FLOWER GIRL

A couple of months ago someone wrote to our local paper and posed the question ‘What is the point of Daddy Long Legs (or crane flies)?’  I was a bit irritated at the time.  You might as well ask what is the point of any species.  Daddy Long Legs probably exemplify the purpose of existence better than anything else.  They live only to mate, and then die once they become adults.  En route, they feed on nectar, provide a food source for birds and don’t harm humans (or anything else for that matter except for mosquito larvae).  

If only homo sapiens could justify the purpose of its life quite so well.  The only other species to come close to killing and harming others on such a mass scale as humans is mosquitoes.  These kill millions of people each year by spreading disease but I assume that this is accidental on their part (although a conspiracy theorist who is bored with the McCann or Princess Diana stories might be able to correct me on that).

This week, however, I have had a sneaking sympathy for the man whose home, presumably, had been invaded by Daddy Long Legs.   For our home has been invaded by Fruit Flies.   Fruit flies, or Drosphila funebris, are jolly useful creatures, apparently.  They are the most studied organism in biological research because 75% of known human disease genes have a recognised genetic match in the genetic code of the fruit flies.  I assume this is good news - unless you happen to be a fruit fly in the vicinity of a laboratory.

But one of our visitors – I called her Freda – wasn’t content with being a lab rat or sniffing the rotten shallot in our cupboard.   She decided to emulate humankind by interfering in the lives of others.  Mine.  She hung around me like a crazed groupie, trying to share my lunch and dinner, reading over my shoulder, helping with the cooking and joining in when I shouted abuse at the telly.  But yesterday she went too far and decided she had a liking for Sauvignon Blanc.  My glass of Sauvignon Blanc.    So I decided that it was time Freda learnt to read a newspaper.  Rather successfully, I might add.  Freda absorbed a lot of news in a very short space of time.

I missed her during this morning's coffee break.  And it has just occurred to me that having a fruit fly as a best mate isn't such a bad idea for someone who is batty enough to qualify for the fruit bat of the year award because all she can think of  as a blogging topic is a fruit fly.

Alas, poor Freda! I knew her...

Tonight I am cooking Chinese Duck à la Nigella Lawson for dinner.  It takes a massive 5 hours to cook, though it has just sat in the oven for all that time.  So not exactly hard work.   Still 34 minutes to go. 

I am a little worried that I might have blown it.  Nigella's recipe calls for a whole duck.  I have only two legs.  Duck legs, I mean.   Obviously.  So should I have reduced the cooking time?  Will my legs be as delectably tender as Nigella's?  Or is my goose cooked and they are now cinder?  It smells pretty good from here.  And I have made Apple Dappy for pudding, as  back up, in case of disaster.   31 minutes to go.

In the meantime, I have meandered happily through blogland catching up on other people's lives.   Then I got a sudden urge to travel, so I went to Blog France.  Top of Le Buzz is  someone who has garnered a massive 213 comments.   Incroyable. 

Only 14 minutes to go.   Where shall I go now?  Cooking can be a bit too hands-off, you know.   I know, I'll tidy my room. 

That didn't take long.  Who would have thought that such a great filing system could be created from 2 dustbin bags.  13 minutes to go.

Time to turn up the heat.  And chop cucumber and spring onions.  And get a glass of wine ... then another .. then a top-up. 

Crikey?  What's that smell of burning.     2  hours and 30 minutes have gone. 

It has recently been drawn to my attention that I am a member of a minority group. One that has been mocked, victimised and discriminated against for centuries.  I can hardly bring myself to own up to it, in case I am henceforth shunned.  But – deep breath – here I go.

I am left-handed.  There, I’ve said it.  And it’s taken me 47 years just to realise what a handicap this is.   Last week someone informed me that as a result I could expect a shorter life-expectancy.   Just in case left-handers didn’t have enough social stigma and practical problems to deal with.

