Happy Birthday to me, me, me.

Yes, it's that special time again.  Although, I don't 'feel' it as I have done in previous years.  I usually always carry that 'special little buzz' inside on June 25th, but this year, it is missing.  And I don't even feel alarmed about it.  I think it's to do with growing up and stuff.  Same old, same old.  Still, birthdays are nice, and I like mine. 

My parents kindly transferred some dosharooney into my paypal account last Friday, which I used to 'win' a Cath Kidston bag (small one) on Ebay, in which I intend to keep a little crochet project-on-the-go.  I have lost count of the number of times I have found myself waiting in the car killing time while Oliver finishes some club or other and cursing my lack of forethought in having a crochet hook and yarn in the glove compartment.   No more the cursing.

I also (through a bit of whining it has to be said) badgered Mark and Oliver to give me gifts over the weekend (before my actual birthday as we were away in Cornwall) because I knew there were crochet books involved.  This proved a bit pointless since I had very little yarn with me, and nothing suitable to even have a little practice run.  In fact, last night, (during the England football debacle) I ran out of yarn for the daisy ripple.  Zut alors.  The rest of the night was spent biting my nails in cross agitation.

I also got Victorian Farm on DVD, which I have wanted for ages - it's soooo interesting and the Christmas episode is sooooo cosy.  Would have been a completely shit time to have lived that way though - so much hard work.  I wouldn't have lasted five minutes.

And I have been hankering after a teapot for a little while.  I had in my mind what I wanted - a pretty one, an old-ish one, not an expensive one and through luck and a following wind, we stumbled across a crockery stall in a market in Redruth yesterday.  It cost - wait for it - £1.  Happy days.  It will be so lovely on my dresser (which I don't have yet nor have any real hope of getting for some time).

AND - tres exciting, I had a gift to open when I came home today from the lovely Elizabeth aka
 Mrs Thomasina Tittlemouse.  It was......

This!

I love this sort of gift.  Something lovely and pretty which I would not have (or could not have, in this case) made for myself.  More happy days!

We had a really nice weekend down in North Cornwall.  We stayed at a quiet site near Newquay and although the weather took a shocking turn Saturday teatime and hammered it down all night, we got to do stuff.

Happy days indeed.

Slow Sunday

Yesterday the rain let up enough to go check out the garden.  I'm still not enamoured with the whole garden idea as it is a never-ending sucker-up of precious time and effort, but, gloves on and chocs away.

It's looking very green despite the recent onslaught of water.  Remember the little seedlings which were growing at the end of the runners?

Well they had developed into a carpet of green leaves and, as per Mark's warning, were threatening a takeover down there, so I pulled them up and replanted them in their own bed:

As I was doing this - planting some of the strongest looking ones and discarding others I was thinking about how, in 'the old days' of rural England every seed counted - every plant which successfully germinated could make the difference in feeding your family throughout the winter - or not.  These days if it doesn't work out, I can jump in the car at any point and go buy the veg I want from the supermarket.  This was a very depressing thought whilst pottering about with soil and toil.  When did it all get so lazy for us?  The 60's?  The 70's?  What's that saying - necessity is the mother of invention?  How about a new one:  being a lazy-arse is the death of job satisfaction.

It was a warm enough day for our number one cat to stretch out for a snoozed on here:

This is Tabba. Don't know if I've mentioned her before. She was from a farm as a kitten. I think she must have got dropped on her head at some point, because she's mad. She is very affectionate and seeks company, but does not want to be picked up and cuddled (or she'll rip your face off). She was Oliver's first pet, and slept quite happily with him on his bed until we got Poppy, who she took an immediate and all-consuming dislike to, and buggered off to live outside. She comes up to eat on a daily basis, sitting on the wall outside the kitchen and glaring in the window until I open the door and feed her. In a clean bowl, or she won't eat it. If she ever needs the vet, I don't know what we'll do - because I'm a bit scared of her. Mark loves her though. I think he senses a kindred spirit, simultaneously seeking yet rejecting affection.

Anyhoo.  Following this stint in the great outdoors, I toddled along (in the car, obvs) to visit my mother in law, who has recently moved into a residential home.  She has Alzheimer's, so sometimes conversations can be startlingly repetitive, and her negative frame of mind  means you have to brace yourself to be calm and matter of fact for the first 10 minutes or so while she complains bitterly about being in there.

