Must stop

Have downloaded three - um, what do you call them? - read aloud books? To keep me happy on the drive. Plus two books for kindle. That's as well as four paperbacks and two library books. I'm not going to get through all of those obviously but I like to be prepared, hence the knicker equation. (Number of knickers to pack = number of days x 2 + 3 spare.*)

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Today is GCSE result day and GrandDaughter1 has done well and got the grades she needs to go to sixth form college. She had a few difficult years in senior school so I am especially pleased for her. 

Apparently it's now a thing for the year below to go in and get their grades as well, as they count towards the final result of next year's GCSE exams. So GrandSon1 also got good grades and is well on course for next year.

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There's only been a tiny bit of rainfall but already the back lawn looks greener and I swear the grass has grown.

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Husband has been very productive these last couple of days. He's made twelve jars of tomato chutney, four jars of fig chutney, and four jars of fig jam, all from home-grown tomatoes and figs.

*Maybe a slight exaggeration. (And I can never remember if it's one 'r' and two 'g's or vice versa.)

Having failed to marry

"Having failed to marry Stephen . . ."

That was the start of the precis of the episode that was on the radio and it puzzled me. It's a weird thing to say I think. How exactly did she fail? 

Was she a wicked temptress who had tried to ensnare Stephen only to have him find out and refuse to marry her?

The story is A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy, and I've just googled some synopses, which suggest the reason she didn't marry Stephen was either  a case of cold feet or the disapproval of her father. I wouldn't see either of those as failure on her part.  

Perhaps I need to get a life and not stress about word usage.

I've just begun reading Murder Mindfully, which has one of the best openings. 

First off, I'm not a violent man. Quite the opposite, For example, I've never once gotten into a fight. And I didn't even kill anyone until I was forty-two.

So this busy lawyer is given an ultimatum: he has to sort out his work life balance or his wife will leave him taking their daughter with her. So he goes to mindfulness classes.

I managed to get a last minute 'squeezed me in' hair appointment this morning. The realisation that after three weeks holiday my hair would be, well, a disaster spurred me on. So I am sitting in the chair having my hair coloured feeling as tense as having my hair done always makes me and I thought I'd try some mindfulness breathing exercises. 

It must take a lot of practice. Impossible to cut out the music and other people's discussions - particularly when they're so fascinating. Stepping into the hair salon is like stepping into a different world. A world where people drink. A lot. The woman in the next chair was 42 (her son is 10 and she had him when she was 32) and she was preparing for her annual long weekend in Benidorm trip with three friends, where their main objective seemed to be drinking. I mean my hairdresser's in his early 50s and he still goes out with the boys and gets drunk.

I lead such a sheltered life. Thankfully.

From there it was back to Rough Edges for a final push at clearing. Nearly there.

And as it was before.

Knickers and books

I've posted it.

* * * * *

I have bought ten new pairs of knickers and ordered books from the library.

That's my most important holiday prep done.

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I have got into the habit of going up to strangers, usually men, and asking what sort of dog it is they have. Usually cockapoos as I suspected but wanted confirmation. All owners speak highly and recommend getting one.

Husband has become even more vocal in his insistence that we're not getting a dog. "I mean it! You'll have to do everything. You'll have to get up in the morning to let him out!"

Now, Husband is always up first and he brings me a cup of tea in bed but, apparently, even though he's up he isn't going to let the dog out. "He'll run away!"

I've tried to reassure him that not all dogs have a wanderlust like George did. (And Louie it now appears.)

My children and, in particular the grandchildren, are of the opinion I should just go and buy one. 

And here's a photo of George.

Under the whispering door

Trying to make sense of a legal document. Really no need to use whereas or whereby quite so often. Feeling rather tetchy with owner of the building next door to Zac's trying to claim things we didn't agree to.

Anyway, recently I found a notelet and envelope in one of my charity shop books. It's dated 2014 and it seems was meant to accompany a gift of a book of short stories. The envelope is addressed so I'm wondering if I should send it?

The problem is that the note mentions an appointment with a consultant. It was a reassuring report apparently but what if either the sender or recipient is now dead? What do you think? 

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On the car radio I caught a part of the dramatisation of Noel Streatfield's The Growing Summer. In it, it's 1965 and four children are sent to live with their eccentric great-aunt in a run-down mansion on the west coast of Ireland. I was so taken with it I've ordered the book. Didn't we all dream of running wild and living in almost derelict mansions?

Then because I needed to order another book so I wouldn't have to pay postage I opted for Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune, who wrote The House in the Cerulean Sea. 

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And here's my latest article in which I disagree with Job.

