Well Christmas is definitely on its way; stir up Sunday has been and gone, I've baked my Christmas cake and the shops are bedecked with festive goods. I'm well on the way with my Christmas shopping but for those of you who are still searching for that elusive present for a hard to please friend or relative I may well have the perfect solution.
You see I have invented a new game which I hope that I'll have time to get patented and onto the shelves of all good toy shops in time for Christmas. This blog is by way of market research, so I'd love to hear what you think of it.
The game is called "Where on earth have I parked the car?". Like all good games its quite a simple premise but should afford hours of entertainment. All you really need to play is a car and a supermarket, complete with carpark. The rules are simple, it can be played by one to five players (perhaps more if your car seats more people). You park your car in the large, crowded carpark and head into the store congratulating yourself that you've remembered to bring your shopping bags.
At the entrance of the store you have a tousle with the coin operated trolley and then head in to start your shopping. It's best if you have written a detailed shopping list, which you then leave at home so that you have to wander up and down each aisle in the hope that the things you need will catch your eye or in a perfect world leap off the shelf into your trolley. Ideally you have gone shopping at a time when the store is busy with other shoppers who don't give a fig for shopping etiquette ie they leave their trolley in the most inconvenient place possible, let their children push the trolley right into your unsuspecting calves and stand chatting to friends and blocking the aisle, completely unaware that anyone else in the world needs tea bags or soya sauce.
Trolley laden, you make it to the tills and select the one with the shortest queue, only to find you're being served by shop assistant of the month, who won this accolade by being especially chatty. Don't get me wrong, its good to be served by a friendly face but I don't feel the need to discuss every purchase I've made, yes the wine does look nice and yes we all do deserve a treat, now hand it over!
Eventually goods paid for, the game starts properly because as you head for the exit, hobbling slightly from your bruised shins, you will find that you have no recollection of where you parked your car. The ordeal of trying to remember what you need, playing dodgems with fellow shoppers and being rammed painfully by a large trolley inexpertly driven by a small child, not to mention discussing the cold weather with Miss Conviviality at the till, has induced a state of shopping amnesia and you now have no idea where your car is. You wander off hopefully in one direction only to find that although it's the right colour car, it's the wrong make. You do a u turn and search in another row of cars to no avail. You walk up and down the carpark and are just starting to wonder if your car has been stolen when you realise the car you are standing next to is indeed yours.
The winner of the game is the person who takes the longest to find their car. There are of course bonus points if it's raining, if you're in a hurry and late for something, if you have a white car and if you get home and realise that you've forgotten the one item you went out for. The beautifully presented game will contain, a stop watch with which to time your search, details of the complicated scoring system and score sheets so that you can compare times for previous shops. There could even be online groups where you could see how your time compares to other people.
So what do you think, surely it's destined to be this Christmases must have gift? I wonder if I should be pitching it to The Dragons Den? Let me know if you'd like to reserve one of these highly sought after games but I should point out that due to the high demand I may have to limit purchases to one per household, terms and conditions apply.
Tuesday, 24 November 2015
Tuesday, 17 November 2015
France, chicken soup and the common cold
This week I felt that I should write something deep and meaningful about terrorism, but where to start. I don't want to live in a world where human life is used to make a political or a religious point, where a tiny minorities actions can cause distrust and intolerance amongst cultures who previously had lived together harmoniously and where a small group of people can seemingly start a war. So although I am not ignoring the events in Paris I don't feel that I can write about it, I just don't have the words.
So let me tell you instead about my attempt to make chicken noodle soup.
I've had a cold and a cough this week and spent some time looking online for home cures. I didn't fancy a salt water gargle or chewing on a raw garlic clove and I really couldn't imagine how a mustard footbath was going to help, but a reoccurring remedy I kept reading about was chicken soup so I decided to give it a go. It took me the best part of the day on Monday to make and filled my house with savoury aromas.
First I brought a couple of pounds of chicken, a carrot, an onion, a leek and some water up to the boil. I then simmered it for two hour, skimmining the scum off the top every fifteen minutes or so. Next I took the chicken out, took the meat off the bones, put the bones back in the stock together with a paring of lemon, a slice of ginger and a handful of parsley stalks. This was boiled for an hour, strained and left to go cold.
When chilled I removed the fat from the stock and then reheated it. I seasoned it, added finely chopped carrot and leek and cooked it for a couple of minutes. Next I added the noodles and brought back to the boil, then finally added the chicken meat back in to reheat and some chopped parsley.
A lot of love, effort, time, care and attention went into making that soup. I don't really like touching raw meat but had laboriously skinned the chicken portions, ignoring how squeamish it made me feel. I had cut the veg into perfect tiny dice, I'd even pealed the carrot for goodness sake. Despite my cold and blocked nose even I could smell the wonderfully comforting aromour and Billy dog was salivating so much I was practically paddling in puddles of his drool. So after spending seven hours labouring over a hot stove, making my kitchen into a chicken scented steam room and driving Billy dog into a feeding frenzy, what did I eventually end up with and did it cure my cold?
