Vegetarian Ham

Grace from Year 8 popped her head around my classroom door yesterday. It was lunchtime, and as usual I was eating 'n' marking at the same time, and trying to scrape the pips of a particularly exuberant tomato from an essay on 'Of Mice and Men.'

'Eeurgh!' said Grace, looking at my lunch box. 'You on a diet, or sumfin'?'

I looked at my lunch. A multi-seed bagel with cream cheese, some cucumber, salad leaves, tomato and celery, a few nuts and a banana.
'No,' I said. 'This is what I usually eat.'
'You should to eat junk,' said Grace. 'I do.'
'Right,' I said.
'So, don't you eat burgers?' said Grace. 'And what's that?'
'It's a Brazil nut,' I said. 'And no, I don't eat burgers. I don't eat meat. I'm vegetarian.'
'Is burger meat?' said Grace, genuinely surprised.
'Yes,' I said. 'It's cow.'
'God,' said Grace. 'Did you see that programme about India, and chopping up cows and turning them inside out and scraping their skins and making them into handbags. Eugh, it was disgusting. All blood and fat and cows with no heads.'

I stopped chewing my bagel. 'No, I didn't,' I said. 'But it sounds like the kind of programme that put me off eating meat.'
'Yeh. Poor cows,' said Grace. 'We was eating take-away at the time and I thought, 'I ain't eating any more of this. But then I did. What about chicken? Is chicken meat?'
'Yes,' I said. 'And I have chickens in my garden.'
'Do they give you eggs?' said Grace.
'They do,' I said.
'So what if you eat an egg and it's really a chick?' said Grace.
'That won't happen,' I said.
'Why not?' said Grace.

Oh blimey, I thought. Here we go.

'Well, to get chicks, the eggs have to be fertile. And for that you need a boy chicken. A cockerel. And all my chickens are girls.'
'Are you sure?' demanded Grace.
'Positive,' I said.
'I like bacon,' said Grace. And she paused in a whistful bacon-sandwich dream moment. 'Do you eat bacon?'
'No, it's meat. From a pig,' I said.
'Blimey,' said Grace. 'What about ham? That's good for you.'
'Again, it's pig. And full of salt. Not good for your blood pressure,' I said.
'I told my mum I was fed up of being fat,' said Grace, who, I have to admit, is a tad tubby, but not that I would worry about.
'And she said, 'Well, what are you going to do about it?' Grace continued. 'And I said 'Eat salad and do trampolining.'
'It's an idea,' I agreed. 'You could try growing some salad. It's really easy.'
'Trampolining is okay,' said Grace. 'But it gets boring after a while. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down...' And then her face lit up.
'What about sausage rolls?' she said triumphantly. 'I bet they haven't got any meat in them!'

And I guess in some cheap brand, cost-cutting way, she could well be right.

'Sorry, Grace,' I said. 'But sausage rolls come from pigs, too.'
'Bugger,' she said. 'Is it time for lessons yet?'
'Yes,' said I.

Resigned

It's been nearly two weeks since I handed in my resignation. And has my resignation been acknowledged? Have any members of senior management spoken to me about it? Said, 'we know you've been here only a short time, but thanks for putting up with all the crap.'

No, they haven't. And whilst I am not that bothered, I can't help but think that some general courtesy has been missed somewhere along the way.

When I resigned from my previous teaching post, to embark on my 'Year As A Writer', I got a letter back from the Headteacher, thanking me for my service and wishing me well with my writing.

But this time...nothing. Not a whisper, not a word, not a straggle of tumbleweed whistling its way across the canteen between my classroom and the Head's office. It's just not on. Or perhaps it is, in this day and age. Perhaps it's just me, being too old-fashioned in expecting at least a cursory nod that my letter had been received. (And just in case you are thinking, what if the letter hadn't been received, and I'm going off on one unnecessarily, it was received - I checked.)

Ah well. Onwards and upwards.

