Reunion

Tomorrow, the grammar school I attended back in the late Seventies/ early Eighties is celebrating its 125th birthday. And I am being dragged along by some of old friends to go to the Open Day.

 There were four of us who used to hang around in school together and we've kept in touch over the 30 years since we left the school. I was the sensible, studious one, Alison was the popular sporty one, Suzanne was the one who got all the boyfriends and Sarah had an imaginary dog called Sebastian whom she insisted on walking home through town, in public, every day as we went to catch our respective buses home. Nuff said!

Now, the grammar school happens to share the same site on which the school where I currently work is situated, so this excursion is going to be a bit of a busman's holiday for me. I see the school every day. I tut at the shortness of the girls' skirts and think, 'Miss McCabe would NEVER have let us get away with showing off our pants in public.' I look at the driveway leading to the imposing front door and I can still see Miss Strudwick standing there in the morning shouting, 'Run, girls, run - you'll miss assembly!' And I still remember the enormous dark brown PE knickers we had to wear, and that I was in Saxon House which was represented by the colour yellow, and I hated yellow and wanted to be in Vikings because they were red. Oh, and Miss Price, the PE teacher who seemed obsessed with country dancing, especially The Gay Gordons.

And occasionally, because I am in education, I have been into the school for various reasons and I have seen all the changes that have happened recently and had the embarrassment of bumping into staff who taught me and are STILL there. (And, more worryingly, still wearing the same clothes and hairstyles.) And Heather went there, too, so all in all it is a place I haven't really lost touch with and therefore it will hold no 'ooooh - aaah' surprises for me.

But I shall go nonetheless and see what other blasts from the past turn up in the form of ex-pupils. Some I shall be happy to see because generally I got on well with everyone. One or two I am likely to tell EXACTLY what I think of them, now that I am 35 years older and have the age and confidence on my side which I lacked when I was 13 and they were making my life miserable. Sarah has just phoned to make sure I am still coming. I said, 'If Julie Hollands turns up, you may have to hold me back lest I try to punch her lights out.' Sarah said, 'Hold you back? I'll be filming it for You Tube.'

Oh, how times have changed...

And then on Sunday, we are meeting up with some of Andy's old uni/ vet friends, at Cliveden, because we are all of an age now where National Trust memberships are de rigeur. Five children will be tagging along, too, none of whom will belong to Andy and me. I wonder if we ought to take Kayleigh along and say, 'Look! We have one, too!' Plus I think Andy's friends will be highly amused to hear her calling him 'Grandpa'!

The weather looks set to be good for this weekend of social activity. Unlike this morning when I nearly drowned in the rain because I had a sudden whim to go and prune the lovage which had grown wildly out of control and will have to vacate the herb garden if it can't keep its growth in check. 

I have to go now...Tybalt is staring at me with a purposeful look in his eye. He may be trying to tell me that Skippy is stuck down a well again, so I'd better go and check because I do not want the death of an innocent kangaroo on my conscience.

But Julie Hollands...well, she might be a different matter...

And again!

It happened again. Today I left work an hour after I usually do because I had some data to fiddle with ( and you know how much I love fiddling with data...haha!) and I went my usual route only to be stopped at the bottom of the hill by a Welsh couple.

'Scuse me,' they said, all Welsh-like. 'But are we going the right way to the town centre?'

As it was, they weren't.  A local pillock, clearly a very special person, had turned the sign for the town centre around so it was facing the opposite direction. The Welsh couple were heading away from the town centre and at a fairly brisk pace, too.

And so I ended up doing another detour in order to deposit them at the end of the High Street. They were only down for the day. Going to a funeral tomorrow. Booked into the Travel Lodge which has about 50+ rooms and only 20 parking spaces and even I, with my limited mathematical skill, knows that is never going to work. They didn't want to move their car and drive into the town centre in case they couldn't get a parking space when they returned to the hotel. (Well done, Borough Council - visitors to the town are very impressed with your insightful planning...that was sarcasm, by the way.)

So I pointed out a couple of nice eating places to them, and they made happy noises about the river and the weather, and we went our separate ways.

