Sunday, October 30, 2016

I'm on trial

I've been given a rather spiffing opportunity. Okay, I admit I asked for it. A local canon used to write a sort of religious column for the local free - but classy - magazine, The Bay, and I noticed he'd had to stop so I put myself forward. And amazingly I'm being given a trial. My first piece will be in the December issue (I think) so if you're local and get a copy of The Bay do let me know what you think. Provided it's good. 

I had to supply a photo of me (and George of course) so the editor could introduce us. As all my photos were either back from when I was super slim or more recently showing lots of wrinkles I made Husband take another of me after I'd made a special effort. Vanity thy name is woman, I know.

Other people's dreams

... are always almost boring and I don't usually share the weirdness that takes over my head at night but a recent dream was so vivid and has remained so that I can't help but feel that it may be significant. What I need is a 'Joseph' to interpret it for me.

So I was on a bus in London going to a job interview. Boris Johnson was also on the bus. When I got off I didn't know where to go but Husband appeared and told me to follow Boris. Which was all very well until I lost him. Then I found myself in a Victorian ghetto. I came across an underground station and tried to get on a train but it was reserved for Polish miners. I eventually managed to escape the ghetto via a sunlit Thames which took me to Auntie Vi's parlour except now it was owned by Uncle Bun and Auntie Eva and I was commiserating with them on the death of their son. (In what I like to call real life they're both dead and he is alive.)

So all you dream-readers out there, what does it mean? The message is obviously of great importance to me and possibly the world. I need to know!

The only message I can draw from it so far is: don't vote for Donald Trump.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Five Children and ...

five dinners.

Grandchild1 = fish fingers, beans, pasta, tomato ketchup.
Grandchild2 = fish fingers, beans.
Grandchild3 = meatballs.
Grandchild4 = pasta, tomato pasta sauce.
Grandchild5 = beans, cheese.

I told them that when I was little my granny put my dinner on the table in front of me and I had to eat it. Whatever it was. They were not impressed.

My fault. A soft touch.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016


Excuse the splurge of output. I've been too tied up to blog - and I miss it. And it's nearly November and we all know what that means.

No, I'm not going to grow a moustache (Movember). It's time for NaNoWriMo again. BUT I am NOT going to attempt to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days this year. I've done it before and it's ridiculous. Completely the wrong month of the year to do it. January or February would be much better. November is just too busy in its own right let alone all the birthdays and Christmas prep that needs doing. Maybe they think all aspiring novelists live on their own in garrets. Or are prepared to get up at dawn to put in their word count before the start of their working day. Fat chance.

But I am going to resolve to write on my blog each day in November. I'm hoping that will get me back into the swing of writing, thinking, composing, dreaming again.

Going to cuddle a baby now.

Pandora's box but not so interesting

Elder Son and family have been with us for a few days providing ES with the opportunity to play again with his Lego. Yes, it waves.

 * * * * * * * * *

It seems mice have been eating the toilet rolls in the bottom of the airing cupboard.
I cleared it out today - well, I called Husband to go in the corner to get stuff out. Just in case. 

* * * * * * * * *

A while ago Husband gave me some brown pills. 'Take one every day,' he said. It wasn't until I'd been taking them for a few weeks that I thought to ask what they were. (Multi vitamins.) I am very trusting.

* * * * * * * * *

I had a letter from the doctor inviting me for a flu vaccination (that's a word I struggle to spell). I was a little surprised as I'm not: 65 or over, pregnant, morbidly obese or suffering with any chronic complaints. Still if they were offering it.

I got there and the vaccinator said, 'Why are you here?'
'I had an invitation.'
'Tut, you don't fit any of the criteria.'
I thought she was going to send me away unstabbed so I used the 'I spend time with the homeless, drug addicts and my grandchildren' ruse.
'Okay,' she said. 'We'll put you down as a carer.'

(I would have been happy to pay for it but they couldn't take money and I'd got up specially early on a Saturday morning for it so I reckoned I deserved it.)

* * * * * * * * *

Usually if one dog humps another the owners will exchange jocular comments. Unless the owner is the man I have always referred to as Old Grumps. Then he barely looks at me as he grunts what I suppose was meant to pass as a greeting. And, incidentally, George was the ... um ... recipient - unusually - today.

The Misguided Naturalist's Guide to Nature

Spotted in a tree in Clyne Gardens. 
There was some debate over whether they were beavers (teeth) but we finally agreed that they were rats.

And this isn't lugworm sperm. 

You see there is at this very moment being conducted on the shores of Britain a survey into lugworm sperm. The British public has, I hope, done its duty and taken part. I would have - if I'd known about it in time - and if I'd known what lugworm sperm looks like. (Seagull poo if you're interested.)

Lugworm, as any fisherman will tell you, play a vital role in the marine environment but, sadly, as they spend all their time underground they never get to meet the lady/man lugworm of their dreams. (Although judging by the number of worm casts on the beach at low tide I would have thought it would have been impossible to turn around underground without bumping into one. In fact it's a wonder the whole beach doesn't sink a foot a day so undermined must its foundations be.)

Anyway, I digress. It seems that once a year all the man lugworms produce sperm that forms into little milky puddles on the surface before it's distributed by the sea water, soaking into the ground whereupon, it is hoped, it comes across a welcoming female. But nobody knows what it is that triggers the mass ejaculation. Hence the survey.

Are you believing any of this? I wouldn't. But it's true. If you'd like to find out more pop along to the rather wonderfully titled Spermwatch website.

P.S. And I might be too late but I will look again next time I'm on the bay for the real thing and will photograph it for you obviously. because I know you are so gripped by this tale.

P.P.S. I bet David Attenborough never has this trouble.