This morning I trundled along to Sainsburys to check the tyre pressures on the car. I know. I do this, but it should be a boy's job as it involves bending down in an ungainly fashion in front of people to squat at dirty tyres and fumble about with dirty dust caps whilst wrestling an ugly dance around the car with a rubber hose. Anyhoo, this done, Oliver asked if we could go in the car wash. I feebly argued no - a dirty car is the least of my worries in the big picture of things, but gave in as I just couldn't be arsed to eventually be forced to have to do it manually myself and went off to purchase said wash.
When I came out, about two and a half minutes later, a queue of three cars had formed behind me (where there was previously none in sight) and a man (we'll call him Mr Peeves, and as he was older than me we'll call him Old Mr Peeves) was waiting by my car to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that I could have moved out of the way whilst I went into the kiosk, and I was inconsiderate blah blah blah, to which I took exception.
Firstly, this is a garage which lacks 'pull over space' as it is set into a 'bowl' with one narrow way in - and one narrow way out. Secondly, there was no-one waiting behind me when I went in to the kiosk, and thirdly - WTF??! I was stunned that he thought it OK to get out of his car and confront me in such a manner when what I had 'done' was pretty innocuous. So I waved my arms about and yelled a bit, temper rising by the second, and when he carried on moaning, complaining and gesticulating, I yelled 'oh bugger off' at the top of my voice, got in the car and slammed the door. Then, seeing poor Oliver's astonished and upset face it occurred to me the man may have spoken to him through the open car windows before I had got back. He confirmed that the man did, in fact ask where I was. My rage went stellar. I leapt out of the car, marched over yelling 'hey - hey - HEY - did you SPEAK to my child???????' He got out of the car spluttering confirmation. I was so incensed I screeched 'don't you speak to my child - DON'T you speak to my child how DARE you - you do NOT speak to him!' It was very loud, there was much angry finger pointing, and a red mist.
Gawd almighty.
It was not one of my finer moments.
I am very disappointed with myself. I am angry with Old Mr Peeves, because I don't really think I did anything unreasonable enough to warrant a face-to-face ticking off, but I am so upset at how badly I expressed myself, and I don't think I did Oliver any favours at all flying off the handle like that. I truly gave no thought to anyone or anything other than venting the overwhelming anger that I felt.
In summary: Could do better.
Thursday, 18 April 2013
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
what do you mean you need a break from the old routine??
I have to say I am enormously glad the Easter holidays are over.
Not only am I grateful for the return of quiet and order in public places and the meandering routine of our day-to-day lives, but I am overwhelmingly relieved that I don't have to make any more sodding arrangements to 'catch up' with people I only see during school holidays because their offspring are normally a l'ecole.
Every day for two weeks I have had to be clock-watching and ferrying Oliver around to a) take him to Easter tennis club, b) have the house partially socially acceptable for visits or, worse, c) meet up with people at varying locations (yuk, yuk). These things I do for my boy. To be fair, they are not all unbearable and a few are even driven by me. Still, come last Thursday I was coveting a day at home. A day spent in my joggers with unkempt hair and smelly pits watching Masterchef on catch up and letting Oliver just be and do.
On Wednesday night I ended up in a filthy row with my brother who insisted I had agreed to look after his son for the entire day on Thursday starting at 7.30am. No friggin' way jose. For the record, this was a loose arrangement floated into the ether on Sunday morning with the proviso 'let me know'. I always say 'let me know' for two reasons. Firstly I like to know in advance what time I need to be up and at 'em, and secondly, no-one, but no-one turns up on my doorstep unbooked. I do not like it, I do not encourage it. This of course excludes telephone warnings up to 15 minutes in advance - I can bear those. And I do like company on occasion - I am not a complete social reject. So this is how I know that I did not leave things that he could just rock up sans warning on Thursday morning at the crack of a sparrow's fart leaving me a ten year old for the day. Cripes alive. Cue much yelling and an upset child. (not mine, but the guilt kept me awake that night). I managed to salvage a soupcon of everybody's happiness by picking him up for a few hours in the afternoon - with a definite start time, and a definite finish time. Ha ha.
