oh for god's sake

I just found, in my drafts, those posts that I thought disappeared some time ago. Feh! They didn't show up before...

look what I'm looking at!

Can you see what I see? Ha ha... no more will I complain about my husband going out for a couple of giant sized pints: Tonight after the children were in bed, he went out to the car, and came in with a box. Harvey Norman's SuperSale. Whoo hoo hoo! The long-lusted after laptop! It's black, it's shiny, it's sleek, it's gorgeous!

I have a couple issues:

• It gets very hot - will it set my sofa on fire?
• How do I stop myself hunching over it until my neck, back and shoulders seize up and I morph into an old hunchback woman?
• How do I stop myself getting RSI from the stupid mouse pad thingy I'm not good at using - I'd clearly never make a lesbian.
• How do I turn down the brightness?

How can I make Microsoft let me type in Ireland to register for an Office Trial, instead of just giving me the options of America or Choose Your Country with no choices. Idiots!


Apart from these little things, and the last is of course Microsoft's fault, I love it already. It's countered my late night/earlymorning 4 hours sleep exhaustion.



Clickety clickety :)

anniversary

Today is the sixth anniversary of my mother's death. If I was Catholic, or religious at all it would be marked by memorial services. I don't know if I'm glad or not - so far I've liked to let it pass by unmarked: I don't want my wedding anniversary (7 days ago) to be overshadowed by tragedy and horrible memories any more than it already is. I was quite happy with myself for having forgotten about it. That seemed to be a good sign.

I would now like to mark the day a bit, but am not sure how. As she wished to be cremated and have her ashes scattered at sea, I have no grave to visit, and being an earth sign, I like the solidity of having a space to sit, to feel connected to, to talk. I like the idea of a body returning to the earth. In the car the other day, my daughter repeated about how the earth is our mother (her Montessori's music teacher is a free spirited French woman with many many percussive instrument, and flowing coats and died streaks in her hair, and is evidently a Doors fan: 'when we litter, we are hurting out Mother' - ! Cool!). She then deduced, 'and if the Earth is our mother, than you still have a mother, your mother hasn't died.'

My fabulous child. I wrote an essay on Jane Eyre in college basically saying the same thing.

Anyway, my mother loved the water, she felt at one with it when swimming. Once in California she was standing on the rocks at the water's edge, and was swept out by a sudden huge wave which deposited her back again covered in bleeding scratches from the jagged stone. But she felt at home in it, dolphin like. So I can see why it felt right to her to have her ashes scattered. But I don't want to go to the beach to think about her death, I want to go to the beach for my own sake, for my own thoughts. Not to associate it with that. So I'm left a little deficient in the memorial department, perhaps.

So today I have been busy busy, looking after my children, trying to keep things tidier, baking a whole bake stall, the details of which I don't think I'll have time to post here - I have to getup about 5.45 to get to the car boot in Dunlaoighre tomorrow, and get a spot, so everything has to be got ready tonight, including the kids' stuff so their Dad can drop them to their granny on the way to work: he went out for the proverbial couple of pints last night, he and his friend both had to get to work early today (6am for him). He got in at 2am. And he's playing a gig tonight. And working tomorrow, he has to get up with the kids so I can head off early to get a pitch.

Phewf. So no real time for introspection - this is as close as it gets.

some lovely men

I have to confess to a moderately secret passion for The Rock. Thankfully The Rock is dead, and it's become far more respectable to crush on Dwayne Johnson (silly name notwithstanding). I can see that there is a definite trend for large, muscled men in this post - I think it breaks down to the wish to be able to sit one someones knee and feel petite. And, em, mastered, possibly.

But not in the case of the sweet Zach Braff. I love his intelligence and quickness and deep understanding of funny. And Garden State was wonderful. Scrubs is a masterpiece. He's such a cutey too - though I think middle aged Zach is going to look very different to young Zach: you can see him midway in his photo I think. He's going to get fatter of face and plummier of lip, and I don't mean this in any sort of racist way, but he's going to look more and more Jewish. Isn't he starting to look like David Duchovny? Another yumster.

