Holmes Chapel Blogger

Fergus Gets Stuck - for anthony cheetham, wherever he may be

2011-05-26T06:13:00.000-07:00

FERGUS GETS STUCK
Norma heard it as soon as she opened the door. Dumping the cat litter and huge bag of cat food, keys crashing to the floor she started towards the lounge. He was crying like a baby; it was horrible. She frantically followed the sound to the lounge and drew a sharp breath when it looked empty.

‘Here push, push, push, Fergus where are you? Com’on push cat’

The baby wailing was coming from under the sofa and as she crouched on her hands and knees, the new carpet felt – odd. Sticky. Cold.

‘Com’on, out of there.’ He looked up at her, wailing mournfully. It looked like he’d been thrashing around for ages, the bottom of the sofa had lots of bite marks and 2 claws stuck in it. And when she stood up and took her hands away from the carpet they were slimey. This was bit odd. She grabbed him and pulled and the noise got worse. ‘Stuck are you? Well hold off on the claws and I’ll get you out’
After pulling some more, she gave up, and still mumbling comfort, moved the sofa away from him. He was stuck fast to the new carpet. Not just three paws, but tummy as well. And as she pulled, she could see that there was no fur on his tummy. It looked like, well, like it had been eaten away almost. He’d been de-furred by something.

Norma was a practical person. Stroking Fergus to calm him, the first thing she did was phoned Colin her next door neighbour. A widower. Also in his 60s, very capable was Colin. He appeared at the door panting with a wooden spatula, large pair of garden shears and some WD40.
‘Oh Colin, WD40? That carpet’s only a month old!’
‘It’s that or Fergus, Norma, and I know how much you love him. Let’s see what we can do eh?’ When Colin said the word ‘love’ Norma started to sniff and a small tear appeared in the corner of her eye. Colin rushed past her and didn’t see. It wouldn’t do to let him see how upset she was. That was kind, especially as he didn’t like Fergus much, he was always pooing in Colin’s garden and digging up his seedlings.

The baby wailing started again as Colin sprayed some WD40 on the carpet around Fergus. And there was a nasty smell you could taste that rode over the chemical smell of the WD40. ‘Come on Fergus, we’ll get you out. You’ll live to dig up my veg patch. Ring the vets Norma, tell them what’s happening and ask if they’ve got any tips’.

‘Vets. Right’. Colin set to work easing the spatula gently under one of the Fergus’ paws amid more clawing and thrashing, during which time the terrible smell got worse.

‘It’s engaged. I’ll keep trying’

‘Got it!’ One paw was free. Which Fergus immediately started using it to claw the carpet, getting quiet ferocious with his hissing.

‘It’s the Nanozome stuff Norma, I’ve been hearing about this on the net’. Norma’s new carpet was treated with Nanozomes. Supposedly the tiny nanobots would ‘eat’ the dust and dirt and keep it clean without ever really needing a hoover. Norma was terribly proud, it was very new, had cost her a fortune, and she was the first in the Close to get one. Only now binning the hoover didn’t seem like the best thing she’d ever done, with Fergus’ tummy stuck to the bloody carpet and Colin wielding a spatula and spraying WD40 about.

‘Yes. I have an emergency. My cat is stuck to the carpet.’
‘Yes, it is treated with Nanozomes.’ She frowned and looked at Colin who raised his eyebrows, waved the spatula, and pulled an ‘I told you so’ face.

‘Well we’re trying WD40 just now’ The vet wasn’t very helpful. They’d had quite a few instances and hadn’t had much success, apparently the only thing they could recommend is cutting him out of the carpet with the carpet and bringing him in to the surgery so they could try cutting it off themselves.

‘Try to keep him calm they said, and don’t let him go into shock’.
Colin eventually got all 4 paws freed. So they stopped for a bit and gave him something to eat. As he stood up something dark and gooey, the colour of his dark green cords, stayed on the carpet.
‘You’d better watch this Norma, this stuff is evil.’
‘Colin, now really, it’s only a carpet.’ She smiled weakly and tried not think about owning an evil carpet.
‘It’s got that Nano stuff on it. In it. Part of it. If you’d listened when I did the research, you’d never have bought it. This has been going on for months and they’ve kept it quiet. This stuff is dangerous Norma. I’m serious, just look at what it’s done to poor Fergus. It’s got to go.’

His ears pricked up at his name, he looked quieter, more relaxed, but the tummy was going to be difficult. It looked – just like the Nanozomes had sort of eaten his fur. And probably working on his tummy too, or at least the skin.

Norma sighed. There was nothing for it, they’ve had to cut him out of the carpet and take him to the vets. As Colin cut, something sticky gripped the shears, and they had to resort to a stanley knife. A few broken blades later and he was free. Well, with a bit of carpet still stuck to his middle. She bundled Fergus into a towel and looked back her lounge. Colin was shoving the furniture into the hall, which squelched as he pushed. It seemed for a moment like the carpet was, well, fighting them. Maybe it was evil.

‘Don’t you worry Norma, this’ll be in the Robertson’s skip by the time you’re back. Filthy stuff.’

He was in his element she realised, big gardening gloves on, shifting stuff about, taking charge. Not for the first time she blushed looking at him. He was a nice man, helping them both, especially when he didn’t really like Fergus much.

