"I'm a wide-mouthed ...'

Younger Son wasn't impressed with my talking wide-mouthed melon. He claimed that a melon wouldn't speak 'in that sort of voice'.
'Have you ever heard a melon speak before?'
Silence.
My point was proven.

And now I know where the inspiration for Zippy came from.

P.S. That is Husband's hairy arm not mine.

Sunday round-up

Husband grumbled about the photo I posted on the previous post. He felt I should have used the one that shows his legs. 'People said I had lovely legs.' And he does.

Harvey can't understand why we've rushed indoors. I'm sure there must be something about the rain not falling on the innocent.

I've written to the local paper! I often threaten to but rarely does the enthusiasm endure. But this time I've actually done it.

There was a report in Friday's paper about a big effort by police to get drug dealers off the streets. Since March dozens of suspects have been arrested. It mentioned that three of them have now been imprisoned; the report also saw fit to say that the three were all Big issue sellers.

Too many people already have the wrong impression of Big Issue sellers: they see them as no-good beggars. In fact, the majority are trying hard to find a way off the streets. Selling the Big Issue magazine - which they have buy before they can sell it - is, for many, the first step to getting into employment and the community. It's work, not begging and part of the ethos of the Big Issue is to raise self-esteem in people who have a very low opinion of themselves by giving them something worthwhile to do, that earns them some money. Most of them are not drug dealers. To mention this in the report simply reinforces the stereotype that exists.

Off my soapbox.

Yesterday, after the gardening, we took a drive out to the marina. There must be a lot of rich people around. It's not just the price of the boat initially - £500,000 for the ones I really like - it's the cost of mooring it and technical terms that husband explained to me, but I wasn't really listening, preferring instead to imagine myself lounging on the deck of a boat, somewhere round the Caribbean, or shall we go to the Indian Ocean this month?

Rich people but we're not among them. Lots of flashy and not-so-flashy boats in the Marina. The national industrial museum is built on the edge of the marina and several of the exhibits are floating in it. As well as a lightship and something else - I think it was something to do with canning - there's a tug called Thomas. Thomas is a Normandy D-Day veteran and was the first diesel tug owned by the Admiralty.

It was interesting to see the old and the new juxtaposed.

How does your garden grow?

After the wettest June since records began, the first full weekend in July has been pleasant enough. Warm and sunny in between showers. So pleasant, in fact, that I took it into my head to do some gardening. Now I may have mentioned before that I am to plants what Jack the Ripper was to prostitutes, but never fear, I did the sort of gardening that i am good at: the destructive kind.

Give me a patch of overgrown ground and I am in my element. I clear the way; Husband plants and nurtures. We make a good team. So, inspired by the cottage garden we saw in Stratford, I set to with my three-pronged fork (Husband has had it since before we were married, so it's probably over 30 years old) and my rubber gloves. I am ruthless; I show no mercy.

The first photo shows the patch of garden as it was, overgrown with buttercups, which were very pretty when in flower but the very devil to dig up. Photo two shows the clean soil complete with the first of the plants we've bought in order to try to create the cottage garden look.

I would be slightly more hopeful about the result if it hadn't been for the raspberries.

Last year I cleared what had been the raspberry patch and we planted eight new sticks. No, that's not it. Canes! Three survived until last week when one got broken. Today I've planted six more canes: three of them look as though they might survive...

Harvey made his way out to join me during the afternoon. It was quite a challenge for him, so I promised him that we'd have a drink soon, and then I carried on gardening. After a bit Harvey wanted to know when we were getting this drink.

'Now, in a minute.'

'Do you mean now or in a minute?' he asked pedantically.

I looked at him. 'You're a Welsh dog; you know what I mean.'

He shrugged. 'Well, I assume you mean in a minute - or ten - as you're showing no sign of stopping gardening.'

I went and got him a drink.

He was born on a farm in Wales so he has no excuse. From the pedigree papers it looks as though someone else had him first and then changed their minds and returned him. We think it was because - hang on, I'll just make sure he can't hear what I'm typing - that's all right, he's in the other room, sleeping - he has a pink nose. Black-nosed Golden Retrievers look down their black noses on their pink-nosed cousins. There is snobbery in every walk of life.

Cherie and JK

I watched the programme about Cherie Blair this week. Considering she is a QC and used to performing, she didn't seem very comfortable. And her replies to the few delving questions that Kirsty Young (Wark, I don't know - blonde attractive TV presenter) asked her were less than barrister-like.

The film included a number of clips from interviews with a woman who was Tony Blair's personal assistant from 1997 till 2005. She was a first class bitch, who made it perfectly clear, in the most charming and subtle way, what she thought of Cherie. My guess is that she was in love with Tone herself and couldn't bear this intelligent woman having his ear. As well as the rest of him.

