Sex and the single girl

I was befriended by a 20-moth-old Staffie today. I say befriended; I mean humped.

But it turned out that I was not really the object of his desire; he was just after the doggy treats in my pocket. He used me then when he'd had what he wanted discarded me like an old wrapper. Leaving me with nothing.

Except muddy shorts.

And a box full of blackberries.

It's an exceptionally good year for blackberries but let me offer some advice to would-be blackberry gatherers.

1) Don't wear shorts. I suspect I said the same thing last year. Maybe next year I will take my own advice.

2) You are not as tall as you think you are. You know those luscious plump juicy blackberries you are convinced you could reach if you just stretched a bit more? You can't. It will end in tears.

The ideal blackberry-gatherer will be tall and trousered. And, ideally, with Inspector Gadget arms.

Things not to do when waiting for the tea to brew

22. Decide to sort out a kitchen drawer.

Much later ...

Leading me to ask: what on earth is this and what is it doing in my kitchen drawer?

Oh wait! Now I have my glasses on it I can see that it says 'instrument to split convolulus vegetable made of inox metal'. I don't know why I didn't realise that straight away.

The question must also be asked: will I live long enough to make good use of all these cocktail sticks?

Would anyone? Yet it looks as if they came in a set making me think that maybe cutlery is old hat and I should be using sticks to eat my everyday meals.

Or maybe not.

You never know when it will come in useful

On the way out for our walk today George and I noticed that the road, which is narrow, was littered with odd tools, nails and pens. Being a good citizen I kicked them to the side of the road so they wouldn't cause damage to the tyres of any passing cars.

Then on the way back I collected them up.

Not this time for the greater good but for Rough Edges, the new charity shop for blokes that's opening as an offshoot of Zac's.

I am turning into a hobo; my father-in-law would be proud of me. There was nothing he liked better than rummaging in skips.

Please excuse the bad language

I was told off recently by someone I respect and by whom I am slightly intimidated. When being told off I panic; Husband compares me to the fainting goats - except I don't faint and it's my brain that freezes.


Words and sentences become blurred in my mind forming a huge blob-like mass of telling-offness leaving me quashed. It wasn't until this morning, several days later, that I remembered one bit of the reprimand and it suddenly struck me that it was complete bollocks.

It's incredibly liberating to realise that, to suddenly see that I don't need to listen to this crap. No, I do need to listen because some of it is relevant and I need to be aware of it. But this isn't gospel; it's one person's view, badly expressed.

I have now composed a riposte - less witty, more brutal - but I will never deliver it, of course. Any more than I will deliver the rude gesture that I practised (in a very delicate, ladylike and embarrassed way) in the woods.

Not this time anyway.

Am I a dirty old woman?

It was 8.10 yesterday evening before I realised I hadn't showered/washed. I'm not sure what's more concerning. Whether it's the fact I hadn't showered or the fact I wasn't bothered about it. Am I becoming a dirty old woman?

* * * * * * * * *
What do I mean 'becoming'? I am a dirty woman this afternoon after our walk in the woods. I wasn't going to walk by the river as I was wearing the wrong shoes (my old leaky trainers) and instead decided to wander further up the main cycle track. I don't usually like the cycle track as it attracts cyclists who, I find, can be quite obnoxious. Not all but many swear at dogs who get in their way. I mean, yes, George does occasionally meander across in front of a cyclist but he's not exactly speedy; a minor detour around him is all that is needed.

Anyway, don't get me started. As I was saying we walked up the main path when, all of a sudden, we came across a new path leading off through the woods! (This might not sound exciting to you but just because you have a life it doesn't entitle you to look down on the rest of us.)

Of course we had to follow it and what do you know? It went by the river. So I got wet feet anyway but it was a jolly lovely path made better by its newness to me. And when we arrived at a small signpost that offered us two choices - this way or this way - we went that way instead. We like to live on the edge, George and me.

