The End of an Era

 18 months since the last post. Some sort of record. 

Lots has happened since then, of course, most of which will be all too painfully familiar to warrant re-hashing here. Bullet points relating specifically to the WithaY household:

• Neither of us has caught Covid, thankfully. Or not as far as we know, anyway. Those little lateral flow tests keep coming up negative, which may mean nothing at all, but we've clung to that, worn our masks, had our vaccines and (mostly) stayed healthy.
• We haven't managed to travel anywhere (like almost everyone else in the world) but Mr WithaY did venture over to France for a couple of weeks last summer, as soon as it was allowed, to visit his mother. The trip was a success, right up until the point where his overnight train from Toulouse to Paris was cancelled, and he spent the night sleeping fitfully in a train carriage, in a thunderstorm. He missed his Eurostar connection back to the UK as a result, and arrived home many, many hours later than anticipated. 
• Work for both of us has been variable.  All of Mr WithaY's work was cancelled very early in the pandemic so he decided to claim his pension a few years early, as a reduced income is better than no income at all. I was able to continue working all the way through the pandemic. 
• However.  Last week I was offered the opportunity to take redundancy - things in the world of bookselling are Not Going Well - which I took up. So this week marks the end of a 4 and a bit year stint with my current employer.  I might claim my pension a few years early now. I hear it's great.

Other than that, things have been more or less OK. The dog is still a source of great joy and comfort, even when she wakes us up at 5am by barfing loudly in the kitchen. Ah, Labradors.

Things which I am planning to do to fill the endless empty days include:

Writing. Yes, hello.

Dressmaking. Specifically, making a Regency style dress and jacket, because we're planning to attend a Regency picnic later this summer. I've never made anything from the Eighteenth or Nineteenth Century, so it will be an interesting project. 

Bonnet decorating. See Regency reasons above. I bought a bonnet "blank" from the Internet, and will be furbishing it up to match the dress I make. What larks.

Going swimming.  This is mainly because I treated myself to a nice new swimsuit and want to wear it. Bad luck, other members of the public. Prepare your eye bleach.

Experimental cookery. I've mastered making yeasted dough, something which always previously eluded me, and I am now keen to try out many other techniques - as I will have more time, why not? We bought a deep-fat fryer ages ago and still haven't used it, so I might crack on with some Japanese bar snack type food, which will be perfect for feeding to unsuspecting visitors over the summer.

So. Plans. All quite small-scale and domestic, but that's not bad thing. 

Canally retentive

I've been away on a canal boating holiday! A very short one. Alright, a weekend. Well, a day and a night and a half a day.  It was very nice too, and despite the freezing wind which whipped around us intermittently, the weather was glorious.

Our lovely mates Bill and Jayne have bought a narrowboat, and invited us to come and admire it, so early on Saturday morning we set off for Oxfordshire.  The sun shone, the roads weren't too snarled-up with traffic, and we arrived almost exactly on time, to be greeted by our mates, offering cups of tea.  Marvellous.

As well as the four adult humans on board, there was a charming dog. We'd sent ours off to have a holiday with her family, and thus avoid the possibility of two excited dogs falling onto the canals.  Anyway, this is the lovely dog who lives on the boat with his owners:

He's a Bavarian Mountain Hound, and a more relaxed dog you'd be hard-pushed to find.

This is the boat, complete with gorgeous hand-painted bargeware bits and bobs:

We went from the boatyard, down the canal to Cropredy, where we went to the pub.  The Red Lion, as well as serving beer, selling excellent cheesy chips and housing a beautiful golden retriever called Shandy, has a guitar shop.  I had a chat with the guitar man, who also runs the pub, and he told me Rickenbackers are buggers to play. Yeah, I knew that.

Oh, they also had a funky clock on the wall:

A stroll around Cropredy, then back to the boat for drinks, pre-supper snacks, and then a mighty fine supper cooked by Jayne.

