Mark of Friendship - RIP

I was saddened to read on the Daily(ish) Millbrooker that the 'Mark of Friendship' in Sir's street has shut. Okay, the most recent owners were pretty miserable, and occasionally threw water over well-dressed people, but being four doors up from Sir's gaff, we went there alot.

In fact we've been going there pretty much as long as the family have been in Cornwall. I used to head in there to catch up on all the great gossip that abounds in Millbrook (I can't tell you any, I'd have to kill you), and I have spent many an evening sitting at the bar trying to prevent Sir from singing.

Best of all, the letters of the name started disappearing a few years back. They weren't painted at this stage, just stuck on plastic letters. No-one ever saw who was nicking them, but over time the name changed from the 'Mark of Friendship' to the ' arc of F iendship'.

They changed it to painted letters pretty quickly, but it lasted long enough to give everyone a good chortle. Vandalism with a sense of humour - marvellous.

Arc of Fiendship, you'll be missed.
Lucy

Finger-food-tastic!

I've got to show you this. Drude added it as a comment to the last post about sweet/savoury and it's fab: finger plates for finger food!

As someone who used to fantasise about living on canapes, I've got to ask: where has this perfect party accessory been all my life? Sad thing is that these days I don't go to swanky parties where this must-have might appear.

If anyone out there - or anyone you vaguely know - EVER gets to use one, please please please get a picture. In fact, if anyone is going to a swanky party this season, please post the best canape you come across in the comments.

I adore canapes, and can't really say what was the very best I've eaten, it's too hard. I sway between mini fish and chips and a loaf of crusty bread, hollowed out and filled with wonderful mini free-range sausages along with a caramelised onion dip. They may have appeared at the same party but as you can tell, it was the food I remember not the event.

Hmmm, wonder what's in the fridge?

Lucy

Sweet or savoury?

As my post about turning down page corners raised alot of comment, I'm wondering whether this one will do the same. If you had a choice of two parties, one entirely serving sweet food, the other entirely savoury, which way would you turn?

Having just demolished a pack of Tesco's dim sum for my lunch, I'm pretty clearly a savoury person. Favourite must-have foods include humous and ham. Tuna is always available in my house. If you want to charm me or persuade me to do something, take me out for a good Thai meal.

I won't turn down a box of chocolates as I live with two people with sweet thooths (or is that sweet teeth? I never know). But whether I would actually eat any of them is debateable.

I always head for the crisp section at the newsagents. And being pregnant, I have terrible (wierd) cravings for prawn cocktail and taramasalata. Luckily not in the same meal.

While I know I'm not alone, I'm wondering whether we'd get to party together or whether I would wave you off to the sweets section!
Lucy

Heroes - I'm switching to Fringe

Being an old SF fan who published SF books back in the day, I love a good SF drama.

'Heroes' really got me, I loved it, and still want the super power of copying anything you see, now THAT'S power worth having.

But having faithfully watched every single episode to date, I'm getting confused. And if I'm getting confused, what chance does the casual watcher have? Sorry Heroes, but you're taking it too far and in too many different directions for me to keep loyal. I'm giving up and switching to 'Fringe'.

'Fringe' is great. Very simple, a genuine mad scientist (Walter Bishop) who solves wierd FBI cases with fringe science, a very serious female FBI agent (Olivia) who never smiles, and Pacey from Dawsons Creek, son of said mad scientist.

Like Buffy or the X-Files, you can dip in and out, they solve a crime per episode, Olivia frowns alot and Pacey moans about babysitting his dad.

I'd talk about 'Survivors' but frankly it's giving me the willys. Like '28 Weeks Later' I think it's set around my patch. And I only managed half an hour of that, and then only saw very few zombies, but I still think about it.

'Survivors' is having the same effect. While I know logically that it won't happen, but my imagination isn't convinced.

Yours off to hide behind the sofa,

Lucy

I want to be my cat

I know Iggy wants to be my dog, but right now I'd settle for being my cat.

Today I'm wrestling with product launches and the bloody VAT change (with my web goddess hat on). It's pretty stressful as all of it has to be done on Monday, and that's no time at all in web terms.

But where are the cats while I grind my teeth? Lounging on my office window sill in the winter sunshine. No stress, no hassle, dreaming of tuna no doubt. Looks idyllic from where I'm sitting at this desk right now.

Give me fur, paws, a tail and a mundane diet of pellets and more pellets. I can knead my paws on sleeping people at 5am. I can purr. I can wee/poo in a box, honest!

I wanna be a cat. Doesn't everybody?

Off to disturb their peace because I can,

Lucy

What a day

So far today has been crap. Here's what's up:

1) My car is broken. Smoke, grinding gears, odd noises - that's not good. The man with a van took it away. He's not the kind to suck his teeth and say 'it'll cost ya' but I could tell he was thinking it.

2) About an hour later I found a pile of cat sick in the kitchen. On the carpet, naturally. Why do it on the lino when you can make a stain somewhere?

3) We had a letter from the council telling us our Council Tax band has been "re-evaluated" and they're putting it up by two levels as of yesterday. Not one, but two.

This comes after a month full of bills, bills and more bills. Dr G reckons we should just pin money to ourselves and give it out to anyone who asks. I reckon a helicopter drop would be more effective and less painful.

