Thursday, April 27, 2017

A good bit of gossip

This is getting depressing. I'm on Day 4 of The Diet now and I've had 4 fails.

On the plus side I haven't given up, eaten ice cream, or said, 'Blow it, let's go out for a meal.' And I just picked up and instantly put down a bar of chocolate.

In other news I very much want to vote for Labour and Jeremy Corbyn but ...

I say that because we discussed the upcoming general election in women's bible study group in Zac's today. We also looked at Caiaphas, a Sadducee high priest, who would have been a Tory were he alive now. And we pondered how John, the gospel writer, would have known what was said in a private meeting between the chief priests and the pharisees. The general consensus put it down to gossip.

Why does it feel like Friday today?

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Last night in Zac's

Linda, Dawn and I were 'commissioned' as community chaplains. 
We completed a course, courtesy of the Methodist Church, and lat night we explained a bit about it  and our reasons for doing it, and Sean spoke and read and prayed for us.

One of the scriptures he read was from Philippians chapter 2 encouraging us to have the same attitude as Christ Jesus who made himself nothing and humbled himself. No pressure there then.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

A strange coincidence involving George

On the very day that I re-posted that story about George escaping he did it again!

He hasn't even tried for ages. I think he's finally accepted that he's probably not going to get a better home plus the fact that everyone knows him now and they won't feed him. And to be fair I don't think he did try to escape it was just a series of unfortunate incidents.

Daughter came in leaving the gate open for Son-in-law. 
George went out for a quick sniff.
Son-in-law doesn't notice George and comes in closing the gate behind him.
George finds himself locked out.

What's a dog to do in these circumstances?

He could bark loudly; he is very capable of it when he thinks he needs to, which is usually last thing at night when all the neighbours are trying to get to sleep.

Or he could go around the block, find an open gate and go and peer pitifully through a window so that he is brought home by a neighbour who thinks what heartless creatures we are for locking out such a lovely dog.

No prizes for guessing which option he chose.

Why I'm not queen of the world

Uncle had a nice fountain pen that I thought I'd like to use it but the ink cartridge was empty. It's an old pen so I spent some time wandering around shops and asking questions about the right type of cartridge to buy. At last I managed to find one and took it home delightedly. 

I took out the old cartridge and replaced it with the new one. At this point Husband wandered in, picked up the old one and said, 'You realise this is a refillable cartridge, don't you?'

Two points arise from this.

First, the staff who advised me obviously didn't know their cartridge from their elbow. 
Second, the articles I read in magazines in the dentist's waiting room about how to make your life more effective - things like allotting dedicated time slots, focusing on one thing at a time etc - don't take account of innate stupidity.

If it were not for that, with my 'brilliant ideas' and optimism against the odds, I could be queen of the world by now undoubtedly.

Monday, April 24, 2017

What about a cement coffin?

Husband this morning uncovered a letter he'd had from a great-uncle of mine a few years ago. Like Husband, Uncle Woodie was interested in genealogy so he sent us a load of family information. Some of it Husband has disproved - or rather not been able to find any trace of actual evidence - such as Count Otto von Bismarck having an illegitimate child by a distant relation of ours, but other bits are more fact-based though less colourful.

Such as this cutting from an old newspaper. It refers to my great-grandfather, Hobart Pasha Honey. I assume it's from the local Swansea paper but have no idea of date. My great-grandfather died in about 1951 but I imagine it was quite a while before that.

The article reports that Mr H. P. Honey had invented a metal-reinforced cement coffin and was proposing it as an alternative to the traditional because of the current high price of wood. He suggests they are also much better from a sanitary point of view.

The article ends with Mr Honey saying he would be glad to consult with any interested undertakers.

As far as I know the idea never caught on except with gangsters.

And, on a separate note, I am dubious about the claim that all children love syrup of figs. 

Feeling fat, fat, fat

A lovely weekend in Surrey with Elder Son and his family. Good weather - but not as good as in Swansea and that is very unusual! - great barbecue and wonderful grandchildren. 

Now I don't know if the mirror in the hotel was one of those funny ones - that's what I'm hoping - but I felt hideously fat. Now I know I'm not actually hideously fat but I feel much better when I weigh about a stone less than at present so today I signed up for a Rosemary Conley online slimming course!

I did RC classes a few years ago and was successful at losing weight but they weren't online, we had a brilliant and fun teacher in Cherie, and included an exercise session, so I don't know how well I'll do with this. It's mainly the incentive value: I've paid for the quarter so I should jolly well make sure I lose weight.

Hence my shopping list for Sainsburys this morning included very low fat cheese spread, very low fat sausages and two packets of Mug Shots. Even as I'm taking them off the shelf I'm thinking, 'These are going to be horrible,' but I'm not very good at lunches. I like something quick and there are only so many days you can eat ryvita. And they contain less than 2% fat. In fact they probably contain very little of any substance or worth but I'll let you know what they taste like when I've sampled them.

Oh, that's a good idea: I'll copy and paste this writing into my Middle-aged, fat and frumpy blog. 