It did occur to me that if I'd had a heart attack or broken my ankle Husband would never have found as us and I'd have to have relied on George to fetch help. #couldbeherealongtime

A good day at the coal face

In the morning I was mc-ing the Sunday service in prison. They're getting a chapel full these days, around 40 or more men, who are all very attentive and listen well. I wasn't doing the main talky bit so it was less stressful and everything went fine and dandy.

Then in the afternoon as it was the first Sunday of the month we had a tribal gathering at Zac's. Again I was in the chair and again it went well. Apart from me getting Jeremiah and Joshua confused and showing up my complete lack of knowledge of the Old Testament. But they're used to me being twp now.

There was a good discussion and we had some great stories from Jason and Nicky - and we sang some songs! Don't tell Sean! (Not that he has anything against singing you understand.) Paul said he wanted to sing every Tuesday and Redcoat said he was going to put in an official complaint. You can't please ...

This last week Redcoat celebrated 5 years of being drug-free. I first met him back in 2006 and I wrote about him at the time.

There's a new face in Zac's (new to me anyway). He's of slight build, wearing a red coat, and with alcohol on his breath. He sits at a table and his eyes are focused somewhere way beyond the confines of the room. I guess that he has stumbled across the place and is grateful for somewhere warm indoors to spend an evening; I think he will be asleep before long.

We're continuing in the run-up to Christmas with a look at Mary. I'd told Sean I had written a 'Mary monologue' and he'd asked me to read it. Before that we look at the places in the Bible that Mary gets a mention. A very world-wise view is expressed of how it would have been for both Mary and Joseph: a pregnant unmarried girl and the man who has to decide whether to take her on or cast her off.

Redcoat isn't asleep but is following intently. He has always felt that Joseph is undervalued. Several times he interrupts and in a rambling, drawn-out fashion - the pauses typical, I think, of a drunk getting his thoughts together - makes this point. Given the chance, I would exchange knowing smiles with someone. If I had been in charge I would have been tempted to step in, in one of the pauses, and carry on with what I was saying, hoping he would get the message, but Sean waits patiently until he is sure he has finished. Others speak up and acknowledge the truth of what he is saying, giving him respect. Then Sean asks me to read.

At the end of the bible study the first person to come and speak to me is Redcoat. 'That was incredible,' he says. I am humbled.

Dancing turtles

As you know, Younger Son and Nuora are in the Perhentian Islands in Malaysia setting up a marine conservation project, Blue Temple Conservation. One of the creatures they're particularly fond of and anxious for the future about is the turtle and one of the aims of the project is to help raise awareness. 

Boat trips providing opportunities for tourists to snorkel are a valuable source of income for the islanders but tourists can potentially cause harm to turtles through their lack of knowledge. Leafleting isn't a particularly successful method of increasing awareness so the team at Blue Temple are trying to think of more imaginative ways to draw attention to the plight of the turtle. Or at least to attract attention and to follow it up with a leaflet and chat. And one of their attention-drawing ploys is the Turtle Dance.

Younger Son put a video on Facebook of volunteers doing the Turtle Dance and suggested that others could make their own video and send it in. So, of course, any opportunity to be silly and I'm there.

And in case you're in any doubt over the threat to turtles know that the World Wildlife Fund appeal for June was specifically for marine turtles. They are included in the Endangered to Critically Endangered category on the risk of extinction list.

Old blogging chums

 While Husband was going through old photos I came across a picture from our 2008 holiday in Canada.

First meeting with Leslie now Evans and Joan Bree in Vancouver, 2008.

The year before I'd met up with Shirley Davis and Pat Eggleton in Shirl's house in Britstol

In 2010 Katney (Kathy Sharman) and her husband came to visit us.

In 2012 Leslie made the trip over here.

And this year Shirl finally made it to us too!

Chased by cows

I was trying to get a photo of the calf feeding from its mum but another young calf decided to photobomb my shot!

I hung around for a while hoping to get another opportunity but then Mum began to look at me warily so I retreated bearing in mind the report from the BBC website that Husband recently relayed to me. Are you aware that in the years 2008-2011, 221 people were injured by cows and 6 killed?