This accomplished, she seems to relax, and once ensconced in the relative comfort of the TV lounge, we shared a companionable hour or so of crochet (me), cat petting (her) and tea drinking, watching tennis and odd chat (both of us).  This peaceable afternoon was only broken by the insistent pleas of Ethel (another inmate) whizzing around the whole of the ground floor with her zimmer looking for downstairs.  Her unshakable belief that there is a downstairs and that there is a conspiracy not to tell her where it is is a little alarming, especially as she did this for the entire duration of my visit, despite everyone she encountered telling her there was no downstairs.  In the end I told her I didn't know where downstairs was.  This didn't work very well either as she then lost her temper and accused us all of being stupid.  When I left there was a row brewing between Ethel and another woman who MiL calls 'a bossy boots'.  Zimmers at dawn there I reckon.  You have to make light of it - it is a bit of a twilight zone in this type of place where people have such a tenuous grip on reality. 

Maybe I sense kindred spirits here.  My own grip on reality feels a little tenuous at times too.....

Flaming June

by Sir Frederic Leighton

All of my family have always bemoaned June - there are loads of birthdays and it is considered an 'expensive' month.  Who cares I say, my birthday is in June and that's alright then.  Ha ha.  In fact, lets just talk about me me me for a moment - when I was growing up, I felt terribly special that my birthday is exactly 6 months from Jesus' birthday, therefore confirming that Jesus and I share a special connection.  This long held belief was shattered some years back by some do-gooder pointing out that 25th June is, in actual fact, the furthermost point in the calendar away from Christmas Day.  Poo.  I felt quite disconcerted for a very long time about this. 

Moving on, June is also the month that my little cherub was born (nuff said about that hideous tale of a shitty point in time for me) and said little cherub will be 10 in a few days.  Whilst sat watching him in a swimming lesson last night I suddenly locked onto a train of thinking about how he was changing, growing up and getting better at things, and then, out of the blue, I was struck by the realisation that realistically I have about four more years with him before his childhood is - unsurprisingly, over.

This thought struck me with such a force that I started to cry.  Not sob, obviously, but a welling up and flood of tears that caused major sniffling and profuse eye-wiping to take place.  The thought that I have less years of sharing his childhood ahead of us than have already passed has upset me terribly.  The thought that I have just three or four more summers and Christmases to enjoy closeness and shared enjoyments left me feeling quite distraught.  Obviously whilst I don't imagine this to be an overnight thing - the distancing will happen, and this will be a distancing which must happen in order for him to learn to be independent.  I am so filled with sorrow about it I can't tell you.  I suppose it is the type of thing which makes you start to think about another baby.... but I don't want another baby.  I  just want him again.  I want his childhood years again.  I know what I must not do - I must not and will not allow these feelings to cloud the present and the happiness I have with him at this point in our lives.

Enough gloom. 

Today we went to Clip'n Climb - a treat for Oliver and his friend at the start of Oliver's birthday weekend.  He loved it.

I paid for him to have a go at the 'leap of faith', where you climb up reeealllly high onto a platform and then leap across a huuuuge gap to grasp a trapeze suspended in mid-air:

See that platform on the right there?  It is a leap from there across the grand canyon to grasp that flimsy red handle on the left.  Er, no.

I know Oliver was scared about this, and after gee-ing him along with words about positive thinking and such bollocks, I walked around and up the stairs to the balcony almost level with the leap of faith platform.  I looked down and thought to myself that there was no sodding way I would ever be having a go at that, thank you very much.

Unsurprisingly, both Oliver and his friend climbed up to the platform, took one look, whimpered, and had to be rescued by the climbing staff.  Don't blame them at all.

After this was the birthday treat meal - the ubiquitous McDonalds.  I pulled up in the car park, only to realise that I had left Oliver's insulin at home, and he could not eat without it.  Balls.  This turned into a drive-thru followed by a hasty dash across Exeter in the rush hour traffic.  Spiffing Friday I call it.

We have bought Oliver a box of Pokemon booster packs for his birthday - 36 packs in all, each containing 10 cards.  So lots of new cards.  The hope is that there will be some great cards in there to help him build his 'ultimate' deck for the National competition at the end of the week.  In poking about on the official Pokemon website, I was stunned to see that Oliver is ranked 13th junior in the UK!  This has really boosted his confidence, and I am really happy for him.

Mooooving along to crochet world, I have just passed the halfway point in my Daisy ripple. 

I am quite relieved this is turning out OK, because I have had a lot of misgivings about just using purple shades, and it is not the design I originally planned to do.  Still - it's all gonna be OK. 

And here is my progress on the Babette, which looks rubbish, but in my defence, I have chucked away several wrongly sized and wrongly shaded squares thus far, and every time I pick it up to do again, I forget the pattern, size hook and shades I have decided on, and this feeling of having to start over every time makes it all very laborious.

And no, I don't iron my duvet cover.  Can't think of anything more pointless.

Rained a lot lately hasn't it?  Can you just feel the irony?  I change the habit of a lifetime and make a conscious decision to welcome the summer with open arms, not moan and enjoy my sun-filled days and it pisses with rain and blows a hoolie for days on end with temperatures to rival Autumn.  Sacre bleu.