I really need cheering up, preferably with some good news. Have you got any?
Lucy

Cold tea

I've got the hump.

I went through to the kitchen just now and what did I find? Yet another cold cup of UNTOUCHED milky tea. Much as I love Dr G, his habit of leaving my loving crafted cups of tea about the place gives me the hump. I can't help it.

Everyday, another cup un-drunk. Everyday, another scummy mug left unloved and unwanted somewhere in the house. Now I live on tea, only buy the best (Yorkshire Gold), and know how to make a decent cuppa.

This may sound petty, but I once heard of a couple who got divorced after 20 years because the husband never once leant over in the car to unlock his partner's door (in the days before automatic unlocking). I'm starting to take this personally as you can tell. He claims it's not, but being married, you're allowed to take slights where you find them. It keeps life interesting.

Maybe I'll ask for a kimono for xmas and start learning the Japanese Tea Ceremony. No-one could possibly leave tea after all that effort. Could they?

Hmmm, think I'll pop the kettle on,

Lucy

Page corner or bookmark?

I've always planned to fiddle while Rome burns (or credits get crunched, whichever is sooner). So today's burning question is: do you use bookmarks or turn over a page corner?

I ask because I'm am incapable of retaining a bookmark for longer than about 20 seconds. Case in point: the other night Gav found two in the bedside cabinets and handed them to me. Despite the fact I was reading and put one into the back of the book I was holding, by the time I went to put it down, the bookmark had disappeared. I suspect there is an alternative universe where the entire economy is fuelled by old bookmarks, odd socks and crumpled post-it notes.

I prefer to do that myself - not with libary books or borrowed books, I hasten to add - as you can't lose a page corner. And having worked in book publishing, I know how expendable books are so turning over the corner to mark your place is no big deal.

I know that turning the page corner can invoke rage in some people. It splits the reading nation. Don't even mention writing in books to people like this, you'll get locked in the cupboard under the stairs or made to do lines 'I will never ever write in another book again' - 1000 times by HAND.

But between us, and I won't tell anyone, which do you prefer?

Lucy

Shhhh, don't tell anyone

I'm not going to speak very loudly in case the sky falls on my head or it all stops working but - come closer - I finally have broadband. After all that shouting at people in India, it started working yesterday.

More importantly, the fault on the phone line was fixed very quickly due to the application of chocolate digestives and a cup of tea.

Railing against the fates as I was, an old friend of mine who knows about such things told me that the solution was to get someone to care. And if an engineer was required, to give them tea and biscuits and butter them up. As he has managed rather a lot of them in his time, I thought I'd give it a go. Because hey, I'd tried everything else apart from throwing things at them, so I had nothing else left to try.

So a bit of buttering up later, and voila! Here we are, zipping along the internet superhighway. And I can make phone calls too. How marvellous. Now I just have to get the home phone line sorted out and we can finally send out change of address cards about 4 months after we moved.

But please don't tell anyone the secret of tea and biscuits, nor that broadband is finally working. I'd hate for them to suddenly take it all away again and they can you know, they can.

Off to Manchester to do some Pre-Raphaelite art this afternoon with my sister and Madam.

Lucy

Zen enlightenment and BT

Regular readers will remember my painful b/band and phone situation. (The toe is better now, thanks.)

Another episode unfolded yesterday and I supposedly am now 'back with BT'. The line was working fine, then they did whatever they do with it and - guess what? - it's got a fault on it.

I'd love to go with someone else but there was a fault before this one arrived, so we couldn't. QED.

I wonder when being 'back with BT' became a euphemism for 'ranting alot at call centres in India'. But after all the pain, angst and 4am worrying (I'm not sad, I have to have the net to work, it's that simple), I've reached a new state of zen-ness about it all.

I achieved this by:
- demanding to speak to someone in the UK who knew what they were talking about
- logging it as a fault and finding out how to complain to the right place
- going for a long, hard swim, splashing lots of OAPs who were trying to keep their perms dry.
- chanting over and over in my head 'it is fixed, it is fixed, it is fixed'.

I'm now in the zone; there's no point ranting anymore, that's not going to help me. I just have to endure the state of 'being back with BT-ness' and accept that that's pretty crap however you look at it.

Maybe one day I'll look back and laugh. I tried a bit of a wry smile just then. It felt okay.

Yours on the Battersea Park Road to Enlightenment,
Lucy
PS: As you've not doubt guessed, I'm still on a slow modem, so it's either links or pictures. And I'm NOT LINKING TO BLEEDING BT!

We heart Tuna

When we moved into this house, I unpacked 19 tins of tuna. No kidding. All kinds, obviously all bought from different shops, in brine, in olive oil, in water - you name it, we had it.

We're now down to a fairly respectable 3 tins (in brine, thanks for asking).

Trouble is, I'm feeling a wee bit exposed here. It's my goto food, my fishy comfort blanket. Even if I'm OFF MY FOOD (very rare, very serious) I always eat tuna.

It does have to be tinned though. I've never eaten fresh tuna that really appealed (apart from sushi). It's a bit dry and a bit boring when cooked. Such is my deep love of the tinned stuff, those 19 tins actually felt acceptable.