So, yesterday was welcomed with very wide and open arms. This week Oliver is starting a term of tennis at the University. We have an indoor tennis centre there (hitherto unknown in these here parts) but parking there is a bastard and I am dreading the weekly argy bargy in the undersized car park jostling with four hundred other parents for one of twenty spaces while they drop off/pick up Tarquin and Pippa for/from their lesson. This horror aside, I have toyed with the idea of going along to the 'adult drop in tennis' while Oliver transmutes into a Wimbledon champion at his class.
I made a tentative enquiry to a very sporty looking sort at the front desk - what sort of standard turn up to the adult session, that sort of thing, to which he flashed his very many white teeth at me and started banging on about matchplay. What I actually heard was 'dkfjsldfj jadjk, ajkdfdf -jaljlasd'. My fear and confusion must have been apparent, as he then kindly slipped back into english and told me about the adult coffee morning tennis instead. Clearly my grey powdered curls and bi-focals left him in no doubt that I was not going to be up to matchplay any time soon. I know when I am beat. Think I might slip along on a Friday morning for a touch of 'adult starters' - surely even I can manage that?
In crochet 'news', of which there is not much to report, I am still crocheting circles and more circles for the blanket which I may or may not gift to my brother. I braved the 'join as you go' method, which took me an embarrassing length of time to master (and I use the term 'master' very loosely here) but I am still not convinced it is quite right as it looks rather like a four year old has cobbled them together with a set of plastic needles free with Girl's Stuff weekly.
Which is uncanny, because that is exactly the look I am going for. Ha ha.
I have unpicked more rounds than I have left standing. Join as you go, my arse. That's what I say.
Not only am I grateful for the return of quiet and order in public places and the meandering routine of our day-to-day lives, but I am overwhelmingly relieved that I don't have to make any more sodding arrangements to 'catch up' with people I only see during school holidays because their offspring are normally a l'ecole.
Every day for two weeks I have had to be clock-watching and ferrying Oliver around to a) take him to Easter tennis club, b) have the house partially socially acceptable for visits or, worse, c) meet up with people at varying locations (yuk, yuk). These things I do for my boy. To be fair, they are not all unbearable and a few are even driven by me. Still, come last Thursday I was coveting a day at home. A day spent in my joggers with unkempt hair and smelly pits watching Masterchef on catch up and letting Oliver just be and do.
On Wednesday night I ended up in a filthy row with my brother who insisted I had agreed to look after his son for the entire day on Thursday starting at 7.30am. No friggin' way jose. For the record, this was a loose arrangement floated into the ether on Sunday morning with the proviso 'let me know'. I always say 'let me know' for two reasons. Firstly I like to know in advance what time I need to be up and at 'em, and secondly, no-one, but no-one turns up on my doorstep unbooked. I do not like it, I do not encourage it. This of course excludes telephone warnings up to 15 minutes in advance - I can bear those. And I do like company on occasion - I am not a complete social reject. So this is how I know that I did not leave things that he could just rock up sans warning on Thursday morning at the crack of a sparrow's fart leaving me a ten year old for the day. Cripes alive. Cue much yelling and an upset child. (not mine, but the guilt kept me awake that night). I managed to salvage a soupcon of everybody's happiness by picking him up for a few hours in the afternoon - with a definite start time, and a definite finish time. Ha ha.
So, yesterday was welcomed with very wide and open arms. This week Oliver is starting a term of tennis at the University. We have an indoor tennis centre there (hitherto unknown in these here parts) but parking there is a bastard and I am dreading the weekly argy bargy in the undersized car park jostling with four hundred other parents for one of twenty spaces while they drop off/pick up Tarquin and Pippa for/from their lesson. This horror aside, I have toyed with the idea of going along to the 'adult drop in tennis' while Oliver transmutes into a Wimbledon champion at his class.
I made a tentative enquiry to a very sporty looking sort at the front desk - what sort of standard turn up to the adult session, that sort of thing, to which he flashed his very many white teeth at me and started banging on about matchplay. What I actually heard was 'dkfjsldfj jadjk, ajkdfdf -jaljlasd'. My fear and confusion must have been apparent, as he then kindly slipped back into english and told me about the adult coffee morning tennis instead. Clearly my grey powdered curls and bi-focals left him in no doubt that I was not going to be up to matchplay any time soon. I know when I am beat. Think I might slip along on a Friday morning for a touch of 'adult starters' - surely even I can manage that?