An evening of chatting, laughing, catching up on 30 years of friendship, then wrestling with the spare bed to allow us to get to sleep, followed by an early morning tea and Jaffa Cake-fest.  A leisurely stroll to the local shop, a look around the Cropredy battle-site memorial, and back up the canal to the mooring.

This little sign took my fancy.  You walk through the Hell Hole to get away from the church.

 The view up to the pub from the canal bridge.

Making way back towards a lock.  The pointy bit you see there is the front.  Sorry if I'm getting too technical.

I liked being in the locks, and I particularly liked this one; the gates look like the entrance to Mordor. In my head.

We passed this sad wreck, seemingly a victim of the storms, where I was intrigued by the musical instruments and amps left on board.  Just across the canal from it was a fallen willow tree, blocking the thoroughfare (is that the right term? I'm not sure) which had fallen across the canal and meant everyone had to risk bumping into the sunken boat to get past it.

As a favour to the canal-dwelling community, it was decided that on the way back down the canal Mr WithaY should wait in the front of the boat with a long trident/rake thingy, and a bill-hook, and when we got close enough to the fallen willow, he would hack away enough of the branches to clear the channel for other boaters.

What a great idea.  You can see the tree there on the left, making it difficult to pass the sunken boat safely.

We got close to the fallen tree, our stalwart captain held the boat in position, and Mr WithaY leant out of the boat with the bill-hook, lopping off the longer branches.  Most of them were so dry and brittle that they snapped at a touch, making his task easier.

Most of them.

Almost as soon as our captain cheerfully shouted "Don't drop the bill-hook in the water, mate!" Mr WithaY hacked at a branch that was NOT dry and brittle. No.  It was green and lush, full of bounce and vim.  So much bounce and vim, in fact, that on contact the bill-hook bounced off with some violence, causing Mr WithaY's hand to release his grip on the handle, and it dropped into the canal with a gentle "sploosh."

Dear readers, there was some bad language.

Fortunately, our sensible (and experienced) boat-owners had a large magnet on a length of cord, and after a little bit of fishing, the bill-hook was recovered, none the worse for wear.

The remainder of the journey to the boat yard was completed with the bill-hook and trident securely stowed away, in no danger of falling in the water.

This is the boat yard, where they had HUGE chickens roaming around outside.  I look forward to seeing it again on a less chilly afternoon.

In other news:  I am pretty much fully recovered now, and am able to drive, carry stuff, lift things (carefully) and walk the dog again, so I am much happier.

I've rediscovered my desire to sew, and have been cutting out all the bits to make a shirt.  Today I went down to the excellent Hansons Fabrics in Sturminster Newton and had a good old poke about.  Tomorrow I shall start actually sewing all the bits together, and by the weekend I plan to have a funky new shirt finished.

It's all go here.

Showcase

I thought I'd use a blog post or two to share some of my friends' amazing skills and talents with the wider world.

Not the sort of amazing talents that leave everyone else in the room hooting with laughter, or feeling a bit queasy, or calling an ambulance, though.  No, no no.  Although there's probably a few blog posts right there, come to think of it.

These are constructive and marketable talents, as opposed to the sort that get you a recurring slot on Rude Tube or some low-budget reality TV programme.

Part of the reason for this is because yesterday I had an Adventure.  I went to the Art in Action show - all the way to Oxford! - all on my own.  And I managed to get there and back without going via Watford Gap services.  Yay me.

A mate of mine was exhibiting there, so I had a proper reason to visit, but I am really glad I went anyway, there was so much to see.  Anyway, wandering round looking at all the various artists got me thinking about the people I know who make great stuff, and I thought I'd share some of them on here.

So, first up, my mate who I went to see at the show.  He's called Bruce Aitken, and he makes clocks.  Rather amazing ones.  I have taken a few photos of his work, but look at the ones on his website too. 

Gorgeous.

There was a chap there doing some blacksmithing, so I watched him...um...perform for a bit.  I worked out that I know at least four blacksmiths.  Hello Ian, Rick, Sherman and Chris!

Madregal Designs.  If you need any fancy ironwork doing, swing by this place and see what they can do for you. 

