FLOWER GIRL

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, in a primary school far away. a well-intentioned teacher decided that art and craft classes would be a great idea. To nurture our creative souls and give a short respite from the 3Rs, we got to mess with paints and crayons. And each week, two lucky children were allowed to draw on the blackboard with a box of coloured chalks.

Sadly for said teacher - who was undoubtedly the role model for the song "My teacher is a bunion ..." - she made the fatal mistake of pairing me and my arch-enemy Lyn on the chalk board. Within seconds, we launched ourselves enthusiastically into battle. And, demonstrating a well-developed propensity for self-preservation, we battled in complete silence.

Imagine a Laurel and Hardy scene. I smear red chalk over Lyn's face. She waits patiently and silently until I have covered most of her face. Then her face contorts into an 'Oh!' of outrage. She retaliates with the yellow chalk. And I let her. And wait until she finishes. Before launching a counter offensive with green chalk. And so on. Until our faces resemble rather fine Gauguin landscapes.

Eventually our teacher turns. And sees a clean blackboard and two multi-coloured girls. We were banned from arts and crafts for the rest of the term. And from the blackboard for life.

And today, what goes around comes around. Because, after a manic morning simultaneously trying to finish producing the paperwork for the annual accounts whilst making some props for the theatre, I flew out of the house without so much as a glance in the mirror. And the bus driver roared with laughter and said "You just been released from playschool, love?".

And on checking my face, my appearance implies that I have just left a face-painting session midway through. I have a series of black lines over my chin that could feasibly be the start of a tiger's face, and a big blog of yellow paint on my nose.

I would have been absolutely mortified if I weren't so numb with exhaustion. So sorry to all my friends that I haven't caught up with your comments and posts over the last few days. Life has rather overtaken me at the moment. But catch you soon I will.

Now I know for a fact that I was born on a Tuesday. So, by rights, my outlook should be permanently graceful. You know -

Monday's child is fair of face.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
Wednesday's child is full of woe.
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child is loving and giving.
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good in every way,

But life usually disappoints. I was born clumsy. And, yesterday, I was muddled up with a Wednesday gal. Full of woe, not go. There I was, idly flicking through the papers on my desk, waiting for blog.co.uk to warm up - a bit like the old televisions used to have to do - when I noticed an entry in my desk diary:

*DEADLINE* 25 APRIL *DEADLINE* *NO EXTENSIONS TO BE GRANTED, NOT EVEN FOR BLOGGERS*

It was even highlighted in yellow pen. Cue 24 hours of *spits word out* WORK! Followed by extreme tiredness and irritation.

And now it's Friday. And am I 'loving and giving'? Well, I've resolved to give up my desk diary. And I'm gonna be loving to Dog, who's had to settle for short walks away from the rabbit city. And I'm gonna give my man a hug for making me meals and proof-reading.

But the chocolate caramel drops are mine, all mine. So there!

How I wish that St. George had also opted to become patron saint of the washerwomen (or men). It is a complete mystery to me how I have been left with three odd socks in the time between removing them from the linen basket, washing them in a machine and then hanging them on the washing line outside. Is there a sock gremlin in the house? Do they get sucked through the holes in the washing machine thingy? Do blackbirds sneak up behind me whilst I'm hanging up the other washing and pinch them?

Slaying dragons would be child's play comparing to the ordeal of washing day in this house.

And where did I get to spend this gloriously warm sunny day? In the garden? In a beer garden? On the beach? On the downs?

Nope. I got to spend most of it in my car because I had to take it in for a service. Driving from one end of the island to the other, mostly in a 30 mph queue of elderly drivers. I know I tend to go on about them. It's not ageism, believe me - it's fear. Because every week the local paper reports a new elderly driver horror story. Not so long ago, three elderly drivers ended up in in the news in the same week - two wrecked their cars, the third wrecked his wife. He had foolishly attempted to reverse out of their drive before she got in the car, and before he knew what year it was, he'd run over her and put her in hospital.

It's not over yet either. I'm betting that there's another incident in the making. Today, whilst I was waiting for my car, one lucky couple entered the car showroom. She was extremely excited. Who wouldn't be? - her brand-new micra was sitting in the showroom just waiting to be taken home. She shrieked with laughter at the number they'd chosen - not sure why. She explained twice that she had chosen a white car because it was like silver. And she was really looking forward to driving an automatic after seven years in a manual drive.

"But what do I do when I have to stop at traffic lights on a hill? she asked the salesman.

"Er, what do you mean?" he said.