In crochet 'news', of which there is not much to report, I am still crocheting circles and more circles for the blanket which I may or may not gift to my brother. I braved the 'join as you go' method, which took me an embarrassing length of time to master (and I use the term 'master' very loosely here) but I am still not convinced it is quite right as it looks rather like a four year old has cobbled them together with a set of plastic needles free with Girl's Stuff weekly.
Which is uncanny, because that is exactly the look I am going for. Ha ha.
I have unpicked more rounds than I have left standing. Join as you go, my arse. That's what I say.
Sunday, 7 April 2013
Hmmmmmm.
Close, but no cigar.
Is how I would describe my latest efforts dans la cuisine.
The bean chilli will not be making a re-appearance in it's 10 bean state, that's all I can say. They did indeed look a beauteous sight post-soaking - full of health, vitamins and promise. The fully cooked ones looked a little dull, and some of the little blighters were still hard. Goodness knows how. They must have a kryptonite core, as they boiled and simmered their little hearts out for what felt like years.
Anyhoo, we both ate some and lived to tell the tale. As I left it out in the pot overnight I am too afraid of imaginary bacterial growth and potential gastro diseases to freeze it now, so I am ashamed to say I threw it away. As for dried beans: I am going the tinned route next time, or cooking and freezing in advance as per advice offered.
In summary: it was alright. Nuff said.
Moooving on.
Today we took a National Trust Trip Out. As per, it was pissing freezing with a nasty wind nipping up your nether regions, but we went to a luverly place - Knightshayes Court. And, as per, photographs inside were punishable by hanging, so I only have these to offer:
Oliver actually got to take his coat off here, so think the midday sun must have made an appearance, bringing the outside temperature to a balmy 3 degrees centigrade.
Fancied a collection of NT mugs - starting with this one. I am hoping that all other NT places do them as I visit, or it will be a very select collection indeed.
Is how I would describe my latest efforts dans la cuisine.
The bean chilli will not be making a re-appearance in it's 10 bean state, that's all I can say. They did indeed look a beauteous sight post-soaking - full of health, vitamins and promise. The fully cooked ones looked a little dull, and some of the little blighters were still hard. Goodness knows how. They must have a kryptonite core, as they boiled and simmered their little hearts out for what felt like years.
Anyhoo, we both ate some and lived to tell the tale. As I left it out in the pot overnight I am too afraid of imaginary bacterial growth and potential gastro diseases to freeze it now, so I am ashamed to say I threw it away. As for dried beans: I am going the tinned route next time, or cooking and freezing in advance as per advice offered.
In summary: it was alright. Nuff said.
Moooving on.
Today we took a National Trust Trip Out. As per, it was pissing freezing with a nasty wind nipping up your nether regions, but we went to a luverly place - Knightshayes Court. And, as per, photographs inside were punishable by hanging, so I only have these to offer:
Oliver actually got to take his coat off here, so think the midday sun must have made an appearance, bringing the outside temperature to a balmy 3 degrees centigrade.
Imagine walking out through your back door to be faced with this. It really gives such a sense of freedom and space.
Fancied a collection of NT mugs - starting with this one. I am hoping that all other NT places do them as I visit, or it will be a very select collection indeed.
Tonight we are having sausages for tea. I can cook them.
Saturday, 6 April 2013
not enough hours in the day
I have been planning, waiting and watching for an opportunity to cook up 'The Ultimate 10 bean chilli'. It's a Waitrose recipe, using, weirdly, a whole packet of their '10 bean mix'. I am not a great cooker of beans, as it requires thinking ahead and a shedload of available time in the kitchen the following day, but the picture in the magazine looked bright and bursting with health, so I kept getting out the beans and fondling them longingly. Ooer missus.
Soaked beans:
Yesterday, I spotted my window. I started soaking the beans at 4.30pm in readiness for the great bean cook-up this morning. Mark went out at about 10.30 and I kid you not, I have been stood up farting about in the kitchen ever since. I am frazzled with the whole thing - I'm not even convinced it will be worth all this effort. I somehow didn't realise that after the great soak they would require 10 minutes fast boiling (so I don't poison all and sundry I suppose) and then a further HOUR simmering before we even get to the proper cooking, which demands another hour!! Bloody hellfire.