Anvil Art.  If you prefer, go here and take a look.

Bowstock.  If you need any leather working doing for you, or indeed, some hard-to-find leatherworking supplies, check out Steve's site here. 

TymeAgain.  If you need some well-made historical toys, go here.  Their toys are just fab.  And they are lovely people to boot. 

Delingpole Studio.  Need some fancy artwork doing?  Go and look at Richard's website here. 

The Full Motley.  Having a party?  Get a band! In fact, get this band! 

I hope, in due course, to add my own little website to the list, but until I work out what I can make, and whether anyone else wants to buy it, it's staying in my head.

Other news:  We continue with the great house clearance task, but it is improving.  Mr WithaY has cleared out the shed this afternoon, moving various boxes hither and thither, and as a result there is far less junk in the kitchen. 

Several of the bookcases have been found new homes, and most rooms no longer look like they belong in Steptoe's house.  Relief all round.

To celebrate the (mostly) back to normal kitchen, I have been domestic goddessing  in it.  I made redcurrant jelly with about one third garden redcurrants, two thirds supermarket redcurrants, and it has turned out very well. 

Today I made grape jelly.  That was less successful, but hey, I had some grapes in the fridge and I was in a jellying frame of mind.  I also made a lemon drizzle cake.

Note to cooks:  When you make a lemon drizzle cake, pour the sticky lemon juice and sugar mixture over the top of the cake AFTER you do the two plates thing to invert it and get it out of the tin. Otherwise, the top of the cake stickes to the plate, leaving a sorry mess.

Gah.

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

Serious vs. Normal

Blimey I'm tired.  Yes, yes.  I know it's Saturday morning, and the sun is out, and the birds are tweeting cheerfully.  I should be bursting forth into the world with a spring in my step and a song on my lips.  But really.  No.  Just no. 

I wish I had a dazzling array of adventures to relate, explanations for being so exhausted, but I've got nothing.  NOTHING.  It's all down to work, boringly.  And train fuckwittery, so nothing new there. 

As a result of me being asked to help out with a couple of short term projects, I had to change my working pattern, and go up to London for 3 days in a row.  I hate doing that.  My working week is usually 2 days in London, a day working at home, another day in London, then the final day at home.  I can cope with that reasonably well, although by the end of the second day in London I am washed out.  Having to get up at 5.45, do my usual 3 hour commute to the office, do some pretty intensive stuff all day long, then travel 3 hours home, only to get up and do it again for 3 days in a row was a stretch. 

Things weren't helped by the massive - yes I mean MASSIVE - fuck up on the trains on Wednesday night.  I got to Waterloo in time to hop onto the 1750 train, which usually gets me home by 8pm, all being well.

All was not well.

On arrival at the bustling concourse* I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of hundreds, possibly thousands, hell, maybe a million people, all standing transfixed like zombies, staring up at the array of screens.  Usually the screens are populated with information about which train is going where and when, all that stuff. Wednesday night, however, was different.  Only three of the boards were populated, and they showed local trains.  The other dozen or so were ominously blank. 

The little teeny TV screen in the middle of the board had a scrolling message, running in an endless, heartbreaking loop.

"Anyone who wishes to travel to the West of England, please take the first train to Basingstoke and change there."

Well arse biscuits.

I ran** onto the platform where the Basingstoke train was parked, and then walked along the entire length of the platform, agog at the number of people who had crammed themselves into the train.  It looked like those pictures of the Tokyo Underground, where guards with peaked caps and big hands force everyone in so the doors will close.  I decided not to try and wedge myself in, rather to wait for the next train and hopefully find a bit more space.

There was another train waiting on a different platform, far less crowded, so I hopped aboard and found a place to stand.  All the seats were full, but there was a fair bit of standing room.  Plus the train had air conditioning which was working intermittently, so it wasn't all bad.

Well, that trip to Basingstoke seemed to take weeks.  We trundled along at a casual pace, stopping frequently, I assume at signals, although it may have been the driver simply wishing to admire the view.  Every now and again the guard's voice crackled through the intercom, apologising profusely for the disruption to everyone's journeys.

