Happy New Year. And last year.

2019? Already? Gosh.

I could attempt to sum up everything that's been going on in life since the last post on here but frankly who has the time for that?

Highlights:

Another trip to Japan, this time with Middle Sis as well as Mr WithaY, which was fabulous. We're definitely going back, but not till after the 2020 Olympics.

A trip to Italy - Bologna - my first visit to the country and hopefully not my last.  The FOOD!  The WEATHER!  The Food!  Oh my dears. 

Arrival of a new family member - a great-niece who has been partly named after my lovely Mum (her great-grandma) and departure of others - splits rather than bereavements, thankfully.

Left a job which was making me utterly miserable, and found a new one just over a year ago which suits me far better.  I'm now working for an online bookseller, a bit like Amazon but much smaller and far less evil, doing customer service, a bit of marketing, and a bit of book selection. I get to look at forthcoming titles, read proofs, make suggestions and try to support authors and books which I think are worth supporting.  I love it.

I've also been able to reduce my hours so that I work a 4-day week now, which gives me one non-working day a week (as well as weekends) to get on with all the other stuff I like to do.

Mr WithaY and I have been having more work done on the house and garden. We are now the proud owners of a decent patio and driveway.  With flat level paving all round the house. And a new shed. 

There's also a pond in the offing; we have all the component parts and Mr WithaY has all the plans drawn up. It just needs a few days when he's around to get it all dug out/concreted in/assembled.  I'm a bit vague on the details. What I DO know is that there will be water lilies and irises, and a few little fish to make sure we're not inundated with mosquitos.

It took about 3 months to get all the work completed so we missed much of the glorious weather last summer, but I think we used the outside space more in the remaining couple of weeks of summer than we did the whole of the previous year. I am very much looking forward to this summer so we can get out there and enjoy the outside space.

We've both had some health stuff going on, nothing too life-threatening, but I have to have surgery at some point this year which will be tiresome. I had all the pre-op stuff done back in September and was cheerfully getting on with life under the assumption that I'd get a call for my operation in the next month or so at the latest.  No. 

I rang the relevant clinic today to find out if they had any idea when I'd have to show up.  There's an EIGHT month waiting list, so I am likely to be summoned to hospital in May or June.  Which would be ok if we hadn't just booked (and paid for) our summer holiday, which happens in May.

I have let the hospital know this.

How much do we bet that even though they have my unavailability dates, I will receive a letter from them asking me to come and have bits lopped out right in the middle of that period?

I shall be in Uzbekistan.

So. In the main, it's all ok. 

In which I share sad news

Well, this is a post I really hoped I wouldn't have to write for many years.  My beloved, lovely, Mum died last month.  It was very sudden, and unexpected and a huge shock to us all.  She was only 70, which is (as people keep telling me) no age at all, but her health had become very poor in recent years. As you may remember, we all caught the flu when she was here at Christmas, and I don't think she recovered from that fully.

I'd been down to spend the day in Sussex with her, and we had a pleasant relaxing time together, I ferried her to a few medical appointments, we had tea, watched all the various afternoon TV shows she liked, then treated ourselves to an Indian takeaway for supper, before I headed home again in the late evening.

That night she became ill, called an ambulance and was admitted to the superb St Richard's hospital where they tried to find out what the problem was. I was worried she might have had a heart attack, but after a day or two of tests they said she had "an infection" later specified as cellulitis.  Mum had cellulitis several times, a complication of a longstanding diabetic ulcer on her foot, and despite it being a nasty thing, I was relieved as she'd been treated for it successfully before.

To cut a long and sad story short, despite getting the best possible care, she passed away a few days later, with her family around her.  It was peaceful, dignified, gentle, and she was in no distress, which is about as much as any of us can hope for I think.

We held the funeral on a gloriously sunny day in August, and many friends, family and members of her church attended to pay their respects. I will miss her more than I can say.

I take comfort from the thought that she is reunited with my Dad, who died so many years ago, and who she loved all her life.

Grief is a strange thing.  I have hours, and now even half-days, where I feel fine, almost as if I have forgotten what has happened, and then a wave crashes over me and I am inconsolable.  I know it will get easier, but my God, it's hard at the moment.

I was supposed to be down in Sussex this week to help my sisters sort out some of the paperwork, but as if by magic, I went down with a chest infection at the weekend, and have spent the last 48 hours in bed, coughing wretchedly.

I don't think it's a coincidence that I have avoided the Black Lung since I stopped working in London, and now it reappears.  Thankfully, it seems to be receding again within a week, unlike the 3-month visitations of yore, but it scared me badly.

Two positive things:

1)  Our holiday in Japan, which was booked a while ago, is now a shining beacon of "something to look forward to" even more than it already was.

2)  I joined a local spa/gym at a country hotel nearby a few days after I went down to visit my Mum and going swimming there has been very helpful.  I recently sold my Rickenbacker 12-string, so had some "extra" money in the bank, and used it to pay for a year's membership and I am so glad I did, as it means I have somewhere to go that has no associations with anything else in my life. It helps.

Recuperation

I'm bored.  Bored bored bored bored bored.  This is a clear sign that I am on the road to recovery, but it's frustrating to think I am only about halfway through the first stage of "take it easy" recuperation.

I'm having my stitches out this afternoon, which I am both pleased about and horrified by. Part of me wants to see the "wounds" as they are delightfully termed by medical people, part of me wants them to remain forever concealed under waterproof dressings.

Brrrr.

I'm still freakishly tired most of the time, and have been doing that thing that very small children and puppies do where they just fall asleep in the middle of whatever is going on at that moment.  Fortunately, most of what I am doing involves sitting on the sofa half-heartedly watching TV, reading a book or dicking about on my phone. It would be rather more alarming if I were, say, a brain surgeon or an offshore undersea welder.

It's great that I am feeling more like doing things, but it is frustrating because I think "Oh, I'll just do some ironing," or "I'll clean the bathroom windows," and then I think again and realise that no, no, I won't.  Not for a couple more weeks.

Mr WithaY is being hugely helpful, and our lovely neighbours are popping in with books, sweeties and chat, all of which are much appreciated.  On Saturday Youngest Sis and her husband came up to visit, bringing our slightly belated Christmas presents, which was lovely.  We sat and chatted, ate lunch, chatted some more, opened our presents and drank tea, while the dog went BANANAS with her Christmas gift:





She gnawed it till the squeak stopped working, and then contented herself with rolling around on her back, holding it between her paws and playing with it.

Hopefully later this week I will be able to go out for a walk with her and Mr WithaY, at least partway round the village.  I can't tell if my legs are wobbly because I am still so tired, or because I have hardly used them for 10 days.

