Sunday, May 31, 2015

Slightly damaged goods

Walking up the steps today I felt a little lacksadaisical. As I said it to myself I stopped. Is it lacksadaisical or lackadaisical? Blogger thinks it's the latter as it picks the extra s up as a spelling mistake. And that was the conclusion I'd come to as well although at the moment of saying it lacksa felt more apt in some strange way.

Ah, the things that we ponder. Or rather the things I ponder.

Anyway my last post was well over a week ago. Since then we've had family staying and life being busy as usual.

GrandDaughter1 and GrandSon2 came for a sleepover on Friday. GrandDaughter1 feels she has outgrown the Winnie the Pooh bed cover so as I had to change it anway - Elder Son had upset her by telling her he was going to be sleeping in it and he was very dirty - I decided I'd visit a home store and seek out some new bedding for her.

I found some lovely fairy bedding and that would have been fine if I hadn't then ventured into the Cookware section. As I've said before, other people lust over Jimmy Choo shoes or designer fashions; my fetish is for all sorts of kitchen implements. Especially knives and saucepans.

When I got home Husband glanced over my purchases. He paid no attention to the chopping board, pastry brush or sieve but when his eyes alighted on the knife he exclaimed, 'What on earth? You have a rackful of knives up there!'
'I know but I don't like any of them and you know that I lost my favourite chewed knife.'

This is my new knife.
Weirdly (I think) it's ceramic, which is claimed to be 5 times as sharp as steel.

I used it today for the first time to chop the vegetables for my roast vegetable pasta sauce. It's sharp.
He should be glad it's only a knife. They had some wonderful saucepans in stock. Trouble is I don't really need new saucepans: the ones I have are ... adequate. I can't really justify paying lots of pounds for new. Even though at least one of the saucepans I use came about maybe 35 years ago via father-in-law who used to work next door to the Prestige factory and was wont to rummage through their bins for slightly damaged goods.

However if I were to rid my home of all slightly damaged items there would be very little left I fear.

Friday, May 22, 2015

A missionary to the natives

'Have you ever done mission work?'
'Only in Swansea.'

I don't think that was considered the right answer by the person asking me. I suspect mission work for them meant abroad, preaching to the natives.

At the end of the gospel according to Matthew, Jesus tells his followers to go and make disciples of all nations. He doesn't pick out a few of his followers for this task but addresses them all and I believe his words are still relevant today and for all of us wherever we are.

In our lives we have the opportunity to set an example. By the way we treat others, talk to them, behave with them: this is surely everyday ordinary mission work. As Francis of Assisi is alleged to have said, 'Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words.'

Sadly I am very aware of how often I fail to follow Jesus' lead, and I let him and those around me down. But that doesn't stop me trying.

Gay baking

There's been a lot of fuss in the media recently after a Christian-owned bakery was found guilty of discrimination by refusing to make a cake with a message in support of gay marriage. It's generally been greeted as a good result but I'm not sure.

I am sometimes asked to make cakes. If someone asked me to make a cake for a rally demanding the legalisation of fox-hunting I'd say, 'I'm sorry; I don't agree with that. Would you mind asking someone else to make your cake?' I can't imagine that a reasonable person would have objected to that.

Now I realise I'm not in business professionally but, when the bakery refused, wouldn't the sensible thing have been for the customer to have said, 'Fine, I'll take my money elsewhere.'

I believe the customer in this case was an activist so I can't help thinking that this was, if not a set-up, then at least a situation that was profited from.

Incidentally if any of my gay friends asked me to make a wedding cake I would say, 'Are you sure? I'm not very good!' Then if they insisted I'd say, 'I'd be delighted and honoured.'

Monday, May 18, 2015

Say No to Plastic!

As many of you know, Younger Son and Nuora live 9 months of the year in the Perhentian Islands, as Blue Temple Conservation, working with local communities to raise awareness of marine issues and create sustainable lifestyles.

