Thursday, 15 April 2010
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Talking in Cars
Could someone please explain to me why it is dangerous to talk on a mobile phone using a hands free kit but not dangerous to have a conversation with a passenger in your car?
Just asking.......
Just asking.......
Saturday, 10 April 2010
A Good List
Some nights, can't sleep, I draw up a list,
Of everything I've never done wrong.
To look at me now, you might insist
My list could hardly be long,
But I've stolen no gnomes from my neighbor's yard,
Or struck his dog, backing out my car.
Never ate my way up and down the Loire
On a stranger's credit card.
I've never given a cop the slip,
Stuffed stiffs in a gravel quarry,
Or silenced Cub Scouts on a first camping trip
With an unspeakable ghost story.
Never lifted a vase from a museum foyer,
Or rifled a Turkish tourist's backpack.
Never cheated at golf. Or slipped out a blackjack
And flattened a patent lawyer.
I never forged a lottery ticket,
Took three on a two-for-one pass,
Or, as a child, toasted a cricket
With a magnifying glass.
I never said "air" to mean "err," or obstructed
Justice, or defrauded a securities firm.
Never mulcted—so far as I understand the term.
Or unjustly usufructed.
I never swindled a widow of all her stuff
By means of a false deed and title
Or stood up and shouted, My God, that's enough!
At a nephew's piano recital.
Never practiced arson, even as a prank,
Brightened church-suppers with off-color jokes,
Concocted an archeological hoax—
Or dumped bleach in a goldfish tank.
Never smoked opium. Or smuggled gold
Across the Panamanian Isthmus.
Never hauled back and knocked a rival out cold,
Or missed a family Christmas.
My list, once started, continues to grow,
Which is all for the good, but just goes to show
It's the good who do not sleep.
— Brad Leithauser, poet
Of everything I've never done wrong.
To look at me now, you might insist
My list could hardly be long,
But I've stolen no gnomes from my neighbor's yard,
Or struck his dog, backing out my car.
Never ate my way up and down the Loire
On a stranger's credit card.
I've never given a cop the slip,
Stuffed stiffs in a gravel quarry,
Or silenced Cub Scouts on a first camping trip
With an unspeakable ghost story.
Never lifted a vase from a museum foyer,
Or rifled a Turkish tourist's backpack.
Never cheated at golf. Or slipped out a blackjack
And flattened a patent lawyer.
I never forged a lottery ticket,
Took three on a two-for-one pass,
Or, as a child, toasted a cricket
With a magnifying glass.
I never said "air" to mean "err," or obstructed
Justice, or defrauded a securities firm.
Never mulcted—so far as I understand the term.
Or unjustly usufructed.
I never swindled a widow of all her stuff
By means of a false deed and title
Or stood up and shouted, My God, that's enough!
At a nephew's piano recital.
Never practiced arson, even as a prank,
Brightened church-suppers with off-color jokes,
Concocted an archeological hoax—
Or dumped bleach in a goldfish tank.
Never smoked opium. Or smuggled gold
Across the Panamanian Isthmus.
Never hauled back and knocked a rival out cold,
Or missed a family Christmas.
My list, once started, continues to grow,
Which is all for the good, but just goes to show
It's the good who do not sleep.
— Brad Leithauser, poet
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Little Plastic Bits
This time of year I venture into the depths of my children's assorted toy boxes, drawers, closets, caves and caverns for a good spring clean. I try to match all the games and puzzle pieces to the right boxes. Anything that can't be match gets thrown in the bin. Anything that the children have outgrown (or that I find just too annoying) gets either thrown in the bin (if I don't want to risk annoying countless other parents) or put in a big black bin bag headed for the charity shops.
I have discovered an uncanny talent which my son possesses. He showed a penchant for this talent at quite an early age. I'm wondering if there is any way to make any money with this talent. Oh perhaps not!
This son of mine cannot remember to put his dirty underpants in the laundry basket. He cannot remember what I ask him to do once he leaves the room I am not in. He has the memory of a newt.
Unless you are asking him which toy this little piece (smaller than a fingernail) of orange coloured plastic goes with. Or this turquoise square? Or this yellow tube?
He knows exactly which toy every stray piece of plastic goes with. He will tell me "It's the base that goes with that grey Transformer that was missing the arm that you threw away last spring clean." How does he remember that. I picked up this little clear yellow plastic bit and he identified as as belonging to a toy we threw out over 3 years ago.
My daughter is also displaying similar tendencies when we started on her closet. Are we all born with this? Do we then grown out of it? Are my children the only children that do this? Can we make money from this?
I have discovered an uncanny talent which my son possesses. He showed a penchant for this talent at quite an early age. I'm wondering if there is any way to make any money with this talent. Oh perhaps not!
This son of mine cannot remember to put his dirty underpants in the laundry basket. He cannot remember what I ask him to do once he leaves the room I am not in. He has the memory of a newt.
Unless you are asking him which toy this little piece (smaller than a fingernail) of orange coloured plastic goes with. Or this turquoise square? Or this yellow tube?
He knows exactly which toy every stray piece of plastic goes with. He will tell me "It's the base that goes with that grey Transformer that was missing the arm that you threw away last spring clean." How does he remember that. I picked up this little clear yellow plastic bit and he identified as as belonging to a toy we threw out over 3 years ago.
My daughter is also displaying similar tendencies when we started on her closet. Are we all born with this? Do we then grown out of it? Are my children the only children that do this? Can we make money from this?
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Another Day, Another Museum
It is the Easter school holidays so the challenge is to keep 2 children busy without them killing me, me killing them, or them killing each other. In predictable English tradition, the school holidays begin and the heavens open up and the rain falls. Do NOT underestimate the scale of this challenge.
Our desitination this time was the Museum of London to which I turned for my salvation. As we were traveling with a rather large group I was determined not to make that classic marble mistake again! We had organised a small group of 5 boys (ages 8-9) and our wee little Abigail to descend all at once. What could possibly go wrong.
We caught the train and so far so good. We got a bargain basement group ticket for 4 adults and 5 children for only £13 more than it cost for just us 4 to go a few weeks ago. How exactly does that work? I am reminded of that line in the film Sleepless in Seattle where the little boy asks
the little girl how much it costs to go to NYC. The little girl replies, "I don't know. No one knows."
I have discovered that train travel with boisterous children is a sure fire insurance policy for securing an empty carriage. People started to head towards the empty seats in our direction, heard the noise, and promptly retreated. Woo Hoo!
We were greeted upon entering the Museum and given maps and told of the day's events. Soon after Merja & William joined us and we were shown the various children's challenges and duly picked up each and every one of them. Abigail and I broke off from the group of boys to follow the medieval London tour which was incredibly informative and captivating.
We
took a break for lunch and despite our best attempts to get the children engaged back into the swing of the museum they were a group of boys in desperate need of a run about. We headed for the Barbican. In typical English luck the rain started pouring down just as we headed outside. It stopped raining as soon as we were under cover of the play ground and then started again when we went to enter the park. Once again we ran for cover in the coffee shop at the Barbican.
We went home a bit soggier but with an enhanced appreciation of the Museum of London and Barbican and swore to return on a less wet grey day!
PS The Museum of London is completely free!
