MQ8 Honiton, and stuff

Hello peoples.

The mobile dilemma has been sorted and I have a shiny new Samsung Galaxy Ace.  Not the newest model, but a touch screen blah di blah which supports apps.  Whatever they are.  Its arrival has caused Oliver much merriment while I have struggled to master using it without the aid of physical buttons to press.  I had to endure him clutching his sides and cackling whilst I tried in vain to answer my first call by poking the screen very hard and shrieking at it several times.  Of course he can make it do stuff with confidence and without written instructions, because all children under 12 these days come equipped with built-in techno-know-how.  The generation gap grows ever wider.

So on to the latest in Museum offerings - Honiton.

This is a nice little place, right up our street (not literally, it is about a half hour drive) and predominantly focuses on lace and lacemaking.  Honiton Lace is, of course, famed the world over although it is no longer commercially made.  It is incredible.

Oliver girded his loins and agreed to 'do the quiz' which was going really well until the last two questions when there was a need to write a whole sentence.  A real whole sentence.  Then he had a mini meltdown and had to be calmed down.  Honestly, there are times when I am quite baffled by his terror of the written word.  The ladies behind the counter marvelled at his neat handwriting, which is lovely for him and very encouraging, but still he freezes when he has to go off piste and dredge up words of his own.  A gentle touch needed here methinks.  It's probably my fault somewhere anyhow.

 

My lovely yarn arrived.  The colours are beeyoootiful, although I always forget that cotton is thin, and I had better remember that this should not be a BIG blanket, or it will end up being the most expensive item in my house. 

 

 



 

That'll do for now, although I have many stored up gripes, groans and indignant opinions skitting around in my brain which need to be spilled out soon before they bubble away and spew out in a violent rage at some unexpected point.

It's that time of year again....

Is it me?

My mobile phone contract is coming to an end in December.  This is a contract I took out two years ago because a) I needed a phone and b) it conveniently came with a free Xbox.  And I use the term 'free' very loosely there.

The Xbox is ace, and has usefully become our DVD player too, but the phone I have is from a bygone era.  It has no camera or internet access and just does what a phone was originally invented for. (plus texting obvs).  Up until now, that has been enough for me, happy in my little world of the snarky text.  But now I have a sneaking suspicion I am getting left behind.  Apps and these things # (don't really know what they are) are the buzz words and I am feeling old. 

Soooooo, I went onto that unhelpful website of the Orange people to see what could be done.  It is a maze of whizzy phones and snappily-named contracts and joining the two together in some cohesive value for money way is an elusive skill.  I even (and I never do this) went onto live 'chat' with an adviser to ask if I could upgrade now, and if so, what happened re the contract which ends in December.  Is that a weird question?  My helper Dale seemed to think so.  After a couple of cracks at trying to find the right answer, he (because in my mind he had morped into a short, young trendy jobsworth from Leeds) gave me a duplicate answer, but IN CAPITALS.  I found this both annoying and insulting.  Did he not realise to whom he was chatting?  I wrote back:

Yes, I realise that, BUT WRITING IN CAPITALS DOES NOT MAKE YOUR REPLY ANY CLEARER TO ME.

and ended the conversation.  On the feedback form which popped up I wrote that writing an answer in capitals for extra clarity was an insult to their literate customers.  I guess it may have had more impact if I had started off with 'fyi' and ended with 'iykwim'.  I fear for our future.

And I still have no upgrade.  AND (for emphasis, not clarity) I have just realised after nearly two years that they have been charging me to receive texts!! Cheeky beggers.  (That word is not beggers in my mind). No wonder my bill steadily creeps over the 'fixed' (fixed my arse) £25 per month.

And breeeeathhhe.

Bloody bloody bank, being ill and crochet

Despite two more lengthy sessions on the phone this morning with the bank, I still had access denied.  Towards the end of the second call when I was told to take my passport into my local branch, I got a bit shrill and spitty. 