"Well, should I put the handbrake on or hold it on the clutch like I do now?"

The salesman made sure he drove the car out of the showroom onto the forecourt and suggested tactfully that he drove them down the road first to get them used to the car.
I'm calming my nerves by saying it could have been worse. Fortunately, her husband has been relegated to passenger.

Woo hoo. The Battle of the Gurkentopf is over. I am victorious. Thanks to the skill and resourcefulness of my friends, I have stormed the citadel and freed the gherkins. A mere case of inverting the jar in a bowl, pouring boiling water around the lid, thumping it on the bottom, helping it right way up again, then stabbing the lid with a needle. And it yielded with barely a hissy fit and no animals or people were hurt in the process.

And it occurs to me that only my female friends were able to rise up and meet this challenge. Without the aid of a power tool. Except brain power.

Ladies - today the gherkins, tomorrow the world.

*saunters off, whistling "If I ruled the world ....*

It's getting so that I am afraid to log into blogland. No-one wants to feel odd-woman out, yet here I am unable to join in the widespread moaning about blogland problems. Possibly because I am so technologically hopeless that what everyone else regards as problematic, I regard as a miracle merely because a light has appeared on the computer and it hasn't exploded.

Then there is the problem that I am losing friends quicker than I can consume Hotel Chocolat kirsch soaked cherries enrobed in milk and dark chocolate. So many people have abandoned their blogs, announced their departure or preference for alternative blog sites or are simply too busy to blog that I felt a momentary spasm of hope that I might win the "Last Man (Or Woman) Standing Bloscar" next year.

I don't know if I will have the willpower to continue blogging if I don't have anyone to talk to.

Hello? Helllooo? HELLLOOOOO?

Sometime last year, a branch of Lidl opened in Newport. This delighted my dad - he is a great fan of the 'bargains' to be had in Lidl. His latest bargain is a boat, which he (aged 80) and 'the smallest man in the store, about 5'1"' somehow managed to manouevre onto the roof of my dad's very small and ancient car, and which he somehow got home without attracting the attention of the law or an attack by the incandescent road rager who followed him at 30 mph for 10 miles.

I eventually managed to get into Lidl (the car park is always full). And came out with a packet of sticky, florescent page markers, which I have since discovered are cheaper in Staples, and a giant jar of gherkins, which so far have resisted all attempts to open it, as the lid is just larger than my jar opening gadget.

Imagine my excitement then, when today I came across a gadget called disGO, "a magnetic silicone wonder!" This purported to double as a trivet for hot pans, an anti-skid mat, a pot holder and a jar opener. It also boasted that "it's magnetic". So I rushed home and attempted to open the jar of gherkins with it. For good measure, I also attempted to demonstrate its anti-skid qualities on the kitchen work surface and finished my demonstration by hanging it from the oven by its magnetic catch.

Well, the gherkin jar remains unopened. And, for the record, the mat does move, albeit very slowly, and it only managed to hang on to the oven for all of 3 seconds before falling on the floor. I don't think I'll be testing its pan holding qualities tonight.

So, in the absence of eating the darned gherkins, I thought I'd find out where it gets its name from and whether it translates into 'indestructible' in 157 languages.

The word is of Persian origin, angārah, passing through Greek and Polish, and entering the English language from early modern Dutch, in which the diminutive gurkkijn or agurkkijn denotes a small cucumber. (The word ‘pickle’ itself is derived from the Dutch pekel, a salt or acid preserving fluid.) The similarly pronounced Swedish word, “gurka”, actually means cucumber, cognate with German “Gurke”.

- which is jolly interesting, but not half as interesting as discovering that 'a (formerly) common British slang term for a gherkin is a Wally', which is, of course, also 'a British colloquial term meaning a silly or inept person.'

Somehow, I'm beginning to feel that it's game, set and match to the Lidl gherkins. And if this is the usual calibre of their bargains, I am starting to feel twinges of fear about my dad's intention to bring the bargain boat with him to the Isle of Wight when he next comes to stay "so we can go for a little sea trip".

I had to go into Newport this afternoon - big mistake if you are hyped up with a zillion things you have to do and another billion that you'd like to do. I'd forgotten it was the last day of the school "Easter"" holidays. All over town, worn-out, glazed-eyed parents had come to the same conclusion - let's take the little horrors shopping and let other people share the misery.

I went into a cafė for a coffee and shortly afterwards a mother came in with her 6-year old daughter and a 3-year old boy. Mum and girl parked the boy at the table next to me, despite virtually every other one in the place being empty. Maybe I am mistaken - perhaps my expression suggests a child-loving mug rather than the Attila the Hunny person that I become when a badly behaved 3-year old kicks my chair repeatedly with his blue wellies.