Left-handers suffered severe prejudice during the 18th and 19th centuries.  Even my mother’s generation was forced to hold their left hand behind their backs and write with their right one.  In earlier days, it was often "beaten out" of people.  It is even claimed that left-handers were often shunned by society, resulting in fewer marrying and reproducing.

Implements designed for right-handed people range from difficult and frustrating (scissors) to downright dangerous (band saws).   Writing left to right with a fountain pen results in ink-stained skin and cuffs – and makes exam papers even more stressful when your answers become smudged and unreadable.  And some sports even rule out left-handers.  It is, apparently, a rule in polo that you cannot hold the stick with your left hand.  

I blame the Romans.  They started it.  The Latin word for left is ‘sinister’.  The Romans thought that left-sided things were evil and guided by evil spirits.  So much so, that Gaius Petronius, who was apparently Emperor Nero’s adviser in matter of luxury and extravagance, (a role that rather casts today’s crony jobs into the shade) insisted that people entered or left a building on the right foot. If you didn’t, you could expect an unlucky day during which disaster could strike.  Hence the phrase ‘To set off on the Wrong Foot’.  

But you might already be in for a bad day if you got out of bed on the wrong side.  The wrong side being left, of course.  The side where evil spirits lie during the night, waiting to possess your body during the waking hours if you emerged on their side of the bed.  

Even Roman fashion designers jumped on the bandwagon.  A traditional Roman toga had just one pocket, situated on the left-hand side so that a right-handed person could access it.   It wasn’t just the Romans though.  Many languages and cultures associate the word for ‘left’ with evil, clumsiness, awkwardness or sloppiness.

Of course, I could simply point out all the examples of left-handed greatness – painters like Albrecht Durer and Raphael.  And authors such as H G Wells and Mark Twain.  But I want more.  

It is a scandalous injustice that there are no victim support counsellors, no positive discrimination laws, no compensation for victims.     Equal opportunities for my left-hand and others like it, that’s what I want.

One further thought before I take my left hand to visit a therapist.  If left-handedness is so stupid – how come Britain drives on the left?

My nieces came around for tea today.  They love baking.  Other than visits to their grandmother or I, they never get to see any baking, or indeed very many meals cooked from scratch.  Their mother doesn’t like cooking.   How sad is that.  So I try to get them involved.

Today’s baking session was quite harmonious.  It was afterwards, during the eating, that the trouble started.  K (11) is very bright and very competitive and her younger sister N (9) is usually intimidated by this.  Hitherto, she has looked to K for a lead and endorsement.   But there are signs that things are changing.  

N has just joined the same class as K, giving both of them a lot of scope for tale-telling and teasing.  So when K pointed out censoriously that N had been told off this week for larking about, N was quick to retaliate.

‘K’s got a boyfriend, Aunt Ellie’ she smirked.  K’s face flamed.  ‘No, I haven’t, you liar.’ she flashed back.  ‘Yes, you have.’ replied N.  This was repeated about 8 times before I managed to get a word in.  

‘That’s nice, K.  What is his name?’  Before K could draw breath, N chipped in.  ‘Jamie – and guess what, Aunt Ellie?  He’s shorter than K’.  K’s mouth opened in a perfect circle of indignation.  ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ she bellowed.  N shrugged.  ‘Whatever!  Anyway, he doesn’t like you any more, he likes India best.  Becky told me.’

K gasped.  For Becky is one of her best mates, a cool member of one of the coolest girl gangs in the school, if not the world.  A gang so cool it excludes ‘little’ girls, as she loftily tells N, and no way would any of its members reveal any secrets to a 'little girl', particulary a pestilent younger sister.   If true, it was a crushing betrayal.  

K rushed to find her mobile and spent the next few minutes feverishly texting her friends.   

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.  Ping.  Mutter.  Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Ping.  Gasp. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.  Ping. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.  Ping.   Silence.

K returned disconsolately to the table.  ‘Is everything sorted, K? I asked gently.  ‘Becky and I aren’t friends anymore.’ K replied, bleakly.  N serenely took another muffin. 

Game, set and match.

