check, mate.

Oliver has discovered a love of Chess.  This is a Good Thing.  I love chess, and I love that it is an excellent thinking tool for him.  He has been giving the local chess club a whirl, and is getting his arse whooped on a weekly basis by chess boffins.  This week he came home with a book of chess puzzles for juniors, and tips for 'the Italian game'.  He has just played me a game whilst referring to the latter, and made short work of my puny efforts.  I am feeling decidedly beaten and inferior.  ~And it's Mother's Day which makes my defeat Not Fair.  He should have let me win.  sulk. 

Anyway, I don't believe in Mother's Day, never have.  But it has not stopped me graciously accepting these offerings,

nor popping on my PJs and guzzling a glass of wine in the middle of the day because 'it is Mother's Day you know.'  Ha ha.  Hypocrisy is my middle name. 

Incidentally, I had already managed to scoff all of the Maltesers in four handfuls by the time I took the above photo.  It is Mother's Day you know.

The book, as far as I gather, is about Anne Boleyn, who I admire greatly for her tenacity and cunning,  although in reality I think she would have scared me silly back in the 16th century.  You just didn't mess with her.    And I have three tawdry rags to enjoy.  Sigh.  I just love Hello magazine.   I can ignore the obsequious editorial for the access to the glitz and glamour of the celeb echelons it offers.  And they never say nasty stuff.  And I like that.  It is restful after the spite and bile of Heat magazine. 

Tried to find a replacement for these today:

I know they look filthy and smelly and as if they belong to the local vagrant, but they are very comfortable, were very cheap and are my work shoes.  And, actually, they do not smell at all.  Can I find a pair like it?  Can I buggery.  I think of them in my mind as school shoes, and so have been frequenting the type of shitty shop that sells such footwear, but over the last twelve months this design has morphed into shiny black plastic with pointy toes.  This pisses me off intensely.  Feet are not pointy.  Feet are rounded at the front, and therefore school shoes should be too.  I am thinking of complaining bitterly.  To whom,  I have no idea yet.

catchin' up

I merrily started to stitch together my target squares but managed to balls it up and had to re-do all the corners.  Frigsticks.  I can't quite face crouching down on the floor and crocheting at weird angles in one sitting.  It's a work in progress to be sure.

In other news, my mother in law, who was suffering from all manner of illnesses from Alzheimers to COPD deteriorated rapidly since Christmas, and passed away last week.  In the end this was more a relief than grief, as she had been very, very unhappy in the life she was having to lead.  Her loss of memory was upsetting to witness and made all attempts to maintain a good relationship difficult to manage.  Tomorrow is the funeral where we will remember the person she once was.  The funeral we had hoped would be private and dignified is now appearing to attract hostile estranged relatives and their 'grief'.  Appearance at the funeral is one thing.  A desire to attend the following wake, distasteful in my opinion.  I just hope it brings a sense of healthy sadness and 'good' feelings to the two people there who matter the most. 

I have also received the bad news that my uncle has died.  He was the father of my cousin who died unexpectedly aged 47 last October.  To say it has not been a great few months for my aunt and her daughter is a bloody understatement.  It makes you feel quite afraid, that life can take such a dark turn so quickly. 

I will finish with my twigs.  Which I intend to hang painted eggs on, for Easter.  And I blog this so I don't seem like a real copycat later on when everybody else does it.  And it may seem weird to blog about the misery of death mixed in with crochet and twigs, but life simply must go on and these little fripperies help it to.

Laters.

Lego shlego, blocking schmocking and whine wine.

My Big Wine Idea didn't happen.

I am ashamed to say I found it incredibly soul destroying to have one measly glass of wine to look forward to, save it up until Mark and I were settled down to watch something on the box, and then - they think it's all over - it is now. 

Meh.

