musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Tag: humour

Will Power — April 27, 2016

Will Power

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image

Tomorrow I am going out with friends for lunch.

I do this quite a lot. To break up the tedium of housework. To compare taxi-ing schedules. To bitch about school and homework and husbands and cliques. And to discuss Game of Thrones.

But tomorrow three of us are going out specifically to celebrate a friend’s birthday.

As such I thought it might be nice to get a card. And a gift. And so yesterday, having a bit of ‘parking at school hideously early to get a spot before pick up’ time free, I walked to the supermarket and, as well as restocking the fruit bowl, I bought a card and a nice box of chocolates. There are far too many ‘nices’ in that sentence. I may edit them out later. Although editing may fall foul of the ‘nice to do’ versus ‘need to do’ rule in the frantic-ness of Cub pick up.

I often buy my friends presents based on what I would like to receive. And there is no situation, in my opinion, that is not improved with a nice box of chocolates. In this case those sea shell ones. Um, umm loverly…. (That word again sorry).

Now I like to think I am a person with quite a lot of self discipline. I am especially good if I have lists to stick to. I tend to be driven by a schedule of tasks and the satisfaction of crossing them off once accomplished. Hence my cleaning rotas. And interminable To Do lists.

I didn’t have ‘Buy card and present’ on my To Do list but still I felt good about getting those tasks accomplished two days ahead of schedule.

I felt even better about myself once I had resisted writing those tasks on my To Do list just so that I could immediately cross them off.

I went about the rest of my evening. The usual. Taxi ing. Feeding people. Clearing up pots, and sweaty kits and dirty socks. Assisting with angles revision and with drawing an exploded diagram of a sandwich (don’t ask). Brushing hair containing yoghurt. Forcing reluctant children into beds. Etc. (I feel a need to tell my angles joke…should I? Oh go on then. Here is the family of angles; a baby (acute), a mum (right) a dog (reflex) and…. a dad (obtuse)…well I like it).

Then about nine o’clock, just as husband and I settled down to watch The Tunnel, my wonderful will power gave out.

I should perhaps mention that the strength of my will power is affected by many factors. The time of the month. The thing I am trying to resist/ make myself do. My boredom/ tiredness/ hunger level. The volume the ‘little voice in my head’ is set to. Etc.

The ‘little voice in my head’ began telling me that I should reward myself for my foresight in accomplishing my unscheduled ‘Buy Birthday Present’ task in some way. I was starting to regret not allowing myself to add it to the list and cross it off…

This was unfortunate. Especially as the only thing the ‘little voice in my head’ thought would be perfect as a reward was…sea shell shaped chocolates.

I lasted until the first advert break before giving in and opening the box.

So today after my haircut I popped into Lidl and replaced the box with another, considerably cheaper yet almost identical looking, and hopefully tasting, box. I then went to a friends for coffee. And as it transpired lunch.

I had left the chocolates in the car. When I got home a couple of hours later I brought them inside.

I should explain that although it is sunny here today it feels like mid winter. This has been going on for a while. There was frost on my car this morning and I am still wearing my bobble hat. The heating is clicking on and I have yet to remove my thermal vest despite it being perilously close to May. This current weather is more than slightly worrying ahead of our camping trip/wedding to the Welsh coast in a couple of days. No doubt there will be a blog entry in that. If I thaw out enough to write it.

So despite the sun and because of the frankly chilly outside temperature I had not given any thought to the possible downsides of leaving a box of sea shell shaped chocolates in the car for a couple of hours. This was again unfortunate.

Suffice to say the chocolates are no longer sea shell shaped. But rather have morphed into a multi hued slab of chocolate adhered to the box lid.

Therefore over the next week or so I shall be able to directly compare the ‘real thing’ to the Lidl rip off version. I will let you know about that taste thing. Although the melting and resolidifying process may provide sufficient doubt to render a direct comparison inequitable.

In upshot tomorrow, ahead of our lunch, I will be buying another present. Which in hindsight might have been a better idea all along.

Flowers I think.

 

A Weighty Issue — March 8, 2016

A Weighty Issue

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weight

So last evening I sang with my choir in a Music Festival. I may have mentioned that before. I joined the choir about 5 years ago and in the run up to our first concert had to find an all black outfit.

I may have also mentioned before that I wear jeans. All the time. And not black ones at that. And so I made an emergency dash to Primarni and purchased a pair of black trousers with an elasticated waist and a black fitted T shirt. For about ten quid. Thinking that they would do ‘pro tem’. I ignored the little voice in my head mithering about child labour. And the elasticated waist.