It gives some justification to Daughter's adoption of panic mode whenever we have to cross a field with cows. In fact I was chased by a cow once. I say chased but it may have been coincidence that it was running towards me. But from where I was standing it was scary enough to warrant hiding behind a tree anyway.

Shady Business

... was more like a shadow of a better play.

We used to be regular theatre-goers. Then the authorities realised that tribute bands and rude comedians brought in bigger crowds than plays did leaving us with a four-week summer rep season. We went along faithfully for many years until it all became a bit sameish. A lot of the plays were dated and the cast tended to be has-been soap actors.

And then we went to Stratford and saw Macbeth done proper like and that just about ruined the rep season for me!

The last couple of years we've only been on occasion but it seemed only fair to give a new play a go so off we trotted last night to see Shady Business by Robin Hawden. Disappointing is the best description. A lacklustre script relying on old jokes and acting of limited quality meant we came away feeling we hadn't got our moneysworth (£32). But I did enjoy the Maltesers and the interval ice cream. So not all bad.

A few months ago I said I'd let you know what I thought of a couple of library books I'd borrowed. Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night by James Runcie turned out to a series of short stories about a vicar cum private investigator. I read the first one and didn't bother with the rest. the joy of library books - and getting older - is that I now know I don't have to feel obliged to read a book to the end if I'm not enjoying it.

The other was one of a series (actually they were both books in series) of books about private investigator Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear.

{There is an enormous fly buzzing around the room and I am sitting, fly swatter at hand, just waiting for it to settle.}

Set in London in the first half of the twentieth century the series revolves around Maisie Dobbs who is able to escape from a life of service thanks to her brain, a benevolent employer and a wise mentor. An interesting collection of characters and history make this an enjoyable read: I've read another in the series since. Maisie is a little too perfect for me - I prefer slightly flawed heroines - but likeable nevertheless. The author obviously did a lot of research into the period and is intent on including every detail, which is slightly irritating. It's not really necessary to know the name of every street or location of every tube station unless relevant to the plot. But I would definitely recommend this series. Try to start with the first one in the series as it explains Maisie's history.

Another recommendation would be for Provincial Daughter by RM Dashwood, a Virago Modern Classic. It's written by the real-life daughter of the author of Diary of  Provincial Lady in the same self-deprecating and amusing way so if you enjoyed EM Delafield's book you're sure to like this too.

I'm so lucky to have Husband really I am

Before I went out Wednesday morning Husband said, 'Shall we go and look at some new garden furniture this afternoon?'

A variety of visitors over the previous few days had shown up the flaws in our current outdoor seating, namely, anyone sitting down was taking a chance. Husband and I had perfected methods of sitting at just the right angle to prevent chairs collapsing but having to explain that to all and sundry ...

So, when I got back at lunchtime, it was under the impression that we'd be off to B&Q to buy some new furniture - hopefully the summer sale would have started.( Not that we're mean or anything.) Imagine my surprise/delight then to get home to find Husband in the process of turning 6 broken chairs into 4 bionic ones. 

'What about the table?'
'I'll paint that and it'll be fine.'

Oh good. Husband is so handy. I am really lucky to have him. I tell myself this regularly.

On the left, rebuilt; on the right, discarded - but he'll have to keep the wood - just in case ...

In which Husband discovers Facebook

Husband has discovered Facebook.

I say discovered but that's not strictly true: he's known about it and my obsession for a long time, and has called it a time-waster. But now he's finding out just how much of a time-waster it is.

It took him a good morning to set up an account and then several more hours in total asking, 'What's this? Why does it do that? How do I do this?' As I usually don't know the answers the hours quickly mounted up. But now he's there and having a great time. 

He's decided to post lots of photos so each time I come to Facebook I do so with some trepidation for fear of what he might have exposed next. When I had an email saying '...tagged you in a photo with fuzzy hair,' I groaned. Oh no, which horrendous photo had he used - the selection is wide after all. It turned out to be innocuous - this time anyway.