Our desitination this time was the Museum of London to which I turned for my salvation. As we were traveling with a rather large group I was determined not to make that classic marble mistake again! We had organised a small group of 5 boys (ages 8-9) and our wee little Abigail to descend all at once. What could possibly go wrong.
We caught the train and so far so good. We got a bargain basement group ticket for 4 adults and 5 children for only £13 more than it cost for just us 4 to go a few weeks ago. How exactly does that work? I am reminded of that line in the film Sleepless in Seattle where the little boy asks
the little girl how much it costs to go to NYC. The little girl replies, "I don't know. No one knows."I have discovered that train travel with boisterous children is a sure fire insurance policy for securing an empty carriage. People started to head towards the empty seats in our direction, heard the noise, and promptly retreated. Woo Hoo!
We were greeted upon entering the Museum and given maps and told of the day's events. Soon after Merja & William joined us and we were shown the various children's challenges and duly picked up each and every one of them. Abigail and I broke off from the group of boys to follow the medieval London tour which was incredibly informative and captivating.
We
took a break for lunch and despite our best attempts to get the children engaged back into the swing of the museum they were a group of boys in desperate need of a run about. We headed for the Barbican. In typical English luck the rain started pouring down just as we headed outside. It stopped raining as soon as we were under cover of the play ground and then started again when we went to enter the park. Once again we ran for cover in the coffee shop at the Barbican.We went home a bit soggier but with an enhanced appreciation of the Museum of London and Barbican and swore to return on a less wet grey day!
PS The Museum of London is completely free!
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
British Museum
A few weeks ago during the school half term, Marc and I took the children to the British Museum. I'd heard all sorts of rumours that this was allegedly the best museum in the world and I wanted to be the judge of that myself.
I also have a fairly strong opinion about how the British came to have of this stuff to put in the museum. Basically, the Brits went round the world pillaging and plundering all the great civilisations in every corner of the globe and brought home the best bits. The British Museum was built for the express purpose of showing the world these ill gotten gains.
The defenders of the museum will tell you they've got paper work for it all. Yeah, right! And pigs fly.....I didn't want any part of that.
My curiosity (and the children nagging) got the better of me. With my morals well and truly compromised, we set off for the day.
We headed straight for The Hamlyn Library in the museum which has numerous sets of trails and challenges designed for various age groups and they are all free. They not only teach the children about many items in the museum but also how to navigate a museum and scrutinise historical objects. They learned how to translate Latin (always a useful skill?). They even got to handle some objects under the watchful but not too over protective eye of a museum volunteer. Abigail can tell you all about an alabaster pot which held kohl for Egyptian eye makeup.
We worshipped the stone statue lifted from Easter Island. Seb sketched the remains of a sculpture of a roman foot in a sandal. Abigail copied the names of the busts of the Greek gods. They thrilled a woman with their knowledge of the countries of Africa (and taught us a thing or two).
I stood in awe at the Rosetta stone as I gained a better understanding of just how incredibly valuable this piece of history was in helping us to uncover the mysteries of long forgotten languages and how this has led mankind to a greater capability in translating all different texts.
As the long day drew to an end and we had seen just about all we had the energy for, Marc reminded me that we still hadn't seen the Elgin marbles. Oh yeah.....I'd always wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The Brits took these marbles from Greece a couple hundred years ago at the height of their empire building. Of course, Greece was taking very good care of them before they were taken away since they were being used as a gun powder store. But I didn't understand what that all meant.
We walked into a room and on every wall was a stone sculpture. Marc started reading the exhibit in front of us. I patiently reminded him that we were at the end of the day and if we wanted to see the marbles we should probably get a move on. Marc looked at me like I had gone completely bonkers, an expression he has perfected over the years. I gently reminded him that our highest priority right at this moment were to see the marbles. Exasperated he pointed to the four walls surrounding us and said "See!"
Oh.....but I thought marbles were little round spherical things that little boys played with in a circle on the ground and carried around in little leather bags.
No, of course not. The sculptures were taken from the walls of The Parthenon. This article can tell you specifically what they are. And this link will show you some incredible photographs of these precious treasures. Just wished I'd looked at these before I'd made a right idiot out of myself.
No matter how these treasures were acquired, they are housed here with incredible care. The museum is free. The curators take care to ensure that everyone gets the most out of their visit: adults and children alike. Our school's half term was a week earlier than everyone else's so we practically had the museum to ourselves. The only disappointment was the tea in the cafe but I can overlook that.
The children got some fantastic certificates with their names on them for completing a couple of the challenges. Everyone is still laughing about my interpretation of the marbles. And I will definitely be going back to the British Museum. Sod the morals! And the marbles.
Monday, 5 April 2010
Inside the Whale by Jennie Rooney
This is Ms Rooney's first novel. I am sincerely hoping it won't be her last and that she is only just getting started on what will be a long and illustrious career. This book is a joy to read even if you have to manage it through your tears.
It's a familiar story. A young girl and a young boy fall in love as the world around them is on the cusp of the second world war. They boy joins up when Germany attacks Great Britain and leaves the girl to discover that she is expecting his child which she proceeds to raise on her own when the boy is lost and assumed dead when he never returns from the battles in France.
But the skill and originality with which this story is told is nothing short of astonishing and is decidedly anything but familiar. The narrator alternates from the boy to the girl with each chapter. And each chapter is exquisitely short and subtle. The writing is beautiful without being indulgent. The ending is surprising and sad.
I really appreciated the journey of these character's lives and look forward to reading more of Rooney's work.
Book Group Verdict: This was one of the books for my Waterstone's book group and there was overwhelming support of this book. Not a dissenting voice among us.
It's a familiar story. A young girl and a young boy fall in love as the world around them is on the cusp of the second world war. They boy joins up when Germany attacks Great Britain and leaves the girl to discover that she is expecting his child which she proceeds to raise on her own when the boy is lost and assumed dead when he never returns from the battles in France.
But the skill and originality with which this story is told is nothing short of astonishing and is decidedly anything but familiar. The narrator alternates from the boy to the girl with each chapter. And each chapter is exquisitely short and subtle. The writing is beautiful without being indulgent. The ending is surprising and sad.
I really appreciated the journey of these character's lives and look forward to reading more of Rooney's work.
Book Group Verdict: This was one of the books for my Waterstone's book group and there was overwhelming support of this book. Not a dissenting voice among us.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Lane Discipline
Keep left unless overtaking (or right if you drive on the other side of road like the other half of the world).
A simple rule every one should be able to follow. At least everyone with a driving license.
A rule I never fully appreciated or was even that all aware of when I lived in America. Americans pass on the left. And the right. But you expect it. Besides the speed limit on the motorways (aka freeways, highways, etc) is set so low it doesn't really matter.
Lane discipline comes into its own in Germany and this is where I fully learned the importance of it. Germany has many motorways which have no speed limits. This is why they invented the Porsche and many other high performance vehicles capable of doing a leisurely Sunday drive at 120 mph.
And there are few other things that will teach you the value of lane discipline than to glance in the rear view mirror, see nothing and then have a blur of a Porsche pass you doing 140 mph. You learn to stay out of way. Unless of course you too own one of those works of art capable of going at the speed of blur.
In Germany everyone practices lane discipline. The same way they never cross the road unless they have the little green man.