One of the tasks they regularly undertake is beach clean-ups. 
Here YS is helped by their next-door-neighbour to gather some of the many plastic bottles and bags washed up or dumped on the beautiful south sea island shore. Horrified by the amount of plastic rubbish they see they've set up their own campaign, Say No to Plastic.

What a good idea, I thought. I can do that too and encourage others as well. Then I looked around my bathroom - where I was when I had this brilliant idea. At the shampoo, hair conditioner, shower gel and even soap in plastic bottles. Then I thought about the laundry room (that's a posh term for a shed). All my washing powder and fabric conditioner comes in plastic bottles as do most other things around the house. I'd never really thought about how much plastic we use every day.

How can I cut that down?! 

I asked Younger Son who explained that he didn't mean every plastic container: that would be a ginormous if not impossible job. He meant plastic water bottles and plastic bags, the ones I put fruit in when I go to the supermarket for instance. 'Cut down on the ones you don't really need,' he said.

That's a bit more manageable. I could try and do that. I already re-use my plastic shopping carrier bags along with the non-plastic ones. (For some years we've been charged 5p a carrier bag in Wales. It took a while to remember to take bags with me but it's second nature now.) And I don't need to put my fruit and veg in bags - and I should stop buying them ready-bagged.

Estimates suggest that each year between 500 billion and 1 trillion plastic bags are consumed, amounting to approximately one million plastic bags per minute. Further, on average, a person will use a plastic bag for only 12 minutes. 

The damage that plastic does to the oceans and the life therein is widespread and long-lasting. It wouldn't take much effort on my part to do my little bit to help. 

One other thing: YS explained that squirty soap contains micro-beads to help make it more lathery. Micro-beads are very bad for the oceans!* I've only recently swapped over to squirty soap instead of bars of soap so I'll have to revert. (Have you notice the sparsity of bars of soap in shops?)

And now for something that can be done with rubbish!
Go creative!

Could you Say No to Plastic?

* An aside: an article published last week in National Geographic says that the tiny metal particles in sun screen may harm marine creatures by damaging their defence mechanisms that protect their embryos. The micro metal particles are also used in toothpaste and cosmetics. 

Mrs Hemingway used to be king until the colour shifted

I've just finished reading We Used to Be Kings by Stewart Foster. A little difficult to get into initially because of the way it's written and, I confess, I am only guessing what some of it meant - I'm not making this sound very appealing, am I? - but well worth it. Apart from the end. I won't tell you what the end is but it's not happy.

That's the second book on the trot that hasn't had a happy ending and the one I'm reading now, Shifting Colours by Fiona Sussman,  is excellent but sad, although I do have hopes for a happy ending. I am a glutton for punishment. 

But I'd decided I'd give the light easy-read romantic novels a break and try some lesser-known authors and styles of writing. 

Also read Mrs Hemingway by Naomi Wood recently. I know very little about Ernest and the book didn't tell me any more except I suppose that he must have been attractive to women as he had four wives. I liked Hadley, the first one, best.

I am rubbish at writing book reviews so I'll settle for a star system.
We Used to Be Kings 4*
Shifting Colours (although I've not finished it yet) 5*
Mrs Hemingway 3*

Christianity for the Confused

I think I shall call my next book 'Christianity for the Confused.'

Then again the vehemence with which some Christians argue for or against particular biblical principles/theological theories makes me think I wouldn't be able to cope with the flak so perhaps I won't.

The thing is that Christianity is confusing. Or maybe it's the bible that's confusing: it quite often contradicts itself. Or appears to. Or it says things that make me say, 'What?' in response to which Other Wiser People Than I explain it by saying, 'Well, that's not really what it means; you have to look at the bigger picture/the cultural relevance/what Dr EvenWiserMan says about it in his highly acclaimed book, What the Bible Means.

But is it meant to be that difficult? 

Jesus spoke mostly to fairly simple people and lots of them seemed to get it from his words and his actions. (Having said that he did tell some complicated parables that he had to explain to the disciples but the explanation is included in the bible so we can understand today.)

I have a simple faith but when I've defended this to OWPTI by quoting Jesus words, 'unless you become like little children', they've come back at me with Paul's words, 'stop thinking like children.' See what I mean? It contradicts itself.

