. The temptation is to just read them and move on but that's like standing outside your house when I'd rather be invited in. It feels very removed so I retreat to my sidebar and blog hop as I've always done. Maybe once I've got through the 37 - whoops it's now 39 posts, I'll stay on top of it. Or maybe not. It's not the end of the world. It's just blogging but when 403 Forbidden strikes, it seems so much more than that.

It's an Island. And it's a Desert.

2008-05-09T09:45:00.004+01:00

I've been tagged by Tom Foolery to spill the beans on my desert island choices. She's even let us have a favourite meal before we go, such is her generosity. For those who don't know the programme (those of you far away from the UK) Desert Island Discs is a long running weekly radio show in which a guest chooses eight pieces of music they would take to a desert island. They can also take one book and one luxury item. If you look at the archives you may note that Yoko Ono's choice was Je Ne Regrette Rien. Stephen King's favourite record was Desolation Row, and Paulo Coelho had a U2, two Beatles and a Sinead O'Connor.
As for luxury items, Edna O'Brien chose a vault of white wine and Boris Johnson (the new Mayor of London Town) chose a pot of mustard.

Ok here goes ...the meal

1. First course - Mozzarella salad

2. Main Course - Rice, dhal, curry, pickles, chutneys, the whole caboodle.

3. Pud - Tiramisu

4. Drink -Barolo
And then I would be queasy.

1. One piece of music/song - How to choose? Ok - Like a Rolling Stone because it was pivotal.

2. One book - The Biggest Book of Short Stories on the planet.

3. One luxury item.- A never-ending notebook with built-in-never-ending pen. I don't want to end up writing in the shifting sands.

What about you? Anything special you'd care to take to your island?

So, at the end of another week - a very warm week - a week in which toes made an appearance and steering wheels got hot - I wish you an extremely pleasant weekend.

Oh and I tag Babaloo

and anyone else who fancies being a castaway.

Digging, dugging, lugging, glugging

2008-05-06T08:04:00.004+01:00

May Day! May Day!

Actually it started on Sunday when it was so warm and bright that the garden, illuminated properly for the first time this year, showed itself in all its neglected, rampant glory.

Long grass
Weed-ridden borders
Empty, stony vegetable patch
Mossy paths with sludgy leaves
Jungley scary area
Pots filled with bits of twig

Now gardening is a conundrum. I like the idea of it but the bits I like are kneeling in genteel fashion with a trowel, planting pretties or wafting around doing a bit light pruning like they do in Desperate Housewives. The reality in my garden is back-breaking clearing, digging, lugging (and of course poo scooping).

So I digged and I dug and I had intermittent little glugs because it was a holiday weekend. I filled the wheelie bin with Sticky Weed and vines. I filled the compost bin with grass and worms. I lopped little branches off the fruit trees and liberated them from brambles, scraped moss from steps and emptied pots. I rearranged the gravel where Peggy lies to play Scuff It Up and weeded the borders where Teabag likes to play Dig To Australia. I removed chewies and odd socks from the herb patch and stood for a while, wondering what each herb was supposed to be. They seem to have mutated over winter into a 'one herb fits all' giant leafy mass. The only one I could identify was the rosemary, so out of control it could season the Lamb Festival of Great Britain and still have enough to make a tussie mussie should you feel a dose of the plague coming on.

I now have beefier arms and a garden in which there is a small window of time to play at being Genteel Gardener before it all goes mad and triffid like again. I think the moral of this story is little and often. I will heed this moral. I will.

And while I was doing all this? See photo for details.

How about you? Are you a natural born gardener or are your fingers the opposite of green - which on the colour spectrum is actually pink.

Wobbly Proficiency

2008-05-02T10:41:00.003+01:00

The Younger One is doing her Cycling Proficiency course. Every week we have to hoik her bike into the car and offload it at the school ready for her afternoon session. She learnt to ride last summer and her bike has festered in the shed all winter. Consequently, she's still quite wibbly but very determined. In her helmet and glasses, she resembles a small cartoon character about to be shot out of a cannon.

This week they went out on the road for the first time. I'm glad I wasn't there to watch cars trying to overtake a group of thirteen 10 year olds, all in their fluorescent tabards, negotiating a 1 in 100 hill. I saw them make it back to base however - a little flock of Hi-Vi fledglings, pedalling furiously home to the nest.

Their Highway Code book is called Arrive Alive and I can't help thinking some adults would benefit from reading it. The grown up version is obviously too difficult for some drivers.

So at the end of another week, one which saw the back of April, my message to you is - May balance be good, your travelling be safe and your hills be easily negotiable.
Have a good weekend chaps.