So instead I have gone for the removing of the self-imposed guilt option and a soupcon of mild restraint.  I'm OK with that.  For now.  This was nice:

I am not a red drinker.  I usually have red in the house, but don't drink it - I cook with it.  When the white runs out, I never, ever reach for the red, the sherry or cider in the cupboard.  (surely reassurance that my wine guzzling is merely a bad habit rather than an addiction to alcohol??)  But this red - is delicious.  Fruity (obvs.) and red, this feels full of the heady alcohol warmth that a mere 11% does not often give.  I thoroughly recommend it.  A bit on the pricey side for me though, so a time to time treat only. 

Moving swiftly, and thankfully on....

I have been doing a spot of blocking.

This is the first time I have bothered with such nonsense, but I am hoping it will make the transition from oddly shaped squares to blanket an easier one. 

Aaaand in other news, things are a-changing for Oliver.  The hobbies/clubs he has indulged in for the last few years are, for various reasons, coming to an end.  I thought I would feel sad when this happened, but actually, I feel quite elated at the change in routine.  I will now have an extra night free, and he will be learning to play tennis under Mark's watchful gaze instead of mine.  This is a Good Thing for both of them.  I have undertaken all of Oliver's activities since for ever - all the new things he has learnt and progressed with I have been there for.  It will be a refreshing change for Mark and Oliver to experience something new together, without my (overbearing, probably) input.  Still, when I text'd (what is the past tense of text??)  Mark to find out how it went (I was pounding the hospital corridors at the time), I got the standard man-text - 'OK'.

I cannot tell you how much this pisses me off.  It means nothing, conveys nothing and just takes up unnecessary space in cyber world.  I cannot stand reading the text 'OK' from anybody.  I know sometimes it means just that - a confirmation of the contents of the previous text, but - honestly I think it a gratuitous waste of effort for my eyes and brain to take it in at all.

On Saturday, I had the brilliant idea of taking the Big Box of mixed Lego crap out from the depths of Oliver's stuff and sorting it out for sale on ebay.  Let me tell you that four days later I am still sorting out the Big Box of Lego.  Several swear words have passed my lips and my knees protesteth muchly from taking my weight on the floor as I swill around in it.   

shown much, much, much smaller than actual size

I envisaged chucking random piles of it into cardboard boxes ( I even went to Sainsburys specifically to obtain said boxes) and selling it in lots of '2kg of mixed Lego' etc,  thereby saving myself helluva lotta bovver.   However, as I was up to my eyes in brightly coloured plastic, I had an epiphany.  Some of the pieces might do better sold individually as they are a bit unusual. 

Soooo, a bit of googling later revealed that he actually has a lot of pieces from a set called Fabuland, which Lego produced from 1979 and into the eighties.  Wahey.  Suddenly this box of Lego which I got mostly from auction about five years ago for £12 (which I baulked at, at the time) is looking like a Really Good Buy.  I'm not talking gazillions of quids here mind you, but hopefully a good sum so Oliver can benefit from a) the space where the Lego once lived and b) a bit of dosh to buy something he will actually play with.  Happy days. 

He's paying the ebay fees.

spread the love

Kathi often blogs a post to tweak my little grey cells,  (not too hard obvs because there's not a lot of give there), and a recent one bore the title of BFF. 

This gives me a little shudder, as it's just so - darned Stateside, and makes me think of cutesy jewellery with twirly letters which girlies exchange when they are twelve.  Anyhoo, in my (overworked) mind I have started to think of this as Blog Friends Forever - which may too seem twee, but not so eye-wateringly shuddersome.  And I genuinely believe it.  There is much comfort to be had from sending your thoughts, hopes and achievements out into cyber space to be read and commented on by hitherto unknown people who actually then seem to give a shit.  It's nice, it's what a counseller would call 'positive stroking' and what I have felt to be a balm to all ills at times. 

I am incredibly grateful to and warmed by the friendship I feel from the little circle of people who read and comment on this blog.  In this day and age of trying to squeeze time out of every day to do stuff, the forming and maintaining of friendships can be a tricky one to manage.  I have but a few friends who are cool with my general inability to maintain regular contact and are easy with picking up where we left off - like a good book you have to keep putting down.  So to exchange kind words and encouragement with people who live nowhere near me and are strangers initially, is good for you in ways which soothe the soul. 