Yesterday, the end of half term, marks the end of the Isle of Wight’s tourist season.  Many attractions and shops will now shut down for the winter and the island will seem eerily deserted once again.  

Yesterday evening was a foretaste of things to come.  We took Dog out for her evening walk, and didn’t see a single person.  Not surprising, as in addition to the grey, gloom and drizzle that had hung around all day, the wind had become really fierce on the cliffs.  Dressed in head to toe waterproofs and wellies, we were met with a horizontal sheet of rain, and were buffeted backwards as we tried to took down into the Bay to watch the waves crashing over the stacks.  

Dog doesn’t mind going out in the rain and she gets very excited when the wind blows, racing up and down like a mad thing.  All three of us ended up running down the hill, my Man and I pretending to be aeroplanes, Dog running in dizzy circles.  It was exhilarating after being cooped up in front of a computer all day.  

But it begs a question.  There are literally hundreds of dogs around here.  Where do they go in wet weather? They can’t all hate the rain, so it must be their owners who do.    Not that we are complaining.  It was the most stress-free walk we’ve had for several months.  No constant switching of routes to avoid other dogs. No confrontations..  And today, the weather is just perfect again.  Just for us. Bliss

Only a woman with an unquenchable desire for a headache and blurred vison could possibly tune into Blogland after a day mostly spent on the computer doing family history research.  But I am that woman.    After the PC problems of the last few days, I thought I'd better spend a bit of time exploring blog.co.uk a bit more - in case it is me rather than the computer that is the problem.

I don't want to moan about Blog.co.uk - I truly don't - because the amount of pleasure I get out of it far outweighs the very occasional niggle.  So please consider the following  as a mere musing.  But why is it so difficult to discover fellow bloggers? 

Most of the blogs I know about come from visiting the friends of friends.  It's the best way I've yet discovered on discovering other people.  But the drawback is that these tend to be the ones that blog at similar times, and I assume that there are other 'communities' that blog early in the day or much later in the evening that I never get to see. 

The directory is far too time-consuming.  Today, I ploughed through the A's and E's (looking for other Ellies, but then belatedly realised that wasn't my blog name - told you I was a computer fool!) .  To begin with, I thought I'd stumbled onto the Yellow Pages - (think AAAAAAAAA111111111 Plumbing Services).  Then I thought I'd strayed into business blog land (Earnloadskindofnames).  When I eventually got to 'real' bloggers, over 95% I clicked on were empty.  Many had one entry and had then been abandoned months, even years ago.  Some were in a foreign language.   It's a depressing thought that no blogs ever get deleted, however long they are unused or empty, and the directory will eventually have millions of names.

So am I missing a trick?  Is there a way of sorting the directory so only current users come up in a list?  If there is, someone let me know, please - before I go and lie down in a dark room!

Fans of Harry Potter will recall Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans.  These were rumoured to include every flavour known - good and bad.  Eating them was a risk - you could not be certain whether the bean would turn out to be chocolate or  liver and tripe.  Professor Dumbledore couldn't face them after an unfortunate encounter in his youth with a vomit-flavoured one.  I am beginning to understand how he felt. 

In New York I purchased a pretty tin of Jelly Bellys.  To date, my experience has been limited to the sour range, and some citrus-flavoured ones.  Today, after consuming a pretty hefty proportion of the tin (as compensation for the rain and gloom) I have now encountered some truly startling flavours too - I think the politest way of describing them would be 'unusual'.

So I took a look at the tin.  Not content with mixing drinks - I have downed a piña collada, a margarita, a strawberry daiquari, island punch, root beer and cappucino - I have also had a strawberry jam, buttered popcorn, licorice flavoured chocolate pudding, topped with bubble gum. 

No wonder the room is beginning to sway!

Last night, I was reading a book about Alum Bay and the Needles (by John C Medland).  The book reported that the water supply at Alum Bay had been a problem up until the 1930s.  Before then, water was bought from a farm a short distance way and transported down to the Bay.  But then a local entrepreneur, aided by the postman, discovered water at the Bay by water divining and a well was dug.