I think this is the picture I wanted to find. I had a black and white poster of Jeff Bridges' character from this film on my wall when I was 17 or so. It's a good film, though depressing, but Jeff was gorgeous in it! In the poster he's bare to the waist, tattooed, long hair, all muscle. It's very posed. I couldn't find it online and thought I'd dig it out and photo it, but it seems I may have thrown it away in a moment of clutter clearing sacrifice. Shite. My giant Disintegration poster was in the tube with it. What was I thinking?? Anyway, a guy I periodically slept with (no good way to phrase that, really) stayed over in my place in town once, and the poster was over the bed (heh). Jay really resembled him, in terms of hair and face and general look, though not so much with the gorgeous bod, not to that extent. 'Who's that, Jo?' he asked, was he worried I'd cut his head out of a photo and stuck it on a poster? 'That's Jeff Bridges, Jay.' I hope he believed me.


And we're back to giant Polynesian style heroes. Photos don't do this guy justice. He's Jason Momoa, but I like to think of him as Ronon Dex from Stargate Atlantis. Were I to meet him, how would I resist just grabbing him by the crotch? He's just porn. Actually I would just cower in shame - he's with the still beautiful Lisa Bonet - clearly her type, eh? (Cough! Lenny Kravitz!) The first video is Jason Momoa, but the second is my real love, his character, Ronon Dex.
Man. Candy.

I'd like to say I had some higher purpose with this post, but no, my motivation is base. Enjoy, ladies.

it's raining, it's pouring

My old man is actually snoring right now as well (well, he was when I started writing, no any more).

It's hammering down. At the end of June. Are we going to have fifty days of rain again?

So rapidly increasing climate change means we're going to have much more storms through the year, though I was told arid summers, that's not happening yet. We need to get planning for more flooding and storm damage.

A friend was just on holiday in Sardinia and the campsite got flooded out in three feet of water - luckily their mobile home was on a rise, and after the sun came out again, they walked past all the people waist deep in water on their way to the beach, feeling a little guilty but not quite stopping to help bail!

I've always said I'd take the wet and unpredictable weather here over giant spiders and poisonous things, or tornadoes, earthquakes and volcanoes and so on. I wonder though, it seems like things are going to keep getting more extreme.

And knowing Ireland, we won't prepare for it. Willie O Dea has yet to send a really comprehensive booklet, imo.

I feel sad though - my husband's been working flat out since forever, and he doesn't usually have weekends off - he's been in a windowless warehouse through all the sunshine, we haven't really had a sunny family day out together. Now the longest day is passed, and the rain and gloom makes it feel like it's not really summer. And whatever it is, it'll be gone before we know it!

don't feed the demons

I'd like to rob this whole post and the photo, but i'd better not, I'll just link to it :)

I read this a while ago, and as someone with a tendency for being anxious and focusing on the negative, and picking away at all the things that make me sad, I think this is very important.

I think Don't Feed The Demons might be going on a badge...

twenty's book

I finally bought Twenty's book, having accepted at last that no-one was going to buy it for me. I even turned down a loan of it, as I nobly felt I at least owed him that much for all time I spend round his blog.

Not that he needs the link :)

My daughter was intrigued and amused by the cover.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but my foremost impression of the book is how funny it is. It's a really enjoyable, laugh out loud read. His style encapsulates his favourite in-jokes, but they're accessible. He clearly uses certain phrases for the pleasure of how they trip off the tongue - I really loved the description of a woodlouse as 'one of those little armadillo insects you find in damp places'.

It's silly, confident, relaxed writing that pulls you a long with it, for the most part. And it makes the blog clearer, if anything, rather than vice verse.

I feel a little sorry for Damien Rice, I have to admit, it's a pretty sustained attack - I wonder if he's read it?

Memorable moments for me were Bono's appearance; a genius metamorphosis, a protracted description of making homemade cola that for some inexplicable reason had me wetting myself, and the concept of Scrotum Art, which I particularly liked.

My only sticking points were that I found some of the sudden gratuitous violence moments a little jarring, but then they like that, don't they, the lads - and that some episodes had the distinct flavour of good posts that had been shoe-horned (crow-barred?) in to fit. Though there's no real harm in that.