In Italy they have lane discipline sorted out in that they don't have any lanes. You drive where ever, when ever you want to drive and stay the heck out of the way. Full stop. Which is the why they invented the Ferrari.
In Britain lane discipline is more of an aspiration. The British abhor the slovenly approach to lane discipline in the USA. They silently admire the strict adherence to the rules of the road in Germany and they are downright green with envy of the Italians lack of due care. But the stiff upper lipped Brits can't quite imagine anything themselves outside of simply sitting in the middle lane.
The Brits will never ever pass you on the wrong side of the road. That would be a sign of weakness. They will however do the entire journey in the middle lane to avoid being passed or merged into. They suffer fairly strong status anxiety and can't quite bear the fact that someone is passing them so they thinking nothing of holding up all the traffic travelling at 10 miles below the speed limit in the middle lane. I have sat in 10 miles of traffic jams with the slow lane being completely empty. No one wants to be seen over there.
And if like my husband you have a terminal case of speed anxiety you must be the fastest person on the road passing everyone you come upon in the middle lane.
So be warned if driving in the UK, the slow lane is for losers. The middle lane are for slightly less losers. And the fast lane is for the brave. And the stupid.
A simple rule every one should be able to follow. At least everyone with a driving license.
A rule I never fully appreciated or was even that all aware of when I lived in America. Americans pass on the left. And the right. But you expect it. Besides the speed limit on the motorways (aka freeways, highways, etc) is set so low it doesn't really matter.
Lane discipline comes into its own in Germany and this is where I fully learned the importance of it. Germany has many motorways which have no speed limits. This is why they invented the Porsche and many other high performance vehicles capable of doing a leisurely Sunday drive at 120 mph.
And there are few other things that will teach you the value of lane discipline than to glance in the rear view mirror, see nothing and then have a blur of a Porsche pass you doing 140 mph. You learn to stay out of way. Unless of course you too own one of those works of art capable of going at the speed of blur.
In Germany everyone practices lane discipline. The same way they never cross the road unless they have the little green man.
In Italy they have lane discipline sorted out in that they don't have any lanes. You drive where ever, when ever you want to drive and stay the heck out of the way. Full stop. Which is the why they invented the Ferrari.
In Britain lane discipline is more of an aspiration. The British abhor the slovenly approach to lane discipline in the USA. They silently admire the strict adherence to the rules of the road in Germany and they are downright green with envy of the Italians lack of due care. But the stiff upper lipped Brits can't quite imagine anything themselves outside of simply sitting in the middle lane.
The Brits will never ever pass you on the wrong side of the road. That would be a sign of weakness. They will however do the entire journey in the middle lane to avoid being passed or merged into. They suffer fairly strong status anxiety and can't quite bear the fact that someone is passing them so they thinking nothing of holding up all the traffic travelling at 10 miles below the speed limit in the middle lane. I have sat in 10 miles of traffic jams with the slow lane being completely empty. No one wants to be seen over there.
And if like my husband you have a terminal case of speed anxiety you must be the fastest person on the road passing everyone you come upon in the middle lane.
So be warned if driving in the UK, the slow lane is for losers. The middle lane are for slightly less losers. And the fast lane is for the brave. And the stupid.
Friday, 2 April 2010
New Carpet
When we moved into this house nearly 6 years ago, the first thing we did was paint a couple of the rooms. Let's just say the previous owners had rather dubious tastes.
The lounge in particular was painted this baby poo yellow/green. That had to go.
But it's easy to paint walls. What wasn't so easy was replacing the hideous red/burgundy/orangey carpet they had laid throughout the house. Fortunately, on the ground floor, only the lounge is carpeted. Unfortunately, this dark colour showed everything cat hair, every dog hair, every thing. I was forever stressing about hoovering. The last thing we did before company arrived was to run the hoover. And if we had unannounced visitors I wouldn't let them go beyond the kitchen.
Now some of you reasonable people might be asking yourself, why didn't that crazy woman just go and replace the carpet? Now I don't know who you think you're calling crazy, but my daddy raised me right. You can't just go round throwing things out before they have been used up.
And when we moved into this house 6 years ago these carpets were brand spanking new. So I lived with it. Not happily I might add. Every time I hoovered I complained, silently (and sometimes not so silently). I apologised to visitors for assaulting their visual sensibilities and waited for the day when the carpet could justifiably be replaced.
That glorious day came a few months back. OK, if we were really hard pressed I could have eeked a few more years out of it but the stress was more than I could bear. Instead I opted for the stress free option. Or shall I say I them subjected my husband to the stress of finding just the right colour?
One Sunday afternoon we visited our neighbours for a cuppa tea and biscuits to discover that they had replaced their lounge carpeting and they had the colour I coveted. That simple. Let the neighbours do the shopping. We promptly made our way to the same shop, the same salesman, and scheduled the installation.
Marc moved all the furniture to the playroom and waited at home for the installation. Abigail and I came home after the school run and there it was. Marc had move all the furniture back into the lounge and it was delightful.
Glorious, Beautiful, Exquisite, Pristine cream (marshmallow to be exact) carpeting. For the first time since having children I had cream carpet.
Right up until the moment Abigail dropped a slice of pizza face down on it. 8 hours after the carpet had been installed. 8 HOURS!!!!!!!!!!
Now I know people are more important than things. I know things can be replaced. blah blah blah. Let's just say this wasn't one of my shining moments as a parent and I wish I'd handled it better. But dang gone it, 8 HOURS? Really?
We frantically dabbed and mixed solutions of laundry detergent, vinegar, stain remover, and everything else the books say to use. No one else can see the stain. My husband says he can't see the stain but he wouldn't see an elephant in the room. Every time I enter the room my eye goes to that spot. I'm not sure I can see the stain. But I imagine I can see the stain.
I had new carpets for exactly 6 hours. Not one of those did anyone spend in the house.
The lounge in particular was painted this baby poo yellow/green. That had to go.
But it's easy to paint walls. What wasn't so easy was replacing the hideous red/burgundy/orangey carpet they had laid throughout the house. Fortunately, on the ground floor, only the lounge is carpeted. Unfortunately, this dark colour showed everything cat hair, every dog hair, every thing. I was forever stressing about hoovering. The last thing we did before company arrived was to run the hoover. And if we had unannounced visitors I wouldn't let them go beyond the kitchen.
Now some of you reasonable people might be asking yourself, why didn't that crazy woman just go and replace the carpet? Now I don't know who you think you're calling crazy, but my daddy raised me right. You can't just go round throwing things out before they have been used up.
And when we moved into this house 6 years ago these carpets were brand spanking new. So I lived with it. Not happily I might add. Every time I hoovered I complained, silently (and sometimes not so silently). I apologised to visitors for assaulting their visual sensibilities and waited for the day when the carpet could justifiably be replaced.
That glorious day came a few months back. OK, if we were really hard pressed I could have eeked a few more years out of it but the stress was more than I could bear. Instead I opted for the stress free option. Or shall I say I them subjected my husband to the stress of finding just the right colour?
One Sunday afternoon we visited our neighbours for a cuppa tea and biscuits to discover that they had replaced their lounge carpeting and they had the colour I coveted. That simple. Let the neighbours do the shopping. We promptly made our way to the same shop, the same salesman, and scheduled the installation.
Marc moved all the furniture to the playroom and waited at home for the installation. Abigail and I came home after the school run and there it was. Marc had move all the furniture back into the lounge and it was delightful.
