More party games

Another party game for you if you’re planning a children’s party (which could also be enjoyed by adults).

You will need:

• A large leakproof container
• Several medium sized semi-opaque/transparent  leakproof containers
• Empty yoghurt cartons/plastic cups
• Metal skewer
• Water
• Marker pen
• Food colouring in a few different colours

This might seem like a strange list.  Seeing the game in action may help.  It may not.  The first part of this video shows the game, the last bit perhaps just gives you another idea for entertaining children on a hot day.

The aim of the game is for teams to move water from one large container to the team container.  The team to move the most water in the time available wins.

There is a catch.  To move the water the players must use plastic cups or old yoghurt pots or similar that have been punctured.  I’ve found the best way to put holes in the plastic is to use an old skewer that’s been heated in a flame (I used the hob).  Hold the skewer with over gloves over a flame and then skewer the cups/pots.

The food colouring is put into the team containers to make seeing the level of the water more obvious.  This is also why the team containers need to be transparent or semi-opaque.  The marker pen is to mark the height that must be achieved first by the winning team.

The number of different items you will need will depend on how many children you have playing the game.

Children will get quite wet playing this game.  There will be lots of screaming and giggling.   Not recommended for playing indoors.

Slow down!

Driving along M11 and we going fast-ish. I spot a police van on a bridge. It's one of the ones marked with "Driving casualties down" and with blacked out windows disguising speed camera equipment.
I say " Slow down. Police van!"
We needed a significant speed reduction and after a couple of seconds we'd dropped just a few miles per hour.
I repeated myself a little louder "SLOW DOWN!" and the reply came back "I don't want to be too obvious." *rolls eyes*

Birthday presents

Dave’s birthday is on the horizon.  We had a chat about what he might want for his birthday and he didn’t want an iPad.  Which sort of left me stumped.

I decided that I should go down the experiences route.  Last year a trial flying lesson went down very well so I started to think along similar lines but veering either towards vintage aircraft or a helicopter.  I know he wants to fly in a Spitfire but I’ve searched and that’s never going to happen.  There’s one plane that’s suitable, it’s at Duxford and doesn’t do pleasure flights (except for Radio 4 presenters).

I couldn’t decide between classic craft or helicopters so I decided that surprises were over-rated and asked Dave what he would prefer.  After much protesting about cost, and when pressed, he came down in favour of helicopters but he also said he might like a family day out at, say, a Duxford airshow.

So, at 11:00pm today we decided that tomorrow we’re off to Duxford.  My treat.  It’s the Battle of Britain Air Show and there will be many Spitfires, the Red Arrows, some Hurricanes, an F16, and on, and on…

Inheritance

We all inherit from our parents.
Physically I've got everything from my mum. Height, weight, hair colour (before the peroxide), body shape, temperament (except I'm less likeable) and the way we looked. Were it not for the 36 year age difference and the fact that my mum is dead, we could pass for sisters.
My inheritance from my dad is different. He liked words and so do I. He like maths and engineering and that's what I enjoyed at school too (maths and physics in my case). But primarily I think his lasting legacy was the inability to throw things away "because they might come in handy." Neither of us come close to Mr Trebus (BBC Life of Grime) but my house is full of things that others would discard without batting an eyelid.
Dad used to keep broken radios in case he needed to mend a radio in the future. I'm not sure it occurred to him he kept broken radios but never fixed one (or at least not to my knowledge).
I have chargers for old mobile phones and computer peripherals that are years old. I'll never use them but I can't bring myself to throw them away. I've got old 35mm cameras (notice the plural). I have a box of darkroom equipment that hasn't been used for over 20 years.
I have loads of tut that I know is just taking up space. When I say I can't help myself, I really can't. It's genetic.

Guilt

I'm sitting in the garden, in the sun blogging on my phone.
It's Thursday and normally I'd do some work today (if three and a half hours counts, and those of you who are thinking "No it doesn't", I know who you are). But because this week started in the school holidays I'm working my school holiday hours which is same hours different pattern. Any woman trying to juggle being a part time stay at home mum with a part time job will understand. The rest of the population won't.
I can see from here the list of jobs I could be doing. The garden needs weeding, the gutters need clearing, the ivy needs cutting back and then there's the never ending list of things that need doing inside the house.
I know that there will be very few of these warm sunny days left this year and I know I'll regret not making the most of the last few days of summer. So I'm sitting down and relaxing and blogging and... And I feel guilty. But I'm still sat here. I can live with guilt.

So sweet

Yesterday I gave Ethan the challenge of clearing out of his bedroom the clothes that didn’t fit anymore.  It took a while.

When Ethan finally came downstairs I was delighted.  His arms were laden with clothes.  I imagined the empty space that would have been created and could see how much easier Ethan would find it to keep his clothes tidy.  “Well done Ethan” I said, “Are all of those too small?”

“No.  These are the ones I want to keep.”

There then followed an exchange in which I, belatedly, explained the rules of a wardrobe clearout, namely that the retained clothes stay in the wardrobe.  Ethan then told me that he’d only found one thing that was too small for him and that was his old karate gi and he wanted to keep that.  I knew this wasn’t the case but assumed Ethan’s tolerance for what fits and what doesn’t just needed calibrating.

The next day when I walked into Ethan’s room there was a huge, crumpled, messy mound of clothing in the middle of the floor.  Ethan isn’t very good at clothes folding and putting away so I seized the opportunity to calibrate.  It was then the truth came out.  Ethan had found clothes that didn’t fit him but he hadn’t wanted them to be packed up for the charity shop because, in his words, “I want to keep them for when I get married and I have children.”

So sweet.

Gagging for a drink

We had a day out today and had such a good time we left later than I’d planned to get home.  Normally this wouldn’t be a problem but today Mr Tesco was due to deliver between five o’clock and seven.  We pulled into our road less than five seconds before the Tesco truck.  Phew!

We made it to the front door, via the back door, before the doorbell was pushed.  Mr Tesco advised on product availability and then said “I’ve just seen something, and you’re not going to be happy.”  I enquired further and he said he’d show me later.  Now there may be some of you who are imagining a desperate housewife scenario.  You haven’t seen Mr Tesco but it was Friday evening and Friday evening has to have a particular ingredient: gin.

The problem was that my personal grocery shopper (the people with the massive trolleys) had omitted to remove the security tag from my gin.  Not good.  Not good at all.

I asked Mr Tesco how to remove the tag and he suggested a magnet.  We tried that and it didn’t work so he amended his suggestion to “electro-magnet”.  I’m not even sure he knew what he was talking about but, even though I do have an idea, I was struggling to think of anything in the house that might do the job.  Mr Tesco then asked if I had a hacksaw.  Funnily enough, I do.
Hannah ran and retrieved my toolbox, in which there is a junior hacksaw.

Mr Tesco disappeared through the front door with my gin bottle and my hacksaw.  Our front wall was his workbench and a few minutes later my bottle was free of its tag.  And here it is.  The lines are saw marks.

I have a gin right next to me.  Thank you Mr Tesco.

It’s OK, I’ve stopped being angry

I was angry.  In fact I was furious.  Actually I had reached boiling point but, at the time, I stayed mute.  Those of you who know me will know that’s unusual behaviour for me.

I’m sure all of you have been in this situation, but maybe you aren’t as volatile as me.

We were in the car.  Dave was driving, I was a passenger and the children were sat in the back.  We were joining the A2 and as we sped down the slip road, the driver of the lorry in the inside lane didn’t move over to allow us to join the carriageway.  Dave slowed a little but as our slip road was running out we were still travelling very fast with a huge lorry to our right.

I knew Dave knew what he was doing.  I knew he’d seen the truck and the rational Ann knew there wasn’t a problem.  But there’s another Ann over whom I have no control. 

Subconscious Ann flinched with a sharp intake of breath but I said nothing.

Immediately Dave started at me with “What?! What’s your problem?  I knew the truck was there but I was watching to make sure the guy behind me didn’t hit me and I didn’t hit the truck.  What?!”  This is an approximation of Angry Dave resenting my unconscious reaction.

I said nothing but I was seething.  I was furious.  I was “locked jaw/clamped teeth” angry.  I think you get the picture.

We drove to our destination in silence and when we arrived, and when the children were out of earshot, we had words, and we’re now fine.

But it wasn’t nice.

The wool game

I’ve been meaning to post this for a while, but life got in the way.

This is a party game, but equally could be used to keep any number of children occupied for a while without the need for a party.  It has its origins with my husband and parties that he had as a child.  The game may be older and be a game that was played by my mother-in-law when she was small.

It’s also a very adaptable game.  I describe it using wool but nobody knits these days so, although I have organised this game using wool, I have also substituted ribbon.  I’m sure you can think of other variants too.

Collect scraps of wool in different colours.  Cut each colour into several six inch lengths.  The number of lengths will determine the duration of the game.

Save one length for each of the colours.  Hide the rest of the lengths of wool in the garden, or house, or wherever you’re playing the game.  Give each player one of the lengths that you set aside.  If you weren’t able to collect many different colours or you have a lot of party guests you may want teams to play this game instead of individuals.

Players are then sent off on a treasure hunt to find the remaining pieces of wool that match the one they were given.