I'm missing being able to cook anything much.  I might order a box of marmalade oranges and pop them in the freezer to make some more Seville marmalade when I can heave pans about again.  I'm also planning to make fruit jellies; I always loved them as a child and recently found some interesting recipes to try.  I think I ought to wait a few more weeks before I start experimenting with boiling sugar though.  Safety first.

Endings.

I was going to begin this with "Hey! I'm not dead! Hurrah!" but on reflection that seemed a bit crass, given the events of recent weeks.

We have suffered a bereavement here.

Mr WithaY's father died suddenly at the start of October, and despite the fact that he has been ill for a long time, it was a shock.  At the latter end of the summer he was diagnosed with an unusual form of chronic leukaemia, on top of the multiple severe health issues he already suffered with.  Mr WithaY went with him to the hospital in Bath and the various treatment options were discussed, but to be perfectly blunt, they picked the only practical one, which was to treat the illness without hoping to cure it.

Mr WithaY said that the oncologist was lovely, kind and helpful and considerate, and very anxious to make sure that all of the possible treatments were explained and understood.  The cure option involved some sort of radical gene therapy, but would have required frequent trips to the hospital, and massive bone marrow injections, which would have been cruelly invasive and uncomfortable for a frail, immobile old man.

Anyway, that crisis passed, and life continued as normal for all of us, with Mr WithaY and I popping in to see father in law at the nursing home as often as possible.  We bought him a new TV, as the one he had in his room was "too small, bloody hopeless, I can't hear the bloody thing," etcetera, which he liked.  I baked him caramel cookies, and he enjoyed those now and again, despite his diabetes.  He complained about the "bastard birds" avoiding his window-mounted feeder.

The glorious weather over the summer meant that the view from his room was truly beautiful, the hills and woods, trees, animals, birds and the old house in the foreground.  Father in law enjoyed sitting and looking out of his (thankfully floor to ceiling) window at people coming and going in the car park, it afforded him pleasure to see movement in the outside world after having spent so long in his previous care home without the ability to look outside except at the sky.

A worrying new development began, though.  He became rather confused, telling us things which made no sense.  In hindsight I think he was suffering a series of mini-strokes. At this time he became considerably more frail too, unwilling to leave his bed to sit and look out of the window.  He even stopped watching television, seeming to be content to doze, only really waking up to chat to the staff and any visitors as they came and went.

One Saturday afternoon - Mr WithaY was away working at a country show - I had a call from the senior nurse at the care home, telling me that father in law was poorly, and they had called an ambulance to take him to hospital for tests.  This was a concern, but he had suffered so many trips to hospital over the years that I wasn't particularly alarmed.  I left a message on Mr WithaY's mobile to tell him his father had been taken to hospital, and that I'd let him know how he got on.  We've left each other a lot of messages like that over the years, so neither of us panics early.

When the hospital rang me a couple of hours later to ask "Who is his next of kin?" I did begin to worry.  I answered the hospital's questions as best I could, and then I left another message for Mr WithaY, asking him to call me ASAP.

An hour passed, the hospital called again, this time to tell me that "It might be best for the family to come in."   By now it was past 10pm, things sounded very serious.  I called Mr WithaY's brother and let him know, but as he lives at least 4 hours away, I said there was little point in him coming down that night.  Thankfully, Mr WithaY had managed to pick up my messages, and he rang to find out what the situation was. As soon as I told him what was happening, he said he was coming home.

So, by 1am we were both at the hospital, and were able to be with father in law.  It was peaceful, tranquil, dignified.  The nurses at Bath hospital were wonderful. They gave us privacy but checked in on him every half hour or so, brought Mr WithaY and I tea and biscuits, and offered sympathy and practical advice at the end.  We left the hospital at about 4.30am, walking out into a gloriously clear starry night. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

In the days which followed we learned about the administrative burden which a death confers on the nearest and dearest, on top of the sadness.  Mr WithaY's brother came down for a day or two and helped out, which was appreciated, and we set about organising a funeral, notifying those friends and former neighbours we had contact details for, and clearing out his remaining possessions from the nursing home.

The funeral was on Tuesday this week. It was simple, respectful and gentle, and, I hope, such that father in law would have wanted.  We buried him in a pretty little Dorset churchyard, where his mother was buried.  It's close enough that we can visit if we want to, but I don't imagine we will.  Visiting graves has never been something Mr WithaY or I have ever done, but I am glad it's in a lovely spot.

One thing which is comforting is that he saw almost all of his family in the weeks before his death,  and a few of his old friends had been to see him too.

Apparently he died of a stroke, simply going to sleep and not waking up.  We are very sad, but it is also a relief to know that he is not suffering under his many and irreversible medical problems, any more.

So.  A solemn start to this posting, but as it's been in my head for weeks, it seems right to share it here.

In  other news: I have to go and have some routine but possibly major surgery next year. I've been having a few problems, went to the doctor, was referred to have a scan, and as a result will be having an op (hopefully) in January next year. Nothing terrible, but I'm not looking forward to it much.

Gosh, what a medical post.  I promise to try and be back to my normal self soon.

Newsworthy

It is what is traditionally known as The Silly Season here in the UK.  This means that, partly because Parliament is in recess, partly because most of the serious journos are on holiday, the newspapers are scrabbling around for things to fill their pages.

Today's winner is this.  Apart from the fantastic headline - Paul-Daniels injured in Sooty pizza throwing accident - there are all the mental images it conjures up.  Exactly what was on that pizza that was heavy enough to give him a black eye?  Tinned anchovies?  A whole coconut?  Gravel?

Last week we had this.  It's got all the elements you need for a good story.  Again, a superb headline - Harry Potter dwarf spared jail over jugglers hat sex act - which immediately grabs the attention.  Consider the composite elements of the headline, too:

Sex?  Check.  A dwarf?  Check.  A juggler's hat?  Check.  Harry Potter reference?  Check.   How could you not want to know more?

And, it all happened on a train.  You can just see the made-for-TV-movie, can't you?

Other news:  It's hot.  Damn hot.  Every day that I am able to sit in my garden, in the shade, reading a book, I am grateful for the fact that I am not stuffed into a stinking commuter train, heading for an office where the windows don't open, and if they did would just let in the traffic fumes from Victoria Street.

Yes, still enjoying the whole "not working" thing.

Developments with father in law WithaY are encouraging.  We had a long talk this week with the owner of the nursing home.  She was unaware of many of the issues we have been trying to resolve there over the last 2 years, and has taken personal charge of the situation.  Things will improve, I think. 

