This is a great programme for making you feel normal when compared to
-people who use nine bottles of bleach a day annihilating imaginary germs
- people who allow goats to use their kitchen as a toilet
I love these programmes about extremes. Like Supersize vs Superskinny. Come on...you know you watch it so that you can say
-"I'll never be as disgustingly skinny as that person."
and
"I'll never be as fat as the other one. If I wake up in the night I only eat two mars bars. They eat three, the porker."
Oh, how righteous we feel. How normal. How well adjusted. How SMUG!
And then .....isn't it a bit weird to watch these programmes at all?
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Thursday, 19 September 2013
Weird guys with weird dolls
Did you see that programme on Tuesday night about men who have 'relationships' with life sized dolls made of foam, or rubber with 'real' pubic hair? The pubic hair comes from Sweden, apparently. I'm not sure about the wigs.
I haven't seen anything so disturbing since Abi's year 4 Christmas show at school. I spent most of the programme with my jaw hanging open.
Highlights - there really weren't any. The whole thing was just shocking.
Lowlights - lots of these:
- watching one man take a bottle brush to his "partner's" lady garden, complaining that she was starting to smell a bit fishy down there.
- feeling so sorry for a lovely, normal, middle-aged woman who was attempting to have a proper relationship with a guy who insisted on inviting two dolls to his birthday party. These two sat at the tea table in their tarty, slutty outfits, their legs splayed, their mouths gaping, their enormous fake breasts pointing bullet-like nipples aggressively at the ceiling. (You can get three different kinds of tongue, and many different kinds of everything else...) This woman was so nice about her fella, who has eight of these dolls. But the credits at the end told us that the relationship had ended two weeks after the horrible tea party.
- the woman who lives with a guy who repairs the dolls as parts wear out. I won't go into which parts he repairs most. This woman admitted to feeling intimidated by the perfection of the dolls. "They're not perfect!" I yelled at the telly. "Because they're not women! They don't have a personality! They won't buy you a birthday present! They don't care! They won't TALK to you. They can't touch you. They're dolls! They're not real!" Eventually a daughter appeared and told me to calm down.
- the English guy who takes photos of his dolls doing realistic things, like reading a book, then fills photo albums with pictures and captions. Lots of pictures of him in tiny shorts and slip on brown leather shoes and socks, and two tarty dolls.
- watching one guy hang his doll from the ceiling. All dolls have a hook in their neck so you can hang them up. They spin round, their legs wide, like they're in the middle of a game of leap frog.
- and the whole thing....that these guys aren't just treating the dolls as a sex toy. Rather they consider themselves to be in real relationships. A couple of them have been hurt in relationships with what they termed 'organic women.' (I wonder if we should register with The Soil Association.) Well, guess what! We've all been hurt in 'organic' relationships. It happens. Get back in there and try again.
I haven't seen anything so disturbing since Abi's year 4 Christmas show at school. I spent most of the programme with my jaw hanging open.
Highlights - there really weren't any. The whole thing was just shocking.
Lowlights - lots of these:
- watching one man take a bottle brush to his "partner's" lady garden, complaining that she was starting to smell a bit fishy down there.
- feeling so sorry for a lovely, normal, middle-aged woman who was attempting to have a proper relationship with a guy who insisted on inviting two dolls to his birthday party. These two sat at the tea table in their tarty, slutty outfits, their legs splayed, their mouths gaping, their enormous fake breasts pointing bullet-like nipples aggressively at the ceiling. (You can get three different kinds of tongue, and many different kinds of everything else...) This woman was so nice about her fella, who has eight of these dolls. But the credits at the end told us that the relationship had ended two weeks after the horrible tea party.
- the woman who lives with a guy who repairs the dolls as parts wear out. I won't go into which parts he repairs most. This woman admitted to feeling intimidated by the perfection of the dolls. "They're not perfect!" I yelled at the telly. "Because they're not women! They don't have a personality! They won't buy you a birthday present! They don't care! They won't TALK to you. They can't touch you. They're dolls! They're not real!" Eventually a daughter appeared and told me to calm down.
- the English guy who takes photos of his dolls doing realistic things, like reading a book, then fills photo albums with pictures and captions. Lots of pictures of him in tiny shorts and slip on brown leather shoes and socks, and two tarty dolls.
- watching one guy hang his doll from the ceiling. All dolls have a hook in their neck so you can hang them up. They spin round, their legs wide, like they're in the middle of a game of leap frog.
- and the whole thing....that these guys aren't just treating the dolls as a sex toy. Rather they consider themselves to be in real relationships. A couple of them have been hurt in relationships with what they termed 'organic women.' (I wonder if we should register with The Soil Association.) Well, guess what! We've all been hurt in 'organic' relationships. It happens. Get back in there and try again.
Monday, 16 September 2013
You won't find any political correctness here, oh no!
But you won't find any nastiness either, I hope. I am such a bad blogger; I'm very easily distracted. I keep thinking of things for the blog, but I've been working hard on the novel and it's been such a busy summer and blah blah BLAH!
This blog is going to be a bit random.
When you go back to work after a period of absence there's always this little interchange:
-Hi, good holiday?
-Great, thanks. You?
-Lovely, thanks.
-What did you do? (Said whilst parking in chair and starting to clear bottom desk drawer of rotten apples, cheese flavoured polystyrene snacks, mould growths.)
-We spent six weeks on an Argentinian cattle ranch castrating bullocks.
-Great. We had a caravan in Cromer for three days.
Lovely
(Pause)
-Students look stroppy this year.
-Yeah. And there's a load of new paperwork.
And then we settle contendedly into mild grumbling.
It's probably exacerbated for teachers as those of us who are paid term-time only are away for such a long time.
The girls and I went to Anglesey for a week this summer. People in Anglesey are very nice. I made a lovely friend in the doctors' surgery where Olivia and I were having emergency treatment for matching ear infections. One day the lovely beach was invaded by the population of Liverpool which arrived in groups of no fewer than 8. The women were a strange orange colour with high peep toe sandals and black hair and they guys were very bare and red. One group lined up very close to our beach towels and pointed themselves at the sun, even though this meant turning their backs on the beautiful sea and their drowning children (Destiny, Paige and Tyler) and facing the road. They were also facing us, which was disconcerting. I found this very amusing and told the girls that I was going to sing a few songs and pass my sunhat round but they forbade me from doing any such thing. Our lovely holiday cottage featured a fountain with pink and purple lights, gnomes, plaster hedgehogs and flamingoes.
Interesting about names. That Katie woman who was on The Apprentice has been getting into trouble for stating that you can judge class and parenting style from children's names. She is hilarious. I was reminded of her yesterday in church when I noticed that the three children up for baptism were Harrison, Tyler and Skylar. If I were the vicar I would take Skylar's parents to one side before the service and have a chat with them....
'Seriously guys, are you really going to burden your lovely little girl with a name like Skylar?'
'We love it, vic, it's really unusual.'
'Yes. It is. She's going to spend her whole life having to spell it out, and being called "Skylark". Or worse.'