Prizes can be given for each piece of wool found (maybe a sweet for each piece) or you could have a slightly bigger prize for the child finding all of their pieces of wool first.  Or you could combine these two so that everyone gets something but there is also a winner.

You can’t beat a good treasure hunt.

A lesson in writing

Hannah has been encouraged to keep a diary over the summer holiday to improve her handwriting and force familiarity with the creative process.
To prove this is not impossible I'll be writing about yesterday.
Friday was the wettest Friday since records began. Perhaps it was wetter than that, wetter than the day after Noah finished building his ark.
We needed a wet weather activity and settled on the grimmest, greyest activity that would match the weather: a slate mine tour.
I can see you're thinking that this was going to be a barrel of laughs.
The journey there was wet, cloudy, grey and twisty-turny. We were clearly very committed to the idea of learning about slate because it took us an hour and a half to get there. The children were blissfully unaware of the times we weren't paying attention to the satnav and had to do a u-turn, because they were watching Shrek 2 on the in-car entertainment system.
By the time we arrived it was lunchtime so we sat in the car, which was parked in a puddle, and ate our packed lunch.
Having driven for 90 minutes we decided the full monty tour was in order and started queueing for the Deep Mine tour.
We donned our attractive hard hats and descended via cable railway into the depths. The tour took us through ten caverns explaining that boys as young as 12 went underground to work by candlelight. We were told about the community and how slate mining fitted into that community.
My favourite cavern was number nine. It was cathedral-like in its dimensions and had its very own lake. Beautiful.
After coming up the cable railway for air, we moved on to the Tramway tour. This took us on some original tramlines down to a couple more caverns (of which there are over 200). The children loved the fairground excitement afforded by the rickety tram journey and we learnt more about the different jobs that were undertaken underground, and later above ground where we saw slate being split and edges neatened. The team were producing thick 10mm slate for a Scottish Heritage project while we were there.
After the grimness of underground life we surfaced for a quick cup of tea and a look around the mock mining village that was created for our education and entertainment. Needless to say the biggest draw was the old fashioned sweet shop but, if we'd had more time, and realised it was there, the pub could have taken more of our time.
The rain was unremitting and our drive back was simply the reverse of our morning trip. We did stop for supplies in Waitrose though (yes, Wales has Waitrose) and bought parental sustenance by way of gin, lime and tonic. Child sustenance took the form of pizza and apple juice.
We returned to base tired but pleased with the day's adventure.

An unaffordable memory

How many of you remember Pick and Park/Pick Your Own from your childhood?  Who doesn’t recall eating more than you took home?  Well I suggest you hang on to those memories before they start fading.

It was a few years ago that I discovered our local Farm Shop.  I’ll allow myself to give them a name check – Calcott Farm Shop in Brentwood.  Over the last few years they seem to have been doing really well, enough to require, and be able to afford, extensions to the building and an increased product range.

For the last couple of years I’ve been recapturing my childhood by taking Hannah, and Ethan fruit picking at Calcott.  We’ve come home with delicious strawberries, the best raspberries in the world ever, gooseberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants.  Calcott call it Pick Your Own but the equivalent from my childhood was Pick and Park.  Pick and Park was literally just that in the seventies.  It’s grown gradually over the years and is now a massive development called Fermoys.  I’ve just checked their website and whilst there’s a mention of their Pick and Park beginnings there’s no mention of being able to pick your own fruit now.  I might know why.

I spoke to the staff at Calcott because, despite punnets galore in the shop, there were no strawberries being picked.  In fact picking anything wasn’t an option.

They’ve had to stop the general public picking their own fruit.  The reason given is a sad reflection on the nanny state in which we live.  Health and Safety seems to be the cause, or more precisely “People who can’t take responsibility for their own actions.”

If you pick fruit you may need to reach down low or stretch up high.  You are likely to be walking on uneven ground.    That’s what farms are like.  Calcott strawberry picking though was a breeze as over the last couple of years the plants were grown on beds at hip height.  It seems though that a few people have twisted ankles and claimed and complained.

Fear of insurance claims has prompted thoughts about paved walkways amongst the fruit but the cost is prohibitive.  In addition numbers of customers prepared to get their hands dirty, or at least stained with juice, have been declining.  All in all it just seemed too much like hard work for the owners, for the customers, for everyone.

A culinary challenge

It is a well known fact that I haven’t a creative bone in my body.  I can’t draw for toffee and anything arty just intimidates me because I just can’t do it.  I even struggle with the paint your own pottery places because anything I do could be bettered by a five year old.

So here’s the thing.  The school have thrown down a challenge and I need your help.  The children have gone and got green-fingered and have successfully grown things in the school garden.  So far the produce list looks like this:

• Potatoes
• Red Onions
• Lettuce
• Strawberries
• Broad beans
• Onions
• Radishes
• Carrots
• Beetroot
• Rocket

Having grown this they teachers are obviously thinking “Now what?” and have passed the buck onto parents.  They have devised a competition.  Now I’ve read the rules over and over and nowhere does it say I can’t cheat which is why it’s perfectly acceptable for me to invite you to participate.

I (we) must create a starter and main course from the above ingredients using a maximum of five extra ingredients.  We must write down our two course menu (with recipes) and supply a drawing of what our dishes would look like.

With enough Googling I might be able to find recipes but drawing them is way beyond my capabilities.

Anyway if you fancy having a go, please, please do.  Recipes can be added as comments here and if you can submit a drawing then scanning and loading onto Picasa or Flickr with a link in comments below should work.

It may be worth pointing out here that there is no prize unless having your menu announced in assembly next Tuesday is a proud honour that you consider prize enough.  Suggestions need to be added by Sunday evening to count.

I’m counting on you.

A new approach to speeding

Every now and again I encounter a little bit of genius, and when I do, I try and share it. 

This comes from a friend of a friend’s daughter and it’s something that she experienced today.

This little girl, Abi, and her friends have been outside school today with their police force monitoring traffic speed.  If motorists were doing over 30mph they were pulled over by the police and the children were allowed to tell them how dangerous it is to speed and tell them also about the damage they could do to them or one of their friends by travelling over the speed limit.

Abi said all the drivers were really apologetic and also told the police that it really hit home having the children ask them to slow down.

Imagine how fantastic this would be if you were one of the children.  You’d get to tell grown ups off.  What a perfect day at school and what a brilliant lesson that the children would hopefully take with them into adulthood.

I think that this is truly brilliant.  And I shall be suggesting it to the local schools immediately.

The art of marriage

Amazon made a delivery today.

I love Amazon.  I could, and do, spend a fortune on the site.  Most of the time I’m buying a gadget, something to enhance my life or make my life easier.  It’s usually a purchase that will move me along the technology timeline.

Today's delivery was different though.  I bought something secretly because I knew my husband would not approve.

I bought a lawnmower, but not just any lawnmower.

You see we have a lawnmower.  It’s a Flymo something and it’s rubbish.  It gets clogged with wet grass, the blades refuse to stay sharp, the grass collector lid failed within a month of delivery, one of the power handles has snapped off, it is too heavy to be used by the children and it only has about four cutting height settings.

So I visited Amazon and found this.

It’s a Qualcast Panther 30 and it doesn’t have a plug, or a petrol tank.  It’s the ultimate green lawnmower because it’s powered by you.

Advantages as far as I’m concerned are:

• It cuts rather than tears grass
• I don’t have to faff around with extension leads
• I don’t have to worry about mowing the power lead and thus dying from electrocution
• It’s probably safe enough to be used by the children
• It has infinitely variable cutting height
• It doesn’t cost anything to run
• It takes up hardly any space when stored
• It’s beautifully simple
• It’s cheap
• It’s easy to maintain
• It’s quiet to operate

Dave, on the other hand, holds a different view.  He thinks:

• It doesn’t cut dandelions and tough grass stalks
• It’s too dangerous to be used by the children
• We now have two lawnmowers to store instead of just one
• It’s a waste of money

But that’s what marriage is all about; putting up with one another even though you don’t agree.

Race for Life

This year, on a whim, I agreed to participate in the Cancer Research Race for Life.  I didn’t plan to train and right from the start I told people I would be walking the course.  And everyone told me that was fine because it isn’t a race, it’s an event to raise money.

I did some fund-raising and when the day arrived I did feel bad that I wouldn’t be running, partly because my friends would be running and I’d like to have run with them.

I settled on a fast walk with occasional bursts of jogging.

It was a very hot and muggy day and, even at my relatively leisurely pace, it was uncomfortable.  But I completed it, and that’s the main thing.

But this blog isn’t about the walking and running, it’s about how I felt when I’d finished. 

There were so many people taking part.  So many women wearing pink or fancy dress and most with names of loved ones for whom they were running.  There were people like me who were running for people they had lost to cancer, others who were running for those who were still battling the disease and there were those who were celebrating the survivors, those who had cancer but beat it.

And I found it overwhelming and, as I sit here typing this with my aching legs, I still do.

So I recommend taking part in Race for Life.  By all means use it as a goal for keeping fit or as a means of raising funds for a valuable cause, but most of all do it to think about all those people whose lives are touched by cancer, and just pause for a minute.

And if you’d like to help support the sea of pink clad women who walked or ran today, then click here.

Naughty girl

Hannah has been complaining that her room lets in too much light in the evening, especially as we’ve now got longer daylight hours.