I've been scouring the house like a housewife in an Ealing Comedy over the last few days.  Minus the curlers and headscarf, although I think I could rock that look if I tried. 

I was sick and tired of the boxes everywhere, the endless detritus from someone else's house, so I moved a lot of it into the shed.  At least it's out of sight, if not finally dealt with.  I have piled up a heap of stuff in the hall to take to the charity shop in town, and have made executive decisions to throw away some things (a broken telephone, rolls of grubby wrapping paper, cracked crockery) which has made the place feel much better. 

That leaves us with a few boxes in the kitchen, now consolidated in one place, and the ongoing Stygian hellhole that is Mr WithaY's study.  Baby steps.  Baby steps.  We'll get the dumper truck and snowplough in there in time.  One day, maybe one day soon, we'll see the floor again. 

I'm still waiting for the builders to come back and repair the doorstep, which was the reason I called them in the first place.  They fixed the hole in the roof - did a good job too - but obviously then got sidetracked and left the doorstep.  I've phoned a couple of times, but they are "busy on another job" now, so I will have to wait.  Gah. 

Also, the keyword searches which have brought people here in the last few weeks include:

Big jugs porn   - shame on you, filth seekers
Had to pee  - shame on you, different filth seekers
He wore a monocle and looked at me - Hello monocle fans!
Recycling humour - Welcome, eco-conscious comedy seekers
Catholic who lives in the woods - If you're not following that with "firelighters" or "persecution" then hello
Basketry conservation - basket case, possibly


I like the thought that the readership of my blog consists of people looking for sleaze, people who are interested in conservation, and complete mentalists. 

Welcome, one and all.

Basket case

It's amazing what can cause stress, isn't it? For me, it used to be the whole getting up for work and travelling halfway across the country for work thing.  Not now.

Now it's all about bookcases.

Bookcases.

Thousands* of them.

In my house.

It's all part of the final push to get Father in Law WithaY's house sold - the contracts are exchanged this Friday - so we have been clearing the last things out.  Our friend with a van** came over last night and he and Mr WithaY went back and forth to Dorset a couple of times to bring everything back.  The last time we were down there, I thought we'd pretty much cleared everything out, but it seems I was wrong.  Oh, how very wrong.

It took two trips, one with a van AND a LandRover, the other with just the van, and now my house looks like Steptoe and Son live here.

In the style of Hello Magazine, allow me to show you around my gracious home.

As you enter the house, you are met by an original arrangement of furniture in the hallway.

Bookcases.  Here, let us walk around them and admire them more fully.

They certainly add to the overall cosy feel of the place, I think.

Step into the sitting room and admire our library.  In a trailblazing and somewhat daring move, we aren't using the bookcases to store the books.  No, we prefer to use boxes.  On the floor.

Why yes, that IS a book about King Tutankhamun on the top there.  Every home should have one.  In fact, I will sell you this one if you want it.  Hell, you can have it for free.

Back into the hall, squeeze past the bookcases and step into the kitchen.  I'd offer you a seat at the dining table, but as you see, we are currently hosting a modern art installation. It's called Too Much Bleach and Four Tea Services.  I'm not certain what the artist is trying to say with it.

Can you see what is lurking on the bottom left corner of the table?  It's a rather teasing shot there, but I won't keep you in suspense longer than I have to.

It's a Wurzels album!  On vinyl!  In Mono! 
And it has sleeve notes.  Forgive the terrible photograph, my hands were shaking.

I can't decide whether to bury it at dead of night under a rowan tree, put it on eBay or have it framed forever.

Turning away from the art installation, we see the eclectic mix of kitchenware across every work surface.

Handy.

And of course, big jugs are always nice to look at***.

Back into the hallway - another glimpse of those bookcases - and let's peek into Mr WithaY's study.  Mmmm.  The perfect relaxing little corner to sit and study, or listen to music****.

I have spent much of today hiding upstairs, ineffectually tidying up my own study, which I am turning into a sewing room.  So far all I have managed to do is shove my sewing table into the corner, with a nasty CRACK as one of the legs got stuck on the carpet (the table's, not mine) and slide my new computer desk into place. 

I keep telling myself it's all temporary.  This too will pass.  And all that stuff.

Until then, I will be in here, where there aren't dozens of bookcases, bizarre records and boxes of frankly mental belongings in every corner.  Well, there are, but at least they are all mine, and I know why they're there. 

*Not thousands.  But more than I am comfortable with.

**Hello Ed!

***Apologies, big boob porn seekers

****Or play Portal 2 or Call of Duty. 

Finding My Way - The Revenge

When the weather is nice, I am outside, and consequently spending less time at the computer, which means I tend to blog less.  Even less than normal, which, frankly, is not that frequently, is it?

Plus I have been away.  Properly, like a mini holiday.  Middle Sis and I went to Ragdale Hall for a couple of days R&R for her birthday treat.  It was marvellous.  We booked one of their special offer three-day, two-night breaks, with a few treatments included, and had a lovely time.  Neither of us had ever been to a spa before, and I think going to Ragdale has now spoiled us for anywhere else.

Yes, everything was marvellous, and if it wasn't on the other side of the country it would be even better.

The journey up there was uneventful and smooth, and I found the place with no trouble at all, arriving in the sunshine with a big smile on my face.  Mr WithaY had kindly offered to lend me his Satnav, but I declined on the grounds that I had the route all written down on a series of Post-it notes. 

What could possibly go wrong?

Well.  I'll tell you.

Remember the day I went to help at the lunch party?  Remember how lost I got, travelling less than 15 miles?  I bet you thought that was impressive.  You ain't seen nothing yet. 

Driving all the way back from Leicestershire offers so much more opportunity for monumental navigation errors*, and I took full advantage of that fact.

I left Ragdale on our last day after a fine lunch, and drove across to visit a mate who lives sort-of-locally.  I called Mr WithaY as I was leaving their place at about 7pm to let him know I should be home in, oh, about three and a half hours or so, all being well.

All was not well.

I bowled along happily enough for an hour or so, heading for the M6, from which I planned to join the M5, scoot down the left hand side of the country as far as Bristol, go through Bath, and then home.  Easy.

I got onto the M6, making good time, driving in a beautiful sunny late evening light which made everything look pretty.  There was very little traffic, so it was comparatively stress-free, and I was pootling along listening to the radio in a relaxed and cheerful manner. 

However, the weather changed, and by the time I got towards Birmingham it was pissing with rain.  As anyone who has ever driven on a British motorway will know, when it rains hard, visibility reduces to terrifyingly short distances.   I slowed down, cursing the huge lorries which were kicking up clouds of spray and making it impossible to see the road signs.

Yeah, you can see where this is going.  Unlike me.

