Keep calm and bounce your boobies

Sunday night going to bed I told myself, 'Tomorrow is a new week, a new me. I shall be ... better.'

Two days in and it's going okay. Amazingly. I've wasted less time, done everything I'd planned and generally been efficient. It is a good feeling. Long may it last.

Zumba on Monday night, my second time, and no better. By the time my feet caught up with the teacher she'd moved on to the next step. And as for my arms, well, they just flailed around wildly. Teacher's arms move with purpose and power; mine make me look like a puppet whose strings have broken.

I think the key is my outfit. I turn up in a baggy t-shirt and Eric Morecambe shorts. What I need is lycra. And a baggy t-shirt. I'm not that brave to reveal my flab.

On the plus side I am good at wiggling my bum and shaking my boobies. To be honest, it doesn't take a lot of effort; my boobs move of their own accord.

Two drips on a wet day

You know the way things build up inside a volcano and them one day it erupts forcefully? Well, that's me at the moment.

We have two drips in our house. No, not George and me, but the shower and the kitchen tap. They've both been dripping for what seems like ever. My cure for the shower head - hitting it repeatedly - doesn't work. Ditto for the tap downstairs.

Today it is raining and Husband was grumbling that he wouldn't be able to do any gardening.
'You could fix the drips,' I said, helpfully I thought. (I should mention I've suggested numerous times before.)
'The shower will need a plumber,' he said. 'And the kitchen tap is a fiddly sweary job.'
'That's okay. I'll be in the other room or out so you can swear to your heart's content.'
He didn't reply and is currently sorting out paperwork and doing anything he can to avoid fixing the tap.

Husband has always done all the DIY, including bigger jobs like building an extension, himself but he hates plumbing because it involves twisting his body into impossible angles in order to reach the pipes and then finding he doesn't have the right tool anyway.

I am about to search for reliable local plumbers who will come out for a small job. From past experience I beg you to wish me luck. 

Meet my alter ego

My latest article is available now in The Bay magazine. You can read it here.

And here's the image the designer created to accompany it.

Let's just say, some days, I bear a striking similarity to my alter ego.

* * * * * * * * *

Apparently it's #EdBallsDay, on Twitter at least. For those of you who don't know, Ed Balls is an ex-MP, a politician who has since made a name for himself by appearing on Strictly Come Dancing and becoming something of a media darling. (He also did a series of documentaries about meeting Trump supporters and trying to work out why.)

I was in prison this morning and sitting next to a young (early twenties) man who is waiting for an operation for testicular cancer. So this message ties in rather nicely.

PJs, guilt and peaches

Choosing my clothes for today I suddenly decided I'd have a pj day. Possibly my first ever pre-planned. It was raining, I had no reason to go out or see anyone, so 'lounge pants' and sloppy bra it was.

By the time I was putting on my pjs I was feeling guilty.

What is it with me and guilt? I've had a busy week and not just enjoying myself. I've helped others, done a bit of shopping and housework (not a lot), and generally deserve a lazy lounging day - where I intend to write by the way. But that's the thing: even writing seems like I'm wasting time. Doing something less than useful. This doesn't come from Husband who is very supportive but from me, or from the Jiminy Cricket on my shoulder. I've tried to flick him off but he always manages to crawl back up.

So while I'm in this mood I'll write the 'don't belong' post that I've been thinking about for a while.

Growing up in a large extended family I always felt I didn't quite belong, that i was different. I wasn't aware of it at the time but much later it struck me that I'd always had this sense of being not quite one of them.

Maybe it was because my mum wasn't married and I didn't have a father - not that anyone ever said anything to convey that. Maybe it was because I was the next generation. Let me explain. The cousins of my age and just above and below were children of the siblings of my gran. Do you see? But that shouldn't make any difference, should it? Maybe it was because, in a very extrovert and talkative family, I was desperately shy. But which came first: my shyness or the difference?

Did this feeling of not fully belonging have an effect on me? I suppose it must have done as I'm still thinking and writing about it now.

From my childhood there is one instance that stands out and has stayed with me. A great-aunt and her child, of my age, were visiting us. The great-aunt had married a shopkeeper and was 'rich' by our family standards. On this visit she had brought a whole tray of peaches to our house. We were all sitting in the front room when she said, 'Liz, go and fetch me a peach from the kitchen.'

