Am I the only one who doesn't understand Dr Who?

Last night (after finishing my last shift before Christmas Huzzah!) I settled down with a glass of chardonnay and a slab of cheese to watch something (anything other than shitty Match Of The Day yawn) on the Kindle.  I stumbled across an episode of Dr Who - The Wedding Of River Song.  Forty five minutes later I was none the wiser, a good deal more lost in the rifts of time and fighting a rising panic that I just don't get Dr Who in the same way as the entire population, including every ten year old I have ever met. 

Help.  I am getting old before my very eyes. 

I am reminded of the drive-thru Oliver and I visited the other day, where a disembodied voice ('hellowelcometomcdonaldscanItakeyourorder' in the boredest tone imaginable ) urged me to 'checktheorderonthescreenanddriveroundtothenextwindow'.  I then lowered the car window further, leaned out and jabbed ineffectively at the screen.  Oliver was screeching 'what are you doing????'  from the passenger seat, but too late to save me from looking like an old fart with techno-fear who sees a screen and thinks it must be touched in some way. 

I felt a flush creep up my cheeks as I realised my heinous error - it is not a touch screen and never was.  Not even for the one of the previous fourteen times I have visited the drive-thru.  Cripes alive, what was I thinking.  Not only had the teen-bods working in the booths seen the whole thing and surely must be sniggering at the middle aged lady with the bad hairdo, but a line of cars behind bore witness to my shame.  I tried to laugh it off, but Oliver had firmly stuck his head between his knees at this stage and was refusing to show his face until we had left McDonalds far behind us.

Meh.

And so today it is Christmas Eve. My favouritest day of the year, as it goes.  There is a buzz about it - a sense of anticipation and waiting, of Good Christmassy Telly, exciting food and the knowledge that it is finally OK to randomly eat sweeties and drink wine before lunchtime.  Not that I will (today) actually, as I have to go out into the bleak midwinter and visit the hell hole that is Sainsburys.  I went there yesterday - amidst the foulest wind and rain I have seen here for years to battle the hoards for packets of ham and beef brisket etc etc.  It all went well, too well in fact, and Oliver even didn't put on his special shopping face for me.  At the checkout, I was a little stunned to receive a bill of £160, being that this was the final 'top-up shop'.  When I finally got round to checking the receipt, at home drying off in my pyjamas, it became apparent I had been overcharged slightly for the orange pepper I had purchased.  Overcharged £63.20 as it goes.  Bloody dozy bint had put through 80 peppers at 80p, instead of 1 pepper at 80p.  Jeepers.  I ask you.  This would be quite funny if it didn't mean I have to venture out AGAIN to sort out someone else's mistake.  The thought of fighting tooth and nail for a car space and the queue at Customer Services is making me feel quite weepy. 

ANYhoo, the essence of festive cheer will remain untouched, and I am filled with the germ of excitement that is Christmas.  Huzzah indeed.

December doings:

busy at work. 

 

 



 The Music Room, Killerton House (National Trust)

Fireside reading in the dining room, Killerton

 

Mrs Claus's kitchen.  Hmmm.

The magnificent Cathedral amidst the Christmas Market

 

Town centre, late night Christmas shopping

 Babbacombe Model Village, Winter Wonderland

 

Des Res.

 Sutton Coldfield Cities (Pokémon)

 

 

A proper café.

 

 

A Happy Christmas to you

X

 

rush job

This is going to turn into a Bad Idea. 

I do not have the time to blog today.  I have my Christmas Journal sitting all over the table which is limping along badly this year.  I keep dragging Oliver to Sainsburys to print out yet more photos on their ridiculously expensive instant kiosk machine and he keeps griping for England.

I have (almost) half a crochet cushion cover competed for a lady I want to visit before Christmas.  I have glibly stated it will be done with lots of casual waves and smiles, although Mark has already snorted heavily about this one.  My Christmas crochet blanket, at 49 squares is not going to make it to 70 and bordered before Christmas, so it has been abandoned crossly as a next-year job.

I have wrapped not one present, as I have saved it all up for tonight when Mark is absent from the house so I can team the paper frenzy with lots of wine, pizza and Moonstruck, one of, if not THE all time favourite for me.  I only watch it once a year, but boy, it does NOT feel like 12 months since the last viewing.

I have not thought about The Christmas Food shop.  I have a frozen chicken and a gammon joint which is good for the next 5 years in the fridge to be going along with, a tub of biscuits for cheese disappearing at an alarming rate and No Veg.  Will revisit this later in the week.