I saw a sign that said the M5 junction was coming up, but not when.  There were also road signs for the M42, which I had no intention of driving along, so I stayed where I was, carefully pottering along the M6 in end of the world weather and almost zero visibility.  More road signs followed, alternating between the M5 and the M42, as well as signs for smaller local roads leading to places I'd never heard of. 

There's a major junction on the outskirts of Birmingham where the road splits into two, possibly three different directions. One of these continues along the M6, going South and - this is important - East.  The other goes to the M42, headed I know not where, and the last gets you onto the M5, heading South and West. 

I squinted at the signs when I could see them, waiting for the one that said "M5 this way", ignoring the ones that said "M42".  And I continued to ignore them as I went sailing past the junction, spotting far, far too late that the M42 sign also said "Oh yeah, and the M5...go down here if you ever want to see Bristol again, sucker."

I missed it.

Well fuck, I thought to myself.

Ah well, I thought to myself.  There will be another exit for the M5 in a couple of miles, it's a big motorway.

Bound to be another exit, I thought to myself.  Bound to be. 

All will be well, I thought to myself.

Readers, I was wrong.

I drove for miles.  And miles.  And MILES.  I passed junctions to places I had heard of, but had no clue where they were in relation to each other, or, more importantly, to where I was trying to be.  I wished, oh how I wished, that I had borrowed Mr WithaY's Satnav.  Or indeed had the brains to put a bloody map book in the car. 

I just kept on going, down the M6, thinking "at least I'm heading South," and trying to gauge where the fuck I was by the names on the roadsigns.  My knowledge of the Midlands is woeful, a fact I was increasingly aware of as I drove through them. 

After several thousand miles, the M6 turned into the M1.  At that point I thought "Oh fucking hell," and realised I was seriously, seriously lost.

The car was getting low on diesel, I was hungry and needed a pee, and so when I spotted a sign for Services I said a small prayer of thanks.  That turned into a wail of horror when I saw that it was Watford Gap services. 

Bear in mind, readers, that I was aiming for Bath.

Bath in Somerset.

Almost on the other side of the bloody country.

I stopped at the Services, filled up with fuel, used the facilities, got some supper - it was 9.30pm by now - and bought a map.  I looked at where I was, and where I ought to be and sighed deeply, showering the steering wheel with service station food crumbs..

Readers, I had to backtrack miles and miles and MILES across country, driving to Northampton, Oxford, Swindon and then finally home.  It took hours, and I crashed through** the front door at close to midnight. 

Other news:  We went camping at the weekend.  But, fortunately, we have mates who own a splendid motor home, who offered us the use of the other bed, so we were warm, comfy and very smug.  Marvellous.

It was a multi-period re-enactment event, what larks.  I shall post some photos as soon as I find my camera.  I didn't dress up, though, instead spending much of the weekend chatting to old mates, reading an excellent book in the shade and wandering around in the sun admiring all the various Uniforms Through The Ages. 









*The polite term for "fuck-ups"

**Not literally

Review of the Year

January:

The addition of fish to our Christmas-present-to-ourselves aquarium.  Glad to be able to report that we have only lost a very few over the intervening 12 months, and the ones who are still there look happy.  Well, as happy as fish ever do.  They've grown, and their colours are bright.  And I think one of them was smiling at me.

Snow.  Lots of snow.  Inability to get to work, which started off as fun and exciting, and rapidly became irritating and constraining.  No snow animals, though.  Fail.

Chest infection.  Yes, another bout of the Black Lung. 

Ongoing SSFH fuckwittery from the police, proving that basic administration CAN be impossibly hard if you really work at it. 

Sausage making. Oh yes.  Oh yes indeed.  Watch and be impressed, dear readers.  The hands belong to our friend the chef, the splendid camera work was down to me.  I didn't realise my camera recorded sound. Until I filmed that. 

February:

More fuckwittery from the police.  I suspect that I could say that every month, to be honest.

My blog was stalked by a mad optician for a bit, they added semi-literate comments to the same post over and over. Fool. 

Big, long, fantastic holiday to the US of A was booked, which cheered us both up after the horrible year we had just had.

Joined Slimming World, after deciding that I really couldn't pretend that I was fine as I was any more.  That was a surprisingly hard thing to do, it felt like an admission of defeat and failure somehow.  And now, 10 months on, two and a half stone lighter so far, I realise what a fucking idiot I was for not doing it years ago. 

March:

I had my hair cut at a posh hairdresser in Salisbury.  And it was great.  I will continue with that for the forseeable future I think.   Well, at least for as long as I have a job and can afford it. 

There was a lot of whining about trains.  Again, I expect that is true for every month. 

Minor domestic appliance chaos, and a huge crack in Mr WithaY's Landrover windscreen made it an expensive month. 

April: 

April was ALL ABOUT the visas.  Following the SSFH, we discovered that we now need visas to travel to the USA, so we had weeks of incredibly stressful and depressing paperwork and expense.  It all came right in the end, but I can honestly say that if we hadn't already booked the flights and hotel we would not have bothered. 

Mr WithaY went off to Wales for a fortnight to help run the outdoor activity stuff with work.  I don't remember any major domestic appliances breaking while he was away, for a change. 

There was also a degree of ranting about fuckwits on trains.

May:

May saw the continuation of the Black Lung, which had stuck around on and off for about 5 months.  Nice.

The weather improved and we did work on the garden. 

Poor brother in law was taken ill, which was very frightening, but thankfully he is making good progress now. 

Father in law was also taken very ill, rushed into hospital several times, all very upsetting.  Oh, and the nursing home staff dropped him on his head, which didn't help matters.  He is still with us, though, battling on and watching murder mysteries with glee. 

Holiday preparation continued, having the visas meant that we actually started looking forward to it.

June:

We went to AMERICA.  Hurrah!  I can't believe it was 6 months ago. 

We also had the house insulated - been much warmer this winter, so that was worth doing - and did lots to the garden. 

Oh, and I got chatted up by the man who works at the rubbish tip.  Bonus.

July:

AMERICA AMERICA AMERICA.  We were over there for a month, it was marvellous.  Best holiday ever.

I fell over in Nantucket like an idiot and fractured my ankle, not realising I had done so for about 3 weeks.  Gah.  Well, a bad sprain looks like a fracture, and vice versa, apparently.

The weather had been boiling hot the whole time we were away, we returned home and the rain started.  Ah well.

August:

I started my new job, still in London, still in the same department, but in a different team and with a different role.  Still enjoying that.  Good chance that I will be made redundant though, next year.  And to be honest, that would mean that I wouldn't have to spend 6 hours a day travelling, and would probably pay off most of the mortgage, so hey, not all bad.