Friday, April 21, 2017

Earthquakes in London

Last night I went to the theatre. On my own. 

It was an amateur production of a play called Earthquakes in London and I knew two of the people appearing in it. It was a last minute decision to go: I'd been dithering but wanted to support them, so I checked the start time on their Facebook page and went.

And arrived just after it had started - 15 minutes before Facebook had said.

I slid into a seat, which happened to be on the front row. It's one of those trendy small theatre areas that don't have a raised stage and you're eyeball to eyeball with the performers. And then I noticed it. The strange smell. No, not strange, downright horrible. Rather like stinky fish but worse. It was so bad it distracted me from the play.

I tried to sniff my neighbours - subtly of course - but couldn't work out from where the smell emanated so I was greatly relieved when it came time for the interval. It happened that I knew three women sitting in the row behind. One of them said she'd noticed the smell and thought it came from the little woman on my right.

There was a spare seat in their row so for the second half I joined them and, apart from the odd whiff, it was happily pong-free. I can only assume the poor woman had a problem - in university there was a boy who although always scrupulously clean and smartly dressed had a strange odour that was alleged to be hormone related - and I do feel sorry for her, but, oh, I still had the smell in my nose when I got home and went to bed.

As for the play, well, it was long and quite depressing but very well done.

I was looking for something else and came across this from January 2008

George makes a break for it

Yes, that's right, George 'Don't make me go out of the front door on my own' has discovered the joys of 'other people's gardens'. 

He loves the postman. As soon as he spots the post-van pulling up he gets excited, then, after the postman has been to our house (or made a fuss of him even if he isn't delivering to us), George stands at the front of the garden and watches him on his way.Our garden has a drop at the front as you see so he can't get out that way but, a few minutes after the postman had gone, I realised he'd disappeared. I wandered round the garden and house, calling, but there was no response.

Outside on the road there was no sign of him and he didn't appear when I called. At that moment, the postman came along, returning to his van. 'Have you lost him?' he said. 'Geeoorrgge!'

At the sound of the postman's voice, George comes round from the back of the next-door-but-one-neighbour's house, looking innocent as the day is long.

We - the postman and I - figured he'd squeezed round the very front of the wall separating the neighbours' garden from ours; I've put a bucket there temporarily until Husband comes home at the weekend and can fix it.

Our garden is beginning to look like it's been done-over by one of those trendy television gardening programmes. Wire mesh is the new decking, don't you know?

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Incomplete without ice cream

A while ago I complained about my mouse. Last week, just before the bank holiday, I said, 'Right, that's it! I'm getting a new one. This one is driving me crazy.'

Imagine my delight then when the next time I came to use my mouse it was working fine. Husband had worked his magic on it.

'How did you do that?' I asked him.
'Bit of spit and a tissue.'


* * * * * * * * *
Having been assured by the doctor yesterday that going away on holiday was fine - even with my 'condition' - Husband has booked us a week in Lanzarote in May. Since the end of November at least life has been a bit full on what with one thing and another. It's no wonder several people have remarked on how tired I look. (And there was me thinking I looked as gorgeous as ever!)

Within the Canary islands we've visited Fuerteventura and Tenerife but not Lanzarote. Apparently there's a live volcano and you can eat in a restaurant that uses the heat of the volcano to cook. I'll be glad just to lie in the sun/shade and read and swim and sleep. And eat ice cream. I just hope we can find an ice cream shop as good as the one run by an Italian lady in Fuerteventura. The success of my holiday depends on it.
In Italy in March 2012

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Calm after the storm

If I'd been a premenstrual grammar pedant instead of just a grammar pedant I might have done serious damage in the waiting room at the hospital today. 'One in three women suffer premenstrual tension.'

Still, arguing with Husband about its correctness or not took my mind off my up-coming appointment. And when we'd finally agreed to disagree guessing the make-up of the British Lions squad (due to be announced at noon) took us through another thirty minutes.

The registrar apologised when we eventually got in: she was doing the clinic on her own. And it's the same old, same old. My cyst or whatever it is is the same size but my blood markers have gone down - so that's good. Generally the registrar suggested it's better to avoid surgery and as I'm very low risk that's what we agreed I'd do. Go back in four months for another scan, blood test, check, and so on. 

I'd gone there thinking I'd say yes to surgery to avoid having this hanging over me but, hey, I'm fine, so let's carry on as we are.

'You should have the coil removed though,' the registrar said.
'Will they do that if I have surgery?'
'I'll do it now for you.'

Oh no, really? You don't have to do that. I'm fine. It's been there donkey's years; it can stay a bit longer, I don't mind. Honestly I don't ... 'Go in that examination room? Really? It will hurt.'
'No, it won't,' she assured me. 'If I can't see it easily I won't do it.'

Then when the nurse says, 'You can squeeze my hand,' you know it is going to hurt. But not for long. So now I am foreign-body-less.

Now the hospital is right next to Singleton Park so after the appointment we went to visit the botanic garden. It is a beautiful oasis of calm.

At first sight I thought this was a peony.