The results of my cooking was a steaming bowlful of golden broth, floating with jewels of veg, parsley and noodles. It looked perfect, better than the recipe picture in fact, and it tasted like a steaming bowlful of hot water. Yes you read correctly, hot water with no flavour at all. I think that all the chicken taste had evaporated into steam and was now clinging to my soft furnishings, I would probably have got more flavour out of my rug and curtains than from the actual soup. Talk about an anticlimax, I had put in all that effort to effectively boil a kettle. I adjusted the seasoning and now had a steaming bowlful of salty water. And my cold? Would someone mind going to the chemists and picking me up some Lemsips please? Aitchoo!
I really wanted to end up with a steaming bowl of deliciousness instead of my watery imposter. A bowl created from a disparate group of ingredients, all coming together in a yummy combination, each ingredient complimenting the other. So this week I have learnt that things it don't always work out the way that you want; my soup was tasteless and France and the world are in mourning. Was it the recipes fault, the ingredients fault or had I done something wrong? Please let's not look for blame, judge by appearance or give up on soup, I'm convinced there's a bowl of perfection out there somewhere, we've just got to keep practising making it. Also we need to remember that there is more good soup out there than bad. Now does anyone know how to remove the smell of chicken from curtains?
So let me tell you instead about my attempt to make chicken noodle soup.
I've had a cold and a cough this week and spent some time looking online for home cures. I didn't fancy a salt water gargle or chewing on a raw garlic clove and I really couldn't imagine how a mustard footbath was going to help, but a reoccurring remedy I kept reading about was chicken soup so I decided to give it a go. It took me the best part of the day on Monday to make and filled my house with savoury aromas.
First I brought a couple of pounds of chicken, a carrot, an onion, a leek and some water up to the boil. I then simmered it for two hour, skimmining the scum off the top every fifteen minutes or so. Next I took the chicken out, took the meat off the bones, put the bones back in the stock together with a paring of lemon, a slice of ginger and a handful of parsley stalks. This was boiled for an hour, strained and left to go cold.
When chilled I removed the fat from the stock and then reheated it. I seasoned it, added finely chopped carrot and leek and cooked it for a couple of minutes. Next I added the noodles and brought back to the boil, then finally added the chicken meat back in to reheat and some chopped parsley.
A lot of love, effort, time, care and attention went into making that soup. I don't really like touching raw meat but had laboriously skinned the chicken portions, ignoring how squeamish it made me feel. I had cut the veg into perfect tiny dice, I'd even pealed the carrot for goodness sake. Despite my cold and blocked nose even I could smell the wonderfully comforting aromour and Billy dog was salivating so much I was practically paddling in puddles of his drool. So after spending seven hours labouring over a hot stove, making my kitchen into a chicken scented steam room and driving Billy dog into a feeding frenzy, what did I eventually end up with and did it cure my cold?
The results of my cooking was a steaming bowlful of golden broth, floating with jewels of veg, parsley and noodles. It looked perfect, better than the recipe picture in fact, and it tasted like a steaming bowlful of hot water. Yes you read correctly, hot water with no flavour at all. I think that all the chicken taste had evaporated into steam and was now clinging to my soft furnishings, I would probably have got more flavour out of my rug and curtains than from the actual soup. Talk about an anticlimax, I had put in all that effort to effectively boil a kettle. I adjusted the seasoning and now had a steaming bowlful of salty water. And my cold? Would someone mind going to the chemists and picking me up some Lemsips please? Aitchoo!
I really wanted to end up with a steaming bowl of deliciousness instead of my watery imposter. A bowl created from a disparate group of ingredients, all coming together in a yummy combination, each ingredient complimenting the other. So this week I have learnt that things it don't always work out the way that you want; my soup was tasteless and France and the world are in mourning. Was it the recipes fault, the ingredients fault or had I done something wrong? Please let's not look for blame, judge by appearance or give up on soup, I'm convinced there's a bowl of perfection out there somewhere, we've just got to keep practising making it. Also we need to remember that there is more good soup out there than bad. Now does anyone know how to remove the smell of chicken from curtains?
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Routine, porridge and Shakespeare.
I'm not a person who is big into routine and order but there is one routine that I like to follow religiously; a routine that if I stick to it, ensures that my day runs smoothly and productively, but that if it goes awry heralds hours of chaos and disaster. It's my morning routine.
It starts just before six, when I wake and initially panic, thinking that I've overslept. A glance at the clock reassures me that all is on track. I lie in bed planning my day until six when the alarm goes off, then downstairs to put porridge oats and sultanas in a bowl and to make a cup of tea which I take back to bed to drink whilst I read for half an hour. Then it's up, and into the kitchen where my bowl of oats sit waiting, I pour on the milk and then put the bowl into the microwave which I set for twenty minutes on defrost.
The next step is to put a coat and a pair of trousers on over my pyjamas and take Billy dog out for a walk. If the tide is in we walk on the green, and if it's out on the beach. By the time we get home the microwave has performed its magic and the porridge has cooled to the perfect temperature to eat. Goldilocks couldn't wish for better.
Breakfast eaten its time to shower, then upstairs again to get dressed. Next its back to the kitchen to make a sandwich for lunch and grab an apple from the fruit bowl. Finally its bathroom again to clean my teeth and then back upstairs to change as I will have invariably dribbled whitening toothpaste down my top and we all know how this marks your clothes.