She didn't ask her own child. She sent me. 

When I think about victims of childhood sexual and physical abuse I know how very fortunate I was. But sometimes scars still remain.

Stroking skunks

I spent two hours in a police interview room on Tuesday. Yes, I know how to have fun. It wasn't very exciting. So far from exciting in fact that the thing I remember most is that, in a room about 10' by 10' there were twelve sockets. What on earth would you need that many for? Electrocution by charger?

I was there because a friend who is normally in regular contact had gone silent, and we hadn't been able to get an answer at her door. Thanks to the very helpful police constable I found out she is now in hospital and being taken care of. Which is a lot better than I was imagining.

On Wednesday it was back to family fun. Last year when Leslie, a blogging friend from Canada, came to stay we visited the National Botanic Garden of Wales, and we were fortunate to be there for a show by DWAEC and we had the opportunity to see at close range lots of animals.

This year, when I saw the show was back again, I dragged Daughter, Nuora and the grands there. And it was just as good as I remembered. Got to stroke a skunk and a meerkat, feed a hawk and get up close and personal with a Mexican red-kneed tarantula. Lots of other wonderful creatures that the grandchildren were able to hold and stroke as well.

The same evening we were watching television when I noticed a spider running across the carpet. Had I conquered my fear of spiders? Did I rush to pick him up and save him - George was looking at him hungrily? No. I lifted my feet up and made sure he wasn't coming in my direction.

I think maybe I was less scared of the tarantula because he wasn't running around. And, I have to admit, each time the presenter brought his hand a bit closer to my face my smile got a little bit more trembly.

The presenter took my photo and put it on their Facebook page because, he said, 'You don't often get grannies on the floor.'

George's life story, part 1

Me: Lots of people have expressed concern about you, George.
George: Well of course. I hope you told them I am in constant pain. 
Me: Er no.
George: I think you should. In fact I think they'd like to hear more about me. You could tell them my life story. All the trials and tribulations I have to suffer.
Me: What trials and tribulations?
George: (Huge sighs.) I am so misunderstood.
Me: Okay, let's do your story. We'll start at the beginning.

Once upon a time we had a golden retriever named Harvey.
George: Harvey? Harvey? This is supposed to be about me.
I'm getting there, just doing the back story.

So when Harvey died we were very upset because he was such a lovely dog and had been part of our family for nearly fifteen years. About three months after he'd died we decided to fill the Harvey-shaped hole with another retriever.

We went and met your dog parents and then we chose you. You were so cute and soft. You rode home in Younger Son's arms and you soon settled in.

When Elder Son came home to meet you he laughed at your stubby little legs and fat belly.
George: How rude!
But we thought you were just cuddly. It turned out we were both wrong: you had a bad case of worms making your belly bulge.
George: Really! Do you have to say that?
I think this should be a warts and all biography.
George: Oh come, I don't have any warts!
Metaphorically speaking.
George: Humph.

The first few times we tried to take you out for a walk you were very reluctant to go. It was a big scary world out there.
George nods.

We had to persuade you but eventually you decided you liked walkies. Until ... you began refusing to go out through the front gate. You would go out from the back gate but if we wanted to go out frontwards you'd pull back and even get quite nippy and petulant with us.
George: Are you sure this was me? Not your precious Harvey?
Definitely you.

So after a few weeks of this we took you to the vet who recommended a psychologist. 
George: Oh please! Do you have to write this? This is private, between me and my therapist.
Warts and all.
George: Humph again.

Anyway the lady was very helpful. She suggested you may have been frightened outside the front gate at some point. She also said you were intelligent and needed to have challenges.
George: What a wonderful woman. Such insight. 

We bought you a Kong (a rubber toy) in which we'd put a treat and then hide it in the garden for you to find. You were absolutely amazing at it. No matter how difficult we tried to make it you'd find it quickly. And we began throwing your food (dry bits) outside the back door so you'd have to search around for it. Which was good until the magpies came and started stealing your food. 
George: What was I doing when they were stealing my food?
Eating. You didn't notice.

I can't remember how you conquered your fear of the front but you did. And then the trouble really started.