This reminded me of my upbringing in Devon, when a neighbour showed my father how to search for water using (I think) a hazel stick.  My siblings and I tried desperately to find water ourselves, without success, having seen the twig 'twitch' in our neighbour's hand,.     So I've always been convinced it works, but would still like to know how and why.  Is it because the type of twig - hazel - needs a lot of water to grow and therefore 'sniffs' it out ?  (in which case, if you bought kitchen or bathroom furniture made of hazel, would you find them all in the sink one day?). Or is there a scientific or paranormal explanation?  I'm going to have a look for a y-shaped twig and have another go.

There was, apparently, a downside to this new source of water at Alum Bay.  It was piped to water tanks at the nearby hotel, which doubled as a swimming pool.   One irate woman at the hotel is alleged to have complained about boiled tadpoles in her teapot.

Apologies to anyone who has sent me a comment and not got an answer from me.   Very rude, I know, but not half as rude as my computer suddenly deciding to send all my Blog messages into the spam box instead of my inbox.  Luckily, I found some before they deleted themselves so I know what weird little game it's up to .   It's all my fault, of course.  I stupidly and naively accepted the offer of a software update that purported to be 'new and improved', but has so far caused nothing but confusion, ill-feeling and paranoia.   Clearly a case of PC payback time because I threatened to kick its arse yesterday.  Now I wish I really had.

Before we collected Dog from the kennels, we arranged for her to have a wash, trim and brush-up.  She doesn't regard this as a treat, because amongst her many neuroses are water, loud noises and being confined.  She tried to counter the noise of the dryer and then her subsequent confinement in a clean pen by barking constantly - something, fortunately, she never does at home.  When we collected her, the kennel girls and grooming lady looked extremely relieved to  be shot of her. 

Her trims,  however, result in a decidedly youthful appearance that belies here eleven + years.   And this has proved to have some rather positive benefits.  Because when she resorts to her usual bad behaviour out on her walks - like flinging herself at other dogs, jumping up at people in an attempt to frisk them for sweets hidden about their person and disrupting children's ball games by stealing the ball - people invariably say 'Oh, don't tell her off.  She's only a puppy!.  At which point, we mumble something that could have been 'sorry, she should know better' but is usually 'ha ha!, that's a relief - I think we got away with that'.

And noticing how a haircut can knock years off your appearance and get you off the hook after a misdemeanour, I thought I'd give it a go.  So I got me a haircut.   And I think it's already starting to pay off.    The hairdressing appointment dragged on so long I had to run to the car park as my ticket was about to expire.  And the warden was just about to reach for his ticket machine, when I reached the car and explained about my hair appointment over-running.  And he was clearly overwhelmed by the new young me because he didn't give me a ticket, said he liked my haircut, and gave me a cheery wave goodbye. (Look! Don't spoil it by pointing out he wasn't within his rights to issue a ticket or something!)

And when I got home, there was yet more evidence of my return to my youth.     I opened the office door and recoiled - because it looked like a typical teenage bedroom in need of a several-hour long tidy.  Bah! Wasn't quite what I had in mind.  Still, at least I resisted mugging that young child for her Milky Bar.

I know it’s not Christmas yet, nor have I seen any ghosts this morning, but I have been stomping around yelling 'Bah! Humbug' all day, thanks to bureaucracy. For example ‘I’m sorry, but the account details you have just entered don’t match our records. If you enter it wrongly a third time, luvvie, we’ll blow up your computer and steal your dog.’ Urgggh, did I want to kick computer arse. So I took a breather and went out to the shop for chocolate for a breath of fresh air and a calming moment. And bumped into one of my neighbours.

He and his wife have been trying to move house for two years. They need to downsize from a house to a bungalow for health reasons. They hardly got any interest in year 1, but they admit this was their fault. They chose the estate agent who priced their house at £50k above everyone else, just to get it on his books. Why they do this, I have no idea, since no sale = no income.