'Well, OK. We could change it to Shaneesha.'
'Bless you. Handkerchief?'
'Or Looseee Mae Leee. We liked that. Or Shardonneigh.'
'Er, I'm begining to warm to Skylar...'
I hope I haven't offended anyone today....
This blog is going to be a bit random.
When you go back to work after a period of absence there's always this little interchange:
-Hi, good holiday?
-Great, thanks. You?
-Lovely, thanks.
-What did you do? (Said whilst parking in chair and starting to clear bottom desk drawer of rotten apples, cheese flavoured polystyrene snacks, mould growths.)
-We spent six weeks on an Argentinian cattle ranch castrating bullocks.
-Great. We had a caravan in Cromer for three days.
Lovely
(Pause)
-Students look stroppy this year.
-Yeah. And there's a load of new paperwork.
And then we settle contendedly into mild grumbling.
It's probably exacerbated for teachers as those of us who are paid term-time only are away for such a long time.
The girls and I went to Anglesey for a week this summer. People in Anglesey are very nice. I made a lovely friend in the doctors' surgery where Olivia and I were having emergency treatment for matching ear infections. One day the lovely beach was invaded by the population of Liverpool which arrived in groups of no fewer than 8. The women were a strange orange colour with high peep toe sandals and black hair and they guys were very bare and red. One group lined up very close to our beach towels and pointed themselves at the sun, even though this meant turning their backs on the beautiful sea and their drowning children (Destiny, Paige and Tyler) and facing the road. They were also facing us, which was disconcerting. I found this very amusing and told the girls that I was going to sing a few songs and pass my sunhat round but they forbade me from doing any such thing. Our lovely holiday cottage featured a fountain with pink and purple lights, gnomes, plaster hedgehogs and flamingoes.
Interesting about names. That Katie woman who was on The Apprentice has been getting into trouble for stating that you can judge class and parenting style from children's names. She is hilarious. I was reminded of her yesterday in church when I noticed that the three children up for baptism were Harrison, Tyler and Skylar. If I were the vicar I would take Skylar's parents to one side before the service and have a chat with them....
'Seriously guys, are you really going to burden your lovely little girl with a name like Skylar?'
'We love it, vic, it's really unusual.'
'Yes. It is. She's going to spend her whole life having to spell it out, and being called "Skylark". Or worse.'
'Well, OK. We could change it to Shaneesha.'
'Bless you. Handkerchief?'
'Or Looseee Mae Leee. We liked that. Or Shardonneigh.'
'Er, I'm begining to warm to Skylar...'
I hope I haven't offended anyone today....
Sunday, 28 July 2013
Bad breath and hairy slippers
Imagine a big fish. Imagine a great big fish. Imagine a great big fish that died a while ago. Imagine that it's been kept in a warm place in a sealed plastic bag with a pile of old, wet, black, slip-on school pumps that little kids wear. Now imagine that this bag has been swallowed by an ancient walrus. The bag bursts inside its belly and it does the biggest burp ever. This burp clears the beach of all of his wives and children.
Now you may be getting an idea about Bertie's breath.
It's not his teeth. His teeth have been cleaned by the vet under anaesthetic. And I do them every day with liver flavoured toothpaste. It's not his gums, which are healthy. It's not his stomach, which is fine. It's just Bertie's own unique thing.
We picked up the dogs from the kennel on our way back from Anglesey yesterday. We were so excited about seeing them. It had given us a lot of freedom, not having to constantly worry about whether they are too hot, too wet, going to kill other holiday-making dogs, eat the sea-birds, poo on the communal lawn, invade other people's tents, snatch ice creams out of toddlers hands etc etc. But we were really looking forward to picking them up.
After jumping around for a few minutes, Bonnie passed out on Olivia's feet in the front of the car. She looked like she had a doggy hangover. I suspect that Bertie had been keeping her awake at night. Poor Abi had to squeeze Bertie onto her knee on the back seat, sandwiched between the cold box and the bag of dirty washing. Within seconds his little black hairs were circulating round the car and the three of us were holding our breath and reaching for the window controls as his hot panting breath overwhelmed us.
"It's got worse!" I gasped.
"It's just that we're not used to it anymore," Olivia pointed out, holding her nose.
We bombed down the M6 with all of the windows down, bags and papers flying around the car in the near hurricane conditions. Bertie talked to us in his high pitch whine all the way. He told us that we must never leave him again, ever. That he'd spent the whole week waiting for us, and shouting at the other dogs in the kennels.
Since we got home the dogs have attached themselves to me. As I type I have Bertie's chin and hot breath on my left foot under the table. Bonnie is stretched out over my right foot so that I can't move without disturbing her. My feet are quite hot. When I move the dogs follow me. When I shut them out of a room, they press their noses underneath it and snort and sniff, checking that I'm not escaping out of the window.
The chickens were very excited to see me, especially as I'd brought them a huge lettuce. This morning Delia laid an egg. Is this the end of her broodiness?
Now you may be getting an idea about Bertie's breath.
It's not his teeth. His teeth have been cleaned by the vet under anaesthetic. And I do them every day with liver flavoured toothpaste. It's not his gums, which are healthy. It's not his stomach, which is fine. It's just Bertie's own unique thing.
We picked up the dogs from the kennel on our way back from Anglesey yesterday. We were so excited about seeing them. It had given us a lot of freedom, not having to constantly worry about whether they are too hot, too wet, going to kill other holiday-making dogs, eat the sea-birds, poo on the communal lawn, invade other people's tents, snatch ice creams out of toddlers hands etc etc. But we were really looking forward to picking them up.
After jumping around for a few minutes, Bonnie passed out on Olivia's feet in the front of the car. She looked like she had a doggy hangover. I suspect that Bertie had been keeping her awake at night. Poor Abi had to squeeze Bertie onto her knee on the back seat, sandwiched between the cold box and the bag of dirty washing. Within seconds his little black hairs were circulating round the car and the three of us were holding our breath and reaching for the window controls as his hot panting breath overwhelmed us.
"It's got worse!" I gasped.
"It's just that we're not used to it anymore," Olivia pointed out, holding her nose.
We bombed down the M6 with all of the windows down, bags and papers flying around the car in the near hurricane conditions. Bertie talked to us in his high pitch whine all the way. He told us that we must never leave him again, ever. That he'd spent the whole week waiting for us, and shouting at the other dogs in the kennels.
Since we got home the dogs have attached themselves to me. As I type I have Bertie's chin and hot breath on my left foot under the table. Bonnie is stretched out over my right foot so that I can't move without disturbing her. My feet are quite hot. When I move the dogs follow me. When I shut them out of a room, they press their noses underneath it and snort and sniff, checking that I'm not escaping out of the window.
Talk about guilt tripping!
The chickens were very excited to see me, especially as I'd brought them a huge lettuce. This morning Delia laid an egg. Is this the end of her broodiness?
Monday, 15 July 2013
Feeling broody? Off with your head!
These days my troubles are feathered. Delia has gone broody. Symptoms of broodiness include the following:
- making a weird, repetitative noise that is not at all hen-like
- pulling breast feathers out to keep the eggs warm. (Not a good look.)