She laid Fergus tenderly in a rug on the back seat of the car and sped off. As she went round the corner, Colin slipped and fell his length in the lounge.

He was out for a couple of seconds and when he came to, he couldn’t move his head. ‘Oh no you don’t’ he said to an empty room ‘you’ll not get me if I have to use a bloody flamethrower and burn the street down’. Wrenching his head off the carpet was very very sore. It’s left hairs and he yelped. Then he slid out of his jumper and trousars, and reached for the WD40. He stood up, and liberally sprayed the carpet. It seemed to sort of shrivel away from him, so he managed to unstick his boots.

He looked admiringly at the blue and yellow can. It was true what they said. All you needed in a crisis was WD40 and some gaffer tape. He set to work on the carpet with the stanley knife, ghostly blue white skin offset by gardening gloves, y fronts and stout boots, humming tunelessly to himself.

‘There you go, you little buggers. That’s settled your hash’.

Lucy Lowe – 20/11/07

My first five years

2010-06-24T03:09:00.000-07:00

My first years were feted, my every whim sated, I was the golden child for people who had already had to give up a daughter and a grand daughter for adoption.

I was indulged, adored, in a word, spoilt. It is my biggest regret that to this day I didn’t fight harder to go with my father – although the kidnapping rather put paid to that – as I would have had a pony. No doubt the unwanted attentions of my German stepmother would have been harsh. But the house was large, and she other things on her mind. Like opening the wine at 11am. Couldn’t have the elder, snoopy STEPdaughter living round the house then, oh no.

So, my first memory. Sitting under a table, watching my parents argue AGAIN, with the cat hiding next to me, and picking tomato sauce off the lino that my dad had dropped there several days earlier. You can tell I have a vivid imagination, we didn’t have a cat. Not then.

My next memory is of lying under a grand piano, on the carpeted floor of a recording studio somewhere in Cornwall, sucking a very hairy ‘Tune’ off the carpet that some no-mark muso had thankfully dropped. I think we were with the Troggs, or maybe Hermans Hermits. Dad is a bit vague about that. Anyway, they were doing takes and I wasn’t allowed out from under the piano. The next day, as it dawned, all the grown ups stripped their clothes off and ran into the sea naked. Leaving me fully dressed sitting on a rock, watching them, and the Cornish dawn. I was very, VERY hungry.

Those are my first two memories. They are true. This is the third.

I was a tomboy, which was good for my grandfather (the one who disappeared) as he often took me worming at the beach, or to castles where we had mock sword fights and stormed the moat. He could also drive the car with no hands. And that was mind blowing and amazing. Or it was when I was four.

So the first five years were glorious. Which was ill preparation for the next 15, as they were rather less than glorious.

More to follow.
Lucy

No Smoking by Lucy Lowe

2010-04-28T12:19:00.000-07:00

No Smoking by Lucy Lowe
For my Dad, who knows he needs to give up.

'Put that ruddy barbeque out!' Colin was doing his best to run with the fire extinguisher, chest bursting under his zip-up cardy.

The residents all knew they weren't supposed to have fires of any kind – no smoking, no bonfires, no barbecues, no gas, no flames of any sort. But there was always some smarty pants visitor who decided that the rules didn't matter.

Well they do matter, thought Colin, they ruddy well matter a lot. Running with a fire extinguisher wasn't something he did very often, and with a beetroot head and blood pounding in his ears he had lost the element of surprise.

Still, he managed to cover the disposable barbecues in foam before Mrs McDonald's nephew barrelled into him.

'Oy, that's my bloody tea you're wrecking!' He went to kick Colin, ridiculous in his naked woman apron, snapping metal tongs at Colin’s ear.

The sight of white foam sausages and chicken legs right next to his face made Colin want to laugh, but he knew he'd get more from the grandson, and didn't plan to make it any worse. ‘Step back son’, McDonald senior pulled his son away from Colin’s face.

'I told him the rules Colin, I did, but he didn't listen'. Mrs McDonald could always be relied upon to snitch under pressure. McDonald senior pulled Colin to his feet and started to apologise.

'Oh thanks Nana’, the grandson spat flinging his apron off and striding towards the carpark. 'I'm going to have a fag, and no little twat in a zip up Woolies cardy is going to stop me'. Colin knew he'd lost though, all the bluster had gone out of him.

'Sorry Colin, I won't let him do it next time'.
'Fair enough Mrs M, fair enough. We'll overlook it this time eh? But you know the rules, a second time and we'll have to talk about you moving on.'

'Now there's no need for that, is there?' McDonald senior batted in 'I mean, we won't do it again now will we? Especially not now the weather’s turning.’

The last thing anyone wanted was for Mrs M with her little ‘accidents’ to be sent home again. They were happy to have her off their backs, and she was happy to be living at Stanhope OAP Caravan Park, with lots of home help visits, the on-site nurse, the clubhouse with a good canteen, and lots of other oldies to gossip with.

Legs trembling, Colin tried to keep a straight back as he walked back to his cabin. He could feel the eyes of the McDonald family slamming into him with every wobbly step. If Mrs M was happy there, the family were even happier that she was there. And if that meant no fire, no flames, they'd do it. The families were actually very grateful usually. Despite only being open two years, the waiting list for Stanhope was growing by the week.

