I haven't lost my mind, its all backed up on disc somewhere

I have lost my mind, I've just been in denial

Hello. 

I know, I haven’t been around for a while.  I have some good excuses though (and a letter from my mom asking to be excused, and a note from my doctor saying it runs in the family.  Hubs had a note too but it read 'Help me' and I destroyed it).

Excuses:

1. Werk.  Just loads and loads of werk.  Oodles and poodles and huge mountains of the stuff.
2. Hubs’ redundancy certainly shifted the tectonic plates of my existence… it felt like I was living an episode of The Twilight Zone for a while.
3. P-A-N-I-C.  Pure, unmitigated, unstoppable, overwhelming panic about Hubs’s redundancy and me suddenly being thrust into the position of The One Who Earns The Dosh.  I overcompensated and nearly worked myself into a nervous breakdown. 
4. Nervous breakdown arrived and wasn’t half as spectacular as anticipated.  I now work for Walkers Crisps, peeling potatoes.
5. And last, but certainly not least, hormones.  Don’t ask.  No, really, just don’t even ask.

I’ve missed my little blog, missed noting down all the little things that happen in an ordinary, everyday existence.  I miss looking back and thinking ‘Oh yeah, I remember that’, and I miss sharing things with you.

So I’m back.  I still have the hormones and I still have the redundant (although terribly handsome and really quite handy to have around the house) husband, but I’ve eased off on the workload and the screaming ab-dabs… mostly.

I wasn’t working just to keep a roof over our heads and the wolf from our door though.  Oh no, I had a target to reach, a really important goal to attain.  I wasn’t pounding on the keyboard night and day just to pay the bills, I had something far more exciting to squirrel away pennies for.

We’re going away.  We’re crossing the water.  We’re venturing out into the unknown in our car again.  We’ve done America, we’ve done Scotland, now it’s the turn of….

Europe!

Yeah, why should they get away Scot free?

The Big Day is Wednesday 26^th of May.  On that day, wherever you are in the world, turn your ears to the distant horizon and listen out for a strange sound.  You’ll have to listen real hard, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to hear my screams of delight as we load up the car with all the bare essentials of life on the road (tent, sleeping bag, booze).  Hold your breath and you might be able to make out a high pitched voice shrieking ‘FREEDOM! WE’RE FREE! NO MORE WORK! LET’S HIT THE ROAD, BABY!  LET’S GO!!’

Minimum of two weeks, maximum of… who knows?  There’s certainly nothing to rush back for; Hubs has no job, and I can work anywhere there’s wifi.  We might not come back at all.

Anyway, in preparation for our travels I’ve set up another blog so you can keep up with Events As They Unfold.  I’d use the Brummie Blogs site, but when I did that in America it was hacked into and beaten up and almost died, so Blogspot it is, and its here – keep popping back to see if we’re still alive, if we’ve been booted out of France for making offending remarks about frogs legs or chased out of Spain for murdering their language.

Can’t berluddy wait!

Until then, here’s some news just in.

Thursday 13

I was cooking up some dinner, which I’m apt to do on occasion when the mood grabs me and Hubs is feeling particularly brave.  I’d bought one of those Chinese meal boxes (to which you simply have to add ingredients !) on special offer at Asda, and was tossing chicken and vegetables in the giant wok exactly how it shows you in the advert:

Wanchai Ferry Chinese Meal Kit (actual food not included)
Says 'Serves 3' on the box... it lies

Hubs wandered into the kitchen to check for smoke.

“What’s this?” I asked him, grabbing a rolling pin out of the drawer and rolling it on the surface next to where the wok sat on the cooker.

“I’m afraid to ask,” he said.

“Look!” I cried, tossing the wok and rolling the pin, “What am I doing?”

“Hopefully not burning dinner.”

“No!  Look!”

Hubs stretched a blank expression across his face.

“Tsk,” I said, “I’m wok and rolling.”

He didn’t laugh.  I did.  I laugh at lot these days (now that the panic has gone).

Friday 14

Granddaughter (The Gorgeous One) still wets the bed at night.  Well she is only four and she does drink a lot of 'poppy'.  To try and encourage her out of the habit I offered up a massive prize in return for dry ‘overnight pants’  It’s a balloon with a smiley face on.  Yeah, these four year olds are easily bribed.  I let her touch it before she goes off to bed on her sleepover nights, and sometimes I even let her blow it up a little. 

She’s not stupid though, is granddaughter.  The first morning she came downstairs I asked, “Are your pants dry?”

“Yes,” she said, in her little helium voice.