So then I was thinking: what if we only had the gospels?

After all it was Man who decided which books would go in the New Testament. According to the Bible Society, in the middle of the 2nd century AD, groups on the fringe of the Christian movement started to come up with their own gospels and letters. This forced the mainstream Church to define which works were part of the New Testament; they did this in the Council of Carthage at the end of the 3rd century AD.

Nothing new under the sun and even today now and again you'll hear reports of newly-discovered scrolls that are proclaimed as being So'n'So's Gospel and usually in Daily Mail style make grandiose claims that they disprove that a) Jesus died; b) it was Judas who betrayed him; c) it was an accident that killed Diana.

Also the Roman Catholic and Anglican bibles are different: the RC bible has more books in the NT.

So what if we only had the gospels? And our knowledge of our faith were based simply on the words and actions of Christ without any of the letters from Paul or other disciples. What difference would that make? Not a subject for a hasty blog post.

Although that's quite a good title for a book: What if we only had the gospels?

Sunday, May 17, 2015

5 items or ...?

Went to town today to buy a present for a friend but was distracted by bathing costumes. I had some time to spare so I decided I'd try one on. A very pretty flowery red one with a little frill around the bottom.

I am convinced they would sell more clothes if the lighting in changing rooms was better, by which I mean less bright obviously. I liked the costume a lot especially as it boasted tummy and hip control. Sadly it was no match for my tummy and hips.

I didn't really need a new bathing costume anyway. 

On the other hand kudos to Sainsburys. In their newly-refurbished entrance bit they have a sign saying, '5 items or fewer.' I was so pleased to see fewer instead of less I would have taken a photo if I'd had my camera.

Sainsburys also has bee hotels at 100 of its stores. I knew there were good reasons I shopped there.

Friday, May 15, 2015

Thank you for the invitation but who are you?

On Wednesday we received an invitation to a wedding evening reception. That was very lovely - except we had no idea who the bride and groom were.

With a bit of Sherlock masterminding we found the happy couple on Facebook but still didn't recognise them. Nor did we know any of their friends. 

A dilemma: should we turn down the invite; accept and hope for the best; or come clean? It seemed rather rude to say thank you but who are you? And the reception was in a venue that undeniably did good food.

The invite came through the post so whoever they were they had our address but they hadn't used our surname so could we be the wrong couple? But even so, we must be in someone's address book.

I put it off for 2 days before replying and suggesting that possibly the invite had come to us by mistake.

Turns out it hadn't. The groom's mother is one of my oldest (in that we've been friends since childhood) friends. 

How was I to know?!

What I have that Sean doesn't and it's not just boobs

But we've survived.

Dentist and circuit training Monday, Social Services meeting Tuesday, speaking to a women's meeting on Wednesday, and circuits and leading bible study on Thursday. Add to that unexpectedly leading Zac's on Tuesday evening, visiting uncle at home and uncle's friend (still in hospital after having cardiac arrest and a pacemaker fitted - apparently she can't hold her mobile phone on the side that has the pacemaker and she must run through security gates at airports) and you begin to get the picture. Not to mention having to keep a close eye on new Granddaughter.

Whoever said that you can take it easy when you retire?

Sean was suffering with concussion after having come between a charging rhino and a group of grey-haired missionary ladies. (No, not really but being bashed by a van door doesn't sound so exciting.) The result was that he wasn't able to lead on Tuesday so I stepped in. 

When I lead the study on Tuesdays I have something that Sean and Steve don't have and it's not just boobs. I have a 2-year-old clambering over me. As an aside, little boys seem to develop a fascination with breasts early on, be it poking them or peering down t-shirts. GrandSon2 is the same: he pokes me and giggles, 'Boobs.'

Anyway, as it was last minute Sean suggested winging it but I'm not good at that so I re-used one of the studies we've already done in our women's group. It went well with only a minor near riot. And Chrissy liked her birthday cake.