He then started to bellow "Domado dupe, domado dupe" at his mother, which I only translated, when after 12 encores, she shouted back "There's no tomato soup left - do you want chicken soup? "No wanna dhicken dupe, wan domado dupe"he bellowed back, whilst unscrewing the salt pot and spreading it over the table.

Resisting the urge to bellow back "you wanna big clip around the eardole, dhum" I left for some peace and quiet in the library. Fat chance. Whilst I returned my books, a gaggle of teenage girls came in, screeching as they do when a young male is within 50 metres. The librarian, a big bloke, muttered "I am not standing for this' and proceeded to follow his intention to the letter by remaining seated and sending his assistant, all 5' 2" of her, to sort them out.

I retreated to the paperback section where I found myself interrupting a good bicker between an elderly couple over where the L authors were. I helpfully pointed them out, and was rewarded by a glare from the woman who seemed to suspect I had designs on her 80+, deaf, grumpy, shortsighted husband who didn't have the word "Thanks" in his grunt vocab.

And with only the further ordeal of a 30 miles per hour convoy home, a trip to the Co-op where I seem to have spent nearly £50 on a bottle of wine, a couple of bags of crisps and 3 onions, I have grumped home and hid under the duvet, eating chocolate brazils and reading my library book. I may be there for some time.

are not just any old hot cakes. Just as Pancakes with maple syrup and summer berries, popovers, Chocolate and Ginger Muffins and French Toast aren't your everyday breakfast.

Oh no. They are all Divorce Court Recipes. That is, if you are mad enough to read them out aloud from a cookery book at breakfast time when your husband has a hangover.

Honestly, you would think a French, heavenly hot with generously spiced muffins wearing berets smothered in maple syrup who'd popped over for a puffy pancake would go down well with any man, wouldn't you?

Just call him Mr Picky.

What have I done to deserve this?

I'm sulking. Nobody ever asks me. It can't be because I live on the Isle of Wight - the UK's nearest equivalent to 'the-world-is-flat-and -if-you-get-near-the-edge-you-will-fall-off-and-never-be-heard of-again' theory. Because I lived in London for years and I was never asked there either.

So who does, exactly, get asked to take part in an opinion poll? I can only suggest, in the case of the statistic that claims that 59% of married women would divorce their husbands if they were assured of financial security, that the only people asked resided at the Wannabe A Footballer or Musician's Wife Club.

Either that or I am a member of a minority - again.

The Rules -
1. Link to the person's blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself
4. Tag seven random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

Well, thanks a bunch, Blacksheep.
I really am no good at doing these things.

So,

1. I gave up a career in television because I didn't like getting up early to go on set.
2. I haven't yet succeeded in persuading myself to eat Black Pudding.
3. I used to live next door to Billy Nicholson, THE Spurs Manager.
4. I have turned down the opportunity to model nude for Playboy six times.
5. My greatest sporting success was when I won the girls' 5th form high jump.
6. I do get out of bed for less than £10,000 a day, but only just.
7. I have an incurable habit of lying to make myself seem interesting. Therefore only some of the above statements are true.

And I reckon I am the last person in blogland to do this, so I tag anyone who hasn't yet done it or did it so long ago they want to do it again.

My brother has been moaning about his daughters. Apparently they have shown attitude, thrown a tantrum and cheeked him. This was because he said they couldn't go to a disco. They are aged 10 and 11.

Cheer up, bruv. It could be worse. You could have been the father of Corey Delaney. The 16-year old Australian who became famous for trashing his parents' house while they were on holiday. The charming teenager who, when advised to take a good long look at himself, apparently replied "I have. Everyone has. They love it."

Way to go, nieces.

The tension is killing me - and I don't even support Liverpool or Arsenal. Oh no, three more minutes. Hurry up - I'm gulping too much wine. Well, you've got to have an excuse.

Oh dear - I think it's all over.

*Have we got another bottle of red wine in this house?*

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his Heaven -
All's right with the world! (Robert Browning)

It's all right in my world, anyway. I had a wonderful walk on the Downs with Dog this morning. No coat, no dog fights, no mad woman - just me, Dog and skylarks, blue skies, fluffy clouds and sparkly sea.