Of course in every concert since I have reached in my wardrobe for that exact same outfit. Pro tem, it seems, is at least 5 years.

Anyhoo. Last night I pulled on the trousers and was slightly disconcerted to find that they were…a little snug.

So there we have it. There has been creep. A depositing of extra pounds around my, how can I put this politely, arse. OK so not very polite, but then I don’t feel very polite about it.

I don’t weigh myself. For a few reasons. Firstly because the batteries in my fancy fat percentage weighing scales are dead. (Don’t use in socks. It gets all confused and throws a hissy fit). And I keep forgetting to replace them. And by now a combination of the steam from the shower and leaving dead batteries in there for over a year has probably knackered them beyond all repair. Which begs the question why am I still dusting them every week? (OK, OK, every month…ish…).

I also don’t weigh myself as I do not want to obsess about my weight and transfer any eating issues to my kids. Who are already bombarded with enough ‘healthy living’ advice at school to be sufficiently paranoid that Eldest has designed his own sit up and press up routine.

But if I am brutally honest I don’t weigh myself because it is better not to know. There I said it. Ignorance is bliss. Was.

But now I have failed the ‘concert trousers’ test. And have until May to do something about it. I really don’t want to admit defeat and have to go back to Primarni and buy elasticated trousers in a (whispers) bigger size.

So this is my plan of action.

Stop buying large packets of Doritos in my Friday on line shop. I buy them to accompany our weekend salad lunches. But I have noticed a tendency between hubby and I to ‘forget’ to serve them to the kids at lunch. So we can then eat them ‘a deux’ on the sofa in the evening in front of The Night Manager.

Crisps are really my downfall. It is a well known fact amongst my inner circle. In fact so much so that on my birthday some dear friends bought me some individual sized packets of Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips. A catering sized box full. From a wholesaler. Hmmm they probably haven’t helped. Much.

Start dusting those weighing scales more often. Obviously I don’t just mean the scales but dusting and other such pursuits more generally. Housework is a great calorie burner. Although tedious as hell. But cheaper than a gym membership. And with pleasant side effects. However temporary.

Eat less biscuits. This is tricky. My afternoon pleasure is a cuppa and a couple of biscuits (unless I am still wading through a catering sized box of salty delights, oh, OK often as well as…). You know to reward myself for not dusting. Somehow a cuppa alone isn’t quite the ticket. I could chow down on carrot sticks and a cuppa. I suppose. Sigh. It doesn’t help that my children (well actually my husband) bought me two packets of luxury biscuits for Mother’s Day yesterday. So now I am in that quandary. Eat them gradually over the course of a few weeks risking staleness and poundage creep or eat them all in one sitting and ‘get them over with’? I suppose in the latter case I could just counter-act the huge calorie in take with extra (shudders) dusting.

Walk more. The weather is improving. Finally. That yellow thing in the sky has actually come back. So although it is cold still at least I feel like venturing out. And so I need to do so. And not sit on the sofa watching re runs of Friends…sorry I mean dusting.

Eat less cheese. And pork pie. Bigger sigh. I have finally finished the Christmas cheese so that will help. Pork pie is a different issue. I clearly have none left over from Christmas. That would be insane. But a medium Melton Mowbray does come up in the top ten of my ‘Favourite’ items on my Sainsbury’s on line ordering system. Says it all really. May be I should deliberately run out of Branston pickle. Rendering the pie unappetising. But that would incur the wrath of Youngest. Who is pickle mad. Dilemmas, dilemmas.

Keep going to my exercise class once a week. Which is fun. And not reward myself afterwards with an extra cuppa and couple of biscuits. Bad mummy….

That is it really. I don’t want to lose a lot of weight. Just a ‘couple’ of pounds. Or so. Obviously I don’t actually know how many I want to lose as I can’t weigh myself. But I am guessing seven will do it. By May. Do-able. I hope.

Wish me luck.

 

 

Every Cloud…. — February 4, 2016

Every Cloud….

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image

 

So on Monday Eldest managed to disable his phone. It was the usual morning chaos. At some point he lost his rag as Youngest had changed his home screen picture again.  And so I heard him say that he was going to change the passcode.

I shouted vaguely in his direction that it might not be such a good idea. We all knew his passcode which he had explained the evolution of to me in such detail that I was never going to forget it. In case he forgot it.