And of course he's started commenting on others' posts. Younger Son was complaining of a bad eye infection and Husband wrote GWS.

GWS? GWS? Younger Son and I both screeched in indignation. (Younger Son feels the same as I do about text-talk.) Husband reassured me by saying he had no intention of using text-talk for before or see you or any of the others. No, he's going to make up his own.

Can you hear me sighing?

We're alcohol free but you couldn't tell it from the way I ramble

Zac's was peaceful and calm this week. Mostly. It threatened to go off the rails early on but Steve rescued us that time.

Then later on one of our regulars came in carrying an open can of lager. Now Zac's bible study is an alcohol free zone and I was leading the evening so it was going to fall me to do something about it. A discussion was in progress so while that went on I fretted and panicked about how I was going to remind our friend about the no-alcohol rule. Silence fell and ... his mate said, 'You can't bring that in here; come on, I'll come outside with you.'

I could have hugged him.

I've noticed that when I lead bible study it always seems to be me who's being encouraged at the end by people who feel sorry for me. I tend to start sentences not really knowing where they're going and end up in a muddle or admitting to things a good leader probably shouldn't admit too. Hence the 'never mind, dear' pats on the shoulder that always seem to follow.

One of the guys is always saying I should be the first woman bishop (yes, I know, bless him) and he said this to one of the others who thought about it long and hard and then said solemnly, 'I don't think so. Not with some of the things she says.'

Probably the least of the things between me and bishoprics. 

George and Radio 4

Right, I've made a list of the blog posts I've been meaning to do for the last week so I'll try and catch up now before The Honourable Woman/Lady (can't remember exact title) (obviously) (and if I go to check I'll be distracted and never get these posts done) (which would, of course, be a desperate tragedy).

Not one of the aforementioned posts but I must mention George. Sometimes I throw a stick in the river for him and he looks at me and I can sense every fibre of his being is saying, 'Do I really have to?'
'Yes, you lazy lump. Go and fetch it.'
He sighs and and enters the water dramatically making sure I know this is against his better judgement.
Then he comes out and shakes all over me before tossing his head and marching off.

On a different note I tuned in to radio 4 lunchtime news when I was in the car yesterday. I used to be a regular listener to The World at One or the later show at 5.00 pm but haven't heard either for some time. And I don't watch the news but pick up what's happening in the world by osmosis - and Facebook. A few things about yesterday's broadcast struck me.

Quoting Usain Bolt the news announcer said the word 's**t'. At 1.10 in the afternoon. Even Facebook had bleeped/starred it out. Standards are dropping. Much like the 'explosive projectiles' being used in Gaza. Explosive projectile? You mean a rocket?

And, incidentally Mr Israeli spokesman, there is no such thing as a humanitarian 4 hour ceasefire. The moment you put a deadline on a ceasefire it stops being humanitarian.

Bone

Looking for something else entirely I came across this poem. I first included it on my blog back in 2005, the year it all began. (My blog that is not life or baked beans or even war somewhere in the world although it probably did.) It is still a wonderful poem although I am not as funny as I was back in those days. Have I used up my supply of funny? Does funny no longer happen to me? Anyway, here it is.

Bone

1.

Understand, I am always trying to figure out

what the soul is,

and where hidden,

and what shape –

and so, last week,

when I found on the beach

the ear bone

of a pilot whale that may have died

hundreds of years ago, I thought

maybe I was close

to discovering something –

for the ear bone

2.

is the portion that lasts longest

in any of us, man or whale; shaped

like a squat spoon

with a pink scoop where

once, in the lively swimmer’s head,

it joined its two sisters

in the house of hearing,

it was only

two inches long –

and thought: the soul

might be like this –

so hard, so necessary –

3.

yet almost nothing.

Beside me

the gray sea

was opening and shutting its wave-doors,

unfolding over and over

its time-ridiculing roar;

I looked but I couldn’t see anything

through its dark-knit glare;

yet don’t we all know, the golden sand

is there at the bottom,

though our eyes have never seen it,

nor can our hands ever catch it

4.

lest we would sift it down

into fractions, and facts –

certainties –

and what the soul is, also

I believe I will never quite know.