I went into town.  With freshly laundered hair and wearing my scraggy jeans, casual pumps, layered tops and toning scarf, I felt fairly trendy and confident.  When 'Natasha' toddled out to deal with me I instantly felt like Corporal Clott.  Natasha was a skinny minnie with a skirt so tight and heels so high that she took six strides to my one.  Her french-manicured nails made me want to childishly sit on my hands, and her platinum and diamond engagement ring was so sparkly I wanted to say 'is that real??'   But I got a grip of myself and instead focused on her scary red lipstick as a point of reference. 

I had to sit in the branch, on the phone, for 26 minutes whilst my new bestie in Liverpool, Daniel, unblocked my account in every conceivable form.  During this time Natasha, obviously bored with watching me sit wordlessly staring at her desk and clutching the phone,  carried on tippety-typing away on her homework some other banky stuff.  I was pretty bored myself and so started up a conversation with Oliver about what we would have for tea, and then shortly after this, Oliver had an uncontrollable and embarrassing fit of the giggles and I spent a good five minutes apologising for his apparent unfounded mirth.  Oh what fun we do have.

I feel quite traumatised by the bank debacle.  I am particularly sick to death of being told by every employee  how great it is that their security is so tight.  I think they are fascist zealots and their idea of protection is on a par with imprisonment. 

By the evening, I felt very, very down.  I am (hopefully) at the tail end of a bladder infection, and I have been on antibiotics for a few days.  The whole episode made me feel quite ill, and uncharacteristically weepy.  By last night (oh the terror of night creeping in on an unsteady mind) I had managed to convince myself that the bladder infection had not gone, manifested itself into a kidney infection and I would be in great pain and on dialysis by morning.  Being ill does bad things to my mental state.  I cannot cope.  I am so afraid of feeling 'not right' that I sink into a big funk almost instantly and am overwhelmed with despair and fear.  I can handle a streaming cold in it's various guises, and am pretty good at overcoming sore throats, but any nausea, headaches, stomach pain of any sort or - heaven forbid - vomiting has me bordering on panic.  It does worry me, and moreover, it upsets me terribly that this huge weakness impacts on my poor boy.  He found me snivelling on Wednesday morning and it upset him.  I rarely cry in front of him and I had to confess that I felt ill, and that I'm just 'not very good at being ill'.  Maybe it's a skill to be mastered. 

Today I woke up imagining that I would have to slot in a visit to the hospital (I know, I know - the drama queen tag is not lost on me), but as the day has mooched on, I have to admit to myself I feel 'better'.  I certainly do not feel the despair or fear as I did last night, nor the nausea (which was probably of my own making anyway).

This has cheered me enormously.  I did spend some time in my angst reading up about Bach Flower remedies (which I have some faith in, it has to be said) and I reckon a good dose of Mimulus would be the way to go.  Anyone have any experience in these matters??

Mooooving on - I have been working on a blanket project (who of us crochet geeks are NOT working on a blanket perennially??) and here is progress to date;

It is for Oliver - a 'lap blanket' to carry about from room to room which he requested.  I do really like this although I always shudder a bit at the way the join in the circles is so obvious.  I think it will need blocking, and I need about four more squares.

When this is finished, (or whenever the new yarn turns up, whichever is sooner heh heh) I intend to start a Me Blanket. Although the end product is not intended specifically 'for me', the making of it is intended to be an indulgence 'for me'. This will be made with lovely posh yarn and in colours unlike any others I have used. I have ordered my yarn today (be still my beating heart) from Hannah, and it is Debbie Bliss (I know) Eco-Baby yarn in lovely muted shades.

I have also finished my stripey 'random' scarf, which looks like a bit of a tangle of wool around my neck, but it is the remnants of my Christmas Ripple, and is soft, baby wool.  Luverly.  And I am quite torn with the word stripey - with or without an 'e'?  Without I read it in my head as 'strippy', but I have a sense that with it is wrong.  And I don't trust spell check. 

How much?????

I'll get to this in a minute.

A few days ago Mark asked me to transfer some money online from one of our accounts, to another.  So I did.  Then I received a letter from the bank informing me that there had been a transaction on my account 'out of character' with my 'normal account activity'.  So in order to 'protect' me they had not only not allowed the transfer through, they had suspended access to my account.