- sitting on the nest all day and night. No little walks, no play, no pooing on the table, no dog-chasing. Just sitting there, like a pudding.
- ceasing to lay. This is a blow as she laid great big whoppers.
- resenting the other hens using the nesting box to the extent of sitting on their heads while they lay. Polly, Daisy and Tracy do not like wearing Delia as a hat and make a lot of noise. Worse, if they are disturbed when trying to lay they can retain their eggs, which go rotten inside them and make them really poorly.
- when forced to leave the nest by frustrated owner, making a nest in any odd corner of the pen and sitting on egg-sized stones
- not enjoying cuddles with me anymore. Hissing at me and running away. (Sounds like my daughters.)
- neglecting her role as alpha female so that the other three are naughty and bewildered, like children when the teacher leaves the room. However, their neck feathers are growing back without Delia's bullying. There's always a silver lining.
So what do we do with a broody chicken? (Pause for song). Here are the suggestions I have received so far.
1. Get a cockerel and let her have some babies. This means getting another hen coop as I already have 4 in my little capsule. Good hen coops like mine (not wooden, so virtually mite-proof and easy to disinfect) don't come cheap. Cheap! LOL! Like a pun. It also means having a cockerel doing his thing wth all of the hens all of the time. Like my own live sex show in the garden. Hmm. Not sure that floats my boat, but never say never. Maybe I could charge an entrance fee. And then there's the crowing. They don't just crow at dawn. They crow all day. And the eggs would be fertilised. I know that there's nothing to see if they're not incubated and you eat them quickly but there's something a bit icky about eating a potential life.
2. Acquire some fertilised eggs for her to hatch. But then I'll have more chickens and probably there'll be some uwanted males in the clutch and see 1. above.
3. Plunge her into icy water to snap her out of it. Tip given to me by a mad friend. Others assure me that it will just distress her more.
4. Since turning broody marks the end of her useful life I should ring her neck and serve her for lunch.
Regarding option 4 I have been giving myself some positive talk about this. She is definitely not a happy bunny. Or chicken. I have made her a temporary home in the dog cage (minus dogs) with her own run. It's a bit of penthouse actually. But she hates it. So maybe it would be kinder to just finish her off. And why shouldn't she go in the pot? She's had a happy life, up till now. Much happier than your average Sunday roast which probably grew up in a barn where chickens are stacked three high and fed growth hormones to get them to table quickly. At least I know what Delia's been eating. (Porridge with garlic and meal worms, layers pellets, corn, home grown lettuce.) My dad, the son of a butcher, will happily finish her off, and tell me how to pluck and gut her and all of that. But can we eat a friend who, until recently, was running around the garden, scaring the dogs and digging up my newly sown grass seed? And she was always a cuddly girl. Another sleepless night awaits......
- making a weird, repetitative noise that is not at all hen-like
- pulling breast feathers out to keep the eggs warm. (Not a good look.)
- sitting on the nest all day and night. No little walks, no play, no pooing on the table, no dog-chasing. Just sitting there, like a pudding.
- ceasing to lay. This is a blow as she laid great big whoppers.
- resenting the other hens using the nesting box to the extent of sitting on their heads while they lay. Polly, Daisy and Tracy do not like wearing Delia as a hat and make a lot of noise. Worse, if they are disturbed when trying to lay they can retain their eggs, which go rotten inside them and make them really poorly.
- when forced to leave the nest by frustrated owner, making a nest in any odd corner of the pen and sitting on egg-sized stones
- not enjoying cuddles with me anymore. Hissing at me and running away. (Sounds like my daughters.)
- neglecting her role as alpha female so that the other three are naughty and bewildered, like children when the teacher leaves the room. However, their neck feathers are growing back without Delia's bullying. There's always a silver lining.
So what do we do with a broody chicken? (Pause for song). Here are the suggestions I have received so far.
1. Get a cockerel and let her have some babies. This means getting another hen coop as I already have 4 in my little capsule. Good hen coops like mine (not wooden, so virtually mite-proof and easy to disinfect) don't come cheap. Cheap! LOL! Like a pun. It also means having a cockerel doing his thing wth all of the hens all of the time. Like my own live sex show in the garden. Hmm. Not sure that floats my boat, but never say never. Maybe I could charge an entrance fee. And then there's the crowing. They don't just crow at dawn. They crow all day. And the eggs would be fertilised. I know that there's nothing to see if they're not incubated and you eat them quickly but there's something a bit icky about eating a potential life.
2. Acquire some fertilised eggs for her to hatch. But then I'll have more chickens and probably there'll be some uwanted males in the clutch and see 1. above.
3. Plunge her into icy water to snap her out of it. Tip given to me by a mad friend. Others assure me that it will just distress her more.
4. Since turning broody marks the end of her useful life I should ring her neck and serve her for lunch.
Regarding option 4 I have been giving myself some positive talk about this. She is definitely not a happy bunny. Or chicken. I have made her a temporary home in the dog cage (minus dogs) with her own run. It's a bit of penthouse actually. But she hates it. So maybe it would be kinder to just finish her off. And why shouldn't she go in the pot? She's had a happy life, up till now. Much happier than your average Sunday roast which probably grew up in a barn where chickens are stacked three high and fed growth hormones to get them to table quickly. At least I know what Delia's been eating. (Porridge with garlic and meal worms, layers pellets, corn, home grown lettuce.) My dad, the son of a butcher, will happily finish her off, and tell me how to pluck and gut her and all of that. But can we eat a friend who, until recently, was running around the garden, scaring the dogs and digging up my newly sown grass seed? And she was always a cuddly girl. Another sleepless night awaits......
Beautiful Delia, wearing white.
Delia's monster egg, next to Polly's.
Friday, 28 June 2013
Militaryish Fitness sort-of
Very few people can get me out of bed before 6a.m. In fact, most people tend to avoid me until I've had at least 2 cups of tea. Nevertheless, my very lovely, persuasive and charming neighbour is managing to get me to Military Fitness at 6.30 in the morning quite regularly. Because she lives opposite she knows I'm here. Once I tried hiding in my bedroom but she still found me.
So there I was yesterday in my baggy sweatpants, saggy t-shirt and 2 bras because I couldn't find my sports bra. The other early morning lunatics are about 20 years younger than me and wear t-shirts proclaiming '10K 2012' , tight lycra shorts and proper trainers (the soles are peeling off mine, which really doesn't help.)
There are about 20 different forms of torture, each lasting 60 long seconds. Then we do it all again. Some forms of torture involve a stepper. Some involve sandbags or weights. Some require mats. Surprisingly, getting down onto the mat and then up again doesn't count as an exercise, even though it can take me nearly a minute to do either.
I have my own versions of the exercises: some I do properly but slowly; some I do partially; some I just point in the same direction as my peers, and wave a limb in a vague parody of the true exercise. I keep a very tight control on my inner giggler; I don't want to be lynched, especially by such strong, fit people. Sometimes I laugh for quite a while after I get home.