And if it happens again tomorrow, that I end up being hunted down by more lost sheep who are having trouble making sense of this incredibly badly signposted town in which I live, with its ridiculous one-way system and multiply personality disorder, I am seriously considering changing my job to 'Tour Guide' because I am beginning to think the Universe is trying to tell me something weird. Only if I am going to be a Tour Guide, please can it be somewhere nice, like Norwich maybe, or Stratford -upon -Avon? Or Canterbury, or Bath, or Woodbridge?

Or Hereford. Hereford would be nice.

Good Deed

So today I left work and suddenly found myself turning left at the end of the road the school is on, rather than going straight on as per usual. My normal route home is: straight over the crossroads, down the hill, across a dodgy junction with no pedestrian safety facilities, under the subway, past the County Courts and Leisure Complex, over the bridge, up the steep hill by the church and Archbishop's Palace (puff, puff, puff), across another road, carry straight on, across another road, straight on past Sainsbugs, straight on, across a mini-roundabout, straight on, round a sharp right hand bend, walk alongside the park, then past the leisure centre, and straight on and I am home, avoiding various waves of school children who have no road sense on the way.

But today, I turned left at the crossroads. This meant I was heading straight to the centre of town rather than skirt around it. And this is an unusual route for me because I try to avoid town as much as possible because you all know how annoying I find people ergo I try to avoid them as much as possible. I had half a mind to do a spot of window shopping as I was passing. Many sales on at the moment. And I had almost completely forgotten how much we have just spent on the back garden regeneration.

On the railway bridge, a man stopped me for directions. I get this a lot, being asked for directions. Lord knows why, because if these people knew me then they would know that I have no sense of direction whatsoever and am more than likely to send them completely the wrong way.  Not on purpose, mind you. Not unless I am feeling particularly evil. I can only guess I have an approachable face and march forward with the kind of purpose that suggests I am a person who knows where she is going.

It turned out this chap was heading in the wrong direction. He couldn't have been further from where he wanted to be if he'd tried. Well, okay, if he had been looking for Aberdeen, for example, then yes, he would be much further away, but for the purpose of illustration, he was on the opposite side of town to where he wanted to be and was marching steadfastly further and further away.

I started off trying to direct him. And then I thought, I am heading right past where he wants to go, so this I said and suggested he walked with me, providing he didn't think I was an axe wielding murderer, ahahahahaha, thereby giving him the opportunity to say, 'You might not be, madam, but I am,' and thereby also giving me the chance to leg it.

As it turned out, we were both perfectly safe human beings, no concealed weapons, and we had a little chat whilst we walked the ten minutes across town. He was newly moved down from London, and he was marvelling at how nice the town was, and I resisted the urge to laugh and say, 'You must be joking, it's dreadful,' because it always pays to see old experiences through new eyes. And then I deposited him safely at his destination. 

He held out his hand and shook mine. And he said, 'Thank you so much for your kindness and grace.' Which seemed odd, but I think I knew what he meant.

And I said, 'You are welcome. And thank you for stopping me from going into the Clarks Shoe Sale and buying unnecessary shoes.'

It was a mutually beneficial encounter, and one that would not have happened if I hadn't turned left. 

Frustrating Farming

It is very odd that we are almost at the end of June and, apart from a spot of rhubarb, the first harvest from our allotment was today in the form of a bunch of radishes. Very nice radishes, I have to say, but oh dear - the end of June and that is all there is to show?

Things are catching up. There are a few flowers on the beans, and one flower on the cucumbers. Nothing on the tomatoes yet, although they are putting on some good growth. And in the green house the lettuce is growing well, and the basil and there is even some pak choi which I've never grown before but am going to nurture it as carefully as possible because it is mightily expensive at the supermarket.

Carrots, parsnips and beetroot are all showing shoots but Lord knows when they will be ready for harvesting. The courgettes are hanging on in there, like you'd expect courgettes to do. And the aubergines are looking surprisingly perky but again, it's going to be weeks and weeks before we see any edible results.

Still, we are lucky that we are hobby gardeners and do not depend on our crops for our living. They are a supplement rather than a necessity. I am not sure how I would cope running a small holding when the weather has been so unkind like it has the last year and a half. It is all very well reading lovely books with lovely pictures where everything goes according to plan. It is, in that respect, like teaching. You can read all your like about the theories of teaching and learning, you can even go as far as imagining the implementation of all these marvellous theories in your classroom. But chuck in the uncertain element - the child - (and in the case of self-sufficiency, the vagaries of climate) - and it can all go pear-shaped in the space of less time than it takes to grow, well, a pear.