Then at eight or thereabouts I'm ready to leave the house to drop Billy at my Mums for the day before I head to work. My routine works like clockwork and has taken years of adjustment and fine tuning to reach this meticulous standard. It's really only when something happens to disrupt this routine that I realise how important it is. Take the other morning for example.
I awoke in a panic, oh no I'd overslept and was late for work, glance at the clock and phew all was OK. Six am alarm, then up, kitchen, porridge oats, sultanas and tea. Back to bed and had picked up my book when there was an awful noise from next-door. First there was a series of loud thuds, then a scream and then a half dozen yelps.
I live in a terrace and the sound insulation between my neighbours and myself isn't great but I've never heard such a loud scary noise. Although I couldn't see what had happened I knew immediately what those noises meant. You see our houses are small so when they were built, in order to save space, the builders put in paddle staircases. For those of you who don't know what this is, its a steeply pitched flight of stairs where each rung is only big enough for one foot and which takes up a lot less space than a more conventional staircase. They make good use of space but are steep and tricky to get used to. The neighbours on my right are new, in fact so new that I hadn't even spoken to them yet and I suspected that they still weren't completely used to the staircase. The noises that I'd heard, were I was sure, the sounds of someone falling down the stairs.
I lay in bed for a minute wondering what to do. Should I go and check that they were OK and run the risk of getting the reputation for being a nosy neighbour or should I drink my tea and read my book and let them sort it out? My mind replayed the sickening thuds and crashes and knew I had to check that all was OK. So trousers and jacket on over my pyjamas, I went next-door and knocked on the door. The door was flung open by a young woman wearing only a pair of pants.
"Help me" she cried " my boyfriend has fallen down the stairs!". She was already on the phone to the ambulance service.
So long story short, the boyfriend was lieing curled up in a foetal position at the foot of the stairs, wearing boxer shorts (have these people not heard of pyjamas?). He was conscious but said that he'd hit his head and hurt his neck and shoulder in the fall. His girlfriend was frantic and kept wanting to hold his hand, put a pillow under his head and wanted him to try and move his feet and legs. It took the ambulance about fifteen to twenty minutes to arrive and they seemed like the longest twenty minutes of my life. I'm not really designed to deal with crisis situations and felt like a cross between an iceberg and a swan: I was calm on the surface but seven eighths of me was below the icy water paddling in a frenzied way that felt horribly close to panic. I persuaded the girlfriend to get dressed and get her bag and phone etc so that she could be ready to leave with the ambulance, anything to keep her busy and stop her from trying to touch or move him. I had very strange conversations with them both, what with him lieing on the floor and her running around topless. I tried to keep them talking to keep her calm and him conscious, I've forgotten the details of what we talked about but wouldn't be surprised if I asked what their first pets were, their favourite colours and if money was no object where they'd go for a dream holiday. I have never been so pleased to see blue flashing lights in my life and was happy to let the paramedics take charge.
Back home, my tea was getting cold and my precious morning routine was irretrievably ruined. This resulted in me setting the microwave incorrectly, so got back from my walk to find my porridge had boiled all over the microwave and I had to have muesli for breakfast, I left the house late so got snarled up in traffic, I forgot my diary which I find very unnerving and for the rest of the day every spare second I had I kept remembering the sound of the fall and the almost inhuman cries that followed and could picture that poor man lieing on the floor. A really rubbish day.
However it could have been so much worse, as it turned out that my neighbour was not seriously injured, he spent the day at hospital being checked out but was home that evening. He had hurt his elbow and was sore all over, but other than that fine. So that night I was happy and relived as I cleaned the cold congealed porridge out of the microwave. Yes my day hadn't started very well, but had ended OK. I had met my new neighbours, even if the circumstances hadn't been ideal and I had seen a lot more of them than is normal at a first meeting but they were both uninjured and seemed very pleasant, despite the lack of pyjamas, I had a sparkling clean microwave and they had bought me a lovely box of chocolates as a thank you. So in the words of the bard,
"All's well that ends well".
It starts just before six, when I wake and initially panic, thinking that I've overslept. A glance at the clock reassures me that all is on track. I lie in bed planning my day until six when the alarm goes off, then downstairs to put porridge oats and sultanas in a bowl and to make a cup of tea which I take back to bed to drink whilst I read for half an hour. Then it's up, and into the kitchen where my bowl of oats sit waiting, I pour on the milk and then put the bowl into the microwave which I set for twenty minutes on defrost.
The next step is to put a coat and a pair of trousers on over my pyjamas and take Billy dog out for a walk. If the tide is in we walk on the green, and if it's out on the beach. By the time we get home the microwave has performed its magic and the porridge has cooled to the perfect temperature to eat. Goldilocks couldn't wish for better.
Breakfast eaten its time to shower, then upstairs again to get dressed. Next its back to the kitchen to make a sandwich for lunch and grab an apple from the fruit bowl. Finally its bathroom again to clean my teeth and then back upstairs to change as I will have invariably dribbled whitening toothpaste down my top and we all know how this marks your clothes.
Then at eight or thereabouts I'm ready to leave the house to drop Billy at my Mums for the day before I head to work. My routine works like clockwork and has taken years of adjustment and fine tuning to reach this meticulous standard. It's really only when something happens to disrupt this routine that I realise how important it is. Take the other morning for example.