As you've no doubt guessed, we do eat an enormous amount of tuna in this house. I can easily have it on toast in the breakfast (I can hear the 'yeuchs!' as I write this), in a wrap for lunch and if I'm very lucky, in a salad for tea. Well that was yesterday's menu, I needed cheering up. And we also own a commenserate amount mayo too, again in all varieties and including salad cream. They go together. I can't live without them.

I've decided not to worry about mercury poisoning. For a start, I don't want to deprive myself of this harmless addiction, secondly however remote the chance, I'll never get syphillus, and thirdly I'm going to leave my body to medical science.

They can check how much mercury I've got floating about, and if it's alot, maybe have some fun turning my arteries into thermometers. Well, it'll be nice to be useful in the latter days of global warming.

Mmm, I'm a bit peckish.
Lucy

PS: Apologies for the lack of links, I'm on a mobile modem and it's a bit slow.

Three out of three

The library came up trumps this week with some good films to watch while Dr G was away in Sweden. And at £2 each for a week too - bargain.

1) The Queen - Helen Mirren is ace, doesn't take her clothes off AT ALL and acts everyone else of the screen, with the possible exception of Micheal Sheen who plays Tony Blair. Well worth a watch.

2) The Good German - George Clooney, Toby McGuire and Kate Blanchett in old Berlin just after the 2nd world war ended. It's about the human cost of war. A deliberate film noir pastiche, quite slow but fine if you watch it in chunks and pause occ to make a cup of tea or a phone call. The old film stock from that time jars slightly against the new footage but you can see why they used it, it gives atmosphere. I really liked Clooney, who looked even more like Clark Gable in black and white, and Blanchett channels Greta Garbo's accent quite effectively. If you can't get hold of some real film noir, this makes a good substitute.

3) In Bruges - this was way funnier than I expected it to be. You get the feeling that Colin Farrell wasn't REALLY acting, just being himself. It's only slightly marred by Ralph Fiennes attempting to be as good as Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast. He doesn't menace, he whines. That aside, everyone else acts their pants off, Bruges looks great, and it's a proper adult film with a real ending.

All in all, a good film week. This evening's we continue the German film festival with The Counterfeiters. Will let ya know if it's worth your time or not.

Off to mow the lawn now,
Lucy

Dumb as shoes

Last weekDr G made me laugh alot while watching a documentary about the people who cooked for Elvis, or bought food for Elvis, and ultimately (let's face facts), helped to kill Elvis. None of them had the brains to make that leap, that their actions contributed to his death. And in fact all of them were extremely proud of their food-related roles in his life, which just made it worse. They were, in Dr G's estimation, as dumb as shoes.

I laughed in that superior way that only someone with an IQ higher than everyday footwear can. Then today I came up with a new one: bewildered by keys.

I'd like to say I was being witty, coming up with another bon mot to match my husband's, but unfortunately I think karma was having a go at me for being superior. It was me, dear reader, who got confused by her own keys.

In short, this afternoon I tried to use the key for the car on the front door. I pressed the lock symbol, then stood there for a good few seconds wondering why the door wasn't locking, and why the car was beeping beside me.

It's a sobering thought to find the onset of middle age showing it's symptons so very early. I mean, my generation were never meant to get old. Live fast, die young. Continue going to music festivals even though it takes 2 weeks to get over them, keep wearing unsuitable clothes/hair styles/make up despite what Mr Mirror is telling us. All that.

The last thing I expected upon reaching 41 was that I was about to join Wogan's TOGs and be confused by my own keys on a Thursday afternoon. It was raining but really that's no excuse.

I'd better start doing Mensa exercises and learning Sudoko. I really don't want to end up as dumb as my shoes.

Lucy

Can cats get agrophobia?

Strikes me that I've not written much about what living in Holmes Chapel is like, and the contrast with Dundee is rather marked.

I was reminded of that yesterday, while wondering why t-dahl hadn't left her basket all day. That led me to question whether cats can get seasonal affective disorder (SAD for short). It has been pretty grey/grim these last few days, and as the heating pipe that runs under said basket was cold, I couldn't figure out why she didn't want to move. Mind you, I didn't either she could just have been cosy.

Just after we arrived I took the cats to the V.E.T to get their boosters. The new vet was very nice, seemed like a normal human being, until I mentioned that they hadn't really been outside much for the last 7 years. They've been house cats, apart from the odd sojourn on the lead which only worked for sag aloo. T-dahl had far too much sense to let that happen. Leads are for daft dogs, after all.

When I mentioned this, he piped up:

'Well, they could be argrophobic'.

I did my best not to laugh, mostly because I was flabbergasted.

Flabber my gast, whoever heard of an agrophobic cat? Really that has to be rubbish. Not to mention that whenever we open the door we have to shout 'incoming' as one of them tries to fly through it to reach the joys of - erm - the lawn. Well overgrown, weedy lawns are the stuff of joy if you're a house cat. Obviously.

This is the place that offers hydro therapy for dogs. And probably therapy sessions for depressed gerbils for all I know. But before I write this off as another 'cha-cha-cha-Cheshire' experience, I was wondering, can cats get agrophobia? Or SAD??

