tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60749786168679845912024-02-19T15:30:40.476+00:00Words from a BirdBlogger, mother, wife and woman, but not necessarily in that order...Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.comBlogger1188125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-81824687396405804752023-12-04T19:11:00.003+00:002023-12-04T19:11:18.356+00:00It's raining men...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 <b>and </b>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.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We tried sports shops (these were emblazoned with sports logos, none of which meant anything to us, especially one brand called Titleist which gave us many minutes of childlike giggles).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We tried souvenir shops, but they had nothing plain to offer the husband. He definitely does not rock any item of clothing sporting a Union Jack emblem or a picture of a Corgi wearing a crown.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But eventually we found something plain and blue for the husband, and happily wearing his new scarf and hat, we headed off to Marco Pierre White's restaurant in the East End for the second part of my birthday gift. The food was excellent, but the welcome SW3 cocktail blew my socks away (along with the use of my mouth and legs). By cocktail number two, I'd forgotten why I was there and the husband had to take the glass away from me. How I have reached the age of sixty and never tried Grand Marnier is beyond me, but it will definitely be on my Tesco list next week.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Between the restaurant and our hotel, the husband managed to drop the hat twice, get the scarf caught in his vicious zip, and almost lose both new purchases by getting out of a cab too quickly.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">As I followed him along the hotel corridor, the scarf trailed behind him on the carpet, and I told him to watch where he was going in case he tripped over it.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'You've never been good at accessorising, have you'. I said as I picked the scarf up.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'You were the best accessory I ever got', was his reply.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Correct...</span></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-77111876150258831502023-12-04T10:59:00.001+00:002023-12-04T10:59:12.743+00:00Get off of my cloud...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 things with teeth down there'. I'm not daft enough to think that sharks wander up and down the Thames as it's too cold for them, but I am always pondering that one of them might have picked up the wrong A to Z and end up in Rotherhithe by mistake.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So it was a nervous bird who donned an additional waterproof coat over her own waterproof coat and a life vest which would inflate should it hit the wet stuff. Apparently, my tears of terror wouldn't be enough of a catalyst for inflation, but I did think that with all the coats I was wearing this very small life jacket wouldn't be enough to stop me sinking like a stone should the worst happen.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But it was brilliant. Lots of slow bits to give you snippets of history, and then lots of fast stuff with the James Bond theme tune blasting out. We were last to get off, and I said to the husband that I was going to thank the skipper. 'Thank you for a brilliant experience and for scaring the pants off me', I said. 'Was that you screaming?' he asked. I nodded, and he then went on to say that he wasn't sure if it was me or something wrong with the engine.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I am hoping that the other part of the gift won't be needing waterproofs. Mind you, as a woman of a certain age, they do sound like rather a good idea. You can't be too careful in the trouser department when you're sixty.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">You'll be wondering how Pete Tong went I suppose? Well you will be shocked to hear that we didn't see any of it. After an alleged violent altercation regarding the husband, a bottle of water and its lack of lid, we were asked to leave and were escorted off the premises by three burly security staff. It's really funny, but when you are in shock, as we both were, you don't ask the right questions, such as:</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Have you got the right people? (We are sixty year old grandparents with a caravan)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Can we see your CCTV? There was no violence, no throwing of bottles and no swearing. Just frustration that the water would have to be drunk there and then rather than putting it my bag and taking it into the arena.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And most importantly, how do we tell the kids? </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">In sixty years, I've never been thrown out of anywhere.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Never to late to start I suppose...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-76820952268018017482023-12-02T18:09:00.000+00:002023-12-02T18:09:53.440+00:00Cold as ice...<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So here we are in the North Pole. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 regretting wearing my thermal vest. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But of course, the warmth came with a price, mainly the ability to walk in a straight line, so it was a great relief that our hotel was a mere stone's throw away - well it would have been if we had walked in a straight line. If anyone had been watching us from above, we would have looked like a couple of ants walking though a minefield while trying to not step on the cracks in the pavement in case we got eaten by a bear. But we made it back to our hotel and had a lovely 'sleep it off' snoozle and now, we are ready to try and find our way to the O2 to see Pete Tong.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The husband is very confident that we shall make it there in one piece.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I've heard that one before...</span></div></div></div>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-5910700853137759032023-12-01T20:48:00.001+00:002023-12-01T20:48:42.913+00:00Sex on the beach...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 his 'classics' were multicoloured drinks with some submerged bits of tinned pineapple and a rather ropey paper umbrella perched jauntily on the top while a maraschino cherry finally gave up any idea of being suggestive, and slowly sank to the bottom of the glass. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I expect we shall be the oldest there, which is never a bad thing, but I am predicting much harrumphing from the dear husband on Saturday night as he wishes to dear god that he had needed a hearing aid after the last test at the local opticians (I still don't get this crossover of skills, but nothing surprises me having seen my local garden centre proudly selling a radiator brush). </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We are spending a couple of days making the most of some lovely experience gifts which I got for my birthday (aren't I lovely, sharing them with the husband? I surprise myself sometimes). One of these is a gorgeous meal at a swanky restaurant which I am really looking forward to, but Sunday's 'treat' is a jet boat trip up the Thames. In the small print, it says that waterproofs will be provided which is a harbinger of doom if I've ever seen one, so I am anticipating a clothing change behind a convenient statue along the Thames afterwards.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After hitting the fleshpots of London, we are off to Bruges on Eurostar to buy yet more Christmas tat. I am so excited about this part of our trip as it's something I have wanted to do for years. These trips around Christmas in Europe always bring out the worst in the husband, and I am expecting to be hauled round at a stiff pace as he tries to cram a week's holiday into forty eight hours, and a foot long bratwurst into a five inch mouth.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We aren't taking the dogs this time. This morning, son number one ferried them up to Leeds where son number two will look after them for the week. The two boys are together sorting out groom and best man stuff, so I imagine that there will be copious amount of drink consumed.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And that's just the dogs...</span></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-6226055327197008492023-12-01T05:32:00.003+00:002023-12-01T05:32:33.777+00:00Diary...<p>Eight years ago, I came up with the idea of writing a diary for my children which I would put into the public domain. </p><p>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.</p><p>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! </p><p>If you don't want to miss anything, just follow the Words from a Bird page.</p><p>And when I am a very old lady, I hope that my children will be able to look at my blog, and say, 'This is our mum'...</p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-42740435832046977182023-11-30T11:07:00.002+00:002023-12-04T19:43:31.226+00:00The mix up...<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 also don't like nuts, so the ground almonds are replaced with extra rum and I have the same approach to the dried peel, which, let's face it, nobody likes. I framed the recipe some years ago as it's so fragile, and it was this that was propped up on my worktop, along with the food mixer and all the ingredients.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In a previous life, I used to make Christmas puds for a living, usually making around two hundred each year for various Christmas markets, and ten years later, I find it almost impossible to make less than twenty puddings which end up going here, there and everywhere. So I was very strict with myself this year, and decided that I would simply double Nanny's recipe ingredients which would made four two pint puddings. One for me, one for my father-in-law, one for my friend Mrs H and a 'just in case' spare.