I'd forgotten I was booked to talk about Zac's on Wednesday until I received a reminder email last weekend. Fortunately I still had the notes from the last talk I gave so only needed to go through those and make some new memory cards. Unfortunately I'd not seen the TED talk about how to give an effective talk at that point or I would definitely have waved my arms around some more. One lady with an encouraging smile who laughed at the right times gave me confidence; the rest I ignored.

Then there were nine of us for the women's group on Thursday. We were considering the idea of God as father and that naturally led to discussion about our own experiences of fathers and mothers. Amazing in such a small group that there was such diversity. It's a lovely group of like-minded imperfect people. Spectacularly like-minded in fact.

At the end I prayed and said, 'because of the wonderful things you do,' then had to quickly say, 'amen' as I was about to giggle as my brain had tripped off to the Land of Oz. I apologised and said I'd been thinking of a silly song and Tamsin said, 'The Wizard of Oz?' Yes, scarily like-minded.

P.S. I thought of another thing that Sean and Steve don't have when leading bible study: people grinning at me (in a 'supportive' kind of way!) when they realise I have lost even any pretence of control.

Monday, May 11, 2015

In which George outmanoeuvres me

'I'm sorry, George,' I say, 'but I've come to the conclusion that the only way I'm going to have a clean house is by getting rid of you.'
George ponders this for a moment then says, 'May I put forward an alternative solution?'
'Of course. I am not one to deprive you of your human rights.'
'Huh hm, canine,' he coughs.
'Of course, I mean canine rights.'
'It is my belief,' he says, 'that there is only one answer to the how-to-get-a-clean-house question: you have to go.'
'Me? I don't create the dirt you do!'
He shakes his paw. 'No, no, I'm not suggesting that you do.'
'What then?'
'It is my suggestion that we exchange you for a woman who likes to clean.'
'Oh,' I hold my hand to my heart. 'Cut me to the quick why don't you?'
'And do you think my skin is impenetrable to your jibes?'
We both pause and think. Eventually I speak.
'Let's agree to disagree and, tell you what: if you don't tell Husband your idea, I won't tell him mine.'
We shake on it.

And I go back to cleaning.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Just waiting for a call from the Pope

I am feeling so saintly. Having washed and ironed for both my Daughter and uncle I am busy polishing my halo while I wait for the phone call from the Pope that is sure to come any minute now.

But I wrote the post about my busy week not for sainthood - although if you're reading this, your Popeship -  but partly because a week like that doesn't happen often (thank heavens) and partly to remind myself that I achieve far more when I am under pressure than I do normally.

Most days when I have nothing special in mind I will dilly dally and waste time on the computer meaning I get to the end of the day and am annoyed with myself for not having done anything from the to-do list that is constantly in my head.

This last week wasn't like that though. Admittedly there was less achieving and more running around in circles but I could go to my bed each night feeling satisfied that I'd earned a good rest. Which probably says something about my upbringing and age.

My gran didn't have a washing machine or even a fridge. She did have a coal fire that needed frequent attention and a collection of brass that she kept sparkling clean. She never had a dilly dally sort of day so if she rewarded herself with a nightly glass of beer in the pub - or a scotch if someone else was buying - who can blame her?

The Park Inn in Mumbles with landlord Ronnie Jenkins and several members of my family at the bar.
At the front from right: Auntie Eva, Uncle Bun, my gran, 2 unknown ladies (possibly the cousins from Crewe), Auntie Connie.
Behind: Auntie Gay singing enthusiastically, Auntie Evelyn (not really my auntie) and my grandfather.

Saturday, May 09, 2015

Don't panic, Captain Mainwaring!

My great-aunt phoned me today. I said I'd call her back when I'd spoken to my uncle. Minutes later I phoned her and there was no reply.

I decided she must have gone to the toilet and hung up.

A little later I call again: no reply. Maybe she is in the kitchen. She is nearly 95 after all and can't move very fast.

Later on I call and still no reply. I am beginning to worry now but I am in the middle of making a cake so decide to give it one more go a bit later.