I completely understand.  I find it difficult to sleep in a room that’s not completely dark.  Keeping me in the dark is definitely a good policy.

So it took us a while but, even though her curtains have blackout linings, we eventually got around to buying a blackout blind.

In our experience a blackout blind still doesn’t do the job properly though as light leaks around the edges.  We have a solution and it involves wood, paint and screws to build up the edge of the window frame so that the edge of the blind is encased in a frame.

I did the painting a couple of days ago and Dave completed the job today by fitting the blind and building the frame.

Hannah seemed delighted with her darker room and we were pleased that she was pleased.

An hour and a quarter after Hannah’s bedtime we could hear small sounds coming from Hannah’s room so I decided to investigate.

As I went into Hannah’s room I saw that her new blind was rolled up about 10 inches and her curtain was propped open allowing light in.

I don’t know what she was reading but it was something by Roald Dahl.

I told her in no uncertain terms that she was naughty.  I adjusted curtain and blind, she apologised and I left her to sleep, in the dark.

Secretly though, I like the fact she’s been naughty.  I like the fact she’s sneaking a read after bedtime.  Just don’t tell her.  It would ruin my tough mum image.

I’m having a wobble.  I’m not sure, just yet, how big the wobble is but it’s disconcerting.
My wobbliness concerns education.
I went to a state school, not because I wasn’t academically capable, just because I did, and so did most of the children that grew up in the village.  There was a local-ish grammar school but it would have been two bus rides or a forty minute round trip for my working parents.
There was also a local private/public school but nobody went there.  I mean obviously some children went there but nobody in my childhood social circle.
So I’m a product of the state system.  I don’t have a chip on my shoulder about it and in fact I’m quite proud to have gone through the “Comprehensive System.”
At some point I developed an anti-private school attitude.  I’m not sure when that happened but my views probably crystallised at University.  I decided that public school was just wrong because children were being removed from their parents, and I decided that private schools were wrong because I somehow believed that those who were a product of private schools thought themselves to be better than me.
I didn’t think it was right that money could, or should, be allowed to buy privilege.
My husband went to a private school and he had an interesting experience.  There’s no doubt that his good exam results were better because of the dedication of the teachers.  But then some of the teachers' methods, were suspect.  I won’t bore you with the details but feel free to ask me about the “Dutch Oven”, “Avalanche” and “Pigs in Space.”
My husband’s experience didn’t alter my view.
And then I had children and they are currently going through the State system in a State Primary School.  But as the M&S ads used to say “This isn’t just any Primary School, this is a Church of England Primary School.” 
We’re lucky.  Our local school is a good school in a good neighbourhood with good results.  At the moment it’s all “good.”
As my children get older though my thoughts turn to secondary school.  I judge the local schools by the children I see outside school and most pupils do their school reputation a disservice.  And I remember when I walked around town with my friends and I was probably just as obnoxious, but with less make-up and fewer cigarettes.
I see the children from the local private school and they seem smarter, more polite, less loutish.  I also see the exam results.
I see that Universities are becoming stricter about entry requirements and I see State schools backed into a corner, forced to become Academies. 
I see our education system using business speak, treating children as the raw material to which value must be added.  And I wonder whether a long held principle might just be slipping from my grasp. 

Things that wind me up

This could be a long series of blogs because I seem to spend my life being wound up by things.

I know that the way to managing stress is to control the way I react to things so that they don’t wind me up, but I can’t help myself.

I’m doing an evening class at the moment and this evening I received a copy of my 2.1 Learning Charter.  Apparently I’ve agreed, somewhere, to abide by this charter.

There are things that Adult Community Learning “will make every effort to do” and there are things they “expect from me.”

They expect me to:

1.  Respect the rights of all centre users to be able to work in a co-operative manner and treat everyone with respect regardless of differences in culture, disability, learning difficulties, medical conditions, race, ethnicity, gender, age, sexual orientation, religion or social class.

2. Play an active part in challenging discriminatory behaviour by

• refusing to take part in any unacceptable activity that degrades others, such as bullying, harassment or victimisation in any form and on any grounds, whether it relates to learners or staff.  Any such behaviour will not be tolerated.
• behaving in a way that respects the needs of others to learn teach and work.

3. Comply with Health and Safety regulations

• by behaving in a way which does not put yourself or others in danger
• by not attending classes when under the influence of alcohol or illegal drugs
• by informing your tutor of any adverse impact on your behaviour resulting from prescribed medication
• by helping to keep the buildings clean and tidy

4. Attend your course regularly, make every effort to be on time for your session and bring the necessary equipment or inform your tutor where this is not possible

5. Complete a learning plan and feedback on your progress with your tutor to chart your learning

6. Keep us informed in writing of any changes in your personal details e.g. address especially telephone number and in particular your status where it affects your entitlement to any fees remission you may have been granted.

7. Help us improve our service by giving us feedback in evaluations and satisfaction questionnaires.

                                              ***

I am not going to critique this.  I just wanted to share.  But does that mean I can turn up under the influence of legal drugs?

Actually I can’t resist passing some comment.  What kind of monster do they think I am that they have to get me to agree to this code of conduct?  Do they honestly think I’ll be a a complete bloody idiot?

Why not take it further with expecting me to:

8. Not smear excrement all over the walls.

9. Not bring my pet chinchilla into class

10. Sit quietly and pay attention

11. Not throw paper aeroplanes in class

12. Not speak to anyone in the class in case they have a fear of conversation

13. Do the washing up and get the mop out

14. Not question the tutor’s authority by asking questions

15. Raise a hand to indicate a need to use the toilet.

16. Bring my own refreshments

17. Bring pencils and biros but not fountain pens because ink is dangerous and messy

Make up your own “expectations” and we can build a new list together.

I’ve just written a letter to the school.  Well both schools really as I’ve addressed it to the Heads of the Infant and Junior Schools.
There used to be a school uniform shop in nearby Shenfield.  It closed down and moved to premises that were even closer in Brentwood. 
The clothes were expensive when compared with High Street prices and the quality was poor too.  But there wasn’t a choice.  If you wanted an item bearing the school crest (demanded by the school uniform policy) then you either bought a poor quality expensive item, or went to Marks and Spencer (Or Sainsbury, Tesco or Asda) bought a cheaper item and paid the school uniform shop to embroider the school crest (at a cost of about £5).
Well now the school uniform shop has closed and relocated to an industrial estate in Basildon with opening hours roughly equivalent to office hours plus four hours on Saturday.
For me this is a minor inconvenience. 
Although I work, I don’t work full time, so I could spend 90 minutes of my free time (and about £4 in fuel) driving to buy some uniform.  Of course if I’m having an item embroidered then I’ll need two 90 minute trips (and about £8 in fuel).  There’s always the scenario that what I’ve bought might not fit which might also necessitate more than one trip, but let’s not over-complicate matters.
Imagine I work full time and imagine I don’t have a car, or perhaps I can’t drive.  That makes things a little trickier because as the shop is located at the end of an industrial estate, it isn’t well served by public transport, and yes, I’ve checked.
It’s also OK for me, because I have a computer, so I can order via the website.  Well yes except that there’s a modest charge for delivery and returns are not free.  This financial implication becomes costly if items don’t fit and need returning and re-ordering.  And the website doesn’t cater for the embroidering of items.  I could, at this point, start to regale you with tales of the poor usability of the uniform website, but you’d accuse me of being picky (which I am.)
Imagine I don’t know how to use the web, or don’t have access to the internet, or don’t have the means to buy online with a credit or debit card.
The school hasn’t sat idly by whilst this has happened. 
They have second hand uniform sales (during working hours.)
They have arranged a visit, during the school day on July 6th, enabling parents to buy direct from the school uniform supplier.  This of course doesn’t help with embroidering items, nor does it help if purchased items don’t fit as items will be purchased while the children are in lessons.
So I’ve written a letter, because it’s just one of those things for which the school will assume parents are coping and that there isn’t an issue unless someone raises their hand.
Please Miss.  Please Sir.  It’s not working.

A memo to marketing professionals

There once was a time when direct mail was king.  Then we all started to get too much of it and it became junk mail.

The problem was targeting, or lack of it.  Most of what we received wasn’t relevant to us when we received it, but companies still sent it because occasionally somebody bought a product or two.

Smart companies worked on improving both the content and targeting of direct mail when other companies just widened the net and sent more irrelevant messages to more people at the wrong time. 

Then there was e-mail, which was much cheaper than direct mail.  Smart companies moved their marketing spend to this new channel and probably achieved some great results when only a very few organisations were using e-mail for marketing purposes.

Unfortunately e-mail marketing has become spam.

I receive, on average, 60 marketing related e-mails every day.  It’s noise in the system and my six personal e-mail accounts are just a mess.  One of them has over 7,000 unread items.  I check my personal e-mail once or twice a week and I scan it, I don’t read it.  And when I say I scan it, I scan the subject line and note who e-mails are from.  Only if a message happens to be open in preview might I scan the contents.

If a company wants my attention they really will have to try a little harder.

Inconsiderate Marketing

I received a piece of e-mail marketing today from Gardening Direct.  I have no idea whether I’ve used the company before or whether they’ve bought my contact details from someone.