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I had soaked the fruit in enough alcohol overnight to ensure that no Christmas guest will be able to stand once they've had a slice, and together the mother and I piled in all the other ingredients into the large washing up bowl I use. Pinnies on, sleeves rolled up, jewellery removed and it was four hands in the bowl mixing everything together to a beautiful gloopy mess. There was a close call when the mother decided that sixteen eggs were needed rather than eight, but I headed her off at the pass with that one, and the puddings made their way into the four basins quite successfully.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Looking into the still half full washing up bowl, the mother said, 'What happens to all that lot then?' I then came up with the brilliant idea of sending a message to all my twenty nine neighbours, asking them if they wanted Christmas pudding mix. 'Bring a basin, and I'll fill it up for you'. We were 'sold out' with orders after five minutes, and a steady queue of lovely ladies turned up with outstretched hands holding their basins (they looked like a load of middle aged extras from Oliver Twist). So that was a good deed done. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">As long as they taste ok. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Any complaints and I'll be blaming the mother...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-5170449294244772732023-11-27T17:17:00.000+00:002023-11-27T17:17:34.612+00:00Brown sugar...<p style="text-align: justify;">Three more days till I can legitimately have chocolate for breakfast. Whoever invented the chocolate Advent calendar, my waistband salutes you. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">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 calories down her neck. The problem with this is that by the time we'd finished our hot drinks, the alcohol had kicked in around stall number three and our bank balances were a distant memory.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This explains why by the end of the first row of stalls, we had on board three bobble hats, a set of knives, nine gadgets to do something I can't talk about in case the kids are reading this, four candles (yes, four candles) a bag of coconut ice, a bottle of black cherry gin liqueur (that will never make Christmas) and four hot dipping sauces.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We then stopped for lunch and made the excellent decision to get back on the hop on-hop off bus, head back to the car and dump all the bags in Miss R's car, leaving us free to buy even more tat.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Second round saw a sausage dog, a bracelet, two pairs of gloves, another bracelet, two vintage soup spoons engraved with something highly inappropriate and a pair of candlesticks make their sorry way into the bags.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Getting back home on Saturday afternoon, the husband looked up from his pizza (yes, I'd been gone that long). 'Buy anything?' he asked.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Now there are several options when confronted with this question...</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I could have said that I'd bought some brilliant Christmas presents taking much thought as to who gets what.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I could have hidden all of the bags, and told him that my bank account had survived the day intact.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I could have come clean, and told him that the drink made me do it.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But I didn't do any of these. Instead, I held up a fluorescent green plastic tube and said to him, 'Have a guess what this is',</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It's a question that's kept him awake the last two nights...</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-12115115458800296562023-11-24T15:52:00.001+00:002023-11-24T15:52:26.279+00:00Carry on...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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?</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Well today, while waiting in a café (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. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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 my front door) or just walking in the woods with the two furballs. Not once has it ever crossed my mind to bend down and hug a four legged version of Darth Vader with a spittle issue. But each to their own I suppose.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I have several shopping bags, none of which match and these come out the house every Friday for Market Day with Mrs H. We each have a multicoloured shopper made out of recycled plastic bottles which she brought back from Ethiopia. Then there is the canvas one which I bought in Scotland which has a beautiful Highland Cow on the side. And lastly, I have one of those gargantuan bags which folds up into an Oxo cube size and has it's own bag - very posh having a bag with its own bag. In human terms that's like wearing two coats I suppose. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Each bag has its own purpose. The plastic one is used just for my vegetables. This has been the case since an unfortunate incident with a punnet of raspberries, which, having been bundled by several King Edwards, a cauliflower, two swedes and a Savoy cabbage finally gave up the ghost half way home leaving a red puddle of mush in my footwell which had seeped through the holes. Actually, the husband asked me if I'd started collecting roadkill when he saw the mess. I now use the cow bag for my fruit (raspberries on top) and the big bag is used for anything else. Our market is great, so there could be anything in this final bag from a greetings card to a pair of loose trousers (or the biggest doughnut in the world if the mood takes me).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Miss R bought me the 'how small can you fold me up' bag, and informed me that it is called a Nerdy Bag.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Well ladies, I have one of those at home...</span></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-14558588020852810472023-11-23T16:50:00.001+00:002023-11-23T16:58:47.857+00:00Sugar, sugar...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Yesterday was the mother's day - she with the Fairy Dust Syndrome if you remember.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'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. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'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, because while I love her having exactly what she wants, part of me also wants her to have something a bit more substantial to keep her going through the rest of the afternoon and a Mince Pie doesn't really cut it. So I have reverted to this dreadful subterfuge.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'I'd love a sausage roll/sandwich/jacket potato, but I can't eat it all myself. Would you share one with me?' It works every time, and I'm happy because she's had something savoury, she's happy because she's helped me out, and we're both happy as we can now have a Mince Pie as we only had half a sausage roll/sandwich, jacket potato each and are feeling slightly pleased with ourselves.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Deep breath...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We had a good long list yesterday, but completely disregarded that and went to the clothing section first. 'You need some new knickers, mum', I said, 'let's see what they've got'. After a long chat in front of the rails, we established the following:</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Full brief - 'Only old ladies wear those - look how big they are, they'd come up to my chin'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Thong - 'How do they work then? I'd never get all my bottom in that little triangle'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Boy Short - 'I'm not a boy....mind you, I am short'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In the end, we settled for the High Leg which seemed to cover most bases (her buttocks were the main concern) and armed with two packs of size 8 knickers, we headed off to do the rest of the shopping. It was only when we got to the till that I realised that one of the packs was a size 18. We discussed the possibilities of tying a knot in the waistband, safety pins and even a pair of braces, but did the sensible thing and went back to the knicker shelf and changed them for the right size.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Standing at the self checkout with the mother while she scanned all the shopping (her favourite bit) we both agreed that being a size 8 and taking a size 18 home wouldn't have been the end of the world.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">However, being a size 18 and taking a size 8 home could have had consequences.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Two fireman, a crowbar and a tub of Vaseline night have swung it.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Now there's a thought...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFVPS4JGzV3Jmpe8GVKGUyNk8wmqgNGbwrawEHIXXyqJdOi7EE6hVF81i9-OsToA4OofQIKx6llRusybeHd9-22PSH-JM8W7svhEeA2hCAiiD6TsqclQpcaKnduvjnm35_-0_OGiQE9LyGzvFFiSkFATNe3fLVnatpQs80d9KYDLrQ_gbvFbrZ0EBw9fo/s400/TR%20shock.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFVPS4JGzV3Jmpe8GVKGUyNk8wmqgNGbwrawEHIXXyqJdOi7EE6hVF81i9-OsToA4OofQIKx6llRusybeHd9-22PSH-JM8W7svhEeA2hCAiiD6TsqclQpcaKnduvjnm35_-0_OGiQE9LyGzvFFiSkFATNe3fLVnatpQs80d9KYDLrQ_gbvFbrZ0EBw9fo/s320/TR%20shock.