The Speckled Goat
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When I looked in my rear view mirror on the motorway home today there was a very scary sight. A car with a scary, cross face seemed to be trying to get into my boot. It looked a bit like this:
I fear I may dream about it.
I think it will be eating the cats and playing 'The Cheeky Girls' whilst Nik is tied up on it's roof.
We met an interesting character on Friday night. His name is Gerald.
#I know a mouse and he hasn't got a house, I don't know why I call him Gerald...
aherm...
Gerald it seems, goes to see Andy's band 'Gherkin' play in different places. He goes alone, has a couple of beers and watches the band play. Whilst there he makes a new friend. It was our turn on Friday. He works at Dungeness B the nuclear power station and he was interested to know about how it all worked. I bought him a drink as you do when in a group, he disappeared shortly after. Now I keep thinking how it is possible that he talks to people until they buy a drink, then he goes elsewhere thus never buying a drink for himself or anyone else. Nice. I hope that wasn't how it was in reality.
The band were great, their musical talent heightened only by Andy's sporting of a partcularly fetching sweater knitted by his dorset dwelling mother.
We spent Saturday evening in the company of S & W. A kitchen picnic party and the christening of our new breadmaker (even if having used the wrong yeast at that time - it is much improved now we have the right stuff!). Now some of you may think it sad that we have investied in a breadmaker. If so, then you have clearly never used one. We have been inducted in the breadmaking fraternity and it would seem it is the in thing of the moment. 'You mean you haven't got one?!' has been heard repeatedly this week, in the end making me concede defeat and jump on the proverbial bandwagon to see what all the fuss was about. Currently baking away with no effort from either one of us, is a delightful fruit loaf ready to be taken over to Nik's mum's for tea. The house smells lovely and watching the dough rise through the little window has not lost its novelty just yet - even sceptical Nik is excited!
Good luck to Steve for this week - we will be thinking of you :)
General rules for the order of consumption during meals is a savory option followed by a sweet one
Lunch - Savory items then a sweet choice - sandwiches, fruit
Dinner - Savory items then a sweet choice (excluding starters) - roast chicken, apple pie
Why is breakfast different? Is there some Science behind it?
Breakfast - Sweet choice then savory items - cereal, toast
Why?
*shrugs
Small hours of the morning and I lie awake in bed convinced the bedroom smells of cooked sausages. I get up annoying the whole household by turning on lights, opening cupboards, flitting between rooms and sighing. I finally locate an oil burner and some 'de-stress' oil. I light it and return to bed. My dreams had been and are filled with images of terror.
Why would I attempt to cook 5 meals and 2 desserts for and with 20 children and using only 2 cookers?
Why?
I saw fingers being cut off, food piled up in one big stodgy mess, classrooms on fire, children screaming, parents crying.
...and a room full of the smell of cooked sausages. I am not sure if it was or if it was symptomatic of my dream. Either way it led to turning on lights, opening cupboards, flitting between rooms and sighing.
Fortunately, the day went very well indeed and the kids proved their worth as mini-masterchefs. Great food was prepared and consumed with gusto. The message of healthy eating firmly absorbed into sceptical minds.
It is days like today that I remember why I love my job...
...and my bed :)
Yawn.
The flat was cold this evening. Cold, cold, cold. We put the heating back on but it stayed cold, cold, cold. Rain pelted the street outside and the curtains fluttered slightly through the gaps in the big old windows. We attempted warmth before conceding defeat to the duvet under which I am seated most cosily as I type. Freddie is dozing silently in front of me, her perfect paws tucked neatly beneath her fluffy white chest. Ash pops in and out seeking attention before disappearing off to be cantankerous in another room. Nik flits between his art work and the sofa, threatening the removal of his beautiful curls tomorrow denying me the posession of my favourite one - if he loved me he would ask them to keep it! ;)
I remain seated watching as they go about their business, pondering thoughts from the day gone, chattering on the phone to my excited mother.
It is not exciting. It is not breathtaking.
It is nice.
I like it.
I hobbled my way to see the doctor yesterday. Having been made to wait almost an hour past my appointment time my back had stiffened considerably and I was forced to laugh at myself as I attempted to outpace a pensioner with a walking stick. Inevitably I failed. Not for the first time either.