We have just spent the weekend travelling from Cornwall to Wales for Oliver to compete in Pokémon tournaments.  It rained and rained.  In both counties.  In fact it was probably the same bloody rain following us up the M4 out of spite.  He did pretty well, 5th in the Regional in Cornwall and 2nd in the Cities in Wales.  The whole exercise was one of point-gathering for the Worlds in Washington DC next year, so hopefully it was worth it....

We had a holiday in Egypt last month - it was all very lovely indeed - snorkelling with the fishies is out of this world, despite Oliver leaping from the water on day 2 onto the jetty yelling 'Shark! There's a Shark!' in plain view of several startled holidaymakers.  I was hissing viciously for him to shut the bugger up, particularly as I was still actually in the water at the time, but he insisted he'd seen a large grey pointy nosed fish with gills.  He refused to go in after that.  I'm not kidding.  I think it was panic clouding his vision - he'd been so sure there were going to be sharks - so there were.  We now refer to it as the 'shark'.  And we do those finger symbols in the air too. 

I expect there are shed loads of other titbits, but that's your lot for now.  Some piccies:

 

View from our rather posh whirlpool on the balcony room

Off to feed the sharks my ample buttocks.

 

 First Sunday in Advent

 

 

Regionals

Cities

C'est tout.

Quiche and lesbians. Not necessarily on the same plate.

Here I share the miracle of my son, writing.

Actual, proper, creative writing.  I never thought the day would come.  I have tortured myself in the past with visions of him unable to write more than his name and address without succumbing to writers cramp or buckets of tears.  Or both. 

In every shape and form possible, he has rejected writing at every turn - resulting in crossness (on my part) and despair (on his part).

At the start of this 'term' I got hold of this book, recommended by a zealous home-teaching friend of mine.  I had little hope of it making bugger-all difference, but anything was worth a go at this stage.  I also thought I should sit down with him and write, as I recall at school always being fascinated by other people's work and would (as I do now) adopt styles of writing that I enjoy and admire.  As Oliver has no peers whilst working, he is at somewhat of a disadvantage in this respect, so I thought if he saw me writing and enjoying the process of creating, he might 'copy'.  I am no Jane Austen, but certainly believe I can write creatively enough to satisfy the needs of an eleven year old.

Bingo.

In the space of a week, he was writing out passages with few spelling mistakes, and grasping the concept of punctuation. We read our work out to each other as we go along.  I am now the proud author of a letter to my mother about what I did in the summer holidays, a description of my favourite dessert, a postcard home from Victorian seaside England and an adventure of a spider called Jefferson.   The book encourages writing without worrying too much about spelling and grammar at this stage, which is a good idea to foster creativity.  I am genuinely stunned at his ability to write interesting and amusing pieces of work - his use of adjective and dry humour is unbelievable for a child who does not read.  Impressed I am. 

For the last few weeks, Oliver has been cooking tea on a Thursday night, the only night we seem to sit down together and eat as a family.  So, yesterday morning, over breakfast,  I asked him what he wanted to cook later on.  He said quiche, but wasn't sure what to put in it.  He pondered this for a while and then said 'can I ask you something?'  I nodded, mouthful of coffee, expecting a suggestion of weird quiche-filling combos, when he said 'I know how gay men have sex, but how do lesbians have sex?'

Bloody hell! 

And all before I have any caffeine inside me. 

Just to clarify why an eleven year old boy should have any concept of gay man sex, Mark was muttering an awful lot in Canada about being 'arse-raped' every time we had to cough up exorbitant amounts of dosh for lame tourist trips, and Oliver asked what this meant.  We gave him a literal and colloquial explanation, as we are those kinds of parents. 

Although quite why quiche and lesbians would crop up in the same thought span is anybody's guess. 

I can't even bring myself to go into detail on my answer, suffice to say it involved the word 'rubbing', and then I went for a lie down in a dark room.

No-one ever told me home education could be so emotionally disturbing. 

Mooooving swiftly on, I have fancied the idea of a Christmas blanket for a while, and with this in mind, am having a crack at this one:

It took a few squares to get the hang of the pattern, and these are the first four I did, sewn together to see the potential finished result.  If I get desperate come December, this amateurish foursome will be featuring in the finished piece for sure.

I have now made 100 squares for this blanket:

Only 188 more to go.  It was originally intended for my brother, but he has unknowingly blown it for being so bloody horrid all the time.  So I am not busting a gut to finish it by Christmas as intended, and popped it in pending for now.