Answers on a postcard please,

Lucy

Beach envy

We just spent a brilliant weekend in Hoylake. Lovely, lovely friends who live in a beautiful house filled with light, kids, music and with arty stuff happening in nearly every room (jewellery making, sewing, painting...). All this AND there's a huge beach at the end of the road. How gorgeous is that?

There's something magical about the long view across the sea to the horizon. It never fails to calm me down and lift my spirits.

Having had my spirits lifted, the trip to the beach was only slightly marred by Missy falling over no less than 8 times, and whining, then thumping me in face with sandy hands. I won't go into how we sorted that one out because my blood temp took ages to return to normal, but suffice to say I was reminded of it all day as I couldn't get the sand out of my fillings for some time. Thank god for the long view.

I came back to Austerity Towers very disgruntled. I've always wanted to live within walking distance of a beach. And what a beach it is, nearly as good as Tentsmuir, my all-time favourite in Scotland. They did say we could visit anytime, so perhaps we could just move in... I'm a very good house guest, they'd hardly know I was there. I'd be on the beach ALL the time anyway.

I'm now wondering how to shift the house 50 miles in a seaward direction.

What's your favourite beach?

Lucy

I remember the last one

Reading the papers this week has been a sobering experience, and I remember why I didn't read them during the last recession. Not only are they full of lengthy reports about financial situations that I barely understand, they're also thoroughly depressing. Page after page after page of bad news. I'm not avoiding it, there's no way to do that. All you have to do is listen to R4 for any length of time or switch on any news bulletin and there it is: we're in a recession. I'm not going to start ranting because frankly it's pointless.

We lost three houses in the last one and barely held on to what we had with our fingertips. Luckily I wasn't around for the third one, by that time I'd gone to University so had somewhere else to live. Mum had to do a midnight flit that time and left a rather classic Habitat table that I'd dearly love to have in my kitchen now. Funny what you remember.

Anyway, what I'm waiting for is the classic 'r' avoidance that kicked in the last time: daft fashion (shoulder pads, ra-ra skirts), silly music (take your pick, it was the 80s, but Jive Bunny takes some beating), ridiculously upbeat/fluffy films (anything with the brat pack in it, I had a serious Andre McCarthy crush) and so on. That's what I focussed on the last time. And while I'm older this time around, with the usual over-40 responsibilities, I really need those distractions and I'm betting you do too.

So here's a few to be going on with:

• Heat Radio on DAB - fluffy music and celebrity gossip instead of news bulletins. There is NO bad news unless you count hearing about celebrity handbags on a regular basis. I just don't get the handbag thing.


• James Bond books - I'm reading 'From Russia with Love'; not only does everyone get to smoke with impunity, there's sex, lots of fights against those pesky Russians, and of course, brooding Bond.


• Outlandish recipes - one of my favourite blogs is Just Bento. I will probably never, ever cook anything from here. But it all looks so lovely that I drift off into a day dream of kitschy Japanese lunch boxes packed with food I'll probably never get to taste but really fancy.

Naturally I'm not advocating ignoring what's happening - heavens, would I do that? No, I'm just suggesting we balance it out with a bit of daftness and fun. Let's not be dull. Let's fiddle while Rome burns....

Yours off to find her red patent stilletos c. 1983,
Lucy

Technology and sore toes

I'm having a very challenging week.

1) BT were supposed to come last week to sort out a new line for my office. Despite being brilliant up to the point at which they were supposed to switch on the new line, it failed in true old-style BT fashion. Resulting in many, many calls to India and god knows where else.

When I got a message saying they'd cancelled everything and I'd have to start again, I kicked a kitchen cabinet so hard I've now got sore toes. And they want us to return to BT? B*llocks to that.

2) I need to replace the other house line with a new b/band and phone contract. Once again, many calls to the Utility 'useless' Warehouse by both me and the bloke that owned the house before me. Can we get this sorted between us? Well it's 2 months and counting so far...

3) The new provider I want to use told me yes, they can switch on the line without the required information from Useless Warehouse but I won't have b/band access for 7 days. Which I can't have because I work from home.

Cue ranting. In fact at this point I broke down in tears and wept.

4) It gets worse. I went to measure the mattress as we need a new bed and the tape measure snapped back and took a chunk out of my wrist.

THEN I went to the loo and the toilet seat fell off in my hands.

I've always said that I need is a personal assistant who's job it is to do all this kind of thing for me. Including helping me to the toilet as I'm obviously utterly incapable of getting that right too.

Any applications gratefully received, but be aware that this job is hugely frustrating and (occ) smelly.

Your vastly fed up blogger
Lucy

Speaking like a girl pirate

Sir and The Boy came to stay this weekend.

They bought all kinds of inappropriate birthday presents for Missy, including yet another gun thingy that fires disk as the previous one from Sir mysteriously disappeared in the move. Unfortunately I mentioned this to him and we now have another one. Funny how easily these things get lost, isn't it?

The best present def. came from her Uncle - a pirate's outfit complete with foam sword, eye patch and plastic musket. Now if I didn't know better, I'd say that Sir and The Boy really want a grandson/nephew. These toys are definitely from the boy side of the shop. It's that or being male, they don't actually 'see' the girly stuff, but pass onto whatever it is they would like to play with themselves.