I'm looking forward to the next one - I'd read this over Ross O' Carrol Kelly any day. Well, ok, I actually haven't read any Ross O Carrol Kelly, so maybe that's not fair - but the columns make me not want to, so I haven't.

link

I can't quite explain why this is so lovely, but it made me cry. in a good way. I could possibly watch it all day.

travellers

I was at the David's Car Boot Sale on Sunday. The weather was awful, and there were very few other cars there.

A while after I go there, a car parked beside me. It contained three women, one the grandmother, two daughters, and a grandson.

From their accents, it was very obvious that they were Travellers. Nothing else though. The little boy was perhaps three, and while he sounded like a mini-
Traveller, and was clearly going to grow into a Traveller man, he was impeccably behaved, despite drinking coke - far better behaved than my middle class five year old! He sat still, he didn't whinge or complain, he talked politely to me, and if he so much as looked like he was going to do otherise, the women kept him calmly and firmly in check.

The first one to talk to me was the younger daughter - I wasn't sure what age she was, and I asked her if the little boy was hers - her answer? 'No, no, I'm only seventeen!' More power to her! Her mother and sister (presumably) had a couple of my cookies, but she resisted as she was on a diet, and had been 15 stone, and was now 12 and feeling great. Though her assertion that she'd gone from a size 16 to 10 was perhaps a little optimistic, but still and all. She had that beautiful traveller hair, thick and curly and auburn, red and gold. I talked to her mum about cholesterol and dieting and lecithin.

They'd come up from Wexford, and it hadn't been worth it to them for the day that was in it, but they were interested in Dunlaoighre next week - the older daughter gave me her mobile number and asked me to ring her with info on it - I said I'd text, and she asked me to leave a message and said something about the texts being hard to see, and I could have kicked myself for not thinking about illiteracy.
I just rang her, and she was so pleasant on the phone.

They were so nice, and so mannered and friendly and normal. And it seems to me you don't hear those stories - I do also have the ones about them coming to the husband's off licence and making trouble, and the ladies shouting about discrimination after just having a piss in the car park... but those were without question a different family. Travellers have never done anything to me, personally, I think calling them knackers just reflects badly on those who enjoy using the term. I know it's not all like this, I've no rose tinted spectacles, but I bet that there are loads more of the kind of family I met yesterday.

cool

If you search ellaa3 on Youtube, you get Ellaa's page, which is all live videos of The Juice live in Scott's.

I think it is Ella's mission to bring The Juice to Sweden, and also to practice using her new camera... still - this is really cool! Thanks Ellaa! No1 Juicefan!

greeting crimes

I had a conversation with morgor last night about the evils of the clammy handshake. You know the one. There are varying degrees, from just a very light handed shake to the full on, limp laying of the cool clammy fingers against some one's palm, the gentle stroke as you remove them - ugghghghghghgh, leaving the normal shaker desperately wanting to shout 'GAH!' and wipe their hands on their jeans and run away. Morgor says his friend has perfected this - a heinous talent.

I really don't understand why people who do this handshake do it? Are you one of them reading now? Can you comment and elucidate? Are you aware of the horribleness of it or are you oblivious? Do you do it on purpose because you hate shaking hands? I'm trying to remember if clammy hand shakers ever initiate a handshake. I suspect not. Their behaviour certainly communicates a repulsion and repugnance at the thought of clasping another person's palm, coming into contact with other living flesh. My god, I've just had a horrible thought - I wonder about the quality of their hand jobs??

At my first ever parent teacher meeting, a presumably nervous father shook my hand - but this time, the opposite happened. He squeezed by little hand in a mighty grip til I could hear the bones squeaking. It was so sore! And then of course I had to shake another eighty or so hands throughout the afternoon, wincing inwardly each time they gripped my tenderized hand.

Another friend told of meeting a Dublin politician, Ive forgotten who, who took her hand and held on to it, even transferring it to the other hand to shake hands with someone else! What politician school did he go to?

In a genius King of the Hill episode, Hank meets GW, his idol, but at the last minute he is enveloped in silent, mortified horror at the discovery that Bush has an awful, limp handshake. This discourages him from voting for him, despite his staunch Republican stance.
Hank: See that guy's reaction when Bush shakes his hand? Surprise, then disappointment. Surprise, then disappointment.