Festering away:
The quantities involved are so vast I have used about forty pots until I reached cauldron size. I don't want to even think about the amount of fossil fuel I have wasted - I hate boiling and simmering food.
Somewhere in the middle of the boiling/simmering debacle, I had an optimistic notion it would be a Good Idea to rustle up flapjacks. I think they are underdone, as they are damp, sticky and require a spoon to eat them - but they are edible, which is always a bit of a surprise.
I shall report back on the chilli. Assuming it doesn't put me in hospital first.
Soaked beans:
Yesterday, I spotted my window. I started soaking the beans at 4.30pm in readiness for the great bean cook-up this morning. Mark went out at about 10.30 and I kid you not, I have been stood up farting about in the kitchen ever since. I am frazzled with the whole thing - I'm not even convinced it will be worth all this effort. I somehow didn't realise that after the great soak they would require 10 minutes fast boiling (so I don't poison all and sundry I suppose) and then a further HOUR simmering before we even get to the proper cooking, which demands another hour!! Bloody hellfire.
Festering away:
The quantities involved are so vast I have used about forty pots until I reached cauldron size. I don't want to even think about the amount of fossil fuel I have wasted - I hate boiling and simmering food.
Somewhere in the middle of the boiling/simmering debacle, I had an optimistic notion it would be a Good Idea to rustle up flapjacks. I think they are underdone, as they are damp, sticky and require a spoon to eat them - but they are edible, which is always a bit of a surprise.
I shall report back on the chilli. Assuming it doesn't put me in hospital first.
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
what does one do with stuff?
I find myself this afternoon with a few hours to spare.
To spare.
And I find that instead of having a long mental list of things of things I want to do, I am overwhelmed with a long mental list of things I don't want to do. Boy oh boy, my glass is feeling half empty, and it's quite pathetic, even by my standards.
The sun in shining (pardon me?) and it is technically warm enough to go out into the garden for gardening purposes (yuk), but as I am going on to work after I pick Oliver up, and as I am nice and clean and not at all sweaty and muddy right now, the gardening is a no no.
This self same sun is showing up all the dust in the house, made more by the amount of crap which builds up because a) there is no room to put anything and b) Mark is a stacker, not a sorter. And I have just wasted half an hour stamping around yelling at inanimate piles of crap covered in dust. Because that will help. NOT.
I just want to go out so I don't have to feel guilty for not doing any cleaning, but there is nowhere I want to go. Bloody hell.
So I decided to try and sate my guilt by clearing out some stuff. Which is actually easier than clearing up, I'm sure you will agree.
Or not.
Sitting here at ye olde computer, I am faced with shelves of my books - my personal ones I simply cannot part with and read again and again.
Then I thought I could sort out all the photos. These are the ones not on computer, but in packets and boxes. I was thinking I may go through them and get an album to hold millions of 6x4 pics, then Oliver could sit and flick through them at leisure for pleasure.
Then my eyes fell on these.
These are my scrapbook albums, which are a mahoosive space gobbler, not looked at by anyone, at all, ever, and I cannot see any point in keeping them at all - BUT - but. They represent years of a hobby I loved and I think they are pretty nice, actually. The jury is out on them though.
Moving on - photos. And memorabilia. What the flippin eck to do with it all??????
What do people do with their stuff?
I am seriously toying with getting a gurt big airtight plastic box (how I love thee O Really Useful Boxes) chucking in ALL the photos, ALL drawings and bits made by Oliver as a littlie and ALL things from my schooldays and past which I have not yet been wrested from and 'filing' it creatively in the loft.
When I was a kid, Mum kept all our photos in a biscuit tin. Occasionally we would get out 'the tin' and wallow in memories, passing round these photos to smile over. The tin still exists, and did ok for us.
Maybe I'm overthinking the whole thing.
Monday, 1 April 2013
one is need, two boxes is greed.
I have started on these:
They are intended to be coaxed, eventually, into something like this:
Quite magnificent ce n'est pas?
I have chosen vintage-y shades, and imagine it double bed size, which I may, or may not then gift to my little brother. He is an ungrateful bastard and exceptionally rude to boot, so although I am erring on the 'may not' right now, I cannot help myself wanting to please him. Crackers.