Not sure about the rest of the world though. I made the mistake of watching the news last night - never a good idea when I'm feeling a bit down and fragile. I cried when Shannon Matthews was found, safe and well. Last night I cried again - but with pity for a child brought up in a complicated family headed by a mother who bears more than a passing resemblance to Waynetta Slob. Then there was the Diana inquest, in which I learned that the most intimate details of her life had been made public in an effort to quell conspiracy theories. What kind of world do we now live in when the privacy and dignity of people are sacrificed as a sop to the crazies? Then the news that the Olympic torch had been extinguished. Well, my Olympic spirit got a bit of a soaking when the Iron Curtain robots and propaganda dominated the games, it flickered briefly to applaud the likes of Torvill and Dean and Sally Gunnell and went out completely when swamped by wave after wave of drug allegations.

It's no good - I need a cheery view of the world. And it doesn't get much cheerier than The Carpenters.

That's better.

“If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.” --Robert Browning

I took advantage of the return of the cold weather by doing some baking over the weekend. Seeing as how it looks as though the removal of baggy jumpers is going to be delayed a while. The tea bread was out of this world. crunchy-topped citrus scones made with ricotta were yummy; but the rosewater biscuits a bit disappointing - think Turkish Delight flavoured shortbread.

I even tried making bread and managed to survive the experience. Every recipe called for fresh yeast and I haven't a clue where to buy that so I had to settle for easy blend yeast and calculate conversion rates. Fortunately, my mantra "Measure twice, cut once" saved the day again. The house would have been enveloped in a blob of dough the size of Dorset, after my first calculation indicated that I needed 42g of yeast when it should have been 9g.

The bread actually tasted good, to my surprise, albeit not a full-blown stars and heavens experience. But it only kept well for one day, which makes me wonder what additives go in to commercial bread. I am also thoroughly confused as to why it comes out looking a wholemeal colour when it is supposed to be white flour. I got the (strong white) flour from a local mill, so is this because the flour is stoneground or unbleached? Breadmakers, please enlighten me!

I'm still feeling enthusiastic, despite the never-ending washing-up. I read in a cookbook by Rachel Allen that "we all have those special foods that conjure up warm, nostalgic feelings of childhood - meals that instantly transport you back in time in just one bite .." Is this true for everyone? I could think of just two things: welsh cakes, which my mum made on Sunday evenings as a sop to the tears and tantrums of pre-school hair and bath night; and apple fritters, which a neighbour used to make. I haven't eaten apple fritters since I was 10, so this is my next challenge.

So if I reappear here later, pulling faces, chanting my times table and sporting a late sixties hairstyle and knee-high white socks, you will know that I have been successfully transported back in time.

Heads.

We woke up to snow this morning. Yippee. It is only the second time in the last seven years or so, according to the locals. A bit of a shock to the system compared to Friday's sunshine, but a welcome one.

April, May and June are my favourite months of the year to be out in the garden. Everything's fresh and green and growing (usually). I like pottering around, the sun is not too hot and, apart from the power-tool-mad retiree community, it's usually still fairly quiet.

But last Friday, the sun came out yelling "Get Yer Kit Off!" Even I felt sufficiently enthused to go outside without a coat on. My neighbours, however, are made of sterner, Empire-building stuff. They rushed to follow these instructions to the letter. First, the Noisy Family drag out their barbecue and patio heater for the first trip of the summer, and the air was soon full of foul and fowl smells, accompanied by beer-fuelled squawking to Radio 1. So I cleared off to the front garden.

What a sight. My middle-aged to elderly male neighbours are doing their usual inflexible rota of car washing, hedge trimming and lawn mowing but have all shed their clothes to do so. Apart from teeny, weeny, tatty pairs of shorts, that is. Accompanied by normal socks and shoes that look as though they are relics from their business suit days. A strange and nauseating sight.

Why they should feel this is necessary in the first week of April is beyond me. It was warm but not exactly a heatwave. Is there some sort of suntan competition for retired men? Does the sun remind them of their national service days in Egypt where the heat or limited washing facilities necessitated removal of clothing? Do they think the ladies around here admire their moobs? Or are they just annoyingly bonkers?

But it has snowed and all is right with the world. Nobody wants to stop and have a chat with Powerhose Pete - it's too cold. So he's kept his clothes on.

I belatedly remembered my attempt to make sloe gin this morning. I eventually tracked down the Kilner jar packed with sloes. It didn't look promising. Not only was the jar covered with dust, but it looked just like cough medicine.

Undaunted, I set about filtering it into a clean bottle. As luck would have it, a bit was left over. So I nobly drunk it. Boy oh boy, it packed a kick greater than - oh, I dunno - Calpol say. I spent the next half hour reeling around the kitchen. And that was just due to a centimetre of it.