Anyhow out of school him came on Monday brandishing his disabled phone. Apparently he had ignored my advice. In the manner of twelve year old boys. He had changed the passcode. And promptly forgotten it.

After the numerous attempts to remember it his phone decided it had been stolen and disabled itself. I guess at some point phones may become clever enough to distinguish between theft and idiocy. But not yet. Accordingly to husband he must have tried incorrectly at least 12 times with dire warnings of the consequences of carrying on appearing after the sixth attempt. Presumably also ignored.

Husband has spent the two evenings he has been in since trying to un-disable it via his Apple Mac. It isn’t really working. We will have to resort to a shop.

He is not best pleased.

On the up side since Eldest has been phoneless for nearly four days he has rediscovered pursuits other than Terreria.

He has played YuGiOh in break times with actual cards. And played ping pong.

He has devoured two more books in the Belgariad.

He has played with his new remote controlled helicopter enticing his brother away from Monster Legends with ‘Who can fly their remote control helicopter better’ competitions.

He has drawn lots of Manga characters with his new pen from Grandma.

We have discovered that we do not need to be in constant phone contact to survive the school day.

So all in all there is a silver lining. Maybe we shouldn’t bother getting it reactiviated. Oh except for that £15 a month contract….hmmm…

You Fit Bit You — January 20, 2016

You Fit Bit You

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fitbit

So last week I turned 46. Oh my actual god.

In a bid to make me feel better Middlest pointed out that I was probably only half way through. Life I think he meant.  If I am honest that depressed me even more. I pointed out back that the first ‘half’ is probably better than the second. All things considered. Even if I live as long as 92.

Of course my children maintain that being a kid is just dreadful. All of us who are no longer kids know this to be a falsehood. How many of us wouldn’t go back in an instant now that we can see how little fun being a grown up actually is versus our perception of it when we were ten.

Once I get my reluctant children to bed of an evening they imagine me up to all sorts of fun. I don’t believe they consider emptying the dishwasher fun. And so, like me, they are going to be sorely disappointed by adulthood.

Anyhow. I have long since stopped ‘celebrating’ birthdays. I am at that difficult age. I no longer look forward to a new year in the manner of a ten year old. And I have not achieved an age where I am to be congratulated on ‘getting this far’. I imagine I will like birthdays again when I have reached 92. They will be an accomplishment. Rather than just a grim reminder of another year passed by.

Even so my husband made an effort present wise. Thanks hun.

At some point I must have mentioned my desire for a fit bit. Probably not to him. Well maybe by accident in a kind of involuntary way when watching TV of a Sunday evening. I was ,of course, thinking of Poldark. With or without a scythe. Or clothes. Not fussed really. (And no I care not that they used make up to accentuate his assets. Really people (and by ‘people’ I mean middle aged men) who are you kidding? To accentuate assets assets are needed in the first place. And plenty of those were on offer in those Cornish fields). Or at a push Benedict Cumberbatch. Sans deerstalker. Or that guy who has played a gay Renaissance painter and now some Russian aristocrat on War and Peace. Brooding either way…

Anyway whatever. What I actually got was a small black piece of plastic and a pink wrist band. It was then I fully grasped the importance of punctuation. He had bought me a fitbit. Note no space.

Well anyway nice thought. Although with worrying under tones. Maybe he was wishing I had better assets. For the accentuation of. No amount of make up, or stepping, is going to help there matey. Myopia will though. Eventually.

In case you live on Mars here is a synopsis of the fitbit. You wear the pink (I don’t think it has to be pink by the way) wrist band after charging and inserting the piece of black plastic. It then tells you how many steps you take in a day. That is it in a nutshell. Mine also tells you if you sleep well or not. And you can set yourself goals. And talk to other fitbitted people. And even challenge them. To duels of step walking.

I have worn mine since half way through Sunday.

Here are my observations to date.

It is remarkably easy to clock up the recommended 10,000 steps per day. Either it massively over estimates mine. Or some people are seriously lazy. My average count by 9am is 3k. That is just morning routine stuff. With three kids. And laundry.

It is making me more likely to do housework. In fact cleaning is starting to become attractive. Very worryingly.

Never, ever, ever accept a Daily Challenge. The person asking you to join their Challenge already has at least 20 thousand steps planned for their day. You cannot hope to compete. Especially when waiting in for a sofa delivery.

People who walk weirdly on the spot are wearing a fitbit. And partaking of a daily challenge set by someone doing a half marathon.