Had the plumber in to do some minor work on the bathroom.  Ended up with huge holes smashed in the walls and a craving for whiskey.  Looks ok now.

September:

September is all about the Frome Cheese Show.  I am already looking forward to the next one.

We persuaded father in law WithaY to sell his house, and spent many weekends travelling to Dorset to clear his stuff out and take photos for the estate agents.  It's still on the market.  Anyone with £300K to spare, drop me a line.

October:

Had a mini holiday in St Ives with some mates, the weather was lovely, the sea was blue, we saw a seal, Mr WithaY fell over backwards into a stream. Oh, and there were cream teas.  Perfect.

Went to see our MP to try to resolve the ever-present SSFH aftermath. 

I lost my blogging mojo for a bit, but not to worry, it came back.  Like Lassie. 

November:

Rained.

Return of the Black Lung.   4 weeks off work, antibiotics, chest x-rays blah blah fucking blah.  Again.

Also, visit from two senior police officers to discuss the rather excellent letter which our MP wrote to the Chief Constable.  Had almost 2 hours with them, explained exactly how their actions had affected us, and how incredibly fortunate we are to have a close group of friends and neighbours who looked after us when the SSFH broke over our heads, and basically made sure we didn't do anything stupid at a time when we felt as though we might. 

Police apologised profusely and heartily. Police also said they would pay us a small token amount - NOT compensation, that would imply fault - but as a recognition of what we had suffered as a result of their "poor decision."  We agreed that we would let the matter rest.  We are waiting for a cheque. 

Feel as though a line has been drawn under that now, which is a huge relief.

December:

Snow snow snow.  Frost and fog as well.  Very seasonal.

Catastrophe in the kitchen with a shelf collapse, and about £500 of china and glass smashed all over the floor.  Waiting for a letter from the insurance company.  Gah.

New curtains though.


SSFH:

So, yeah.  We were arrested last summer.  The police turned up at our house at 0630 with a warrant and a battering ram (thankfully not used) and arrested us both on very serious, very nasty allegations.  We were held in the cells for 10 hours, photographed, fingerprinted, questioned under caution and finally released on bail.  Our home was searched, a lot of our property was confiscated for examination, and we both felt as though our world had come to an end. 

A week later we were told that the police would be taking no further action, and all our property was returned.  I was off work for over a month with post traumatic stress, we were both very badly affected, and without the love and support of our friends and neighbours, I really don't know that we would both still be here. 

We've spent a lot of time over the last 18 months trying to get an explanation as to how this could have happened, and why, and who was responsible for the original malicious and unfounded allegations.  We'll never know, as it turns out the police didn't know either.  But they decided to act anyway.  As they said to us last month: "It was not our finest hour."  No, it really fucking wasn't.

As a result of that, we now have to get a visa to travel to the USA.  We have managed to get our DNA, photographs and fingerprints deleted from the central police database, and we have had an apology from the Chief Constable. 

It should never have happened. 

And the saddest thing, to me at least, is that we no longer trust the police. 

But, at least we now have closure, to use a dreadful pseudo-psycholgical term.  And as a result, next year will be a good one.

Thank you to all our friends, neighbours and family who got us through what was undoubtedly the worst few months of our lives.  Onwards and upwards.

Hurrah.

Happy New Year, everyone.  Thank you for reading, commenting and hopefully enjoying spending virtual time with me.  Looking forward to the next chapter.

Mostly bullets

So. Yeah. Hello again. 

I'm not dead, nor have I been captured by pirates and sold into slavery, to be rescued in a breathless paragraph in Chapter 27 by Conan the Barbarian.  Dammit.

I've been doing a bit of travelling, of late.  Nothing too fancy.  Well, you know me.  I don't like to be a trouble.

Where have I been?  Well, I'll tell you.

1)  Sussex.  Went down to visit my lovely Mum for a day, which was very pleasant.  Also called in at Youngest Sis's house where I was roundly trounced on the Wii Formula 1 car racing game by several children.  The kitten, as is traditional, migrated immediately to Mr WithaY, where it fell into a deep and peaceful sleep on his lap.

2)  Cornwall.  We were invited by some mates to join them for a couple of days at their little holiday cottage thing in St Ives.  I'd never been to St Ives before, and I can recommend it.  Probably best not to go in the summer though.  I imagine it would be a complete fucking nightmare then.  But in early October it was lovely. 

We went to the beach one afternoon.  It was glorious.  The sun shone, the sky was blue, the sea was emerald green and had a seal in it, swimming about 6 feet from the beach.  Of course, nobody took a photo.  We were all too busy pointing and exclaiming how close it was to us. 

Our friends produced a kite from the boot of the car.  I sat on the sea wall to watch.  For some strange, possibly eldritch, reason I decided to "just watch" the others fly the kite up and down the beach.  I don't know...maybe it was a foreboding.  A little flash of foresight.  A teeny glimpse into the future.  Who knows.

Plus, my ankle was hurting after walking around up and down some steep hills, so I thought a rest would be nice.

Our friend went first, launching the kite with enthusiasm, and making it dart around the sky like a professional.  It had a long red tail*, so looked most impressive, looping and fluttering for many yards behind the kite itself.  After a while, Mr WithaY wanted to have a go.   

The wind seemed to have dropped a little, so it was much harder to get the kite off the ground.  Mr WithaY had to run a fair way down the beach to actually get any kind of lift on it. 

There were people on the beach.

If this was a disaster movie, we'd have little vignettes of the people on the beach about now. 

...The cheerful Asian family having a teatime picnic on a blanket. 

...The dad and young sons digging in the sand. 

...The elderly couple walking their small yappy dog along the waterline. 

...The young mother, quietly breastfeeding her baby as she sat and enjoyed the sparkling water and warm sun of the early evening. 

Ah. So peaceful. So relaxed.  I think there would have been a cheerful, optimistic soundtrack too, maybe something by the La's.

But then, all of a sudden, the music changes.  A menacing note is heard.  Mr WithaY is running backwards along the beach, desperately trying to keep the kite airborne.  The wind has dropped and the kite is dropping with it, swooping low and fast near the innocent bystanders.  People are starting to watch with alarm as the kite cuts through the air, narrowly missing the small yappy dog.

Personally, I would pay money to see a small yappy dog knocked sideways into the sea by a kite, but maybe that's just me.

The lady with the baby was now watching with alarm as Mr WithaY drew parallel with her, the kite darting up and down, closer and closer to her, and of course, to the baby.  I could see from my vantage point on the sea wall that things could turn ugly. 