Earlier this year they tried again and managed to get a buyer within a couple of months. The drawback was that this was May and their buyer wanted to delay the move until October. But they agreed, and found a property, offered, and started paying out a fortune in various fees. In the meantime, they were bombarded with dozens of questions about their house – obscure questions, like ‘were there any covenants that permitted people to drive cattle through their garden??’

On the day they were due to sign papers for the property they were buying, the owner suddenly decided to withdraw it from sale. No reason, no demand for extra money. This was in September, and my neighbours were, unsurprisingly, upset and a little panicky. Luckily, they found a similar property in the same area, whose owners had also just been let down, so paperwork was exchanged quickly and smoothly, and the October move was on.

And yesterday they were due to move house. Everything was packed up, the vans arranged, their post redirected. But the night before, as they camped amongst the boxes, the person buying their house rang in a panic. His buyers could not get their money together, so the sale/purchase/move might take a couple more weeks. Two weeks?? Everything was packed, so it was either squatting in their own home or unpacking stuff again. They've taken it surprizingly well, unlike me.

How can this be allowed to happen? I thought once you signed, you were committed to complete. It would be bad enough roughing it for a night if you were young and fit, but elderly and ill and a couple of weeks? Bah!

So my kick arse mood is now extended to insurance agents, estate agents and the person responsible for property laws in this country – and I haven’t even started on today’s tax and accountancy work yet.

Yes, that's right. One of you out there in blogland. The one who informed my Man that "The Story of the Weeping Camel" was a wonderful film - the one who persuaded him to order it and was responsible for us watching it last night. The one who is responsible for my puffy eyes and sniffy nose this morning. Because when the camel wept, so did I. So did my Man. Even Dog looked watery eyed (though that might have been due to wind).

Anyway, whoever you are - I forgive you. Because it was wonderful. So thank you.

On holiday, I was repeatedly reminded of how little I know.  I'm not just  talking about the pub-style quizzes we enjoyed.   (How many non-US people would know what flavour a Hostess Ding Dong is?).  I'm thinking major, world-changing things.

In New York, unexpectedly, the transfer booked to take us to our hotel turned into a tour of Manhattan (hotel check-in times apparently inspired this seemingly generous gesture).     I hadn't intended to visit the site of the former World Trade Centre (or Ground Zero) during my trip.  This is partly because I find it too distressing, partly because I feel uncomfortable about tragedies such as 9/11 or the Titanic becoming part of a tourist/entertainment itinerary and partly because a year before 9/11, I visited the World Trade Centre's  Observation Floor, 110 storeys high, and still feel ill whenever I recall the sheer height and inaccessibiliy of the building.   However, the tour spent most of the morning there, and our guide recounted at length the tragic events and subsequent losses.   Even our lunch was scheduled to take place in a deli overlooking the site.  It was very, very distressing. 

We shared our lunch table with an 80 year old Belgian woman and her two daughters, who insisted that the guide joined us.   And during the conversation, one of the Belgians articulated 'Yes, it is very  sad what happened here, but it needs to be put in perspective.  It is nothing when compared with the bombing of Dresden during the second world war."

I felt rather ashamed at this point, because although I know about the bombing of Dresden, and the controversy it caused it, I had no idea of the extent of the fatalities.  So I looked it up, and discovered that about 25,000 lives were estimated to have been lost.  Then, to my astonishment, I learned that Operation Gomorrah, a similar fire-bombing offensive of Hamburg, caused at least 50,000 deaths and one million homeless. 

The guide turned to the elderly Belgian lady and asked 'You lived through it.  Do you hate the Germans for what they did?"  And she and her daughters were truly astounded.  'No!" They said.  'We just feel very sad that the world did not learn from that time"

I couldn't put it better myself.

I thought it was about time I resumed my family history research. It's a seasonal thing with me - spring and summer = gardening, autumn and winter = family history research.