Getting back seemed to take far longer than it should, blazing hot and pulse racing. He was grateful to slump into his favourite armchair. He even had to unzip his cardy to cool off, which made him feel a bit funny, like he was naked. With tea on hand and ‘Deal or No Deal’ on, he drifted off. The incident reminded him of his mum, and her passing was still fresh in his mind. Still a bit sore after four years, everyone said it'd pass eventually, but hadn't yet.

He’d been in a blue funk for the year after her death. Well, what with losing the house as well, never mind the cat, he was lost too; completely. Still kept his job at the factory, work helped a bit. Next door took him in, and looked after him for a while. They found him a bedsit in the next street, went round for his tea most evenings, they were very kind. But despite all the rallying round, and the terrible kindness, he just couldn’t get the image of her body in flames out of his head.

John had come to see him one day, one of the fireman who’d tried to save her. Had a quiet word. Because everyone in the town knew him, knew about his dad dying too, they’d sort of fudged the investigation. Electric blanket fire was the official verdict. It was very old, faulty wiring. Mr Blake the coroner was happy enough with that.

So he got the insurance pay out after all, and no questions asked. Everyone wanted to see him right, after all he’d been through. What with his mum, and that after they’d both nursed his father through emphysema. And his, well, his terrible going.

He still heard his dad in his dreams sometimes, wheezing, desperate to catch a breath. Smoked for 45 years, hadn’t even given up when he was diagnosed. ‘I’m too far on the road for that Colin. If it’s my time, it’s my time. Now nip down the shop and get us 20 B&H would you?’

Colin has tried to make him see what he was doing to himself, but with his mum still smoking too, it all fell on deaf ears. His death was too horrible, so much so that Colin refused to remember. To console himself, he’d done the house up. Colin had painted it, painted the whole house once he went. Painted the yellow nicotine away. Anything to keep himself busy.

The insurance money did come in handy. His mum had a new kitchen, and they’d gotten the windows done finally. Changed the garden, after what had happened that had to be done. But she’d never been the same.

Six months later he’d come home from a night shift to find the street blocked off. Fire engines, police, ambulance. It was just like the telly. Only it was his house on fire, and that hadn’t felt like the telly, not at all. They were lucky to save the next house along, the Browns all standing outside in their slippers and dressing gowns, Mrs B crying.

But no-one had really blamed his mum. They knew she hadn’t been right without his dad, probably just a matter of time, everyone said.

Thinking it through when his head cleared, Colin reckoned she'd been smoking in bed, a sneaky fag. Probably devouring a Mills and Boon from the library van. Probably fell asleep with the ashtray on her chest, cat at the bottom of the bed and that was that.

He’d was very surprised by the size of the estate. With over half the insurance money left from his dad, the payout for his mum and years worth of squirreling money away ‘for a rainy day Colin’, he had quite a big sum. A very big sum. So he’d taken early retirement from the factory – another lump sum, pension paid up for 30 years – and bought a motor home.

Went north, touring the Scottish Borders, staying where he felt like. That’s where the big idea hit him, and Stanhope OAP Caravan Park started to take shape.

The way he saw it old people got the raw deal. They ended up in horrible places, with no privacy and bad food, and often bad carers. They had a right to enjoy the end of their lives. So why not give them a holiday park type place to live in? Besides, he missed his mum and well, he just liked old people. Felt he understood them somehow, wanted to help and put his money to good use. Couldn’t just use it for himself, that’d never do. Felt wrong.

Came upon the perfect site in the borders. High but flat, with good views of the sea. Close enough to Haddington to get to a hospital, far enough to be secluded. Big place. Rained a lot. He liked that. Made the bloke an offer he couldn’t refuse, happy accept in fact, desperate to leave, and that was that.

Spent a year getting it right. Cabins mostly, with ramps up to the doors. Three big rooms, lounge with kitchenette, bedroom, bathroom all set up with handles and pulleys, special baths and all that. Canteen with good food, and some event most nights. Everything done, so they could enjoy their life up till the last gasp.

He didn’t want anyone to go like his folks had. So the biggest rule was no fire, no smoke, no flames of any kind. He’d taken a long time to reach that decision, but he couldn’t face any of it happening again. And the rule seemed like the simplest way to avoid it. He’d still get the odd plonker, like Mrs M’s nephew, but so long as he got there in time, nothing too bad happened.

It surprised him, the standing it gave him in the local community, running the place. Hadn’t considered it. He’d brought in Margaret, to manage the place day-to-day. Wasn’t daft enough to think he’d know what was what when he’d been making electrical components for radios all his life. She’d run a home before but hated the big boss who scrimped on everything and made her life a misery. He promised a free hand and a big budget, she got on with employing locals and the place started coming to life.

Everyone in the village was very happy about it, oldies don’t tend to run riot or cause trouble. And they looked after the senile ones very carefully. The more mobile ones bought a few pints in the local or nipped to the paper shop. The bowling club membership increased threefold. The local doctors had to employ some new people to cope, but that was fine too.

Most of all, the residents (as he insisted on calling them) really enjoyed themselves. They were very happy. They all got interviewed before they were let in, a bit perturbed when he’d sniffed their hair, their coats to find out if they were lying about smoking. But the ones that weren’t, who got to move in, described it as the nicest place they’d lived in. They all thought the world of Colin. Which was something else he’d not expected. Nice though it made him feel a bit nervous, didn’t like the limelight much.