Now I have the pleasure of attempting to dip the soaked sloes in melted chocolate - I do hope that suggestion wasn't a wind-up. Chocolate liqueurs eat your pathetic foil-covered heart out if they are truly as delicious as described.

I'm beginning to think there might be something in this home-brewing malarky. Next challenge, elderflower champagne. If the sloe gin hangover has abated by May.

I hate March. Gloom doom. All the really bad things that have happened in my life have happened in March. But - as the proverb says -No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow. It is now April. And I feel a lot better. Spring is sprung, I have riz. Possibly prematurely, as I met someone on the Dog walk this morning who gloomily predicted the weather was going to turn cold again this weekend.

Bah! Spoilsport. If he's right, I am going to make the most of now. April hath put a spirit of youth in everything said William Shakespeare - so I might join him in discarding my thermals. Not that I know whether he wore thermals. But I expect he wore tights, so that makes us even.

Then I'm off out in the garden.

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven -
All's right with the world!
~Robert Browning

First up, my tulips - before they are decimated by the forthcoming yukky weather and Robert's snail.

Then lunch. No bacon sarnies for me today, I think.

Then it's off to convert a white sheet into a frock and buy new batteries for my torch, so that I can participate in the Cerealia festival:

Spring, by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1894): J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles. It depicts the Cerealia in a Roman street. Cerealia was a 7-day festival celebrated in ancient Rome in honor of the goddess Ceres. Ovid mentions that Ceres/Demeter's search for her lost daughter Proserpina was represented by women clothed in white, running about with lighted torches. The festival was accompanied by the Ludi Ceriales or "Games of Ceres" in the Circus Maximus. The exact dates of the April festival are uncertain: it may have started on April 12 and ended on April 19 (Or it may have started on the Ides of April, i.e. April 13, or even on April 7.) In April, anyway:

Then a phone call home to check on the parents back in the glorious Devon countryside.

By which time, given the aeons it has taken to do this post, it will probably be winter again. No matter, for I have sprung.

Now, blessings light on him that first invented sleep! It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot. It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures of the world cheap, and the balance that sets the king and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even. ~Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote, 1605

I don't know if it is the clock change (or indeed how long a person can blame everything from bad cooking to tiredness on it), but I feel shattered. After several weeks of waking up an hour or two before the alarm, now I am struggling to wake up an hour or two after it. Make that fourteen hours after it. I'm nearly asleep now.

I've been reminded of the proverb 'Six hours's sleep for a man, seven for a woman and eight for a fool.. Either I am a fool or I am allergic to too much daylight. Or the proverb is wrong. Albert Einstein allegedly liked to sleep nine hours a night to reach his optimum working level - ten hours, apparently, if he had a busy day ahead of him. Margaret Thatcher only wanted, apparently, four or five hours sleep. Neither were fools but I'd rather join Albert's gang.

Better go and get a mug of coffee so that I can stay up late and watch telly.

*trudges towards the kitchen, thumb in mouth, clutching Teddy Edward*

I haven't got used to the hour change yet. I keep thinking it is earlier than it is. So dinner is late tonight. One minute, I'm stopping work to have a look around blogland, next minute my Man announces he is off to watch the football.

"But it's not on until 7.30, is it?

"It is 7.30!" he replied.

So it was. So I fobbed off any stomach-rumbling complaints with a bag of peanuts and a beer, and got cooking.

It is at moments like this when you really need the Delia 'How to cheat at cooking' method. I watched this new programme last night and was rather underwhelmed. It wasn't so much cooking, as emptying the contents of your freezer into a pan.

I've got a lot of sympathy with people who work long hours, have an hour's commute, then have to cook a meal after shopping en route. I've been there and done that. But if you are the kind of person that Delia was, presumably, aiming to help out with her tip about having a bag of frozen chopped onion to hand, why not just get a ready meal and give up any pretence you are cooking? If you haven't even got the time or inclination to chop an onion, then it's time to admit that either you hate cooking or your life needs a very careful scrutiny for traces of quality. As it was, the programme was a nice observation of Delia's life and friends.

But, I could soon be eating her words. Because, whilst typing this, a peculiar smell is filling the room - a smell, before you blame Dog or worse - is suspiciously like burnt salmon. And the potatoes still aren't cooked.

Luckily, it was an extremely large bag of peanuts, and, judging by the shouting at the telly that I can hear, burnt salmon might be the least of my worries tonight.