There was no fence, no wall, no gate that could keep you in. Every time you went outside the cry would be heard, 'Is the gate closed?' Not that it stopped you. Numerous times we had to go searching for you. Where your nose led you went. Everyone round about knew you. They'd see me wandering around shouting your name and say, 'He's gone again?'
On the most famous occasion I was in the house when the postman knocked at the door. 'I've got him locked in an old lady's garden,' he said, 'while I came to fetch you. Come on.'
I leapt in the Post Office van with him and he whisked me around the corner to the garden where you were sitting looking confused. 
Another time Roger, a man who lives a couple of roads away, phoned us early in the morning. 'He's here,' he said. Not only were you there but you'd convinced him you hadn't had breakfast - you had - and he'd given you two bowls full. 'He looked so hungry.'
George: What can I say? I'm a dog; I have appetites.

And this is a good place to stop, I think.
George: What?! We're not halfway through yet.
No, but I need a toilet and tea break - and the sun's shining so I'm going outside.

Easter son rise

In Zac's this morning at 6.00 to cook bacon and sausages for the traditional breakfast-after-sunrise-meeting-on-the-beach for local churches. Apparently there were about one hundred people at the meeting; six came back for breakfast.

Driving home at about 8.20 - when we'd handed over to the regular morning crew who serve the homeless - I felt as if I'd done a full day's work - and the day hadn't even begun.

Think I will be lying in the sun a lot today.

Waiting for the call

Yesterday evening
The phone rings. Husband gets up to answer it.

I can tell from his reaction that it's not a cold caller or a family member. We've been expecting a call from the vet to give us the results of the biopsy on the lump on George's leg so I guess this is the call.

Husband's face gets serious. It's a one-sided conversation with his side being, 'Okay ... yes ... no ... I see.' He sits down.

My eyes fill with tears. I bend over and cuddle George who is lying next to the sofa. In my head he is dead and buried.

At last the conversation ends and finally Husband says, 'Well, it's only a fatty lump on his leg, nothing to worry about, and he can wait for a while before he has his tooth out.'

I scowl at him. He looks puzzled. 'I thought you'd be glad,' he says.
'I'd have been gladder if I hadn't already envisaged the worst. You could have smiled or signalled to me or something.'

But at least George doesn't need an operation yet. If his broken tooth causes him trouble, or it gets infected, it will need to come out but, apparently, they will have to dig out a bit of bone too so it's quite major and not to be undergone lightly.

So George lives to fight - or meander - through another day.

Welsh, proud and gay

Busy, busy, busy. Family visited at the weekend. They went home Tuesday lunchtime. I planned to do some tidying but I fell asleep ...

Tuesday evening I was going to the theatre but my companion - and the person who had the tickets - forgot and was in work. Incidentally we were going to see an ex junior doctor talking about the horrendous hours and stress junior doctors have to survive in today's NHS. My companion is a junior doctor.

Yesterday catching up with Nuora and children with a walk by the canal. Along the path there is a tree where bees have made a hive.

 At one point the canal suddenly widens and this jigsaw picture cottage borders.

I've also been to the botanic gardens in a nearby park a couple of times recently. Not quite in full tulip bloom yet but nearly.

In other news, Husband took George to the vet last week for his routine injections. Turns out he has a broken canine tooth that will need to come out and a lump on his leg. We're waiting for the results of the biopsy before setting a date for his tooth removal op. The vet was quite hopeful it was just another fatty tumour.

I didn't win the Grand Prize in the tinfoil hat competition - the winner's hat was truly artistic and magnificent - but I garnered a number of votes especially from gay men. They must have been Welsh.

Nobody has died

Husband is English but we have lived almost all our married life in Wales. He was the only one of his family to venture anywhere so when we used to go and visit his parents we'd always call on at least one of the sisters. They were both prone to moving house a lot so we were frequently given the grand tour. I used to come away feeling like the poor relation.

I wasn't but that was how I felt. Now I realise that what I actually was was the 'don't care about co-ordinating cushions' relation. With a bit of 'hate shopping,' and 'how much do they want for one cushion?' thrown in.

I was pondering these things today as I finally did a bit of cleaning. More of a lick and a promise than a 'scrub the corners clean' but again while doing it I had a significant thought: nobody has died because of my cooking or lack of cleaning. At least not that I know of. I feel that is worth boasting about.