The subsidiary sending the e-mail was Jersey Bedding Plants and the subject of the e-mail was “Impatiens for less than 6p each!”  For those unfamiliar with the Latin names for plants this can be translated as “Bizzie Lizzies for less than 6p each!”  For those who haven’t a green finger at all on their person this can be translated as “Colourful flowers for less than 6p each!”

I haven’t planted any bedding plants this year and, even though I was tidying up the ridiculous amount of marketing e-mail I receive, I opened the e-mail and became a statistic for “Open rate.”

As I scrolled down the e-mail I saw this:

I was furious.  I was insulted.  I was incandescent with rage.  OK that maybe over-calling it but I do like the word incandescent.

You might wonder why I had such a strong reaction. 

I was annoyed, not because I don’t have a mother, but because Mother’s Day was in MARCH.

How dare they send me a piece of marketing that hasn’t been checked properly?

This isn’t a tiny typo error, it’s a big pink banner!

I wanted to point out the error to someone so I hit reply knowing that the e-mail probably wouldn’t go back to its source.

So I clicked on the big pink banner to see whether it linked to current content or a website error page.  It worked so I found the Contact Us button and wrote another e-mail, this time to an e-mail address that should have worked.  But it didn’t.

So, because Gardening Direct, their subsidiary Jersey Bedding Plants and the company behind the big pink banner, Flying Flowers, have insulted me with their careless marketing, and don’t even have the good grace to allow me to complain via e-mail, their chosen method of communicating with me, I have shared my pain with you.

Rant over.  Thank you.  I feel better now.

How, when, why?

I drove past something that looked very much like this today.

And my first thought was, how do they do that?  I mean is it a blowtorch, a welding thingy, a firework or Semtex?

And my next thought was, when do they do that?  I mean I’m guessing the culprit has been caught by the camera.

If you know the camera flashed and you think that will result in a ticket then do you wait, or do you just get angry and take it out on the camera anyway? 

Do you get the ticket and react or do you contest the ticket and lose your appeal before you resort to vandalism?

And my final thought was, why do they do that?  I mean what does it achieve?

If it’s revenge then it’s short-lived and actually comes back to you because taxes pay for the replacement.  If it’s protection from being caught again then it’s only a temporary solution because at some point it will be fixed.

I did wonder whether people believe that immediate arson would destroy the evidence, which is an interesting thought.  Are they really cameras that store the images in the yellow box or have they developed a system where the images can be transmitted or collected remotely?

If you’ve ever destroyed a Gatso then please tell me how, when and why.

Bovvered

I really shouldn’t bother should I?

This evening my husband asked me “Can I get you anything?”

I was in a grumpy mood.  The day before a holiday, when one is trying to remember to pack everything, holiday clothes don’t fit, the swimsuit has experienced Lycra fail and the travel-sized shampoo and conditioner that were bought specially have magically disappeared, is just a tad stressful.

“Chocolate pudding in a mug, please” was my surly reply.

“Where will I find the recipe?”

“There should be one printed in the binder downstairs.”

A bit later…”No, it’s not there.  Is it on your blog?”

“Yes, hang on I’ll print it.”

A little later after the printer failed to engage it’s electronic brain…

“What’s your blog address?  I’ll just look it up.  What is it?” Looking over my shoulder “Ann Cardus dot blogspot dot com.”

“You know what, forget it.  I’ll just have a bottle or two of wine.”

If my husband had a blog I would subscribe to it.  I’d read it.  I’d know where to find it.  I’d know the url.

That’s all I’m saying.

Intelligent cars

I’ve been watching a documentary titled Toyota Total Recall which, despite it’s humorous title, covers a very serious and sticky problem for Toyota (and I’m not just talking gas pedals).

I’ve seen that Toyota initially recalled vehicles because of a floormat issue, then because of a sticky accelerator pedal issue and then on a smaller number of vehicles because of a braking problem.

And then I saw something interesting.  Steve Wozniak of Apple fame was interviewed explaining that he thought that the real issue maybe software or electronics related.  A lawyer representing families of those who died in Toyota accidents seemed to be indicating that he believed this might be the case too.

Then some clever bloke explained in a completely patronising fashion that these days cars are operated by computers and that when you put your foot on the accelerator you’re telling the computer you want to go faster.

So, bearing all of this in mind, I thought I’d share something that happened to me today in my Ford Kuga.

My Kuga has a power start button.  It’s a piece of kit that negates the need to put a key in the ignition.  The car somehow knows the keys are in the vehicle (clever electronics) and to start the car the driver just pushes the power button (for safety reasons the clutch needs to be depressed at the same time).

To turn the car off is even simpler.  Just press the power button – done.

The car started without issue and I started driving to work.  I’m not quite sure why but the radio wasn’t on.  This is unusual for me as I almost always drive listening to the radio.  After negotiating a couple of junctions I thought I needed radio but I was approaching a roundabout so needed to think quickly.

I pushed a button quickly to turn the radio on.  Maybe I didn’t have enough caffeine before I left the house because I actually hit the POWER BUTTON.

Arghhh PANIC!

Except don’t panic because I was driving a Ford, engineered by Ford engineers and, just like a Toyota, it didn’t stop.  But that’s OK because I didn’t want to stop, I just wanted to turn the radio on.  The car knew I was only kidding when I pushed the power button.  It wasn’t clever enough to know that I wanted to turn the radio on but that level of knowledge would be akin to the psychic powers of Derek Akorah (or not, because Akorah is a scam artist).

I realised my mistake and pressed the radio button and everything was tickety boo, fine and dandy.

I’m not sure there’s a moral to this story, except perhaps “Pay attention when you’re in charge of a car” or “If I offer you a lift, be afraid, be very afraid.” 

Euthanasia

A depressing topic for a Saturday afternoon but I’ve been thinking about it, a lot, recently.
Sydney, our family cat isn’t well.  He’s losing weight and he’s increasingly lethargic.  The vet has prescribed steroids and she thinks the problem is a tumour that lines the intestine. 
I can’t talk to Syd to ask him whether he’s in pain.  I can’t ask him whether he’s enjoying life.
My internet research hasn’t really helped me, especially when I read that sometimes a cat will purr not through contentment but because it distracts the cat from the discomfort it’s experiencing.
I could get all sentimental about how Syd has always been there and how he’s been a part of our life for so long but that doesn’t help.  Basically I need to know whether now is the right time to “put him to death” as Ethan puts it.
The advice I’ve received so far is “Don’t leave it too long” which doesn’t really help because I don’t know when “too long” is.
And it’s not really my decision either, it’s a family choice.
The children understand death if it just happens but I think they’ll struggle with making a decision that will bring it forward.
I see my husband getting upset whenever we start to talk about it and I struggle to remain composed too.
I don’t know what to do, or who to ask.

TGIF

I'm on a Eurostar train that smells of fresh fart. I'm in my allocated seat near the window, and to move anywhere I'd have disturb the lady next to me. I'm looking around the crowded carriage trying to figure out who the guilty party is. Not that I will be able to do anything about it but sometimes it's nice to know who to blame for one's discomfort.
There are two men, clearly colleagues, sitting at the opposite window. They've been discussing at length, and at a not inconsiderable volume, the deals that they nearly did, but didn't.
There is a couple nearby in which the man is clearly dominant. He's not just talking to his wife/lover/colleague, he's broadcasting to a wider, disinterested audience.
There's a young guy opposite me whose rucksack is spilling into my space while he reads a book titled Mijn COUNTDOWN. I think he might be a student because he's covering the pages of the book with orange highlighter and pencil. Oh, and he has one of those little triangular beards immediately below his bottom lip. It's less beard, more tuft and I think he thinks it makes him attractive. He's wrong.
I would quite like a cup of tea if it weren't for the fart smell, which is being refreshed quite regularly, and the long walk to the bar, and the fact that the lady sitting in the aisle seat next to me is asleep.
I wonder what I'd be talking about if I had someone who'd enjoyed the same conference as me, sat next to me.
Would we discuss the shared experience and reflect over the last couple of days? Maybe we'd share iPhone applications or talk about what we had planned for the weekend. I wonder if we'd complain about lack of time, resource and corporate will to implement any of the interesting ideas we've seen over the last two days, whilst secretly making plans to leapfrog the competition.
Student boy is eating a floury bread roll with white chocolate which, to my mind, confirms his student status.
The noisy businessmen have tired of one another and have fallen silent avoiding eye contact.
I haven't bought my guilty mother gifts yet. I looked but couldn't find anything. My children didn't want me to do this trip. They didn't want to go to the Breakfast and After School clubs. Ethan kept asking me why I had to go and, when I explained, he told me I should be more assertive with my boss. It's difficult to explain that I did and didn't want to do this trip.
The information gathered is very valuable and I have a long memory for this type of presentation. It does help me with my work and I would like to spend more time learning and understanding.
But I miss home and I feel so guilty about disrupting the weekly routine. My husband has taken some time off, I've missed Hannah's parent's evening at school, and the children have had to spend time in a club that would normally be home time.
So I will probably stop at Bluewater on the way home to buy the guilt gifts. But if I do that I might miss the children before they go to bed. I don't think I can win. It's a lose lose situation all round.
Thank God it's Friday.