So there.

shifting gear

September is upon us, and Autumn is a-knocking at the door of our fair summer.  I have enjoyed this summer, made glorious by an early June abroad-earned tan and weight loss.  I have even shaved my legs on a twice-weekly basis in celebration of my new found confidence in wearing shorts. 

So it is with a hitherto unknown tinge of sadness that I feel a slight morning chill in the air, and a little late evening dampness all around as I prepare to meet my favouritest time of the year - the end of it. 

Also it is approaching 'my' season, being an autumnal colour person.  My wardrobe and drawers are now comfortably full of shades of reds, greens, browns, purples and orange.  Lovely, lovely orange.  How do I love thee?  Let me count the clothes. 

 

I am so very, very glad I went and saw the Colour Lady.  I dislike the phrase 'capsule wardrobe', as it brings to mind twee articles in Sunday supplements and images of career women in sharp suits, killer heels and pencil dresses, but I suppose if you can close your eyes and pull out any top and any bottoms from your clothing department and they will work together, then a capsule wardrobe is what I now have. 

 

When I tell people this, they tell me I must have spent a fortune on clothes.  Maybe more than I would have normally, but I wear everything - nothing is restrictive because it 'only goes with that pair of trousers' - and I am therefore getting max wear for my money.  I reckon.

 

My favourite trews:

 

 

And my favourite summer skirt.  To be fair, this is a lighter denim than ideal, but it was a pre-colours done charity shop purchase and is a very trendy surf make, and I can't bear to part with it.

 

 

I really must learn to smile at the camera.  Miserable cow.  I am, despite all evidence to the contrary, HAPPY!

 

And latest autumnal additions:

 

 

 

Luverly.

 

We have recently purchased a juicer.  One of those with a 'big mouth' into which you can shove whole apples and various spooky combos of veg.  This is my favourite so far:

 

 

=



 

 

I am also partial to spinach, pear and beetroot, which sounds terrible, but is weirdly pleasant.  I swear I can truly feel the goodness of it seeping into my internal organs as I drink.  Almost makes the endless rinsing and cleaning of the thing worthwhile. 

 

Still fasting.  I actually read the book last week, despite having embarked on the diet back in May.  It is incredibly interesting and inspiring.  It also says you could fast, for example, from 2pm one day to 2pm the next, thereby getting in a decent lunch the first day, and also the following.  Cool.  I actually tried this, and found it a piece of piss, although I remain unconvinced it will be as effective as a 'proper' fast day - as in reality you start fasting when you go to bed and don't eat again 'normally' until breakfast two mornings later, meaning a 'fast' of much longer than 24 hours.  Whatever.  The fact remains that the health benefits of Intermittent Fasting are manifold and I intend to do it forever.  When my weight loss has levelled and stopped, I will go to one day a week.  I urge you to try it.

 

Enough urging.

 

Laters.

 



It's a game - but not as we know it

So, Canada.

I started to keep a diary whilst I was there, thinking this would be a good, cathartic exercise.  I used to keep a diary in my late teens, full of babyish twaddle, of course, but I felt as if I was achieving something at the time.  This time I did about three days, found it not to be as easy as blogging and subsequently couldn't be arsed.  Also I was pretty shocked at the state of my handwriting. 

So I am left to cobble together an account of our trip - aiming for a concise, witty, meaningful and accurate report.  Phnarf.

It all started so well - the dreaded journey by coach up to Heathrow wasn't half bad.  Made a little better by getting front seats and sniggering about the coach driver, Ron, who was a miserable Scottish bastard who I liked to think of as 'Laughing Boy Ron.'  Thus followed the flight.  Jaysus, long haul flying is truly a misery for those of us not fortunate enough to be prepared to part with a substantial amount of Wonga to fly above cattle class.  Awful, awful, awful.  I feel empathy with the humble sardine.  This coupled with trying to eat a meal (and I use the term meal loosely there) with your elbows tucked firmly into your ribcage whilst rubbing your nose against the video screen in the back of the seat in front of you, makes for a sense of real achievement upon reaching your destination without a) reaching for tranquilisers, or b) losing it completely mid-flight and screaming obscenities at all and sundry.

The relief upon flopping down upon soft, freshly laundered sparkly white duvets in our deluxe room was palpable.  The time difference meant of course that I awoke fully refreshed and raring to go at 2am.  An again at 4am, 5am and 6am.  Then I gave up, got up and went for a run along the waterfront, which was peaceful, beautiful and had the sense of a city waking up and ready to go - all very novel and exciting to me.  Followed by a swim in the hotel pool, a sit in the (very) hot tub under a blue morning sky and a (not to be repeated) hotel breakfast which cost us a jaw-dropping $80.  The breakfast was our first clue as to the cost of living in Vancouver.  We arrived with what I consider shed loads of cash, only to discover we were going to need to eat and sightsee fairly frugally if we wanted to get back to the UK financially unscathed.