My various injuries shout at me during each session. My left ankle (torn ligaments, sixth form ball, 1984) tells me to ease off. My left wrist (sprain, roller skating at a house party incident 1990 - the sprain barely noticed at the time as it was overshadowed by the rather serious concussion) won't tolerate any kind of push-up activity. My right foot (fracture -running down stairs in clogs while 5 months' pregnant, 2000 and exacerbated by recent plantar faschitis) shrieks in agony. My right big toe (proper sporting injury as I broke it falling over a step machine in 2010) grumbles and aches. My left knee (no specific injury - yet) really doesn't like squatting. In fact most of my body objects to this activity. Even my ears ache from the high energy dance music - perhaps a bit much at 6.30a.m.
However, the trainer is relentlessly positive and encouraging; no-one points and laughs at me (not to my face anyway); by 9a.m I've done an hour's fitness training, walked the dogs, cleaned the kitchen and had a shower. And I feel virtuous. Now, pass the cake.......
So there I was yesterday in my baggy sweatpants, saggy t-shirt and 2 bras because I couldn't find my sports bra. The other early morning lunatics are about 20 years younger than me and wear t-shirts proclaiming '10K 2012' , tight lycra shorts and proper trainers (the soles are peeling off mine, which really doesn't help.)
There are about 20 different forms of torture, each lasting 60 long seconds. Then we do it all again. Some forms of torture involve a stepper. Some involve sandbags or weights. Some require mats. Surprisingly, getting down onto the mat and then up again doesn't count as an exercise, even though it can take me nearly a minute to do either.
I have my own versions of the exercises: some I do properly but slowly; some I do partially; some I just point in the same direction as my peers, and wave a limb in a vague parody of the true exercise. I keep a very tight control on my inner giggler; I don't want to be lynched, especially by such strong, fit people. Sometimes I laugh for quite a while after I get home.
My various injuries shout at me during each session. My left ankle (torn ligaments, sixth form ball, 1984) tells me to ease off. My left wrist (sprain, roller skating at a house party incident 1990 - the sprain barely noticed at the time as it was overshadowed by the rather serious concussion) won't tolerate any kind of push-up activity. My right foot (fracture -running down stairs in clogs while 5 months' pregnant, 2000 and exacerbated by recent plantar faschitis) shrieks in agony. My right big toe (proper sporting injury as I broke it falling over a step machine in 2010) grumbles and aches. My left knee (no specific injury - yet) really doesn't like squatting. In fact most of my body objects to this activity. Even my ears ache from the high energy dance music - perhaps a bit much at 6.30a.m.
However, the trainer is relentlessly positive and encouraging; no-one points and laughs at me (not to my face anyway); by 9a.m I've done an hour's fitness training, walked the dogs, cleaned the kitchen and had a shower. And I feel virtuous. Now, pass the cake.......
Friday, 21 June 2013
Hamish is out there
I'm so excited today as my short story is published! Here's the link.
http://www.thefrontview.com/2013/06/hamish-by-eddi-goodwin.html
I hope you enjoy it.
http://www.thefrontview.com/2013/06/hamish-by-eddi-goodwin.html
I hope you enjoy it.
Monday, 17 June 2013
The Stupid Things People Say - part 1
If I had a pound for every time this has happened I would be able to take my children on holiday this summer.
OK, I understand that my name is quite unusual. I've only ever met one other person called 'Edwina' in my whole life. Hardly anyone ever calls me 'Edwina.' I'm Ed, or Eddie or Wubzie (family name). My Dad sometimes calls me 'Fred'. However, when I'm introduced it's usually as 'Edwina', this being my proper name.
And do you know what people say when they're introduced to me? Can you guess?
They say 'Edwina Currie.'
They just come out with it. And then they look at me expectantly.
Over the years I have tried all kinds of replies:
Polite answer, laughing as we shake hands - 'Yes, it is quite an unusual name isn't it? She's the only celebrity I know who shares my name.'
Jaded answer - 'No. I'm not Edwina Currie. Do you think I look like Edwina Currie?'
PMT answer - I just stare at them until they start to sweat.
Edwina Currie is everywhere these days, being interviewed on Radio 4, taking part in discussion programmes, reviewing Thatcher's contribution to christianity. And so it's started again.
'Let me introduce you to Edwina,' says a friend to a friend at a party.
'Edwina Currie,' says the friend's friend. I fix a smile to my face and concentrate on not punching friend's friend on the nose.
Maybe I should start doing it back.
'Edwina, this is Helen.'
'Helen Mirren,' I should say.
'Edwina, this is Paul.'
'Paul O' Grady,' I would say.
Do you see how totally stupid this is? This is NOT me!
OK, I understand that my name is quite unusual. I've only ever met one other person called 'Edwina' in my whole life. Hardly anyone ever calls me 'Edwina.' I'm Ed, or Eddie or Wubzie (family name). My Dad sometimes calls me 'Fred'. However, when I'm introduced it's usually as 'Edwina', this being my proper name.
And do you know what people say when they're introduced to me? Can you guess?
They say 'Edwina Currie.'
They just come out with it. And then they look at me expectantly.
Over the years I have tried all kinds of replies:
Polite answer, laughing as we shake hands - 'Yes, it is quite an unusual name isn't it? She's the only celebrity I know who shares my name.'
Jaded answer - 'No. I'm not Edwina Currie. Do you think I look like Edwina Currie?'
PMT answer - I just stare at them until they start to sweat.
Edwina Currie is everywhere these days, being interviewed on Radio 4, taking part in discussion programmes, reviewing Thatcher's contribution to christianity. And so it's started again.
'Let me introduce you to Edwina,' says a friend to a friend at a party.
'Edwina Currie,' says the friend's friend. I fix a smile to my face and concentrate on not punching friend's friend on the nose.
Maybe I should start doing it back.
'Edwina, this is Helen.'
'Helen Mirren,' I should say.
'Edwina, this is Paul.'
'Paul O' Grady,' I would say.
Do you see how totally stupid this is? This is NOT me!
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Pollyanna moments
You must remember the little girl in the story who always found something to be 'glad' about, even when her legs fell off.
(I recommend a book: Smile or Die - How Positive Thinking Fooled America and the World. Barbara Ehrenreich. 2009.)
Positive Thinking is highly overrated and can be a substitute for serious reflection and analysis. However, I think I'll indulge in some positive thinking today. I've been ill for 5 days and need it....
Things to make me glad about having a stomach bug
1. Getting up close and personal with my toilets enabled me to inspect under the rim. I'm so glad to find that my toilets are really clean! A pat on the back for the cleaner - me!
2. Child one also had the bug and was forced to spend time at home with her mum. Although she was weeping with boredom I'm glad that we had the opportunity to share this wonderful experience.
3. General lack of brain cells during the worst days meant I had to resort to reading women's magazines.
-Reading Cosmo I found that the sex moves they call 'new' just aren't. I'm glad I can remember!
-From Woman and Home I learned that I can improve my cleavage with injections of hyaluronic acid at £370 per treatment. I'm glad my cleavage isn't that needy. I just rub it with lard every now and then.