Luckily Missy loved it, and has spent the weekend having mock sword fights with her Uncle, watching 'Dangermouse' and going out on her new bike. (Which is the pinkest, girliest bike I've ever seen, it not only comes with it's own doll called Molly, it also has a fluffy pink saddle. I would like to record officially that I wanted a sensible bike that but was overruled by her father and Missy (both) pouting when I showed them the one I had in mind.)

That aside, I heard them both in her bedroom discussing where the treasure was buried and it made me laugh:

'Where's the gold then?'

'I don't know, I'm a girl pirate, where do you think it is?'

Apparently girl pirates can have massive sword fights, wear eye patches and fire (fake) muskets, but they don't want to get their hands dirty by burying treasure. No comment.

Yours hoisting the Jolly Roger and teaching her daughter to dig holes,

Lucy

PS: I should like it stated that I'm not, and have never been, your heartie.

Sadly back from Dundee

Back home from a few days in Scotland and we're both sighing mightily. Leaving the place that's home was particularly hard, but going back this soon is like picking at a scab. And I'm not five anymore, I'm past the picking at scabs phase.

As the train came over the Tay rail bridge (famous for falling over, but that's another story) tears welled up in my eyes. There's something magical about that view, and living near the sea was such a godsend. I also had a cry about the fact that the night sky over Birkhill was glorious on Sat night. Seems I'm getting sentimental in my old age.

The highspots were:

- Eating with EC in my fav Thai restaurant then going to the pictures like we used to.

- Missy being so happy to be with her old friends. Her birthday party was lovely.

- Finding a fab chipper in Arbroath that has an "all you can eat" buffet for £5.99! If we'd found that before we moved we'd really never have left.

- Seeing everyone again, and being reminded of how hard it is to leave them.

Gotta go find another tissue.

Lucy

A bit of reformation? Yes, please!

It sounds like the monarchy might finally be getting with the programme after all:

1) Catholics will now be monarchs, a law that's been in place 300 years and by now, who cares which brand of God they go for? Not me, baby.

2) MUCH MORE IMPORTANT: the first-born will inherit the crown, whatever their sex.

This is the one that made me go 'oh' out loud. Always a good thing to do in a quiet hotel breakfast room, everyone looks at you surreptitiously but will never ask why you just made an inappropriate noise. Which is good, I'm a grumpy cow in the mornings.

Digressions aside, it's about time. QE II only got the crown because there were no boy children. And she's been doing it for nearly 60 years so women can't be that bad at it. I don't plan to debate whether we need a monarchy at this point, I'd be here for too long and I have to work.

It is good to see is a lumbering, ancient institution finally starting to move with the post-millennial times.

BTW, the good Dr G suggested I rant about this article. Trouble is, if I start on this kinda road (and let's face it, it's an issue very close to my heart), I'll never stop, my head will spin round and round until it explodes in a shower of frustration-fuelled sparks. Don't really have the time to find my brain from under the printer and re-install it today.

Yours in reformation mode,
Lucy

Lidl article: she didn't like the place, the people, the food...

Lidl is by far my favourite supermarket. I like it because of the lack of choice, the fact they don't bother to unpack stuff out of boxes, the lack of stupid telly screens screaming at you, the cheap booze - I could go on and on but you'd nod off. Suffice to say, me and Lidl have had a 5 year love affair, to the point where we started calling 'Ly-Del, the german deli' in my house, such was my deep love for the place.

So then along comes this daft bitch, writing in yesterday's Observer, bleating on in a middle class way about how much she hates it. They don't have baskets! You can't take a shopping list! The shoppers are poor! The checkouts are awkward! Ohmygod, what HAS this world come to when the supermarket doesn't wipe your very ar*se for you. Stupid cow.

Now I appreciate that it's a discount supermarket, which means - shouting for the hard of thinking - NO FRILLS. Lots of cheap food but NO FRILLS.

No you can't choose from 15 brands of the same thing, you get what they've got, bloody cheap. No they don't unpack products from their huge boxes, you do that when you buy something and it saves you money. No they may not have what you want, but they are sure to have one of everything you might need. And some great 'middle aisle' stuff into the bargain (kids shoes, clothes, kitchen equipment, garden stuff, euro type things you can normally only get on holiday...). I won't bang on about the prosecco or the bordeaux rose because frankly I don't want anyone else knowing about them. But anywhere that sells prosecco in handy handbag sized cans gets my vote any day.

Eva Wiseman, I'm glad you don't like Lidl. If you don't like my supermarket, my food and my people, then get the hell out of it. Our lives will be so much richer for the fact that you won't ever be there when we go.

Yours off to worship at the alter,
Lucy

We woz hacked

Funny thing, the internet. When we started working on it all those years ago, it was meant to be a utopia of sorts, a benign meritocracy where everything was beautiful and nothing bad happened. Hah. Then humanity got hold of it...

A couple of saturday's ago, we had four 'blue screens of death' on this old laptop. Which either means your PC is on it's death bed OR some 15 year old little virginal scrote with nothing else to do and no friends is attempting to take something from you in the virtual world.