Losing and finding time

I have a deadline for my article of 15th April. This morning I woke and thought, 'Oh, no, it was the 8th last Friday so it must be the 15th today. And my article isn't finished yet.' 

I just looked at the the computer and realised it is the 12th. How strange.

Also today I looked at my watch as I was leaving the house. It said 9.48. I got in the car, switched on the radio and they said it was 9.58.

Something strange is happening with time in my very particular location.

Of course it could be to do with my tinfoil hat. Speaking of which I am delighted to tell you that my entry for Debra's competition took the prize in the category for the Bravest of the Brave Patriots. You can see all the prize-winning entries here and vote for your favourite to be Grand Winner. It is very satisfying to be recognised in this way especially as I had to endure a lot of mocking on FaceBook along the lines of 'dickhead', from those who failed to see and appreciate the innate beauty and Welshness (it's a leek) of my creation.

Dogs Against Brexit

Walking on the beach (at home) for the first time yesterday the huge numbers of tree stumps and sticks made me pick up my pen/stick and write. My first thought was to have a Brexit message. George helpfully threw himself wholeheartedly into this one.

Then as the message is always relevant I added this one.

Then because I found some on the beach this had to be next.

Zumba scream

Went to zumba last night for the first time. It was intense: very little stop time. And it seems to involve a lot of screaming. And that's the bit I find hardest. 

I don't seem to have the ability to scream on demand - unless I'm watching Wales play rugby. But I think it could be quite freeing. Luckily the class is held in a school gym where noise bounds back at you so nobody can identify or pick out your particular scream, so nobody noticed that my screams were more like muted 'eurh's.

The exercise itself -apart from demanding you know your left from your right instantly and can tell which one the teacher is waving - was okay. And the music was fun so I'll persevere with this I think.

Unfortunately I couldn't find an authenticly me video but this is what it's supposed to look like.

Wales has its own Area 51

Some time ago I wrote about alien activity on the tip where I regularly walk George; today there is further evidence.

Mysterious red marks have appeared on the path eventually pointing in towards the middle of the tip - WHERE NOBODY GOES ...

It's a good job I insist on wearing my tinfoil hat whenever I'm out. Or maybe it's because of it that I'm especially susceptible to signs of alien proximity. 

I probably shouldn't even be writing about a****s here. Big Brother and all that. If I disappear in mysterious circumstances please leave no stone unturned in the search for me. Rule out neither alien abduction nor government interference.

If they come for me you could be next.

Holiday reading

As you may have noticed quite a lot of my holiday time was spent reading. 

Look Alive 25 by Janet Evanovich 

I think I have all the Stephanie Plum books in the series. the latest one is usually part of my Christmas present from husband and I always look forward to reading them. I've even written my own novel in the style - very vaguely - of these books. Which is why it pains me so much to say that this one was a disappointment. 
Perhaps it was inevitable: when you get to book 25 it must be hard to be original and funny. But there are certain things I expect from a Stephanie Plum novel. Family dinner, funeral viewing with Grandma Mazur, numerous blown-up cars. And there were none of these. (A birthday meal doesn't count.) Plus the plot was weak. And Wulf turned up again. He's a slightly mysterious character that isn't needed. *

A Recipe for Bees by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

This was one of those books that grew on me. From feeling irritated because the female lead seemed to be just accepting her lot to getting cross because she was selfish (I know- I want it both ways) I became fond of her but fonder of her husband. 
Lots of interesting information about bees and chickens included as well as a glimpse into life for women in the last century in farming communities in British Columbia. The title comes from an ancient belief, shown both in the bible and in the poetry of Virgil, that bees were created/born out of corpses. 
*** and a half *



Death at the Seaside by Frances Brody

I'd seen books by this author in the library before but this was the first one I've read. I'm coming to it late as there are seven earlier novels featuring the private investigator, Kate Shackleton. Set in the 1920s, in this one Mrs Shackleton is supposed to be on holiday when she happens upon a corpse, a corpse in whom her old school friend had a romantic interest. Her school friend's daughter - who is also Kate's god-daughter - has gone missing as well and Kate with some reluctance starts to investigate.
I suppose it would be classed as cosy crime as it's a bit Miss Marples-ish and I very much enjoyed it and will be reading more in the series. I've read a number of books featuring Maisie Dobbs, another early twentieth century female investigator and this is very similar.
****