Cookies

I’ve just tried this recipe and it was easy and tasty, my favourite kind of recipe.  Oat and Raisin cookies:

Makes variable amount depending on how big you want them to be, but roughly 24 biscuit sized or 12 giant cookie sized cookies.

Ingredients

• 140g unsalted butter at room temperature
• 80g caster or granulated sugar
• 80g soft dark brown sugar
• 1 egg
• 1/4 tsp vanilla extract (not flavouring)
• 190g plain flour
• Pinch of salt
• 1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
• 60g rolled oats
• 110g raisins

Preheat oven to 170 degrees (150 degrees for fan oven) and line two baking trays with greaseproof paper.

Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.  Add the egg, mix thoroughly and then add vanilla and mix again.

Measure out flour, salt, bicarb, cinnamon, and oats and stir with fork.

Add to butter mixture and mix well then add raisins and mix again.

Roll balls of mixture about 3cm in diameter and place on baking trays.  You need to leave a gap between cookies as they will spread when cooking.  To get an even thickness during the cooking process, lightly flatten the dough balls with the palm of your hand.

Cook for 15 mins or so.  I think it’s best to judge by eye when the cookies are done. 

Leave them to cool on the baking sheets for a while as the cookies will be soft when they come out of the oven and will firm up a little as they cool.

If you want you can finish off the cooling on a wire rack, or if you are as impatient as me you’ll start eating them before they see a wire rack.

If you can resist eating them all, then store in an airtight container and save for later.

Perfect with tea, coffee, hot chocolate, wine, beer, gin…  Enjoy.

Surfing in the bath

I was using Twitter the other day in the bath when I happened to see a tweet by Ed Fraser who describes himself on Twitter as: Senior Programme Editor, Channel 4 News/Online. Covered Iraq, Kosovo, Lebanon, Soham, Tsunami. Seriously Scottish

The tweet that caught my eye was: “Watching #Tsunami live on mac is amazing. Only in the 21st century via http://www.ustream.tv/channel/hitsunami #hitsunami.”

I’d heard about UStream but couldn’t remember seeing it in action so I thought I’d check it out.  It sounded like the sort of tool that might be useful.

I knew Ed was viewing on a Mac but I had an iPhone and they’re both Apple so the experience would be the same - right?

I can’t remember the exact sequence of events but I ended up having to download the UStream Application and creating an account.

I then went back into Twitter and clicked on the link again.  I am not sure exactly what choices I was presented with but remember having to choose between Live and Local.  As it was a live event I wanted to view, I clicked Live.

The next thing I remember was the screen changing to look a little like this:

Remember I’m in the bath.

The next thing I know, the shutter is opening and I can see my bath through the shutter aperture and there a little message saying “Streaming to http:// …”

I didn’t wait to capture the web address, which is just as well.  I think I may have been streaming live images of my bath onto the world wide web.  I think all anyone would have seen would have been bath, water and bubbles.  I hope all that anyone would have seen would have been bath, water and bubbles.

Chocolate pudding in a mug, revised

I'm re-posting this as, having used the link several times, it's irritated me that there isn't a list of ingredients.  Plus I've discovered that slightly less cooking ensures a fabulous gooey bottom (for the pudding not the cook).  Plus I prefer the self raising flour version.

Ingredients:

• 4 tbsp self raising flour
• 4 tbsp sugar
• 2 tbsp cocoa
• 1 egg
• 3 tbsp milk
• 3 tbsp oil (preferably corn oil)
• 3 tbsp chocolate chips
• 1 tsp vanilla essence

Method:

• Get a big mug, the sort used on the continent for dunking breakfast baguette or croissant
• Throw in flour, sugar and cocoa & mix well
• Add egg and mix again
• Pour in milk and oil and mix well
• Add chocolate chips and vanilla
• Mix, then cook in the microwave for two and a half minutes. Don't panic if it goes over the top of the mug.
• Cut in half serves 2 adults very well with a dollop of ice cream or cream or squirty cream.

Very yummy.

Ditto

Apparently there is a school that has banned Valentine cards to prevent the emotional trauma of rejection.

I don’t blame them.  In my experience Valentine’s Day sucks.

The promoted image of Valentine’s Day for the single person is the mountain of cards arriving on the doormat.  For couples the image is one of romantic weekends away and lavish gifts.

These images are not a reality for most people and the problem is men, and women.

Women, generally, are more prone to expressing love.  They are more likely to send Valentine cards, buy Valentine gifts, say “I love you”, prepare a romantic meal or night out or pretty much anything along these lines.

Men are less likely to send cards, buy gifts or put much effort into Valentine’s Day and are more prone to say “ditto” a la Patrick Swayze.

There are exceptions but from a woman’s perspective there is nothing worse than the petrol station or supermarket bought card and flowers which just says “I felt I ought to do this.”

From a man’s perspective I imagine there is nothing worse than feeling you ought to make an effort for Valentine’s Day when you have neither the time nor the inclination.

I have sent more Valentine’s cards that I have received.  That doesn’t make me feel good, it makes me feel awful.  I never awoke to a mountain of Valentine’s cards on the doormat and I don’t know anyone else who has either.

If I were to receive something that matches the promoted Valentine’s experience I don’t think I’d be happy, I think I’d be non-plussed because that is promoted as the expectation.  As this isn’t my experience then it’s just depressing and I think lots of people find the day is a low point.  This is why I can sympathise with the school’s decision to try and prevent emotional trauma.

If you’re single and you don’t want to be then don’t wait for Valentine’s Day to do some wooing.  Woo all the time because it makes you and your wooee happy.

If you’re in a relationship then don’t wait for Valentine’s Day to show your loved one that they are just that, loved.  Unexpected demonstrations of affection are far more effective and will be appreciated more. 

Parenting tip, number two

Parenting tip, number one received mixed reviews. Undaunted I’ve decided to continue.  This tip helps you to get children to the breakfast/lunch/dinner table when they would normally ignore your calls.  It works for husbands too.
Tip number two is a a little bizarre and it is a bit of a shaggy dog story.  It starts with a visit to the Essex Police Museum which does exist, details here, photos of our trip here.  (Well worth a trip but go on an open day when they have the dogs, cars and helicopter there.)
There’s a shop in the museum.  When I say shop it’s more of a till and a small handful of items for sale.  I bought a bicycle bell, like this one.

I’ve got this vision of what my life should be like and in this vision I ride an old fashioned bicycle with a sit up and beg design, basket on the front and a traditional bike bell.  This vision bears no relation to reality. At all.  But, in a vain hope that someday I will be an environmentally concerned mum who is healthy because I cycle everywhere, I bought a bike bell.  I know that’s far fetched, but it happens to be (sad but) true.
Even before I’d left the shop, as soon as I’d paid for it I had taken it out of the box and started playing.  This is because I’m an activist.  I can’t pick the post up from the doormat and take it to the kitchen without opening at least one item.  My husband, on the other hand, can leave mail for a week without touching it.
When I got home I wanted to put the bell on the bike but the bike was in the garage and that was a bit of a faff.  So instead I attached it, using screwdriver, to the towel rail in the kitchen.  I know nobody ever needs warning that they have a moving towel rail behind them, but it was the closest thing to a handlebar without requiring me to get off my backside and go out to the garage.
And I discovered it’s quite loud.  I also discovered that the children loved it, probably because it’s loud.
I explained to the children that I’d ring the bell when their dinner was ready.  They came running to the table when I rang the bell.  Normally if I’d yell “Dinner’s ready” I would, for the most part, be ignored or get a really delayed response.
So now the bell is used regularly and it works a treat.  I guess it’s just a twist on the old fashioned bells you see in old people’s drawing rooms.  But it works, for us.

History

“01-02-MMII

Dear Ann

Your great uncle James opened his tailoring business in Ship Yard Leeds in September 1919.

Your great uncle Frank enlisted in RHA in 1915 and died of wounds 1917.

Your granddad was mustard gassed in Oct 1918 and was discharged in the following January.  He was a wonderful father.

When we are due to meet remind me to show you your grandma’s now tatty “diary” for the period.

Love, Dad”

I just found this amongst some papers that needed sorting.  It was written on a simple postcard.  It made me cry. 

It reminded me of my dad.  I miss him.

It also made me think about the loss and pain caused by war.

It also reminded me of my grandma’s diary which I now have in my possession and which is such a fascinating slice of life in Leeds around the time of the Great War and afterwards.  Dad was right that it isn’t really a diary at all, more of a notebook recording purchases, births, weddings, deaths and recipes, all in one tiny little leather bound book.

One day my daughter may well be sorting through my belongings and find the diary, or the postcard, and maybe she’ll cry too.

Parenting tip, number one

Let me start by saying that I am in no way a perfect parent. In fact, far from it. My parenting is so full of holes it has been called colander parenting, or sieve parenting by more vicious observers.

But there are a few things that I think work well and might be useful for other people. I’m sure they aren’t new ideas and there certainly won’t be anything revolutionary here but if an idea is worth sharing then, isn’t that what a blog is for?

So here goes. Tip number one.

Problem: Your children take forever to get ready in the morning.

My solution:

Firstly there is a rule that breakfast can only be consumed if a child is dressed. I know that risks breakfast spillage on uniform but that’s why wipes were invented.