I awoke in a panic, oh no I'd overslept and was late for work, glance at the clock and phew all was OK. Six am alarm, then up, kitchen, porridge oats, sultanas and tea. Back to bed and had picked up my book when there was an awful noise from next-door. First there was a series of loud thuds, then a scream and then a half dozen yelps.
I live in a terrace and the sound insulation between my neighbours and myself isn't great but I've never heard such a loud scary noise. Although I couldn't see what had happened I knew immediately what those noises meant. You see our houses are small so when they were built, in order to save space, the builders put in paddle staircases. For those of you who don't know what this is, its a steeply pitched flight of stairs where each rung is only big enough for one foot and which takes up a lot less space than a more conventional staircase. They make good use of space but are steep and tricky to get used to. The neighbours on my right are new, in fact so new that I hadn't even spoken to them yet and I suspected that they still weren't completely used to the staircase. The noises that I'd heard, were I was sure, the sounds of someone falling down the stairs.
I lay in bed for a minute wondering what to do. Should I go and check that they were OK and run the risk of getting the reputation for being a nosy neighbour or should I drink my tea and read my book and let them sort it out? My mind replayed the sickening thuds and crashes and knew I had to check that all was OK. So trousers and jacket on over my pyjamas, I went next-door and knocked on the door. The door was flung open by a young woman wearing only a pair of pants.
"Help me" she cried " my boyfriend has fallen down the stairs!". She was already on the phone to the ambulance service.
So long story short, the boyfriend was lieing curled up in a foetal position at the foot of the stairs, wearing boxer shorts (have these people not heard of pyjamas?). He was conscious but said that he'd hit his head and hurt his neck and shoulder in the fall. His girlfriend was frantic and kept wanting to hold his hand, put a pillow under his head and wanted him to try and move his feet and legs. It took the ambulance about fifteen to twenty minutes to arrive and they seemed like the longest twenty minutes of my life. I'm not really designed to deal with crisis situations and felt like a cross between an iceberg and a swan: I was calm on the surface but seven eighths of me was below the icy water paddling in a frenzied way that felt horribly close to panic. I persuaded the girlfriend to get dressed and get her bag and phone etc so that she could be ready to leave with the ambulance, anything to keep her busy and stop her from trying to touch or move him. I had very strange conversations with them both, what with him lieing on the floor and her running around topless. I tried to keep them talking to keep her calm and him conscious, I've forgotten the details of what we talked about but wouldn't be surprised if I asked what their first pets were, their favourite colours and if money was no object where they'd go for a dream holiday. I have never been so pleased to see blue flashing lights in my life and was happy to let the paramedics take charge.
Back home, my tea was getting cold and my precious morning routine was irretrievably ruined. This resulted in me setting the microwave incorrectly, so got back from my walk to find my porridge had boiled all over the microwave and I had to have muesli for breakfast, I left the house late so got snarled up in traffic, I forgot my diary which I find very unnerving and for the rest of the day every spare second I had I kept remembering the sound of the fall and the almost inhuman cries that followed and could picture that poor man lieing on the floor. A really rubbish day.
However it could have been so much worse, as it turned out that my neighbour was not seriously injured, he spent the day at hospital being checked out but was home that evening. He had hurt his elbow and was sore all over, but other than that fine. So that night I was happy and relived as I cleaned the cold congealed porridge out of the microwave. Yes my day hadn't started very well, but had ended OK. I had met my new neighbours, even if the circumstances hadn't been ideal and I had seen a lot more of them than is normal at a first meeting but they were both uninjured and seemed very pleasant, despite the lack of pyjamas, I had a sparkling clean microwave and they had bought me a lovely box of chocolates as a thank you. So in the words of the bard,
"All's well that ends well".
Tuesday, 3 November 2015
Petrol, Atticus Finch and Tescos
I'm sure I've heard that one is supposed to learn from mistakes; that the word mistake is in fact a Swahili one which when translated into English means lesson, actually I may have just made that bit up. But I'm sure that if you do something that you regret you should make changes so that you don't make the same mistake again.
Well not me, once I make a mistake it seems to establish a pattern of behaviour that I then keep repeating. I have now made the same mistake three times and am worried that this hat-trick means that this mistake has become a habit now. Admittedly the three errors have occurred over a twenty year time period, but a pattern is a pattern even if it happens over ten year cycles, the latest of which happened yesterday.
You see yesterday I knew that I was getting low on petrol, so headed to the petrol station. It was unusually busy so I had to queue for a free pump. Eventually my turn arrived and I filled the tank with unleaded, fastened the cap, I grabbed my handbag and went into the kiosk to pay. As soon as I reached into my bag to get my purse out I realised my mistake. The purse was there OK, but without even looking I knew that it didn't contain my debit card. I knew this as I knew for sure that the card was in my pocket, in my jacket....at home. The same as had happened the other two occasions. I'd taken my card out with me the previous day and hadn't wanted to take my purse or bag so just slipped the card in my pocket. Seemed like a good idea at the time but not such a good idea when I realised that, although I had my purse, I couldnt pay for my petrol.
