Words from a Bird

Can you hear me cheering from where you are sitting?  At last, after at least three weeks of sitting in the lounge with enough layers on to ensure that I bore no resemblance to the female form (ie, everything went out rather than in and out), the husband has finally conceded that it may be time to put the heating on.  The decision was made a couple of mornings ago after a run in with his pyjamas. These are kept for desperate measures, and on Monday night when I went up for my shower, they were laid reverently over the radiator in readiness for bed.  Waking up on Tuesday morning, the husband stated that he 'wasn't going to wear his leisure wear again'.  (He can't bring himself to call them pyjamas, based on the fact that he got them as a freebie on a long haul Virgin flight).  'I thought you liked your jammies'.  This word is considered even worse than pyjamas, but full advantage of a man's weaknesses must always be exploited.  His response?  'I reck

Well, we survived the Martian invasion... The War of the Worlds immersive experience was all that I feared it would be.  Shuffled off down a dark alley with several other poor unsuspecting souls (the husband and I had necked a couple of drinks beforehand, so were struggling to take the warning of pending death too seriously) I was told off for being jovial when the world was coming to an end.  Well I'm sorry, but after a couple of vodkas, everything is fairly fluffy in my world, but it wasn't long before the smile was wiped off my face.   The whole thing was brilliant, especially the bits where we had to put the virtual reality headsets on.  One minute you're in a confessional box desperately trying to think of something to confess to the priest on the other side of the screen (nicking my kids' Easter eggs while they were at school was the best I could offer), and then the headset is on and you are hiding from the Martians.  I'm not saying it was realistic,

Sitting on the sofa last night watching some two dimensional drivel about a pleasure cruiser and an unfaithful farmer, I said to the husband, 'That, my friend, is a perfect pear'.  He looked at me (this was not focused where it should be, as his eyes were settled somewhere around vest level).  'No complaints here either!' he quipped. Well ladies, I gave a most dramatic eye roll and gestured to the Conference pear I was eating.  'This is just right', I said.  'but give it another five minutes and it'll be all soft and over ripe'. This is the problem I have with a pear.  They give you a window of opportunity of around three and a half minutes when the pear is just perfect.  Try and eat one before this time and you run the risk of shattering your dentures.  And afterwards is just as bad, when the pear is just a squidgy mess.  Bite into that and you will be guaranteed a clothing change before the pear is finished.  Was it the wonderful Terry Wog

I bet you've been wondering where I've been the last few days?  To be honest, I'm asking myself much the same question, and here's the reason why. The husband has been away for the past week, only returning last night on a filthy motorbike with matching Gor-Tex accessories courtesy of a large puddle up a mountain in Portugal.  He's had a whale of a time, and judging by the look of the straining bike wear, much beer was drunk.  He has done this week away for the past three years or so, and every year I imagine all the wonderful things I am going to do without him here.  My needs are small as you know ladies, and the virtual list in my head usually involves: Good books Early nights A few lost pounds A complete clear out of every cupboard and drawer in the house. As at 7.00pm last night, I hadn't even scratched the surface and I'm pleased to report that I actually achieved the following: One good book Not a single early night Two poun

I was walking home after yet another walk with the woofers yesterday, when it suddenly hit me... Schlepping along the road in my short wellies, a dress and an old hand me down quilted jacket (cuffs rolled up as its previous owner was a 6' tall man).  A dog whistle hung round my neck, and poop bags and dog biscuits in every pocket, wet hair crammed into a dubious looking beanie hat from some sporting event and a small black mark just below one eye where a wet branch had thwacked me as I ferreted around in the undergrowth looking for some delightful offering from Reg. So it's happened. I have turned into Barbara Woodhouse.   All I need to complete the image is a knee length kilt and a pair of American Tan tights and I should be really grateful that the clothes buying embargo is still in full force for another two months, two weeks and a day. The nearer I get to being able to hit the shops, the harder it gets every time I look into my sorry looking wardrobe. 