But we try. We curse the cold because it prevents germination. We curse the rain because it stops us digging and planting. And then we curse the endless days of hot sun because the new plants shrivel up unless we are very, very on the ball with consistent watering. And don't mention the slugs and snails, and the weeds.

But, as I say, we try, because we like it and it is satisfying when things do grow, and there is nothing quite like the satisfaction of pulling up that first crop of fat radishes.

Bit of a Traumatic Day

It has been a bit of a traumatic day. Well, it wasn't until lunchtime when I left work and switched on my mobile phone and discovered 5 missed calls and a text from Andy saying he'd been taken to hospital with chest pains.

He is okay. He was given a good going over, prodded, pokes and cardiogrammed, and seen by two doctors. He was told if it happens again then he is to call an ambulance and NOT drift into the walk-in centre at the hospital, even though he was seen immediately and caused people who were already waiting to tut a lot. 

I have given him a good stern talking to. I have told him he is not to do it again and he is to start a healthy living campaign immediately. We both believe it is stress-related to his work. And a little bit down to Pandora, who is unwell again, though you wouldn't know it the way she is stropping at the sofas at this very moment and NOT using the cat stropping post in the kitchen which is designed especially for the purpose of stropping. 

So thank you to all Andy's work colleagues, and our friends who have sent messages of concern and have made him realise how popular and well-liked he is. 

And rest assured I shall not be having to push him around in a bath chair. Not for a while yet anyway.

Typical!

So the day I decided to try losing a bit of weight in order to reign back the sudden appearance of my matronly bazoom, one of my students marched into school and presented me with two not insubstantial rock cakes that she had handcrafted herself and was very keen for me to sample.

Well, I couldn't refuse them, could I, because of the shiny-faced, keen and eager, expectant little face before me. So I accepted them, and they sat in front of me all day going, 'Eat me...eat me...you know you want to.' 

I resisted. I took them home. They stared at me some more. I took them into the garden and casually shared one with Primrose and Daisy. Primrose and Daisy  appreciated it enormously and ate the lion's share. I had about three crumbs. I returned to the kitchen.

Inside, the second stared at me. 'Don't you dare feed me to the hens,' it said. 'Have you any idea how long it took that child to make me? If you feed me to the hens you will be guilty of a gross act of immorality. You HAVE to eat me.'

I made a cup of tea. And then I sat down and worked out how many calories I had eaten so far that day. And then I Googled, 'How many calories in a rock cake?' and spent half an hour being bamboozled by a myriad of diet websites offering various ideas about the energy value of rock cakes. I made an intelligent selection from the data offered. I ate the rock cake. It was good.

I had soup for dinner.

All a-Twitter

You may have noticed that a Twitter feed (is that the right term?) has appeared on the side bar. I don't know why, but I had the sudden urge to reactivate the Twitter account I set up two and a half years ago. Of course, I don't know how long this fad will last, but I do know it's a lot easier to manage now I have an I-pad and have downloaded the Twitter app. 

So, I arrived home today feeling very flimsy. No other way to describe it. Flimsy. Could be the weather, which is very close at the moment and threatening thunder storms. Could have been my having to deal with a couple of students today, one of whom refuses to talk so our whole hour is conducted using frantic sign language and even more frantic nodding and head shaking, and another student who has a low IQ, the reading age of a five year old and whose answer to every problem is to punch it. Physically and metaphorically.

Anyway, as part of my battle against the increasing matronly bazoom I have taken to walking to and from work each day - forty minutes there and forty minutes back, eighty minutes altogether and around 9,000 steps. This could also have be responsible for making me feel flimsy. So I got home and decided to recline my flimsy self on my sheepskin rug and read awhile and hopefully unflim. After I'd had a shower, that is, and fed the cats, cleaned out the litter trays, made a cup of tea, put a load of washing in the machine, swept the kitchen floor and collected eggs. 

And dealt with email and gathered ideas ready for work tomorrow. And brought in the bins (green recycle, garden waste and food waste) from the drive because the bin men NEVER put them back where they find them. And written a blog entry because now I have two to keep up with, and had dinner and written another blog entry and all in all I am sitting here still feeling very flimsy.