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-21374618263205383522023-11-20T18:02:00.000+00:002023-11-20T18:02:12.528+00:00Fancy...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">What a weekend. Most of it was spent with my sister Miss R and the mother and highlights included an antiques emporium, new trousers, too much wine, a cold steak, a hot coffee, the First Mince Pie (always the best one) and the wrong knickers. I'll let you work out for yourself which of these can be attributed to the three of us, but all I am going to say is that my roast duck was bloody perfect.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Today, I have been at a funeral of a beautiful family friend. We all have these aunts and uncles who are not 'real' aunts and uncles, but who feature in our lives as we grow up. It was lovely to see all the other fake aunts and uncles, but it always makes me sad that the only time they all seem to get together is when one of them shuffles off this mortal coil.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'I'll see you at the next one', piped up Mr H (he gave me my first job in his pub kitchen when I was thirteen). Well, much as I hope that this won't be the case, it probably will. Let's just hope it's not his funeral, as I would have loved to catch up with him a bit more than we did today.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I always think that the weirdest part of any funeral is the great party that we all seem to have afterwards. Walking into Marlow Rugby Club (you'll be pleased to know that no one had odd shaped balls there today), it was buzzing with laughter and glasses clinking together in memory of the lovely Mrs M. There was also (glory be) a buffet.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Now buffets come in various guises...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Traditional</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This tends to consist of beige food like sausage rolls, quiche, deep fried chicken/fish goujons, and pork pies. There are sandwiches of three types (one meat, one fish, one cheese) made with white bread. These have often been set out some time before the funeral party arrive, so there is an element of curling of the bread. This is usually disguised with a cherry tomato or some carefully scattered lettuce.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Trendy</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This is very different, and is often a large chilli or shepherds pie served in a bowl with a fork. The only issue with this is that it leaves you no hand free to hold your drink of choice. You see people weighing up their options - is it acceptable to do away with the fork and simply tip the chilli into an open mouth? Or just skip the food altogether and concentrate on the wine? At least with the traditional buffet you can hold your wine and the plate (at a rakish angle) and use the other hand as you please.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Classy</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This is where today's buffet pitched itself. Beautiful sandwiches (seven choices and three types of bread) and cake. The perfect lunchtime feast. I haven't told you the best bit though. There were French Fancies. This little cake is the absolute favourite of mine and Miss R's, and over the years, we have started referring to them as FFs. Now I am perfectly aware that FFs can be something totally different, but in this case, they were a delicate fondant cake, and not one of those strange people you see around town sometimes. I think Terry Wogan had a phrase which went something like, 'It's when you see people like this, that you realise that they haven't quite got them all locked up yet'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'I only like the pink and yellow ones', said Miss R as we gazed longingly at the plate of cakes. 'No one likes the chocolate ones - you wait, that's all that will be left if we don't get in there quick'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We managed two each, before I saw a narrowing of Miss R's eyes. 'That's the fifth time that man's been up', she said in a hushed tone. 'Look how many FFs he's taken, and not a single chocolate one on his plate. He's taken all the pink and yellow ones'. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I looked at our plates (discarded on the window sill, with a neat stack of empty FF wrappers on the side. 'Have you got a new job then?' I asked. 'Joined the French Fancy Police?'</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">We had the last laugh though, as we found a small plate of them just behind the tea urn, so these were liberated for later consumption.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">We left the chocolate ones though...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-43824167919444081972023-11-19T16:59:00.000+00:002023-11-19T16:59:26.582+00:00I'm still standing...<p>Evening to all my beautiful readers...</p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I have a favour to ask.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you are currently reading and hopefully enjoying my blog (fingers, legs and eyes crossed as I write) could you please follow my Facebook page. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">This will guarantee that you'll never miss another word I write (however hard you try), and that would make me very happy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The blog's website is at www.facebook.com/readlaughshare.co.uk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Or follow me at www.tracyrich31.blogspot.com</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After almost eight years of writing and half a million words, it's time to start spreading the giggles further afield.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Much love on this Sunday evening...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The Bird x</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-9881359352402561672023-11-17T19:51:00.000+00:002023-11-17T19:51:01.804+00:00Blueberry hill...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">As you all know, Friday is Market Day for me and Mrs H (she's Italian, and likes to look at all the fruit in a most sniffy manner as most of it looks like what the Italian stallholders would chuck away).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Speaking to the lady who runs the fruit and veg stall (I'm not sure whether she is actually in charge, but as the only female out of eight fruit and veggie people, we have to assume that she is probably the only sensible one there, and is therefore The Boss}.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I was telling her about my blog this morning, and she asked me what the name was as she was going to take a look later. I leant across her satsumas, and told her, and followed that up with, 'Actually, you have featured a couple of times already'. No sooner were the words out of my mouth, that the hairs stood up on the back of my neck faster than the husband at a recent wedding when he hadn't noticed that my fascinator was on his chair - those feathers can be very probing, you know.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Anyway, back to the fruit and veg Mafia Boss Lady.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I've been trawling my head all day as to the comments I might have made, and have asked myself questions like these:</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Have I ever...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...said that the runner beans definitely came last in the national bean race</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...grumbled that the greens were anything but</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...moaned that her melons were far too soft</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...carped about the bent carrots - don't you have any straight ones?</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...got pithed off (sorry) about the oranges </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...bleated that the bananas were not appealing</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...protested that her peaches were too firm</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...said that she had a nice pear (sorry yet again)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...whinged about the small watermelons (needed two for a Dirty Dancing party)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...grouched about the seedless grapes having seeds which got stuck under my bridge</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">...complained about the size of her Kind Edwards (actually, that might be her father in law - it's a family affair)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But I'm happy to confirm that I have had nothing but lovely to say about this stall. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So if you are reading this, Mafia Boss Lady of the Fruit and Veg Underworld, my Cox's were firm and the nuts delicious.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Actually, I'm just off to smash my avocado.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Scrap that, I meant the husband - the Wincing Mincer is driving me round the bend, and perhaps I'll find a use for that leek I bought earlier after all.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And it won't be a Vichyssoise...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX7QN4eeOOnhblzNudzMmSMeWop55OnAUeLRH1VszP3m1OHScHuUQx3IIdDtLzOgUN5hQOHDbXisVIRwpFHYUTpeehVcaw8LtqTp5_QIKGfdag6ivku8oVr6h6Rm_kBitzcA0dZ1VWTnrMVrQIg9kobcvUrl9C96MjzGAtAhzYp2Q73UBADcXz4SaPfoQ/s857/toms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX7QN4eeOOnhblzNudzMmSMeWop55OnAUeLRH1VszP3m1OHScHuUQx3IIdDtLzOgUN5hQOHDbXisVIRwpFHYUTpeehVcaw8LtqTp5_QIKGfdag6ivku8oVr6h6Rm_kBitzcA0dZ1VWTnrMVrQIg9kobcvUrl9C96MjzGAtAhzYp2Q73UBADcXz4SaPfoQ/s320/toms.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-64661882846635809352023-11-16T18:27:00.000+00:002023-11-16T18:27:42.633+00:00Everything hurts...