Turned out our problem was the latter. And in the course of it, I lost all my emails for the last four years, including everyone's email addresses from that time too (please email me if you're reading this, I need to put you back into my now empty address book).

And the tech wizard who installed our network sorted it: they'd only gone and HIJACKED the network, and gotten between the laptop and the net so whatever got sent, they got a copy too.

I gotta ask this question: how dull do you have to be to want to steal my email? I'm sure they'll have found out plenty of fascinating facts like it was my 41st birthday recently, when I planned to talk to my friend in Canada on the phone, what I bought from Tescos that week and so on. Nothing of any use to anyone else, in other words. I'm not stupid enough to keep passwords and anyway now I've changed pretty much all the ones I use regularly.

Whoever you are, can I suggest you get a life? Oh and go forth and multiply while you're at it.

Your still annoyed blogger

Lucy

Breakfast with Jack Sparrow

This week I've watched three excellent films that pretty much cover all bases. The first I just realised fits perfectly with this week's 'Talk like a pirate' day.

Last night and this morning I watched the third 'Pirates of the Caribbean' film, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Now granted I watched it in several parts: the middle bit last night and the start and end this morning. I thought I'd missed the first ten mins, turns out I'd missed the first hour. But that's the beauty of Sky Plus, if you want you can skip it, pause it and make a cup of tea, etc etc. You don't need me to advertise murdoch's baubles.

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed watching it in several parts. If you like sea battles, pirates and sword fights (all pretty high up on my list of enjoyable things), and don't want to have to think (I don't this morning) then it's great fun. It helps that we have a telly the size of Cornwall to watch it on.

Second one deserving on a mention is a German film called 'Run Lola Run'. Very simple premise, good execution. A bit self concious at the start but get through the first 20 mins and it all starts to make sense. We've had an excellent run of great German films (ref. Downfall) and this fits well within them. I really do not know why people don't like subtitles. Can't you read and watch something at the same time for gawd's sake?

And thirdly I watched over several days 'Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil'. I've mustve seen this four or five times now. It's a lovely gripping story, set in a place I really want to visit sometime. I appreciate that the Deep South has had a troubled and conflicted history, but their attitude and way of life sings to my soul.

Also the film has Kevin Spacey, John Cusack and Jude Law in it, all acting their little socks off. And as John Cusack is (or used to be) the sign of a good film whatever it was, it's worth watching. It's like being bathed gently in Mint Julep. What's not to like?

Yours off to yoga again,

Lucy

What goes on tour, stays on tour

Sir has been bugging me to post an update to the hen weekend.

Well I *could* tell you about the persian guys who did magic tricks, or how I got given a nudey lighter, or why we were up till 3am on Friday night. I could also tell you Kath's story about being in Belgium and not realising. Or why Sa was glaring at me in the Salsa Club.

But what goes on tour, stays on tour.

Yours

Lucy 'the very soul of discretion' Lowe

PS: I WILL tell you that having kids is lots of fun as you get to mess with their heads. We told Madam that a 'hen weekend' is like the film 'Chicken Run' - lots of cartoon chickens, sitting on eggs, knitting and flirting with a cockerel who sounds uncannily like Mel Gibson. That's what really happened, honest.

Do you hen? We do...

This weekend is my dear friend Sa's hen do.

She's getting married in Vegas via webcam in October so we won't be there and this is our only opportunity to get together and give her the mother of all send offs.

We will be in Manchester, staying in a 2-storey pent house apartment. We have lots of lovely things planned: a night in catching up with beauty treatments, shopping in fancy shops with a local guide, a thai meal then a big glam night out.

This is a sophisticated event and the only way you'll know we're on a hen do is if you've been given one of our cards. In fact if you're reading this, and you've been given one of our fantastic business cards, feel free to make a (polite) comment below.

We'll be particularly pleased to hear about how good we looked, how funny we were, whether you could guess who was the 'hen', and how many (pink) drinks we bought.

Your over-excited hostess

Lucy

I'm back

Three things caught my eye on the feeds this morning:
1) To break through the glass ceiling we need a spiked helmet, apparently. Which gave me a laugh due to this quote:

"if a small boy were an employer he would be one that compelled you to start work at 6am, repeatedly forced you to chase him round the room in order to complete the most basic task, and threw an earth-shattering tantrum if you failed to fetch him the correct style of latte. He would, in fact, spend most of his time at industrial tribunals."

2) A woman of 59 has had triplets. The question really has to be why, why, why at that age (ref. the above quote!)?

3) And this one really is a doozey. There's finally a woman who *might* be PM material in Japan. Read this and see why it made me mad. Maybe something to do with the language they use to describe her?

I'm not going to bang on and on in a feminist stylee, but for gawds sake, no wonder women are confused. It's all one step forward, and several steps back again.

Reminds me of the vultures in the Jungle Book.
'What do you want to do?'
'I dunno, what do you want to do?'

I know, some equality would be a great start, if only we could get there without being dragged back by spiked helmets, misogynist language and IVF for the over 50s!

Yours with her reeling head in her hands,
Lucy

Feminist and proud

I've been a feminist since I found out what it really was, not the media image of it. Paxman this week bleated on and on about how white middle class white men feel marginalised in the BBC.