At one point he explained that the reason for all the chaos was "a serious fatality at Surbiton."  I am sorry to say, readers, that this provoked an unseemly outbreak of laughter in the carriage as everyone tried to understand how a serious fatality differed from a normal fatality.

At length, we made it to Basingstoke, and the train terminated.  Everyone got off, and milled about on the platform, peering anxiously up at the information screens.  These were not informative.

An announcement told us to go to Platform Two, where a train to Exeter was waiting.  Hurrah!  The mob surged across the platform, down the stairs, along the tunnel, UP the stairs and onto Platform Two.  There was indeed a train, but it was going back to London.  A few people got on, then hastily off again.

The electronic board told us that the train was going to Exeter, but we didn't believe it.  Sure enough, after a few minutes it headed off, towards London. 

A chap next to me sighed, and said sadly "When I was a child, my grandad used to tell me if I was naughty I'd be sent to Basingstoke.  And here I am."

We agreed that he must have been very naughty that day.

It got quite pally, all of us standing there on the platform in the sun, watching wasps buzzing about in the roof.  Announcements kept scrolling along the electronic board, bearing no relation to either the time, or the number of trains coming and going.  After another lengthy delay, someone told us over the loudspeaker that the Exeter train was on Platform FOUR, and would be leaving shortly.

Once more the mob surged down the stairs, along the tunnel and back up the stairs.  Everyone, as if choreographed, clambered aboard the train and wedged themselves in. 

I got home by about 9.15, having left the office just after 5, in time to have supper, watch half a TV programme, and then crash out so I could get up at 5.45 and do it all again the next day.

Did I mention that I am leaving my job next month?

Other news:  Following the appalling tie-dye debacle, I bought some new bedlinen on the Internet.  It's lovely, and needs no half-arsed titivation from me. 

Yesterday I had my first ever singing lesson.  Apparently I have a two and a half octave range, but I have no idea if this is average, more than average, less than average, or what.  Anyway, the teacher seemed to think I sounded ok, and I am going back next week for another lesson.  I want to learn how to breathe properly, so that if and when I ever get round to performing in public I can get through a few songs without singing myself hoarse or running out of puff. 





*I'm trying my hand at travel guide writing.  I'll be unemployed soon, I need to get some money somehow.
**Artistic license

In the bag

Whilst travelling to the office the other morning, I was interested to see this going on:

They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios.  I shall take another picture when it's finished.  I bet you can't wait.

As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases.  She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.

She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself.  He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park.  She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.

I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her.  To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.

Anyhoo.  The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
 
"Gosh," I thought.  "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."

As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.

"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered.  "Here!  Wait!"

Everyone turned round, and he said:  "That's my basket!  Give it back!"

The kind commuter was horrified.  "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.

"No!  It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"

Heh.

The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.

By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket.  A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.

Bags of style

Overheard on the train recently:

Elderly male hippy:  I was looking at a magazine the other day.  What was it called, now?

Elderly male non-hippy:  (not entirely seriously) Tatler?

Elderly male hippy:  No.  Not that.  LK?  GK?  PQ?  Something like that?

Elderly male non-hippy:  Don't know.  (Interested now) What was it about?

Elderly male hippy:  (After a deep-thinking pause)  GQ!  That was it!  GQ.  Fashion. But for MEN!

Elderly male non-hippy:  (Appalled)  For men?  MEN?  (shakes his head)  Naaaah.  Really?  Fashion?

Thery stare at each other, aghast at the thought.

Elderly male hippy (some time later)  They had bags.  For men.  Page after page after page. Of bags.  For men.  Just...bags.

I was tempted to stay on the train all the way to Exeter, just to eavesdrop. 

Departure lounging

Today is all about the packing. 

I have piled up pretty much all my summer clothes in a heap on the bed, and my, what a lot of bright colours there are.  There are many random toiletries, hairbands, scarves, swimsuits, beauty products and a travel hairdryer buried in the heap.  It's like a lucky dip for someone planning a day trip to the beach. 