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I've been back at Pilates now for a few weeks. There was about a year long break which involved two weddings, a knackered knee and a month in Scotland, but you'll be pleased to hear that I have fully thrown myself into my two sessions a week with the lovely Alex. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The first on on Monday morning at 9.30, so there is little time to talk myself out of it. Fast forward an hour, and I am trotting out of the village hall with a spring in my step, happy and proud that I have managed to firstly turn up and then do most of the things asked of me. There are a couple of moves that I still believe are utterly impossible without breaking a leg or swapping your head for a screwtop lid, but for the most part, I do ok.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Tuesday night is another story however.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">From then, every move is accompanied with an 'ooh' or an 'aah' and the husband finds this hilarious. His favourite trick is to make me do a semi-sit up when he kisses me before he leaves for work. My wincing face is his lasting view of me for the day, and he seems to take great pleasure in my aches and pains.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This morning though, I got my own back.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Yesterday, he went to work for a mate doing some plumbing work. Although this is his speciality, he hasn't really done much of it over the past seven years, preferring to stay in the warm tea hut and order the poor unfortunates who work for him around instead.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'How was your day?' I asked him when he got home last night.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'Well. I've put three radiators in, plumbed in a couple of bathrooms and checked the under floor heating system. I've had a great day'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">That may have been so, but this morning, he couldn't get his socks on. Nor could he bend over to pull his trousers up or lift his arms to get his t-shirt on. And don't get me started on the stairs. They were compared to an assault course this morning as he headed down to the kitchen and he muttered something about buying a bungalow.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'I'm off', he shouted ten minutes later.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'Where's my kiss goodbye?' I asked him.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Yes dear readers, I made him walk all the way upstairs again ( on all fours for the last three steps) and bend at 45 degrees to reach my puckered lips. He then turned, and with a painful sigh, retreated down the stairs again, clutching the balustrade like it was all that stood between him and death.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">He's been there again today and I</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> can't wait to ask him how his day went. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Assuming he's managed to hoist his sorry carcass into his truck....</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPBYBvzp09V0kDkev3ma2_9vwFIUtpXcH584aXcfNuR3CbvQGLhuwBhPOzdUJAptHK_gok3B5ICylzlcMh0r4ySlQlyGIzRo-PHh5xJMsh848gX8hMredDSNqoK8ekhowHCxjnWIEdzJfb7EbqH-H4tOSqsxKIiLd9BbXrLoeczYrVQ68OC-WOeMHhNQ/s400/plumber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="400" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPBYBvzp09V0kDkev3ma2_9vwFIUtpXcH584aXcfNuR3CbvQGLhuwBhPOzdUJAptHK_gok3B5ICylzlcMh0r4ySlQlyGIzRo-PHh5xJMsh848gX8hMredDSNqoK8ekhowHCxjnWIEdzJfb7EbqH-H4tOSqsxKIiLd9BbXrLoeczYrVQ68OC-WOeMHhNQ/s320/plumber.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-68508742946042588212023-11-15T18:22:00.000+00:002023-11-15T18:22:57.700+00:00Ring my bell...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I'm writing from HMP Holloway this evening...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Well, of course, I'm not, but after the day I've had out with the mother, my day might have ended very differently</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">As you know, our lovely mum has been sprinkled with fairy dust. This is my preferred description of her rather than using the dreaded 'A' word which always sounds so final. As some of her time is spent in her own magical world, I feel that the fairy dust explanation is far kinder, and quite cute actually.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Today we made the best use of her National Trust card, and hit Hughenden Manor, the erstwhile home of Benjamin Disraeli. We normally go at this time each year as the lovely volunteers there dress the house up in all its Christmas splendour about now. (Actually, we were a half a day early, but it didn't take any sparkle off our baubles). The thing with being sprinkled in fairy dust is that you don't remember the last time you visited, so for my mum, every table, chair, picture and antiquity is seen through first time eyes. This makes my day very easy, as she never says, 'I've seen this already. What else can we do?'</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Wandering round the rooms, my mum touched this and stroked that (there was an unfortunate few seconds with a very flirtatious elderly gentleman in the Dining Room, but less said about that the better) and it wasn't long before touching and stroking turned to holding and lifting. I heard a bell go off as we wandered through the Drawing Room but didn't think much of it as the volunteers were in the process of decorating the Christmas tree, and I just assumed it might have something to do with that. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In the Office, I heard a bell again, and watched as the mother inspected a beautiful antique letter tray (very closely). It went off again in the Boudoir (a silver hand mirror) and the kitchen (a set of scales) and then in the WWII rooms (a radio, two maps and a newspaper).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">By the time we got to the now festively decorated Library (not a bell in sight) I did start to wonder whether the bells might have something to do with the mother picking things up. On closer inspection, I noticed that every object was connected to another with something which looked like fishing twine. I'm assuming that there was a bloody large bell at the end of the twine which would ring out if someone tried to 'alf inch one of Dizzy's relics.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The mother was just about to launch herself at a beautiful piece of china, when the flirtatious gentlemen from the Dining Room reappeared in the Library. 'Could madam please not touch everything?' he asked ('you've changed your tune', I thought). 'You are making all the bells go off throughout the house, and I'm having a bit of trouble keeping up with you. He then went on to say that if they see someone who looks like a wrong'un, the volunteers remove all the antiquities to a safe place. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Looking at the mother in her Where's Wally bobble hat and sensible coat, I did wonder what they looked for when designating the 'wrong'un status to someone. As every person there today was over seventy five (except me), I imagined that if you were spotted coming into the stately home wearing a balaclava and carrying a small pair of nail scissors and a large hessian bag, that might be a start.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Of course, the alternative would be to have a security guard who hasn't seen the wrong side of eighty yet.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">As least he would have caught up with us in the Drawing Room...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaHzchFHFCY7zvfAMQwm3rRJrIx73Z7h0VzKQH82xngCND6C0fsEa37_cYmm2D93H1bAlYSK97xvo-kJCn4iz1Wo1Jg2_S1JETEn5W88FOHUDRxa8ndU1X-v5jfHagW4zirhtcsMmZ1TltmE9JW8PPTxeNDbB1ecYhBviLgfmST_iq6basSG_qlHZcyg/s683/National%20Trust%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaHzchFHFCY7zvfAMQwm3rRJrIx73Z7h0VzKQH82xngCND6C0fsEa37_cYmm2D93H1bAlYSK97xvo-kJCn4iz1Wo1Jg2_S1JETEn5W88FOHUDRxa8ndU1X-v5jfHagW4zirhtcsMmZ1TltmE9JW8PPTxeNDbB1ecYhBviLgfmST_iq6basSG_qlHZcyg/s320/National%20Trust%201.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-66279239806022152952023-11-14T18:26:00.000+00:002023-11-14T18:26:27.947+00:00Kinky boots...<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Today, my size sevens haven't touched the ground. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The day started in the best possible way with a cup of tea with my dear friend Mrs P. I had managed to throw on my usual weekday attire of jeans and sweater before heading out to the car to drive up to the cafe. Just behind my car was a portable bbq which the husband had left on the drive - this despite several warnings from yours truly as to the need to move it before I drove over it. It has been gathering rainwater and loose leaves since we returned from Scotland, and as I was a tad early for Mrs P, I decided to quickly shift it into the garage so I didn't have to look at it a moment longer. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Hoisting it up into my arms, several litres of dirty water and rotting vegetation spewed out over my previously clean jeans. Muttering under my breath, I dumped it in the middle of the very narrow garage walkway to achieve maximum annoyance from the husband. I did think about removing the lightbulb in there so there was a chance that he might actually trip over it, but then remembered I need the lawn mowing this weekend, so reconsidered. It's all about priorities.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In contrast to my 'what on earth have you been doing' clothes, Mrs P turned up looking her usual glamorous self. This was doubly impressive as she had also had a trying morning involving several builders, a Rottweiler, a muddy bog and a driver who apparently had never found out where second gear was. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But we put the world to rights for a lovely couple of hours, and ten minutes was spent on discussing how to disguise a pull in her lovely woolly tights. 'You could just wear them back to front', I suggested. 'At least you won't see it when you look down. Or invest in a pair of thigh length boots?'</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">At my age, the only thing I want round my thighs is a knee blanket; my days of thigh high leather have long passed. Actually, when I think about it, I don't think they ever arrived, but that's the trouble with having larger legs. If I <b>had </b>worn them, they would probably have looked like a couple of rolls of lino propped up in the 'end of roll' section in the carpet shop. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Mind you, I could have done with a pair of thigh length boots this afternoon while I was putting my garden to bed (posh phrase for cutting everything back to an inch above ground level). While I wasn't looking, my roses have developed killer thorns and I came back into the house this afternoon looking like I'd had a run in with Edward Scissorhands.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">How can anything so beautiful be so violent, I wonder?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Something the husband will ask himself when he trips over that bloody bbq...</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-8FADrqBM-t8ynmv9NZU2w8aVTRNVeyOg_t_1M9m3itcWpRIZv-mFEe0Xxa0YFkjErUKInZq61VVg55zp2hFkACwlImZPgEiRTtpPk4NTwVIGFdwdKNevuul_x9hxsNZUv68u07cBn07x5FECaYuxkgNgoFt6qfTNIKPoeYE3HEhqO0TV6sCjlzSQuI/s500/boots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="500" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-8FADrqBM-t8ynmv9NZU2w8aVTRNVeyOg_t_1M9m3itcWpRIZv-mFEe0Xxa0YFkjErUKInZq61VVg55zp2hFkACwlImZPgEiRTtpPk4NTwVIGFdwdKNevuul_x9hxsNZUv68u07cBn07x5FECaYuxkgNgoFt6qfTNIKPoeYE3HEhqO0TV6sCjlzSQuI/s320/boots.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-24447707801030010792023-11-13T16:47:00.000+00:002023-11-13T16:47:19.924+00:00Run pig, run...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I'm sure that you will all be relieved to read that the husband's sausage remained intact yesterday after the impromptu Remembrance service yesterday. The drive home was a frantic one, with the husband muttering many words which might have earned him at least three Hail Marys if they'd fallen on the wrong set of ears. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">As a final birthday hurrah, we had planned a late lunch at the local hostelry with my sister Miss R and her fiancé Mr L. The mother and her chap had managed to coerce an invite from Miss R on Saturday to join us (this was done with a threat of leaving us all her sensible shoes and support tights when she goes) so it was six of us who sat down to Sunday lunch.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It was a carvery.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Let me repeat that a little louder.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">IT WAS A CARVERY!</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Now these were a very popular event when Miss R and I were teenagers, queuing with our grandparents in the hope that there might still be a Yorkshire Pudding left, or that the roast potato tin had just been replenished. I have a precious memory of standing behind my Nanny Dolly, who was piling her plate with just vegetables (she was on yet another diet). The man in front of her asked her if she was a vegan. 'Do you mind!' she said in her most insulted voice. 'I have two sons, I'll have you know'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But there was none of that nonsense yesterday I'm pleased to report. The six of us queued up very politely. This lasted until we got our meat choice carved by the chef, after which is was a complete free for all, especially with the pigs in blankets and stuffing balls towards the end of the table. I got back to the table first with a sensible amount of food on my plate. The husband, who is highly skilled in the piling of food, had to bend his knees as he came back through the restaurant door so that the top of the food would not brush the door architrave, and the Yorkshire pudding gave a dangerous wobble as he set his plate down.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">A silence fell across the table except for the various comments of 'bloody lovely', 'delicious', 'great sprouts' (and it's not even Christmas Day) and 'gorgeous gravy'. This eventually turned to, 'My eyes are bigger than my belly', 'I'm stuffed', 'I can't eat another thing' and 'what's for pudding?' (the mother, who has the figure of a prima ballerina and the stomach capacity of Billy Bunter).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">As we surveyed our empty/half empty/licked clean plates, I said to Miss R, 'Did you not like the roasties then? You've left them all'. I gestured at the three potatoes discarded in a pool of gravy.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">'That's the thing about carveries', she said. 'When I cook a roast at home, at no time do I put seven roast potatoes on my plate. It's a kind of madness that descends on you when you can take as much as you like'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The husband (his was the licked clean plate) nodded, 'But just bear in mind what a great base seven roast potatoes make. You can get a whole load of food on top of them without it falling off on the way back to the table. You don't get that reassurance with a pig in blanket - your peas would be bloody everywhere'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Miss R blushed. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">'Pigs in blankets?' she said. 'I've got four in my pocket for later'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The family pilferer strikes again...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yhymMu69Q5ahqU8Ob1N8Us1lxcGNx4FMCqEtaADR3UlUJGXy0BhNzAkZJn5k3Zp7rgr_WiJnYoLCLSAzdUnDnBFBtNbNhd0Lcg7p8fcSii2iNMOxdT7L2BxtbZ-RcwAzy6xSOXj9IpTiShI-wJaAGF6U70Fmv16Vf4joCeYHY4KMeEK5CVvX2pbnkXI/s800/carvery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="800" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yhymMu69Q5ahqU8Ob1N8Us1lxcGNx4FMCqEtaADR3UlUJGXy0BhNzAkZJn5k3Zp7rgr_WiJnYoLCLSAzdUnDnBFBtNbNhd0Lcg7p8fcSii2iNMOxdT7L2BxtbZ-RcwAzy6xSOXj9IpTiShI-wJaAGF6U70Fmv16Vf4joCeYHY4KMeEK5CVvX2pbnkXI/s320/carvery.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-41234560748279347932023-11-12T14:35:00.000+00:002023-11-12T14:35:00.378+00:00Memories...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Strolling though the 'My life is better than yours' phone app (you might know it as facebook) I said to the husband, 'It looks like the RAF are doing a flypast to commemorate Remembrance Day around 11.00. Let's try and catch that somewhere?' </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">At that point, it was 7.30 and I had my first cup of tea and was lying in bed with a dog at each ankle. In my head, I envisaged finishing aforementioned cup of tea and then taking the dogs for their walk, dropping them home, and driving down to the town to join in the commemorations and watch the flypast. Sounds good, doesn't it? Unfortunately, the husband was totally unaware of my plans having ignored the 'How to Read your Wife's Mind' section in one of my terrible magazines, so chose instead to completely ignore me and go back to sleep till 9.30.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Instead of the well timed morning I had mentally planned, we left breakfast cooking in the oven, and it was a whistlestop walk around the golf course at the top of the hill in the rain, and a promise from the husband that we would 'drive to a good viewpoint' to watch the flypast.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We had left the car in the church car park, and as we emerged from a muddy footpath, we both fell in step with several people. 'Are you joining us today?' asked one of them. The husband looked at me. I looked at him, and then we both looked at the vicar bringing up the rear. 'We'd love to', said the husband, which is why, at 11.00 this morning we were standing in the rain with five other soggy looking souls with a damp hymn sheet belting out '</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f2c3b; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">O God, Our Help in Ages Past'. I say belting out, but really that was the vicar who was rather splendid in his long white cassock (there was a small altercation with Reg and his filthy paws just before the ceremony started, but I'm glad to say that the dear gentleman won't be getting the Vanish out later today). </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f2c3b; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The ceremony drew to a close just as the husband's phone went off in his pocket, and the vicar asked us if we'd like to come into the church. 'Oh, for a cup of tea?' I asked (ever the optimist). 'No, we have the normal service now', said the vicar. 'You're more than welcome',</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f2c3b; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">And then the husband came out with the comment of the year.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f2c3b; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">'I'm afraid we can't, there's a sausage in the oven that's got my name on it'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f2c3b; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I doubt we will be asked back...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f2c3b; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI4QUYVi1l1vipDzJEao-XMDxk1XdZ2aryQGagx9VsczVstrDjmGoR8m7Yb7qCEbbZz4FKYtxKZwuZ2iHNDD2tHqtZBGNlR6Vck_5aHEVdHlJ3bO2PbF50TOT59tFZr2FGjxG5JP1pvLI1fjgmn0F_eC1qFx0jS8kJCTG4x6g2o2Q_veQ2mp4G5gpJKzU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="309" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI4QUYVi1l1vipDzJEao-XMDxk1XdZ2aryQGagx9VsczVstrDjmGoR8m7Yb7qCEbbZz4FKYtxKZwuZ2iHNDD2tHqtZBGNlR6Vck_5aHEVdHlJ3bO2PbF50TOT59tFZr2FGjxG5JP1pvLI1fjgmn0F_eC1qFx0jS8kJCTG4x6g2o2Q_veQ2mp4G5gpJKzU" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-82483913836073553282023-11-11T10:30:00.004+00:002023-11-11T17:32:11.768+00:00Handbags and gladrags...