When she still doesn't answer I give Husband instructions as to what to do with the cake when the pinger goes and drive down to Mumbles to check up on her. After the week I've had I fully anticipate another hospital trip. Maybe Fate felt I was suffering from hospital deprivation not having been in one for more than 24 hours.

Great-aunt is fine. The phone hasn't rung all afternoon she says. It isn't off the hook and is making the right noise when she picks it up to check. I tell her I'd imagined her lying on the floor unable to move. She shows me the emergency button she always carries with her so she can call help.

I should have realised. She has a daughter-in-law and grandchildren living close by; they would have made sure she could get help in an emergency. 

Must switch off 'whatever-can-go-wrong-is-going-to-go-wrong' button in head and ... breathe.

Why did no-one warn me about Jemima Puddleduck?

I have a confession. The only Beatrix Potter story I read as a child was The Tale of Mrs Tiggy Winkle, a delightful story about a hedgehog who takes in washing. I still have my original book albeit slightly worn, falling apart and scribbled on - and as I discovered last night missing two pages - and last Friday when the grandchildren stayed I read it to GrandDaughter1.

She was charmed by it and wanted so much to believe that it was true. (I still suspect it is true and that there is a hedgehog who does the ironing for all the other little woodland creatures, for, as Beatrix Potter herself asks, how else did Lucie find her pocket-handkerchiefs?)

Last night, when they slept over, she wanted it read again and when I'd finished, as GrandSon2 hadn't quite fallen asleep, I picked up The Tale of Jemima Puddleduck, a book I think I must have found in a charity shop. GrandDaughter1 quickly identified the foxy gentleman reading a newspaper and I was relieved when Kep, the collie, appeared and saved the day. Relieved that is until the two fox-hounds he'd brought in to help him ate Jemima's eggs!

Even the slightly happier ending was spoiled because only four of her next lot of eggs hatched because she wasn't very good at sitting on them! 

Really, why didn't someone warn me? 

* * * * * * * * *

This afternoon I finished reading The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton.Based on the camel library that was set up to take books - and literacy - to outlying African villages, it's a fictional tale of what happens when two of the books go missing. With wonderful descriptions of the customs and traditions retained by nomadic tribes as well as beautifully drawn characters it is a delight.

I do recommend it even though I am not happy with the ending. Then again I have still not come to terms with the fact that Jo didn't marry Laurie in Little Women.

Friday, May 08, 2015

A brief jaunt through my week

So, Bank Holiday Monday we took the dogs for a long walk (see previous post) and then the grandchildren on the little trains of Derwen Fawr.
A reasonably relaxed day rebuilding energy.

Tuesday after making a cake for Zac's I decided to finish the half-cleaned bedroom and clean the bathroom (see earlier post). But then our landline phone that had been out of action since Saturday came to life and I discovered that my 89-year-old uncle had been in Morriston hospital since Sunday morning.

Tuesday afternoon I went to visit him taking Jane, an old friend, who had been staying with him. Getting home I iced the cake ready for Zac's.
I had no sooner arrived at Zac's than I had a phone call from Husband telling me that Jane had just been taken to Hospital with a suspected heart attack. I left Zac's and drove to Morriston where Jane was in A&E. (Actually she was still in the ambulance when I arrived there as they were full.) I stayed with her until just after midnight when they confirmed that they were going to take her up to a ward. While we were in A&E my uncle got a porter to wheel him over to visit.
Wednesday I took some washing to Daughter - her machine broke down just before Baby's birth - and had a cuddle with GrandDaughter2 then called to see my 94-year-old great-aunt in Mumbles to update her on the situation. Visited both uncle and Jane. Spent some time preparing for bible study the next day and making soup for lunch after.

Thursday up at the crack of dawn to cook cheese scones including one batch of the gluten-free variety for the women's group later.
Went to circuit training, showered and shot off to Zac's. Really enjoyed the study on being a child of God with a wonderful group of open and honest women. Think I'm actually beginning to get it. And all enjoyed the soup and scones!