‘Hello there Colin, only me’. He jumped off the chair when the door knocked, cat and remote flying off his lap. Jeanie the local chiropodist popped her head round the door and Colin blushed. ‘Oh dear, what did I catch you doing? You’ve gone ever so red!’ she laughed, and her entire body shook with joy. She was the happiest woman he’d ever seen, was Jeanie, and she made other parts of him happy too. Parts that hadn’t been happy for as long as he could remember., well ever really. His blush turned a deep crimson as he stood up and sat down again quickly.

‘H-hello Jeanie, just having a quick doze. W- what can I do for you. It’s Saturday, w-w-wha- are you doing here?’ Colin really really hated his stutter. Particularly now, as he watched Jeanie trying very hard not to finish his words for him. It would have to be her waking him up, wouldn’t it?

‘Just popping in some extra corn plasters and medicated talc for the Browns in number 16. And I might pop into the canteen after, Mrs Wilson said she’d help me learn bridge with the other “gals”. If that’s okay with you that is?’
‘S-s-s-sure thing. I mean y-yes that’s fine. M-m-might see you there later’
he watched her walk up the path, stopping to chat to Brian Ellis and have a laugh. She was always smiling, always laughing. He always smiled too when she was about. He told himself he might slip to the canteen later, once he’d finished for the day. And immediately went to have a shower and change into a fresh cardy. Women didn’t like the smell of sweat, that much he did know.

When he finally plucked up the courage to open the back door of the bar, the sound of laughter hit him in a wave. The bridge game was in full swing. Or rather, Jeanie was, teasing the old ‘gals’ about their glory days in the war.
‘…. So tell me again, he was a GI from Kansas, he asked to meet your dad, so you showed him your knickers? Or did he ask to see your knickers so you asked him to meet your dad?’ Mr Brown got his inhaler out from too much laughing, as Jeanie winked round the table and then caught sight of Colin.

‘Colin! Now ladies here’s a man who’ll put us right. Colin, what would you have made of Verity here during the war? Would you have wanted to meet her dad?’
‘Or see her knickers!’ muttered Mrs Price behind her cards, and they were off again.
Colin blushed again and Mrs Price grinned ‘Told you dear. It’s not Verity’s drawers he’s interested in. It’s yours’. Her hearing aid shrieked as everyone turned to Colin trying very hard to disguise their giggles and failing.

Colin spun round and slammed the door as hard as he could. Almost running back to his cabin, head thumping for the second time that day.

His hands had only just stopped shaking the whiskey glass when the door knocked. When he didn’t answer, he heard Jeanie’s voice though the door. ‘Colin, I’m, I just wanted to, I’m…. Oh bugger, can I come in, I mean it’s starting to drizzle.’ On the step he found her cuddling Ginger.

‘Look Colin, I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant, y’know, just a bit of a laugh. Sometimes I go too far I know. Will you accept my apologies?’

‘You’d better come in.’
‘Well this is nice. I’ve never been in before, only to the others. I thought yours was bigger. Can I take a look around? You’ve done it up very smart. Big kitchen too…’ as she burbled on, smiling up at him, Colin was caught once again by her dimples.
‘J-jeanie’
‘Hmmm? Yes, well as I said…’
‘JEANIE’
‘Sorry sorry, I do go on’
‘Would you, well would you like to erm, g-g-go out with me for a drink?’ He finished quickly, not wanting his sentence finished for him.

She’d gone uncharacteristically quiet and his heart stopped for a minute. Then a huge smile burst across her face ‘Oh Colin, I’d love to, I’d really really like that’.

And that was that. One drink led to dinner, lunch on Sundays, cards in the clubhouse. Colin was happy, happier than he’d ever been. And as the autumn leaves turned, his thoughts turned too. He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to feel like, but this felt, well, like love to him.

Saw her most days, but couldn’t wait to see her, wanted to see her all the time. Really wanted her, if truth be known. Not that there had been any of that. He’d always planned to wait till his wedding night. He blushed at the thought, not daring to think of Jeanie or a wedding night.

He was so carried away with getting the ring and how to do it, that he didn’t really think when she asked about bonfire night.

‘The kiddies would love it Colin, otherwise they’ve got to go all they way to Haddington and you’ve got plenty of land. I know how you feel about fire, but we could have it in the back field, that’s far enough away isn’t it? I could get Pat and the boys, you wouldn’t even have to be involved. I mean what’s the harm? A little fireworks party…’

Deep down something hard jumped, his dad’s face popped up. The last face.
He swallowed and pushed it away.

But maybe she was right. Where was the harm? It wasn’t like anything would happen, and anyway when she asked he found it really hard to say no to anything.
‘Yes love, why not?’

‘Oh thanks Colin, you won’t have to do a thing, I promise. I’ll sort it all out.’ His heart jumped again when she smiled. And he watched her ample bottom as she walked to her car. Love melted him. He’d do anything for her. His dad’s image melted right away. Thankfully.