Have you seen the new series on telly called 'Three in a Bed?' It's hilarious, if only as a casual observation into the human ego. It's about couples who take turns to spend a night in each other's B and B's, and then pay what they think the value of the experience is worth. I watch it because I think Andy and I would be good at running our own B and B, and I'm looking for inspiration. The series is starting to take on a rather cut-throat approach to the competition, and tonight was no exception. One bloke took exception to being paid £8 less than the market value for his room, because his guest objected to the proliferation of Health and Safety notices that were slapped around the bathroom, warning of 'Slippery Floors' and 'Hot Water.' (In a bathroom?? You don't say.)

In a fit of pique, realising his B and B wasn't going to win, and determined not to let his guest with the laissez-faire attitude to her safety take the award, he vastly overpaid the third couple for his stay in their bizarre Manor house, where there were cases of stuffed squirrels and a collection of family heirlooms stored in the wardrobes.

I have to say that I liked the people who objected to the unnecessary safety notices. I mean, if I was them I'd probably make the comment that there should be a safety notice warning about the safety notices. And their B and B was far superior to the others in terms of style and personal touches, like tea and homemade cake on arrival, and using local produce, and everything looking very pretty and comfy. They also ran courses from their establishment.

'That's what we should do!' I said to Andy, excitedly prodding him in an attempt to distract him from his new best friend, the i-Phone.
'Mmmmmmm...' said Andy.

I don't know. Ignored by senior management. Second place to apps. Where will it all end?

Who said that?

Country Chic

If we can't go to the countryside, I have decided, then the countryside will come to us. It seems a logical step.

In other words, the redecorating bug is upon me. I've been mooching around the Manor, casting a critical eye over the Malarkey decor. It's been at least 4 years since any major painting 'n' papering was done, and this time I've decided we need a change of style. I say 'we', but really I mean 'me' because Andy shows about as much interest in decorating, and colour charts and wallpaper as say, Mrs Miggins shows in Applied Physics.
'You know my brain is more wired to an appreciation of the arts,' says Miggins.
'I do,' I say.
'Then I guess you'll be consulting me about your imminent interior design project,' says Miggins.
'You guess wrong,' I say.
'Huff,' huffs Mrs Miggins.

So, given the free reign I have vis a vis decorating decisions, I have decided to go for the countryside chic look. Lots of flowers and pretty stuff. And pictures of bees and chickens. And more flowers. And hand-crafted-by-me things like quilts and cushions and tapestry and cross stitch. I'm thinking 50s nostalgia meets Laura Ashley meets Country Living magazine meets lying-in-a-meadow-of-wild-flowers-watching- bees-whilst-a-nightingale-sings-overhead-and-a-cute-bunny-sitting-nearby-washing-its-ears.

I said to Andy, 'Is it all right if I do a bit of decorating?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Just don't ask me about colours and stuff.'

So yesterday he caught me looking at wallpaper on the interwebbly.
'Where are you thinking of putting wallpaper?' said he.
'Up the stairs,' said I. I have big plans for the hall, stairs and landing. Plans involving paint, wallpaper, dado rails, wood flooring and a candleabra.
Andy went a bit pale. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking high ceiling, long walls, stairs, dodgy ladder 'n' chair combos, wobbles, broken legs. He wasn't thinking comedy wallpapering moments.

Today, I said, 'I've contacted a proper malarkey painter and decorator. To do the stairs.' And Andy looked suitably reassured.

I've started a notebook entitled 'To Countrify a Manor.' Well, it'll keep me out of mischief for a while. You see, I'm already living in this environment inside my head. And, as it looks like we're going to be staying in this house for while yet, I might as well start projecting my imaginings onto the walls. Turning a semi into a Manor? There might be a blog in there somewhere...

The Joy of Pointless Stuff

One of the joys of being a Granny is that you get to by silly stuff for your grand-daughter; the kind of stuff which you couldn't afford to buy for your own children when they were small. (However, I must say that I shall never buy Kayleigh anything as bizarre as the hat she turned up in yesterday - it made her look like a small, pink Shrek. Leane said it was the only hat she's got and that she will buy her another, more appropriate one immediately. Hurrah, said I - dodgy baby fashion should be rectified asap, and I'm just glad the child doesn't recognise herself in the mirror yet, because the therapy bills in the future would be too horrendous to contemplate.)