The Summer Seaside Kitchen by Jenny Colgan

Jenny Colgan is fast becoming my joint favourite 'happy read' author (along with Katie Fforde). Perfect holiday reading. Light, jolly, nothing too terrible, lovely characters and a happy ending. Perhaps that makes it sound trite but it's written with such humour and joy, I think, that it's compulsive. The sort of book where you know what's going to happen but you still sit and smile through it.
****





Finally a book I'm halfway through but I'll review it anyway.
The Kabul Beauty School by Deborah Rodriguez

I read The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul a few years ago so when I saw this one in a charity shop I picked it up expecting a similar thing, and it is, and it isn't.
Whereas the coffee shop was a novel - based on the author's experiences living in Afghanistan - this is a memoir. How it really happened. How Ms Rodriguez came to set up a beauty school in war-torn Kabul. (It's always war-torn.) Where women were only just being allowed to go without burkhas and where there were still strict rules about male and female gatherings and relationships.
But most of all it's about the women. Women who are the same the world over. It's their stories, sad and happy, horrific and inspiring.
Meanwhile I'm still getting to grips with the fact that there are beauty shops in Kabul ...
****

Honey, I'm home!

Back from a lovely holiday in the Canary Islands. We've been to Fuerteventure a number of times so we've done all the sight-seeing so this holiday was just about relaxing. And we did plenty of that.

Breakfast, read a bit, go to beach for a few hours, read a bit, walk to ice cream shop, read a bit, go to spa, read a bit, have dinner, read a bit, go to sleep.

These are the 'cwtches' I mentioned previously. Approach with care as there may be a naked man inside.

But you're safe with this one.

One day from our sunny beach we could see the very dark sky approaching. 

The rain didn't get me but this wave nearly did. The under-current was so strong here it was dangerous to risk swimming. Not to mention jolly cold.

Goats are the national animals and kite surfing is very popular.

This ice cream shop is off the main road but has the best ice cream, made by an older Italian woman.

Not all advice is good

Husband reads several journals online including The Economist and New Scientist. Husband likes to tell me about articles he's read. The three that currently stick in my head are:
a) swimming in cold water is good for you;
b) being slightly overweight is better for you as you age; and
c) the benefits of exposing your un-sun-creamed  body to the sun outweigh the risk of skin cancer.

We are trying to swim in the (very) cold sea each day, conditions permitting. We are over-eating at the breakfast and dinner buffets in our hotel.

We are ignoring the last one and covering ourselves in sun cream. Apart from anything else being sun-burned is painful.

Dangly bits and dying

On its east coast Fuerteventure has long dune-backed beaches popular with wind surfers and nudists.

Because of the prevailing wind you will find a number of little shelters built along the beach. Low circular piles of rocks. These are especially popular with nudists.

Now I don't know what it is about nudists but they tend to be fat older men. I know this because next to sunbathing what they love most is standing up and surveying the surroundings. At great length.

I have no objection to naked sunbathing but I do object to men showing off their dangly bits. What's that you say? Don't look? Hm, yes, I suppose that's an alternative.

But let's admit it: there's something about the horror that makes one (me) unable to resist a quick peek.

* * * * *
I felt a little faint this morning and as we sat in the restaurant I felt very strange. 'Perhaps I am going to die,' I thought, as you do. 'That would be a terrible nuisance for Husband. Having to get my body home. Not to mention messing up the holiday.'

I didn't. And it didn't put me off my breakfast.

Having a lovely time

I know you've been waiting with bated breath to see my new swimsuit so here it is!

I am very happy with it. The water, by the way, is ... refreshing. After a while you go numb so it's fine then. It is the Atlantic ocean after all.

And here's our hotel.

Best bit is the spa. Steam room followed by plunge pool (12 degrees) followed by sauna followed by plunge  followed by fun showers and hot dark bath. I know lots of people have hot pools or jacuzzis these days but give me a womb-like hydrotherapy room any time. Incidentally the plunge pool feels a lot colder than 12 degrees.