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, (yawn, sorry), I believe blog friends to be the pen pals of the 21st century, and that maintaining and extending these friendships is made possible by the ease of using the Internet.  World Wide Web, I love you.

The wine scheme

This is the Harlequin scarf finished.  It is not that blue, I have buggered up the colour settings on my camera somewhere.  Even editing cannot seem to dim this blue.  It is lovely, heavy, drapey and soft.  It is also a bit weird looking, I think, and not at all what I expected.  Still, it is warm and Oliver likes it well enough to wear, and it only took a couple of evenings to knock out. 

Now, today I arrive fresh from Sue's post on dieting.  Yep, a yawntastic topic for most of us and usually one which I indulge in at least once a year. 

This year, post Christmas, I have managed to hold my weight stable at around the 11 stone mark.  This is a 'good' weight for me - a few pounds under this and I am at my best weight and have a goodly amount of space in my trousers.  But I then find this a tricky state to maintain.  Usually pigging is my undoing.  And the copious amount of white wine I cannot seem to live without. 

Thinking about giving up wine actually does send a frisson of fear through me.  If this constitutes a drink problem, then I have one.  I currently consume around three bottles per week.  This is in the form of a couple of glasses per night, plus extra guzzling at the weekend.  Yikes.  A couple of years ago I topped out at four + per week, so goodness knows what state my liver is in.  And goodness knows what the hell I was thinking then....

Anyhoo, having gotten a grip-ette on the situation and reduced my glass size I have decided to increase it again to 250ml, constituting a 'large' drink and will have one - yes, one - glass of wine of an evening.  I have found myself a beaker suitable vessel and this will ensure I do not exceed two bottles of wine per week, which I think not unreasonable.  I do not smoke, consume lots of caffeine, or eat sweets and chocolate on a regular basis.  Gotta have an outlet somewhere.  Still, even I must admit I would feel happier if I didn't sit down at the end of the day and yearn for my glass of cold white. 

Moving on, whilst on holiday last week I chanced upon this book in a fag-smoke filled grubby secondhand bookshop.  Oh yes, I visit all the best places when en vacances.  This book interests me.  I have skim read it in my usual slapdash fashion, and it seems to be based on these principles:

- 'load' your day with carbs at the beginning of it, and not the end.
- walk, walk and walk some more.
- do the five tummy exercises from the book every day.

Oh yeah, I can do that.  I think.  I am not going at this all guns blazing, but I think adopting the principles seem sensible, do-able and I would benefit from them.  When I first started reading about 'carb curfew' I did break out into a sweat.  The idea of not eating carbs past 6pm makes me want to scream out loud.  I loves me carbs.  That's probably why my weight holds at around the 11 stone mark.  10 stone of it on my arse and thighs.  I reason that this 'curfew' is for normal people who go to bed by 10pm, so I think I could shift this to at least 7 or 8pm, making it possible to get my evening meal in before I surrender the happiness of starchy comforting goo overnight.  Also as I work late two evenings a week, I reckon that a carby snack of oaty flapjacky stuff whilst pounding the hospital corridors is also allowable. 

I have given this a go for a few days, and I have to say, I do feel better in the morning for not having bloated on carbs up til bedtime the night before, and that flinging on my coat when the opportunity presents itself and dashing out to fast walk round the block to notch up a quick 3000 steps is a satisfying use of my time. 

This book compares someone with a sedentary lifestyle (imagine stereotypical office worker) who visits the gym twice a week to alpha mum (a role I like to picture myself in) who dashes around doing housework, shopping etc blah blah.  It's not really rocket science or a revelation, but the calories burnt by the regular exercising office worker is significantly less than your average burnt out housewife.  I found that I can easily cover 5000 steps during a normal at home day around the house.  And I live in a bungalow. 

Also, through Oliver having diabetes, I know more about carbs and the way they work now.  This is not revelationary news either, but when you eat them, your pancreas produces the necessary insulin to enable your body to make use of the glucose which is in all carbs.  This process happens every time carbs are consumed.  Therefore, logically, you will have glucose available for energy which if you don't use - will have to be stored.  As...??? Wait for it......FAT!!  Ta dah!  It is the basic principle underpinning all 'diets' everywhere, the world over since the dawn of time - if you don't burn off the calories you consume - you will get fat. 