So if you're concerned about the state of your handshake, or want to teach your children, the general guidelines are a firm but not too firm grip, one pump up and down! Simple as that.

look what I made!

I started two knitted dog toys last October, on holiday. A combination of baby-business and much ravelling and re knitting meant that the project was NOT finished by Christmas, despite late night Christmas Eve desperate yet fool hardy attempts. One was for my son, the other for my nephew. Well, my son's still isn't finished, but I did manage to complete my nephew's, by the skin of my teeth, the seat of my pants, in the car outside his house at his first birthday party!

And here it is, the Handsome Hound. It's a bit holey, but it does actually look like the picture in the book! I meant to post this before, but forgot, and was reminded today when my cousin said she'd taken up knitting, following in my aunt's footsteps. Procrastination aside, I'm so proud of myself!

writing excercise #1

Yeesh, they're all so cheesy. Best of a bad bunch. See if you can do it. Start with a name and see what follows. 200 words, maybe?

Her name is Mary. Why wouldn’t it be Mary, so was her mother’s and several aunts’ and her grandmother’s. It’s a good name, an honest name. Our Lady’s name. Full of grace. Though she was never so graceful, with that clumsy fringe cut into her hair, such thick hair. Dark, but not quite dark enough to be definite. Always a bit non-descript. She never liked to word mousy, no, but she got called it enough. Mousy Mary. The nuns liked that well enough. Meek. Modest. At least they left her alone, except for that time. She remembers that sometimes. And she tries not to think about it then, what good does it do.

Sometimes she puts on the radio, and if a piece of music comes on and she’s in the mood, she might take the notion to have a little dance, all by herself in the kitchen. Oh, it’s silly, like some yolk out of Dancing at Lughnasa, some mad old wan alone in the kitchen, dancing. It’s enough to make you laugh. Or cry. She misses the dances sometimes. Even though they were embarrassing, all that wishing, then being left standing there. But there were friends to dance with, people to watch. At least there was the hope of someone walking towards you. The excitement of getting ready, of your lipstick in your little bag, one to match your skirt.

Or going to the cinema, walking back up the hill full of the tremors, ready to scream at each shadow after screaming the hour away, screaming and laughing with the girls, at all the horrors. Lizzy Kennedy remembered all the lines. Oh, the fear was delicious. Fear with promise. What was she afraid of now? Of breaking her hip, of getting stuck in the lavatory with no one to find her. Of days just like this one, one after the other.

She looks at her hands, and wonders when her knuckles started looking like that, look at them, stick out like that? Hand cream, she should put it on more. Those aren’t her hands, look at them, shaking a little. She would have liked to have hands like Margaret’s, Margaret had Mammy’s hands, she thinks hers took after Daddy’s mam, Granny Kinane’s. Not so elegant. Her mother had beautiful hands, she remembers the smell of the cream she used. It brings her back into the room. Margaret was fierce proud of herself, showing off that ring.

But she did have the hands for it. And that fecker turned out to be nothing to be proud of in the end.

She should ring Margaret. Go see her. Maybe she’d like someone to talk to as well. She could get on a plane. Never too late.

kudos!

I don't know about you but I don't use blogreader, I kind of like the brief flare of hope that comes with checking a blog you read for a new post, though I chided myself today for checking back to Midge's site, as I know she's been swamped with pox ridden offspring (not only hers but two others as well!) and more vomitiness. How in the name of god would she have had time to draw breath, let alone blog.

Yet wonder of wonders, she did, videos and all.

Bloody hell! Here's to SuperMidge!

The end of the book?

Well. I don't know. I'm interested to see what others think.

Kindle is the new electronic book reader from Amazon. I just read about it on John Butler's Irish Times magazine column, can't find it as a blog post though.

I'm interested to see Toni Morrison endorsing it on the site, though she seems terribly bored by the whole thing - do you think they kidnapped and drugged her? She's very queenly, isn't she, aside from that?