Though I play at the edges of knowing,

truly I know

our part is not knowing,

but looking, and touching, and loving,

which is the way I walked on,

softly,

through the pale-pink morning light.

 Mary Oliver 

Zac's without the bikers

We had Zac's baptisms on the beach yesterday. In the slightly murky waters of Swansea Bay. At least these days they're safe to swim in. I grew up swimming off Mumbles just before the authorities announced that you shouldn't eat cockles collected from the bay as they were likely to be high in various metals, washed down the Tawe from the Swansea valley, a souvenir of its industrial heritage. Still it didn't do me any harm ...

But anyway to get back to the baptisms. Sian and Tony were dunked and it was a fantastic honour and delight to be involved.

But today I realised that none of the bikers who come to Zac's attended the baptisms (except Sean obviously). I assume they were away or had other things on but it didn't matter. I didn't even miss them until I thought about it - not that I don't love them of course.

When I first started going to Zac's bikers, guys from God Squad, were the mainstay. They're still an important part but they're not the whole. They form an entity, a group, with its own uniform and a common interest. But it was fantastic yesterday that the people who turned up for the baptisms were all regulars, all part of the church, the family, of Zac's. A diverse collection of people with Jesus in common. At one time a gathering without any bikers would have been paltry; yesterday it was just right. 

I've won!!!

I never open boring letters. Anything vaguely official, even if it says Personal, I leave to Husband to open. So when he opened one today and said, 'You've won,' I said, 'What? Does it involve chocolate?'

(I'd just come back from Sainsburys where I'd spent a good two minutes, standing in front of the Cadburys Fingers offer of 2 boxes for £2, arguing with myself. [I lost and bought Ryvita instead.])

'No,' Husband said, 'money.' He said it was from a building society and I'd won a prize in their monthly draw. 'There are three prizes of £100,000, a hundred prizes of £1,000 and a thousand prizes of £100.'

'And what about the small print?' I said. I've been caught out like this before. You know the sort of thing. A supermarket gives you a scratch card, you scratch it and find you're definitely a winner. 'You may have won an all expenses luxury holiday for four in the Bahamas or a 100" television or a Fiat Panda (in very small print) or a £1 off money saving voucher for your next shop.' No prizes for guessing what scratching my card always reveals. (Ooh, that sounds rude! Ooh, I sound like Miranda!)

I read the letter and there didn't seem to be any small print so Husband, who was keen to find out what I'd won suggested we go straightaway to the building society and request to see the manager, as instructed by the letter.

On the way there we both tried to convince each other that we wouldn't be disappointed with £100 while secretly thinking, surely if it's just £100 they'd simply pay it into my account rather than make us go through this procedure.

This secret thinking was further encouraged when the nice young man at the building society said he'd get the manager for us as soon as possible. At which point I realised that at any moment I could meeting the woman who'd phoned me when I'd complained about the anti-homeless spikes outside their offices. But whether she recognised my name and refused to see me or whether she really was busy, we were passed on to the Business Manager and shown into an office, which looked rather like a prison cell albeit an upmarket one, which was a good thing, I think, as it meant they were spending more on their customers than on foolish fripperies. 

Then began the checking procedures: checking I was who I claimed to be, checking I was in the country at the time of the draw, checking my blood type (no, not really but they were very thorough) before the Business Manager was finally satisfied and put a call through to the Prize Draw office. And it all began again.

All this checking was serving to convince me that I must have won at least £1,000 and more likely £100,000. My mind drifted between what to do with the money - give lots to the children but keeping enough for a luxury 4 week holiday in Malaysia - how I would react when given the news - a dignified gasp or squeaky jumping up and down (and we all know which is more likely) - and whether the parting on the side of the Manager's hair was really a parting or one of those shaved line things.

At last he looked up at me and said, 'It's £100.'
'Oh, thank you.'