Anyway, today I got sidetracked into Mothercare on my way to Wilkos to buy a plunger, and ended up purchasing a Happy Safari Sit Me Up Cosy doo-dah, for Kayleigh to use when she comes a-visiting. Basically, its a happy-yet-slighty-scary looking monkey head attached to a giant inflatable tyre-effect thing that can be folded in half to make a prop up seat, or laid out flat to make a scoopy cradle thing in which babies who haven't yet mastered the art of sitting upright can flounder about without getting carpet scuff marks on their delicate little scalps.

Grandad Andy and I nearly died inflating the tyre bit. My lungs are still hurting. And then we realised we should have put the deflated tyre bits inside the attractively subtle, bright tangerine cover BEFORE we inflated the tyre, so we had to DEFLATE the tyre, put it INSIDE the cover and then RE-INFLATE it which was quite fun as there were two inflating nozzles and we ended up almost nose to nose across the cover like Lady and the Tramp eating spaghetti.

To add interest to the tangerine monkey head tyre, there are three detachable safari animals i.e a rattley tiger, a rattley giraffe and an elephant with a squeaky bottom. I should like to point out that the tiger and giraffe are not rattley because they have asthma or dodgy knees. Added to the animals and the tangerine inflatable monkey tyre there is a huge green leafy thing for baby to lie and/or sit upon depending on their degree of muscle control.

Heather took one look at the fully assembled Happy Safari Sit Me Up Cosy and said, 'You don't half buy some rubbish,' thereby completely missing the point. Fat Phoebe cat, meanwhile, has taken up residence in the monkey tyre. I only hope she keeps her claws sheathed. If she doesn't there could be one almighty BANG any moment...

A couple of quick extras...

1) Amidst much sweat and stress, Andy built a complete bee hive stand last night. It looks good, and the fits the hive beautifully. This has got him thinking about building a top-bar hive. Keeping bees in a top-bar hive is becoming a very attractive proposition, and no doubt will be the focus of a blog in the new future, but not tonight because my eyes are stinging because...

2)...we had a practise lighting the smoker this evening. Lighting the smoker involved the purchase of a blow torch which means I shall probably have to start making creme brulee just to justify the expense. I thought perhaps a box of matches would have been adequate for smoker lighting, but I am assured that a blow torch is DEFINTELY called for; I can only think this is a man-thing. And I suppose the blow torch will be needed for hive cleansing next season.

Unfortunately, the smoke we produced this evening proved to be hot smoke, and not the prefered cool smoke. Hot smoke will fry the bees which would be a bad thing.

More smoker lighting practise needed, methinks.

Covered in Bees

Bee-keeping Part Six today. We've done all the theory - well, all the theory we need to do to take the BBKA first exam - and we've now moved onto learning sessions that are all practical.

And didn't we get a practical today!

Our bee mentors had, earlier this week, bought a colony that was full to bursting and needed to be re-hived with an extra half-brood box on top. A bit like adding a loft extension, to give the growing family a bit more space to store their expanding brood, with, no doubt, their DVD/ soft toy/Lego collections, too. The bees, because space was cramped, were telling anyone who cared to listent that they needed a new home NOW!

Duly togged up in suits and gloves and wellies and veils, Andy and I followed our mentors into their apiary, and the Valley of Bees. The noise was palpable. The bees were growing antsy because of their lack of space.

'We'll inspect the brood frames for queen cells,' said Scott. 'I suspect this colony might be on the verge of swarming.'

In we went with the smoker. Off came the roof and the crown board. Tens of thousands of bees stared up at us. Never had I seen such a mass of bees close up. The gentle hum became, within seconds, a much louder, more persistent 'back-off-our-hive' buzz. The foraging bees, and the ones designated to guard the hive, started their defensive. Immediately, I got an itch in my ear. I thought, I checked my suit; there are no gaps. Do I have a bee in here with me, or is it just a stray hair? I stood very still. Nothing stung me. Hair it was then.

A few brave bees tried banging into the front of my veil. But I found that by staying still and calm, they soon went away.