A routine of early rising, exercise, swim and dip, doughnut and coffee breakfast, sightsee, Pokémon, tea, more Pokémon and early to bed left us all feeling a bit more vitalised with life in general.  (Well it did me, anyhow).  I vowed I would be early to rise and early(ish) to bed when I came back, but I seem to be needing at least 10 hours sleep all of a sudden, and cannot haul my cookies out of bed much before 10am right now.  Oh dear.  Maybe I should be trying to go to bed earlier than midnight, my body clock is all over the place. 

Oliver did not have a great tournament at the Worlds.  He was very disappointed and tearful, as were many other of the junior players who did not get as far in the competition as they hoped, but that's the way the cookie crumbles in the world of Pokémon.  Sometimes you just don't pull the right cards at the right time, sometimes you are playing against a player who has cards to foil even the strongest of carefully constructed decks.  He did, as kids do, recover his equilibrium quickly, and has come out of it having thoroughly enjoying the experience of playing Pokémon for 3 days solid against kids from around the world, not only during the competition itself, but socially in the evenings. 

I really enjoyed the buzz of the sheer scale of this competition.  Being US backed, there is a lot of money in it, and Oliver got some fabulous competitor freebies.  The prizes for actually becoming World Champion include an invite to next years Worlds with paid travel and accommodation, gazillions of dollars worth of Pokémon cards for a year and thousand of dollars in scholarship fees to cover tuition, books fees, whatever up to the age of 28.  I am very impressed with this prize, and think it a very forward thinking idea to combine a 'game' with such a fantastic educational opportunity.

All in all, I feel very much in love with Pokémon and we are in the throes of planning Oliver's road to qualifying for next year - to be held in Washington DC. 

Vancouver, all in all, felt very 'new', which, of course, it actually is.  It's history only stretches back as far as our Victorian era, and the oldest building there is a church which you can find ten-a-penny over here.  One of the tourist officers was telling us how her children were studying history as a series of projects, and that the UK was going to be left to last because 'there's so much of it'.  And that makes me feel very smug.  We are a country of a long, rich and varied history, and it's a nice feeling.

Enough blatherings.

So to pics. 

Nutritional delights, ahem: breakfast from Tim Hortons.

Night side view from our room:

 

Panoramic view from the hotel pool:

 

Mark and Oliver sampling the delights of the too-hot tub.

The Pokémon vehicle rolls into town:

Competitor's badge: a very proud moment:

Improptu gaming around the hotel: 

 

Tournament day.  Here are the GB boys.  These were the top four Junior finishers in the UK Nationals, and whilst they had very little to do with each other that day, at this tournament they gravitated to each other - nice to see.

 

Good game,

Not so good game.

Oliver is the one in the hat in front of the scary looking judge.

The last game of the weekend:  In the gaming room with his new-found friend from Tasmania, who he is staying in touch with.  The kid spectating here is the US National Junior Champion, who came 6th in this Worlds.  Apparently on the day he and the judge did not see eye to eye, causing the boy to fling his cards down and refuse to shake his opponent's hand.  Ooer. 

Out and about:

We picked the coldest day to go up to Grouse Mountain.  In shorts.  Bloody freezing.  We did not get off at the top to see anything, just jumped right back on the chair lift to come down and sprint to the café.  Bloody tourists.

Lions Gate bridge:

Capilano:

 

That's me blogged out for now.

 

Laters.

Welcome home

Yesterday we arrived back from Vancouver.

I have lots to say, but today I am tired, tired, tired.

Flying long haul is nothing but vile.  Travelling by coach from one dirty grim coach station to another in order to fly long haul is worse than vile.

I hate travel.

I miss Vancouver with it's big, wide streets and big, wide harbour with sea planes coming and going and cruise ships arriving and departing with loud blasts of their horns.  I miss Starbucks coffee at every turn and I miss the view of tall buildings from our large hotel windows.  I miss sunny skies and afternoons spent by the hotel pool and the only decisions needed are whether I go for a run or go to the gym, and whether I scoff one doughnut or two for breakfast.

And this morning it is raining.

Sigh.

But I don't miss the impersonal way of city life.

Or the homeless beggars. 

I'm off to feel flat and fed up.  And to the supermarket because we have no food. 

The only way is up.

Laters.