Finally given you a taste of your own medicine have we, Paxman? Got some idea of how it feels to be maginalised have we? Good.

Before you all start slanging me, let's look at the evidence. 3000 years of male oppression, versus, oh about 40 years of feminism. I don't think we've got them on the run yet, but we've certainly got them moaning. There's a long, long way to go, but this is a good sign.

If you don't think you're a feminist ask yourself this question:

Do you believe in getting the same money for doing the same work as a man?

If so, you are a feminist.

Nuff said.

Yours in strident mode
Lucy

Trains, hotels, carparks

I had one of my recurring anxiety dreams last night. A train station somewhere in the Highlands. Reached by a train taken straight from a beach. I'd lost everything on the previous journey, or had my handbag nicked. No-one leant me 20p for a cup of tea, or helped me. Burdened with luggage as usual, I was sat panicking on the platform, waiting for a train I had no ticket for, wondering whether I could board it or not. Then I woke up.

I hate these dreams. I have had them for years, the first train dream was as I left university, set in a train/tube terminus somewhere near a gravel pit. That one was easy to work out. This one, I'm not so sure.

I also wander the corridors of hotels sometimes (quite like those ones, I've never been in 'The Shining' or not yet). The worst take place in carparks, where I'm being chased through a dirty, dank concrete vision of hell by scarey people who I can't see. I'm not necessarily a Freudian in this regard, but I do believe that the subconcious is reacting to something - maybe the first sign of upset due to the move?

Either way, I woke up in a bad mood. If anyone can throw some light on this one, feel free to comment.

Yours in search on a cup of tea and 20p

Lucy

The Stooges hurt!

We went down to that there London Town this weekend, to see Iggy and the Stooges and stay at my sister's fabulous boutique hotel on the Isle of Dogs.

Well it was her house really, but as it used to be mine and we've both been there loads, it felt like a fabulous, bijou hotel that's very familiar but now done up to the nines and just gorgeous. I'd recommend it, and it's sooooo reasonable!

I was only mildly upset that the guy at my old local curry house didn't recognise me. It has been over 7 years.

Anyway, Iggy was on his usual form for about the first 5 songs. These were the ones where we were very close to the front, so close in fact that Dr G was going to head to the stage for the usual stage invasion. But as he was the only thing stopping me being swept away, he stayed put.

I was off my feet completely, inside the crowd action, and feeling pretty hemmed in by this point as I couldn't see anything except lager cans and banging heads, so we got out. And had an ice cream (with a flake) and watched from the side.

I now feel bruised, as tho' Iggy himself has been pummelling me on the back for the last two days. I'm guessing this is nothing new to Iggy fans. However, it'll be a while before I go near a mosh pit again. I'm getting on y'know!

Yours with a birthday coming up
Lucy

I found the yoga mat

Yes, the dowsing worked. On the landing, 2nd box I dowsed. Ker-ching!

I had my first yoga session today, wonderful stuff. Now feeling totally blissed out.

The guy taking it (known locally as 'mr bendy') asked if we'd done it before. I told him that I'd done yoga on and off since I was six.

He looked at me and said 'that's...unusual'. I said 'my mother was a hippy'.

That's partly true. So now it looks like my mother has her pen name.

Your floppy blogger
Lucy

I'm a nightmare

Today my boss told me 'you're a nightmare to manage...but in a good way.' Apparently I work so quickly and produce things so fast that my only failure is to communicate to the team what's happening during the process. It's done before anyone knows about it, I'm so fast I'm like a firebrand. He also said if he had 25 like me he could sit back and relax. I'm not sure what to make of this.

A back-handed compliment to be sure. But I did get what he meant.

Your flaming blogger

Lucy

Dowsing for my yoga mat

Those of you who know me, know that I dowse. I don't think anything of it really, it's something that apparently everyone can do, it's just a question of how you do it.

Personally I use jewellery, usually the diamond necklace known at my 'baby bling', because the wonderful Dr gave it to me after the birth of Missy. It's a deeply personal piece, and as I wear it alot I assume it's embued with the essence of moi, which can only help.

Now, somewhere deep in the box mountain is my yoga mat. And I need it because I'm going to my first yoga class in years tomorrow morning at the fancy new gym. I've opened most boxes but nothing yet, so I plan to dowse for it and see what happens. I'll let you know.

Naturally there's a story or two about dowsing. Sir dowses, in fact he taught me. And a while ago we visited the Cheese Ring and dowsed for ley lines using rods. It was my first time with rods but they're quite fun, the reaction is stronger than the necklace, as they cross rather dramatically when you find what you're looking for.

We had a map of the ley lines there and were happily pottering about charting their position and exclaiming.

All of this went on with heckling from Dr G, who was lying in a ditch with a hangover shouting

'Burn them, they're witches!'.

To which Sir replied rather dryly, 'Wizard, actually'.

It didn't shut him up, but I laughed alot.

I'll let you know if I find the mat. Keep your fingers crossed.

Lucy

The girl from Ipanema

'The girl from Ipanema' is one of my all-time favourite songs. And I love it in pretty much all it's forms, and there are many. Obviously the best one is the original, can't beat Astrid's voice here.