Anyway, I don't know what to make of this. Of course books will never die, right? Though Butler is convincing in his analogy of what happened to vinyl. I'm strangely compelled by this gadget - I don't think I'd buy one, I haven't stretched to an Ipod yet, though after seeing it in action, I want one. I don't think I'd buy one but if someone gave me one I'd be happy. The whole instant download thing. And the fact that I live in a house that has no space for books. And it's cheaper, though not if you factor in the power, maybe.

The electronicness of it would put me off - I'm not sure how good it would be for you to hold a mobile phone as much as you'd be holding this, though I suppose you wouldn't have to have it all the time - still, I predict that we're going to start hearing more about effects of electromagnetic energy soon.

A lot of writers love to smell their new author copies! That would be gone. And the beauty of the covers, that modern matte finish, the feel of the book in your hand. I dunno.

Butler mentioned the ease of auto e-publishing too, though, and that's a big draw - no publisher and agent cuts. Though I can't seeing it being that easy if Amazon have such a grip on sales.

I'd love to know what people think about it. Are you half tempted or is it the Devil's gadget? Could books be on the way out?

addendum to pelvic floor post

Oops, I forgot a funny story - when I was helping a Japanese student with her biology homework, she was doing the reproduction chapter and asked me about birth, I was telling her about the importance of pf exercises and illustrated by squeezing my fist open and closed. We clearly had some language breakdown because she said 'Wéll, I'm ok, I play a lot of tennis.'

linking to a laugh for today

I'm linking to Twenty's post today because it made me laugh so much I want to share. I don't have a link up to Twenty Major because it doesn't really fit in with my mother's milk and whinging themed blog, and I'd hate to disgust or terrify any unsuspecting reader, you never know what you'd get - could be funny, could be graphic descriptions of torture, mm.

But today is great.

ohhh, yes

just for the ladies

This is a word to the wise. Because I suspect people don't talk about this enough.
After I had my daughter, it took a loooong time before it was safe to sneeze again. Granted, she was 8lb 12oz, not the hugest first baby by any means, but not tiny either. but the pushing stage was long, and I wasn't over endowed in the stomach muscle stakes either.

But I did Pilates before, during and after my second pregnancy and had none of the old problem. Result!

Except, I gave it up before Easter, due to financial restraints. And all of as sudden, the old problem is back. It's not the only factor (weight and exercise, weight and exercise!) but it is significant, I think.

So I'd better get down on the floor each evening and get working, or it's no more trampolining for me.

This is actually important for the gents too - I presume strengthening your pf muscles stops you from becoming leaky old men (unless that's purely down to prostate problems) and firms the tum, it also gives you greater control of your (pause for appropriate euphemism) joystick too. A sixpack is pleasing to the eye, God knows, but it doesn't actually do anything for you strength wise (I'm blowing the secret - my Pilates teacher said not to tell you).

My homoeopath also said that she had a woman in her 70z who had been scheduled for a pelvic floor operation, who did her pf muscle excercises constantly, like a thousand times a day, and was assessed before the op, and it was cancelled.

Sounds good to me.

And lest your not convinced, I will scare you with the photo that scared me of the perineal hernia: bugga bugga bugga bugga!!

In case you don't know your kegels, here are a few pelvic floor excercises - Pilates works on more than this, I think, using lots more of your body - but these are good - if you do them. Try every time you're at a traffic light, in a check out queue, or when the ads are on:

1. Squeeze release, fast. Ten groups of ten, aim for a fluttering motion.

2. Floors of the lift - tighten by stages, aim for about six, squeeze and hold each floor up, then back down, really releasing at the bottom - I didn't really get that til after I had the baby, then it was eeeeeasy!

3. Imagine you're chewing a cherry with your vaginal muscles, chew chew chew chew, then swallow. Then do the same with an apricot, as my homoeopath said, til you can feel the juice running :) Men, I have no idea what the appropriate visualisation is for you, but I suspect I've lost you at this stage anyway ;)

Tired, absent minded things that I have done recently

Left keys in door of house, car door wide open - husband came home late, slowly pushed door open and said 'Jo? Are you ok?' no doubt wondering if I'd been raped and murdered.