The first time I did it I was living in Surrey and explained to the cashier what I'd done and offered to leave my wallet at the garage whilst I nipped home to get my card. Luckily she agreed to this. If she'd have looked in the wallet the attendant would have found my kidney donor card and library card, so pretty good collateral, as although only offal a human kidney must be worth at least a tank of petrol. The second time, I had to fill out a form before I dashed off to get some money. Yesterday, I knew I had a twenty pound note in my purse, the only trouble was I'd taken thirty three pounds fifty six worth of petrol. As I queued I started to try and surreptitiously count out the coins I had to see if I had enough money. This plan failed when I managed to drop all my loose change over the floor. I crawled around trying to retrieve all the bits of shrapnel, no copper too small or insignificant to be searched for. It was nearly my turn at the till and by my rough reckoning I was only a few pence short. I wasn't yet at the front of the queue but already had everyone's attention.
I got to the till and with mounting shame and embarrassment explained my predicament to the cashier and in turn to the rest of the queue. I explained that I had some money with me and she kindly offered to count it for me. It's amazing how long it takes to count thirty three pounds out when thirteen pounds of it are loose change and when you are shrivelling up inside from humiliation and the queue of people behind you is getting longer and longer.
It turned out that I was just five pence short, five little pennies that spelt the difference between me being a law abiding citizen and a thief. Five pence that meant that instead of carrying on with my day I would instead have to go to the police station and the rest of the day would be spent trying to wash the ink off my hands after being finger printed. I was busy imagining myself playing a staring role on Crimewatch, my face plastered on western style Wanted posters and standing in court with Rumpole trying to defend my indefensible actions, being prosecuted by Atticus Finch and sentenced by Judge Dred. In fact I was so busy imagining the worst I barely heard the cashier telling me that she'd let me off the five pence. When her words did sink in I felt huge relief and gratitude, winning the lottery could not have felt any better. I stammered my thanks and slunk away, making the walk of shame back along the queue and across the garage forecourt.
So unfortunately I don't seem to learn from my mistakes and have become a serial offender. But once again the Porthtowan One walks free, all thanks to a very kind lady at Redruth Tescos petrol station, just goes to show, every little really does help.
Well not me, once I make a mistake it seems to establish a pattern of behaviour that I then keep repeating. I have now made the same mistake three times and am worried that this hat-trick means that this mistake has become a habit now. Admittedly the three errors have occurred over a twenty year time period, but a pattern is a pattern even if it happens over ten year cycles, the latest of which happened yesterday.
You see yesterday I knew that I was getting low on petrol, so headed to the petrol station. It was unusually busy so I had to queue for a free pump. Eventually my turn arrived and I filled the tank with unleaded, fastened the cap, I grabbed my handbag and went into the kiosk to pay. As soon as I reached into my bag to get my purse out I realised my mistake. The purse was there OK, but without even looking I knew that it didn't contain my debit card. I knew this as I knew for sure that the card was in my pocket, in my jacket....at home. The same as had happened the other two occasions. I'd taken my card out with me the previous day and hadn't wanted to take my purse or bag so just slipped the card in my pocket. Seemed like a good idea at the time but not such a good idea when I realised that, although I had my purse, I couldnt pay for my petrol.
The first time I did it I was living in Surrey and explained to the cashier what I'd done and offered to leave my wallet at the garage whilst I nipped home to get my card. Luckily she agreed to this. If she'd have looked in the wallet the attendant would have found my kidney donor card and library card, so pretty good collateral, as although only offal a human kidney must be worth at least a tank of petrol. The second time, I had to fill out a form before I dashed off to get some money. Yesterday, I knew I had a twenty pound note in my purse, the only trouble was I'd taken thirty three pounds fifty six worth of petrol. As I queued I started to try and surreptitiously count out the coins I had to see if I had enough money. This plan failed when I managed to drop all my loose change over the floor. I crawled around trying to retrieve all the bits of shrapnel, no copper too small or insignificant to be searched for. It was nearly my turn at the till and by my rough reckoning I was only a few pence short. I wasn't yet at the front of the queue but already had everyone's attention.
I got to the till and with mounting shame and embarrassment explained my predicament to the cashier and in turn to the rest of the queue. I explained that I had some money with me and she kindly offered to count it for me. It's amazing how long it takes to count thirty three pounds out when thirteen pounds of it are loose change and when you are shrivelling up inside from humiliation and the queue of people behind you is getting longer and longer.
It turned out that I was just five pence short, five little pennies that spelt the difference between me being a law abiding citizen and a thief. Five pence that meant that instead of carrying on with my day I would instead have to go to the police station and the rest of the day would be spent trying to wash the ink off my hands after being finger printed. I was busy imagining myself playing a staring role on Crimewatch, my face plastered on western style Wanted posters and standing in court with Rumpole trying to defend my indefensible actions, being prosecuted by Atticus Finch and sentenced by Judge Dred. In fact I was so busy imagining the worst I barely heard the cashier telling me that she'd let me off the five pence. When her words did sink in I felt huge relief and gratitude, winning the lottery could not have felt any better. I stammered my thanks and slunk away, making the walk of shame back along the queue and across the garage forecourt.
So unfortunately I don't seem to learn from my mistakes and have become a serial offender. But once again the Porthtowan One walks free, all thanks to a very kind lady at Redruth Tescos petrol station, just goes to show, every little really does help.
