St John and the jolly gloves

This week we had my Mother in Law's interment.

She actually died last February, and was cremated then, but the ashes have sat with the Funeral Directors (not literally, I hope) until now.  Mark and his sister decided upon having them interred with their Grandparents grave at a teeny church in the middle of nowhere named, appropriately, St John's in The Wilderness.  How cool.

It is under ten miles from our front door.  I have lived here all my life and I have never heard of it, much less been there.  It was lovely, as you can see.

Arriving uncharacteristically early, the six of us in attendance took a stroll out around the graveyard (as you do).  I was all for sitting in the car with the heater on full blast, but hey ho.  On approaching the graveside, it became apparent that the hole being excavated by the gravedigger was - how shall I put it - in the wrong place.  Bloody Norah.  He was very matter of fact about it, filling in the incorrect cavity and quickly knocking out another in a few graves further on. 

This little drama aside, I have to say I thought this was a very comforting way to end things.  In my opinion a burial is too harrowing and a cremation too clinical.  This felt 'nice' and more healing than either of the two other methods.  Although obviously the cremation had to take place first in this case.  Maybe it had a lot to do with the time lapse between the cremation and interment.  In any case, I 'liked' it for it's simplicity, intimacy and ceremony. 

I have told Mark and Oliver that I couldn't give a shit what they do with my body after I die, just to do whatever takes their fancy at the time.  Death, I feel, is all about the living. 

There was some debate as to what to wear.  I went for warmth over occasion in the end with 'sober' colours, but things I would normally wear for the winter.  As we were preparing to leave, Oliver came to me with his gloves, asking if there was another pair as he thought his were 'too jolly for today'.

Oh his choice of words makes me chortle.  I always picture chubby blokes with red cheeks whenever I hear the word 'jolly'. 

Never a chubby bloke with red cheeks around when you need one.

rolling off the tongue.

January rolls inexorably on.

I have wanted to use that word for ages.  (Inexorably, not January, or rolls.)  I even got off my arse to look it up manually in ye olde dictionary to ensure I had the right word.  There are quite a lot of words that I don't know the meaning of, but years of reading have given me a concept of them by seeing them in context.  I bloody love reading.  But I am a crap reader in terms of material.  I will read the first two pages and decide immediately if I can read the book or not.  I am not one of these people who will read a book sweating blood from their eyeballs because the determination to reach the end is greater than the pleasure of the story.  Balls to that.  I like the style, or I don't.  Life is too short to battle the written word.  In this sense, my Kindle is TOP.  Downloading samples is THE way to go - no more expensive literary mistakes, lots and lots of trying before buying. 

Happy days.

Anyhoo, I didn't intend to write about reading at all.  I actually wanted to blog mainly about this:

I am on a schedule of 8 squares per day (have I already blogged that?? sorry if so.) in order to finish mid April, giving me enough time to do a border in time for Katie's 17th birthday.  I have abandoned the whole idea of the whopping 1000+ squares, and instead am going for a more realistic 764 double size.  I've never worked to a crochet schedule before - I feel very industrious.  I am up 20 squares on my target so far, so I have breathing space for disaster days when I can't be arsed.  On Mondays and Tuesdays when Oliver is occupied with German and Tennis, I knock out these:

 

Middles. 

A friend at work looked at the pics and said 'no offence, but it looks like something your Granny would make - really old fashioned'.. None taken!!  Well chuffed me - job done, that is exactly the look I want.  Not so keen on the back, however as the 'join as you go' method is all too apparent, but I am telling myself that this rustic handmade look is all ok....

Still no alcohol. 

Is all good.

Still looking forward to a large glass in February though.

Have now managed to download a Word app onto my laptop, (oh yay for me),  so can crack on with the novel. 

Thrown into a panic the other evening with the clear presence of red in Oliver's wee.  After gathering several jars of samples over 12 hours (no easy task I have to report), it seems the culprit is raw beetroot juice for breakfast.  Phew.

Be still my beating heart.

Too many ailments to be scared of, too little time.

it's just the next month along, you know.

Without blithering on about resolutions or fresh starts to the New Year (BORING), I should like to just state the following:

I am not drinking alcohol in January.