- Also from Woman and Home I discovered that the 'free range' egg label covers chickens living 10 to a square metre, and that their 'daylight' can mean artificial lighting indoors. I'm glad that my girls don't have to live like that.
4. I'm glad that I have precious friends and family to do emergency shopping for crisps, dioralyte, and lucozade.
5. I'm glad that my boiler chose now to break down because.....OK I'm struggling here. Any ideas?
(I recommend a book: Smile or Die - How Positive Thinking Fooled America and the World. Barbara Ehrenreich. 2009.)
Positive Thinking is highly overrated and can be a substitute for serious reflection and analysis. However, I think I'll indulge in some positive thinking today. I've been ill for 5 days and need it....
Things to make me glad about having a stomach bug
1. Getting up close and personal with my toilets enabled me to inspect under the rim. I'm so glad to find that my toilets are really clean! A pat on the back for the cleaner - me!
2. Child one also had the bug and was forced to spend time at home with her mum. Although she was weeping with boredom I'm glad that we had the opportunity to share this wonderful experience.
3. General lack of brain cells during the worst days meant I had to resort to reading women's magazines.
-Reading Cosmo I found that the sex moves they call 'new' just aren't. I'm glad I can remember!
-From Woman and Home I learned that I can improve my cleavage with injections of hyaluronic acid at £370 per treatment. I'm glad my cleavage isn't that needy. I just rub it with lard every now and then.
- Also from Woman and Home I discovered that the 'free range' egg label covers chickens living 10 to a square metre, and that their 'daylight' can mean artificial lighting indoors. I'm glad that my girls don't have to live like that.
4. I'm glad that I have precious friends and family to do emergency shopping for crisps, dioralyte, and lucozade.
5. I'm glad that my boiler chose now to break down because.....OK I'm struggling here. Any ideas?
Proper free range hens! Daisy, Polly, Delia and Tracy (hiding)
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Incompatabilitygook
Imagine a world where you come home from work and last night's dishes have been unloaded from the dishwasher.
Imagine a world where people change the toilet roll.
Imagine a world where you can plug a new printer into a computer and it just works.
I feel a song coming on. I thnk my lyrics would rival John Lennon's.
Anyway, re the new printer....this is how it goes: you do a bit of research about printers; you read something, you talk to some people and then you ignore all of that and buy the cheapest one available on-line, very late at night, when the red wine box suggests that it's a great idea. Huge box of printer arrives 5 days later. You put it in the kitchen and fall over it for 10 days, waiting for the signs to be auspicious. You order some ink, which costs more than the printer. Ordering ink makes you feel like a grown up. Over a period of time you edge the box closer to the table. One day you clear all of the rubbish off the table and lift the box onto it. You don't open the box yet, because venus has to be in a particular alignment for the signs to be auspicious. You buy a chicken, complete with giblets, and examine its entrails. Then - joy! The stars and the chicken guts and your personal biorhythms come together and it's time to open the box. This involves wrestling polystyrene and you break into a sweat.
In the box is a huge black machine, a disc and a leaflet. The leaflet has no words, just alarming diagrams and pictures of the machine. You are in a Fahrenheit 451 world - life with no written words. The pictures don't look like your machine. You turn it round and now it does, sort of. You unpack ink cartridges, leads, plugs. This needs scissors and a kitchen knife and generates a huge amount of waste. You cut your finger on sharp plastic and bleed on everything. You get the first aid box (under the dog food) and attempt to find the right size plaster. Blood drips into the sink.
You make a cup of tea and add a spoon of sugar, for stamina. You tell yourself to think positive. All over the world ordinary people are connecting new printers to their pcs, and they don't all have IT degrees. Just because every single printer you've ever had has made you weep.....doesn't mean this one will.
You put Madonna on and have a motivational dance around the kitchen. Madonna wouldn't be beaten by a printer.
In a rush of enthusiasm you plug all of the bits into the various holes, press all of the buttons (one must be 'start') jam in the ink cartridges and put the disc in the drive. Things whirr and click. You click on 'yes' and 'continue' and 'allow' and 'next'. You start to think that it might, just might, possibly be OK.
Then it happens....there's a clunk and a message pops up telling you that internet explorer is incompatible with the new printer. You feel that internet explorer has decided this way too quickly. It has only just been introduced and it's already decided that there's no future in the relationship. You tell internet explorer to be nice.
"How much did you pay for this printer?" he asks.
"That's not relevant," you answer.
"I can just check," says internet explorer. "I can do that. I have your histoy here."
"£19.50," you mutter.
There is an awkward silence.
"There must be a fix," you say. "Please find one."
Internet explorer gives a huge sigh, but finds you some help screen. This is like Relate for IT. It can fix the impaired relationship between internet explorer and the new printer. There's a price. You have to agree to all kinds of stuff before the fix can be downloaded. "Will you give your firstborn child to the witch next door?" You click on 'allow'. "Will you sign over all of your possessions, house, car, pension and future earnings to the software company just so you can get your cheap printer to work?" You click on 'whatever...just get on with it.' (They really should have a box which says that!)
Then suddenly printer is talking to internet explorer.
But you're not home yet. There's a new message on screen:
"The pc cannot detect the printer" it says. You give the pc a slap. You unplug all of the stupid wires and then connect them again. "Nice try," you are told. "but the pc still cannot detect the printer".
"Look," you shout, swivelling the laptop so its screen is pointing at the printer. "It's right next to you. It's that huge black thing."
"How much did you pay for that?" the pc sneers.
"Don't you start," you say. "You were thrown in with a phone contract. You don't have any right to get snooty."
You switch everything off and on again and then the pc tells you that it CAN detect the printer. You stick some paper in and something prints!
It' only taken an hour and twenty minutes. That's a record. You clear up all of the packaging and wipe the blood away.
You didn't weep. You only lost a little blood. You are superwoman. You can do anything. And next .....retiling the bathroom!
Imagine a world where people change the toilet roll.
Imagine a world where you can plug a new printer into a computer and it just works.
I feel a song coming on. I thnk my lyrics would rival John Lennon's.
Anyway, re the new printer....this is how it goes: you do a bit of research about printers; you read something, you talk to some people and then you ignore all of that and buy the cheapest one available on-line, very late at night, when the red wine box suggests that it's a great idea. Huge box of printer arrives 5 days later. You put it in the kitchen and fall over it for 10 days, waiting for the signs to be auspicious. You order some ink, which costs more than the printer. Ordering ink makes you feel like a grown up. Over a period of time you edge the box closer to the table. One day you clear all of the rubbish off the table and lift the box onto it. You don't open the box yet, because venus has to be in a particular alignment for the signs to be auspicious. You buy a chicken, complete with giblets, and examine its entrails. Then - joy! The stars and the chicken guts and your personal biorhythms come together and it's time to open the box. This involves wrestling polystyrene and you break into a sweat.