The app in my I pad does not register steps that I do whilst carrying the I pad. And yes I have checked. And so now I know what one circuit of my kitchen diner is. Step wise. With or without I pad. Without about 23. With zero. Odd time/ space dimension stuff happening there.

I now try not to move at all in the shower. The fitbit is not water proof and so I have to remove it. I do not want to waste precious steps abluting.

I have no idea when to charge it. Perhaps when I am in the shower? I will have to sacrifice all those lovely statistics about my sleep in order to ensure I do not run out of juice mid step count. Would anything be worse? If only the provided charger was not three inches long I could plug myself in as I sleep. But it is. Three inches long.

And ah the statistics. As you may know I love statistics. Even if they are damn lies. As soon as this is published I will be pouring over bar charts and maps cooing over the geographical spread of my readership. And so the fitbit adds another statistical frisson to my day. Lovely.

Interestingly my increased level of senior moments are increasing my steps. Which will hopefully reduce the incidence of my senior moments. Exercise supposedly being good for mental agility. But then that will reduce my steps. Cool circular argument. I must have burned 500 of the buggers scouring my house last night for that three inch charger. I didn’t find it. Until this morning. When the replacing fairy had put it on the dining table. Weird.

And so there you have it. I like it. Not sure I will get much fitter. But it is enlightening. Being a ‘stay at home’ mum is not sedentary. Nice.

 

 

 

Parent’s Evening… — November 22, 2015

Parent’s Evening…

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parentteacherconference.jpg

Last night was parent’s evening for Eldest. It was the first one at his Senior school.

Historically parent’s evenings have involved me sitting in front of one teacher, usually at least ten minutes later than booked, hearing about the exploits of my off spring. Good or bad. All dressed up in euphemism. But lets be honest we all know what ‘lively enthusiasm’ means in relation to maths…

This was going to be a different affair. On offer was a five minute chat with each of Eldest’s fifteen teachers. Yep fifteen.. and that didn’t include any sports teachers. For whom a special appointment needed to be made. We didn’t bother.

Eldest was also expected to be present. And listen. I therefore needed to be mindful of what I said so as to strike a balance between finding out what I needed to find out and not embarrassing my 11 year old. As any owner of an 11 year old will know this is problematic. In the extreme.

Things had got off to a tricky start as it was beholden upon Eldest to book the appointments with these myriad teachers himself. I did try to provide some guidance. Such as leaving 5 minutes between each 5 minute appointment to ensure we did not end up with a cascade of lateness.

I also suggested he miss out some teachers. For instance Drama. It is not that I have anything against Drama. I am sure it is a lovely thing to do on a Monday afternoon. Week 2. But I wasn’t really sure I needed chapter and verse on his ability in that department. He can be quite a good actor at home. When lying about brushing his teeth or making sure his sister gets the blame for some atrocity involving Nerf guns. But I am not sure it translates into the Drama theatre. At school.

Anyway he dutifully organised slots. Including Drama. But not Philosophy. There is a ‘big’ question to explore later. ‘The Relevance of Drama versus Philosophy. Discuss’.  He did have to book some consecutive slots which set me on edge a bit. Although we did get an early reprieve as his Geography teacher had not made it. The Sixth Former helping out was not privy to why.

So I arrived to collect my name badge. And map. Oh my life. A map. It dawned on me then that this was going to be an ‘operation’. I had a quick cup of tea by way of fortification.

I then entered the canteen and was confronted by a sea of desks and chairs. Maybe it could even have been classed as an ocean. Each desk had three chairs. On the parent side. I immediately felt inadequate about my lack of occupant for the third chair. Husband was busy earning money to pay for that chair.

I was early. Eldest was early. Its a trait. This helped us out. As it often does. Most of the desks where unoccupied by parents and also staff. An exception was his DT/Art teacher. The name sign on her desk proclaimed her to be a man. I didn’t comment. The world is such that one never should. Just in case. ‘She’ beckoned us over. And explained that as she teaches five Year 7 sets her night was a little ‘frantic’ and could she see us before official ‘kick off’. As Eldest had booked her later in the evening straight before IT I readily agreed.

She was lovely. No hint of a moustache.

And so the evening went on. At some point Middlest arrived from his Christmas Show rehearsal I think it was between History and Maths but I cannot be sure. He dashed off some grammar on a spare chair. And ate far too many biscuits. Luckily Youngest was at home with grandma.