Tuesday, 27 October 2015
Bats, vampires and pumpkin soup
Halloween is fast approaching and I have a skeleton in the closet that I need to lay to rest. Whilst nearly every one else is excitedly planning their fancy dress costumes, which scary movie they are going to watch and what ghoulish tricks they are going to play on each other, I'm just waiting for the whole thing to be over. You see I don't really like Halloween or the horrors it entails. So here's my list of nine reasons why Halloween and I don't get on.
- I don't like being frightened. Other people seem to find being scared thrilling, but I just don't get it. I've tried to watch horror films many times and have either bottled out a few minutes in, often before the title scene has finished, or have regretted it for months after. I think that I have only ever watched 4 frightening films all the way through; Salem's Lot, Con Air, Carrie and Scream, all of them have given me nightmares for weeks, and in the case of Con Air I've had bad dreams for years. I reckon that there must be a gene, which I'm lacking, that's responsible for the enjoyment of fear. It's a well known fact that nature abhors a vacuum so instead of the scary appreciation gene I was given an extra ah! what a cute puppy gene.
- I'm allergic to cats so the iconic black cat of Halloween really is an evil omen to me as when one comes near I start sneezing.
- For years I've bought sweets in the expectation of trick or treaters calling only for none to come knocking, so I've been left with a load of cheap sweets I don't really like. For the last couple of years I've bought chocolates that I enjoy instead. So if any trick or treater's call this year they'll be offered dark chocolates with sour cherries, I'm not sure how popular these will be with kids though.
- I'm not keen on spiders, severed limbs, ectoplasm and call me fussy but zombies and the living dead leave me cold.
- If I hear the noise of a door creaking eerily on its hinges, as a candle splutters and an owl hoots, I am tempted to reach for the WD-40 and turn the electric light on rather than go looking for the phantom who is probably lurking in the cellar.
- I'm confused also about when vampires became so sexy and often goodies in modern media portrayals. I'm sure that Bram Stoker's Dracula would be turning in his, well his coffin if he could see how vampires have become the stars and often heroes of teen dramas and literature.
- Orange and lime green really aren't my colours.
- Werewolves? Unlikely, to say the least. In fact when I think about it I'm not convinced about ghosts, goblins, ghouls or Frankenstein either.
- Bats are really cute and not the evil creatures they are made out to be. One flew into my living room the other day when I had the patio doors open, it swooped around the room a couple of times then headed upstairs. I followed it up to the bedroom and after a couple of circuits of the room it alighted on my bedside cabinet and I was able to get a good look at it. It had brown fur, was bigger than I thought it would be and although looked very elegant when in flight whilst it was trying to pull itself across my cupboard it looked most ungainly. I opened the bedroom windows and it soon found its way out.
So this Halloween I won't be getting my ouija board out, or heading down to the graveyard at midnight dressed in a sheet with eyeholes cut in. But be reassured I'm not a complete killjoy, I'll probably get a pumpkin to make some soup and may well serve it with garlic bread, just to ward off the vampires you understand.
Tuesday, 20 October 2015
Squirrels, Zebedee and Freddy Krueger.
This week Billy dog has been getting in touch with his inner squirrel. He has decided that he likes nuts which he gathers from underneath trees. It started with hazel nuts a few weeks ago which he crunches up to get the nut out, discarding the shell, and now he has discovered chestnuts. Again he chews up the tough brown skin, which he spits out to get to the kernal inside. He's becoming a bit nut obsessed, like Scrat from Ice Age he's always on the look out for them and refuses to let me prise them out from his tightly clenched jaws. It was when I got home after a walk where he'd been eating nuts and checked online, that I found that acorns and beech nuts can be toxic to dogs. I'm not really sure how discerning he is, so I think I'm going to have to discourage all nut eating from now on. It won't be easy though as it's the time of year when natures bounty comes raining down from the trees. The woodland floors are littered with hazel nuts, acorns, beech, chestnuts and conkers and I have one greedy little dog who although he likes meat and bones seems to be toying with the idea of becoming a vegan, like his squirrel mates.
Generally when we go for woodland walks he is on the alert looking out for squirrels and if he thinks that he has heard or smelt one he takes off through the undergrowth in hot pursuit. If he knows that there is a squirrel up a particular tree he practically tries to climb up to catch it, bouncing off the ground like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. He's never got near catching one though. Unlike my sisters dog Ceilidh (pronounced Kayley...yes I know, but that's my sister for you. Can you imagine the various names the dog gets called at the vets! I always like to spell the name differently, as if it's not spelt strangely enough).
My Mum and sister took Keilijh out on one occassion and she was chasing after every pesky little rodent she spotted. My Mum was worried about her catching one, as our cousins dog was bitten by a squirrel and lost his toe as a result, so Mum kept trying to call Cmayligh back. My sister assured her that Khazum would never catch one. Famous last words, no sooner had she said it than the dog catches the end of a squirrels tail and flips it up in the air. Apparently there are 44 breeds of flying squirrels, well this one wasn't officially one of them but by all accounts it did a pretty good impersonation. The story goes that the squirrel did some aeronautical gymnastics that the Red Arrows would have been proud of before landing neatly, pausing to get its breath back and then scuttling up a tree, none the worse for its encounter and no doubt still dining out on the tale. I'm not sure who was more surprised Mum, my sister, the dog or the squirrel.