Left keyes on top of car outside daughter's school today (you may sense a theme here)

Spelled keys with an extra 'e' as in befamed chic-lit writer

There's more, but I can't remember

On the plus side, when I push my fingers against my closed eyes, I see incredible kaleidoscopic light patterns, which is nice.

oh I wish I'd look after me teeth

I'm just home from the dentist, as I popped out a filling when I was flossing this morning.

I have an appointment to have the broken tooth fixed, the decayed one beside it filled, (actually about three fillings in all, I think) on Friday. And today he decided to leave the one that lost the filling as I had some sort of swelling in my gum a couple of weeks ago that may or may not have been an infection, that may or may not reoccur. So instead, he filled two teeth on the top.

Boo!

Both my parents had pretty awful teeth, and mine are weak too. I had to have a crown for one that grew in rotten when I was four. Having said that, I had no fillings til I was 19, and I moved in with my husband who drinks coke every day, and because it was there in the fridge, I'd drink it when I was thirsty, even though I don't like it... one year later - two fillings.

And still he eats chocolate all day long, and drinks a litre of coke, yet my teeth are far worse than his. He's been a pernicious influence on me and has placed temptation in my way, with little regard for my spongy enamel....

You'd think I would take Mr.Dentist's advice and give up sugar. It's not that I don't agree with him, I do. It's just, well, you know yourself. God though, with this sinusy headcold, and three injections (he put two in, and started drilling, and while it didn't hurt exactly, I could feel it, and I am far far too much of a wimp to risk the drill suddenly shoving into a nerve, shudder. I'm not phobic, I don't really mind fillings, but ughggh, no feeling the nerve pain. No problem having babies unanaesthetised, but no drilling teeth!). So now the left side of my face is benumbed, my nose is blocked and I feel like the Elephant woman.

new skoool

Illness and business and stupid Blogger have caused me to post too little in recent weeks. I miss it. Random observations are getting backed up, and then dribbling away into the ether.

My daughter went for an introductory morning at her Project School this morning, to great success. The kids were brilliant, played away at their tables while the headmaster gave a talk, we met her new teacher, who seems lovely, and approachable. She had a play, then we went down to the hall for a drink and a biccie and I had a chat to some of the parents, introduced my daughter to another girl who looked like a likely friend, same age, same height, and within seconds they were racing up and down and playing, we got invited to her birthday and made plans for summer playdates. Excellent!

Her mother said she feels shy herself, finds things like today a little daunting. My take on this is that you just have to brazen it out - those of you who know me will know I have no problem talking to people - and talking and talking - I was painfully, horribly shy as a kid, I would just go red and stand in a corner, I HATED parties and would be in the kitchen asking the mum if I could help, anything to avoid the torturous, seething agony of Pass the Parcel. So when I hit my teens and was meeting big groups of people I decided to just go for it, and made up an outgoing, jolly persona to get me over the shyness. It's been irritating at times, but I still think it's better than being beet red in a corner (though I am still afflicted with self conscious blushing, just less so, thank god).

Anyway, I had to drag my daughter out of there, she wanted to stay, she wants to go now. My own negative feelings about primary school are washed away in a tide of Love after this morning, I can't wait for her to get started. The class will be 29 strong, better than I expected, but good old Mary let us down at not bringing it down further. It should be more like 12, but at least it's not 35. I hope that much of what's wrong with primary school in this country is in the process of changing, and that the Project school will really embody the child centred approach they project. For the class of 29, they had to turn down 140 - there are (soon to be)56 Project Schools in the country compared to 3,000 denominational schools. It seems our govt is very slow to respond to public demand, doesn't it?

AAAAGGGGHHHH

I swear to god. I just wrote it again, and I was just fixing a typo in the title and it changed the page and it's gone. Again. Even though I'd hit the Save Now button a few times. Gremlins. I'd kick Blogger's arse for this if I had the energy.

Right, that's it, I'm not meant to write this one, I'm not well, nose, sinuses, headache, feel fevery though apparently not (pupils teeny!). I need to be better for tomorrow, so I'm off!

OH MY GOD the irony. I just wrote a really long post about crying, the first proper post I've written in ages, it took half an hour, and I've just lost it.

FUCK

flight of the conchords

I heard this today on Tony Fenton - even so, it's really funny!