In the box is a huge black machine, a disc and a leaflet. The leaflet has no words, just alarming diagrams and pictures of the machine. You are in a Fahrenheit 451 world - life with no written words. The pictures don't look like your machine. You turn it round and now it does, sort of. You unpack ink cartridges, leads, plugs. This needs scissors and a kitchen knife and generates a huge amount of waste. You cut your finger on sharp plastic and bleed on everything. You get the first aid box (under the dog food) and attempt to find the right size plaster. Blood drips into the sink.
You make a cup of tea and add a spoon of sugar, for stamina. You tell yourself to think positive. All over the world ordinary people are connecting new printers to their pcs, and they don't all have IT degrees. Just because every single printer you've ever had has made you weep.....doesn't mean this one will.
You put Madonna on and have a motivational dance around the kitchen. Madonna wouldn't be beaten by a printer.
In a rush of enthusiasm you plug all of the bits into the various holes, press all of the buttons (one must be 'start') jam in the ink cartridges and put the disc in the drive. Things whirr and click. You click on 'yes' and 'continue' and 'allow' and 'next'. You start to think that it might, just might, possibly be OK.
Then it happens....there's a clunk and a message pops up telling you that internet explorer is incompatible with the new printer. You feel that internet explorer has decided this way too quickly. It has only just been introduced and it's already decided that there's no future in the relationship. You tell internet explorer to be nice.
"How much did you pay for this printer?" he asks.
"That's not relevant," you answer.
"I can just check," says internet explorer. "I can do that. I have your histoy here."
"£19.50," you mutter.
There is an awkward silence.
"There must be a fix," you say. "Please find one."
Internet explorer gives a huge sigh, but finds you some help screen. This is like Relate for IT. It can fix the impaired relationship between internet explorer and the new printer. There's a price. You have to agree to all kinds of stuff before the fix can be downloaded. "Will you give your firstborn child to the witch next door?" You click on 'allow'. "Will you sign over all of your possessions, house, car, pension and future earnings to the software company just so you can get your cheap printer to work?" You click on 'whatever...just get on with it.' (They really should have a box which says that!)
Then suddenly printer is talking to internet explorer.
But you're not home yet. There's a new message on screen:
"The pc cannot detect the printer" it says. You give the pc a slap. You unplug all of the stupid wires and then connect them again. "Nice try," you are told. "but the pc still cannot detect the printer".
"Look," you shout, swivelling the laptop so its screen is pointing at the printer. "It's right next to you. It's that huge black thing."
"How much did you pay for that?" the pc sneers.
"Don't you start," you say. "You were thrown in with a phone contract. You don't have any right to get snooty."
You switch everything off and on again and then the pc tells you that it CAN detect the printer. You stick some paper in and something prints!
It' only taken an hour and twenty minutes. That's a record. You clear up all of the packaging and wipe the blood away.
You didn't weep. You only lost a little blood. You are superwoman. You can do anything. And next .....retiling the bathroom!
She even fits on the shelves!
Saturday, 1 June 2013
This is Rugby - be nice
I have lived in Rugby for 11 years. This is the longest I have ever lived anywhere. But it only took a couple of years for me to realise that everyone in Rugby is connected, or related, or both. Despite its burgeoning high-density housing estates it's a town which still feels small.
So, is this why people in Rugby are the nicest?
For example, many years ago I was just getting warmed up in a rant about someone who had given my poor service in a shop. My friend held up her hand:
"I think that, before you go any further, I should tell you that the person you're talking about is my sister-in-law," she warned. "I may agree with you. I may understand what you're going to say. But you should know that she's been having a bad time recently, and she's really low."
Of course I backtracked. From then on I was a teeny bit more careful about what came out of my mouth.
As I always said to my girls. "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." It's easy to say, but not so easy to do and I still get caught out. News travels fast around here, and if you hear only one side of the story you can jump to certain conclusions. OFSTED have been targetting the area at both primary and secondary level and heads are rolling all over the place. (Do you see what I did there? Heads rolling....like a pun....) . But just wait, and pretty soon someone in Rugby will give you the other side of the story. Because they will have heard the other side from their brother's wife's sister's cousin's neighbour's workmate.
I met my lovely friend, Helen, for a coffee at Mosaic in Bilton this morning, then I went to the butchers, the post office and the Co-op. I had proper conversations with everyone, in every shop, with eye contact and smiles! On my dog walks strangers greet me and stop to chat. Maybe you have to have lived in the South East of England to really appreciate this. People born and bred here take it for granted. They shouldn't.
My students often comment on the friendliness of Rugby folk, particularly those who've lived elsewhere in the UK.
Another good thing about Rugby is that everywhere is mixed. There are posh bits, but they're right next to more mixed areas. No gated communities here. No exclusive neighbourhoods. We're all in it together, for better or for worse.
Rugby ....you don't have a department store but you have everything I need. You're a bit grotty in parts, but you don't have any pretensions. You've got beautiful parks, a canal, a river. A great place to live.
So, is this why people in Rugby are the nicest?
For example, many years ago I was just getting warmed up in a rant about someone who had given my poor service in a shop. My friend held up her hand:
"I think that, before you go any further, I should tell you that the person you're talking about is my sister-in-law," she warned. "I may agree with you. I may understand what you're going to say. But you should know that she's been having a bad time recently, and she's really low."
Of course I backtracked. From then on I was a teeny bit more careful about what came out of my mouth.
As I always said to my girls. "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." It's easy to say, but not so easy to do and I still get caught out. News travels fast around here, and if you hear only one side of the story you can jump to certain conclusions. OFSTED have been targetting the area at both primary and secondary level and heads are rolling all over the place. (Do you see what I did there? Heads rolling....like a pun....) . But just wait, and pretty soon someone in Rugby will give you the other side of the story. Because they will have heard the other side from their brother's wife's sister's cousin's neighbour's workmate.
I met my lovely friend, Helen, for a coffee at Mosaic in Bilton this morning, then I went to the butchers, the post office and the Co-op. I had proper conversations with everyone, in every shop, with eye contact and smiles! On my dog walks strangers greet me and stop to chat. Maybe you have to have lived in the South East of England to really appreciate this. People born and bred here take it for granted. They shouldn't.
My students often comment on the friendliness of Rugby folk, particularly those who've lived elsewhere in the UK.
Another good thing about Rugby is that everywhere is mixed. There are posh bits, but they're right next to more mixed areas. No gated communities here. No exclusive neighbourhoods. We're all in it together, for better or for worse.
Rugby ....you don't have a department store but you have everything I need. You're a bit grotty in parts, but you don't have any pretensions. You've got beautiful parks, a canal, a river. A great place to live.
Thursday, 30 May 2013
Always schedule a toilet stop
Don't underestimate your daughter. Or misunderestimate her, as George W Bush would say.
First child and I visited a top uni yesterday. We know it's a top uni because a young lady spent quite a lot of time telling us that it was a top uni in the pre-tour presentation. This tour mostly involved running around a huge city centre campus having massive, ugly buildings pointed out to us by a student in a special t shirt. We couldn't go in any of the buildings properly, although we did hover in the entrance of the library for a few seconds. Mostly we got soaking wet and tired.