I hope there is more flimsiness going on in the world today, and it isn't just me. Maybe we should all join together and unite in our flimsiness. Maybe we should declare today National Fimsy Day.

'What is she talking about?' says Daisy.

'I have no idea,' says Primrose.

'I have a cousin called Flimsy,' says Daisy.

'Fascinating,' says Primrose.

Middle-aged things I have done this month

1) Bought a membership to the National Trust. Free binoculars - woohoo!

2) Bought a membership to Dobbies Gardening Club - two free teas/coffees every month - woohoo again!

3) Watched SpringWatch on BBC 2 and rooted for the jackdaw babies that were constantly being threatened in their nest box.

4) Planted a lot of salad leaves because...

5) ...spotted my increasing matronly bosom in the mirror and have decided something needs to be done about it. So started a new blog as a record - get-a-grip-now.blogspot.co.uk/

6) Made puffing noises when I stood up (ditto number 5 above).

7) Decided to buy a classic car.

8) Paid three bills in the Post Office rather than over the Internet.

9) Switched off Radio 4 Breakfast because John Humphries was being too shouty.

10) Thought how nice it would be to go back to primary school.

And regarding Number 8, I have to relate a further middle-aged rant that occurred on the same day. As I was going to the Post Office, I thought I'd take some bits 'n' pieces I had gathered together to the charity shop. Four not insubstantial bags' worth to be precise. So I parked up and carried these four bags half a mileish to the British Heart Foundation because it was nearest to the Post Office. And by the time I got to the shop the bag handles were cutting into my hands and I was puffing a bit and thinking I would be jolly pleased to get rid of these bags, thank you very much.

However, I discovered that the shop didn't open until 9.30 and I had arrived at 9.25. I mean, what sort of shop opens at 9.30? Not like the olden days when shops opened at 9, when people wanted them to be open, especially people on their way to Post Offices.

 So I stood on the pavement, and peered through the shop door and therewithin stood two ladies. Just standing there. Doing nothing. And they saw me, standing there on the pavement, toting four heavy bags of charitable donations, on the point of developing bleeding palms where the handles were chopping into my flesh.

And did they dash to the door and open it and offer to take the bags? Even though I was there five minutes before opening time? Because that would be what I would do. Like in the older days when shop assistants were helpful. Did they heck! They just stood and watched me, because I was five minutes early and there was NO WAY they were opening that door a minute before 9.30.

Well, I stood there for a couple of minutes, and just as they looked like they were heading for the door, I turned on my heels and marched my four bags of donations all the way down the other end of the High Street to the PDSA shop, where they were accepted with a smile and a cheery demeanour by a young man in a bobble hat. 

Sheer cussedness on my part, I know, but I don't care. It was another middle-aged thing I did this week.

Ouch!

I am not generally an accident-prone person. Partly this is because I am not a natural risk-taker and therefore rarely put myself in a position that could cause me any sort of physical harm, like parachuting, snow-boarding or cobra-baiting.

And partly it is because I am a perfectionist, and broken and damaged things do offend mine eye, and that includes breaking and damaging me. And so far I have avoided Death by Cat on the Stairs despite their best efforts to take me out first thing in the morning when I am still orientating myself and haven't quite got around to putting on my glasses. 

However, 2013 is turning into the Year of Accidental Damage to Denise. Last month I took a spectacular tumble from a very tall bed in a shepherd's hut resulting in the bruise of all bruises. Last week I dropped a breeze block on my foot. About the same time I pulled my right Achilles tendon (although not as badly as I did a couple of years ago when I thought it would be a good idea to try jogging - NOT!) Yesterday, I spent over three hours vigorously scrubbing the winter crud off the wooden garden furniture after which my right scrubbing hand seized into a claw shape, and developed an excruciating pain which, by half one in the morning had spread up my wrist, to my elbow and on to my shoulder rendering me unable to sleep. 

And this morning I dropped a Stanley knife blade on my foot. The same foot that received the breeze block. Only this time I wasn't wearing garden clogs and socks. I was bare foot.

Well, it was all a bit much. I hopped to the kitchen sink to get some paper towel to stem the blood, and as I grabbed the roll it slipped from my grasp and rolled across the floor, unravelling itself a la Andrex puppy-style. In a fit of pique, I grabbed the roll and (Lord knows what made me do this) I unravelled the  rest of the paper and wrapped it round my head! And then I stood in the middle of the kitchen, mummified in paper towel, puffing and snorting whilst Andy stopped laughing long enough to find and administer a sticking plaster to my poor damaged foot.