Sometimes, it is hard to focus on this one, very simple, very logical idea.  It gets lost in various guises and weight loss schemes.  For any of this to work for me, I just need to keep my head in the game. 

Enough already.

hola

Last week was spent in (not so) sunny Lanzarote, and walking around in flip flops and a vest* was like a breath of fresh air. 

We shared a villa with my parents, whose presence both soothed and irritated me in equal measure.  It is lovely to find household chores being uncomplainingly taken on by my Mum, and a cup of tea being frequently offered was the epitome of being well cared for.  Still, my Father's petulance and tantrums annoyed my intensely, as did my Mother's determination to tolerate them.  That said, I like being on holiday with them, and admire their advenurous spirit in talking to the locals (yep, real live bona fide Canarians whom Mark and I would avoid clashing gazes with for fear of striking up a conversation), and their matter of fact approach to going into places and doing stuff.  My Dad actually went along to the local gym last time he was there - by himself!!  Zut alors.  (or the Spanish equivalent).  Truly, for Mark and I it would be like the manifestation of all our horrors - going into a place and speaking to people.  Really, it's a marvel either of us have got this far in life without turning into an amoeba. 

Day 1:

 

 

These two rocked up every day once they twigged that bread was on offer.  Oliver called them Barry and Pecky.  Don't ask.

 

 

 

But this was his favourite friend:

 

 

Patchy, the naughty kitten. 

 



 



 As you see.

The pool was cold, and on this day there was a 90mph (at least) wind whistling across it.  You will note that there is nobody else in swimming.  Oliver is laughing and pointing at his Nan tiptoeing and screeching her chilly way down the steps to get in. 

He stopped laughing pretty quick.

And it was all hunkydory until you stood up in the howling gale again.

I think there is something wrong with the colour setting on my camera.  The water was not that blue, and the beans not that orange. 

We took a trip over to Matagorda to see the planes scream in overhead.

 

The photos do not do justice to the closeness and size of these jets - it is a brilliant free thrill to be had I can tell you.

And a huffy-puffy walk up the side of a mountain for the view and the crater that once was.

 

 

And on the last day, the sun shone glorious and bright and the wind all but disappeared.  Quelle surprise.

Think I could quite happily live in Lanzarote from January to March.  It felt so very bleak landing in the grey dampness of yesterday. 

*other items of clothing were worn.  Phew.

 

being able to cable

was exciting achievement enough.

I have not picked up my needles since taking that last photo - I really think it was all about just knowing I could do it.  Weird.

Moving on, this week I am mostly working on this:

 

 

tres boring to do, it has to be said, same stitch, same colour, round and round and round.... although I think it will look rather snazzy when complete.  It is for my niece, who looks great in this type of hat.  Unlike me, who, in this particular style of headgear, is a twat in a hat.  I am going to do it a bit long, roll back the brim(?) and stitch some purdy flowers on it.

She'd better wear it. 

Due to the continuing chilly spell, I finally pulled out this scarf,

which I made a while back.  It got a lot of admiring comments (which I lapped up, of course) and Oliver questioned bitterly why he didn't have one like it.  (I lapped that up too).  So, with this in mind, post haircut today we popped into the neighbouring yarn shop and found this:

He liked it, and then we found this inside:

How thrilling.  The yarn is Stylecraft Harlequin, in sky silver.  Actually, when I started to work with it, is really is silvery - can't wait to see how it looks when the blue and purple hues come out.  I reckoned that two balls would do it, and all was tickety boo until I went to pay and found out it was nearly six quid a ball!!  Quelle horreur.  I never pay this much for yarn.  Well, never until now, obvs.  I handed over my handful of fivers feeling quite queasy, I don't mind telling you.

My little sample lines:

With a 7 and 10 hook respectively.  I'm going for the 10, for a drapey feel, and speed. 

Soooo good to start a new project.

Laters.