Mr WithaY is doing ironing.  We have an unofficial task allocation system in this house.  I do the washing, drying, folding, sorting and some of the ironing; he mows the lawns and puts up shelves.  The ironing that I do can be summed up as "all my stuff, plus stuff that isn't too tiresome to iron."  This encompasses teatowels, napkins, pillowcases (sometimes), his t-shirts and some of his less complicated trousers.  Work shirts and trousers with more than one zip per pair, I leave in the basket. 

So, it can build up a bit.  He has been known to go and buy new shirts rather than iron anything. 

Ha.  Just received an email from the airline telling me we can check in online.  Hurrah for technology!  I followed the complicated and repetitive instructions (enter name, and middle name, passport number...and again...yeah, one more time, oh, and your full name again in case it's changed from 30 seconds ago...) only to be met with the flat "Sorry, we are unable to check you in online, please check in with an operator at the airport."  Arse.  So, we'll do that, as originally planned.

Airports are unrelentingly stressful until the point where you are actually on the plane, and then all you have to worry about is the fact that you're in the sky. Gah!  Up in the sky! Above the clouds!  It's just not right.  That passes eventually and you can sleep, or watch a film.  Mr WithaY watched one about ice climbers being lost in a crevasse for days, last time we flew to the States.  I declined. 

Once you land, having enjoyed the stomach-knotting terror of seeing the ground rushing up to you, feeling the plane bouncing wildly down the runway, and trying to quell the strong nausea that the changes in cabin pressure give you*, you get to enjoy Immigration and Customs.  I am interested to see what will happen when we get to Immigration, what with our shiny new visas and all.  We've always just swanned through the normal channel on our previous visits, so this year will be very different.  Hopefully we'll just get to swan through the "Visa" channel.

Anyway.  This time tomorrow we will be somewhere over the Atlantic, all being well.

Other news:  I had my last day in my job yesterday; I start a new one when I get back in late July.  The team had bought me some gorgeous presents, which was kind, and everyone had written lovely things in a card, which I had to wait to read on the train as I knew it would make me go a bit wobbly. 

I popped out at lunchtime to get a few last-minute bits and pieces, which included a beautiful scarf.  It's very fine linen, in a series of muted pinks, greys and lilacs, and will be ideal to wear over a dress, or even over my head in the sun.  I proudly showed my colleague what I had been buying, and when I pulled the scarf out of my bag she went a bit quiet.  Shortly afterwards she disappeared, and was gone for some time.

Later, when they gave me my gifts, another very lovely scarf was in the bag among the treasures.  Apparently they had originally bought me the same scarf I had bought myself, and my colleage had had to frantically rush out and exchange it after I proudly showed her mine.  Heh.

Shows what excellent taste they have, I think.   

When I got back to the railway station, the briar rose in the car park was looking rather fine.

It's caught me by surprise, feeling sad to miss the garden while we're away.  The roses are just coming into full flower, and the peonies will be out next week if the sun shines for a few more days.  I hope that some will be left when we get back.  The fruit and veg should be well advanced, though, assuming that Mr Mole keeps his paws out. 

I will try to blog while we're away, but if not, I'll be back in a month.

Be good.

*Or is that just me?  I feel as though I am going to die when we're landing, all that circling and dropping lower and lower.  After I've broken out in a cold sweat, my stomach lurching violently, I often wish I had.

Train times

Ah, trains.  Trains, trains, trains.

There was a family of trolls on the train home earlier this week.  It was a commuter train, packed to the roof with tired grey-faced business types, all trying to sleep or read or faff about on their laptops. 

Sleeping is difficult.  For a start there isn't much space, so you can't relax physically.  I am quite tall, so end  up with my legs squashed against the back of the seat in front if I don't pick my position carefully.  Then there is the head issue.  What do you do with it?  If you just lean back on the seat (a challenge in itself if you are at all fastidious about rubbing your hair in unknown filth) you may start drooling or snorting.  If you let it loll forwards you run the risk of waking up with a loud grunt every ten minutes. 