PS: I didn't return to the exercise regime from hell.  After stewing and fuming for a few days, I sent him an email telling him that I wasn't coming back and that I thought it a bit much to demand input and effort from his customers in order for him to make the sessions 'interesting and enjoyable', since it is his job, and he is getting paid for it.  I also said I knew what I should be doing fitness and foodwise, the problem lay in the fact that I am not doing it.  I finished up by saying I was looking for motivation and support, not to become Private Benjamin.  Think some bridges have definitely been burnt there.

feel the burn

Weight loss, exercise and I are fickle friends.

I go through periods (usually annually for the last three years) of feeling hugely fed up with heaviness around the arse and belly and drag myself off to a diet/fitness club (Rosemary Conley for the last three years) to lose around half a stone-ish and then lazily allow it to re-attach itself to my arse and belly over the next twelve months. 

This year is a bit different.  I haven't put on as much weight as I have done over the last year, although it is creeping up that way.  Normally by now, I have made my appearance at RC and am coughing up twenty quid a month to be weighed once a week by a complete stranger then bounce around with a bunch of like minded tubbies and oldies for forty minutes.  This serves its purpose, and off we go again.

Whether it's because I haven't put on as much weight as normal, or whether it's because I don't feel that concerned about being a little chubbier,  or whether I am just wearing bigger clothes, I don't know, but I haven't felt the annual urge to diet yet.  It may even have something to do with the fact that eating 'healthily' does not happily sit alongside the kind of food Oliver needs to be eating, crackers though it sounds.  For example, last night I bought a lovely piece of salmon to go with some asparagus.  Lovely, lovely healthy summery eating you would think.  But - no.  This, on its own, as Oliver would like to eat it, is no good for him without some carbohydrates.  So he had to be coerced into having potatoes too.  Bloody diabetes.  Some days pisses me off more than others.  Anyhoo, I can't always get my head around thinking of a meal, adapting it for Oliver, taking out the fat for me and the wheat and dairy for Mark.  Really, some of the instantaneous pleasure in cooking has been dimmed somewhat!

Meanwhile, back with the plot, I saw an internet offer recently for a 12 week weight loss and fitness programme for £19.  Bargain at £1.60ish per week I thought to myself.  So I signed up and went along last night to some little outbuilding in some lane on the edge of town to sit with 9 other likeminded individuals to receive our induction and be weighed.  I have to say that, contrary to the normal enthusiasm and 'new hobby feeling' which usually accompanies such an event, I feel very cross, un-enthused and downright rebellious.  The room was filled with torture devices like medicine balls and free weights.  The 'programme' is led by 3 blokes who are clearly fitness freaks, one of whom is a nutritionist who advises the Exeter Chiefs on diet and nutrition.  I started to feel a little out of my depth after about 5 minutes, and after fitness freak 2 started his diatribe on how he expected us to put in the effort because he was putting in the effort working out the programme for us (yeah, you are getting paid for your trouble mate) I could feel my lips beginning to purse in irritation.  Making us write down a 4 week goal and a 12 week goal was annoying beyond belief.  It felt like I was back in the days of office seminars and SMART goal setting which I despised.  Next week we have to turn up in exercise clothes ready for our first session which is apparently going to involve 'own body weight work - aka press ups.  News Flash guys: girls don't do press ups.  I don't care if that's sexist (actually - I can do press ups, but only because I have a weird teen-year athletic thing in my past going on)  Normal girls, who have led a normal life, can't do press ups.  Why the fuck would anyone want to.  See, now I'm getting all hot under the collar.  Fitness freak 2, btw, is newly qualified at fitness training, and ex-marines.  Imagine my surprise.

Nuff said.  If it wasn't for the fact I cannot bear to imagine Mark's reaction when I tell him I'm too cross and it's not for me, I would chuck it in and send them a caustic email right after finishing this blog post.  It is also a little pathetic, even by my standards, not to give it one session, so I feel I am duty-bound to go at least once more.  I even went into town today to purchase some vaguely acceptably sporty bottoms, but after thrashing my way into 4 different pairs and sizes, I had to admit they made me look more like a lightbulb than a sports devotee, and I have had to admit defeat in that department.  I don't even want to think about how snotty and cross I am going to feel by the time next Thursday comes along. 

All the above taken into account, I think I am, actually, quite OK with my own body image.  How I imagine I look (willowy and graceful) and how I really do look (stumpy with thighs like a rugby player) are two very different things, and although I know it - I don't feel it when I am out and about, and for that, I feel very fortunate.  It reminds me of this from Benidorm:

One chubby middle-aged man to another talking about self-image:

Chub 1: 'When I look in the mirror, I don't see a fat person.'

Chub 2: (in amazement) 'really?'

pause.

'Where do you buy these mirrors?'

Ha ha.