This is, of course, a totally inefficient way of going about things. Last spring, I totally forgot I'd already ordered some flower seeds and ended up buying a duplicate batch. And come autumn, I have totally forgotten what ancestor I have already searched for and probably waste hours doing all the same things. So I thought I'd be cunning, and start researching a different line of the family.

When I was researching my paternal relatives, I thanked my lucky stars a million times that I did not have to search for the surname 'Smith'. I assume it would take several lifetimes. But now, I am hoisted with my own petard, whatever that is. Have you any idea how many McDonalds there are in Scotland? Or how many Davies' there are in Wales? And how distant and remote they seem when you are sat on the Isle of Wight? I used up 30 credits, that were supposed to last over 2000 hours, in just half an hour.

Bah! Time for a blog - who would have thought it would seem such a productive way of passing the time.

but no need to go to the market for a fat pig, because there are now three of them already in residence here.  Yep, my Man and I have returned from the US several sizes larger, thanks to humungus food portions - not easy for a woman to leave 80% of it on the plate after being brought up with the mantra 'You must eat up all your food - there are children starving in Africa, you know".    Even Dog has returned from her kennels looking rather rotund.

I'd like to be able to report that I have come back refreshed and rested.  Instead, I'm shattered and my feet, legs and back are killing me.  That's the trouble with city breaks.  In a desperate bid to visit all the main tourist attractions, and get a bit of history and cultural information, and shop, and eat, and sample the bars and nightlife - well, I feel shattered just writing it all down - it is more of an endurance test than a holiday. 

Still, it was a good one, and I can catch up on my sleep at home.  Preferably whilst at work, leaving me time to catch up on blogging.

But as always, it was nature that provided one of the best moments of my trip.  For New York is getting ready for Halloween, and there are  pumpkin displays around the city.   And the best, in my opinion, was the one that provided a free meal for some delighted sparrows and a wood pigeon, who enjoyed picking out the seed heads from the bales of straw supporting the display.

So now I am going to catch up with what my friends have been up to.  And I know you've all been up to a lot, because I have poems, photos, gossip and Blog Action Day posts, plus plenty of Rusty Usky and the announcement as to whether or not wannabe King Kevin managed to invade the island to look forward to.

Ah! There's no place like home.

Fate can be very cruel sometimes. I came back from the shops, where I used up every ounce of willpower trying to resist a jam doughnut or chocolate bar (succumbing only to a bag of tortillas, but never mind that).

And the first song that shuffled along on my ipod was Caramel by Suzanne Vega.

Doh!

I’ve been to the hairdresser’s today. A relaxing treat. I like the way that my brain shuts down for a couple of hours whilst I catch up on celebrity gossip and fashion news. It’s like taking a trip to another planet (not least because the dryer used to set highlights and lowlights looks like a prototype for Robbie the Robot in Forbidden Planet). Some of the things I read in the magazines there make me feel as though I have crash landed in La-La land . Take, for instance, the recommendation to purchase a Créme de la Mer travel kit “as travel is no excuse to neglect your skin care”. For the fabulous sum of £150, I could purchase some tiny pots of cream to include in my hand luggage ‘perfect to beat the carry on size regulations’. Rarely have I come across such a clever marketing ploy to disguise the fact that you get very little for your bucks.

Then there is the run-down on what a woman should be wearing unless she wants to be considered a non-person. I used to be fashionable once, back in the seventies. Flares, pencil skirts, stillettos and patent platform shoes – I had the lot. Then I moved into smart but bland mode when I worked in an office, culminating in managerial suits and sensible medium-high heels. Now I work from home, and my look is grunge meets comfortable. I could wear jim jams to the office, but I don’t. Why, it would be unprofessional – and possibly illegal, as I have to walk the dog before I begin work. So my fashion aspirations are mainly limited to T-shirts and jeans, with a bit more of an effort when it comes to meetings with my bank manager. And these last few years in the fashion wilderness are taking their toll. My calves are still screaming as a result of dressing up for yesterday’s business meeting. And I am still recovering from the experience of trying on a pair of fashionable wide-legged evening trousers, only to have the assistant bark at me ‘You’ll need different knickers if you buy these’. I hadn't even realised that knickers figured in the list of fashion's faux pas.