Such a problem.

So, if I can get a seat by the window I do, and then try to lean on it and doze as best I can.  However, every time a train  goes past in the opposite direction it makes the window go "Whooomph!" which wakes me up.  Sometimes the shock is sufficient to bounce my head on the glass with an audible clonking noise.  I have to then either pretend to still be asleep to hide my chagrin, or just wake up and brazen it out by pretending that I'm not bovvered.

Luckily I have a great internal voice which lies to me.  It usually says "It's ok, nobody noticed."  It says that a lot.  I have to pretend to believe it. 

Anyway.  The trolls.  There were many of them.  Oh, soooo many.  They got on at (I think) Basingstoke, in a huddled chattery gang, dragging enormous bundles and cases with them.  The lead troll, a woman of indeterminate age with bright ginger hair, was organising them.  She fussed and chattered without stopping for about 45 minutes. 

"Come on, sit here.  Sit down, just here.  No, HERE.  Where's your bag?  *tch*  Give it here.  I said GIVE IT HERE.  I'll put it away for you."

She'd then stagger down the carriage dragging the bag, walloping people with it as she went, stuff it into the luggage area, then make her unsteady way back to her shuffling, fidgeting troll bretheren.  Then it would all start again with the next one.

"You sit here.  No you can't sit over there.  There's someone already sat there.  Yes there is.  Look, there.  THERE.  That man there *pointing at some crimson-faced inoffensive commuter trying to read his book* You can't sit there.  Just sit down here.  SIT DOWN."

I can only assume it was some sort of outing for the Terminally Bewildered. 

And so the long journey wore on. 

Things took a different turn yesterday.  My, what a day that was.

As we approached Basingstoke, the loudspeaker crackled:

"This is the driver speaking.  Would the guard please make their way to the driver immediately.  Immediately please."

Everyone perked up, wondering what was going on.  Had we been hijacked?  Was a crazed gun-toting desperado trying to take the train to Cuba?  I for one hoped so. 

After a few minutes there was another announcement from the driver.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that this train is now cancelled.  We will be terminating this train at Basingstoke."

Arse.

There then followed a long and detailed itinerary of all the other trains which were going to London from Basingstoke, what times they'd be running, what platforms they'd be using, and how many stops they were going to make before getting to Waterloo. 

Few people even pretended to be paying attention, they were fighting to get their coats on, and pack up all their stuff.  When the train stopped, we all got off and stood stupidly on the platform.  I was half expecting a few railway employees with large brooms to come and shoo us away. 

"Come along now *tchook  tchook*  Off to Platform Three with you..."

There was a disagreeable 20 minute wait in the cold, then a small local sprinter type train pulled up and we all crammed aboard.  There were very few seats, so most of us stood crammed together in the middle of the carriage, pretending not to mind.  I was lucky enough to grab a seat at Woking when some people disembarked, but even so it was very unpleasant.

I arrived into the office almost an hour late, which is impressive given that I don't usually get there till half nine anyway. I checked the train times online every hour or so as the day went on, ready to leg it out the door if there looked like being any more problems.  Fortunately, ther problem, whatever it was, had been resolved by mid-afternoon.  I left the office at about 5, planning to saunter back to the station and catch the ten to six train.  The Tube gods were on my side though, and I made it in time to leap aboard the twenty past five with two minutes to spare. 

What a schoolboy error that was.

Of course, there was not a seat to be had.  Even the little fold-down seats in the corridors were all fully occupied, and I ended up standing in the gap between two carriages, along with half a dozen other people, all trying to keep our feet as the train joggled along.

It alternated between baking hot and stuffy, and chill winds blowing through the rubber seals, bringing plenty of diesel fumes with them.  Nice.

After half an hour or so of this I realised that I was feeling dizzy, and of course, as soon as I realised that, I felt worse and worse.  I got queasy, and trembly. Cold sweat began to make itself felt, and I knew if I didn't sit down I would probably swoon dramatically all over the annoying yuppies to my right. 