Brilliant.

I had to telephone to prove my worth. I did this, and subsequently failed verification.  Liverpool Lou (their call centre is up that way by the sounds of it) told me I could call back and try again later, or go into a branch with photographic ID.  Since I was so vague about which direct debits are paid from this particular account in the first place, I couldn't see how ringing back later with the same vague information could possibly help the situation.  So, amid much cursing and ill temper, I drove into town to prove I am who I am.  (and who I am needs no excuses.  ha ha.)

The poor sap who ended up having to deal with me had to ring the call centre again, and I had to go through the same bloody rigmarole sat in the branch as I did earlier.  Despite being far less vague than my first attempt, I failed.  I got cross and told the woman on the end of the phone that I couldn't bear to talk to her anymore and handed it back to poor sap.  Despite him confirming that I was sat in front of him with a passport, they refused to unlock my account.  This is security checks gone mad.  Jobsworth and all that.  Poor sap went for back up.  Mr Manager came out.  I did feel for them to tell you the truth - they seemed as depressed about the whole thing as much as me.

In order to help me pass this verification procedure - which was starting to resemble an entrance exam to Mensa - they printed out a copy of my latest transactions and direct debits and let me phone oop north once more.  This time I was sailing through the answers until they asked my if I had the debit card on me.  I knew that 'er, no' was going to cost me.

Long story short - I have to ring up for a fourth time.  You couldn't make it up.  Thanks O bank of mine - thank you so much for your vigilance in protecting my financial information.  You are doing it so well that even I can't get to it myself now.... you dicks. 

Oliver, sat quietly next to me whilst this hoo-hah was happening, was quite unnerved by my display of angst.  To compensate the poor little bugger for his distress, I took him into the Lush shop a few doors down.  He loves a posh bath bomb every now and then.  So we got one, and a smidge of soap.  The smidge of soap cost £4.22.  Whaaaat?  That's about 3.5 baths worth.  I could bathe in asses milk for less.

So I leave you with this

a very decent Cranks carrot cake, and this recipe found on the back of a pasta packet, which is bloody nice.  It's a 2 hour oven job.

Think of me later, trying in vain once more to regain account access.  Ironically, a fraudster would have done it by now.   

This week I am eating mostly

toast.

I have kept all my food receipts so far this month, and in the first two weeks my shopping has cost £275.  Zut alors.  I feel I should point out that this does include alcohol and soft drinks, which account for around £40-ish.  I feel I should also point out that I was not making any fast and furious attempt to shop terribly carefully - the exercise was to discover exactly what I am spending the shopping budget on. 

Still, this week I have drawn out the cash I have left from my personal earnings and my intention is to make that last - as - far - as - possible.  Payday is binocular-distance away at the moment, but I really would prefer not to dip into our joint account.

In discussing this at length with my SiL yesterday, I feel I am thwarted in my attempts at any serious frugality by these things:

- The sort of cooking I like to do, bakes, casseroles, pasta sauces, curries and chillis and 'interesting' stuff, is made difficult by the ingredients I can/cannot use and who will/will not eat them for various reasons.

- Oliver will not eat spicy foods.

- Mark is vegetarian and a fussy one.  He will eat lentils and pulses - but not more than once a week and still views them with suspicion.  Oliver is horrified by the prospect but can be bullied once in a while to partake. 

- At the moment, with Oliver's evening clubs, my work shifts and Mark's badminton, we are lucky to sit down and eat together at most once a week.  This means either preparing food/having easy to do food available for Mark to cook when he comes home for him and Oliver, or cooking something in advance which can be reheated and considered 'nice' to both of them. (virtually impossible).

- This year (thankfully) Mark has started to eat fish, and although this has helped with variety, he will not eat tinned tuna (the most inoffensive way to eat fish ever, surely) thereby blocking tuna bakes and tuna mayonnaise.  And fish smells and I hate cooking it.  Sorry. Thank the Lord for fish fingers I say.  (another super-inoffensive way to consume fish).