Glorious, Beautiful, Exquisite, Pristine cream (marshmallow to be exact) carpeting. For the first time since having children I had cream carpet.
Right up until the moment Abigail dropped a slice of pizza face down on it. 8 hours after the carpet had been installed. 8 HOURS!!!!!!!!!!
Now I know people are more important than things. I know things can be replaced. blah blah blah. Let's just say this wasn't one of my shining moments as a parent and I wish I'd handled it better. But dang gone it, 8 HOURS? Really?
We frantically dabbed and mixed solutions of laundry detergent, vinegar, stain remover, and everything else the books say to use. No one else can see the stain. My husband says he can't see the stain but he wouldn't see an elephant in the room. Every time I enter the room my eye goes to that spot. I'm not sure I can see the stain. But I imagine I can see the stain.
I had new carpets for exactly 6 hours. Not one of those did anyone spend in the house.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Bath
The first day of our Easter holidays was to be an embrace of the luxuriousness of the enjoyment of all things around us. So I had big plans of heading off to Bath to check out the Roman Baths and the Bath Abbey.
I have extremely fond memories of Bath. However, I suspect this has less to do with the place and more to do with the company. My grandmother had come to visit me in England just after I moved here. It was the first and only time she came to visit me. We had spent a week in the Cotswolds. We'd stayed in charming B&Bs with claw footed bath tubs bigger than hot tubs chintzed to the max with rose budded duvets and curtains and chairs and sofas and pillows. We visited villages with odd names like Upper Slaughter and Lower Slaguhter. We bought an antique clock (which we still have) in a small little village. We walked all over Cheltenham. We laughed at the sight of a horse we had mistaken for a statue wee for 20 minutes. We had played gin rummy for hours sitting in pubs drinking ale. Nanny had marveled at the 7 different vegetables served with our Sunday Roast Beef (each and every one of them lovingly over cooked in the way only the English can do).
Our last day we made our way to Bath. We were exhausted. And she was in her 70s. So we took the easy way out and took a whistle stop double decker bus tour. I tell you Bath looked lovely from there. But I hadn't stepped foot into the baths or the abbey so I always felt slightly guilty when I said I'd been to Bath. I'd really only had someone else drive me round it.
As Sebastian is studying the Romans at school I wanted to go to Rome for the Easter holidays. As a recovering Catholic I have always wanted to be in the holiest of Christian cities for the holiest of Christian holidays. I've always wanted to see the spectacle of the Pope saying mass in St Peter's Square. But my husband has something against Italy. Something about them not being civilised. Can't imagine what he thinks he's talking about. These people invented sewers and water aqueducts and they have some of the best food in the world. I've been to Rome several times and it is my second favourite city (only to Florence - another Italian city). there is so much history here. Everywhere you look!
But the gods (or is that one god) conspired against me and we didn't quite make it to Rome. So I looked around and found that whilst exquisite Italian food is hard to find here, we have plenty of Roman ruins of our own. We picked Bath for the baths.
I knew it was going to be a bit tricky when we woke to a downpour but I will not let this weather beat me. I've lived in this grey, wet country far too long to let a gale force wind stop me.
My plans had us setting off at 9 am but this got scuppered when Marc had a panicked call from a customer who needed some urgent assistance. He assured me he would be back for a slightly later departure time of 10 am. At 11 my husband appeared wondering why we weren't standing outside in the rain waiting breathlessly for his arrival.
I agreed to drive under duress as Marc needed to do get some work done during the journey. We had estimated our travel time to be 1.5 hours which would have been entirely reasonable had the Highways Agency been able to organise a piss-up (drinking contest) in a brewery. But noooooo.
During the 70 mile stretch there were 5 different work zone of more than 5 miles each where the speed was reduced to no more than 50 mph. Speed cameras measuring average speed ensured my temptation to ignore the law was scuppered. This meant our 1.5 hour estimation was in reality just over 2 hours and given our late departure time we arrived in Bath at lunch time.
So we popped into the M&S to grab some sandwiches although with the rain continuing to announce its presence with authority there was no where to eat our lunch unless we fancied some soggy bread. Besides as luck would have it neither of the children particularly fancied our choice of sandwiches. My patience was wearing thin.
We duly paid our entrance fee of £30 and excitedly set upon our audio tours, one for the children and one for the adults. Soon thereafter more troubles ensued.
The site was jam packed. A representative from the site has since informed me that a number of group visits were booked for the day and most of them did not turn up at their allotted times. No, they waited until we got there. We got pushed, We got pulled, We got shoved. We couldn't see a thing, especially the children.
We had been given free audio tour devices upon our entrance. The children really seemed to enjoy theirs. The commentary must have been entertaining and engaging as Sebastian kept complaining we were moving too far ahead and needed to slow down so he could finish listening. this is what all mothers dream of hearing so we quite happily slowed down.
Unfortunately, the audio tours were not quite as good for the adults. It didn't move at the same pace as the children's but that is not always a bad thing. However, music whilst just standing in a thronging crowd doesn't make it come alive for anyone. Tell me something I wouldn't know by just being there on my own. There are additional commentary tracts narrated by the author Bill Bryson which are good but he does swerve into over sentimental territory often. I, also, am awe struck by the historical significance of the baths. You don't have to tell me how awe struck you are seven times (or more....I only started counting when my annoyance levels went into hyper speed).
To make matters worse, a large portion of the site is under refurbishment. This cause major foot traffic jams in pinch points in the exhibits particularly when there was a long audio explanation in a specific area. And all that construction disrupted the continuity of the site making it extremely difficult to visualize what the site looked like which is a key component for a curator of a museum of this historical significance.
I suppose I was most upset that we didn't see any signage at the entrance that indicated there was refurbishment work taking place. When I checked out the website I didn't see any either. And the teller certainly didn't mention it when we bought our tickets. I think it is a bit cheeky to ask people to pay a full price ticket when only half the site is available to view. And even then you couldn't see it for all the crowds.
The final straw on this camel's back was the spa water fountain. The water in the baths is untreated. You should not touch it or drink it. However, there is the promise of a spa water fountain at the end of the tour. The children were desperate to try a drink. So we went and joined the queue. The long queue. The very long queue which was getting longer as there was no one serving the water from the fountain. Nor did there appear to be anyone interested in resolving the situation.
It is safe to say that we left there with a somewhat bitter (and parched) taste in our mouths. I am happy to inform you my dear readers that a very nice woman, Katie Smith, has responded to the, I am ashamed to admit, rather vitriolic email I sent this morning. She responded to everyone one of my complaints and apologised profusely. Additionally she offered a free ticket for our family to return to the site once the refurbishments are complete as they have overrun. She also offered a full refund but when someone is that nice and professional and fair, you gotta give it another go. So, dear Ms Smith, we will be back once your refurbishments are over. And it better be good!
After our rather unpleasant trip round the baths I was tempted to just get in the car and drive home. But I couldn't pass up the Bath Abbey. Never one to pass up an ancient church I just had to give this one a go. And I have to admit it was well worth the time. They had a little quiz for the children that ensured they explored every corner, nook and cranny. I discovered that the very first English monarch was crowned here in 973 AD. It had some of the most beautiful and best kept stained glass windows I have ever seen. It was dry. It was warm. It was peaceful. It was calming. It was perfect.