I want to be able to complete the Rubik's Cube in under 5 minutes by year end.

I want to be well into writing my book as the year winds on.

The first one is proving an eye opener in several ways.  I realise that I most certainly do miss glugging wine.  I certainly am having better quality sleep without it.  My weight is much easier to keep under 'control' as the evening drinking is not leading to outrageous late night scoffing, let alone the 1500ish calories in a bottle of wine anyhow.  I am more miserable generally as I feel I have nothing treat-y to look forward to in the evenings, and Oliver has remarked several times this week how unhappy I seem.

Bloody hell.

I sure must have an unhealthy relationship with alcohol if stopping it has had such an impact on my general 'being'.  Mind you, if I was on a diet I would be sodding miserable too.  I think alcohol takes the edge off of my niggles, and then I just get on with it.  As the edges of my niggles are not being sedated with wine I find I am more needing of talking out every last issue with Mark, to his utter delight, I can tell you.

Roll on February, with half the quantity of wine I am used to, with much of my life back on track.

The Rubik's cube.

Ahhhh, such happy memories.  I was one of the first to have one of these at school in the eighties - I could 'do a colour'  before anyone else until my smart-arsed friends got one and could do at least two colours apiece.

sniff.

and meh.

Now I have a hankering to be able to do it all - and fast.  I recall my Grandfather completing it with the aid of a paperback instruction manual and a giant magnifying glass.  It took him months.  The magnifying glass was because of his cataracts, mind you, not because it aided the solution in any way shape or form.

I completed it the other night using 13 steps on Wiki-how.  Times they are a-changing.

Now I just have to remember the steps to improve on my best time of 9 days.

Writing my book.

I have wanted to 'be a writer' for as long as I can remember.  I always saw myself writing a book on a laptop in my mind's eye.  Just after Christmas Mark produced one from the depths of our storage pouffe and dropped it on my lap saying I could have it.

Blimey.

My mind has been whizzing since.  I have an idea which has been in my head for a long time, and now is the time to squeeze it out.  I have even purchased a memory stick for the purpose.

Don't think JK Rowling need watch her back just yet though.

Is this going to work?

A mosaic of many colours, quick to knock out, join as you go, but needing over 1000 to make up a king sized blanket.  Gulp.  It is intended for my niece for her birthday in April.  This means lots of squares per day, realistically.

Luckily, realistic is not my middle name.

Tootle pip.

undrunk.

This was the rather charming phrase used by Oliver to describe the state people needed to be in to collect their cars from the pub after a night out. 

I intend to be undrunk throughout January.  The whole of January.  No alcohol.  Dry January.

Eek.

To say I am not looking forward to it is an understatement of some gravitas.  I love my wine.  Since deciding I would not guzzle in January, I have been swigging back cava at an alarming rate.  A bottle a night has been the norm since Christmas Day.  I fear for my liver.  I am reminded of my brother (a hefty drinker in his own right) who airily waved away liver worries with a prediction that by the time his was pickled you would be able to 'get a new one on ebay and get it plumbed in by BUPA'.  God, I hope so.

And so another Christmas has come to pass.  A strange one.  Oliver, having been hyped up about December as a whole since his birthday in June, found his enthusiasm for festive activities waning quickly.  I, disappointed by this inexplicable apathy, felt I had to try too hard to embroil the family in a glow of seasonal happiness and it all seemed a tad false. 

This said, all the usual homey and cosy things bought warm reactions, good food was to be had and lovely pressies to be given and received.  On Boxing Day we had Mark's eldest two children here for lunch.  After an estrangement of nearly seven years, Mark has been meeting up with them - a sudden and unexpected development which initially had me emotionally reeling,  and earlier in the month we all went out for a meal together where Oliver got to spend time with the brother and sister he has not seen since he was about five years old.  There is too much to be said about it all, but - if you had told me three months ago I would be sat around my dining table with my stepchildren on Boxing Day playing board games, laughing and feeling nothing but pleasure, I would have said over my dead body. 

Life turns on a dime.

Adieu, not goodbye

 

 

oh, the joy of cracker gifts

 

 

 

Christmas Eve a-carolling

 

THE gift of the year

 

 



 

FIN.

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.