There was absolutely nowhere to sit, so I just slid down onto the floor, filthy as it was, and hoped I'd feel better.  It helped, but I was still feeling ropy when we got to the first stop and a few people got off the train.  I was able to grab one of the little fold down seats and perched there for another 45 minutes or so.  Finally I was able to sit on a proper seat for the last half an hour of the journey, and was still feeling shaky when I got off the train.

I pay almost five thousand pounds a year for this.

Aren't I lucky?

Hair raising

When I was on the train home the other night, amid the usual crowds of commuters, a gentleman came and sat in front of me.  Not something I usually pay much attention to, as the train is intended for the use of more than one person. 

In an ideal world I would have my own train, with a comfy sofa and an endless supply of entertaining and educational dvds to watch on the journey in every day.  I could learn other languages, or take a Masters degree, or become a silversmith.  I assume you can do all those things by watching someone else doing it?  Anyway, if not, on my perfect train, I would be able to. 

I'd also have a bed to snooze on if I didn't feel up to the rigours of education so early in the day.  Oh, and good books.  And some tropical fish in a huge aquarium for me to look at. 

There would be fresh flowers every day on my train, and a proper cooked breakfast served to me by a proper chef in a tall hat.  And a spa with a huge bath, and maybe a hot tub for the trip home, so I could arrive back all relaxed and fragrant.  And a hairdresser, a dry cleaner and an old-fashioned wise-cracking shoeshine chap to keep me smart without having to do it myself. 

In fact, sod it, let's just put my office in it and I'll work there too. 



Sadly, reality is far crueller.  The train is a packed, stuffy, uncomfortable mass transit system that gets me to London more or less on time, most of the time.  As an added bonus, if you live West of Gillingham, this week you'd be stuffed into a bus for a big chunk of your trip, due to a landslide blocking the train tracks.  Travel in the 21st Century.

Anyhoo, this bloke who sat in front of me.  Why did I notice him?

Guess.

Men in tights

We've had a Weekend Away. This has become rather a rare event, at least for both of us to be in the same place at the same time, so it was a bit of a treat.

We went up to see some mates in Nottinghamshire (*not* pronounced Nodding-Ham Shire, American readers) which entailed a nightmarish drive up on Friday afternoon/evening. It took 4 hours. FOUR!

Our plan to stop en route for a cup of tea and a bun were abandoned and we chugged along in slow, slow traffic all the way instead. Once we got there all was well, though. We enjoyed seeing our lovely mates, we drank a lot of wine, and we ate like fat greedy kings.

We went ten pin bowling on Saturday. I can't remember the last time I did that, and due to the unfamiliar positions adopted, both Mr WithaY and I were limping around with Bowler's Buttock for a couple of days afterwards, which was rather depressing.

Our mate took us into the nearby town (I can't remember which one) to run a few errands, and we ended up sitting outside a local pub having a cheeky lunchtime drink, watching another pub over the road being demolished. On the way back to the car we were accosted by a wild-haired woman who demanded that we come into her shop for a glass of champagne.

Well, it would have been rude not to.

It was the opening day for a new estate agency, and they were having a bit of a celebration. We had a glass of not bad pink fizz, gawped at the property prices (£150k for a three bedroom detached house!) and idly wondered if it was worth buying another house up there to rent out to students*.

On another note:

My blogging has been curtailed of late because frankly I am too hot and tired to think of stuff. I keep starting posts and then going "Oh arse to this" and going to sit in the garden or make a cup of tea or do some washing.

I'm hoping it passes and my usual ability to blather on about all the dull stuff that makes up my life will return soon. Being stressed out of my head over the last few months hasn't helped.

Mr WithaY and I have made some progess on the SSFH** aftermath, and that has made us both feel better, but we are waiting to see what happens next.

We have been trying to socialise a lot more, and keep each others' spirits up, which has worked to a large extent. I have recently realised how much my job in London has affected our social life, though. Mid-week entertaining and socialising has pretty much stopped, which was a big part of our lives before I took this job. I can't see a way around that, though. Not at the moment anyway.