Secondly go out and buy kitchen timers. The funnier or most appropriate for the child the better. Ask your child how long they want as a time to get dressed. Ideally the timer should be set for 10 to 15 minutes. The aim is to have a time that can easily be beaten. So if your child says five minutes then say “Tell you what, how about 10 minutes? Off you go.”

When your child has beaten the timer, tell them you don’t believe it and demand to see the timer. When they provide the proof tell them how amazingly quick they are.

Don’t be tempted, over time, to reduce the time on the timer.

What not to do:

Don’t get their clothes out for them and don’t help them to get dressed unless they ask for help because they’re trying to do something difficult like tricky buttons or laces. This makes them lazy and more dependant on you.

Don’t get stressed if they aren’t dressed immaculately. You can tidy collars and tuck shirts in without your child even realising it’s happening.

Summary:

You should find your child loves competing with the timer. You should also find that with more than one child there is the added competitive element of competing with a sibling or two. They get much more satisfaction from sorting themselves out without help. The payoff for the child is lots of praise and achievement and, of course, breakfast.

Also in our house, a session on the Wii in the morning only happens once a child is ready to leave the house (apart from coat, scarf and gloves).

That’s it. If you aren’t doing this right now, and you try it, let me know how it goes. If you have a better strategy then I’m all ears.

Banana tea bread crisis

I’d tweeted a request for a banana bread recipe and tried it the other day but when I tried to find it again I failed.

After an emergency tweet request Steph (aka @NorthNorfolk) came through a second time around.

So, to save the recipe for posterity, having made another lovely loaf this evening, here is Steph’s recipe:

Ingredients:

• 75g butter – softened
• 175g caster (or granulated) sugar
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 225g SR Flour
• 1/4 tsp bicarb of soda
• Pinch of salt
• 450g ripe bananas weighed with skin (about 4 medium bananas), peeled and mashed
• 100g walnuts (optional and I sometimes substitute with plain choc chips)

Method:

• Heat oven to 180 degrees C or Gas mark 4.  Or 160 degrees C in a fan oven.
• Grease and line a 2lb loaf tin.  Or grease with butter and then flour.  If you’ve never done this before you just tip a bit of flour in and swizzle it around a bit until all the inside of the tin has a thin  dusting of flour.  It’s a good idea to do this even if you have a non stick tin.
• Mix flour, bicarb and salt.
• Cream butter and sugar until pale and fluffy.  I use a Kenwood Chef and blitz with K beater on max to achieve this.  Doing this by hand is good exercise.
• Add eggs a little at a time with a little bit of flour each time.  Mix thoroughly.  I give this another full blast mix in the Kenwood.
• Stir in bananas, remaining flour and walnuts (or choc chips) if using.
• Tip into the tin and bung it in the oven for an hour and a quarter.
• When the timer bleeps (and I recommend setting a timer to avoid  the smell of burnt disappointment) check the loaf with a skewer.  If the skewer goes in the middle of the loaf and comes out clean out then the loaf is ready.  This loaf does need a lot of baking and it’s tempting to take it out when the top is a light brown.  This is a mistake because it won’t be cooked properly in the middle.
• Wait until the loaf has cooled before slicing and I cut the loaf into lunchbox size portions and freeze, taking out a fresh slice for the children’s lunchboxes in the morning. 
• If you do freeze the loaf, as mentioned above, then each piece will defrost and be nicely warm after 30 seconds in the microwave.

So thank you Steph, for saving me twice.  And the next time someone asks, feel free to share this link.

#punchdisease

I know. A weird title for a blog post, my first via iPhone (may delete tomorrow).

There's been a lot of tweeting over the last week with the hashtag #kickcancer. It seems to have been popular to use that hashtag whilst encouraging people to retweet.

Well why? Sarah Brown and a host of celebs feel they need to join the bandwagon and #kickcancer has been everywhere.

I hate cancer as much as the next person. Maybe more in some cases. It robbed me of my mother when she was just 58. She never saw me get married or have children and I never got to say goodbye.

What is my problem with the #kickcancer hashtag then?

Let me tell you. It does nothing. It's just words. Cancer isn't an entity that will feel threatened or bullied by the use of this hashtag. It's not going to go away just because we say we don't want it. It's pathetic.

If you want to do something constructive then give to a charity that spends money on researching the disease or that raises awareness about how to obtain early diagnosis. Don't just tweet rubbish.

#kickcancersoharditcantgetupagain

Drugs don’t work

I’m on medication. 

Those of you who know me will have one of two reactions, I imagine.

1.  Yeah.  I knew she was on something.

2.  Nah.  Really?  Nah, she’s not on medication, she needs medication!

Well thanks.  You see drugs and me are not a good combination.

I’m supposed to take these little tablets, one in the morning and one in the evening.  I am not supposed to miss a dose.  If I do miss a dose I need to try and catch up as quickly as possible.

I am useless at remembering.  I have done a couple of things to try and help me remember though.

I have a note blu-tacked to the back door that says “TABLET”.  I’ve also written on the cardboard box containing the tablets.  On one side I’ve written “Morning” and on the other side “Afternoon” to help me remember whether I’ve taken a morning or afternoon dose. I turn the packet so the word that is uppermost is the last dose I’ve taken.

OK so this makes me sound like I’m about eighty years old.  But that’s how I feel because, even with these pathetic memory aids ,I still forget to take this wretched medication.

I would set an alarm on my phone but I know I’d dismiss the alarm and wouldn’t actually act on the alarm.

Does anybody have a foolproof method that I can use, please?

The School of Statistics

It probably hasn’t escaped your notice but it’s been a bit wintry of late.

As we know the UK is a bit rubbish when it snows.  We run out of grit.  The grit we do have isn’t applied at the right time or in the right place.  As soon as there is the slightest hint of the white stuff on the ground then so many people decide they simply can’t venture out of their house and driving to work is simply out of the question.  And I’m as guilty as the next person.

On Wednesday there was snow on the ground in the morning and it snowed during the day.

I’d planned to work from home because I had an inkling that schools might close early.  Sure enough a text came through mid morning advising that children could be picked up at 1:15pm.  At the time I didn’t understand what was so special about 1:15pm but I was glad I’d stayed at home so that I could be around to collect my children.

Later that evening we were advised that the school would be closed on Thursday.

On Friday morning we were told the school would be open for the day, but would close early at 2:00pm.

So what is special about 1:15pm? 

That’s when the afternoon register is taken.  So on Wednesday, despite the fact that most children were collected at 1:15pm, all children will have been marked as present, even though they were in fact absent for 99% of the afternoon.

The same is true for Friday afternoon except that children will have been absent for about 60% of the afternoon.

Am I too cynical, or was the school behaving unethically to ensure their attendance statistics were the best they could be?

For coffee

I quite like coffee.  I don’t like it too strong, sometimes a Nero double shot is too bitter, and I don’t like it too weak either.

My designer coffee of choice is quite dull really because I like a white americano: and espresso shot plus hot water and then cold milk.

A latte is a bit like having a meal and a cappucino is a lot of froth about nothing. (Although I do enjoy the froth with chocolate sprinkles.)

At home we only have cafetiere coffee.  It might sound affected not to have instant coffee in the house.  I don’t mean to be.  Beans go in a coffee grinder, grounds go in cafetiere followed by water that has boiled but isn’t boiling anymore.  Plunge the plunger and then pour.  It really isn’t a hassle.  I don’t know how the cost compares with instant, but I think the taste is better.

Given that this is how I make coffee at home, I don’t really understand why, if you have all of the equipment and ingredients at home, why you’d have instant instead.

I guess you’re thinking that instant means instant and speed is an issue for some people.  The amount of washing up created is also a factor.  I’d buy both of those arguments but allow me to outline another scenario.

I know someone who chooses to put milk in a saucepan, heat it on the hob, add instant coffee and then pour and drink the results, in preference to preparing a cafetiere.

That’s more effort and a worse taste experience.  I don’t understand.

Bored

I got bored.  With myself.  I looked in the mirror and I saw bland.

Just wanted to say sorry really, because I don't see mirrors very often but you guys don't have to look into a mirror to see my blandness.

This week I changed a couple of things.  It's a bit less boring but it's a bit more hassle.

I'm weighing it up in a "Can I be bothered to keep it up?" kind of a way.

We'll see.

Of course appearance is one thing, personality is another.

I'm less bored with my personality.  It just irritates me.  And I know....because I can read it on your faces, that some, many, of you feel the same way.  That's unlikely to change as it requires more effort.

Time

People wonder why I don’t get more done. 

It’s almost half eight and ideally this evening I will do the Tesco/Ocado/Sainsbury shopping online.  I don’t know which service I’ll be using because it all depends which has a spare delivery slot for tomorrow afternoon.

Ideally I will also bake two batches of banana muffins to prevent the waste of the muffins in the dining room.

Also, I’ll grill some bacon rashers to make making a carbonara sauce just a little bit easier tomorrow.

My brother arrives in about an hours time so I’d better type quickly if I’m going to have time to have a chat with him too.

I left the house this morning at 7:40 and drove to the breakfast club.  Having realised my phone was still at home, after dropping the children off I diverted back home.

Traffic was horrendous by this time but I still made it into work by 8:25.

I grabbed lunch at work to save time but then ended up staying at work too long after lunch.