The waiting room was packed with people. Three young girls with a baby between them (was not clear who owned him as he was passed around when they tired of him) sprawled themselves out in the 'Children's Quiet Area' they talked incessantly on their mobile phones, despite the HUGE signs that asked them to turn them off, used the foulest of language (often directed towards the child which was once referred to as 'it') and were generally offensive and irritating throughout. An eldery lady, so tired of waiting, herself sat and swore at whoever would listen about the language being used by the girls and ranted over the wait. Another lady read Bob the Builder to a small child she appeared to have borrowed from a neighbour and other people sat coughing, sneezing, moaning and sweating. It was not a nice experience.
Eventually my name was called and I hobbled my way along the coridoor to the doctors room. She listened and smiled as I explained that I had sneezed and caused myself some damage. After some questioning, prodding and pulling she finally exclaimed that I had trapped a nerve in the disc in my back. Thank goodness I thought, it is not something long lasting. She prescribed me some nice floaty light painkillers, an anti-inflammatory and told me there was to be no driving for a few days, to keep active whilst being 'sensible', how to sit and lay and a consideration of signing me off from work and I was on my way. The good news? It is not as nasty as first feared. The bad news? She can not tell me how long it will hurt. Or how long until I get the strength back, It could work itself out in days, it could take weeks. 'If it hasnt improved in a month, come back and see me' A month! A MONTH! I am reduced to tears after a week! Fingers crossed it will be sooner rather than later!
My lovely Nik so does love to play...
:)
I have the loveliest of all boyfriends! Everyone else should be very jealous.
This morning I sneezed and hurt my back again. It frustrates me no end that a simple sneeze can cause such considerable pain. Nik took me off to Tesco to find a suitable pain killer. When we arrived, we noticed that all the back pain remedies were on the bottom shelf.
I managed with some expert manoeuvring to get down to the floor to read them...as for getting up...
I mean, whose bright idea was that?
I like to write.
With a real pen and real paper.
I like to create.
When left to my own devices I can write for hours. I admit it is mostly drivel but sometimes there are little things that catch my eye. These are usually poems.
I have been reading over some of them this evening. I am suprised by how cross I appear to be - like little Chester, I sometimes appear to be very, very cwoss indeed!
What makes a good poem? My lovely short haired poet must know. I read poetry, in fact I am a big lover of poetry as many of you are no doubt aware. So how is it I have no idea what makes a good poem, other than at the level the kids are working. I can decide if it scans, if the imagery is mature and effective, I can spot rhythm schemes, rhyme schemes, lack of or use of puncutiation...but why do I not know if what I write when I am inspired is any good? Why am I not brave enough to send it off to publications in the way others are? I wonder if there will ever be a time when I say 'Hey, lovely short haired poet, have a read of this, tell me what you think'
My A Level English LIterature teacher sent hers off. She never told us, yet we apparently inspired some of them. I wish I had known at the time. I wish I could now congratulate her on her success. Our 'debates' over certain texts inspired me more than she will ever know. We had a somewhat tempestuous relationship but she introduced me to the Metaphysicals, to Margaret Atwood, to the idea that I could achieve whatever I wanted.
I used to have a second blog. A secret blog. There are just some things you need to say sometimes that you can't say in front of a certain audience. I deleted it a while back for a variety of reasons. I thought I would ressurect it today but I can not remember the name. It was a very clever play on words, what a shame. Perhaps it will come back to me when the haze of illness has lifted from me.
I wanted to write a post about gossips. I shall do so here as I am unable to remember the name of the other place...
It would seem I am the subject of gossip. In fact, it seems that I have been the subject of gossip for some time. Now please do not get me wrong, I am really quite happy with my life at the moment, a good job, nice home, happy cats, a lovely Nik filling space and silence with boyness etc, but I would not say my life is overly exciting or interesting. Most days are spent working, socialising, watching films, painting...nothing out of the ordinary. However according to some, I have a whole secret double life that even I was not aware of! It is great...I have had many relationships, a string of pregnancies, I have led a steady stream of people off the straight and narrow, and now I am apparently moving to a whole new country! All without me noticing! My goodness what an exciting life I lead!