Between Science and IT Mr/Mrs Art/DT  popped over in a rare break in her schedule (presumably when we were originally to be seen, I had lost track) to ask why we had not pointed out the error in her name plate. I mumbled something incoherently and luckily she was distracted by her next interviewees arriving. I think I got away with it. Eldest hadn’t even noticed the sign was wrong. That’s 11 year olds for you. He of course knew her name. Me less so.

I have never been to a speed dating night. But I imagine it was quite similar. Some teachers had little passport photos of each child next to their name. I couldn’t blame them. Some seemed to see one set of parents after another with no break in between. For all three hours. They put me to shame. I couldn’t remember one Art/ DT teacher’s name I could hardly expect them to know all 120 of theirs.

I felt most sorry for his German teacher who not only had to remember who each child was but also what language he was teaching them. Poor man. I settled for his generic ‘working hard, doing well’. We are only in Week 9. It could have been worse. He could have used another generic ‘could try harder, needs to improve’. We spent two and a half minutes there. I used the left over time to bang home my point about spelling to Mr English.

Many other teachers clearly remembered Eldest, all for good reasons. Thankfully. Amazingly they kept to time. More or less. We nipped in early to several when they looked free. And then mysteriously we could not locate his French teacher. Je ne sais pas pourquoi. And so we got out a full ten minutes earlier than predicted.

Still it was two hours of full on diplomatic interaction. I was knackered. And more than slightly confused. I just held onto the overarching comments and placed the finer detail in the deleted file in my brain.

And I am glad we saw that Drama teacher. Unbeknown to me she has taught Eldest for all three of his years at the school, in both Junior and Senior, and she was very perceptive about him. She did really know him. And was almost glowing in her report. I found it all a bit over dramatic. Eldest grew about a foot taller though, so I will forgive her.

Vicarious Pleasure — November 15, 2015

Vicarious Pleasure

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Minecraft_-_Stampy's_First_Home_2

In my last post I mentioned that I am a late adopter, technology wise.

As such my children feel like pariahs. I know how they feel. When I was a child I was not allowed to watch Top of The Pops (unless Mrs Pugh our lovely babysitter was round in which case we did, sneakily) and so on Friday mornings at school, in between bouncing a tennis ball secured in the foot of one leg of a pair of old tights off a wall, I felt at a slight loss, conversationally.

I became an expert in ‘faking it’. Pretending some intricate tights/ ball manoeuvre (that sounds worse then it should) was requiring of my total concentration whilst I absorbed the first TOTP conversation of the day. Thereby allowing me to interject into subsequent conversations. Just enough to ensure my class mates believed I was an avid a viewer as them.

This is a skill that has served me well. Especially in my work when ‘blagging it’ was often necessary. I left the tennis ball at home though…which reminds me we now have an outside wall large enough for this game. I must introduce the offspring to it forthwith.

So where was I? Oh yes. Children. Pariahs.

For instance I resisted purchasing Minecraft for Middlest for a long time. I am sure everyone in the world has heard of Minecraft. If not I suggest you look it up. He pestered and pestered and pestered and pestered and in the end I relented and bought it for the PC for his birthday in August.

And the main reason I gave in was that I was sick of Stampy. Again everyone the world over (well certainly those reading this with kids around eight plus) will know exactly who I mean. Middlest is obsessed with watching his you tube videos.

In case you are not the owner of such a child I will fill you in. Stampy is a man who seems to make his living filming himself playing computer games- specifically Minecraft. He may play others but I doubt he has time.  Stampy does not appear, well only in avatar form (which apparently is a cat), as the films are of the screen he is playing on and he then commentates over the top. I imagine it is actually quite a skill commentating constantly. But I had reached the point where if I heard his slightly high pitched voice ever again I was going to explode.

So I bought Middlest the game and went through the pain of installing it. To begin with I searched Amazon for a CD Rom of the game in a pretty box that he could actually unwrap. You see? Completely behind the times. It has to be directly downloaded from the Internet onto one’s computer. I was able to buy him a piece of paper with a randomly generated string of characters on though. I wrapped it up as excitingly as possible, which wasn’t all that exciting, not really. Anyway I ‘bought the game’ I thought it was preferable that he actually engage with the process, which as far as I can see is like virtual Lego but with monsters (but only on Survival mode- kind of Death Lego), rather than watch someone else play it.