Píosa Cake

I'm finished correcting now for the summer, thank god, it's nearly finished me.

So I'm resurrecting Píosa Cake, my bake stall, and will be at St David's car boot sale in Greystones every second sunday, all going well. I'm not quite sure where else yet, but it's time I got the ball rolling!

Details of what, where and when will be available here. I'm planning to put up photos, what I'll be selling, baking experiences, ideas, recipes, whatever occurs.

My basic favourites are various chocolate chip cookies, brownies, biscuit cake, cupcakes and baked cheesecake. I'd also like to do cakes for parties. There is a whole world of cupcake wonder out there I want to be part of!

Blogger discount promised!

Ben and Jerry's

I first got introduced to the magic stuff in the States, long ago, when I went to visit there as a teenager. Before Haagen Dazs had even got here and we still just had pink and white flavoured icecream.

Just a little note to let anyone who's interested know that they're doing taster sessions of their new Baked Alaska flavour around the place - free icecream!
I have to admit I've sampled it already and it's nice, nice marshmallow. I could do without the white chocolate bears though, too hard, I don't like the frozen texture.

snug

I know it's only been grey and rainy for a few hours, but it feels like winter. It doesn't help that I've a bit of a sleep deficit situation and I had too much carbohydrate for lunch and nearly fell asleep driving home. The combination of rain and tiredness makes me yearn to be in a little snug cottage in the countryside somewhere, snuggled by a wee fire under a blanket, having bowls of soup and hot toddies. There might even be a country pub nearby, where I could have more hot whiskies, or even a pint, next to another little fire, with gentle conversation.

Then back home and into a feather bed, old, smooth cotton pillowcases and sheets. A nice hot water bottle.

And then, after nine hours of unbroken sleep, I'd go out for a walk in the sparkling dewy morning, see a bunny, pick mushrooms, and fry them with an eggy breakfast of some sort,toast, tea...

Sigh.

low pain threshold?

Dear me. My poor little girl fell on the nasty, sparse, spiky gravel at the start of our drive - a real hands and knees smash, she'd been skipping home from her friend's next door with some pringles. I heard the screaming from outside.

Holy Shit. I don't know where it comes from, this huge, long drawn out NRNRNRNRNRNRNNRNRNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANGNANGNANGNANG, followed by wailing, like a foghorn or a powerdrill, or all of them being used to kill pigs.

She saw her bloody knees and FREAKED, taking it to an even greater level of loudness, and I found myself unable to function, scrabbling in my handbag for the arnica, pausing at the first aid/remedy cupboard, paralysed, unable to think, my brain just scrambled by the awful, insane loudness of the noise.

Did I do that??

Fucking Hell!

If I was independently wealthy, I would not be sitting here, correcting papers and stressing about my deadline.

I would have got up this morning, and taken my kids to the beach before it got busy. Then I would have gone to the shop and bought ingredients, and come home and baked carrot cake cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, for the barbeque I'll be attending briefly tonight.

If it wasn't for all this work, I'd be attending it less briefly, and would be able to relax more. As it is, I feel like I should bring the papers with me, but I've tried that before, it doesn't work - I can't refrain from joining in conversation (I really can't - I have to stop myself chiming in to strangers' conversations, in Tesco, on the bus... ).

As for the poor husband, his crappy job is getting crappier - there's a bank holiday sale, a 'marquee' sale, this weekend, which means he has to wear a yellow tshirt, and sell goods at cost price, so he gets no commission. Every one's away, so there aren't any customers - but the shop has still spent thousands on balloons, and marquees they put up inside (wtf?) and decorations no one's looking at. Frustrating. It feels like we've never had a weekend all together in the sun - usually it's sunny on the day he was working, then grey and pissy the day after for his day off. I'd love to just do family, sunshiney, weekendy things.

Meh! I'd better start doing the Lotto again, not hat that's worked out for me so far, I can't understand why I haven't won yet.

So off I go back to work - I'm going to compromise, guilt is propelling me to Argos later to buy a paddling pool, and I'll spend more than I should in M&S (can anyone resist?). The forecast says rain is coming at some point, I hope the weather holds out for a couple more days...