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It's raining men...

We overslept this morning.  I'm not entirely surprised having walked the equivalent of a half marathon over the past two days, and we just about made breakfast.   We did all the usual Christmas stuff today.  Carnaby Street, Regent Street, Borough Market, mulled wine (again), chocolate covered bananas and caramelised nuts.  There was also the issue of the very inclement weather.  Wandering around the whole A to Z of London, the husband decided that a purchase of a hat and scarf was necessary.  Being a fairly sensible woman, I had brought a hat, scarf and gloves with me, but the husband, being of tougher stuff (he hails from the north) had proclaimed that he was no southern softy and would deal with whatever the weather had to throw at him in a manly fashion. Fast forward to late morning, the rain was chucking it down, and the manly fashion had morphed into wimpy whinging about a chaffed chin due to an evil coat zip and a wet head.  And so began the hut hunt. We tried sports shops (t

Get off of my cloud...

Last night ended with the husband spreading Christmas joy up and down Oxford Street in one of those rickshaws, waving and shouting Merry Christmas to all and sundry while Shakin' Stevens belted out his festive musical offering.  It was a lovely way to finish our Sunday as it had started in a very different manner. For my birthday, I received loads of brilliant gifts, one of which was from my Binland friends (if you're new to me, this is a waste company I worked for happily for many years).  This was a two part gift consisting of a jet boat ride up the Thames and a lovely meal at Marco Pierre White's restaurant in Shoreditch.  As there was a two hour break in what is lovingly known as the British weather, we did the boat trip yesterday.  Now I hate boats.  This has stemmed from being a terrified fourteen year old watching Jaws at the cinema, and every time anyone mentions the word 'boat', I am reminded of one of my dad's favourite sayings.  'There's thing

Cold as ice...

So here we are in the North Pole.   Well, not quite the North Pole, more Kings Cross, but it's blooming freezing up here.  This afternoon, the husband and I have trolleyed between various hostelries looking for an open fire, a mulled wine and a knee blanket with little if any success.  Instead, there was kiosk after kiosk selling street food and let's be fair, who wants to be nibbling on a bratwurst when it's -3 and it means taking your gloves off.    We eventually managed to squeeze into a lovely restaurant; this was actually the first one I picked out, but the husband (AKA Team Leader) always likes to do a circuit of wherever we are 'just in case we find something better'.  Well we didn't, so it was into the Granary Wharf Brasserie where we sat perched at the bar like a couple of shivering cockatoos.  Two glasses of wine, four gin and tonics, some prawns and a delicious goose and turkey shepherds pie later we had warmed up substantially, and I was actually reg

Sex on the beach...

After a completely Tasmanian Devil whirlwind of a week consisting of another sad funeral (my 'best' coat has been out more times in the last ten days than it has all year), dried fruit, present wrapping, two chats with California Kate, probable hypothermia after today's market trip with Mrs H and designing a new webpage for the Bird, I have finally sat down this evening and breathed a deep sigh of relief.  I have just enough time to write to you lovely lot, and then I have to go and find my suitcase. Where are we off to now do I hear you ask?  Well ladies (and the occasional gentleman), the husband is whisking me off for a few days in London (one more than we anticipated) and then a few days in Bruges (one less than we anticipated).  Last Christmas, the kids bought us tickets to go and see Pete Tong doing something with Ibiza Classics at the O2.  Now, this will probably be music of some sort, but it did cross my mind as to whether Pete Tong was some old Ibiza bartender, and

Diary...

Eight years ago, I came up with the idea of writing a diary for my children which I would put into the public domain.  And so Words from a Bird began.  Two thousand posts and almost a million words later, I am still going.  But like all of us, lives change.  Eight years ago, my life was all about the four children, schools, universities, boyfriends, girlfriends, work, my husband, family and the dogs. Much of that is still relevant today, thank goodness, but we now add in two weddings (one more pending), grandchildren (one, and again, one pending), retirement and looking after parents. So to all my completely gorgeous readers, to the ones who have been with me right from the start and to the new ones who have discovered me just this week, thank you for coming along for the ride with me.  I hope I carry on making you giggle for many years to come!   If you don't want to miss anything, just follow the Words from a Bird page. And when I am a very old lady, I hope that my children will

The mix up...

It's that time of year again.  When your entire house is overtaken by the all pervading whiff of mixed spice and cinnamon. Yes, this week has been all about Christmas cakes and puddings ladies.  I was three days late for Stir Up Sunday, but I reckon the amount of alcohol 'splashed' in will soothe the ruffled feathers of any Pudding Fairy who might have been watching. The main reason I had waited to do them was so that the mother could help.  What's lovely about this, is that I use her great-grandmother's Christmas pudding recipe (neatly typed up on yellowing lined paper with lots of wine glass stains scattered across it.  Measurements of dried fruits have been crossed out and modified and, most unsurprisingly, the amount of alcohol in each pudding was increased two fold.   The recipe contains items that we don't seem to be able to source easily anymore such as Barley Wine, so I have made my own mental alterations to Nanny's recipe, adding Guinness instead. I

Brown sugar...

Three more days till I can legitimately have chocolate for breakfast.  Whoever invented the chocolate Advent calendar, my waistband salutes you.  It always heralds the start of the festive nonsense for me, although this year I officially went early with a trip to Waddesdon Manor's Christmas Fair.  We were a happy band of travellers who tipped up there on Saturday morning.  The mother, my sister, Miss R and her future mum-in-law, Mrs L.  We had between us one wicker basket, one Sainsburys carrier bag and a  Nerdy bag (see Friday's offering) and were determined that we would consider very carefully what we bought.  As we all know, there is a terrific amount of tat to buy at these fairs, so some level of restraint was needed. Of course, this all went out the stained glass window at the first stall which was selling hot chocolate bedecked with double cream, Baileys and marshmallows.  'It'll warm us all up', said Miss R, looking for any excuse to chuck around 750 calorie

Carry on...

Do you have one of those hessian shopping bags?  You know the ones.  They are often printed with something that you'd never admit (even to your best friend) such as 'Gin stops me killing people', or 'Crazy Penguin Lady' or 'This bag is full of more crap than a politician'.  You get where I'm coming from? Well today, while waiting in a cafĂ© (my second of the morning, and it wasn't even 9.00) I noticed a rather elegant elderly gentleman (I was sitting in the window seat as I like to have a good nosey while I'm necking my body weight in caffeine).  He was carrying a hessian shopper with the words....wait for it...'Keep Calm and Hug a Pug'.  He was swinging it with no shame, and I have to report that there was no pug keeping him company.   Now there are many things that I like to do to reduce my blood pressure.  These can involve reading, writing, dead-heading my flowers (or someone else's if the mood comes upon me while I'm away from

Sugar, sugar...

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Yesterday was the mother's day - she with the Fairy Dust Syndrome if you remember. We decided to have a quick lunch in the garden centre before we sallied forth to the nearest supermarket to do her weekly shop.  Now lunch for you or me would be a sandwich or some soup, perhaps a jacket potato and all of these would have been a winner for the mother before she got picked for FDS.  Her sweet tooth seems to have destroyed all other teeth capable of enjoying ham or cheese, but as well as that, the sweet tooth has multiplied, giving my mum twenty eight teeth who scream for sugar like a classroom of six year old kids. 'What do you fancy then? I asked her, looking at the lovely soup, toasties, jacket potatoes.  When there was no reply, I looked round and she had stalled around the table which was straining under the weight of cakes.   'I want one of them', she said said, haphazardly waving her hand so it covered every one of the fourteen cakes on offer.  It's tricky, becau