And yet he STILL prefers to watch Stampy. And now a really rather endearing couple who play together. Pat and Jen. Although their names sound like something out of a Ladybird early reader do not be decieved they can hack away at creepers with the best of them.  When I listen carefully I can detect a slight inequality in their relationship. And she is very giggly which annoys me. Tremendously. But otherwise quite endearing. I actually prefer them to Stampy. And at least it shows that IT geeks can get girlfriends. There is someone out there for everyone. But be quick I doubt there are many Jens left in the world.

This way of entertaining oneself is a phenomenon that puzzles me. Middlest is not alone in this house in the partaking of vicarious pleasure in such a way.

Eldest will watch other people assemble, adapt and test drive Nerf guns. For hours. I actually believe he would rather do this than fire actual foam bullets out of his actual Nerf Guns.  He did say once that it saved him collecting the bullets….I despair…  He will discuss the relative merits of the seemingly endless supply of you tube videos of youths testing Nerf guns. For instance he likes the style of a particular guy from Canada but the films are outdated as they get Nerf guns much later than everyone else and so he is always testing older models. And such like. Ad infinitum. Ad naseum.

I once caught them watching other people on you tube open packets of Pokémon cards. The excitement generated in my kitchen diner when one lucky random stranger got three EXs in one pack was palpable. I have heard of younger children watching other children open Kinder eggs on line.

I guess this is an extension of that other phenomenon. I call it ‘bees round the electronic device’. If one child has a personal electronic device other children would rather watch that child play on it, even if that child will not share the ‘go’s, than do anything else. At all. I think I saw this demonstrated once in a TV show (The Secret Life of a 4 Year Old?). The draw of these devices is incredible.

I  have been trying to think of an equivalent from my childhood. And I have failed. I just can’t.

All credit to these people making money out of such ventures. It certainly saves me buying the actual guns, games, cards. But it is odd. Really odd.

Wow look at that Grandma is playing basketball… — November 7, 2015

Wow look at that Grandma is playing basketball…

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miis

Sorry for the radio silence….I don’t really have a solid reason for the lack of posts over the last week or so… lack of inspiration, the depression of post ‘clocks going back’, no time… that sort of thing…

Anyhoo this afternoon the kids and I decided to have a Wii tournament.

Mostly because I am sick of hearing myself say,

“Turn off that I pod, I phone, I pad (delete as appropriate) and come out of your room and be damn sociable for a bit”….

But the weather has been absolutely foul. It hasn’t got light properly all week. We spent the morning getting soaked on various pitches. Middlest won’t play board games without me employing the kind of enthusiasm that a dreary November day does not illicit in me.

And so I decided to go with Eldest’s idea of a Wii Sport’s Resort tournament. We don’t possess an X Box or a PSP and so the Wii is our only option for playing together, even so we only have two remotes and nunchucks and so they have to share. Which usually means that Eldest produces a highly complicated spreadsheet containing order’s of play, which always favour him. Then we have the usual arguments about how an archery match is in no way equivalent to slicing pieces of melon and eggs in half. And such like…

I decided to push these annoyances aside and try really hard to enjoy it.

I especially enjoyed the cow racing. Although not Eldest and Youngest playing billiards. Which was very loooong and painfuuuul especially as they could not work out the controls. Never has it taken so long for 9 balls to get in several pockets….

The thing I love about the Wii more than anything else is that about a gazillion years ago when we first had it and played it a lot, before it had got out of date and you could still get new games for it, we all designed Miis of ourselves.

For those not in the know these are versions of the little people that appear on the screen that look like real people. We have a collection including both Grandmas, a Grand-dad, all the kids, husband and I, a couple of Uncles and Aunts and some friends. Over time Eldest has added a moustache to his Mii and now looks like a dodgy Italian waiter. But generally they are remarkably recognisable. Although Middlest’s sunglasses give him an incognito air.

These Miis pop up in crowds cheering you on as you cycle up a volcano. Manys the time I have dived handle bar first into molten rock whilst waving at an old friend in the crowd. Or they applaud your bullseye in archery, sedately as befitting of a crowd at such an event. Or they perform a Mexican wave in the football ground.

And so randomly today Grandma was recruited to play in Youngest’s three on three basketball team. Twice. She was the queen of slam dunks…

Anyway it made me smile.

Doing nothing… — October 29, 2015

Doing nothing…

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Today we are doing nothing….

Actually that is not strictly true as later we need to go to the hairdressers as Eldest looks like one of those Old English Sheepdogs. And not in a good way.

But other than that we are doing nothing.

We got up exceedingly late. I let them watch TV and play on mindless computer games for far too long.