On the Easter front, I had a lovely surprise delivered from my good blog pal Mrs TT, which contained two brilliantly bright and cheery crocheted eggs (now hung up on the dresser) and this:
I cannot tell you how much joy this brought to my day. I love the idea of a Cadburys creme egg popping out of a chicken's bum and Mark and Oliver tired of seeing it long before I did. Tee hee big time.
It was, of course, somewhat spoilt by me scoffing the egg within the first hour of clapping greedy eyes on it. Talking of greedy, I was given two boxes of Maltesers at 6pm yesterday. At the time of writing, both boxes have been eaten, and I shared not a one with anyone else. For shame. They have all trickled down my gullet in lovley, melty honeycomby mouthfuls of six or more at a time and settled happily around my arse cheeks and upper thighs. That's over 1000 calories. I cannot even bear to imagine how much fat it represents. I'm not even a choc fan, really. Imagine if I were - I would be about thirty stone.
There seems to be a problem with my Stop, You Unhealthy Glutton button at the moment.
I drank about two thirds of a nice cava last night (in between boxes of Maltesers, obvs) whilst watching Foyle's War on the box. I love Michael Kitchen. We are also watching Lewis on DVD, and I love that too. These shows are about as dark as I can go - I scare easily and am a bit of a lightweight in the thriller/violence/gore department and so cannot go down the much acclaimed Nordic Noir route, much to Mark's despair. Tonight I am looking forward to a spot of Jonathan Creek. This is a truly terrible programme, but the music is good, and as it's a 'seasonal special', it's full of celebs, which I luuurve.
This morning I took Oliver out for a plod around the block. This was partly because I wanted a quick bit of exercise, partly because it is too cold for a family jaunt out anywhere and partly because I am ever conscious that after giving up Judo, swimming and cubs in recent months, Oliver's exercise is not what it once was. We had to stop after about three streets as he was out of breath, and then had to walk up the hill at the end. He is, unbelievably, even more unfit than I am. He was bright red in the face and blotchy for ages afterwards. How much 'good' has been done here is anybody's guess. He has tennis booked in for the rest of the week as a holiday activity. In the meanwhile, I have a two-day course to look forward to at the hospital on carbohydrate counting for diabetes. Whoopie flaming do.
I despise courses, having attended several million whilst working for Lloyds Bank for over twenty years. It will be yawntastically dull, we will all have to introduce ourselves giving a couple of twee facts and we will have to 'brainstorm' at some point. These things will make me want to scream and I will struggle to hide my resultant loss of temper. That is if I manage to stay awake that long. Warm rooms and listening to jabber for longer than ten minutes has a very sedative effect on me.
To be fair, we, as a family, did request a place on this course over a year ago. It is for Oliver's benefit, although now it has come round, both Oliver and Mark seem to have suddenly found better things to do and it is Joe Muggins who has drawn the short straw. It is going down on my ever-growing mental list of things which fall into the category 'labours of love'.
To be sure.
They are intended to be coaxed, eventually, into something like this:
 |
| Solveig's Flowers In The Snow blanket |
I have chosen vintage-y shades, and imagine it double bed size, which I may, or may not then gift to my little brother. He is an ungrateful bastard and exceptionally rude to boot, so although I am erring on the 'may not' right now, I cannot help myself wanting to please him. Crackers.
On the Easter front, I had a lovely surprise delivered from my good blog pal Mrs TT, which contained two brilliantly bright and cheery crocheted eggs (now hung up on the dresser) and this:
I cannot tell you how much joy this brought to my day. I love the idea of a Cadburys creme egg popping out of a chicken's bum and Mark and Oliver tired of seeing it long before I did. Tee hee big time.
It was, of course, somewhat spoilt by me scoffing the egg within the first hour of clapping greedy eyes on it. Talking of greedy, I was given two boxes of Maltesers at 6pm yesterday. At the time of writing, both boxes have been eaten, and I shared not a one with anyone else. For shame. They have all trickled down my gullet in lovley, melty honeycomby mouthfuls of six or more at a time and settled happily around my arse cheeks and upper thighs. That's over 1000 calories. I cannot even bear to imagine how much fat it represents. I'm not even a choc fan, really. Imagine if I were - I would be about thirty stone.