And then, sure enough, as we inspected each frame and transfered it into its new hive with des res loft extension, we started to find queen cells. Three or four of them were charged with an egg and Royal Jelly. Luckily, they were uncapped. If they had reached capping stage, within a day or so, there would be little to be done to stop a swarm. The old queen would have been on her way, taking half the colony with her.

It was truly fascinating stuff. We saw all the bees that make a colony - workers, drones and queen - drones cells, stores of honey and pollen, baby bees being born, some eggs, some larva, a wax moth (which got squished PDQ), and some propolis and brace comb.

The more time we spend discovering bees, the more we are realising what a responsibilty we are going to be taking on when we collect our first colony, hopefully in a couple of weeks' time. On the way home from Bee-Keeping Part Six, we bought the wood we needed to make the hive stand. (When I say 'we', I mean Andy. He's hammering and sawing as I write.) We're starting to scan the interwebbly for additional equipment - more brood boxes and supers, a skep in case we are called upon in the future to collect a swarm. We are reading everything to do with bee-keeping we can lay our hands on. Andy is collecting bee pod-casts on his i-Phone. It's all becoming rather big.

Which is good.

Out-foxed

When we first got chickens (two years and one month ago now; my how the time flies when you're anthropomorphising), people warned us of 1) rats and 2) foxes.

'We don't get foxes around here,' we said. Or rather I said, because Andy is always more ready to believe in the existence of all sorts of creatures in our close vicinity, mostly because he watches Doctor Who and seems to think it's real.

And yes, people were right. We've had two rats, both dealt with swiftly by a heady combination of poison-laden traps and me rushing out into the garden whenever I saw one, shrieking like a banshee and waving my broom in the air until the head came off. (The broom, not mine). But foxes? NO. Not in our suburb. Way too busy on the roads. No handy hidey holes. AND we haev wheely bins.

However, this non-sighting of fox has not stopped Andy fretting about our hens, and fox-proofing Cluckinghen Palace 'just in case.'

Which is just as well, because this year we have been plagued with foxes outside our bedroom window. It started about a month ago. Woken in the middle of the night we were, by a screaming so horrendous it made our collective blood run cold. Once I'd got over the initial shock of being woken suddenly and with heart-pounding, skin flushing terror, I got out of bed and looked out onto the street. Three foxes sitting on the pavement, shrieking at each other. Shortly joined by a fourth.

'Shut up!' I yelled, or would have yelled if I had been in full possession of my voice at the time, which I wasn't. Instead, I made do with a strangulated rasping sound, but it seemed to do the trick because they all stopped and sat and stared up at me instead. I did not like this sudden vulpine attention - it reminded me of an advert I saw when I was about 8 years old, of a red sports car being pursued by a pack of wolves, brimstone-yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. Gave me nightmares for ages, that advert.

Anyway, since that night, the foxes have appeared periodically, to shriek and scream and wake me up. They did it last night. Well, one did. But the point is, is that it's enough to wake me from a deep sleep, and by the time my heart has stopped racing, my blood pressure come down and I've managed to convince myself I will not suffer some shock/ adrenaline induced heart attack, I am wide awake and can't get back to sleep. Hence going to work today on 4 hours of sleep, and getting home only to fall asleep and Andy arriving home from work before I woke up to cook dinner, thereby forcing him back out to hunt for chips.

But what do I do about these here foxes? The hens are safe. To get into the back garden, the foxes would have to climb a 7 foot fence, or dig under concrete. And then they would have to scale another 7 foot fence, and then work out how to undo the pod. It's me that's in danger. Me and my sleep-deprived sanity.

The noise is muffled and more bearable if the bedroom window is shut. But I like to sleep window open, because somehow it stops me waking up with a sore throat and bunged up nose, plus it helps with the old hot flushes. And sleeping with a window open makes me feel somehow better connected with the world, but that's probably to do with some weird psycholigical defect I have.

So do I keep a selection of objects to throw from the window? Do I shout/ swear/ join in the screaming? Do I make some random weird no-too-loud noise to attract their attention in a subtle, yet shriek-stopping way? Do I march downstairs and have it out with them, woman to fox, and risk getting my arms ripped off a la being chased by wolves in a red sports car mode? Or do I get ear plugs? I've tried ear plugs, though. And I can't cope with anything being in my ears, because of my highly inflexible ear cartilage.