You'll be impressed to learn that I seem to have finally mastered the new Binland computer system.  I'm not saying it's been easy (hair has been pulled out, alcohol has been imbibed on a Friday afternoon and there has been some abundant and rich swearing from yours truly - this is confined to my car when I leave Binland as I wouldn't want to sully the ears of the little cherubs I work with.   Now there are three of us in the sales team at Binland, and one of us (not mentioning any names in case the boss is reading) is dragging his feet a little when moving across from handwritten contracts to computerized ones.  So myself and my other colleague decided today that it would be a grand wheeze to hide the old fashioned contracts to dissuade him from using them anymore.  This may sound harsh, but now that I have got the hang of this new system, I do see its benefits, so naturally, I want the whole team working from the same hymn sheet.   When I left Binland at lunch

What a few days I've had.  I'll be honest with you, I've been in my pyjamas since 5.07pm and would imagine that by 9.00pm I'll be heading wearily upstairs. Yesterday was the annual Schnauzerfest walk.  Last year's was interesting to say the least, and for several weeks afterwards was referred to as Shagfest because of Percy, who, after several years of celibacy discovered he had a sex drive courtesy of a bearded little strumpet whose name escapes me.  So you'll appreciate my trepidation as I pulled up in the car park of Wittenham Clumps with my dogs, daughter number two and best friend Mrs S.   This year, I had made the brilliant decision to rope in as many helpers as possible and it worked.  The walk went smoothly with thirty seven schnauzers walking together to help raise money for other schnauzers who are rescued from lives of hell.  The money we raise is spent on getting them physically better, and then the wonderful folk at the Diana Brimblecombe A

I'd like to say that I am getting my head around the new computer system at Binland.  I'd like to, but unfortunately this could mean some rather extensive Pinocchio-life nose stretching, so I had better keep quiet.  Time is a great healer, they say, but has anyone ever said that time is a great teacher?'  No.  I thought not.  Anyway, I shall persevere, reminding myself every hour of one of the husband's favourites adages... 'How hard can it be?' There is an answer to that, of course, but as a lady in polite society, I'll keep my gob shut. But to more positive stuff.  The cakes are now in the building in preparation for my Schnauzerfest walk on Saturday.  Naturally, the weather forecast for the morning is falling somewhere between 'wet' and 'Apocalypse' so I thought that the least I could do was to supply some fairy cakes and flapjacks (like that's going to take your mind off trench foot).   I have tried to be a little cle

Have you heard of the phrase involving an old dog and some new tricks?  Of course you have, and this describes the last two weeks of my life quite neatly. We have a new computer system at Binland you see, and for someone who is a bit of a Luddite where anything IT is concerned, it's been a bit of a struggle for me.  I'm not the only one, I am pleased to say.  Masters P and J, and also Mr W (my 'young enough to be a distant nephew' boss) have also found it a bit of a challenge.  As Master P put it the other day, 'It's a bit like giving a Spitfire to a five year old and saying, 'Off you go then - Kent's that way'. I'm sure that as time goes by I'll get the hang of it, but at the moment it feels like a two horse race between me learning it and my possible demise.  Hopefully, my brain will outdo my three score and ten... As I write, I am surrounded by dog biscuits, paper bags and an over sized photo frame.  All in readiness for Satur

The husband has been away from home for the last two nights.  He's been cooped up in daughter number two's flat installing a new bathroom for her, surrounded not only by the usual loo, sink and basin, but several thousand empty bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body moisturizer, fake tan and hair serum.  He had to arrange a skip for the old bathroom, and I am convinced that the skip's contents will be mainly plastic bottles and containers with an old loo perched on top. I'm not too sure where she got this habit from of being unable to throw anything away.  I myself have to show real self control when my shampoo is less than half full.  Mind you this isn't because of any OCD issue but more the fact that a less than full shampoo bottle refuses to stay on my wonky shower rack. And here lies my real issue... I have been waiting for a new bathroom for the best part of seven years.  Daughter number two has had to wait a measly five months before getting her sh

I have a confession to make... I only went and lit the fire this afternoon.  There was an element of alternative warmth approached as the afternoon progressed with thick socks and a roll neck jumper, but eventually I buckled, and got the kindling out.   That was an hour ago. I am now sitting in my shirt sleeves with a fine sheen of sweat across my forehead with the patio door open to allow some of the heat out into the garden.  That's the only issue with an open fire  You can't just turn it down or off, as it just dies down as and when it's ready.  But at least I can now feel the ends of my fingers, something which wasn't happening earlier on, and can type some words without them looking like the offerings of a drunken armadillo. Have you ever heard of the phrase 'Best laid plans, and all that'?  It is one of my dad's favourite expressions, and a very good example of this happened on Monday night.  I could blame my best friend, Mrs S, but th