There seems to be a problem with my Stop, You Unhealthy Glutton button at the moment.
I drank about two thirds of a nice cava last night (in between boxes of Maltesers, obvs) whilst watching Foyle's War on the box. I love Michael Kitchen. We are also watching Lewis on DVD, and I love that too. These shows are about as dark as I can go - I scare easily and am a bit of a lightweight in the thriller/violence/gore department and so cannot go down the much acclaimed Nordic Noir route, much to Mark's despair. Tonight I am looking forward to a spot of Jonathan Creek. This is a truly terrible programme, but the music is good, and as it's a 'seasonal special', it's full of celebs, which I luuurve.
This morning I took Oliver out for a plod around the block. This was partly because I wanted a quick bit of exercise, partly because it is too cold for a family jaunt out anywhere and partly because I am ever conscious that after giving up Judo, swimming and cubs in recent months, Oliver's exercise is not what it once was. We had to stop after about three streets as he was out of breath, and then had to walk up the hill at the end. He is, unbelievably, even more unfit than I am. He was bright red in the face and blotchy for ages afterwards. How much 'good' has been done here is anybody's guess. He has tennis booked in for the rest of the week as a holiday activity. In the meanwhile, I have a two-day course to look forward to at the hospital on carbohydrate counting for diabetes. Whoopie flaming do.
I despise courses, having attended several million whilst working for Lloyds Bank for over twenty years. It will be yawntastically dull, we will all have to introduce ourselves giving a couple of twee facts and we will have to 'brainstorm' at some point. These things will make me want to scream and I will struggle to hide my resultant loss of temper. That is if I manage to stay awake that long. Warm rooms and listening to jabber for longer than ten minutes has a very sedative effect on me.
To be fair, we, as a family, did request a place on this course over a year ago. It is for Oliver's benefit, although now it has come round, both Oliver and Mark seem to have suddenly found better things to do and it is Joe Muggins who has drawn the short straw. It is going down on my ever-growing mental list of things which fall into the category 'labours of love'.
To be sure.
Friday, 22 March 2013
more new baby...
..than Easter, I fear:
This week we have ventured out to take on MQ9. Oh yes. The Museum Quest is not done with, merely resting over the winter as many of the little museums of the sort we like, are closed until at least March.
This one is a good one:
Coldharbour Mill, a working wool museum. Apparently there is no woollen mill in England to pre-date this one, which is surprising, as one associates the wool trade to be oop north, and oop north only. The man who set up this mill, on the river Culm in Devon, also set up a larger one in Wellington on the river Tone as it was a bigger river, and therefore had a faster/stronger flow to drive the mill wheel. Eventually they became steam-driven mills. It was fascinating watching the machinery at work inside - there were people working there dead keen to impart their knowledge about the process and the history. Brilliant. Bloody cold there though. We learnt the origins of the sayings 'cloth ears' - the deafness of many textile workers suffered by the constant noise of the looms, 'on tenterhooks' - referring to the tension in wet fabrics held out stretched on 'tenters' in the fields to dry, and 'taking the piss' - to do with the use of urine to fix the dyes in the cloths. It was the job of some poor bods to fetch and carry urine for this purpose and he was mocked as it was such a lowly job. Apparently. I am sure Wikipedia would have something to add.
From fleece:
To bobbins:
To smaller bobbins, as the wool is drawn down to be longer and stronger.
The looms were a wonder to witness. I find it amazing that someone could sit down and invent a piece of machinery like this, it is incredible to me. Such foresight, such creativity. Necessity sure is the mother of all invention, and I am awed by it every time.
But extremely interesting.
And nan came too.
A couple of days later, Oliver felt under the weather, so we abandoned the little home ed work that we do do, in favour of an unscheduled trip to Otterton Mill. Unexpectedly (and unbelievably) it was milling day there, which happens only twice a month - where they mill local grain into flour (no kidding) and you get the see the mill in its full glory.
Oh yes, the ubiquitous cream tea.
It was great. The whole idea of milling is a brilliant one, and the fact that this mill still works today is testament to its skilful design and craftsmanship.
So despite the baking disasters (there was another cake balls up yesterday - nuff said), this has been a Good Week.
Laters.
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