So, why not? He didn’t have to be around for it, could watch from the park, get the local lads kitted up as fire wardens. It was fireworks night and the village was too small for a big do. Yes, that’s what they’d have. A big do. Then he’d ask her, that’s right. He’d show that he could cope with fire, show himself really, then he’d get down on one knee and ruddy well ask her.

5 November was a glorious autumn day. Not too warm, clear skies.
‘It’ll be chilly tonight Colin’. Mr Brown smiled as Colin jumped. He was staring down at the bottom field with an odd look on his face. The bonfire was frankly huge. The local kids had all had a hand in it, and they were all bringing guys to burn on it. He hadn’t thought it’d be that big.
‘Y-yes, it’ll be – it’ll be c-cold’. That stutter. It mostly had gone but the bonfire, something about it.
‘Good that you’re doing this lad, the local kids are made up, maybe make it annual event eh? You and Jeanie?’ Colin blushed again. That was happening a lot. The mere mention of her name made his whole body burn these days.
Mr Brown chuckled as he limped away, stroller gleaming in the low autumn sun.

As the evening started closing in they arrived in a procession. Kids flashing sparklers, dads with guys on their shoulders, some older lads with a man size guy in a shopping trolley. As he looked closer he could see a few knitted cardies, some glasses and brown trousers. Jeanie grabbed his arm and laughed ‘look Colin, they’re burning guys of you!’ It was true, it looked like they’d all made versions of him. He gulped.
‘That’s er, nice’. His voice dropped weakly away. The lump in his throat stopped him speaking.
‘You should be so proud’ she dropped a kiss on his cheek ‘It’s their way of saying ‘thank you’.’ Bit of a bloody odd thank you if you ask me. He thought but didn’t say.

‘Now, I’m off down to the bonfire. All the firewardens are in place. They’re going to start the fireworks in half an hour or so so why don’t you go to the clubhouse and round up the oldies who can walk? If you stay up here with them on the ridge, they’ll be able to see and you’ll all be far enough away.’ The residents had all put in for the fireworks, they loved a bit of a do.

‘Yes love, see you in a bit’.

He went to find Margaret and the team. Yellow hi-vi vest on, torch in hand. As the fireworks threw sky flowers above their heads, everyone ooo-ed and ahh-ed. It was great show, the night sky filled with amazing droplets of light, like pure colour dropped into the blackest sky. At some point Colin felt drawn to the bonfire. Felt himself walking down the hill a bit. Jeanie grabbed his arm ‘Oooh love, you’re freezing, come and get warm. There’s jacket potatoes in the embers. We’ve had 2 tins of beans explode already, tomato fireworks the kids are calling them’.

They paraded through the crowd, arm in arm, everyone thanking him and calling out his name. He’d never felt more safe, more home than now. The crowd went quiet. Everyone’s face was glowing orangey red, as they turned towards him and clapped.
‘och say something love, they wanted to thank you’.

‘Erm, I’m not, v-v-very good at this but it’s lovely to see everyone so happy tonight. Th-th-thanks for coming. Oh and thanks for the guys, I see you’ve made me Guy Fawkes f-for the n-n-night’. At least he hadn’t stuttered much.

He only noticed he was to close to the fire when his trousers started smouldering. ‘Oopps, that’d be ironic, if you burnt up eh?’ Jeanie face was a beautiful orange picture.
‘Jeanie, I’ve got something –‘ he groped in his pocket as she stopped him with a kiss and a push away from the fire. ‘Sssh honey, it’s okay, let’s go back to your cabin’.

But they couldn’t get through, the press of smiling people was too much, there was low hum as if they wanted something but couldn’t speak. They pressed them both back towards the fire. Over the crackles he thought he heard ‘Burn, burn, burn’. And everyone around the fire smiled, and smiled and smiled. The blood rushed in his ears or was that ‘burn, burn, burn’?

As Colin’s head started to smoulder he remembered his dad. They’d had a bonfire in the garden to burn some old papers, just before he died. Didn’t want any mess left to clear up. His oxygen tank had exploded and Dad’s head had burnt to a crisp really fast. Right next to him, he’d never been able to truly wipe it from his mind. Who could forget that? ‘No smoking. Huh.’ He managed to smile as his face started to melt. Everyone said he looked so very much like his dad. Especially now.

Right next to him, Jeanie screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. A great big roaring bonfire, sending burning Guys, sacrificial spoils up, up, up into the blackness of the cold November night. Burn, burn, burn.

Completed April 2010

'Things happen when you drink'

2010-04-12T03:13:00.000-07:00

As my facebooker friends know, I follow russian news stories. They really are some of the most insane people on the planet and I say that with a degree of admiration. Here are my top ones:

The Vodka Drinking competition where the winner died and the losers ended up in intensive care.
The rave where they used an industrial laser and blinded people.
The all time top favourite: the drunken russian who got stabbed and didn't notice for several hours until his wife saw a knife sticking out of his back.

For reference, I find most of them on Reuters Oddly Enough, which is where most of the world's 'end of news' stories seem to start.

Off to check up on the feeds, if you get any more crazy russian stories, send em to me. I hate to miss out.

Lucy

Something what I wrote

2010-03-23T02:34:00.001-07:00

Hi all,
It's been a while. But now I'm back. And here's a little taster of what's to come.

The Goto Girl
For GBM

The goto girl is silly and dirty.
She’s high as a kite
She’s giggly and flirty.
And she is the girl
With the very best
Drugs.
Your goto girl, now she’s no mug.