<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">This week has seen life return pretty much to normal again.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">On Thursday afternoon, Mrs H (my Italian friend who makes a mean pizza) asked me to come into Oxford with her as she had presents to buy for various family members.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The lucky recipients of these gifts were a seven year old girl, a twenty one year old man, and her mother in law.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">How hard could that be?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">First stop was T K Maxx where we managed to nail the 7 years old's gift in a record breaking twelve and a half minutes (that time includes queuing, asking the cashier to repeat a question three times and rummaging round in our handbags for a carrier to avoid paying an additional 10p for a bag the size of a large family suitcase).</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">With this record breaking achievement, we set off to Uniqlo to buy something for the 21 year old man. And here is where the wheels came off the wagon. We emerged from Uniqlo one hour later with several carrier bags containing jumpers, a coat, some thermals, a shirt and two stripy tops. None of which would have fitted/suited the poor birthday boy.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'We'll find something in Zara', said Mrs H with far too much confidence. She was right. I bought a tank top and a jacket, and she bought another cardigan.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'I think I'll leave this present for now', said Mrs H. 'After all, his birthday's not for ages, so I have loads of time to find something'. 'Quantify loads', I said as I hauled my bags to the other hand ( that would be the one which wasn't dragging on the floor because of the weight). 'At least three days', she said, dragging me into Marks and Spencer (obviously, this was prime retail space for the mother in law's present and we had already decided that a longer line sweater and pretty shirt would be perfect). </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Fast forward forty minutes and I haven't bought anything ( a miracle in itself, and worthy of a mention) but most of the sweaters are covered with glittery balls, jingle bells and portly Santas, none of which were suitable for an elegant lady's birthday present.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Now by this time, my post-party-knackered feet were hurling abuse at each other, but there was no holding back Mrs H, and in a final 'if there's nothing in Next, I might as well not go home', we thundered back down through the shopping centre (stopping for takeaway nachos en route for her boys) and trolleyed into Next where a suitable jumper and blouse were found. I could almost hear the cheers from Winchester where the lovely lady resides.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">On the way to market yesterday morning, Mrs H delivered some terrible news. 'The bloody blouse was the wrong size, and I have to back to Oxford again later. Want to come with me again?'</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Sitting in the passenger seat, I was praying that she couldn't hear my feet whimpering at the thought of another four hours of speed walking round Oxford. 'I'd love to, but I have to organise my knicker drawer'.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I think she believed me...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxHK2YHBr5sGzkr_OyHbt7HmCIvzbPoN9Veq82AYV980Zcjb1SLhJo8Kg_ic_TwDhovrSvXzbjeadqxG7P2ZsODy356Nlh7SQ62GeMDjI4NfOhe7O1c_iLag7YGmZPBYZNxXfiwHaQqQkLB_KIXvibHerGFGNoWRgw8GEHfpR1GIAnZLrQ43r-u6gbM4/s800/shopper%20down.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="800" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxHK2YHBr5sGzkr_OyHbt7HmCIvzbPoN9Veq82AYV980Zcjb1SLhJo8Kg_ic_TwDhovrSvXzbjeadqxG7P2ZsODy356Nlh7SQ62GeMDjI4NfOhe7O1c_iLag7YGmZPBYZNxXfiwHaQqQkLB_KIXvibHerGFGNoWRgw8GEHfpR1GIAnZLrQ43r-u6gbM4/s320/shopper%20down.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-45014374892423998142023-11-10T12:14:00.000+00:002023-11-10T12:14:02.528+00:00Get this party started...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So, the party on Saturday night...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The husband and I both turned sixty this year, and while he was more than happy to take his motorbike up hill, down glen and through mud in various countries, I wanted something a bit more sophisticated (that's with two Fs as my dad would say), what with being a lady and all that. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'I'd like a party to celebrate my birthday, I said, way back in February, and here are the criteria'...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span>All my wonderful family and fabulous friends have to be there to take the p*ss out of me being sixty</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I need a coach to take my family and neighbours to the venue, so we can start partying straightaway</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I am hoping that the coach company I pick has a terrible 1* review on Trustpilot, causing me many sleepless nights as to whether the coach will even turn up</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span>I am planning on picking a great venue, which will go into liquidation one month before the big day (causing many more sleepless nights)</span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want said venue to call me twenty four hours before the party and ask for yet more money</span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want to have a great dress which doesn't come back from the alterations chap till eleven hours before the party starts</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want the hairdresser to completely annihilate my hair and have to get daughter number two to do a quick rescue job to stop me looking like an explosion in a mattress factory</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I don't want the DJ to play any of the songs I carefully picked for the night</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I don't want to eat any of the delicious canapes when they are handed round</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span>I want a fabulous cake, none of which I shall taste until twenty four hours later when I am ferreting about for a hangover cure</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want to dance all night, and get at least three blisters from unsuitable shoes</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want to cry at least twice (son number two's speech and the children's gift)</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want the husband to do a speech, ending with a terrible slowed down solo rendition of Happy Birthday (a la Marilyn Monroe) </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I want to do a passable impression of Long John Silver with a stone in his one shoe on my short walk from the coach to home (approximately twenty three metres)</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span><span>I want to be bedridden for half a day with a headache the size of </span></span>Gibraltar</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And so it came to pass...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTR5a_us-PzGFAinBEYnvL-fk_pIn_O1CvrRn2whJJ-Eb5oXXGyxHJ3P3KFHfhB1R7ggd_ItHPmV9IbRAY3hOSuwL_u7f5CX82Otg6Epc7GGmjrrI9YGUTuWS4iwCQrJ5mBECzFn4fFjhpKaDBe5dcIvfHLGIZzeWCX21FSf9G9d8ODv4Ot2dVluqZXs/s1730/60th-birthday-card-retro-5421-p_1800x1800.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1730" data-original-width="1730" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTR5a_us-PzGFAinBEYnvL-fk_pIn_O1CvrRn2whJJ-Eb5oXXGyxHJ3P3KFHfhB1R7ggd_ItHPmV9IbRAY3hOSuwL_u7f5CX82Otg6Epc7GGmjrrI9YGUTuWS4iwCQrJ5mBECzFn4fFjhpKaDBe5dcIvfHLGIZzeWCX21FSf9G9d8ODv4Ot2dVluqZXs/s320/60th-birthday-card-retro-5421-p_1800x1800.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-52668882009707065522023-11-09T13:46:00.000+00:002023-11-09T13:46:46.264+00:00On top of spaghetti...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And so onto my actual birthday.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">We had breakfast with California Kate and Biggles who hadn't slept a wink overnight. They blamed it on the jetlag, but I am sure that the husband's snoring (he made the Guinness Book of World Records in 2019 having closely beaten a misfiring Boeing 747) was more to blame. They left soon afterwards, desperate for a night flight and a bit of sleep, and it was then off to see Miss R and the parents for tea and stickies. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">While this sounds like a move that Morris Dancers might do, it's a family reference to cake, and I left the café slightly wider and carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers from the wonderful Miss R, together with a large helium balloon which proclaimed how ancient I was that day. She likes to rub it in that I'm older than her, I reckon. Now it was very windy last Tuesday, and as the husband and I trolleyed up the High Street back to the car, it was touch and go whether the balloon would get there. But I hung onto it, and the husband hung onto me, and we finally made it back. For once, I was rather grateful that he wasn't going through one of his 'slim' phases. The ballast was very useful.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">On Tuesday night, we were with Italian Mrs H who made us a beautiful meal. I have to say that the husband was lucky to make it out of her dining room alive as she served pasta which was a metre long. Looking furtively around the table, the husband suddenly uttered the words which every Italian fears. 'Could I have a knife please?'