I drove to Brentwood to pick up a reserved item and I also grabbed a birthday card while I was on the High Street.

When I got home I took the tablet I forgot to take this morning and then started tidying, cleaning, ironing and vacuuming.  I made up two beds and printed some documents I need for tomorrow.

I put some (homemade) food which I’d defrosted into the oven and set the timer so it would be ready for the children as we walked in later.  I also got some more food (homemade) out of the freezer for the adults.

I got the karate gear ready and put it in the car, chatted to the builder working next door about access to our garden, responded to a few work e-mails, phoned the council and phoned Lakeside.

I walked to school for 3:15, collected the children, came home and drove to karate.

After karate I drove home and at 5:30 the children were eating dinner after a ten minute blitz of bedroom tidying.

I sorted some washing, did some more cleaning, listened to Ethan read a book and at 6:30 the children were showering.

At 6:45 Dave and I were eating while the children assembled Lego.

At 7:15 Ethan went to bed and I started playing Uno with Hannah until she went to bed at 8:00.

I did some more cleaning and I’m now sat with you and I have a cup of tea next to me and at 8:40 I know that my list of things that should get done tonight is rapidly becoming a wish list.

I haven’t slept properly all week.  I have programmes saved on the iPlayer that I’m not sure I’ll get time to watch.

I’m ratty and irritable and nobody understands.

Shouldering a problem

I had my first ever visit to a sports massage practitioner.  I thought you might know what it was like.

I’d been having problems with my shoulder and upper arm for about a month.  I can’t remember what caused the problem, but if I had to blame anything it’s probably be gardening.

The first step was to expose the problem area.  So top half clothes came off and were replaced by modesty preserving towel.

My practitioner, Mark, explained that he’d be applying pressure and be asking me, on a scale of one to ten, how painful it was.

I’m not very good at explaining how painful something is.  The one to ten scale helped but only to make pain ratings relative.  How can one rate pain at a ten?  That means that it’s not possible to suffer further pain.  Of course it’s mostly possible to put up with more pain.

So with the first attempt I went with a score of four, and tried to score all other pain relative to that first score.

The other thing about pain is that it’s possible to be conditioned to it and, over time, accept more.

Apparently my score of seven has other people screaming “ten” and needing a piece of wood to bite down on.

We did hit a couple of tens but they were only ten relative to the other scores I’d made.  If the pressure had been increased I could have coped.

The other thing that I thought was strange was that a score of eight, after pressure was applied for a few seconds turned into a score of two, without any reduction in pressure.

He didn’t just apply pressure constantly.  Sometimes the pressure was moved back and forth on an area and sometimes pressure was applied constantly and my arm was moved at the same time to change to impact of the pressure.

Mark told me I might be a “bit sore” tomorrow, and the following day, but he also said that my pain threshold might mean I don’t feel too bad at all.

Let’s see how much complaining about my shoulder I do over the next couple of days, and see whether things improve by the end of the week.

Inappropriate applause

When I was young, and yes I was young once, it was deemed inappropriate for one to applaud oneself.  These days it seems to be perfectly acceptable.

I know this makes me sound like a crotchety old woman, but that’s OK, because that’s what I am.

I see celebrities being interviewed and the interviewer will show us, the audience, and the interviewee a piece of their work, maybe a clip from their latest film or perhaps a few bars from their latest single.  Invariably the celebrity will applaud with the audience once it’s finished.

When did it become socially acceptable to lack modesty?

Surely the acceptable behaviour is to modestly smile and maybe nod the head to acknowledge the audience’s appreciation.

Isn’t applauding one’s own work arrogant and presumptuous?  Shouldn’t one allow the audience the job of critiquing one’s performance?

I know, by the way, that some famous people will excuse this behaviour by claiming they are merely showing their appearance for the audience.

Rubbish!  They’re just full of themselves and are trying to excuse the inexcusable.

Gissa job

Our lovely post delivery people, are considering striking.  As a response the Royal Mail will be recruiting 30,000 temporary staff to cope with the work that isn’t being done by those who are striking.

This is the time of year when Royal Mail would be recruiting seasonal staff to cope with the Christmas rush anyway, I think they’ve just upped the requirement because of the planned industrial action.

I know we’re emerging from the economical hangover caused by the credit crunch, but there are still many people who have lost their job and will be eyeing 30,000 temporary jobs and thinking “I’ll have a piece of that.”

I have done this job.  I have worked the sorting office nightshift and I’ve delivered the mail.

The nightshift: This involved standing in front of a grid of pigeonholes and sorting mail into these pigeonholes which were divided into streets, or sections of streets.  It was possible to sit down but the seat that was available was not adjustable and was akin to an uncomfortable bar stool.

Tea breaks were the highlight of the shift because there was a pool table for amusement.  I think there may have been a canteen but the food can’t have been great because I’ve blanked it out.

Delivering the mail: I was dumped on my patch by a van and left, with my mail, not really having too much of a clue about which street was where.  Most of the time the mail had been sorted appropriately for the street and it was a simple matter of mail into letterboxes.

Low letterboxes cause back ache and are not good (Health and Safety take note).  Sprung loaded letter boxes scrape the skin off the back of the hand.  Barking dogs petrified me and the fear was realised when the dog followed up the bark by snapping with teeth at the hand through the letterbox.  Flats are a pain, especially when one has finished delivering to a block of flats and then there’s a letter that has been mis-sorted and it’s for the top floor.  (This happened to me and my response was to pop it in the nearest letterbox.  I know this is wrong, please don’t write and complain.) 

So in case you are tempted by the headline 30,000 jobs, you can submit your application knowing a little more about what you’re applying for.

A cautionary tale

Ethan asked me this evening “Mummy, what would happen if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“You’d go on the naughty step.”

“For how long Mummy?  How long would I go on the naughty step, if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“Five years”

“Really?”

“Yes really.  I’d be very, very annoyed.”

Nanny state

I read this today on the BBC website:

“Parents in England who regularly look after friends' children and receive a "reward" for doing so must register as childminders, regulator Ofsted says.

It said most parents would be exempt but those who babysat for more than two hours at a time, or for more than 14 days per year, should be registered.”

It incensed me.

The last time I checked, a full day of nursery costs for one child was about £50.

The staff that worked in that nursery also made themselves available for babysitting at a rate of £10 per hour.

With that kind of cost, it really doesn’t surprise me that people seek cheaper solutions.  One of the most logical solutions would be a reciprocal arrangement with a friend.  Sharing the job of childcare and avoiding the cost.

It is such an arrangement that Ofsted told two detective constables, Leanne Shepherd and Lucy Jarrett, was illegal.  A reciprocal arrangement can be deemed to be a reward.

And if I understand this Ofsted statement correctly, it means that my children cannot be babysat by a friend of mine if we plan to be out of the house for more than two hours and I offer to return the favour.

Equally, when I was a teenager I used to get paid to babysit, sometimes for five or six hours.  This enabled couples and single parents to enjoy the occasional evening out.  This, and the nursery staff that babysit in the evenings to supplement their income, can no longer happen.  It is illegal, unless these individuals register as a childminder with Ofsted.

How puerile.  How utterly ridiculous.  Surely, as a parent, I should be empowered to decide who cares for my children, and if it happens to be a friend or neighbour I trust then that’s my decision.

It might seem strange that I complain about this Nanny State because I rarely go out but it’s the principle that matters here.

Knickers – it gets worse

Update from Hannah.

The knickers weren’t handed to a teacher, but a parent helper. So not only do all of the teaching staff now know about my knickers, but so do all of the mums.

And, the mum she handed them to was her best friend’s mum. This is the woman I often chat to in the playground.

Debbie – can I have my knickers back please?

Knickers

Hannah had her school swimming lesson today and as per usual I asked her how the lesson went.

She started talking about some knickers she’d found.

It appears that when Hannah took her towel out of her swimming bag and started to get changed she found a superfluous pair of black knickers.  She knew they weren’t hers and so she took the only action that a sensible little girl would take.  She handed them to a teacher.

At this point in the story my ears pricked up and I started to ask questions..

Were the knickers lacy or plain?  Lacy.

Were they the kind of knickers that don’t cover somebody’s bottom properly? Yes, Hannah thought they were.  A thong then.

So one of my thongs had somehow got caught up in the laundry with Hannah’s swimming gear and had ended up in her swimming bag and subsequently in the changing room and therefore in a teacher’s hands.

And now they were the subject of great amusement in the staff room no doubt.

If I was the teacher receiving the knickers I’d put two and two together and, being a teacher, I’d get four.  So the teacher knows they are my knickers which probably means the whole of the staff room knows they are my knickers.

The question is, should I ask for them back?  This would clearly be an embarrassing exercise.

The alternative is to just “let it go.” 

Whatever I do I am now unable to look any member of the school staff in the eye without a hot flush enveloping me, and not in a good way.

BBQ – no thanks

Is it just me, or are barbeques a bit of a faff?

Victoria wanted a gas barbeque and was asking for advice. 

Vish was of the opinion that gas was a heinous crime.  The only barbeque one should entertain owning is charcoal.

Lucinda owned up to owning a gas barbeque but that wasn’t her crime.  Her crime was buying disposable barbeques and using the gas barbeque as an attractive platform to support the disposable barbeque.