If you want to party daft
Just watch her dance in the dark.
As the breeze takes her very short
Silky red dress
And flips it above knicker height.

Then the goto girl is silly and dirty.
She’s high as a kite
She’s girly and flirty.
But your goto girl, now she’s no mug
So don ‘t start thinking you can be smug.

Cos when she leaves you, sonny boy,
And yes, she will,
She’ll leave your wallet rather light
And flit off with her bag of wares
Into the guiness of the night.

She’ll leave you with some interesting bruises
In very sore places.
With some nasty little shakes,
And your bloodshot eyes, you’re all a bit spacey.

That goto girl is nasty and dirty.
She’s high as a kite
She’s giggly and flirty.
But she is the girl
With the very best
Drugs.
Your goto girl, now she’s no mug.

You go too, girl.
And how.

Mar 2010.

Bring me sunshine

2009-07-15T01:30:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how life turns out? For the record, I never imagined - not for a second - that I'd be married with two kids and living in Cheshire. But then, I never envisaged living in Dundee either. I suppose what I've done is just let life happen to me. I was never the kind of kid who thought about my wedding day or what I'd do later on. I simply just got on with living.

I did have plans for my 40s, but I've given up making plans. Obviously my life isn't meant to be like that, but the best thing about now, is that I'm starting to enjoy it for the first time. Having the second baby has meant that I have to go with the flow. And that attitude is starting to seep into other areas of my thinking so that I'm not able to push at life. I'm just doing my hardest to be the best I can be on the day. It's tiring making to do lists and forever never finishing them. The striving is very exhausting. I can't say for sure that I'm done with that way of thinking, but I'll try.

I've had alot of hardship and made a point of telling my friends about that. So now I'm always trying to be sure to tell everyone when I'm happy. And today I'm happy.

Yours

Lucy

A woman's work....

2009-05-21T04:46:00.000-07:00

Getting up twice a night to feed a small squally son tends to make my creative juices run rather dry, hence the lack of posting. It's the normal early baby chaos: there are piles of washing in various states everywhere, cat litter all over the landing and sheets that SERIOUSLY need changing. I won't go on, you get the less-than-fragrant picture.

I've long held the opinion that it's nearly impossible to look after everyone, have a clean house, clean clothes and a general state of domestic calm AND work creatively at the same time. There's something about the repetitive tedium of domestic tasks that dampens the creative spark. Or at least it always has done in me. Which means I haven't written anything fiction related for several months.

What is interesting is a very old, dear friend of mine (my mentor in book publishing, waaay back in the day) has similar issues but the key thing is - she's ALSO working. And writing and being published at that.

So I'm right, you can't to do it all. The answer is a) staff - what I wouldn't give for a general housekeeper-cum-nanny or b) let it all fall as it may and get the creative stuff done. Unfortunately, I hate mess so feel compelled to tidy up even if it means shoving stuff randomly in cupboards which drives Dr G mad.

Not sure what to add to that, except, thank god for my cleaners.
Lucy

The converse of 'In the Loop'

2009-05-13T04:37:00.000-07:00

As breastfeeding means I sit down alot, I've been reading alot. I read somewhere that everything influences your milk (probably rubbish but hey, who knows?) so I've been reading macho books every so often, like 'The Requiem Shark' about Black Bart the pirate (brilliant if you haven't read it), and 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway.

I've never really gotten along with Hemingway, too misogynist for my tastes, so it's slow going, but on page 47 I found the antidote to Malcolm Tucker.

Originally printed in 1941, they obviously thought swear words far too racy so here's a snippet:

'...we blow up an obscene bridge and then have to obscenely well obscenity ourselves off these mountains...Go to the unprintable... and unprint thyself!'

How fab. This sorts out swearing in front of children!

So I'll unprint off, and obscenely post again soon,

Lucy

Forgive my tardiness, it's been a busy time

2009-05-06T03:27:00.000-07:00

Once again, here I am, apologising for lack of posting. But I'm sure this time you'll understand when the reason is having a baby.

Suffice to say, the op went well, the surgeon was great (all the midwives keep saying 'very neat scar' which I hope is true), and the medical staff at Macclesfield Maternity Unit were/are fab.

At risk of sounding like I'm at an award ceremony, I'd like to thank everyone for the cards, presents, flowers, emails, comments and blog postings. We're all doing just fine but our state of wellness is def helped by the fact that bouquets of flowers keep arriving along with parcels, cards etc etc.

I didn't forget you while this was going on, and will write more about the joys of pain relief later, I just wanted to share one thing. Amongst the many 'moments' over the last week, one stands out, which was when I realised that there was nothing better I could be doing other than looking after my new son.

Yes, I know women across time have all felt this, but I haven't. It's rare for me not to be considering what else I should be doing, how many other tasks I could and should be cramming into my day.

But not right now. Right now, I'm doing the best, only and single most important activity there is. I believe it's called 'living in the moment'. And you know what, it feels great.