I am not socialising in London nearly as much as I had thought I might, too, so it's not as if I am making up for it elsewhere. Might need to be more pro-active about meeting people in town.

And on that note, time to go and sort stuff out for the morning, as we have decided to invite some friends over for an early supper, to try and rejuvinate the mid week social life thing.


*No.

**Shit storm from Hades

Holiday snaps

So hello!

I'm back from France, with a slightly fatter, redder face and a huge mystery bite on my arm that is evolving into something like a giant squishy cow-pox blister as I speak. I'd take a photo but it is too disgusting.

If you have ever seen the Ren and Stimpy episode where Stimpy has a horrible tropical parasite on the back of his head...it's like that. I am wondering if it might eventually hatch into some sort of giant French arm-worm, or maybe just tunnel all the way up into my brain like those slithery things on Star Trek. You know the ones....someone will let me know the name I'm sure.

The trip was most welcome, given that we have had about the worst six months of our lives so far this year. Mother-in-law WithaY was delighted to see us, and went to a lot of trouble to try and keep us amused and occupied while we were there.

The weather was an interesting mixture of Unbelievably Hot, and Terrifying Thunderstorms. Oh, and an afternoon of Gale Force Winds. With bugs. Ahhh, foreign parts. Marvellous.

As ever, I took pictures.

We were in an area very close to the edge of the Pyrenees.



So, I took many pictures of misty mountains.





We visited the Dali museum at Figueres, just across the Spanish border. The man was bonkers.











I rest my case.

We went up into a ravine, which, given our track record, was brave of us.



It was very long, very dark, and a bit like travelling through the mines of Moria*.



They made us wear hard hats, which added to the sense of adventure. See how manfully Mr WithaY is striding into danger and gloom as a result of having the correct protective headwear.

We met several amusing dogs. One evening we went up to a teeny chalet in the mountains for an aperitif (how French!) where there were two puppies scampering around. They were adorable, following the large full-grown dog (no relation) as it greeted the guests and played in the garden.



The puppies were too frisky to actually sit still and have their picture taken together. I daresay if you are interested enough you could Photoshop a composite one of them**.



We never did establish what the mystery wet patch was. My feet got a good licking, though, which is always an unexpected treat when you are out for an aperitif.



One afternoon we were in the local supermarket, when there was a bit of a commotion. A huge Rottweiler came trotting through the shop, heading purposefully for the wet fish counter, a skinny young man in close pursuit. I have no idea if the man was the dog's owner, or a zealous shop employee, but either way, had I been in his shoes I don't think I'd have been trying to grab the dog by the little stumpy tail.

Also, some scenic pictures of the town. Please note the elderly French lady, who I think has to be included in street scene photographs by law.









I know it's incredibly dull to bang on about the Food when you are Abroad, so I will say only this: 2kg of big fat crevettes for 13 Euros. Nom nom nom.

The only slight downside to this short break was the fact that we flew with Ryanair.

Nothing to say about the planes, the staff, even the luggage restrictions, as we were happy to accept that with travel, as with so much in life, you get what you pay for, and frankly, it's more like a bus service than anything else.

But oh lordy. The People. My dears! In the departure lounge*** there was a large group from (as we ascertained from their bellowed drunken conversation) Andover, heading off to the Costas for a hollerday.

They were drunk before they even got on the plane (and I thought airlines weren't supposed to let people on flights if they were drunk?) and continued drinking, shouting and annoying the in-flight staff throughout the trip. At one point I overheard one of the elegant Spanish staff whisper to her colleague "They are like animals!"

So, a proud day for Britain there.

At least we got to leave them in the queue for a stinky chav bus as we fled to our lovely air-conditioned hire car and skedaddled across the border to la belle France. Fuckwits.

So. There you have it. What I Did On My Holidays. Hardly cutting-edge blog fodder but I had a nice time. Which, frankly, I needed.

And it's nice to be back.




*in my head

**but don't

***portacabin