I think, in hindsight, that it was a rather extreme reaction to me having to spend most of my life being calm and patient. My self-control button was caught unawares. And to be honest, if you can't have a kitchen roll-related hissy fit in the comfort of your own kitchen, where can you? 

All things considered, I didn't  think it would be wise to go to the allotment today...in case I fell in the river, speared myself with a gardening fork or got involved in some kind of mare's-tail rage, so I did gardening at home instead - planted on some cucumbers, beans, parsley and tomatoes into their final growing receptacles, sowed lettuce, rocket and basil, weeded the herb garden and gazed adoringly at the new lawn. 

And my arm is better, and my Achilles' tendon has calmed down and the scab on the breeze block injury is tantalising close to being ready for peeling! 

Now all I need to do is brace myself to remove the plaster from the Stanley blade cut...

Clive and Min

You remember I started writing an idea for a novel called 'Clive and Min'? What do you mean, you don't?? Good grief, what sort of house guests are you???

(And talking of house guests, a very warm welcome to our two new genteel ladies - I have charged Primrose and Daisy with turning down the linen in the Lady Catherine de Bourgh wing ready for your stay. I have also told them they are NOT to lay a single beak on the complementary homemade lavender shortbreads.)

Back to Clive and Min. Well, I forgive you if you have forgotten because it was a while ago and whilst I steamed ahead with the opening few thousand words, my writing ran out of aforesaid steam (as those of you who are writers know 'tis wont to do, and usually when you get to a really exciting bit) and Clive and Min were left to wallow in my computer file marked 'Novels' until last Saturday when I had a sudden crack-of-dawn writing urge, dug it out and continued apace.

And one thing that came to light was that Clive (who is now deceased - his fault, he is basically an idiot) was a leading light in the local light operatic society. Which is very keen on Gilbert and Sullivan operettas.

Now, normally I could cope with this kind of plot turn, because it would be what I call a side detail that I could manage by a quick spot of research into a few G and S works, listening to Andy sing a few of the songs in the shower which he does very well, and all would be dealt with just so. I certainly wouldn't have to get right into understanding the whole operetta shenanigans in the manner of becoming obsessed by it all like, oh, some people are obsessed with Doctor Who. (My money is on Miss Piggy as the next Doctor.)

However, it transpires that the operatic society are going to organise Clive's funeral, and this means that they are going to play a fairly major role in the novel itself. I mean, Min wouldn't trust any old Tom, Dick or Nanki Poo to organise her brother's funeral, would she? (Well, actually, I think she might if it weren't for the fact she  is a character who likes to avoid gossip).

Which means I have to immerse myself in the works of Gilbert and Sullivan, and somehow work them in to a novel which started out, and continues to be, a murder mystery. Which as those of you who DO remember my initial ramblings about Clive and Min is another stumbling point because I am not a murder mystery officianado either. (Although I am becoming very interested in psychology, something I've been studying a lot for a couple of months now.)

Talk about making life difficult for oneself.

So whilst I ponder the enormous writerly hole into which I have dug myself, I shall also share another little mystery I stumbled upon today - that whilst giving my grey nay almost white locks a brush this morning, I found a hair that was white at the flailing in the wind end and dark brown at the growing end! Which means that this little hair started out with no pigment aka white, and somehow in its growing life, started to grow brown again! 

Just think, if my hair suddenly managed to recolour itself through some mysterious natural method I could be carrying a scientific research fortune around on my head! 

Now there's a thought!

Lovely Noo Patio and Fluffy Noo Grass

Well, the builders have finished...

Elephants

Just to let you know that anything unrelated to elephants is irrelephant.

Might come in handy to know that one day...

Gardening Tips

1) NEVER leave the four clematis you purchased a couple of weeks ago in close proximity to each other. They will become over-familiar with each others' tendrils and, unlike naughty dogs, no amount of chucking water over them will encourage them to extract each other from each others' company.Only  gentle teasing will do that, and that's easier said than done in a high wind.