Eldest and Middlest have spent a fair amount of time refining, rewriting and redrafting their Christmas lists. Following extensive on line research into the pros and cons of various Nerf guns.

I sent them out to buy an onion, one carrot and a loaf of bread. My on line shopping often goes awry in the holiday. They went on their bikes and came back with the change and a mouldy onion. So I went out to get another….

Then I banned all forms of electronics. Thus ensued an amazing Nerf gun battle. Which was just as well because I am not going to buy any more foam bullet firing guns unless they will actually get played with. I am pretty stumped Christmas present wise but I am not going to buy stuff that merely languishes in drawers.

Obviously the battle descended into carnage. It started well but deteriorated. People were cheating. Youngest was adamant she was ‘going to win’ and hacked the other two off. I tried to explain that no one ever ‘wins’ in a war, not really. That was too deep for them during their ‘red mist’ and so I took several green disks to the backside. Play fighting became actual fighting. So we stopped.

I made them make their own lunch. Inch thick slices of cucumber anyone?

Then we had an hour before our appointment at the salon.

I left them to it. Boredom is good for kids. It fires their imaginations.

And this is what they decided to do.

Sometimes it is best to leave well alone.

Ugg…fire! — October 25, 2015

Ugg…fire!

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That took me four hours....
That took me four hours….

We recently moved house. Again apologies to my regulars. I know you know this. And I know that you know that I know you know this. I have new people reading though (eek) and they might not know.

Actually soon I will have to stop writing that we ‘recently’ moved house. It was in fact in May and so we have been here 5 months (bigger eek). I guess the whole process was so traumatic; you know lawyers, estate agents, removal men, boxes, boxes, boxes; that 2015 will forever be ‘The Year We Moved House’. We will probably start measuring time from it. Next year will be ‘The Year After We Moved House’ etc. 1PHM. Or some such.

Anyway where was I?

Ah yes we moved house. And now we are the proud owners of two wood burning stoves. Really, really, really big eek.

I have never lived in a house with open fires. Or wood burners. Or anything that doesn’t involve a thermostat and automatic timer. I still have the thermostat and automatic timer. Which is a good thing. And the reason that it is a good thing is that these wood burners are not all that easy. Not really.

If the wood burners were my sole source of heat I would be typing this in fingerless gloves. And boiling kettles for a bath. Luckily they are not and so they remain, for now, a fun and totally voluntary addition to the home.

My first hurdle was acquiring fuel. Yes that is right, the previous owners did not leave us with a neatly stacked woodpile. I guess it was May. And so they had no need for one. And anyway they would probably have moved it even if they had had one. Just as they moved everything else. (Let the curtain pole thing go, Sarah, just let it go)…

And so I needed to acquire wood. It sounds like such a simple thing to do. Find a bloke selling wood and order it. But then I got that ‘telephoning fright’ thing that I get. Before I am able to ring up people like timber sellers I have to gird my loins. I am worried about making an absolute fool of myself. I did not know how much wood to buy. What sort of wood to buy. Where I was going to store that wood. Also I wanted to be sure said wood had been sourced responsibly. Before making such phone calls I have to be in the right frame of mind. A frame of mind where I feel able to make an arse of myself and not care.

That time was about two weeks ago. I found a company on line who looked pucker and had free local delivery. And I called up and got a lovely man called Steve. He was very, very nice and gave me great advice. And so I ordered the minimum amount I could and he turned up a week later with his tipper truck and a bag of free kindling and dumped that smallest quantity on my drive.

Well it is safe to say that over the next few days that ‘minimum quantity’ of wood gave me a great work out as I stacked it down the side of my house. Out in the open as advised with a ground sheet on the top for a certain level of weather protection.

We were set to go. Steve’s number was on the fridge. He had told me not to hesitate to call with any fire starting issues. He muttered something about ventilation. Pah, I thought to myself, how hard could it be?

Apparently quite.

Just by way of background you ought to know that I am a Girl Guide. Well I was. I am also a Queen’s Guide, don’t ya know. Further more I was always on permanent ‘fire duty’ at camps. Most of the other girls spent their whole ‘fire duty’ rosta screaming and running away from the smoke. Pathetic. I did not feel like I had camped unless every article of clothing I had taken reeked of wood smoke. We camped rough (no gas urns here) with a permanent fire going under our tin dustbin full of water. I banked it up at night to ensure easy lighting the next day. It got me out of ‘latrine duty’. And ‘gadget building’…my god the tripods and washing up racks, torture. My snake and square lashing suffered but my fire building and tending skills were legend.