There will be a third trip to Bath in a few months time and we can't wait. Anyone fancy joining us? Third times a charm!
My plans had us setting off at 9 am but this got scuppered when Marc had a panicked call from a customer who needed some urgent assistance. He assured me he would be back for a slightly later departure time of 10 am. At 11 my husband appeared wondering why we weren't standing outside in the rain waiting breathlessly for his arrival.
I agreed to drive under duress as Marc needed to do get some work done during the journey. We had estimated our travel time to be 1.5 hours which would have been entirely reasonable had the Highways Agency been able to organise a piss-up (drinking contest) in a brewery. But noooooo.
During the 70 mile stretch there were 5 different work zone of more than 5 miles each where the speed was reduced to no more than 50 mph. Speed cameras measuring average speed ensured my temptation to ignore the law was scuppered. This meant our 1.5 hour estimation was in reality just over 2 hours and given our late departure time we arrived in Bath at lunch time.
So we popped into the M&S to grab some sandwiches although with the rain continuing to announce its presence with authority there was no where to eat our lunch unless we fancied some soggy bread. Besides as luck would have it neither of the children particularly fancied our choice of sandwiches. My patience was wearing thin.
We duly paid our entrance fee of £30 and excitedly set upon our audio tours, one for the children and one for the adults. Soon thereafter more troubles ensued.
The site was jam packed. A representative from the site has since informed me that a number of group visits were booked for the day and most of them did not turn up at their allotted times. No, they waited until we got there. We got pushed, We got pulled, We got shoved. We couldn't see a thing, especially the children.
We had been given free audio tour devices upon our entrance. The children really seemed to enjoy theirs. The commentary must have been entertaining and engaging as Sebastian kept complaining we were moving too far ahead and needed to slow down so he could finish listening. this is what all mothers dream of hearing so we quite happily slowed down.
Unfortunately, the audio tours were not quite as good for the adults. It didn't move at the same pace as the children's but that is not always a bad thing. However, music whilst just standing in a thronging crowd doesn't make it come alive for anyone. Tell me something I wouldn't know by just being there on my own. There are additional commentary tracts narrated by the author Bill Bryson which are good but he does swerve into over sentimental territory often. I, also, am awe struck by the historical significance of the baths. You don't have to tell me how awe struck you are seven times (or more....I only started counting when my annoyance levels went into hyper speed).
To make matters worse, a large portion of the site is under refurbishment. This cause major foot traffic jams in pinch points in the exhibits particularly when there was a long audio explanation in a specific area. And all that construction disrupted the continuity of the site making it extremely difficult to visualize what the site looked like which is a key component for a curator of a museum of this historical significance.
I suppose I was most upset that we didn't see any signage at the entrance that indicated there was refurbishment work taking place. When I checked out the website I didn't see any either. And the teller certainly didn't mention it when we bought our tickets. I think it is a bit cheeky to ask people to pay a full price ticket when only half the site is available to view. And even then you couldn't see it for all the crowds.
The final straw on this camel's back was the spa water fountain. The water in the baths is untreated. You should not touch it or drink it. However, there is the promise of a spa water fountain at the end of the tour. The children were desperate to try a drink. So we went and joined the queue. The long queue. The very long queue which was getting longer as there was no one serving the water from the fountain. Nor did there appear to be anyone interested in resolving the situation.
It is safe to say that we left there with a somewhat bitter (and parched) taste in our mouths. I am happy to inform you my dear readers that a very nice woman, Katie Smith, has responded to the, I am ashamed to admit, rather vitriolic email I sent this morning. She responded to everyone one of my complaints and apologised profusely. Additionally she offered a free ticket for our family to return to the site once the refurbishments are complete as they have overrun. She also offered a full refund but when someone is that nice and professional and fair, you gotta give it another go. So, dear Ms Smith, we will be back once your refurbishments are over. And it better be good!
After our rather unpleasant trip round the baths I was tempted to just get in the car and drive home. But I couldn't pass up the Bath Abbey. Never one to pass up an ancient church I just had to give this one a go. And I have to admit it was well worth the time. They had a little quiz for the children that ensured they explored every corner, nook and cranny. I discovered that the very first English monarch was crowned here in 973 AD. It had some of the most beautiful and best kept stained glass windows I have ever seen. It was dry. It was warm. It was peaceful. It was calming. It was perfect.
There will be a third trip to Bath in a few months time and we can't wait. Anyone fancy joining us? Third times a charm!
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Mothering Sunday
Is Mother's Day time for a mother to smother herself in all the love of her children or relish a day without the children? Is it a day to appreciate your mother or be appreciated for the mother you have become? Perhaps a little bit of all....but it is extremely difficult to fit all that into one Sunday. I love a good challenge.
My special day started with my husband delivering my favourite breakfast, eggs benedict, to me in bed. The children delivered their handmade pressies and cards and my husband provided a bit of ooomph with his exquisitely store wrapped package. In fact his gift was so well packed he said he had a "Love Actually gift wrap" moment (minus the mistress). If you haven't seent the film, go see it. The scene where Alan Rickman is waiting for a gift to be wrapped in Selfridges is hysterical.
I unwrapped my goodies and displayed sufficiently praise on the clay hearts and hand coloured cards. I oohed and aahed as I placed my new silver hoops in my ears. And then they all left me alone to enjoy my breakfast with coffee and the paper.
We then set off for the Isle of Wight to take Marc's mother to a late lunch. I had read about The Hambrough, the island's very first Michelin starred restaurant, in a magazine and we were dying to try it. I've been to loads of restaurants on the island and in my humble opinion, it is not the height of culinary experience. The Hambrough was exquisite. The food looked and tasted like works of art. Our children were immaculately dressed and no one spilt anything on anyone or anything. No dishes got broken. They even ate the food. Oh and don't tell anyone but they didn't even charge us for the children's main meals!
It was a beautiful day and the restaurant sits on a cliff over looking the English Channel towards France. We had sailed right past it last summer when we sailed across the channel. On this day we sat and enjoyed every luxurious moment and watched the boats pass us by.....
The restaurateur is just 23 years old. I cannot believe that a person this young would even be able to make something so wonderful. But he has. I hope the island supports this amazing endeavour and we hope to return and actually stay there as rumour has it that the rooms are just as luxurious as the lunch!
And I managed to give and get a little bit for me, a little bit for my children, a little bit for my mother-in-law. Luckily for me, Mother's Day is in May in America. Don't think I could have fit my mom in on this......although I'm sure she would have loved to give it a go!
My special day started with my husband delivering my favourite breakfast, eggs benedict, to me in bed. The children delivered their handmade pressies and cards and my husband provided a bit of ooomph with his exquisitely store wrapped package. In fact his gift was so well packed he said he had a "Love Actually gift wrap" moment (minus the mistress). If you haven't seent the film, go see it. The scene where Alan Rickman is waiting for a gift to be wrapped in Selfridges is hysterical.
I unwrapped my goodies and displayed sufficiently praise on the clay hearts and hand coloured cards. I oohed and aahed as I placed my new silver hoops in my ears. And then they all left me alone to enjoy my breakfast with coffee and the paper.