Losing the remote

A bit late to the party but what Husband has been telling me for some time has just sunk in: I can borrow online audiobooks from the library. In principle anyway. I'm not entirely sure how it works yet but if I can manage it, it will make long car journeys much easier on the ear.

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While our figs have been fabulous the same can't be said of the oranges.

And Husband tells me that's the best one he's ever grown.

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So Count Binface lost but did amazingly coming in second and getting nearly 10,000 votes compared to HWSNBN's 22,000. The good news is that, the day after HWSNBN won, the parliamentary investigation into his dodgy dealings began again.

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In Rough Edges on Thursday I was enthusiastically emptying drawers in the office and under the counter, rescuing anything I could use or we could use in Zac's. The rest went to recycling or in the skip.

At the end of the day Sean said, "Where's the remote to bring down the shutters?" (The only way to close up the sheds.)

"I always put it in the drawer," Kathryn said. "It should be there. Unless . . ." She looked at me.

"No, I wouldn't have thrown it away. Would I? No!"

I joined in the search of all the possible places. Definitely no remote. I was starting to get panicky. 

"If you had thrown it away, where would you have thrown it?" Sean asked.

"In the skip?" I said. "But I didn't, I'm sure."

I had. Fortunately I'd been throwing things in the same place and it must have been one of the last things to go so we found it easily. I did have visions of me having to stay there emptying the skip until I found it though.

It's puts a whole different perspective on the words 'losing the remote."

Inhale, exhale

Walked with Elder Son, GrandSon3 and Theo this morning. As it was hot I suggested the river path thinking that as we've not had any rain for weeks it would be dry.

It was mostly but there were still some boggy bits. The path has become very over-grown in places. As bits of it have been eroded away by the river and fewer people have walked it nature is reclaiming its own. So at one point we followed a trail, through bushes, and brambles, right up to a dead end! But we got back on the proper path eventually, though with Theo jumping in and out of the water and muddy puddles, and running back and for between us all, we came back filthy. And hot.

And to the discovery that I was already ten minutes late for the print workshop I was booked onto. No time to wipe my armpits or clean my legs, it was in, grab glasses, and out again.

I arrived mid breathing session. Inhale for four, exhale for five. Then it was down to the styrofoam printing. Chloe, who was leading us, encouraged us to practise before printing on the cards, and practice was definitely needed to determine the right pressure and the amount of ink. Megan, with whom I was sharing a table, and I were still practising when Chloe said, "Fifteen minutes left."

What?!!

The best of a bad job. Good fun and relaxing though. (It's meant to be an orange by the way.)

Shooting stars

Waking at about half past midnight last night I decided I'd go into the garden and see if I could spot any shooting stars.

We see meteors/shooting stars as the earth moves through streams of tiny pieces of debris left by comets and asteroids, in this instance, the trail of the comet 109P/Swift-Tuttle - catchy name that. After a glorious day with clear skies cloud was starting to gather so my view was limited. Next door's garden light was also very bright but I plonked myself down on the sun-lounger and waited.

I didn't have to wait long. Over the course of maybe fifteen minutes I saw six shooting stars, four out of the corners of my eyes but two which were real 'Wow!' moments. According to the Natural History Museum, most shooting stars are dust-sized particles. Dust-sized? They also say that it's likely the earth will be hit by something of significant size eventually. But scientists are keeping watch so we'll have warning.

I'm not sure that is as reassuring as it's meant to be.

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On my way home from Rhosilli I listened to a program about the Green Ham women. Sorry, nothing to do with Doctor Seuss. I mean Greenham.

The first Greenham women were mainly Welsh peace activists who marched there from Cardiff in 1981 and set up a camp. They were protesting the government's decision to allow American cruise missiles to be based on Greenham Common, near Reading. Originally there were some men who joined the camp but a year or so after its creation it was decided it should be women only for issues of safety.

From then on the camp and the words Greenham women came to mean more than peace activism. It was a fight for women's rights and against the power of the patriarchy.

In the mid-1980s we were living in Southampton and I joined a local group, Families Against the Bomb. My participation consisted of meeting with three other like-minded women and drinking barley tea. It was hideous. I also was a link on the phone chain, which alerted people to US manoeuvres so they could go and get in the way as much as possible. 

On a couple of occasions I visited Greenham with a friend. I joined the rota for cooking panfuls of hearty (vegetarian) soups and delivering them there. My motivation was purely anti-bomb and hearing on the radio yesterday how the focus of the camp had changed helped me make sense of the feeling of distance I experienced, a feeling of mistrust that made me uncomfortable. We were all supposed to be on the same side but it felt very much like us and them.