- Although Mark does eat the food I cook, he has some funny unwritten rules and ideas about meals which cause me great irritation:  baked potatoes are a only acceptable no more than once a fortnight, soup is a cop-out meal and therefore just not worth even trying to dish up.  Any meal should not be dished up again within two days of the last time.  To be fair, he is pretty happy with 'meat' and two veg, but I find this sort of meal-making to be dull, dutiful and depressing.  Not to mention uninspiring. 

At present, it seems easier to feed us all different meals at different times.  No wonder my bloody shopping bill is so high and I am frazzled with the idea of feeding us.

I am determined to make baby steps - I have pre-cooked some baked potatoes and frozen them, because as a side dish, baked potatoes are exempted from the once a fortnight only rule.  These can be pulled out and cooked alongside other frozen staples like fish fingers or vege burgers in the oven, thereby giving me two or three nights of cheap, stress-free meals.  I will start squeezing in a curry and casserole here and there, therefore making it possible to use up lentils and pulses clogging up the tin cupboard in order to make way for more tinned tomatoes (how did people ever manage without them) and baked beans (a food loved by all to which I am deeply indebted).

I also intend to buy a load of chicken breasts to freeze and use for Oliver because I think I need to control the fish finger habit.  I know that this will not be a very economical way to buy chicken, but buying a whole one, or pieces means there is too much chicken for his teeny appetite in one meal, and he baulks at having it two days on the trot.  I resent giving edible leftovers to the cats, so at least by cooking one chicken breast - it will be eaten and enjoyed fresh with no waste.  While I'm at it, I will buy bags of frozen fish (lidl seem to do these cheaply enough) which can be cooked from frozen and wrapped up in foil to minimise fish stink which permeates every corner of the house and clings to clothing for weeks.  Who knows, this way I may even be able to feed two of us at the same time....

Three go mad in Dorset

We have returned from a weekend in Dorset, Warmwell to be precise.  We do the 'Sun break' thing a few times a year (I despise the Sun newspaper and everything it stands for but hypocritically purchase my holidays through them). Warmwell is one of our favourites, and we try to go there in the chillier months, as it is so very Autumnal a place anyway.

our lodge

the lake behind our lodge

They have an artificial ski slope on site, a biggish one and I love this.  This is the third year that Oliver has skied there, and this time he did not have to have a lesson, just turn up and go go go.  Mark skied with him one evening, and I went the next.  Oliver, in true kid style showed little fear of whizzing down from the top after very little of familiarisation, whereas I virtually threw myself on the floor mid-flight in terror as soon as I hit more than 5 miles per hour.  Wimp.  Everything is so physically scary as you get older.  I am scared of pain.  It hurts. 

I did actually ski down from the top several times (at very high speeds I'll have you know), but this is the only photo of me in focus - stood waiting for the lift. 

They also have a roller skating 'zone', a pool (in which you are forbidden to anything but float) and an indoor soft play area (yuk). 

Oliver had a ball.

On Saturday we had booked (before we left home to secure a jolly hefty discount) a 'go' on the Weymouth Tower.  Although I should not be surprised, it is not the 'experience' it is jazzed up to be. 'Experiences' are not something we do well in this country, I fear.  There was a queue to get to the booth, then we were ushered through (party by party) to a room where we had to lean back and wave like idiots where - horror of horrors - our photo was taken for the dreaded 'experience' photo.  Then we had to join another queue before the 'experience' began.  Lordy.  I don't know what I expected, but the word 'shafted' was hard to shift from my mind. 

Once this mercifully short period of my life was done and dusted, we headed over into the town for a spot of lunch.  We ate in the 'Cafe Vie D'amour'.  How lovely.  And it was.  I felt cheered once more, and on a high we headed over the part 2 of our £54 ticket adventure.  Weymouth Sea Life Centre.  As I have systematically lowered my expectations with each break we go on, this place was quite able to live up to them.  I thought it had charm, was clean and well-stocked with fishy stuff.  Also it wasn't busy, and the weather was just perfect (for me) - a spot of sunshine but cold enough to keep your coat on. 