Lucy

Film review: Lock, Stock and 2 smoking comic movies

2009-04-28T04:21:00.000-07:00

As Dr G was out last night, and I keep getting told to sit down, I indulged in my favour pastime of watching several films at once, in this case:

- Lock, Stock and 2 Smoking Barrels

- Spiderman 3

- X-men 3

The last two are decidedly pants. Spidey inexplicably jive walking and then breaking into a very suspect dance routine about 2/3 of the way through did it for me. Halle Berrie's crap super power (weather!) never fails to make me snort with derision. But as I had control of the remote for a change, I simply hopped to another channel whenever I got bored.

I do this when I can't be bothered to think. It's the film watching equivalent of finger food - hop from plate to plate and back again. If you get lucky, you'll hop at the right time and see the significant parts so you can follow the stories.

It helps that I've seen 'Lock, Stock' loads of times. I do love a good caper movie and despite Guy Ritchie's inability to make another decent film (unlike his producer, Matthew Vaughn) this is definitely a good caper movie. I like this film, it doesn't quite make my top 5 but it's def worth revisiting from time to time, for the soundtrack and entirely quotable script if nothing else: 'It's a deal, it's a steal, it's sale of the f*cking century....'.

I remember bumping into an old mate who had worked on it. She hated every minute of it, it was an end-to-end lads' party much like you see on screen, and only came together in the edit apparently. She claimed it drove her out of the film business into alternative therapies, but then you have to take film gossip with a pinch of salt.

If you haven't seen it, then Matthew Vaughn's 'Layer Cake' is good too, def Daniel Craig's calling card for Bond. It got slated but the only thing I can see wrong with it is Michael Gambon and his dodgy tan.

Lucy

Film Review: 'In the F*cking Loop'

2009-04-23T01:13:00.001-07:00

Having managed to make it out together, without Madam in tow yesterday, our last day on our own for who knows how long, we went to the pictures to see 'In the Loop'.

I say we were on our own, but while 2 people went out, there were really 3 of us there. Which means junior has had his first education in gratuitous swearing by someone other than his mother and he's not even out yet. Truth told, I really only went to see how sweary Malcolm Tucker would be allowed to be on the big screen.

Already fans of 'The Thick of It' as I'm sure anyone with a passing interest in politics is too, 'In the Loop' was as fab as I'd hoped. Thankfully un-hyped, to the point where we had to search for a cinema showing it, you have to go. If it's not on your must-see list, put it firmly at the top, it's worth the effort.

I don't want to spoil it too much. There are too many good jokes to mention and as with all of these things, it's great writing and great casting that makes it. For the uniniated, take a look at Tucker's Law to get you in the mood. As someone who until she had a kid listed 'swearing' as one of her hobbies on her web profile, you can see why I'm squarely in the target market. Luckily all the laughing didn't induce labour but my sides really hurt this morning and you don't get a a better review than that.

Now repeat after me: come the f*ck in, or f*ck the f*ck off...

Lucy

Define 'Ready'...

2009-04-22T11:16:00.001-07:00

It's interesting what different people consider ready to mean. A friend asked yesterday if I had everything sorted out for the baby. By this she meant hospital bag packed, car seat fitted, list of emails/phone numbers given to Gav, that kind of thing. Just in case anything happened before next Thursday, as you never know. Babies come when they want to etc etc.

I had to stop for a minute as I said 'yes, well, no but yes'. In my own way, I'm entering a state of readiness. By this I mean:

I've dyed my hair. Yet another ginger/strawberry blonde experience, I'll be glad when this 3-for-2 dye is finished.
I've been to the dentist and had my teeth polished. I'm sure the antenatal staff will be glad, nay, relieved to see that.
I've painted my toenails. No mean feat, have you any idea how hard it is to do any sensible grooming below the waist with a bump this big?

Naturally the baby's room is complete, the washing all done and so on. I just have to work out how the pram/car seat/buggy combo fits together, order a big bag of cat food, buy Gracie some clothes and that's pretty much it.

I just haven't packed the bag yet because in my own head, it's not happening till next Thursday. But I'm ready, as you can tell...

Lucy

German Film Festival: The Wave

2009-04-20T01:19:00.000-07:00

We watched yet another fab German film at the weekend - The Wave, obviously loosely based on the 1960s US experiment called 'the third wave' (gotta love Wikipedia) and I quote: "Jones (the teacher), unable to explain to his students how the German populace could claim ignorance of the extermination of the Jewish people, decided to show them instead. Jones started a movement called "The Third Wave" and convinced his students that the movement is to eliminate democracy."

What gets me is not that someone has made an intelligent, interesting film about this but that this was made in Germany by Germans.

This generation of film makers seem to be able - or at even want - to examine their shameful past history without flinching. Ref. Downfall, The Counterfeiters, The Wave. Which is what you're supposed to do, if you're to learn from it, but I'm not sure as Brits we would manage it in quite the same way. A small, sniffy (and rather pathetic) apology for the slave trade is one thing, making films that directly reflect your own grandparents rather gruesome deeds is quite another.

I'm not suggesting that the entire German nation is enlightened (they still like Hasselhoff, stone washed denim and mullets after all) but their artistic community is deliberately looking back with an unflinching eye. Gotta say, I admire them for it. And that's not something I ever expected to think about the Germans.

Rent it, see if you agree with me.