I've just remembered another dog versus squirrel incident that happened in my family. When I was young we had a spaniel called Suzy and like most dogs she liked to chase squirrels. One autumn day we were walking through a wooded area when we came upon a squirrel ahead of us on the path. Suzy took off after it and for a few seconds the squirrel took flight, suddenly though it changed its mind, stopped and turned to face the dog. Suzy immediately put the brakes on and came to a skidding hault just in front of its twitching whiskers. Dog and squirrel stood and stared at each other just inches apart. We stood watching expecting a squirrel massacre any second, a Freddy Krueger moment, or quite literally a nightmare on elm street. I suspect that the squirrels life flashed before its eyes: it probably remembered snuggling with its litter mates in the drey; possibly it looked back fondly on its first excursion onto the forest floor and learnt what a rich larder it was and maybe it thought about its own children waiting in the nest for him. It was a tense moment but then Suzy, upset that the squirrel wasn't playing by the rules, tucked her tail between her legs and scuttled back to us whimpering.
So in my family, despite what you might expect, it's squirrels 4, dogs 0. The natural order has been reversed but despite this the world keeps turning, night still follows day, toast still falls butter side down onto the carpet and the thing that you have lost is still always found in the last place you look. I guess this is all a long winded way of saying that the world won't end if you do something unexpected or unpredictable, in fact it might turn out surprisingly well. If you're still unsure then ask a squirrel.
Generally when we go for woodland walks he is on the alert looking out for squirrels and if he thinks that he has heard or smelt one he takes off through the undergrowth in hot pursuit. If he knows that there is a squirrel up a particular tree he practically tries to climb up to catch it, bouncing off the ground like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. He's never got near catching one though. Unlike my sisters dog Ceilidh (pronounced Kayley...yes I know, but that's my sister for you. Can you imagine the various names the dog gets called at the vets! I always like to spell the name differently, as if it's not spelt strangely enough).
My Mum and sister took Keilijh out on one occassion and she was chasing after every pesky little rodent she spotted. My Mum was worried about her catching one, as our cousins dog was bitten by a squirrel and lost his toe as a result, so Mum kept trying to call Cmayligh back. My sister assured her that Khazum would never catch one. Famous last words, no sooner had she said it than the dog catches the end of a squirrels tail and flips it up in the air. Apparently there are 44 breeds of flying squirrels, well this one wasn't officially one of them but by all accounts it did a pretty good impersonation. The story goes that the squirrel did some aeronautical gymnastics that the Red Arrows would have been proud of before landing neatly, pausing to get its breath back and then scuttling up a tree, none the worse for its encounter and no doubt still dining out on the tale. I'm not sure who was more surprised Mum, my sister, the dog or the squirrel.
I've just remembered another dog versus squirrel incident that happened in my family. When I was young we had a spaniel called Suzy and like most dogs she liked to chase squirrels. One autumn day we were walking through a wooded area when we came upon a squirrel ahead of us on the path. Suzy took off after it and for a few seconds the squirrel took flight, suddenly though it changed its mind, stopped and turned to face the dog. Suzy immediately put the brakes on and came to a skidding hault just in front of its twitching whiskers. Dog and squirrel stood and stared at each other just inches apart. We stood watching expecting a squirrel massacre any second, a Freddy Krueger moment, or quite literally a nightmare on elm street. I suspect that the squirrels life flashed before its eyes: it probably remembered snuggling with its litter mates in the drey; possibly it looked back fondly on its first excursion onto the forest floor and learnt what a rich larder it was and maybe it thought about its own children waiting in the nest for him. It was a tense moment but then Suzy, upset that the squirrel wasn't playing by the rules, tucked her tail between her legs and scuttled back to us whimpering.
So in my family, despite what you might expect, it's squirrels 4, dogs 0. The natural order has been reversed but despite this the world keeps turning, night still follows day, toast still falls butter side down onto the carpet and the thing that you have lost is still always found in the last place you look. I guess this is all a long winded way of saying that the world won't end if you do something unexpected or unpredictable, in fact it might turn out surprisingly well. If you're still unsure then ask a squirrel.
Tuesday, 13 October 2015
Strictly Come Dancing, Margaret Thatcher and sandals
"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven" (Ecclesiastes 3:1)
This is one of my favourite Bible quotes and always seems appropriate at this rather melancholy time of the year as we start to move towards winter. Autumn is finally, definately here. I know that officially it started a few weeks ago but for me it has now undeniably arrived.
You might be wondering what has brought me to this realisation. What were the telltale signs that drew me to this conclusion? Maybe I should have realised sooner: the leaves changing colour and drifting to the ground like golden confetti; The Great British Bake Off ending (go Nadia!) and Strictly Come Dancing re-starting; the sloe gin is steeping so that it will be ready for Christmas; the mornings and evenings getting darker; Halloween goods appearing in the shops; going to a cafe and fancying hot chocolate instead of iced tea; getting a flu jab and buying some Lem-sip just in case; people firing up their central heating and lighting their log burners and the general drop in temperature should all have given me a clue. For me though the definite sign that summer is over is that I bought a pair of sandals.