A while ago I can up with the concept of the one-note album - one classic song simply repeated in all it's many forms, classic or otherwise. The darling Dr G made me a version with 'Summertime' on it, which kinda worked. Boy there are some odd/rotten versions out there.

I'm listening to the tribute album to 'The Pink Panther' theme right now. And on it is a very good (well no-one else I know likes it, but I do) version of Ipanema.

Sir has asked for some pictures, but as my digital camera has yet to emerge from the box mountain, here's one I made earlier.

Yours
the girl from the Isle of Eriska

Busy week

It's a busy week here at Balmoral Towers: this week we migrated the ecommerce server at work to a new platform.

For those of you who don't work on the web, that'll be a random selection of odd words that mean nothing. For those that do, you'll appreciate how big a job that can be. And the fact that we're left with very few problems is a huge relief to all concerned, mostly me.

However, it's left me exhausted, what with that, the move and the usual stuff of life. I plan to hit the new, gorgeous pool today if possible. And after yesterday's sausage and mash extravaganza, I have enough mash to make Nigella's cottage pie. It's all austerity Britain here now we have an enormous mortgage, make do and mend etc.

Dr G isn't keen on my idea to turn the front garden into an allotment, but as we need to save money, I can't see why I've got to mow something that's not earning it's keep. I hate mowing anyway, it's like hoovering the lawn. And with the possibility of home-grown veg being right outside the front door, I can't see why not.

This is credit crunch Britain. Flowers and lawn are all very well in the NICE years but we need to make money and I don't intend to spend what little we have on veg if I can grow it myself.

So before I lead you all in a sing song, just remember:
Keep Calm and Carry On.

Lucy

In praise of the sausage

I've found that there's very little in this problematic life that can't be solved with the application of sausages and mash. In fact, it's a generational thing - my grandmother (known as 'Nanny', altho thankfully not employed, but related), and I used to eat them straight from the grill off in her kitchen. Sitting on stools with the backdoor open and the fly screen blowing the sunshine in, we'd sit there with a fork-full of sausage each, munching contentedly.

In fact, I put my (mild) sausage obsession down to her. And naturally there's a formative experience involved.

My mother was, in those days, maritally challenged by Sir (known then as 'thatb*stardyourfather' - yes that's right, no spaces, no breathing between the words either) and given to much ranting/crying/having big fits.

We were all standing in the garden, my mother resplendent in 70s fashion - the flares, the cap, the denim shirt - ranting once again about 'thatb*stardyourfather'. Something to do with money as I recall. But being four, it went over my head, and anyway, I'd heard it all before.

Nanny stood there, in a pinny, herself looking like a Victoran throwback (or that's how I recall it). As mum went off towards the house mid-rant, she turned to me and said

'your mother...

your mother, she's got the right a*se ache.'

Now I suspect it occurred to her even as she was uttering this that this wasn't something you should say to a four year old. Especially one as quick as I. And even though I was playing 'Jungle Book' and dressed entirely as Mowgli (orange speedo trunks, a bamboo cane as a spear, barefoot and naked otherwise), my MOST FAVOURITE THING to do at the time, I had a suspicion that what she'd said was wrong. And being manipulative, I might be able to put that to good use.

In her very next breath, she uttered the immortal words 'fancy a sausage?' and the incident was entirely forgotten as we ate sausages off forks and waited for my mother to calm down.

I always remember it fondly when I eat sausages. Firstly because they are wonderful, and secondly because I was easily bribeable with food at a very early age. And that hasn't changed.

Yours with a tummy full of wild boar/apple sausages and cheesy mash,

Lucy

First past the post!

As everyone knows, I have a fear of 'first posts'. There's just so much pressure to be witty and incisive. So I'm just going to go for it, spelling mistakes and all.

We hit Holmes Chapel two weeks ago today, and I'm really enjoying it here. The Scottish estate is a lovely place to live, and everyone seems to be very friendly so far. We are about 60% unpacked and when the additional stuff goes up into the loft, we'll be even closer. I'm pleasantly surprised by how much I like it.

Leaving Dundee was so hard, I hadn't thought past it. But now we're here and I intend to be as happy as possible. (Oh I think I've just made a commitment to happiness, the old me would be hiding under the desk waiting for the sky to fall on her head!)

I thought I'd introduce the main protagonists. I've decided to do this under a pen name (mostly cos I can't spell). And my family and friends who live here and will visit have pen names too:
- I'm Lucy Lowe, this is my p*o*r*n star name. My first pet was called 'Lucy' and the maiden name of my Grandmother is 'Lowe'.
- my husband is The Good Dr, Dr G, or if he's annoyed me, him indoors
- my daughter is missy.
- the cats are t-dahl and sag aloo (they have indian names anyway).

The rest I shall name as they present themselves.

Why am I doing it this way? Well much as I understand that the web is personal, I've also seen lots of people get burnt by it. And I intend to have a long and fruitful blogging relationship with you all.

I can't promise the spelling will be any good, and I can't always promise sparkling wit or wisdom. But I can promise weekly postings and I hope to make it as successful as this blog by a good friend of my dad's (who shall be called Sir) - the daily millbrooker.

Yours having broken her duck,
Lucyxx