Do you think he'd do my ironing?

Although if he was the man who delivered the leaflet, he needed oxygen just after getting up our steps.

Wrong answer

I just asked Husband if I should do the ironing or sit down and take a rest before circuit training; he said, 'Do the ironing.'

Honestly, would I have asked him if I'd wanted that answer?

So I'm compromising: I'm going to sit down and rest - after I've finished blogging.

Are we having visitors?

First husband asked the question; then Younger Son repeated it when he got home from college.

'No, we are not having visitors!'
'Why are you cleaning then?'

Honestly, anyone would think I only cleaned when we were expecting visitors.

I started by sorting out my underwear drawer as it was impossible to close. I found I have 48 - 49 if you include the ones I'm wearing - pairs of knickers. I've arranged them into three piles:
special day ones;
everyday ones;
sloppy 'I need to let it all hang out' day ones.

And I was very good: I forced myself to throw some of my favourite in the latter category in the bin. I was late for prison yesterday and and had to run and I found myself in the middle of a busy main road in Swansea with my knickers dangling around my thighs.

It was just a relief I was wearing jeans.

The more I see of George ...

the more certain I am that he has deep psychological scarring.

Regular readers may remember that some time ago I took George to a doggy therapist. She diagnosed anxiety as the root of his problem and suggested some remedies and aids. As these have worked I'm pretty sure she was right in her diagnosis.

He is a very intelligent dog (honest he is) and sensitive. He is suspicious of anything that is where it shouldn't be e.g. a plastic bag on the road, and that's fair enough: he's being fashionably green. The real problem comes when I take him out for a walk, or rather, when I decide that we're going to walk somewhere that requires we drive there first.

You see the car is parked out the front and George doesn't like going out of the front gate with me: the minute I head down the front path, he sits down. I have to bribe him with a treat, and then to get him in the car involves another treat. (Bear in mind that car trips to the vet, which he might consider unpleasant, are far outnumbered by trips to nice walky places.)

He'll go out of the front gate with Husband and he's more than happy to go out on his own, but with me: not likely!

Incidentally it's not me as such that is the subject of his objection: he'll come out of the back gate quite happily with me. It's just me and the front gate that are linked in his deep subconscious with some nameless terror.

Like I said, he needs help. Loopy dog.
xx

Christianity: the good and the bad

Two good friends have been - how to describe it? let's be polite - threatened with having their names taken off the membership list of their church. Why? Because they smoke, drink, swear and really need to take their responsibility to the church more seriously and attend more often. In other words, they need to be moulded into the 'right' shape for a proper Christian.

I would like to tell their church that these two people are the living embodiment of Christianity at its best. They are devoted to God and live their lives for others. They care, share, help, listen, take action. They are reliable and trustworthy; they are there when those in pain need them. They don't hide their faith in God: they celebrate it. They are doing what Christ did, going where he would have gone, befriending those he would have touched. They are Christ-centred not denominationally-fixated.

They are the right shape for a proper Christian: they are Christ-shaped.

George escaped

We haven't had a serious escape attempt for ages. I wasn't too worried when I realised George had disappeared: there's a young labrador next door but one and George normally goes visiting there but I walked down the road, calling him, and there was no sign.

I came back and walked the other way: no George. Down the road again and I saw a police car had stopped at the end of our bit and a policeman was getting out. 'Oh no, he's arresting George!'

But he wasn't. He hadn't seen him either.

Back to the house to get the car keys to drive around the back streets. Nobody there had seen him either. Anxiety was beginning to gnaw at me and some urgent prayers were being directed heavenwards. As I drove past our house again I spotted George sitting happily in the doorway.

I have no idea where he'd been but we have since discovered what he was doing.

When Husband got up first thing this morning there were three - yes 3 - huge piles of sick on the kitchen floor. And it seemed to consist largely of sliced beetroot.

When a minute seems like an hour

In Thrive (circuit training) last night one of the 'extras' involved throwing punches interspersed with lying flat on the ground. So, punch, punch, lie down, stand up, punch, punch, lie down, etc.

'You don't have to do a press-up,' Jules, the trainer said. 'Just get your chest on the floor.'

'Some of us don't have so far to go,' I said, rearranging my bosom Les Dawson style. But even that didn't help after a minute of getting up and down. Punching was a doddle; lying down was a doddle; getting up was another matter.

You think a minute doesn't sound long? Think again.

Big sigh

I was a little dispirited after the Sunday morning service in church. Let me explain.

An African children's choir is giving a concert in Swansea in a week or two and Linden was sent two complimentary tickets. In the Notices I said that I would give the tickets to the first person who came up to me and said, 'You're looking remarkably gorgeous today, Liz.'

Nobody did.

George is not a morning dog

The first person who gets up - not usually me - has an enthusiastic greeting from George who then goes out for a wee before enjoying his breakfast. Then he goes back to bed.

By the time I get up he is fast asleep and I am lucky if I get as much as a tail twitch.

Honestly dogs are supposed to be pleased to see their people. I am thinking of exchanging him for a fluffy cushion that doesn't shed hair, smell or make the place dirty.

A quiz for you

When driving down a narrow road and a large vehicle suddenly appears coming in the other direction, do you:
a) carry on confidently;
b) slam on the brakes;
c) squeak and close your eyes.

No prizes for guessing my reaction.

Monochrome Maniacs

I like to think of this as the mammoth rising from the swamp.

To take part in Monochrome Maniacs go here.

xx

Life? What's that?

Life has been busy ... again.