2) If you plant only two courgette seeds because let's face it, the produce from two courgette plants is more than enough for the needs of a small family, neither of the seeds will germinate. If, however, you sow six courgette seeds 'just in case' all six will pop up. It'll all end in tears by September, mark my words.

3) DO NOT drop a large, full of old compost ceramic pot on your foot. It will hurt. Any listening hens will pick up some very unsavoury language. 

4) Lemon Balm spreads like weeds. But it smells delicious! 

5) Even though Spring might be late, everything in the garden catches up in the end. Except the honeysuckle. Honeysuckle is never intimidated by the weather. Honeysuckle will always be ahead of everything. Especially the height of the fence.

6) The annual attempt to murder the buddleia has failed. Again.

7) Having a new patio laid makes the garden look twice as big as it did before. Estimated time of completion - next Thursday. Unless it rains a lot. Or snows. Which it might. 

8) if you find a newt in your garden whilst weeding (which I did), you are allowed to call it Tiny. Because it was very, very small.

9) You CAN have too many plastic pots. Be ruthless. Chuck some of 'em out. This will please the hubbie who has been saying things like, 'Do you think we've got too many plastic pots?' (P.S if you wake up at 3 am in a pot famine frenzy you can always sneak 'em back into the greenhouse again.) 

10) Make cake to go with post-gardening tea and relaxation.Somehow these things go together.

Platypus, Plasticine and Piles

I never thought this morning, as I made the most of a glorious sunny morning to walk to work, that I would be teaching a lesson about the duck-billed platypus via the medium of plasticine. But then one doesn't, when one works in a school. You never know what is going to happen mostly because of the ever-present 'unknown factor' in the equation a.k.a 'the students.'

And I also didn't know I would be using plasticine to spell the word 'supercalifragilisticexpealidocious' either. And what was particularly unfair in this spelling trade off was that my literacy opponent - Bradley - only had to spell the word 'cricket.' And because he has ADHD (in lay-person's terms 'the attention span of a gnat') I completed my spelling challenge before he completed his. But then he got to know more of what was going on around us at the time. 'I am naturally nosey, Miss,' he said, and I couldn't help but agree. And he ended up looking like a Smurf because he used blue plasticine, whereas I used white plasticine and remained unstained. 

So, did you know that the platypus is poisonous? Neither did I. Apparently it has spurs on its legs that contain enough venom to kill a small dog. Who'd have thought it? They look so cute in their ducky-beavery-ottery way.

I arrived home to a back garden that looked even worse that it did in the video of the previous blog entry. Hard to believe but true. But the hideous concrete slab was gone, manifesting itself as a small concrete mountain on the drive. 

And I thought, as there is a massive lorry coming tomorrow to remove the concrete mountain, I would go to the back of the garden where there has stood for the past 8 plus years a great dollop of old breeze blocks and other assorted rocks, and discretely add them to the concrete mountain on the drive, and the lorry (built for carting heavy stuff) could take them away thus saving my little car (not built for carting heavy stuff) the trouble of potentially breaking its suspension. 

Now this plan came with three major problems to overcome: 1) the lack of flat, unhindered by garden furniture/ willow arch/ eglu pod 'n' run/ various vegetable plants/ waterbutts/ builder's equipment pathway from the back of the garden to the driveway 2) the weight of the breeze blocks versus my flimsy girly arms and 3) Primrose and Daisy who had already donned their hard hats, high viz jackets and steel toe-capped builder boots and were awaiting with great keenness all the insecty delights that would be revealed once I started shifting rubble.

So, after an hour of hard labour in sweltering sun on my part, and hard scrabbling and pecking on the part of Primrose and Daisy, I can now report that hens have no fear of falling breeze blocks. That they will get in the way at every possible opportunity despite the fact the human being (moi) cannot see where they are under her feet because her view was obscured by carrying rubble and also from the sweat dripping in her eyes. And that if one puts a stack of breeze blocks next to the gooseberry bush, hens will climb onto the pile of breeze blocks all the better to reach the lush green leaves at the top of the gooseberry bush which is lovely, thanks Mum, because we've already stripped the bottom of the gooseberry bush clean!

And I can also report that I am exhausted, but it has been a good day! And a cup of tea is a-calling. And possible some lemon drizzle cake.

Tiddle and Mess

This is the current state of the back garden.

It'll look fab in a couple of weeks...really it will...no, really...