</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I think that Mrs H only allowed him to cut his spaghetti up as it was my birthday. Any other day, and he would have been impaled against the kitchen door with the sharpest knife she could find while she screamed (in Italian probably) 'You don't cut spaghetti, you Philistine! Twirl it with your fork like a proper Italian does'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Wednesday and Thursday passed peaceably enough with birthday cards arriving. At this point, can I just remind my friends and family that living where we do has its problems. One of which is that the postie only deigns to deliver post three days a week. I'm not too sure what he does with the other three days, perhaps lying in the floor laughing his head off at the fact that on Tuesday I assumed no one had remembered my birthday and sulked for at least an hour and a half.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Friday saw the arrival of lots of family. My sister in law Mrs W and her handsome beau, Mr W together with the husband's niece and her chap. As we had a house full of kids, I managed to negotiate a cracking deal with one of my neighbours who has two posh sheds in her garden which worked really well. They were so lovely, that my friend had to serve an eviction notice on Tuesday as the four of them barricaded the doors and George the Fish Man (a regular customer) couldn't get in.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And then it was Saturday...party night...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVWkqrGby9DRU1zY1UwxkZe3S13LZhwhPnt_rLVzAlO4vg3f9Qo5wkFS3tOG_QU9tMaTi37hIT0WT4PhYVyOB3OhyphenhyphenQ4-LhfK2FyWKzOOdOFDuGm2GbZE4-oHYT-AP6_ChSCHNRNCMfrnxrtfeoXGbUn_Ye8HlZCcqLaLQf15a_f0W44UX3wMbqfmza9Vk/s550/snoring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVWkqrGby9DRU1zY1UwxkZe3S13LZhwhPnt_rLVzAlO4vg3f9Qo5wkFS3tOG_QU9tMaTi37hIT0WT4PhYVyOB3OhyphenhyphenQ4-LhfK2FyWKzOOdOFDuGm2GbZE4-oHYT-AP6_ChSCHNRNCMfrnxrtfeoXGbUn_Ye8HlZCcqLaLQf15a_f0W44UX3wMbqfmza9Vk/s320/snoring.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-2791690707050800012023-11-08T17:45:00.000+00:002023-11-08T17:45:22.902+00:00Secret...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">'And where do you think you've been the last ten days then?' I can almost hear you all asking this question.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Well....last week I celebrated a rather big birthday with an 0 at the end. I say celebrated, but this isn't entirely accurate as I actually celebrated on three days, and recovered for the other seven. On one of the recovery days, I did wonder whether there were two 0's at the end of the birthday number such was the headache caused by over indulgence on the alcoholic beverage front).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But the week started well. The husband had scribbled into my diary, 'keep tonight free'. Now this was the Monday night before my birthday, so I was anticipating a meal for two as a pre-cursor to The Big Day.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I was almost right. The husband had surpassed himself in taking me to the restaurant where we had our first date, so that was one gold star for him. He made me shut my eyes as we walked into the restaurant, and after saying in time honoured fashion, 'You can open your eyes now', sitting at a table for four were best friend Mrs S (or California Kate which is more fitting now she lives over there) and her gorgeous finance, Biggles (he flies things). They had flown over from California via Spain to celebrate my birthday with me.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I don't remember much about the first two minutes after seeing my best friend in front of me, but there were tears, hugs, and various expletives. California Kate, who knows me better then anyone, had pre-warned the other dining guests that my language might be a bit ripe, so luckily they had time to stuff their serviettes in their ears before I erupted like an offensive volcano.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">No one has ever done such an amazing thing for me as far as I can remember ( I am 60 now however, so there might have been something epic, but if there was, it's disappeared into the phemaldehyde of time).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It seems that every breathing person who knows me knew all about this, so I am incredibly grateful to all those who managed to keep their gobs shut in the lead up to the surprise. Especially the husband, who has the secret keeping capacity of a four year old. Afterwards, he was telling me how hard it was to keep quiet, and I reminded him of the Benjamin Franklin quote. 'You can keep a secret between three people as long as two of them are dead'. Luckily, he didn't have to resort to bumping off some of our relations, and all went to plan.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">California Kate and Biggles had a sleepover at ours and after a skip load of hugs, headed home, taking their jetlag, a pair of tartan boxer shorts and various other items of Scottish tat with them. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Saved me some money on the postage which was a bonus...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeO9tmXaDniv37whQcVo4idflYNaGId0al2hfBOYtrgvSEXIRe7fdp12l4WHqa4-WH7U8yrqM8tii53ybUzME6jQAFnqoD6FoS7e0RsxQVrz0Mwyi_C2VlDmo6Xbv8dUQCCgFhsZOFKrByUgOIgFhro0O0Ie0clXV-3Z2LQyGJezuN0xWljBVDgrdewQ/s612/suprise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeO9tmXaDniv37whQcVo4idflYNaGId0al2hfBOYtrgvSEXIRe7fdp12l4WHqa4-WH7U8yrqM8tii53ybUzME6jQAFnqoD6FoS7e0RsxQVrz0Mwyi_C2VlDmo6Xbv8dUQCCgFhsZOFKrByUgOIgFhro0O0Ie0clXV-3Z2LQyGJezuN0xWljBVDgrdewQ/s320/suprise.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-11455414406207845712023-10-26T09:11:00.000+01:002023-10-26T09:11:59.261+01:00Kiss you all over...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Poor old Reg is sporting the Cone of Shame at the moment.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I think I may have alluded to this before, but Reg is not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer (when the good Lord was handing out brains, he thought he said 'trains' and asked for a slow one) and getting into my car has had its moments of shame (on his part) and humour (on mine). </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Last week he took a huge run up to the boot of my car and face-planted in spectacular fashion. Percy, who had already been lifted into the car as befitting a gentleman of advanced years, almost had a middle-aged accident as he watched Reg disappear over the edge into a furry puddle on the gravel.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We thought nothing of it until later in the day when Percy started being very amorous towards Reg, licking his face consistently. Now this is quite normal behaviour for Percy especially when the little Shih Tzu four doors down is in season. As the husband says, 'Any port in a storm'. Reg seemed very happy to have this affection, sitting in the lounge with his eyes glazed over while his normally distant brother gave him the dog version of an expensive meal out and a box of Terrys All Gold.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Well, it turned out that Percy wasn't loving Reg, but simply licking at a small cut which had probably happened when he fell out the boot. One trip to the vets, £98 lighter, and Reg returned home with an inflatable buster collar and strict instructions not to let Percy anywhere near him. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">All was going well until bedtime, when in a fit of pique, Reg managed to get the collar off and destroy it. So now he has the Cone of Shame which is going nowhere, however hard he tries. He's not that great at adjusting his spacial awareness, and the backs of my calves are splattered with bruises where his emergency stops come too late.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Percy had been upstairs when the cone was first tried on, and having got Reg settled on his bed, Percy ambled downstairs to see what was going on.</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">He hasn't stopped laughing since...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW-FP4jU3_fO4UjnYFmsOpNBD4RQfuh9Mh2NsC7B9zg4iqG-eadVQpahQJ_219PFufeEZQ4aEkghLi5J-UtgfXEWVyjFTC8ggviub4gWofSwe75GNp0cf52xqqQP-qSmOlzSKW4Y99vyhSDYFxIj9LlE7BEjkPIGnbqXvewEsXiz6UoKbUP7u_06mSvA/s640/barks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="640" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW-FP4jU3_fO4UjnYFmsOpNBD4RQfuh9Mh2NsC7B9zg4iqG-eadVQpahQJ_219PFufeEZQ4aEkghLi5J-UtgfXEWVyjFTC8ggviub4gWofSwe75GNp0cf52xqqQP-qSmOlzSKW4Y99vyhSDYFxIj9LlE7BEjkPIGnbqXvewEsXiz6UoKbUP7u_06mSvA/s320/barks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-50493732919214345092023-10-23T11:33:00.000+01:002023-10-23T11:33:23.079+01:00Feed the birds...<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Every Friday morning, in sun, rain, wind or meteorological maelstrom, my dear friend Mrs H (the Italian one) and I head down to the local market. A veritable smorgasbord of fruit, vegetables, flowers, bread and cakes, cheeses, pet food and gift cards and wrapping. There is also a stall selling clothing (most of which is made from crimplene with an elasticated waistband. As Mrs H has standards (if she were a stick of rock, it would say 'Glamour Puss' all the way through it) we tend to walk past this stall rather swiftly, with eyes left, towards the wrapping paper and sellotape.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Last Friday, she baled on me (something to do with work, so I'll let her off). I was late going in on Friday, something I blame on an engineer who was coming to my house to sort my oven out. 'He'll be with you between 8.00-10.00', the lovely receptionist told me. Well, I think we all know what that means, and after one hour and fifty three minutes of twiddling my thumbs, he finally turned up. Pulling my oven away from the wall, my face turned as red as an over ripe tomato. There was enough food detritus down the back to feed a family of four for three days. Looking at my embarrassment, he nodded with a 'seen it all before' look. 