However.  Nature took a hand.  Across the beach ran a small river.  It was in a shallow cleft in the sand, several feet wide and about 6 inches deep, the water running through it slowly.  Most scenic.

Mr WithaY, eyes fixed on the errant kite, desperate hands on the kite handles, continued running backwards.  Right up until he fell over backwards into the river. 

The beach erupted in laughter; apparently the man standing behind Mr WithaY almost fell over too, he was laughing so hard.  Mr WithaY extracted himself from the river with dignity and squelched back across the beach to sit by me on the sea wall.

The kite?  Well, that sank to the ground like a bird landing on a tree, the tail curving gracefully around it. 

3)  Gloucester.  We went up for a weekend to visit our lovely mates and their three mad spaniels.  It was marvellous. 

Work is a bit stressful, what with the massive cuts and all, but hey ho, what will be will be. 

My ankle is still a bit buggered, but is recovering slowly. 

I have lost 2 stone in weight so far, and am sticking with it.  Only 4 more to go.

That is all. 


*The kite.  As far as I know, our friend has no tail, red or otherwise.

Sock it to me

I was doing some domestic stuff earlier today, and was struck by the glory and proliferation of colour that is Mr WithaY's sock collection.

He used to wear tidy grey ones for work, designed to peek unobtrusively out twixt trouser and shoe.  Unless he was Doing Outdoor Things, which meant green socks, often huge jaggy long ones designed to prevent sneak attacks by weasels up your trouser-legs, or the type that you tie up at the knee with jaunty little knitted garters when you are out striding across the moor in your shooting breeches.

I'd just got used to it, I suppose. 

One day, when he was feeling particularly grumpy and fed up he came home from work with a bag from Dent's.  I asked what he'd been buying, as he tends to avoid going shopping, unless it's for Kit*.  Kit shopping can take all day, and he is as happy as a monkey in the chopped fruit section of the supermarket.

He emptied the bag out onto the table, and showed me.

Socks.

Not just any old socks, but jazzy socks.  Funky socks.  Hip hep-cat socks.  Socks with STYLE.  Socks with ATTITUDE.  Socks of many colours.

Apparently it was time to stop wearing dull socks, and from that day forth he was going to adorn his feet with the finest, brightest, least unobtrusive socks known to man.

He's doing pretty well so far.

And here's my entry for the Turner Prize:

It helps if you don't look directly at them.

By way of contrast, here is a snapshot into my sock drawer:

Please note the blue and (I think) pink socks, carefully arrowed.  Depressingly when you open my wardrobe, it is a riot of colour (except for the almost totally black "work clothes" end of the rail) but it seems my socks are undermining me.  Maybe I need to go shopping too.  At least my toenails are usually a nice bright colour:

 

Or a cute puppy is obviating the need for socks entirely:

Or I've got my mighty fine slippers on, so socks are unnecessary: 

Other news:  The chest infection seems to be on the wane, finally.  FINALLY.  It's been hanging around more or less permanently since early December, and I am utterly sick of it.  I'm still doing the horrible "cat with furball" noise every so often, but it is becoming less frequent, and the pain in my chest has pretty much gone. 

Other, other news: We are all anxious about Brother-in-Law, who has been taken ill unexpectedly, and is hopefully beginning to recover in hospital.  Love you all loads.

*Kit - all the bits and pieces that are absolutely essential for whatever activity is occupying him at that time.  Fishing equipment, boar-spear components, arcane and complicated diving accessories, Ray Mearswear, camping gadgets, all that stuff.

Medical notes. Again.

Old friends are always welcome, aren't they?  You open the door, plump up the cushions, make them a nice cup of tea.  Then you sit together, catching up on all the small changes since you last met, and maybe a few bigger ones, until it's time to either make more tea or open a bottle of wine.

We ought to cherish these long-standing links with our younger selves.  Make more time to spend with the acquaintances who helped to turn us into the people we are today. 

So, rather than railing and whining at the re-appearance of my old mate Black Lung, I am simply nodding casually at it, wrapping myself in many warm scarves and drinking a lot of water.  In between coughing till my eyes dry up and weeping uncontrollably.

Frankly, among the shite events of the last few days, a recurring chest infection feels somehow comforting and familiar. 

I was at home on Wednesday, working away in my little study upstairs, a loaf of bread baking in the bread machine.  I planned to pop over to the nursing home that evening to see Father-in-Law WithaY, what with Mr WithaY being away and all, and he does like nice home-made bread for his breakfast toast. 

Anyhoo, the phone rang and I let it click over to the answerphone as I was in the middle of some work stuff.  It was the matron of the nursing home, ringing to tell me that F-in-L WithaY had "had a bit of a fall" and wasn't feeling too great.  A bit of a fall?  He can only move one arm, very slightly.  How the flaming bojangles did he manage to "fall"? 

Her message went on to say that the "fall" had in fact been as a result of her lifting his legs up to put them on a footstool, as he sat in his wheelchair.  Fuck's sake.  I'm no engineer but I understand the concept of leverage.  Fulcrums.  Wheels.  Lift one end, the other will go down.  Look at a seesaw.   

I got in the car and went straight over there in a panic, to find F-in-L in bed, in a lot of pain, shocked and distressed.  Well, you would be if you'd been tipped over backwards onto your head, wouldn't you?  I spoke to the nursing sister on duty, who was helpful and reassuring, asking what the doctor had said.  Turned out that the doctor hadn't actually been out - they'd spoken on the phone.  I queried that, and hey presto, ten minutes later the doctor arrived.  The doctor was charming, careful and thorough, and said she would call an ambulance as F-in-Law needed to be x-rayed. 

So, poor old F-in-Law was taken to Accident and Emergency at Salisbury, apparently was seen several hours later, and was sent back to the nursing home at 1am.  No bones broken, thankfully.

However, each time I went to see him over the next few days he was still in a lot of pain.  This culminated at 2.30am on Saturday morning when the nursing home called us at home to tell us that he had been taken back to the hospital.  The nursing sister (a different one) apparently sounded a bit panicky when she rang us, despite F-in-Law having expressly asked her to leave it till the morning to call us.  After a phone call like that in the wee small hours, you don't get back to sleep, do you?  So we lay awake, wondering what the new emergency was, and Mr WithaY rang the hospital an hour or so later. 

Without going into too much intimate detail, it was nothing too terrible, but we didn't find this out for a day and a half, in which time he'd had a CT scan and been poked and prodded about by pretty much everyone in the hospital, it seems.

The Bank Holiday weekend has been a merry-go-round of rain, cold, trips to the nursing home, then the hospital, interspersed with me coughing alarmingly.