 

Ignoring the turtly gliding overhead, Oliver is more concerned with showing off the gap from where I pulled out his tooth during lunch.  It was bleeding and very loose, and yes, I am that sort of mother.  So shoot me.

The best bit?  Claws Adventure Zone, where they have a series of rock pools filled with things you should be able to find in your bog standard rock pool (my eye).  Apart from massive spider crabs which, thankfully, I have never seen in a rock pool.  There was a nice woman working in this area who knew stuff and seemed to like children.  She showed Oliver how to pick up a crab and hold it (big yuk) and he kept popping back there to show off his new found skills to small open-mouthed with awe children.  Good on him.

On Sunday we took a trip over to Lulworth Castle.  Originally built as a hunting lodge, it is quite impressive and very 'castle-like'.  Shame it was decimated inside by fire in 1929, so there is not a lot to 'see' inside.  It is being restored big time.

I was struck by the feeling of quiet and 'space' as I got out of the car.  There are not many places I go to where there is such a sense of 'wide-ness'.  Walking back from the castle I threw my arms open wide and walked along with my head back breathing big lungfuls of air.  It felt good. Luckily Mark and Oliver were occupied with chatting up ahead and didn't see my odd behaviour.  They already think I'm mad anyway so it probably would have made little difference.

In the grounds is this lovely chapel.  Inside (where it asks you not to take photos and I was too scared to disobey) was open, light and very beautiful.  There was organ music on a loop tape  which was very uplifting.  If you are ever in this area (Lulworth/Wareham), do go - it is soul-satisfying place for a visit.

And so to home on Monday.  Via Bridport in a light drizzle where we tramped around poking in charity shops before lunch in Joe's Cafe (yes really) where they let kids draw on the wall.  Good.  I love caffs.  Unpretentious, simple menus and proper prices.  And the napkins were sheets of kitchen roll. Brilliant.  And I got called Madam.  Not in a prostitute way. Ha ha. 

All hail the digital age

We are preparing for a little break-ette.  With this in mind, I have purchased some holiday reading;

I do love a bit of tawdry rag to read when in the holiday spirit.  I particularly enjoy features on girly dimwits and their wrongdoings, and 'when bad clothes happen to good people'.  Ha ha.  Always raises a chuckle that one.  I should like to make it quite clear that I do not, in my normal persona, buy these magazines.  It is a holiday treat only.  I share the awfulness out upon my return by giving these magazines to my mother. 

The Christmas one looks pretty exciting though.  Fa la la la laa, la la la laa.

Further break-ette prep has involved yet another attempt to 'get' songs onto Oliver's ipod, which I seem startlingly shit at.  He has been asking me to get 'Big In Japan' by Alphaville onto it for him (that's my little 80's boy), for ages, and today I did it.  I also simultaneously managed to delete every other song that was already on there.  I experienced that horrible lurch that you get when you realise that the thing you have just done is not a good thing.  I went to find Oliver to tell him that I got Big In Japan for him.  But now that it is the only song he has.  The incredulity on his face quickly gave way to tears.  I am such a crap mother. 

So now, not only do I have to brave Mark's fury that I have dared to download itunes onto the computer without telling him first, I have to confess to buggering up Oliver's ipod.  I know which will annoy him the most.  Poor Oliver.  I think I will be spending the evening trying to 'get' some more tunes.

A friend I haven't seen for a while came for coffee this morning (yes, I do actually have a real bona fide friend who wished to spend coffee time with me).  She earned my admiration by telling me a road-rage story about her and another car not being prepared to reverse for each other to pass in a narrow road.  She, over halfway down this steep road, felt it not unreasonable to expect the driver coming in the opposite direction to just drop back into the car park from whence he came.  The other driver (and his apparently foul-mouthed wife) decided he was not prepared to do this.  The wife was effin' and jeffin' at my friend (with her kids in the back of the car), and my friend also had her kids with her.  Said friend got out of the car,  silently wrote down the other car's registration and then with a pointing finger and a parental voice said 'I am going to call the Police, and report you.  How dare you speak to me like that.'

The wife's mouth apparently closed like a trap and the car was swiftly reversed. 

Respect.