“Take them off then,” I said, “And we’ll have a look.”

She pulled down her overnight pants and they thudded heavily to the floor.

No balloon that day.

The weekend after she came downstairs and I asked “Are your pants dry?”

“Yes,” she squeaked, smiling.

“Take them off and we’ll have a look.”

She pulled them down and handed them to me, and behold, the pants were dry.

Just as I was reaching for the Beloved Balloon, Small Son yelled down the stairs, “She’s not dry, I’ve just found her wet pants on the floor.”

“But she’s wearing dry ones,” I yelled back.

“Yeah, because she took the wet ones off and put on a new pair.”

I was so tempted to give her the balloon for sheer ingenuity.

But I didn’t.

Cruel grandmother.  Cruel.

Saturday 15

You’ve probably seen this before, but I think its just brilliant.

I’m thinking of doing something similar on our travels around Europe, recording me sitting in my recliner on various coastlines, headphones clamped to my head, foot doing a little tapdance on my footpedal, typing.   Waddaya think?

Monday 17

We bought a couple of reclining sofas from Tesco’s a mere two years ago.  One of them, on my side, has sagged considerably.  I’m not happy - I'm not happy and I have hormones and people had better watch out.  Rang the extended warranty company and told them about it, and they said we had to report structural defects within five days of us noticing it.

They weren’t going to repair or replace.

Well, I was incensed (becoming incensed comes quite easily these days).  I sent the warranty company and Tesco’s a disgruntled letter.

Despite the fact that the sofa is barely two years old – and I fully expected it to have lasted a lot longer than this – the warranty does not cover structural defects older than five days?  What if we had been on holiday for two weeks and returned to find the sofa had lost the will to live and had spontaneously collapsed?  What if we had noticed the structural defect and were then immediately kidnapped by aliens for an extended period?

I am very disappointed with Tesco’s Furniture Cover and believe that five days is an inappropriate timeframe in which to report structural defects.  The sofa has sagged significantly on one side and is an inch lower than the other side.  A defect like this had occurred over a period of time and would not simply appear or be noticed within five days.  I am not a Sumo Wrestler or couch potato, and I do not own trampolining children or pets weighing more than a ton - the sofa has received normal treatment. 

I’m awaiting their response with baited breath.

Pah!

Tuesday 18

Hubs sent me this today, and it took me a long time to stop laughing.

eBay advert.

Wednesday 19

Recipes generally don’t work for me - it’s a talent I have - but I went to my mom’s over-50s club the other day (because she made me) and I bought a slice of coffee and walnut cake.  [Note: I'm not over 50, nowhere near 50.]

I’ve led a very sheltered life.  I’ve never experienced coffee and walnut cake before.  Man, it was nice.  It was really, really nice.  It had all my favourite ingredients; coffee, nuts and calories.

I decided right there and then that I was going to find out how to make it.  It was one of those effigy moments J.

I hunted and scoured and searched for a recipe on the internet, and came across this one.  I followed the method To The Letter and placed it in the oven (my nemesis) with a sense of trepidation and impending doom. 

I set the timer and waited. 

When the timer pinged I took it out and looked at it, stabbed it a bit with a chopstick.  It was runny.   Another unmitigated disaster, I thought, and lobbed it back in the oven, more out of spite than anything else.  Later, when I remembered it was in there, I hauled it out and lobbed it onto the kitchen counter.

The first thing I noticed was it wasn’t burned.  Wasn’t!  Burned!  Secondly, it looked like a cake, like a proper cake, like the cake in the picture.  I started to feel excited.  Could it be?  Surely not!

When it cooled, I cut it in half.  Inside, it looked like it was supposed to.  I was hyperventilating.  I butter-iced it, chilled it, and then presented it to my stunned (and, it has to be said, slightly nervous) family.  They ate it.

They liked it.

They! Liked! It!

Ladies and gentlemen, people of the world, Fastfingers Has BAKED!

Its not perfect but I made it.

On the insistence of my arteries, I halved the butter icing measurements - nobody needs to be eating that much butter.

I’m thinking of applying to Come Dine With Me on the weight of it.

Thursday 20

I bought Granddaughter some massive chalks and pointed her to the patio slabstones to scribble her heart out.  We all got involved.  I drew round things.

That’s Small Son, who’s 6’4”.  And next to him is Granddaughter, who looks like a Gingerbread man.

Small Son has agreed to let me draw round him on the driveway by the front door, then I’m going to paint over the chalk lines so it remains a permanent feature.

Then I’m going to paint NO SALESMEN next to it.

That’ll shock the buggers.