More checking, signing, and authorising until we were able to leave approximately half an hour after we'd entered. 

Outside I said, 'So I've won £100.'
'Let's go and have a cup of tea to celebrate,' Husband said.
'Our parking will be up soon,' I said. 'Let's go to Verdi's for ice cream instead!'
So we blew a whole 5% of my winnings on ice cream. And very nice it was too. But now I have to think carefully about what to do with the rest ...

No begging letters please.

Glorious Gower

Crawley Woods down to Nicholaston Burrows

Rhossili

The remains of the Helvetia, shipwrecked November 1887.

From the Explore Gower website:
Rhossili was not a stranger to profit from shipwrecks, previous centuries had witnessed the violence of the Rhossili Wreckers - who lured in unsuspecting ships caught in troubled seas to be smashed against the rocks, in order to acquire their cargo. Such purposeful wrecking confined to the past, the locals would still always make good use of the wreckwood from the beaches, and nearly all of the surviving old farm buildings down the far end of the peninsula are constructed from such reclamation.

There's hot, hotter and really getting silly hot

It was the Gower Chilli festival yesterday and I decided that rather than be boring as we usually are we should make an effort and go along. So we did.

That is, we went after Husband had spent two hours trying to set up a Facebook account for himself. He's resisted the temptation up till now - in fact he didn't find it a temptation although he always read my page - but a few things had happened that had made him decide to enter the world of online friendship, most particularly the opportunity to re-establish contact with a friend he hasn't seen or heard of since our wedding.

So, the chilli festival. It's the second year it's been held and obviously focuses on the wonder of chillis.There were plants for sale, all kinds of relishes, sauces, beers, chocolates, even welshcakes with a hint of chilli as well as hot food and craft stalls, and a freestyle chilli cook-off.

Each competitor had his - now I come to think of it they were all men albeit with lovely lady assistants - own tent and had to provide the means of cooking as well as everything else he needed and had four hours to prepare and cook a pan of chilli, which was judged on flavour, colour, afterbite and general all-round chilli perfection.

The winner goes forward into the British finals and the winner of that gets an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas for the World Finals. Last year's winner was hoping to repeat his success with his secret recipe that includes figs and all sorts of interesting ingredients. 

This gentleman told us he has his own freezer to accommodate his love of offal, which he was incorporating into his dish.

 

While some of the competitors were highly motivated and fanatical about the subject others took it more casually.

We had george with us so couldn't hang around for the judging. We also didn't have much money, which turned out to be for the best as we might have got carried away on the cheese stall. As it was we ended up bread and cheese for dinner.

Have you been strimming?

The Barham Babes invited me to join them for an evening with Dawn French on Friday. (The person who was supposed to be going couldn't so they had to find a replacement: a single person who wasn't doing anything on a Friday night. Choice was limited.) Anyway a jolly evening was had by all.

Dawn French isn't a stand-up comedian but rather a raconteur telling us the story of her life - with accompanying pictures. The girls had both read her book, Dear Fatty, so many of the stories were familiar to them but new to me, as was the term norks for breasts. Fortunately there was a large diagram of the human body displayed with the word Norks pointing at the appropriate piece of anatomy so that wasn't a problem. No, the problem for me came much later when Ms French - or Dawn as I feel I can call her now I know so much about her personal life - talked about the time she had hepatitis A and her mum came to look after her. Her mum asked her how she'd got it and Dawn said it was probably a dodgy sandwich. Her mother, however, wasn't having any of this. 'Don't give me that, young lady,' and accused her of ... I'll add two letters to the front of the word so I don't get any dodgy visitors ... strimming.

The whole audience erupted with laughter. I joined in as enthusiastically as the rest although I didn't have a clue what the word meant. I guessed it was probably something rude but my imagination wouldn't stretch that far.

Walking back to the car afterwards I hesitated: should I ask the girls what it meant? I'd like to think they're young and innocent but ... they are medical students so may be able to enlighten me. So I asked. And they burst out laughing.
'Are you sure you want to know?'
'Yes. No. I don't know. Yes.'