We then set off for the Isle of Wight to take Marc's mother to a late lunch. I had read about The Hambrough, the island's very first Michelin starred restaurant, in a magazine and we were dying to try it. I've been to loads of restaurants on the island and in my humble opinion, it is not the height of culinary experience. The Hambrough was exquisite. The food looked and tasted like works of art. Our children were immaculately dressed and no one spilt anything on anyone or anything. No dishes got broken. They even ate the food. Oh and don't tell anyone but they didn't even charge us for the children's main meals!
It was a beautiful day and the restaurant sits on a cliff over looking the English Channel towards France. We had sailed right past it last summer when we sailed across the channel. On this day we sat and enjoyed every luxurious moment and watched the boats pass us by.....
The restaurateur is just 23 years old. I cannot believe that a person this young would even be able to make something so wonderful. But he has. I hope the island supports this amazing endeavour and we hope to return and actually stay there as rumour has it that the rooms are just as luxurious as the lunch!
And I managed to give and get a little bit for me, a little bit for my children, a little bit for my mother-in-law. Luckily for me, Mother's Day is in May in America. Don't think I could have fit my mom in on this......although I'm sure she would have loved to give it a go!
Comment Settings
Regular visitors and commenters to this blog (that would be my mother) will notice that I've had to change the comment settings requiring you to enter some letters as they appear on the screen if you wish to leave a comment. I've had to do this in an attempt to reduce the amount of spam that I am receiving. Oddly, this spam is directed at one post which is actually quite old. Not sure how or why this is happening but as the comments appear to be in Cyrillic meaning I can't read them I am playing it safe and trying to prevent them. Deleting them one by one is simply taking too long.
I apologise if this is a pain in the back side but quite frankly deleting the odd comments is a pain in my back side. Don't stop reading though!
I apologise if this is a pain in the back side but quite frankly deleting the odd comments is a pain in my back side. Don't stop reading though!
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Tap, Ballet, & Charlie
The last weeks before the end of term culminates in the children displaying much of what they have learned in the term just gone.
A few weeks ago I was treated to seeing everything (such as it was) that Sebastian has created in Art, Design Technology (DT), ICT (Information Computer Technology), and Games/Physical Education. Not a single Art project was complete as there appears to be a problem with Sebastian finishing his choir practice and getting to art class but he manages to get a B for all the effort he puts into it. DT displayed a lovely bridge which was capable of holding 36 tins of baked beans which sounded like an awful lot but it was clear that he had once again run out of time to complete the centre support due to instrument lessons and his 36 was far short of the record of 116 tins. Sebastian continues his challenge with sport (literally). He is so much smaller than everyone else he quite simply keep up and no one understands this better than his mother. His attitude though had suffered and he seemed to just throw in the towel. Luckily that seems to have ceased and he gives it a bit more effort this term. Shame he can't get his clothes changed in under 15 minutes as he tends to miss most of the lesson by taking his sweet time changing clothes. I reckon its all a cunning plan. Sebastian is a geek just like his good ole mum and dad. He excels at ICT. What else would one expect? He can show me a thing or two about using a computer.
Sebastian also had two instrument exams this term on successive days. First was his violin exam on a Monday and then his piano exam on the Tuesday. I was a bundle of nerves. He, on the other hand, took his 1 hour cram violin lessons at Eton College which left his arms like jelly, just the day before the exam. He reported back to us that he feels he did "pretty ok". Not sure what that means or what the results are for either exam as the results don't come back for a few more weeks here. I am sure he did very well on his piano exam as he finds that much easier. Neither Marc nor I play a musical instrument so his prowess surprises us every day.
I was honoured to attend Abigail's tap and ballet performances. This is her first year doing tap and let's just say she ain't got much natural tapping rhythm. Lucky for her we don't currently have a video camera and I had broken the photo camera just before the tap performance. On the other hand, this is the 4th year she has been doing ballet and she has gotten quite good at it. She had beautiful posture. Her hands are delicate and she seems to have lovely expression in her free dancing. She seems so confident. It has to be said though that her best moves are clearly to MTV or the radio when she'll just start dancing madly around the house. Wonder where she gets that from? And we got the camera repaired and I have lots of beautiful photos of her exquisite poses.
The pinnacle of the excitement of the last week was the "Evening with Roald Dahl" performance where Sebastian had the honour to have a part as one of the leads as Charlie (from Chocolate Factory fame). We had practised his lines over and over but at the dress rehearsal Sebastian hadn't done well and needed to be prompted with every line.
His final performance displayed none of those missteps. He didn't miss a single line. After the show he confided that before going on stage he was very nervous but that once he was there "it felt like I was a different person and I just became very confident". I did point out to him that being a different person was exactly what acting was all about. I don't think he quite got it but his performance was fab with some impeccable comic timing. He is clearly very talented at acting. Wonder where he gets that from?
After all that excitement, we need a back!
A few weeks ago I was treated to seeing everything (such as it was) that Sebastian has created in Art, Design Technology (DT), ICT (Information Computer Technology), and Games/Physical Education. Not a single Art project was complete as there appears to be a problem with Sebastian finishing his choir practice and getting to art class but he manages to get a B for all the effort he puts into it. DT displayed a lovely bridge which was capable of holding 36 tins of baked beans which sounded like an awful lot but it was clear that he had once again run out of time to complete the centre support due to instrument lessons and his 36 was far short of the record of 116 tins. Sebastian continues his challenge with sport (literally). He is so much smaller than everyone else he quite simply keep up and no one understands this better than his mother. His attitude though had suffered and he seemed to just throw in the towel. Luckily that seems to have ceased and he gives it a bit more effort this term. Shame he can't get his clothes changed in under 15 minutes as he tends to miss most of the lesson by taking his sweet time changing clothes. I reckon its all a cunning plan. Sebastian is a geek just like his good ole mum and dad. He excels at ICT. What else would one expect? He can show me a thing or two about using a computer.
Sebastian also had two instrument exams this term on successive days. First was his violin exam on a Monday and then his piano exam on the Tuesday. I was a bundle of nerves. He, on the other hand, took his 1 hour cram violin lessons at Eton College which left his arms like jelly, just the day before the exam. He reported back to us that he feels he did "pretty ok". Not sure what that means or what the results are for either exam as the results don't come back for a few more weeks here. I am sure he did very well on his piano exam as he finds that much easier. Neither Marc nor I play a musical instrument so his prowess surprises us every day.
I was honoured to attend Abigail's tap and ballet performances. This is her first year doing tap and let's just say she ain't got much natural tapping rhythm. Lucky for her we don't currently have a video camera and I had broken the photo camera just before the tap performance. On the other hand, this is the 4th year she has been doing ballet and she has gotten quite good at it. She had beautiful posture. Her hands are delicate and she seems to have lovely expression in her free dancing. She seems so confident. It has to be said though that her best moves are clearly to MTV or the radio when she'll just start dancing madly around the house. Wonder where she gets that from? And we got the camera repaired and I have lots of beautiful photos of her exquisite poses.
The pinnacle of the excitement of the last week was the "Evening with Roald Dahl" performance where Sebastian had the honour to have a part as one of the leads as Charlie (from Chocolate Factory fame). We had practised his lines over and over but at the dress rehearsal Sebastian hadn't done well and needed to be prompted with every line.His final performance displayed none of those missteps. He didn't miss a single line. After the show he confided that before going on stage he was very nervous but that once he was there "it felt like I was a different person and I just became very confident". I did point out to him that being a different person was exactly what acting was all about. I don't think he quite got it but his performance was fab with some impeccable comic timing. He is clearly very talented at acting. Wonder where he gets that from?