The rest of the northern hemisphere is probably buying boots at this time of year but like the fashion magazines I always plan for a couple of seasons ahead. It's not that I am organised but rather that I am a cheapskate. I wait to buy my summer sandals for the following year till right at the end of the sale so that I know that the price isn't going to be reduced any further and that way bag myself a bargain. So ok this does mean that I occasionally have to jam my feet into shoes that are too small if they've sold out of my size and yes I am always wearing last years styles in some unusual colours but as I am not exactly a fashionista I don't care. So for me Spring starts when I buy next winters boots, summer begins when I get the following Easters pastel Mary-Janes and Autumn begins with the purchase of flip flops and sandals.
I've been thinking a bit about time passing and the cyclical nature of history recently. Not just because of my bargain sandals but because of the new job that I've just started. You see I've got a job back in the secondary school I attended when I was a teenager. It seems really strange to be back there, its familiar in many ways but also so different from how I remember. The basic structure of the building is the same and familiar, there have been some new additions and some of the rooms have moved around, but most of it is as I remember.
It's the people who have all changed. I walk around the corner of a corridor and expect to see my friends waiting to meet me after lessons, but there are strange young people there, kids waiting for their own mates. Teens wearing blazers and ties who look way smarter than we ever did. When we attended the school the uniform was much more lax and as long as you wore something vaguely blue you passed inspection. They also now seem so much more confident and assured than I ever felt, maybe this is down to bravado but I hope not. These pupils are noisy, enthusiastic and so full of potential and looking back I think that I was probably like that at their age too, what happened to that energy and passion I wonder. I remember sneaking into the 6th form common room after lessons one day to put up CND and anti Reagan and Thatcher posters, convinced and passionate about my political beliefs. This year in contrast I had trouble deciding who to vote for in the General Election. So maybe it isn't the school that has changed, maybe it's me.
So Autumn is here, a time to reflect and take stock. A time to make soup and stews and buy t-shirts and sandals, a time to remember being young and to try and resurrect some of the passions I felt then, a time to put on wellies and walk through the woods kicking up leaves.
I started this post with a quote from the Bible and I'd like end it with another quote, not the Bible this time, but Elton John via The Lion King.
" From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
In the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round".
Autumn is here but I have sandals ready for next summer, thus the circle of life goes on.
This is one of my favourite Bible quotes and always seems appropriate at this rather melancholy time of the year as we start to move towards winter. Autumn is finally, definately here. I know that officially it started a few weeks ago but for me it has now undeniably arrived.
You might be wondering what has brought me to this realisation. What were the telltale signs that drew me to this conclusion? Maybe I should have realised sooner: the leaves changing colour and drifting to the ground like golden confetti; The Great British Bake Off ending (go Nadia!) and Strictly Come Dancing re-starting; the sloe gin is steeping so that it will be ready for Christmas; the mornings and evenings getting darker; Halloween goods appearing in the shops; going to a cafe and fancying hot chocolate instead of iced tea; getting a flu jab and buying some Lem-sip just in case; people firing up their central heating and lighting their log burners and the general drop in temperature should all have given me a clue. For me though the definite sign that summer is over is that I bought a pair of sandals.
The rest of the northern hemisphere is probably buying boots at this time of year but like the fashion magazines I always plan for a couple of seasons ahead. It's not that I am organised but rather that I am a cheapskate. I wait to buy my summer sandals for the following year till right at the end of the sale so that I know that the price isn't going to be reduced any further and that way bag myself a bargain. So ok this does mean that I occasionally have to jam my feet into shoes that are too small if they've sold out of my size and yes I am always wearing last years styles in some unusual colours but as I am not exactly a fashionista I don't care. So for me Spring starts when I buy next winters boots, summer begins when I get the following Easters pastel Mary-Janes and Autumn begins with the purchase of flip flops and sandals.
I've been thinking a bit about time passing and the cyclical nature of history recently. Not just because of my bargain sandals but because of the new job that I've just started. You see I've got a job back in the secondary school I attended when I was a teenager. It seems really strange to be back there, its familiar in many ways but also so different from how I remember. The basic structure of the building is the same and familiar, there have been some new additions and some of the rooms have moved around, but most of it is as I remember.
It's the people who have all changed. I walk around the corner of a corridor and expect to see my friends waiting to meet me after lessons, but there are strange young people there, kids waiting for their own mates. Teens wearing blazers and ties who look way smarter than we ever did. When we attended the school the uniform was much more lax and as long as you wore something vaguely blue you passed inspection. They also now seem so much more confident and assured than I ever felt, maybe this is down to bravado but I hope not. These pupils are noisy, enthusiastic and so full of potential and looking back I think that I was probably like that at their age too, what happened to that energy and passion I wonder. I remember sneaking into the 6th form common room after lessons one day to put up CND and anti Reagan and Thatcher posters, convinced and passionate about my political beliefs. This year in contrast I had trouble deciding who to vote for in the General Election. So maybe it isn't the school that has changed, maybe it's me.
So Autumn is here, a time to reflect and take stock. A time to make soup and stews and buy t-shirts and sandals, a time to remember being young and to try and resurrect some of the passions I felt then, a time to put on wellies and walk through the woods kicking up leaves.
I started this post with a quote from the Bible and I'd like end it with another quote, not the Bible this time, but Elton John via The Lion King.
" From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
In the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round".
Autumn is here but I have sandals ready for next summer, thus the circle of life goes on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)