So they told me. Ooh, I wish I hadn't asked.

Get lost!

We went exploring this morning George and me. In other words, we got lost.

I usually walk a variety of routes but always in the same general direction; if I go the opposite way I'm confounded. Familiar landmarks look different back to front. Which is how I came to find myself walking on a bike track.

This is problematic for two reasons:
a) I might get knocked over by a speeding mountain biker;
b) more worryingly, most of the tracks seems to end in thin air with a leap over a precipice.

On the plus side it was good fun pretending to be a mountain biker - but with an engine as you have to make a noise or it's not real - until I fell off.

George wasn't entirely convinced this was the right way down.

Some of old winding gear long ago abandoned.

And this beautiful damselfly posed nicely for me.

'Are you suffering with hearing loss?' 'What?'

'Well, I've never had one of those phone calls before,' I exclaimed to Husband before relating it to him.

'Hello.'
'Hello, Elizabeth Haindes?' (Said with northern Midlands accent.)
'Er yes.'
'Our computer brought your name oop as someone who has worked with industrial machinery in't past.'
'Um no.'
'You've never worked with heavy machinery?'
'Nooo.'
'Oh.'
End of phone call.

'He sounded so convinced he was right he had me doubting,' I said to Husband. 'Where would he have got my name from as someone who's worked with machinery?'
'It's a scam,' Husband said. 'They just phone people at random.'
'Really? But that's ... that's naughty.'

The closest I've come to industrial machinery is my rangemaster oven. I wonder if he meant that.

A history of knickers so brief it should be called a thong

So I was wondering: why do we call them a pair of knickers? A pair when it's only one item? A quick google and I have the answer - not from Wiki but from more reliable double-checked and compared sources I should add.

It wasn't until the end of the eighteenth century that women began to wear a form of drawers adapted from those worn by men, with legs gathered below the knee and lacing at the back around the waist. Prior to that women didn't wear anything on their nether regions. 

Now the relevant bit of this is that these weren't so much crotchless panties as ... well, more like individual leggings. The crotch seam was open from front to back, of necessity I assume, as who'd want to struggle with laces when you had a pressing need to wee? A bit later they began to be called knickers from the knickerbocker trousers which were becoming fashionable. And this is where I am doing my 'Elementary, dear Watson' bit: I guess they were called a pair because to all intent and purposes they were in two pieces.

'Closed' drawers with a side-waist opening didn't appear until the end of the nineteenth century but now knickers were becoming prettier and more colourful - and made of silk - if you could afford them. And so it has continued over the years with more and more time and money being spent on designing and marketing tiny triangles of material.

And there you have it. Everything you need to know about knickers in one short blog post. Next time DIY brain surgery for beginners.

How to feel inadequate without even trying

At the checkout a headline on the magazine: Four kids, one husband and a £14m business. I hate her already.

I arrive home from Sainsburys - having resisted the 2 boxes of Cadburys Fingers for £2 offer - and Husband says, 'You need to do some accounts. Find out how much you earned from sales via Lulu.'

I oblige and find that during the tax year 13/14 I sold 5 copies of my book via lulu and from that made the magnificent sum of 80p. And I won't be paid that until the total is the equivalent of $5. I could go to my grave never receiving it.

I really wish I had bought those Fingers now.

What we did at the weekend

Just back from a flying visit to the Midlands for the joint 60th birthday celebration of my sister-in-law and her partner. It was good to see people we nowadays usually only see at funerals!

The siblings, with the birthday girl in the middle looking sensational at 60!

Their garden backs onto a field that they've adopted so Husband and I had to have a wander around, me to enjoy the swing and Husband to investigate an old shed almost hidden in the bushes. (He's inherited his father's tendency to have to explore interesting-looking places.)

But nettles and bare legs shouldn't go together so I kept out on this occasion.

Road signs for intellectuals

"Site access/egress". At first glance I thought it was Welsh. (Most of our signs are bi-lingual.) Then I thought, 'No, wait, egress is a bird.' But that doesn't make sense.