After all that excitement, we need a back!
Monday, 29 March 2010
Health
The year hasn't started out so well for me. Actually the battle with my health has been fought for quite some time.
I had swine flu in the June of last year. Then I was strung my two wasps whilst on holiday in August. In November I fought an upper respiratory infection which left me battling an wicked ear infection and felt like someone was picking sticks in my ear. I seemed to rally in time for Christmas and then came the damp wet grey cold holiday in Spain for the New Year and that just tipped me over the edge.
I was powerless against the pneumonia which left me bound to the house and completely helpless. I had no energy. My temperature soared to over 102 for 12 days solid. I ate nothing for 3 days when my husband finally force fed me toast. A work colleague visited me and I still have no recollection of his visit. I couldn't sleep due to the excessive coughing. I couldn't breath. It felt like a herd of elephants were sitting on my chest.
I took all the drugs and had a reaction to the third course of antibiotics which left me in a worse state than I had been in when I started taking them. I followed all the doctor's orders and still I didn't get better.
I became depressed when nothing seemed to help and I didn't' get better for weeks and weeks. After nearly 5 weeks I began to recover. I returned to work but couldn't manage more than 2 hours. Even during those few hours my brain felt like mush. People would speak to me but I couldn't' for the life of me make sense of what they were saying. And when I did make sense of it I certainly couldn't do any critical analytical thinking about what they were saying. I would come home before midday and collapse into bed.
After a few weeks of this I stated to feel my mojo return. I was making sense of things. I could sustain my attention for more than 10 minutes.
And then I went on a training course and sat in some of the worse chairs ever for 8 hours 3 days in a row with only a few breaks.
I ignored the pain for weeks hoping it would just go away. Finally after 2 weeks, the pain won and seized in the middle of dinner out with my daughter. I made it home through tears with my daughter completely terrified. My husband wasn't home. The doctor couldn't come to the house until after hours. I couldn't sit. I couldn't stand. I couldn't lie down. I couldn't move.
The hospital gave me some serious pain killers and sent me into gagaland which is beautiful place to go. I spent 2 days in a complete fog.
I now have a physiotherapist and am working on the back pain. I don't need the pain killers more than once/day (usually at the end of the day). I have no cough, no cold, no infection. I am not taking any antibiotics.
Health is a funny old thing. You take it for granted when you've got it. And when you don't there is little you can do about it. In the depths of the pneumonia and at the height of the back pain I felt completely powerless. It scared the living daylights out of me.
I know I run at mach 10 with my hair on fire. I have a high stress job. I work full time and have 2 children under the age of 9. I do not have a nanny or an au pair. The only help I have at home is a cleaner who visits for 4 hours once/week (which to be fair is more than some have). My husband is sometimes more of another child than a help (aren't they all?). I do the school run every day. I help with Rainbows. I am a member of the school parent group.
I don't take enough time for myself but I don't know a mother who works outside the home who does. When we are not with our children we feel guilty for working. And when we are with our children we feel guilty for not working.
Now that I am better long may it continue. But I gotta take care of myself. I'm just not sure when I might be able to fit that in........
I had swine flu in the June of last year. Then I was strung my two wasps whilst on holiday in August. In November I fought an upper respiratory infection which left me battling an wicked ear infection and felt like someone was picking sticks in my ear. I seemed to rally in time for Christmas and then came the damp wet grey cold holiday in Spain for the New Year and that just tipped me over the edge.
I was powerless against the pneumonia which left me bound to the house and completely helpless. I had no energy. My temperature soared to over 102 for 12 days solid. I ate nothing for 3 days when my husband finally force fed me toast. A work colleague visited me and I still have no recollection of his visit. I couldn't sleep due to the excessive coughing. I couldn't breath. It felt like a herd of elephants were sitting on my chest.
I took all the drugs and had a reaction to the third course of antibiotics which left me in a worse state than I had been in when I started taking them. I followed all the doctor's orders and still I didn't get better.
I became depressed when nothing seemed to help and I didn't' get better for weeks and weeks. After nearly 5 weeks I began to recover. I returned to work but couldn't manage more than 2 hours. Even during those few hours my brain felt like mush. People would speak to me but I couldn't' for the life of me make sense of what they were saying. And when I did make sense of it I certainly couldn't do any critical analytical thinking about what they were saying. I would come home before midday and collapse into bed.
After a few weeks of this I stated to feel my mojo return. I was making sense of things. I could sustain my attention for more than 10 minutes.
And then I went on a training course and sat in some of the worse chairs ever for 8 hours 3 days in a row with only a few breaks.
I ignored the pain for weeks hoping it would just go away. Finally after 2 weeks, the pain won and seized in the middle of dinner out with my daughter. I made it home through tears with my daughter completely terrified. My husband wasn't home. The doctor couldn't come to the house until after hours. I couldn't sit. I couldn't stand. I couldn't lie down. I couldn't move.
The hospital gave me some serious pain killers and sent me into gagaland which is beautiful place to go. I spent 2 days in a complete fog.
I now have a physiotherapist and am working on the back pain. I don't need the pain killers more than once/day (usually at the end of the day). I have no cough, no cold, no infection. I am not taking any antibiotics.
Health is a funny old thing. You take it for granted when you've got it. And when you don't there is little you can do about it. In the depths of the pneumonia and at the height of the back pain I felt completely powerless. It scared the living daylights out of me.
I know I run at mach 10 with my hair on fire. I have a high stress job. I work full time and have 2 children under the age of 9. I do not have a nanny or an au pair. The only help I have at home is a cleaner who visits for 4 hours once/week (which to be fair is more than some have). My husband is sometimes more of another child than a help (aren't they all?). I do the school run every day. I help with Rainbows. I am a member of the school parent group.
I don't take enough time for myself but I don't know a mother who works outside the home who does. When we are not with our children we feel guilty for working. And when we are with our children we feel guilty for not working.
Now that I am better long may it continue. But I gotta take care of myself. I'm just not sure when I might be able to fit that in........
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
No PJs
I hate bras, tights (or pantyhose as the Americans call them), and high heels (ever since breaking my ankle wearing them at work).
I love pajamas and slippers. One of the first things I do when I get home from a hard day out is to take off my shoes, slip on my slippers and take of my bra. People who pop round for visit unannounced have been known to catch me in my pjs and slippers in the early evening. Or possibly on a Sunday afternoon. If I had my way we would all wear PJs and slippers all the time.
A few weeks ago one of the largest supermarkets implemented a ban on customers wearing their pajamas into the store. Journalists have drawn similarities between this ban and the recent decision by the French government to ban the wearing of burqas in public. They maintain it is as much a cultural affront to wear pajamas to the supermarket as it is to wear a full veil on public transport or into the police station.
There's a huge difference between wearing pajamas and the burqa. The burqa is a symbol of submission and dominance. They obscure your identity and all non verbal methods of communication like facial expressions and body language. Jammies are a symbol of the desire to be free and comfortable. They obscure, well, nothing at all.