So there we are. Safe to say I am a bit of a pyromaniac. And I have no trouble starting fires. I never have. Tis easy. Newspaper, kindling, small bits, big bits. Off you go. And this technique has never let me down.

Keeping an open air fire going is just a matter of fuel, but not too much, oxygen and, no that’s it. Fuel and oxygen. Oh and keeping the rain off if at all possible.

Wood burners are a whole different ball game. They are temperamental. They have vents and require their doors warming. Bless.

I can light them, no worries. Keeping the bugger going though is a whole other ball game. Search the t’interweb for log burners and without fail they all tell you how to start one….I do not need that people. I need to know how to keep it going. What to do with my door and air wash adjust and primary air vent. When to refuel. When to leave well alone. These wood burner things do not behave like a normal outdoor fire. At all.

On my first attempt I lit it straight off and within half an hour it had gone out. I tried again after some instruction manual reading. I hadn’t bothered the first time as the type is SO SMALL. This time I shut the door having ensured all my ‘vents’ were open and the door had ‘warmed’. Almost counter intuitively it went better. For a while. Then it went out again.

Any how a lot of kindling later I finally got it going (third time lucky) and it lasted about two hours.  And then it went out again again. By which point it was nearly time for bed so I gave up.

On our return from holiday yesterday the house was cold. I had had the foresight to bring some wood in to dry before we left. Even so after a successful light it was dwindling to almost nothing and I had to again rescue it with kindling and smaller bits of log. I am running dangerously low on ‘smaller bits of log’. Finally I got it going and it lasted until bed time. About 5 hours. Woo hoo. During those five hours it consumed an awful lot of that ‘minimum quantity’. However I was too nervous to adjust my vents to regulate fuel consumption. So I let it eat wood…at least it was hot.

Today it has taken me four hours to get it to a point where it seems beyond going out. But I have spent an awful lot of those four hours sat in front of it. Tending. Poking. Blowing. None of that is anywhere near as much fun as it sounds. Well ok it is quite fun. But it still takes up quite a lot of time…

So I guess I need to ‘get the hang’ of my wood burners.

And buy a hatchet.

And get up really, really early on Christmas Day.

Artistic Licence — October 22, 2015

Artistic Licence

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

Apparently my husband is a bit miffed. Or so he says.

He recently started long distance biking on Sunday mornings and has developed a peloton. A whole bunch of Lycra clad men of a certain age take to the roads of our rural environs and sweat around a 35 mile ish course scaring the locals and holding up traffic. That distance might be a tad inaccurate as I tend to skim over the multiple ‘Strava’ Facebook posts that appear within seconds of them arriving home.

Anyhoo. Apparently the posse have detected a ‘tone’ in my blog posts which, again allegedly, sees my poor down trodden husband getting a raw deal. Bless.

I cannot for the life of me imagine where this feeling comes from….

I have not had time to proof read all my 80 odd posts again. Although from my recollection a large number refer to him not at all.

From memory I may have implied that he doesn’t like cheese. On more than one occasion. This is merely a fact. And a very annoying and puzzling one at that. And it does actually have a daily impact on my life. I feel at liberty to mention it.

At some point his ability to lose things has come up. Again true. And annoying.

I wrote a whole piece very early on about the differences between men and women. It is possible that I based a lot of it on him. One can only write from experience surely. And it was very tongue in cheek. And funny. I apologise for any offence caused.

I may have implied that he ‘made me’ move house and get rid of beloved furniture. Of course this is not true. I cannot ‘be made’ to do things. Except eat chocolate. If you ‘made me’ eat chocolate I would, without hesitation, oblige.

Things came to a head last week when I suggested that when he cleans a room he merely gives it a ‘lick and a promise’. I would like to set the record straight on his behalf. He cleans thoroughly. And takes hours. I was using artistic licence. It is a strategy writers use. Or so I am told. Sorry about that.

So for the record my husband is a lovely man who works very hard, he is a great father, he never ‘makes me’ do anything and he can clean adequately.

He still, however, hates cheese and loses things.

To my mind there are two solutions. Suck it up. Or write your own blog.

Revenge may be sweet.

Love ya…

Footnote: should you wish to check out his claims for yourself please see my posts

Women are from Venus men are just odd

Lasagna

Have you seen my...

Food Glorious Food

Keeping Clean Sheets

My Sofa

My House

In the interests of balance feel free to read any of the seventy odd other posts too….