Much pondering - by which time the traffic lights had changed and I had driven past the sign in question - led me to the conclusion that it was neither Welsh nor a bird but a real English word meaning 'the way out' (thank you Mr Chambers). 

If it takes me, a reasonably articulate woman for whom the word egress does actually ring a bell, that long to decipher the sign may I suggest that it's perhaps not ideal?

On a similar note i.e. little used words, I recently spotted a van advertising 'fortnightly sales of furniture and chattels.' And I instantly had an overwhelming urge to attend a sale of chattels. 'May I interest you in this pre-loved chattel, madam?'

On a completely different note I caught a snatch of a news report yesterday about a woman who was persuaded to smuggle 20,000 euros in a condom inside her person. I cringed.

P.S. Husband pointed out that the sign should have read ingress/egress rather than access. It constantly amazes me the range of stuff Husband knows.

Catching up yet again

Last week passed in a bit of a blur. I must have been doing stuff but not sure what exactly. Oh wait, yes, I did spend some time looking for pirate accessories. But more of that later.

I led Zac's bible study on Tuesday and it was fine. After the chaos of the previous week, when Steve led it, everyone decided to behave. Or rather, the awkward ones weren't there. So that was fine. Until later when everything had been cleared away and a man came in saying he hadn't eaten for days and was there anything hot. I said I'd warm up some soup for him and put it in a polystyrene cup. Then he said he had two friends outside and could he have three cups.

Which would have been fine if, by the time I'd warmed up the soup, he hadn't got into argumentative mood with the result that I was left to clear up a puddle of soup and half a can of lager from the carpet. Then when I went outside I discovered most of the rest of the soup spilled on the road. It does make you wonder why you bother. But then you remember those who really are hungry and grateful. Not that we do it for gratitude but neither do we do it for ingratitude!

Saturday it was off to Surrey for GrandSon1's 3rd birthday party - pirate-themed.

Daughter-in-law had done a fab job preparing a treasure hunt complete with treasure that had to be dug for while Elder Son put together a pirate ship out of cardboard. Children of that age don't really play together but they all seemed to have a wonderful time running around and climbing in and out of the ship.

Daughter and family, who'd joined us in Surrey for the party, came back to Swansea as they needed to do stuff on Monday while Husband and I childminded. Sitting on my lap in the afternoon GrandDaughter whispered to me, 'Perhaps Mummy and Daddy will forget that we're going home to day. Don't tell them!'
But they didn't.

Today included a visit to Great-auntie Joan for her 95th birthday, although as she explained that even though most people think it's on the 8th July when she found her old birth certificate she discovered her birthday is actually the 7th. So now she manages to stretch out the celebrations over two days.

When I arrived she was in the kitchen making sandwiches. She'd already made a trifle and cooked a chicken - 'I'd never buy one ready-cooked: you don't know how long ago it was cooked' - and still had the sausages to cook before her family of ten including grand- and great-grand-children came for tea. 'I really should sweep up outside,' she said, 'but they'll just have to close their eyes to the mess.'

Her work ethic was instilled many years ago. When she was eleven her mum said, 'Right, it's time for you to start work,' and each day before going to school she had to go down on her hands and knees and scrub the front steps. 'I even had to get up at 6 and do it on my wedding day.'

In 1974 she had a mastectomy and I'd always assumed she'd been fitted with a prosthetic replacement but I found out today that she made - and still does make - her own out of material stuffed with cotton wool. Here she is four years ago with her little brother on his 90th birthday.

While I was visiting Husband was gardening and when he was picking gooseberries he came across this:

A snake had become entangled in some fruit mesh. After checking that it was a garden snake not an adder he spent fifteen minutes carefully cutting it free. The snake was very tightly squeezed through the holes so it needed a lot of care to slip the scissors in without damaging the animal. Snakey hissed at him but didn't try to bite.

What a hero Husband is. Although I shall be reluctant to venture into any overgrown part of the garden in future.