Now I've got some very nice pajamas. So nice in fact, I'm not sure you could readily tell the difference between some tracksuit bottoms and my jammies. How do they know I don't dress like that? In fact, those bubble trousers that Vanilla Ice wore could have easily have been mistaken for pajamas.
And the real cultural affront is the length (or lack thereof) of some very small skirts I have seen some girls (and some older women) wear. Or those tiny little skimpy outfits the youngens wear on a Friday/Saturday nights out when they could easily be mistaken for selling their wears by putting it all out on display. Shouldn't they ban those little pieces of string some girls call skirts.
And what about those trousers that boys wear that hang down past their hips threatening to fall down to their ankles at any moment causing them to fall and me and my children to trip over them and get all mucked up by their greasy hair. Now that is a health and safety issue just waiting to happen.
What next? Are they going to enforce that I wear a bra? Makeup? Get plastic surgery?
Luckily, I don't shop at Tesco. Well, I used to in an emergency because they are closer than Sainsburys. But not anymore. Sainsburys I hope you are listening. I would hate to have to do all my shopping at the corner shop where they often greet me at 7 am in the morning popping in to grab some milk for my children's cereal wearing my pajamas.
I love pajamas and slippers. One of the first things I do when I get home from a hard day out is to take off my shoes, slip on my slippers and take of my bra. People who pop round for visit unannounced have been known to catch me in my pjs and slippers in the early evening. Or possibly on a Sunday afternoon. If I had my way we would all wear PJs and slippers all the time.
A few weeks ago one of the largest supermarkets implemented a ban on customers wearing their pajamas into the store. Journalists have drawn similarities between this ban and the recent decision by the French government to ban the wearing of burqas in public. They maintain it is as much a cultural affront to wear pajamas to the supermarket as it is to wear a full veil on public transport or into the police station.
There's a huge difference between wearing pajamas and the burqa. The burqa is a symbol of submission and dominance. They obscure your identity and all non verbal methods of communication like facial expressions and body language. Jammies are a symbol of the desire to be free and comfortable. They obscure, well, nothing at all.
Now I've got some very nice pajamas. So nice in fact, I'm not sure you could readily tell the difference between some tracksuit bottoms and my jammies. How do they know I don't dress like that? In fact, those bubble trousers that Vanilla Ice wore could have easily have been mistaken for pajamas.
And the real cultural affront is the length (or lack thereof) of some very small skirts I have seen some girls (and some older women) wear. Or those tiny little skimpy outfits the youngens wear on a Friday/Saturday nights out when they could easily be mistaken for selling their wears by putting it all out on display. Shouldn't they ban those little pieces of string some girls call skirts.
And what about those trousers that boys wear that hang down past their hips threatening to fall down to their ankles at any moment causing them to fall and me and my children to trip over them and get all mucked up by their greasy hair. Now that is a health and safety issue just waiting to happen.
What next? Are they going to enforce that I wear a bra? Makeup? Get plastic surgery?
Luckily, I don't shop at Tesco. Well, I used to in an emergency because they are closer than Sainsburys. But not anymore. Sainsburys I hope you are listening. I would hate to have to do all my shopping at the corner shop where they often greet me at 7 am in the morning popping in to grab some milk for my children's cereal wearing my pajamas.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
A Donut Shared
The children enter the bedroom where I am enjoying some late sleeping. They announce that daddy has bought them donuts. With my eyes still closed I ask if I can have a donut. They both agree to bring me one.
I open one eye to see a small orange plastic plate with two halves of two different donuts has been delivered to my bedside. I sit up and revel in all that sugary pleasure that a donut brings.
Feeling much better I come downstairs and ask my hubby if there are any more. He says he only bought 2.
It is at that point that the depth of my children's generosity washes over me.
They had both come downstairs and cut their own donuts in half so that I might have a whole.
I am speechless.
I open one eye to see a small orange plastic plate with two halves of two different donuts has been delivered to my bedside. I sit up and revel in all that sugary pleasure that a donut brings.
Feeling much better I come downstairs and ask my hubby if there are any more. He says he only bought 2.
It is at that point that the depth of my children's generosity washes over me.
They had both come downstairs and cut their own donuts in half so that I might have a whole.
I am speechless.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Down But Not Out
I am pleased to announce that I am finally on the road to recovery.
I've been off work since January 13 and was diagnosed with pneumonia. I've had 3 courses of antibiotics and for several weeks couldn't leave the house. I couldn't sleep at night due to the coughing. I've had a fever topping out at nearly 103. I've had an adverse reaction to an antibiotics that left me seriously ill for 12 hours. I couldn't move off the chair during the day an was exhausted by climbing the stairs once a day. I had completely lost my appetite and at one point hadn't eaten for 3 days.
I'm not entirely sure how it all started. Back in the end of November I had a bit of a cough and missed a few days of work. But I seemed to recover for December. Then we went to Spain and I think the rain and damp and cold just did me in. Within a week of returning I had hit the skids.
The good news is I seem to be well down the road to recovery. I've had a shower and smell better. My hair is done and I'm dressed in something other than my dressing gown and pjs. Makeup was a step too far right now but maybe this weekend. I've been through my emails and I think gotten them under control. I started writing a To Do List which Marc says is a sure indicator that I am feeling better.
I'm hoping to return to work next week if all goes according to plan. I promise to start slowly and ease into it although all that email makes me sick just thinking about it.
I lost the will to recover at one point during the second week. I could see no progress and it just felt like I was getting better. That day I received a phone call, a card and a lovely bunch of flowers. It brightened my day and made me smile.
A big thank you to all the mums at school who helped with the school runs. A bit thank you to all who send cards and flowers. A big thank you to all who rang to cheer me up and check on me. A big thank you to those who loaned me DVDs. A big thank you to everyone who offered to help out in anyway.
I'm nearly back!
I've been off work since January 13 and was diagnosed with pneumonia. I've had 3 courses of antibiotics and for several weeks couldn't leave the house. I couldn't sleep at night due to the coughing. I've had a fever topping out at nearly 103. I've had an adverse reaction to an antibiotics that left me seriously ill for 12 hours. I couldn't move off the chair during the day an was exhausted by climbing the stairs once a day. I had completely lost my appetite and at one point hadn't eaten for 3 days.
I'm not entirely sure how it all started. Back in the end of November I had a bit of a cough and missed a few days of work. But I seemed to recover for December. Then we went to Spain and I think the rain and damp and cold just did me in. Within a week of returning I had hit the skids.
The good news is I seem to be well down the road to recovery. I've had a shower and smell better. My hair is done and I'm dressed in something other than my dressing gown and pjs. Makeup was a step too far right now but maybe this weekend. I've been through my emails and I think gotten them under control. I started writing a To Do List which Marc says is a sure indicator that I am feeling better.
I'm hoping to return to work next week if all goes according to plan. I promise to start slowly and ease into it although all that email makes me sick just thinking about it.
I lost the will to recover at one point during the second week. I could see no progress and it just felt like I was getting better. That day I received a phone call, a card and a lovely bunch of flowers. It brightened my day and made me smile.
A big thank you to all the mums at school who helped with the school runs. A bit thank you to all who send cards and flowers. A big thank you to all who rang to cheer me up and check on me. A big thank you to those who loaned me DVDs. A big thank you to everyone who offered to help out in anyway.
I'm nearly back!
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