But I like to read about the fashion trends, in the vague hope that what goes around will come around and catch up with my wardrobe. Today I had plenty to cheer about on hearing that smocks and frills are on their way out and their replacements are all to do with power dressing. Reading on, however, it was clear that my business suits were not about to make a comeback. The new look is about belts, straps, padding, buckles, studs and leather, bondage belts.

Think Dominatrix, think S&M attitude, the article shrieked. Blimey! Rather not, thanks. Not sure if my Man’s heart is up to the shock, let alone those of my elderly neighbours. But there is some fashion glimmer of hope for me over the next few weeks and months. Because included in the list of 'what’s hot' are biker jackets, motorcycle gauntlets, and lace-up Doc Martin’s. And I have all of them in my wardrobe – it’s just a case of finding an appropriate occasion to wear them that doesn’t involve a motorbike.

Hmmm, I wonder if my bank manager goes for the Dominatrix look.

I had to go to Lymington today for a business meeting.   The Yarmouth to Lymington ferry is my favourite ferry journey in the world - well, I haven't been on many yet  but it's a wonderful trip. On the half hour crossing, you get to see The Needles, Hurst Castle, the coastline around Yarmouth, birds on the mudflats of Lymington estuary and Lymington marina.  And there is quite often a bit of a show put on - a practice coastguard rescue, a near-miss with a yacht , the morris men trying to do a dance in gale force winds and, once, a dolphin escort.

The meeting didn't take long, so I had time for lunch and a bit of retail therapy.  Lymington has a great range of shops and I was soon in need of some money.  So I went to the ATM, which greeted me with the question 'Do you know it is National ID Fraud Week?'  Well, I didn't know and was immediately suspicious.  I know who I am (most of the time) but how was I to know if the ATM was really a bona fide cash dispenser and not a toaster masquerading as an ATM?  I decided to test it by asking for some money, and since cash rather than burnt bread came out, I'm assuming it wasn't an impostor. 

Back home, I checked to see if it was indeed National ID Fraud Week and discovered that the ATM had omitted a critial word - it should have read National ID Fraud Prevention Week.  And the statistics are pretty scary.  Burnt toast is the least of your worries.

http://www.stop-idfraud.co.uk/

It occurred to me earlier that before I go away, I needed to do something about the bags of apples and pears I got from the honesty stall .  So I spent a couple of hours earlier cooking.  So far those bags have produced:

4 Pear Pies
1 Pear and Ginger Tarte Tatin
1 Apple Crumble
1 Apple Dappy
2 Apple pies

I can safely say that I am glad it is over.  The kitchen looks like a tornado has been through it.  So I abandoned the mess,  and am catching up with blogs with a glass of wine.

And whilst most of them (pies, not blogs) are going into the freezer, tonight we will be having a tasting session to see whether we prefer Pear and Ginger Tatin (not made before) or Apple Dappy (previous favourite). 

Oh, and Dog and I have just had a bit of a heart-to-heart.  I've agreed that I won't attempt to chase a rabbit if she refrains from helping with the dishes.  Dog eyed the broken plate, and the remains of the chicken carcass  that lay on the floor, rather wistfully.  But I think she agreed, because the plate either landed on her head or the noise frightened her - I found her trying to hide behind the sofa.

Make that irresistible.  That’s me – at least as far as the insect world is concerned.
Blue bottles pester me like paparazzi, wasps clamour for my attention like autograph seekers, spiders try to hide in my bathroom like crazed groupies.  But it’s the biting kinds that really adore me.    Forget sweet tasting blood – I must have insect homing devices swarming around inside me, a bit like the submarine in ‘Fantastic Voyage’.