"This is the humanities building,' he shouted, as we ran past a Stalin-esque bunker with tiny slitty windows.
"This is where so and so did a so and so experiment and won the so and so prize," he shouted, pointing at a glass and concrete structure. We all grunted and nodded politely as we jogged after him.
The campus had a massive, busy road running through it which absolutely terrified me.
"You can't go here," I told first child. "I will picture you being mown down by one of these huge buses every day."
Our guide at least took us back and forth via the pedestrian crossings. Another guide was seen darting through the traffic, pursued by a crowd of panic-stricken youngsters and their distressed parents.
I rate the tour very low because at no point was I offered a toilet break. These things are important. First child thinks that people should be able to go an hour without a toilet break. I think that male students lack the ability to empathise about bladder need.
The best thing about the day was spending time with first child, and the highlight of the day was when I dared her to ask a workman at Stafford Station if she could try on his hard hat. I offered her a financial incentive, of course. (We were a bit desperate for entertainment at this point; there isn't much to do when changing trains at Stafford except dare your daughter to do increasingly outrageous things.) I offered her £5 to tell the workman that she liked his beard, but she wasn't going for that. However £10 was sufficient incentive for her to ask him to loan her his hat. Now I know that she can be bought. I'm not proud. I expected better behaviour from her really. I blame the parents.
First child and I visited a top uni yesterday. We know it's a top uni because a young lady spent quite a lot of time telling us that it was a top uni in the pre-tour presentation. This tour mostly involved running around a huge city centre campus having massive, ugly buildings pointed out to us by a student in a special t shirt. We couldn't go in any of the buildings properly, although we did hover in the entrance of the library for a few seconds. Mostly we got soaking wet and tired.
"This is the humanities building,' he shouted, as we ran past a Stalin-esque bunker with tiny slitty windows.
"This is where so and so did a so and so experiment and won the so and so prize," he shouted, pointing at a glass and concrete structure. We all grunted and nodded politely as we jogged after him.
The campus had a massive, busy road running through it which absolutely terrified me.
"You can't go here," I told first child. "I will picture you being mown down by one of these huge buses every day."
Our guide at least took us back and forth via the pedestrian crossings. Another guide was seen darting through the traffic, pursued by a crowd of panic-stricken youngsters and their distressed parents.
I rate the tour very low because at no point was I offered a toilet break. These things are important. First child thinks that people should be able to go an hour without a toilet break. I think that male students lack the ability to empathise about bladder need.
The best thing about the day was spending time with first child, and the highlight of the day was when I dared her to ask a workman at Stafford Station if she could try on his hard hat. I offered her a financial incentive, of course. (We were a bit desperate for entertainment at this point; there isn't much to do when changing trains at Stafford except dare your daughter to do increasingly outrageous things.) I offered her £5 to tell the workman that she liked his beard, but she wasn't going for that. However £10 was sufficient incentive for her to ask him to loan her his hat. Now I know that she can be bought. I'm not proud. I expected better behaviour from her really. I blame the parents.
Tuesday, 28 May 2013
The sofa is mine
We adopted Bertie last October from The Dogs' Trust in Evesham. He's been an interesting addition to the family. He's complex, has issues, but is a great thinker. Some thoughts and observations on the Bertie philosophy of life may feature on this blog.
A comfortable place
I come down to find Bertie stretched out on the kitchen
sofa. He opens a bleary eye and wags
politely at me. Bonnie, the good dog, is
sitting up in her bed looking pointedly at him.
Then she turns to me.
“Are you really going to let him get away with that?” she
asks.
I stand next to Bertie.
“Down,” I say, firmly, gesturing at the floor.
He rolls of the sofa slowly, stretches and noses my hand.
The next morning they are both on the sofa.
“He made me do it,” says Bonnie.
First walk
First thing in the morning.
Too early to be awake. I put my
shoes on and get Bertie’s harness. He
starts to gambol and frolic in a manner which must be damaging to his stumpy
legs. Bonnie winds around my legs like a
cat as I find the leads.
‘Think alpha,’ I tell myself. ‘Calm and authoritative.’
Getting out the door in a cat’s cradle of leads, shoulder
bag, keys etc is a challenge, but we do it.
It is soon evident that Bertie has no idea of lead protocol. He meanders back and forth in front of me;
stops suddenly to investigate smells, wees on everything, tangles with Bonnie
who sits down suddenly. I shorten his
lead and we stagger and stumble round the corner to the little park. My ambitions have been modest regarding our
destination. I lengthen Bertie’s lead
and let Bonnie off and she goes to furthest corner to poo. Bertie and I spend a while looking for it in
the fallen leaves but it’s too well camouflaged. I turn round to see her in the opposite
corner, pooing again.
“C’mon, Bertie,” I yell and we charge across the park to
make sure we can locate this little pile while she’s still on the job. He’s game and breaks into a wobbly canter at
one point. Then I feel terrible because
he has to stop and cough.
Picking up Bonnie’s poo is a challenge as Bertie wraps the
lead round my legs and I think I might fall.
I have to put the full poo bag down and unravel myself. Bertie gets his foot caught in the poo bag
and drags it off, then gets scared of the thing wrapped around his leg and
starts jumping around. Poo exits
bag. I calm him down and start again,
with a fresh bag. Bonnie seems to think
that this is all quite hilarious. She
runs to and fro, a bit smug as she’s the good dog who is allowed off the
lead. When she passes Bertie tries to
break into a run, to join her.
“No chance, mate,” I tell him. Not after his escape attempt yesterday. We’d just collected him from Dogs’ Trust and
we’d been home about two minutes when he made a break for freedom. This is how it happened: since he was
drinking water from the plant pot drip trays I nipped into the house to get him
the water bowl. Two seconds later he’d
gone and the garden gate swung open. OK,
the catch is a bit wobbly, but it still needs a handle turning. I dropped the water bowl on my feet and
charged out the gate and down the side of the house. There he was, trotting towards Bilton Road,
in his smart , yellow Dogs’ Trust harness.
I resisted the urge to yell, and put on my most appealing
doggy voice. He turned, considered me
and ambled back, stopping to say hello to my neighbour who was finding it all
very amusing. I barricaded the back gate
with wheelie bins, wondering how my postman was going to deliver my parcels
now.
So now there’s no chance of me letting him off his
lead. Maybe that’s how he strayed in
Birmingham. Maybe he learned to open the
garden gate and just wandered off. With
no collar or chip, and no one looking for him, he didn’t stand a chance.
We circle the small park five times and I think he’s getting
the hang of the lead. His innate good
nature will help with training, I think.
I’m sure he’s a bit better on the way back.
At home he rushes around the kitchen, then suddenly
tires. He gets into Bonnie’s bed. She approaches and a growl rumbles in his
throat. I find their kong toys (Bonnie’s
hidden both in the garden) and fill them with disgusting liver past and a chew. I encourage Bertie back to his own bed with
it and Bonnie reclaims hers. But as soon
as I start typing on the computer Bonnie comes to lie on my feet and Bertie
quickly sneaks back into her bed. Oh
well, I suppose they’ll work it out.