Series of phone calls followed beginning with one from uncle saying could we go and pick him up and take him home as he was being discharged followed by several from others asking if I thought he was fit to be discharged and at home on his own.

Husband came with me to hospital and we found uncle looking and sounding much better. We questioned the ward sister and she said the hospital was happy for him to go home as he didn't need help washing himself and the physiotherapist had said okay too. We didn't really have any grounds to argue on especially as uncle who is 6'3" and too long for hospital beds was insistent.

Good job I had a solid lunch as I somehow missed out on dinner. But that didn't make up for not seeing Baby.

Watched television long enough to be thoroughly depressed by election exit polls and went to bed hoping they'd got it dramatically wrong.

Friday woke with a headache and then remembered why and headache got worse when the exit polls were not only confirmed but it looked like the Tories were heading for a majority.

Relieved to be taking friend and her baby to hospital for routine appointment at 10.20. Finally got her back home at 1.30. On my way home stopped at Sainsburys for essential supplies as cupboard is bare.

Ate lunch, Facebooked for a while then went to visit uncle who is unsteady today and not feeling or looking as well. But, as he said, he might as well feel unwell at home as in hospital as there's nothing they can do for him. And at home he is surrounded by neighbouring widows who are feeding him.

Tomorrow taking uncle to hospital to visit Jane. She was supposed to be released today but had a funny turn so is in for the weekend.

On Monday I said to Husband, 'Yesterday was all one day, wasn't it?'
Right now I feel the same, 'This week was all one week, wasn't it?'
No wonder I'm flipping tired! And the bathroom is still only half cleaned.

Monday, May 04, 2015

In which George is super embarrassing

Lovely walk today eastwards from Southgate to Hunt's Bay.
This was the view looking back just before Husband had me climb a sheer cliff. (Okay, an exaggeration: a quite steep cliff that I took mostly on all fours making sure I didn't look down.)

Daughter and family are living in a rented house next to a coffee shop. On return, while we were drinking tea - or in my case cwtching baby - Son-in-law let the dogs out into the back garden. What happened next is speculation but it probably went something like this.

George, his nose twitching: I can smell ... food.
Holly: Probably from the coffee shop next door.
George: Coffee shop? You mean cake and coffee shop?
Holly shrugs and nods.
George: What are we waiting for? Let's go. Where's the way out?'
Holly: There isn't one.
George: Whaaaat?! (He begins to wail.)
Holly: Only this gap in the hedge and I expect you're too big to get ... George! Come back! Wait for me!
George hurries into the coffee shop, sees lots of people all eating goodies and thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Customers smile and pat him but no-one offers him as much as a crumb. Then he notices a table. There's no-one sitting at it but there are things on the table. George glances around, licks his lips and sidles casually over. He takes another quick glance over his shoulder then it's tongue out, food in, before you can say, 'George, don't do that!'
He hears his master's voice calling his name but there's still food left on the table and he's pretty sure nobody else wants it. His tongue works at superfast speed and he's still licking his lips when Son-in-law appears and drags him away. See postscript.

I'm guessing he probably won't be allowed in again.
P.S. Husband explained that I "missed the final part of the George story - probably too engrossed cwtching Granddaughter 2. 

"George was so intent on ‘clearing tables’ that he refused to leave. The only way S-i-L could get him out of there was to pick him up and carry him home. No small feat given that George was 36 kg last time he was weighed. And probably a bit heavier now."

No wonder Son-in-law said the customers were laughing.

Just like a proper granny

'Can you knit, Granny?'
'Of course Granny can't knit!' Daughter exclaimed.
'Excuse me, I can,' I said.
'Can you do this then?' GrandDaughter thrust a Learn to Knit kit in my hand. 'I really really want that handbag,' she added, pointing to the bag illustrated on the front of the kit.
'Course I can.'

So, after reading the instructions - just to remind myself! - I cast on 30 stitches as instructed. Then it said to knit 100 rows. That sounded simple enough.

Now I'm not sure if I misunderstood the instructions but, after about 10 rows, I decided I was wrapping the wool the wrong way around the needle. I changed it - and it didn't seem to make any difference to the appearance - and it felt better.