Tomorrow I am going to make an emergency appointment with the doctor, because I am buggered if I am going to have another 8-week bout of bronchitis.  I don't think I ever really shifted it properly from the last time.  I've been coughing on and off since February, although not as badly as I was over the Christmas holiday.  No blood-speckled lace hankies as yet.

I'd say it was a pain in the arse, but so far my arse is unharmed.

So far.

Upturn

I had a lovely, lovely day yesterday.  Which, frankly, I feel like I deserved after more than 6 weeks of a chest infection with added norovirus* which was making me feel like I was 100 years old and well past my sell-by date.  I still sound like I have a cold, apparently, and can't sing yet, which is a bugger, but otherwise I feel ok.  Hurrah.

So.  Birthday. 

Mr WithaY woke me early as he was off out for the morning, and presented me with some lovely gifts.  He got me a book of unpublished letters to the Telegraph, and a collection of Punch cartoons.  I used to buy Punch regularly when I was a student, and made a scrapbook of my favourite cartoons.  I wish I'd kept it.  I found a postcard of one of them recently, a group of men and one woman sat round a conference table, with the chairman saying "That's an excellent suggestion, Miss Triggs. Perhaps one of the men would like to make it."  I can remember going to meetings like that when I started working, hundreds of years ago in the 80s. 

He also got me some very posh toiletries which I look forward to trying out.  I shall smell all sophisticated and grown-up.  Marvellous.

I spent much of the morning baking, as we had arranged to have some mates round for dinner in the evening. 

I made:

A treacle tart with lemon pastry, which worked well.  I just sieved a tablespoon of icing sugar into the flour/fat mixture and used fresh lemon juice instead of ice water to mix it up.  I'd have taken a picture, but we ate it all last night.  And jolly good it was too. 

A quiche with all the leftover cheese lurking in the fridge.  Well, it's more of a cheese tart, really, although I sliced a fresh tomato on the top to try and assuage the vegetable gods. 

A cake.  Last weekend's cake was so nice that I thought I'd try to do it again.  Less celery, more sugar stars this time though.

It's slightly less tidy than the one I made last week, but as it's rather lovely home-made strawberry jam oozing out, I don't feel too bad about it. 

Mr WithaY came home mid-afternoon and prepared the main course of fillet of venison with duchesse potatoes and veg, which was jolly fine.  It was a very nice evening, and as the last dinner party we had ended for me at 9.30 when I went to bed feeling like death on a stick, it was particularly enjoyable.

I had three bouquets of flowers yesterday.  THREE.  I felt like a film star.

These are from my lovely Mum, and are on the sitting room table.  Those tulips are magnificent.

These are from Mr WithaY and are on the kitchen table.  The jonquils smell like Spring.

These are from some of our lovely mates and are on the little table next to the sofa in the sitting room.  The photo doesn't do the dark purple flowers justice.  I have no idea what they are.  Anemones maybe?

I love having flowers in the house.  I think I might have birthdays more often.  But without getting older, of course.

Other news:  While I was leaving father-in-law WithaY's nursing home the other evening, there was a truly splendid sunset going on.  I took some pictures on my phone, as I didn't have my camera with me.   I ought to keep it in my bag, really.

 

That dark shape to the lower right is the same urn I took a picture of the frosted cobweb on.  In case you're not keeping track. 

I completed my first "proper" week back at work for many weeks, and it was ok.  The journey feels like a marathon, but I am sure I'll soon get back into the swing of it, and of course the days are getting longer so there'll be more daylight as the weeks go on.  That helps.  Leaving the house at 6.30am is much more bearable when the sun is up and the birds are singing.  Birds that aren't bloody owls, I mean. 

The walks between Waterloo and the office were not as exhausting as I had been anticipating, and the exercise is certainly good for me.  Maybe all those supplements I'm taking are kicking in.  I certainly feel much more like myself than I have done for a long time.

Oh, we have had some fish fatalities.  One of the female gourami was floating upside-down and twitching last Sunday.  We left her there for a little while, and she stopped twitching, but the upside-down floating continued.  Flushed, I'm afraid.  

There was an outbreak of fish-eat-fish yesterday too, nasty little buggers.  Mr WithaY bought a few more shrimps, stripy blue and white ones this time, as the pink ones had all vanished.  As soon as the new shrimp were put in the tank, the pink ones emerged from wherever they had been lurking.  Bastards.

Anyhoo, I saw one of the new shrimp lying on one of the plant leaves, unmoving.  As I watched, he fell off and drifted down to the bottom of the tank, upside-down.  I'm no expert, but I was pretty sure he wasn't feeling well.  I made a mental note to tell Mr WithaY when he got home, and thought no more of it.  A couple of hours later, we went to check the situation.  The shrimp had vanished, and the cory were looking suspiciously innocent.

Later that same day, I spotted a couple of the tetra fighting over a lump of Something Pink.  It was a bit of one of the pink shrimp.  We looked, and sure enough, there was a little corpse at the back of the tank.  Mr WithaY fished it out and conducted an autopsy. 

We can confirm that the cause of death was not a gunshot  wound, other than that, no idea.   We had no luck gathering epithelials.  I understand from my extensive research** that they are useful in an investigation.

We're feeding them less, as the fish shop man advised, but I am a bit anxious that they'll just start eating each other.  Gah.

Oh, and we still haven't had our oil delivery.  Bloody useless Boilerjuice.  We'll not be using them again.  Over 2 weeks since we ordered it, and no sign.  Fuckers.  And we had snow again yesterday and this morning. 

*The doctor diagnosed me over the phone. Clearly he didn't want me and my filthy vomit-making germs anywhere near him.  A wise man. 

**watching CSI.  It looks pretty straighforward. 

Pitching

It's snowing!  Hurrah!  We may have a white Christmas.

Spent today down at my lovely Mum's house, which was very pleasant, despite everyone still coughing.  We sounded like a Fourteenth Century peasant re-enactment group* as we walked through town, hacking and spluttering.  Also popped in and visited Youngest Sis and family, including their two new dogs, both mental Jack Russells, but very appealing with it.  

We chickened out and left Sussex a bit earlier than planned, as the weather was closing in.  I am jolly glad we did.  By the time we got to Southampton the rain had turned to sleet, by the time we left the M27 (look on a  map, American readers) it was snowing hard, and getting foggy.  Nice combination.    We arrived home about 6-ish, it kept snowing heavily for about three hours, and has settled.  Or "pitched" as the locals might say.  Well, the locals I worked with in Bath, anyway. 

If it freezes overnight it will be a bit hairy driving around tomorrow, but other than a trip to the supermarket for provisions, we are pretty much set now.  If it is still nice and snowy tomorrow, I suspect more snow animals could be in the offing.