Monday, 27 May 2013
Embarrassing mothers
According to second daughter I engage in a wide range of embarrassing activities. These include: singing in the street, (especially hymns); dancing (only to be done alone, in my bedroom, with the lights off); talking to, or showing an interest in her friends; correcting people's grammar; inviting people to tea and expecting them to be able to use a knife in their right hand; gardening; singing Bertie's song to him; pulling faces at her during eye tests; sewing; knitting; painting garden furniture; D.I.Y generally; introducing people to the chickens ....the list goes on and on and on.
This morning I went through the list and gleaned that, when her friends are visiting, the only acceptable activities for me are to: be in another room; watch TV; use the computer; sleep. These activities are considered 'normal' and are what other people's mothers do all the time, apparently.
So I'm here in the living room. The TV is on although I'm not watching it. I am not asleep and there is little chance of that with the shrieking and crashing coming from the 9 x 12 year olds in the kitchen. I'm on the computer writing a blog about daughter number 2. Will this turn out to be the most embarrassing thing of all?
This morning I went through the list and gleaned that, when her friends are visiting, the only acceptable activities for me are to: be in another room; watch TV; use the computer; sleep. These activities are considered 'normal' and are what other people's mothers do all the time, apparently.
So I'm here in the living room. The TV is on although I'm not watching it. I am not asleep and there is little chance of that with the shrieking and crashing coming from the 9 x 12 year olds in the kitchen. I'm on the computer writing a blog about daughter number 2. Will this turn out to be the most embarrassing thing of all?
Stop pulling faces! Just be normal!
Sunday, 26 May 2013
Dreams .....tricky so and sos
Sometimes I forget to switch my alarm off and, because I go to bed in the wee small hours at the weekend I'm right in the middle of crazy weird dream sleep (not sure if that's the scientific term) when the radio wakes me. I always try to catch the dream before it slips away. This weekend I had a dream message from a very old friend with whom I may or may not have fallen out. 'You kept e-mailing me, all the time,' I accused him in my dream. 'You shouldn't ever have replied,' he replied. 'It put me under pressure.' Now I think there must be a short story in there somewhere.
I was thinking about dreams in the bible. People in the bible have lovely, clear dreams. I mean, no one has a dream like this:
God spoke to Eddi in a vision. "Leave your town and go to Coventry. Save the people there from their sin. Then, when your legs turn into two ripe bananas, you must sing 'Dancing Queen' with President Obama."
I suppose that's why they took their dreams so seriously in the bible. No one ever had to sing 'Dancing Queen' with President Obama.
I was thinking about dreams in the bible. People in the bible have lovely, clear dreams. I mean, no one has a dream like this:
God spoke to Eddi in a vision. "Leave your town and go to Coventry. Save the people there from their sin. Then, when your legs turn into two ripe bananas, you must sing 'Dancing Queen' with President Obama."
I suppose that's why they took their dreams so seriously in the bible. No one ever had to sing 'Dancing Queen' with President Obama.
These carrots grew in one of my pots. I forgot what I had planted and thought they were just rather boring flowers. But when I pulled them up they were a couple of very interesting carrots. What an exciting day that was! I think the guy on the right definitely has luurv on his mind. But the lady carrot just wants to sleep.
Saturday, 25 May 2013
If you take my private parts I'll eat your table
"The thing is," Bertie told me, this morning. "The thing is that there are eight of you girls for me to look after here. And you've taken my wedding tackle. How can I be alpha without my wedding tackle?"
I explained to him that he didn't need his wedding tackle anymore. And it wasn't me that had taken it - it was the lovely people at Dogs' Trust. They suspected that, given his life roaming the backstreets of Brum, he may already have done his bit to populate the area with funny little mongrels with huge heads and long bodies. Furthermore, there were a number of candidates for the role of Alpha here. Notably Delia, who keeps everyone in order.
Bertie made sad ears so I gave him an egg to take his mind off his missing bits.
Interestingly, Spanish men call their tender parts 'huevos' - eggs. This conjures up a picture of something fragile, precious and delicate. In the UK they're 'balls,' to be handled, kicked, played with and shared. I'm sure there's something profound about national character that I should draw from this...
So did Bertie eat the coffee table to vent his feelings about his missing parts? Or was it to get at the Kong stuffed with liver paste that had wedged itself underneath? He might tell me one day.
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I explained to him that he didn't need his wedding tackle anymore. And it wasn't me that had taken it - it was the lovely people at Dogs' Trust. They suspected that, given his life roaming the backstreets of Brum, he may already have done his bit to populate the area with funny little mongrels with huge heads and long bodies. Furthermore, there were a number of candidates for the role of Alpha here. Notably Delia, who keeps everyone in order.
Bertie made sad ears so I gave him an egg to take his mind off his missing bits.
Interestingly, Spanish men call their tender parts 'huevos' - eggs. This conjures up a picture of something fragile, precious and delicate. In the UK they're 'balls,' to be handled, kicked, played with and shared. I'm sure there's something profound about national character that I should draw from this...
So did Bertie eat the coffee table to vent his feelings about his missing parts? Or was it to get at the Kong stuffed with liver paste that had wedged itself underneath? He might tell me one day.
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Friday, 24 May 2013
The red wine box
The red wine box is a wonderful invention. I've just written about one in a short story. Here's an extract:
Doreen liked wine boxes; they lasted longer and there
weren’t all those noisy, wobbly, reproachful empty bottles that seemed to pile
up everywhere these days. The only
problem was getting the damn things open.
There was a little tap and you had to twist something off and push
something through a hole and .... well, it was all just a bit too
complicated. After a brief struggle with
a new box she grabbed a knife from the block and stabbed it. Red wine burst upwards and she tilted the box
to let it run into her glass. Nice to use
a proper crystal glass. She drifted
into the hallway, leaning her shoulder against the wall for a bit of
stability. The noise from upstairs was
louder here. Crashing, screaming and
Jess’s noise.
from The Guide to Modern Teenagers. copyright Eddi Goodwin 2013
My daughters are quite offended by this story, which was inspired by the hormone rich miasma, strange noises, furniture throwing etc etc that parents of teenage girls live with. But really it's a pop at the parents who pretend things are normal when they really are NOT! I'm going to send this story off soon.
Another short story, Hamish, has been accepted and will be published on 21 June. Am I excited? Of course I am! It is the first piece of writing which I've sent out into the world and it was accepted by the one place I sent it. It's about a woman who encounters someone a bit different in a hospital. I know what you're thinking....that hospitals are full of strange people behaving oddly. But this one is something else. Like all of my writing, it was inspired by real events.
I haven't got a clue how this blog thing works. It's a miracle that I've got this far. I'd like to upload some pictures but I can't see the button. Oh...I think I've found it.
Intermission.....
Intermission.....
I did find it but there wasn't a picture of a red wine box on the search thing on the blog, and failing. Nor was there a picture of a scottish man, nor even a man. You'd think they'd have a picture of a man.
However, there is a rather lovely turtle.
Right, I shall post this and see what happens.
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