'Shows that you use the oven though'.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So I was late. Walking towards the town, empty bags in hand, I stopped to allow a lovely couple through on the pavement. The gentleman was pushing his wife in a wheelchair, and as they got closer to me, the old boy said, 'I've got a heavy load here'. Of course, looking at the delicate little lady who was covered from neck to toe in tartan blanket, I assumed he was referring to the shopping hanging off the back. 'The Bird Seed Man isn't there today', he said. 'My feathered friends will be going hungry this week'.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And this set me thinking.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I have never called the pet shop owner the Bird Seed Man, nor the Dog Chew Chap, the Fish Food Fella or the Squeaky Toy Man. He has never been referred to as the Gravy Bone Gent, the Peanut Guy or the Cat Bed Bloke.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> .</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The only thing I buy from him each week are those round suet balls for my bird feeder.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I'll let your imagination work out the rest...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxyB-eRHqswB8TtmxGAHUqfQ13NRVgDDSej8O2lI84k1bALOcUfIHcUsO3wBA4zLPOaTDnt5WjA4OFXkybIQEZIVEI0EejluDZ3ezum9mi8DJizdqtr5QqeO09g-R3fPlV4mR65Ntxc_QF8KrgQH3mrG1tPGiNBy3ztCsabHqbspFULc4zfR1iMc22ek/s500/plums.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="500" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxyB-eRHqswB8TtmxGAHUqfQ13NRVgDDSej8O2lI84k1bALOcUfIHcUsO3wBA4zLPOaTDnt5WjA4OFXkybIQEZIVEI0EejluDZ3ezum9mi8DJizdqtr5QqeO09g-R3fPlV4mR65Ntxc_QF8KrgQH3mrG1tPGiNBy3ztCsabHqbspFULc4zfR1iMc22ek/s320/plums.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-28461856745276380182023-10-19T16:49:00.000+01:002023-10-19T16:49:01.491+01:00The bare necessities...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Since we returned from our four week adventure in Scotland, there has been one question asked many times (from me, mostly). 'Where's next?'</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I know that there will be a couple of trips down to North Devon to see my cousin who has just taken over a pub, and I'm also sure that the lovely people of Wales will be cursing my back end (or the caravan's more to the point) when we trolley down there again. But we do have one big trip planned - no caravan required.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I might have said, but Mrs S (best friend one) departed these shores for sunnier climes earlier this year. Every Tuesday, we have a good old fashioned catch up on my life here (kids, rain, gales, cost of living, putting the heating on) and her life there in California (learning Spanish, Bridge Club, extreme heat, not owning a cardigan, kids and not caring whether she ever sees a pair of black opaque tights again). We have pencilled in a two week stay with her and her fabulous husband to be. He is ex RAF, so for the purposes of the blog, let's give him the pseudonym of Biggles. The trip will entail a week in California to check out this new life of hers, and this will be followed up with a week in Montana. Why Montana, do I hear you ask? Well, you can blame Kevin Costner. It's all his fault after we got hooked on Yellowstone last year. The horses, the cowboys, the big sky and the mountains, I was in love.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So the plan is to fit in a rodeo, a country and western festival, and (I'm giddy about this bit) a re-enactment of the Battle of the Little Bighorn (or Custer's Last Stand if you prefer). Mrs S has also hinted that a cabin in the woods might be booked, preferably with a hot tub.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">With all this in mind, I have started to make a mental list (too early to put pen to paper yet) as to what might be needed for this adventure. Cowboy boots for sure for the festival, a stetson for the husband, who has been practicing his best John Wayne for the past few months, clothing with fringing (any kind, any colour) and proper Levi jeans (my Sainsbury jeans won't swing it for those cowboy types I reckon).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Mrs S and I were chatting about this on Tuesday. 'You need to bring some bells with you to warn the bears'. Now, I have tried to gloss over the fact that the B word keeps cropping up in our pre-trip chats, but this intrigued me. 'What kind of bell?' I asked, 'Are we talking Big Ben or one nicked off the kids' old bikes?' </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After some banter about looking like a couple of Town Cryers as we sashay through Yellowstone, she went on to tell me that the bells let the bears know that we are there, so that they don't get frightened. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I am not the one who has sharp teeth and claws and can climb a tree in thirty seconds for a midday snack. 'Shouldn't they carry the bells?' I asked.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After a minute or two of talking about other things (pink cowboy boots) the B word came up again.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'When we are ringing our bells in the forest, are you sure we won't just be telling them that their food delivery has arrived? I can just imagine one bear saying to the other, 'Did you order a full English?'</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I now know what that hot tub is for.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I mean,when you're a bear, not every day is a salad day...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrb5Ik1hpas0jV7fTvCcm9cWUxiaU9qrGceD7N-SuTbYfJBoHI54rN-mGTNER3KehjGig8b4uccpwYW17uy7v4RFSugki-_BI_sJ0c-e5lL9oqGLqZjJeHOgC8ynxPADSDOHARKnrHIhVXUfGUpNNNcBJAWoiTz2uvD8X16y2-2stWLeArgCjsedY3D7U/s371/Bears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="371" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrb5Ik1hpas0jV7fTvCcm9cWUxiaU9qrGceD7N-SuTbYfJBoHI54rN-mGTNER3KehjGig8b4uccpwYW17uy7v4RFSugki-_BI_sJ0c-e5lL9oqGLqZjJeHOgC8ynxPADSDOHARKnrHIhVXUfGUpNNNcBJAWoiTz2uvD8X16y2-2stWLeArgCjsedY3D7U/s320/Bears.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6074978616867984591.post-35416785208036610642023-10-10T10:51:00.000+01:002023-10-10T10:51:01.906+01:00Dance yourself dizzy...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">My feet are not happy...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">On Saturday, we were invited to a dear friend's 70th birthday party, and there was a live band, a DJ and a steel band. One quick drink, and I spent the next four hours and twenty two minutes strutting my stuff to hits from the 1960's. The husband has the dancing prowess of a cat on a hot tin roof with an added tic which involves throwing his arms out at any conceivable angle, irrespective of who is close to hand, and I saw at least two of the bar staff take a short detour to avoid a head on with him. But he was having a lovely time, so I didn't think it fair to rein him in.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">During a two minute sit down with another bottle of water - it was so hot in the hall, and I was glowing (polite phrasing for 'sweating like a good'un) - the husband did his version of descriptive dance, that is, putting actions to the words. The mother and I were doubled up at one of his moves, which involved waggling one hand on his head and another from his derriere.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'We loved your chicken dance', said the mother as he careered into us, while aiming for the chair. 'I haven't laughed so much in ages'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">'Chicken!' said the husband. 'Chicken?.....Chicken???' That was my Running Bear'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Well ladies (and the occasional gentleman), he sulked for at least forty seconds before launching himself into his mostly physical rendition of At the Hop (I think it's safe to say that most of us guessed this one correctly).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So lots of dancing for all of us - even Mrs L2B, who managed to cut a rug or two sporting a sling over her party frock.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Talking of interpretative dance, on Sunday, I took my lovely Italian friend, Mrs H, to Windsor to see Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake at the cinema. She had never seen one of his ballets, but was suitably impressed with the befeathered male dancers. Before all this though, there was shopping to be done. My feet gave up about an hour into the shopping marathon, so there was a hurried purchase of some very ugly black trainers to go with my pretty skirt. I'm sure that many of the people I walked past must have uttered those famous words of, 'Well, someone doesn't have a full length mirror in their house'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Pilates again yesterday. There's only one good thing about this.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">My stomach muscles are destroyed.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">But it does take my mind off the fact that my feet are still hurling abuse at each other...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JypzIY8GqsDrdXEBhvZtcTvHHolgrlSFIbQzgij9-JJ6firTlugHmKNFgZQ0NtpS6DOkx1a_hj4c6nT8SzD7Rmu585YYWjdnuZT7RQKthQZIwVj1OLkJBrtC4zVNzz5raAQdoSwLeHhpk31DpbfOG4_VBCuguTJp-9hvJuJ147q6UnA7rbXUbr5ljIs/s1500/Dad%20dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JypzIY8GqsDrdXEBhvZtcTvHHolgrlSFIbQzgij9-JJ6firTlugHmKNFgZQ0NtpS6DOkx1a_hj4c6nT8SzD7Rmu585YYWjdnuZT7RQKthQZIwVj1OLkJBrtC4zVNzz5raAQdoSwLeHhpk31DpbfOG4_VBCuguTJp-9hvJuJ147q6UnA7rbXUbr5ljIs/s320/Dad%20dancing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Words from a Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03736292165368529449noreply@blogger.com0