Lucy

Return of the prodigal blogger

2009-04-16T02:40:00.000-07:00

Instead of working on the assumption that one never explains and never apologises, I've been away so long that I'd better tell you that work ate my life for 3.5 months. Couple that with being pregnant, and the available brain space to do anything of note apart from sleeping, eating and looking after the family has been minimal.

BUT no longer, today I start my maternity leave, so apart from minor details like having a baby (due to be delivered by c-section on 30 April), I'm all yours for the summer. In the meantime, here's a few highlights of the last three months:

I managed a huge product launch of 222 web pages in 6 languages that all went live in one go with no problems. Possibly the smoothest launch I've ever run, and def couldn't have done it without the fabulous Rhona Scott at our digital agency without whom etc etc.
Sir (aka 'yourfathertheb*stard') had a handbag duel with the Daily(ish) Millbrooker over some point of honour that I don't really understand. Even I felt a twinge of embarrassment and he's been doing this kind of thing all my life. No wonder my little brother is running away to join the navy...
I've had a surprisingly good pregnancy. Apart from the fact that sometimes I go to bed at the same time as Missy, and I keep getting told that the baby isn't as big as it's supposed to be, I've mostly been fine.

REALLY looking forward to tomorrow, the start of what's being called 'my confinement' when I plan to sit on my ever-expanding bum eating biscuits and watching old films on the telly until the big day. I may even attempt to bake some of my favourite biscuits, viennese fingers, depending on how the nesting urge takes me...

So expect some film reviews over the next couple of weeks along with maybe some pictures of misshapen biscuits. I bet you're all giddy with excitement now, aren't you?
Lucy

Settling in

2009-01-13T12:10:00.000-08:00

It struck me the other day that I've said very little about how we're getting on 6 months after the big move. I'm starting to feel like I live here now.

Three things have occurred to make this happen:

1. We've made some friends which REALLY helps to make us feel settled. And this meant that new year was spent at a dinner party, as opposed to sitting on the sofa, with Dr G willing me not to fall asleep at 10pm. We were out till 2am. I can't remember the last time that happened (she said, ancient so-called party animal now sounding about 105 years old).

2. We keep bumping into kids in the village who smile and wave at Madam. This means I get a smile and a wave from the mum too. Sounds like a small thing, but that does help to make me feel welcome.

3. I bumped into Madam's nursery teacher at the gym last week and had a lovely chat about kid-free days.

That one was a bit odd as I'm not used to people I call 'miss' talking to me while semi-naked. What is the protocol for that kind of meeting? I looked firmly into her eyes and tried to hide my lady parts without looking uncomfortable. A bit daft really, as she's female and has two kids so very likely has seen lady parts before.

Anyway, all in all, Holmes Chapel is starting to feel more like home. Which is good, as the state of the economy and the size of our mortgage means it's going to be home for quite a few years to come. As everyone always says about getting settled, it's knowing people that makes a place.

I do hate sounding cliched, but they are cliches for a reason, aren't they?
Lucy

The Fog

2009-01-09T01:16:00.000-08:00

Regular readers will know I was bewildered by my own keys a few month's ago and at least now I know why - being pregnant will do that to you. As it is, I'm now experiencing what I can only describe as my own weather pattern, mostly manifesting itself as an 'hormonal fog'. I'm relating it to pregnancy but again it could be another sign that old age is settling in for the duration.
This week it has exhibited itself in several delightful ways:

COMPLETELY forgetting several conversations that myself and Dr G have had. Now they were a few month's ago but I'd be hard-pressed to say I was even in the room with him when we talked about it. You can imagine how delighted he was by that.

Striding purposely upstairs to do something important, but losing the plot as soon as I reach the landing. Not just 'what was I wanting?' more 'why am I here again?'.

Mentioning that we'd do make purple porridge to Madam then wondering why she was upset when I presented her with a bowl of porridge with blueberries, not purple porridge. I made her cry! It's true, I'm a crummy mummy. More on that later.

Writing things down on a to do list (sensible) then losing the list (stupid!).

Safe to say it's nowhere near as bad as 'The Fog' (original book by James Herbert for those to remember him). I don't want to murder anyone - well, not yet anyway. Well, okay, not often. Though I did hear about a friend of a friend who's hormones turned her really psychotic and she accused all and sundry of sleeping with her husband. Pregnancy is such a delight.

Anyway, the wonderful She suggested a solution: how about a notepad and a pen on a string round my neck. When something is important, I can then write it down immediately and won't lose the note. Only problem is, I'd look like a mad old lady, like the one I used to see in London. So what's better - the hormonal fog or the old mad bag lady look?

Off to - oh god - I do know this, something to do with water...
Lucy

Mark of Friendship - RIP

2008-12-19T00:59:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-12-17T04:38:00.001-08:00

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?

2008-12-11T06:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-05T01:26:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-25T05:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-18T01:58:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-11-13T03:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-31T01:42:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-25T02:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-22T04:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-18T05:10:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-16T10:36:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-15T05:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-13T05:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T01:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-08T04:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-06T04:28:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-30T01:50:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-09-25T03:45:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-09-22T05:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-20T00:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-19T01:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-18T04:39:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-09-12T07:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-08T04:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-28T03:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-27T03:16:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-08-26T01:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-22T05:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T06:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T00:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-20T05:19:00.000-07:00

'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

2008-08-20T01:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-08-19T05:14:00.000-07:00

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