I have not put a tree up this year.  We** got all the decorations down from the attic, and then decided neither of us really felt much like doing a tree, so we have put up a few little bits, and the rest is still in the box.  I might relent and put the tree up but if not, it doesn't matter.  We are spending Christmas at home, just the two of us, for I think the first time in 8 years, and as a result we are doing as we please. Which means being a bit lazy, it seems.

I might make some sausage rolls tomorrow.  I might not.  Ha! 

I like being a grown-up.





*Well, what I imagine such a group would sound like.  Singing Gaudete and spitting a lot.

**Mr WithaY did.  I don't do ladders due to my mighty bulk, and fear of falling.

Mal de Dorset

This weekend I have done a lot of driving, most of it either in the dark, or in appalling low visibility due to heavy rain. It's been fun.

It took me over two hours yesterday morning to get to my lovely Mum's house. A combination of appalling rain, motorway spray and heavy traffic meant that I seldom managed to get much over 50mph, except for brief spurts on the motorway, in between the 40mph roadworks sections.

Ahhh travel in 21st Century Britain.

It was a shame that it was so dark and rainy, as otherwise it would have been a beautiful trip. What I did see of the trees in all their Autumn glory was lovely.

All that aside, once I got there, we had a relaxing comfortable day doing little more than chatting, doing the Saturday Telegraph crosswords, watching films* on TV, and eating a rather splendid Chinese takeaway.

It was excellent.

When I got home, Mr WithaY was collapsed full-length on the sofa, post-bath in his tracksuit bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, watching "Watchmen" on DVD. He was knackered, having got up early and spent the day tramping across the countryside, shooting. He brought some pheasants home, so I expect they will feature at a Dinner Party Near You** soon.

I watched the last 40 minutes or so of the film with him, and thoroughly enjoyed it, despite having seen it before, and missing the first two and a bit hours this time. If you haven't already seen it, you should. It's long (almost 3 hours) and there are some icky "look away" bits, but the story is great and I love the way it's filmed.

Today we went down to check on Father-in-Law WithaY's house (still standing, still full of all his stuff, still not for sale, gah) and then called in at Tesco in Shaftesbury on the way home. Unfortunately, I was overcome with what can only be described as sea-sickness on the way there, and spent much of the trip feeling myself getting paler, tremblier and cold-sweatier. As we drove through Shaftesbury I was having nighmarish visions of having to stick my head out of the window and vomit copiously all over the scenic streets and merry tourists.

I managed to not do that, but it was a close run thing.

Walking around the Tesco car park taking big breaths*** restored me to more or less normality, and we were able to get all the groceries AND another digital radio (£25! Bargain!) without any vomit being involved.

The radio I bought at Asda is now living in my study up here, as I can get Planet Rock on it. Hurrah. The one in the kitchen is currently tuned to BBC Asian music. Mr WithaY and I were dancing around to bhangra music as we put the shopping away.

Before I felt as though I was going to die, I took a couple of pictures out of the car window of a fabulous poppy field in full bloom.

You can't see just how big that field is.  It's HUGE.  Take my word for it.

*"A Passage to India", which I had read but never seen before, and then "What About Bob" which contains Richard Dreyfuss chewing up the scenery in a splendid manner.

**But only if you live round here. If not, get used to disappointment.

***Yeth, and I'm only thixthteen.

Animal House

This weekend has been lovely.

The weather has been fantastic, and as a result my mood has improved significantly. We had a houseful here. We had a belated birthday party for my lovely Mum, who was very poorly indeed when it was the actual Big Day; we decided to have a celebration now, when she was actually able to enjoy it.

It was fantastic. Both sisters were here with their respective families - we had eight children (yes, Eldest Nephew, I know you are 18, but in my head you're still a child) and six adults. Good job it was sunny, or it would have been an incredible squash in the house.

Mr WithaY had a prior work commitment* but was able to come home this morning in time to say hello to everyone before they headed home.

We had a barbecue, with Bro-in-Law manning the cooking station, assisted by various children. We had lots of lovely celebratory fizz, and a truly beautiful birthday cake that Middle Sis managed to smuggle down from London in one piece. We had lights in the trees and lanterns all over the garden so when it got dark it looked lovely. We had a tent in the back garden for several of the children to sleep in (thank goodness for the fine weather!) so there was much excitement about who was sleeping where and who was getting what bedding.

Youngest Sis managed to acquire a huge fat lip, which made her look like one of those minor celebrities who have disastrous collagen injections. We're not entirely sure what caused it, but an allergic reaction to the jalapeno burgers seems to be the likeliest candidate. And she brought those, so I don't need to feel guilty.

Charlie the dog was the star of the show, running madly between all the children, hovering hopefully whenever anyone was eating** and barking at next door's dogs when it was all getting too quiet for his liking. He also did a good deal of that cute Jack Russell "jumping really high and then dancing on his back legs" thing.

Marvellous stuff.

I spent the night in my little study here, initially on Mr WithaY's foldaway camp bed. He had taken a hammock and a tarpaulin to make a sleeping shelter in the woods. The bed was considered an unimaginable luxury I think.

Anyhoo, I set it all up, and then carefully climbed in. I am, I have decided, far too wide to sleep in a foldaway camp bed. There seemed to be knobs and spines and bars and bolts sticking into every part of me as I lay there, and the bed made alarming groaning noises when I shifted position.

It brought to mind one of those disaster movies where you know a suspension bridge is going to collapse, and you keep seeing a shot of high tension cables parting under stress, strand by strand.

I lost my nerve after 20 minutes, folded the bed back up and made a little nest of blankets and sofa throws on the floor and slept there instead.

This morning we sat in the garden and drank coffee, whilst everyone found their respective sleeping bags/socks/hairbrushes/dog toys/PlayStations/iPods/car keys etcetera, before eating the World's Largest Chilli con Carne. And barbecue leftovers. Nom nom nom.

Mr WithaY and I stood on the drive waved off the family, a tender moment only slightly marred by Mr WithaY jumping up and down waving his arms in the air like Flounder in the closing credits of Animal House.

And now I am going to have a shower, put my pyjamas on and chill out till bedtime. When I will sleep in a bed. Hurrah.



Oh - I understand that there is some discussion around the appropriateness of the use of marker pen and cocktail sticks in Mr WithaY's Village Fete entry. I would just like to state for the record that no marker pen whatsoever was used in the creation of March Of The Penguins.

That is all.



*Doing survivalist woodcraft type stuff out of doors. In the woods. I hope he gets lots of time off in lieu as it took up his entire weekend.

**ie almost all the time