Also stayed up on Friday night to see JK Rowling being interviewed by Jonathan Ross. She described Book 7 as a 'bloodbath', then obviously thinking that this might deter some parents from buying it for their children, she corrected herself, 'Well, more than two people die.'

Saturday Photohunt - Fake

Fake i.e. not the 'real thing'.
I asked Husband what came into his mind when I said the word 'fake'. Straightaway he replied, 'Boobs.'
So I really had to post this photo as well.

xx

Meet Spid II

He lives under the computer shelf in the study. He comes out most evenings to keep me company. I like to think that he's the son of late-lamented Spid I, who was eaten when Charlie Cat came to visit.

As you can see, it's an ideal environment for him with all the dust and cobwebs on the floor. We don't intrude on each other's space and that suits me fine: Spid II is rather large.

Try telling Harry Potter there's no such thing as dragons

Last night Younger Son was telling me that he and friend had been out walking in the woods when they'd come across a caged enclosure. Younger Son decided it was to keep chickenraptors in, and he and his friend embarked on a chickenraptor hunt.

YS is 22; I am so pleased he can still hunt for chickenraptors.

A couple of months ago I took a 4-year-old for a walk. As we entered the woods, I said, 'Let's have an adventure! let's go a dragon hunt!'

He looked at me pityingly and said, 'Dragons aren't real.'

'Oh. Okay... what about hippopotamuses then?!'

He finally agreed to search for stick snakes.

Even though I have bought him books since he was a baby, he's not a story-lover. He's turned me down every time - even when he's had nothing else to do - when I've suggested reading a story to him. I suppose the fact that his parents aren't readers doesn't help, but it's so sad and limiting to a child's imagination.

Younger Son has laid first claim to the new Harry Potter book that comes out in 15 days and counting. He told me he has been waiting for this book for years. He can't wait to read it but he doesn't want to read it either - because that's the end. (I felt like that about West Wing Season 7.)

He has some very detailed theories about how HP will end. I will have to re-read book 6 again to remind myself of what's what. When YS has finished it - for the millionth time - that is.

Oh, Danny boy

I just read a post I wrote about a year ago. They say you should never go back: I think they're right. It was all about the Gila monster and a man in a white coat.


Well, anyway, I was looking to see if I had previously written about something that came to me while I was doing the dishes and listening to the Archers. I can't remember what brought it to mind, but last year - or maybe the year before - we went to Ireland on holiday. (It turns out it was 2004!)




We stayed in a beautiful, quite remote, little thatched cottage on the Dingle Peninsula. The lady we were renting it from was there to greet us when we arrived, with a pot of tea and a fresh rhubarb pie. It had been her family home but she now lived in the nearby village. As well as the warmth of the welcome, there was a wood-burning stove, and the house was filled with personal touches, some of which were quite unusual, such as the collection of ornaments on the dresser.


Although the Dingle peninsula is quite small, it takes some time to get anywhere as its road are narrow and windy. There is a main thoroughfare that runs around the peninsula and two lanes that cross it, going over the mountains in the middle. One day we decided we'd go to the north of the peninsula via a lane that led over the top of the mountains.


We were driving along the bottom coastal road when we saw the sign for the first of the 'mountain crossings'. Husband slowed down but as we came to the turning, we saw there was a Road Closed sign. As we were about to drive on, a workman, a hundred yards or so up the road, saw us and signalled to us to come on up.


'That's good,' I said. 'They must be opening the road.'


We drove up and as we approached him, he signalled again, this time for us to stop. I wound down the window and he leaned in before saying confidentially, 'The road's closed.'
xx

Are they trying to tell us something?

Say a prayer

If you're a pray-er, spare a prayer for Shirl and husband, Pete, over at H, H & H. They're going through a rough time healthwise.

If you're not a pray-er, spare a kind thought.

"Some days. although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself."
Carol Ann Duffy

Happy 4th of July!

Corny, yes, but sometimes it takes a common foe to bring us together.

Hope all our American friends have a great celebratory holiday today!

"Everybody needs good neighbours"

I met Howie tonight. He's the UK President of the God Squad, association of Christian motor-bikers. He's about 6'8", bearded and dressed in the obligatory leather badged jerkin. And he uses moisturiser and lip gloss. No, perhaps it wasn't lip gloss but something like that. He recommended Clarins skin care products. And I had to admit he did have lovely skin.

Now a short story.

A man lies in the gutter, drunk, and probably out of it on drugs. He's been punched about a bit by some youths who think he's an easy target. He is barely conscious and his head is bleeding.

A car comes down the road and the driver, a vicar, slows down when he sees the man. The vicar, is on his way to his parish council meeting. He is hoping they will agree to pay for some new gold goblets for communion; the ones they have at present are losing their sheen. It won't look good if he's late for the meeting. He drives on.