Thursday I was in the community cafe and we had our busiest day ever. It was just Chris and me in the kitchen and two young girls on the till. That worked fine until the orders for meals kept coming ... and coming. We were just about disappearing under the mass of dirty dishes when Ric, from Zac's Place, dropped in for coffee. I let him take two mouthfuls and then sidled up to him and said, 'You any good at washing dishes?'

Bless him, he was at the sink for the next two hours! His hands at the end were all pink and leeched of life.

Friday it was work but with time out to go and see the wedding of Tim, one of our church leaders.

Saturday was spent shopping and making chilli ready for a 40th birthday party in the evening, and today I was up at 6.30 to get to the studio in time for my radio broadcast. It went fine (thank you for asking!) except I forgot the presenter's name and the fact that nodding my head and waving my arms about isn't very helpful on the wireless.

After that it was church as usual and a lovely walk withe Husband and George on Pobbles and Three Cliffs (see photos on previous post). And now I am hoping to stay awake long enough to eat my dinner - but you should see how erratic my typing is!

Three Cliffs today

A walk in the woods at twilight

I should have realised that walking in the woods in the dark was enough of a challenge without the added element of the river. Isn't it strange how a path so familiar in daylight takes on an alien form at dusk?

So there I am peering into the darkness when I see a human shape running towards to me. A male shape heading in my direction at speed. Fearing for my very life, with the instantaneous reflexes of a trained killer, I leapt into fighting stance - legs akimbo, fists in front of face.

As the jogger muttered, 'good evening,' I tried to make it look as if I were scratching my nose and ear. I think I got away with it.

George and the waves

Just a regular Tuesday at Zac's

Sean is currently on his way to Australia. Even as I type he's probably somewhere over Africa or wherever the plane goes. He's off for three weeks, meeting up with God Squad bikers and speaking in a variety of churches and events, and he's left the running of Tuesday night Tribal Gatherings at Zac's Place to a group of regulars.

Well, Sean, if you're reading this, after last night I can say you have nothing to worry about. It was a perfectly normal Tuesday night, quiet, nothing happening, all fine and dandy.

Apart from the extremes of an inebriated turbanned Elvis impersonator and a homeless lad who'd been banned from contacting his girlfriend and baby son, with a bit of psalm-writing in between, it was just a normal night.

Those who were happy to read their psalms aloud at the end shared honestly the pain, confusion, thankfulness and humour that make up a typical Tuesday session at Zac's.

So have a great time, Sean, give all our love to Ros and Glenn, and don't worry: the fireman said you won't be able to tell that anything ever happened in a few weeks' time ...
xx

Twas on a Wednesday afternoon the gasman came to call

'Cor blimey, George,' I said, 'we don't half meet some miserable old gits when we're walking.'
'Tell me about it,' he replied.
'I mean I can understand them not wanting a close encounter with you ...'
'Excuse me?'
'But I'm well-brought-up. I don't stick my nose in their crotches or shake mud all over them.'
(George has started sulking now.)
'And they're walking by the sea? How is it possible not to be happy when you're walking in the fresh air by the sea?'

George refused to answer as he was still sulking.

Actually I do him a disservice: Harvey was the one for sticking his nose in unwelcome places. That's one trait George doesn't have. Unlike his 'I wanna break free' habit.

The gasman came today. As soon as he'd gone George started moaning to go out. I knew why: he was hoping the gasman would have left the gate open. Which he had.

I opened the door for George and we both stepped out. George looked at me and I looked at George. I began to sprint down the path; he cut across the grass and was down the steps and out of the gate before me. 'You scheming ratbag!' I yelled.

He wouldn't come back until I promised him a treat. Stupid he's not.

Broadcasting to the world - or Swansea at least

You know when you get what seems like a good idea and, full of enthusiasm, you act on it, and some time later you get a result? Well, that's happened to me. Again.

I contacted the local radio station to see if they could do something with the psalm the prisoners wrote a few weeks ago. This Sunday I'm going to the station, at 7.30 am, to talk about and read it.

Two thoughts spring to mind:
on Saturday I'm cooking chilli for 50 for a friend's 40th birthday party so I could be a little tired come Sunday morning;
the last time I appeared on the media (live national breakfast television, I'll have you know) I sounded like an idiot as I spoke very slowly to make sure I ... didn't ... get ... my ... words ... muddled.

But:
I can sleep for the rest of the day if needs be;
I can be assured that nobody listens to local radio at 7.30 on a Sunday morning.

So that's fine then.

From blog to bog

I remember when a shop at Sainsburys only cost £100 at Christmas ...

Some groceries I am fussy about and choose the brand I know and like; other things I'm happy to buy because they're on special offer. Purple toilet block was on special offer.

It is really shockingly purple, much more so than it appears in the photo.

And now I am posting photos of the toilet bowl on my blog ... I need to get a life. No, wait, I don't have time.

A lost cause

I made Jude's biscuits to take in to Zac's last night - yes, I know they don't look like biscuits but that's because I haven't made them for a long time and I couldn't remember what size tin I had measurements for and I also didn't know how big a cup was. I know how big an American cup is but I don't think this was that sort of cup.

So we had Jude's cakes last night.

They're named after the person who gave me the recipe and should not be confused with St Jude's biscuits (if such a thing exists). My cooking is sometimes dodgy but it's rare that it's a totally lost cause. (In case you don't know, Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.)

My uncle and aunt called their house St Jude's. They had a son who was, what was called in those days, spastic. Auntie Audrey was a devout Roman Catholic and they made several pilgrimages to Lourdes with Huw. It always seemed sad that they should name their house thus.