It's difficult to know what to do.

Yawwwwnnnnnnnnnnnn!

Too Old For Mobile Phones

I quite like going into shops that sell gadgets and pretending I'm a techno-idiot. Granted, I don't have to pretend that much, but I like to think I have a certain level of understanding that means I will be able to keep up with what the shop assistants are saying.

I see these trips as an observation window into human society; I am more observer than consumer. But sometimes I do buy something.

Like at the weekend I bought Andy an i-Phone for his birthday. Stupidly, I thought I could just go into a shop, say, 'I want an i-phone, please,' and I would be provided with one there and then. I'd done my research first, which involved flitting in and out of the numerous mobile phone shops that make up about of a third of the retail outlets in our town. I even went into the Apple store, thinking they might sell them. Apparently not. 'We don't sell them here,' said one of the two gorillas who were guarding the door. 'I'll clear off, then, ' said I, thinking, shall I ask if they sell apples, just to see if I could get them under the trade description act.

'So what's the difference between an i-phone and a Blackberry?' I said to one twelve year old spotty oik. (He wasn't twelve, but might just as well have been for all the attention he gave me.)
'Well,' said Spotty Oik (missing the obvious joke of 'You can't make a crumble from an i-pod), 'basically they're the same.'
That's helpful, I thought.
'Oh,' I said.
'Alicia Keyes and Christina Aguilera have got Blackberries,' he continued.
Is that a selling point, I thought. I wasn't quite sure where he was going with his sales patter (if you can call it such), but I was willing to loiter about and tolerate him conversing with me whilst staring over my shoulder for a while longer.
'Business people have Blackberries,' Spotty Oik said. Now he was multi-tasking - conversing with me whilst looking over my shoulder AND doodling on a scrap of paper.

Gradually I got the idea that what he was trying to say was that girls have Blackberries and boys have i-phones 'coz of the apps.'

The apps? I looked confused although I secretly knew that 'app' was short for 'application'. I was enjoying my game too much to let Spotty Oik get away too easily.

'You can get them from 57p,' Spotty Oik said.
'Each, or per kilo?' I said.
He looked confused, so I left.

In the next shop I learned that touch screens are easier to use than keyboards, that I could bolt on a dolphin, a monkey, a canary and a tiger (or was it a puma?). That the new i-phone was not much better than the old model and certainly not worth the extra money, and that one can purchase a multitude of different, and sometimes exotically coloured cases to protect your i-phone from droppage, ploppage, sittage and smashage.

All the people I spoke with were keen to get me to sign up to a contract. For two years, if youb please. I mean, okay if you're obviously a spring chicken, but I could be dead by then. All lost interest when I insisted I wanted a pay-as-you-go, especially when I discovered that there was a year of free wi-fi interwebbly access thrown in already. And most of the contracts involved 600 texts a month which is way too excessive to my way of thinking and would just give Andy stiff thumbs.

So I chose my purchase-from shop based on the fact it was a lady assistant I spoke to and she didn't mention the word 'contract' once, and off she trotted to get me a phone from the stock room.

The phone had to be ordered. I collected it on Saturday. I had to stand in a queue for AGES. But Andy was pleased.

Except that there appears to be a setting up problem. It is causing angst. Andy keeps saying, 'Should I do this? ' and 'Should I do that?' and I have to keep saying things like, 'I don't know. I am a techno-idiot. Phone the helpline.'

Meanwhile, since I embraced phone ownership in 2001, I have owned a mere 3 phones. The first was a Motorola that looked like a brick, the second was an old Nokia of Andy's that I decorated with a cover of Ermintrude from the Magic Roundabout, and the third is my current one which is like a tiny pink pebble and is used for speaking into and texting from, and sometimes checking my biorhythmns. It does a lot more, apparently, but I can't be fussed to use it to its full capacity.

For I am too old to be mucking about with phones.

(Today's post was brought to you by - 'Too Tired to Be Creative? Write a Blog About Any Old Mobile Phone Tosh. com for all your desperate blogging needs.)

Apologies!