A priest comes along the pavement. He has just finished hearing confession and is looking forward to getting home and eating his dinner cooked for him by his loyal housekeeper. He is wondering what delight she will have conjured up tonight when he spots the man in the gutter. He hesitates, then tells himself it would be wrong of him to let his dinner go cold when the poor woman has put so much effort into it. He doesn't think the man is one of his congregation anyway. The priest hurries past.

Ahmed from the corner shop is stretching his legs when he spots the man in the gutter. He hurries over and asks if he's all right. He sees that the man is bleeding badly and pulls him onto the pavement and leans him against a wall. He runs back to the shop, goes upstairs to his apartment and fetches a blanket. He tells his wife to call an ambulance then runs back and wraps the blanket round the man. He stays with him, talking quietly, trying to reassure him, although he's not sure how much the man is understanding.

The next day he phones the hospital to see how the man is. The nurse says he is improving; Ahmed is relieved.

"Love your neighbour as yourself."
"And who is my neighbour?"
xx

I notice Blogger has added new languages to its list. With everything from Catalan to something unpronounceable, there are are now about 38 languages available. But not Welsh.

It's the same in every drop down list of countries: Wales is a non-country as far as the rest of the world is concerned. Yes, we're part of the UK but if asked which country I live in, the answer is Wales.

I can appreciate that the number of bloggers wanting to write in Welsh is probably lower than those wanting to write in Lithuanian but I can see no excuse for ignoring us as a nation when it comes to our country. It's just not polite!

Respect!

Son-in-law was one of about 5,000 cyclists who took part in a mass ride along the Tour de France route on Sunday. (The Tour de France this year starts in London. It's the first step by the French to surreptitiously conquer England.)

The 120-mile route went from Greenwich, London, to Canterbury, Kent.

Out of those 5,000 cyclists, Son-in-law had the 56th fastest time, only 22 minutes slower than the fastest.

As someone whose hips ache if she rides a bike more than a mile, I am full of awe. Well done, S-i-l. We're proud of you.

Especially for Clare

I forgot to mention that Macbeth was performed by men in kilts.

A question for American readers

Is your jelly what we call jam over here? As in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Would that be peanut butter and, say, strawberry jam? Or is it something quite different?

I'm writing a website article about sandwiches and don't want to make a terrible mistake!

"It must be jelly because jam doesn't wobble like that."

Back with avengeance

Having not blogged for seven days my brain is fair overloaded with nonsense - as you might have noticed if you've read any of my postings of the last two days.

Now, is this:

a) a waste of packaging;

b) a con to persuade customers that the pot of cream is worth £8;

c) both of the above?

* * * * * * * * *

In case you too were straining your brain to remember, the little white bull just took himself into the ring and charged the matador who applauded him saying, "torro little bull! You're not a little bull, you're a brave little bull. You're gonna be a great little bull, the best in Spain!"

* * * * * * * * *

My hair straightener stopped working round about the middle of the holiday. When we got home I asked Husband to see if the fuse had gone. He checked and confirmed the fuse was fine and asked me exactly what the problem was. 'I plug it in and it just doesn't come on.'

'Could that be something to do with this on/off switch that is in the Off position?'

'On/off switch? I didn't know there was an on/off switch.'

It turns out that there's a heat control setting too.

* * * * * * * * *

The final episode of Doctor Who was very exciting. I didn't have a clue what was going on but we got David Tennant back. The end of the world could have come but as long as we got David Tennant back it wouldn't have mattered.

Casanova continued what began in Blackpool and Who confirmed it: I have a thing for David Tennant.

xx

Bulls

For the sake of loyal readers I felt compelled to sample a number of cream teas while on holiday just so I could report back to you. And the winner is: Crabtree & Evelyn's teashop in Stratford. Followed very closely by Sylvia's tea-shop in Ambleside.

Both provided home-made scones and a choice of home-made jam along with a proper pot of tea. What edged C&E into the lead was the dollop of extra thick cream (not clotted but next best thing).

The other thing I forgot to mention was that I had my first Indian head massage in one of the hotel spas. It was good - relaxing and enjoyable - if over too quickly, but not as phwoaring as my orgasmatron.

And now something completely different.

While cleaning the toilet floor, I started singing to myself, 'Little White Bull,' and for the life of me I can't think how the little white bull came 'trotting right behind them,', when 'only black bulls fight'. A case for Google I think.
xx

This photo should be in the previous post but won't show

Apart from Japanese tourists and school parties, we saw ...

Husband is well-used to my eccentricities. He understands that when I yell, 'Spotty piggies!' his job is to stop the car so I can get out and take a photo.

Photo-wise, he prefers the grand panoramic views; I do the small stuff of life. Between us we cover most things. But I am definitely the animal-one.

Do you think this is the best place to raise a family? With the whole of Windermere just across the road?

Who's your daddy?