Whereas others considered this to be a bizarre practise, I thought it was completely logical and actually very sensible.  Although I did suggest that it would be possible to rest the disposable barbeque on a less expensive option.

Barbeques are hard work.

It’s the cleaning I detest.

I’ve been told that barbeques should be cleaned while they’re warm.  How stupidly impractical.  When I’ve sat down to a barbeque meal with a glass or three, the last thing I want to do is to rush to don the Marigolds.

Plus it’s just such a horrible job to do.  It’s filthy, dirty work.  It’s so much worse than a bit of washing up, and of course just because you’ve used the barbeque it doesn’t mean that there isn’t any washing up.  So you have the hideous barbeque cleaning and the washing up to do.

So we tend to leave the barbeque cleaning until the next time we want to use it.  This means that the happy anticipation of outdoor cooking is spoilt by the knowledge that there’s an onerous task waiting.

So, Victoria, my advice is buy disposable barbeques and enjoy the pleasure and avoid the pain.

Camping

I took a risk this week.

I was walking through town with the children and we ambled into Millets and looked at the tents in the sale.

I want a new tent, mainly because our current tent annoys me but partly because I like shiny new things.  I know I won’t get a new tent though because I’m too rational.  Our current tent suffices.  It does the job, not brilliantly well, but it does the job.  I cannot justify the expense associated with replacing it or, as is the case with most things we buy, the new would sit alongside the old as we’re not very good at “getting rid.”

In order to maintain the interest of the children I suggested we could be looking for a tent for them – just for them.  I told them that at Hannah’s age I was allowed to camp in a pup tent which was pitched alongside my parents’ tent.  I was pretty sure we wouldn’t buy the children a tent as we had our old two man tent in the loft that Dave and I had used pre-children.

The conversation gradually moved on to that two man tent and the idea of putting it up in the garden.

Ten minutes later when we were home, that is exactly what we were doing.  Putting up a two man tent in the back garden.

The conversation had also resulted in me agreeing to (and if I’m honest encouraging) the idea of the children sleeping in the tent in the back garden.

In theory this isn’t a big deal except…

• We had badgers in the garden this week
• We don’t have a secure back garden and usually leave the back gates open
• The children would need access to the house during the night which would mean leaving the back door unlocked

We went ahead anyway and whilst the children enjoyed the adventure, they decided they preferred their own beds.

All of which means that two days later we still have a tent in the garden that needs to be taken down.

The joys of dog ownership

I walked to the station today and came across a woman who was enjoying a walk with her Great Dane.

The dog needed to stop and defecate.  It produced a vast quantity of diarrhoea.

The owner (or could have been a dog walker as I was walking past some very expensive houses) started fiddling with a bag that presumable contained equipment for dealing with dog poo.

I walked past and didn’t look back, but I did wonder how one cleans up a mess like that.  And I doubted she was adequately equipped.

So what do you think?  Did she just leave it?

July’s charity

Every childhood dream begins with a vision. At Eye Care For Kids, we make sure the vision can happen.

A non-profit organization, Eye Care for Kids has provided humanitarian aid to more than 20,000 children since 2001. Our program helps visually impaired kids from poor and low-income families get the treatment they so desperately need.

We treat kids in need across the state of Utah, including rural areas and Native American reservations. Here at Eye Care For Kids we see up to 200 children every week.

Our goal is to help restore every child’s vision. Help us make it more than just a vision – help us make it a reality.

“Our Vision… is their Vision.”

Just click on the badge to the left of the Gaping Void cartoon to find out more.

Banter

I’m all for a bit of office banter.  I have to be really given that I’m often the person responsible for starting and perpetuating it.  But even I think there are times when it’s inappropriate.

I went to a Union meeting today. 

Yes I am in the Union and no that doesn’t mean I’m a steel toe cap wearing lesbian who’ll be burning my scab colleagues on a picket line.  I happen to think Unions are a good thing; they provide a voice for the workforce who otherwise could go unheard.  I’m also a woman working in a very male dominated environment and Union membership just makes me feel a little more secure.

The purpose of the meeting today was to try and encourage “the management” of whom I laughingly call myself a member, to say yes to the Union representing them.  At the moment the Union represents hourly paid and salaried staff below management grades.  Our lack of representation means that instead of changes to our terms and conditions being negotiated, they’re just communicated via e-mail and it’s a done deal with no opportunity for recourse, other than the obvious move – resignation.

There were probably 250 people in the room which I thought was a good turnout.  It was standing room only and although the meeting started well I thought that most of the main points had been made early on and there then followed much reprising of those earlier points.  It got to a time where I thought the meeting would end without us having reached the point of a vote so I stuck my hand in the air waiting for my turn to voice an opinion.

I was ignored for a very long time but eventually our man on site did spot me and he waited patiently for the Regional Union Representative to draw breath.  We waited, and waited.  Finally I had my chance and said “In the interest of time, can I suggest we have a vote.”

The Union rep responded “You remind me of my wife, nagging me to shut up and get on with things.” (or words to that effect) and then he said, addressing the audience, “I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.” (or similar) and we proceeded to vote.

Up to my interjection, all the people speaking had been men, and all of the contributions had been business-like and focussed on the issue at hand.  My point, equally, was professional and timely.

Was I right to feel just a tad patronised and belittled by this Union man’s response to me?

If it had been within a small group I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but in front of 250 it just seemed wrong.

Am I being too politically correct?  Should I just “get over it”?

Kids eh…

We took Hannah to the Junior School today to meet her new teacher.  Ethan came along too.

We met not only Hannah’s teacher we met her new Head Teacher too.  He’d given a presentation to all of the parents outlining expectations of children and parents etc.

This next bit you need to know for context.  The Junior School Head is a slim male.  The Infant School Head is a larger, shorter lady.  Ethan and Hannah are both currently attending the Infant School.

When we got back home I was chatting to Dave about the afternoon and Ethan was half listening.  I said “I thought the Head was….” and Ethan finished with “…fat!”

I was actually talking about the Junior Head and went on to use words like “switched on, engaged, interested” but Ethan’s word was funnier.

Using a camera

We went to watch the school concert today, along with half of Brentwood.

Hundreds were crowded into a small school hall to watch some 230 infant school pupils performing.

Naturally the room was full of cameras and video cameras and the woman in front of us was one of those with a camera.

It was difficult to see the “action” and many people were using digital cameras on an upwardly extended arm to capture the action.

The lady in front of us was vertically challenged and tried to use the raised digital camera technique.  The only problem was that she had a tall chap sitting in front of her.

Every time she clicked the shutter the camera focused on the item just in front of the lens.  She must have ended up with 15 pictures of a brightly lit man’s head.  The head was so close to the camera flash that it reflected loads of light, fooling the camera into believing the shot was exposed, meaning that the rest of the shot (containing children) was too dimly lit.

I wanted to take the camera from her and explain the problem, because she just wasn’t learning.

Stranger danger

Early yesterday morning I drove past the local school and saw a lone schoolgirl running along the pavement, clearly upset.

I pulled over and spoke to her.  She was running late.  She’d been to a swimming club and something had happened so that she was late.

I offered to give her a lift wherever she needed to go and she accepted.

Gradually she stopped crying and I discovered she was on her way home.  It was the first time she had ever done this journey on her own.

I had assumed she didn’t live far from the school but as she gave me directions to her house I realised the journey we were on was over a mile.

I was surprised that a girl of just seven or eight was expected to walk over a mile after swimming, and before school, on her own.

As we got closer to her house I realised that, whilst I think I did the right thing, she might get into trouble for accepting a lift from a stranger.

When I told my husband later in the day he told me how he’d handle the situation: hand your phone to the child and let them phone their parents and, if required, you can talk to the parents too.  Wish I’d thought of that.

Couldn’t sleep

Dave was due back from Belgium last night.  He’d left on Tuesday and I hadn’t heard from him.

I started thinking that maybe he’d had an accident.  It’s unusual for him not to call while he’s away.

I didn’t really think he’d accident, but he might have done.  I ran through what would have happened if he had had an accident.

Well surely the company would have phoned me.

Except that the HR department are useless and probably mislaid my number.

And would anyone know if he’d had an accident on the way there or would they have assumed he just hadn’t made it because he was sick.

And if he had had an accident then surely the police would have found something with contact details.

Unless it was a major car wreck with fire or in which debris is scattered far and wide.

I started to wonder what time would be a reasonable time to start worrying.

I then realised I had probably already started worrying.

So I tried to persuade myself that all of these thoughts were just hypothetical and everything was OK really.

Lord Roberts's Message to the Troops

I have inherited a book that belonged to my grandfather, William Sadler.

I never knew my grandfather but he served in the first world war and the book is called The Daily Portion Testament. I'm guessing it was issued to troops to give them comfort and to help preserve faith.

This is inside the front cover:

Lord Roberts's Message to the Troops

25th Aug 1914
I ask you to put your trust in God. He will watch over you and strengthen you.
You will find in this little Book guidance when you are in health, comfort when you are in sickness, and strength when you are in adversity.
Roberts.

The message inside the front cover is not overly legible which is not surprising, as if it was Lord Roberts that wrote the message by hand, he was 81 at the time. He died later that year, in November, aged 82.

I wonder if the same time, thought and effort goes into the spiritual welfare of today's troops.