Friday 21

I’ve recently felt incensed to write to Branston in a pique of piqueness:

Dear Branston Bean Company

I am a big baked bean fan, like huge.  I used to buy Heinz baked beans, but once I’d tasted Branston I was hooked.  So hooked that, as a home-working transcriber, I have Branston beans on toast nearly every day for lunch.  I just love beans.

So imagine my disappointment when today I opened a tin of Branston baked beans and discovered rather a lot of sauce.  Not good sauce either, but sauce of the thin and runny kind… like cheap baked beans.  ‘Perhaps the tin has settled and its just the sauce on top’, I thought.  I plunged an exploratory fork into the tin, and was shocked to discover that actual beans weren’t encountered until half way down the tin!

Hungry, I continued with my lunch.  When I tipped the tin into a saucepan, it slopped runnily instead of collectively.  It looked more like soup with some added beans thrown in just to bulk it up a bit.  As I heated it in a saucepan I dejectedly watched the odd bean rise to the surface and then disappear into the thin sauce again. 

When I poured them onto my toast, a rush of pale tomato sauce swamped the bread before the beans actually arrived.  My toast swelled to enormous proportions, leaving a few beans lying dejectedly on its surface.  It was not a good lunch.  In fact it was one of the unsatisfying lunches of my home-working transcriber’s life.

What happened to this tin of Branston baked beans?  And why did it happen to me? 

I’ve lost all faith in Branston bean tins now, unable to bear the sense of anticipation and potential disappointment when I open one.  I may have to change to sandwiches for lunch in future, something I thought I’d left behind in my sad office days.  I can’t bear to go through all that again.  I think I’m traumatised by the whole experience.

They sent me three quid’s worth of vouchers.  I wasn’t sure whether to employ a top lawyer to fight for a better claim, but then remembered that lawyers are a money-hungry bunch and decided against it.

Saturday 22

Middle Son turned up late yesterday afternoon.  As always, I was thrilled to see him.  He was going to a party in Birmingham, hence the visit, but he wasn’t staying the night (especially since Granddaughter was ensconced in the study), he’d be staying at his friend’s house where there was apparently more room (although definitely less love).

So anyway, he turned up, there was hugging and head rubbing and ‘You’re not getting too thin are you?’ from me because I have ‘Concerned Mother’ running through me like a stick of rock that forces me to say stuff like that. 

Then his dad (my ex) came and off they both went to fix his dad’s computer.  An hour later, MS was back again with his dad and his computer.  MS ironed a shirt (daddy clearly doesn’t own an iron) and waved farewell… again.

This morning Hubs and I got up at 6.30, collected Granddaughter from the hallway where she’d been waiting for someone to wake up and notice her, and went downstairs.

On the sofa in the living room was a body.  We all stood there, holding hands, staring at the body on the sofa.  The body was fully clothed with a hood over its face.  “Oh,” I said, surprised, “I thought you were staying at your friend’s house last night?”  When the body didn’t answer (because it was asleep) I suddenly thought to ask “It is Middle Son, isn’t it?” 

It was.  Phew.

Mad day.  Maaaaad day.  My house was suddenly full to bursting point.  Me, Hubs, Small Son (who lives here), Middle Son (who doesn’t) and Granddaughter, then Nephew and his girlfriend came to say ‘Hello and goodbye’ before flying off on holiday. then Small Son’s new girlfriend (very nice) arrived, and then we all marched on over to daddy’s house for his 70^th birthday party.

My dad’s 70!  Like when did that happen?!!!

We all clubbed together and got him; some memory for his computer, subscription to two PC flight simulator magazines, a flight simulator, and a new 22 computer monitor… can you spot the theme?  Dad was overjoyed.

Daddy, looking overjoyed with his pint of shandy and lovely wife

Peace on the sofa: Hubs, Middle Son, Small Son, Gorgeous Granddaughter

Peace and flower power on the sofa.  I wore clothes like this when I was 17, and I'm well pleased that they're back in fashion again... or have I already missed the moment? (I usually do).

Drunken brother and equally drunken husband... its all about having fun!

Dad's birthday cake.  Isn't it a work of art!  And its all edible!
When they took the lid off dad's first thought was 'Oh, those seedlings need a bit of water'.

Cute, cute, cute

Daddy photographing the photographer... That's Middle Son on the right (it was a 'hat party')

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY.

Sunday 23

Ugh.

Hangover.

Nuff said.

No recent posts?  I'll probably be over at the Naive Brits Guide to Europe (or swimming in a warm Mediterranean sea somewhere far, far away).

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