It is because of this fatal attraction that I select my holiday destinations carefully.  I would love to travel to South Africa, Namibia, India and a host of other exotic countries, but I am too worried about the insects.  For I react badly to insect bites.  As a result, I tend to opt for safer (or colder) destinations.  Not always successfully.

When I went on a trip to southern Italy a few years ago, I assumed it would entail taking a few risks.  I had read that crossing a road in Naples was dangerous given the locals’ reluctance to observe traffic lights. I understood that tramping up Stromboli and Mount Etna to view an active volcano might expose me to injury or worse, and I foresaw there was a slim chance of being caught up in mafia activity or getting lost in the catacombs in Palermo.  What I didn’t anticipate was being unable to walk for two days after being bitten on my knee whilst sitting on my hotel balcony - in Sorrento.   For this year’s holiday, we will be travelling to the United States.  In three days’ time.

So it is with absolute horror and distress that I read that a man is in a coma after being bitten by a mosquito.  And this didn’t take place in some exotic or far-flung country, but in New England in the United States.  I emphasize with the shock and incredulity of Mr. Michael Nicholson’s family that this could happen in, supposedly, sanitized western society and pray that he will recover.

You would not have thought it possible in this day and age.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/edinburgh_and_east/7033203.stm

Finally got to do a bonfire on the allotment. Despite soggy weeds. Without resorting to a can of petrol. It was a bit of a let-down really. No towering inferno requiring at least three fire engines equipped with hunky firemen. The fire didn't last long enough to cook a jacket potato or six. But at least the smoke kept drifting in the direction of the arch moaner and writer of complaints to the council and there was nothing he could do about it - we checked every rule before starting. So he sat in his garden, pointedly coughing from time to time. And we sat and drank coffee, whilst taking it in turns to demonstrate our bonfire-stoking techniques.

Believe me, the competitive spirit in the Strictly Come Dancing Logan household is nothing compared to the Gant battle of the bonfire monitors. My Man's technique was to prod the fire with a bamboo cane - my preferred option was to fan it vigorously with a plastic compost bag.

Didn't do either of us much good - we both got covered in smoke and the fire eventually gave up, leaving a pile of half-burnt weeds.

Which means we get to do it again in a couple of weeks' time. Perhaps with bangers! Ho hum, Mr. Moaner.

Alas, the weekend is drawing to a close. Before I go, I would like to thank the people that have made it so nice for me.

Biggest thanks to my husband, who made me very happy last night () by agreeing to cook dinner whilst I watched Strictly Come Dancing. He said it was because he'd rather do the cooking and washing up for eternity than watch John Barnes prance around in a sparkly shirt, but I know it is really because he loves me very much.

Big thanks too to my nieces, who went home before I suffered the humiliation of losing all my hotels in Monopoly.

Big thanks to the BBC for re-acquainting me with Three Dog Night's 'Mama Told Me (Not to Come) which I have now downloaded

Huge thanks to the weather for being so nice and shiny and warm and dry.

And finally, last but not least, thanks to all those friends who came around to play.

Good night

Here on the Isle of Wight we are lucky enough still to enjoy the honesty box system, whereby householders have a 'stall' outside their front gate and sell off their excess fruit, veg, flowers and eggs. I have just come home with a bag of apples and a bag of pears, from such a stall.

And in a week where the word 'poem' has been mentioned rather a lot and I have been hard at work on my poem for la-spice's 'Nightmares' competition, the pears reminded me of a poem that I learnt by heart as a child. I say learnt by heart, because I haven't come across this poem anywhere since. It is entirely possible that I made it up, or at least invented words to fill in my memory gaps. But here it is - a forty-something year old poem - to celebrate my bag of pears.

Piggy saw a pear, flying through the air
when he found it on the ground
a wasp had settled there.

Now then, said Piggy, as mad as a pig could be
Go away, it's mine, I say
the wasp said 'after me'.

Piggy made a snap
Oh what a sad mishap
the wasp flew out and stung Piggy's snout
And said 'Now we're quits, old chap'.

Ahem, I REALLY hope I didn't invent that...