I am doing rather well I have to say and I am rather pleased with myself, but now, however, I find myself with two problems.
1) I have no idea how many rows I've done.
2) I don't know how to join in another ball of wool.

Any suggestions?

Our new princess

Daughter had been having false starts since last Wednesday and by Saturday delivery was a week overdue. I was on call to go and collect/look after the children when labour began in earnest so it wasn't a good time for our telephone landline to stop working.

I am notorious for never having a clue where my mobile is so Daughter nagged me. 'You are keeping your phone with you, aren't you?'
'And switched on?'

What I didn't discover until much later was that although my phone was on, it was on mute.

So when she rang us at 12.55 am we were asleep and didn't answer. Nor did we reply at 1.15, which was when she tried texting me. And then texting Husband who has the hearing of a ninja mole so he registered the tinkly ping of a message being received.

This was a call for SuperGranny! I was out of bed, dressed and on the road in minutes. Of course I left my bag of essentials (bed-socks, jimjams and woolly cardi) behind and it was only thanks to automatic pilot - and empty roads - that I got there before I woke up.

The children were asleep upstairs so it was my job to go up and make sure everyone stayed up there. I'd just made myself a little nest and was settling down when GrandDaughter woke up. And spent the next 2 hours chatting to me with me responding extra loudly when the moans from downstairs grew particularly audible.

At 3.30 Son-in-law came up to invite us down to meet Baby who'd been born 15 minutes earlier.

It's amazing how awake and happy it is possible to be at such a ridiculous hour of the morning after very little sleep. I even got to hold her while she had her vitamin injection - and her big sister held her hand for it.

New GrandDaughter weighed in at a whopping 8 lb 14 oz. She was born in the birth pool and both mother and daughter are doing brilliantly.

And, incidentally, GrandSon2 slept right through everything!

P.S. GrandDaughter2 was born just 3 hours too late to be able to claim the special silver coin signifying that she was born on the same day as Princess Charlotte. I was rather glad about that: our princess is too special to be the same as anyone else.

Saturday, May 02, 2015

To the bathroom: an apology

Dear Bathroom,

I meant to clean you on Wednesday. But then the sun shone so we went to the secret bluebell woods instead and I didn't.

Then I was going to clean you on Thursday but over-due Daughter wanted company so I didn't.

And I was definitely planning to clean you on Friday but the midwife made Daughter stressed so I had to do some big and little child-minding. So I didn't.

I would have cleaned you this morning but last night the grandchildren came for a sleepover that lasted until lunchtime. I still thought I could clean you this afternoon but somehow, time has just slipped by, so I haven't.

I suggest you try and remember the words of Scarlett O'Hara, 'Tomorrow is another day,' while I sing, 'Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think, while you're still in the pink.'

Why keeping my mouth closed is a good idea

A new man offered to make cakes for Zac's. The week before last he sent one down; this week he came himself. I complimented him on the moistness of the cake and he said it was a secret recipe.
I grinned. 'Your mammy's old recipe, was it?' I asked.
His face fell.
'Actually, there was a falling-out; I haven't seen her for years.'

On the plus side at least she wasn't dead. And on the double plus side I didn't say that aloud either.

It wasn't my night really.

Later we as a group were asked what changes we'd made to our lives. I began to talk about my attitude towards the English rugby team (and my struggle to support them ever) and one of the lads interrupted. 'Where are you from then? You don't have a Welsh accent.'
'That explains it. It's posh down there.'
'Didn't you know,' I asked, 'that I'm Zac's token Tosh Potty?'
It wasn't until everyone burst out laughing that I realised what I'd said.

No, the sort of night I should have kept my mouth firmly closed.

P.S. It's only the Welsh who think I don't have a Welsh accent.
P.P.S. When I first started going to Zac's, Blossom, one of the bikers, nicknamed me Posh Totty and it's sort of stuck. Even Sean introduces me as that now. Even though I'm not.
P.P.P.S. Actually Blossom used the phrase Posh Bird.