Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Telescopic or Micro?

I make careful plans. In order to take a night out, I need to ensure that the three hour evening routine, from 5 p.m. until 8 p.m. is squished into the already packed 3 until 5, afternoon routine.

Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.

My family members, without exception, do not fare well with changes in routine. Even adult members are resistant, and inclined to confusion. No-one responds to pressure.

The telephone answering machine tells me hurriedly, that the first baby sitter has abandoned ship. I pout unfairly, as this message is really a welcome prompt for me to alert the back up baby sitter.

I seriously consider spending the school hours making a power point presentation for clarification, but the worm disables my plan as it munches it’s way through all of the networked computers. The constant beeping of the antivirus software works like a clarion call on my ever withering brain cells. I decide to adopt my mother, or rather pop her voice box on my shoulder to eliminate any negative thoughts that seek to invade:- ‘people go out and about all the time! Don’t be such a fuss pot! You are not indispensable you know!’ I tuck my mother under my bra strap for later use, as Nonna appears. “So!”
“Are you ready for a cup of coffee and the BBC?”
“Eh? Yes…..I mean no…….I mean………wot you are go to see tonight den?”
“Er…….whatever’s on I suppose.”
“Wot time you go?”
“Just after six. Sixish. Around six.”
“Not Matilda, Matilde. However, she can’t baby sit tonight so I’ve asked Harry.”
“Ooo dat will be nice, to have a man for a change.”
“Short for Harriette.”

The school day is a blur of cooking, laundry and cleaning until 2:20 p.m. and time for pick up, although I would really prefer a ‘pick me up.’

As we drive home in a squall of screams, it dawns on me that this is not a good omen. Once inside, the children kick back as I read daily school reports to work out the odds of a successful re-scheduling of the afternoon. I determine that the route to hell shall be my sole salvation. They take full advantage of the trampolene and every other conceivable instrument of relief.

I brief the children of our impending ‘date night’ and await fall out, again. As they all fall about pretending that death is imminent, I pause for additional thoughts.

I break precedent and cancel homework and children’s chores. This wipes out three hours in an instant. I double electronics time from 30 minutes to one hour which in turn provides me with 60 minutes to make packed lunches, tidy toys, make supper for five, find library books, pack backpacks with sublime efficiency, unfettered and uninterrupted, to be ready, early.

When Harry calls to leave a message at 5:50p.m. to say that ‘summats cum up,’ I am strangely unsurprised, although I can only just catch it over the ambient level of noise together with two slamming doors. From behind the first door, their father pops, breathless and ever so slightly eager, until he sees my face and his crest slips. From behind the second door, my daughter pops, smothered in bike oil and assorted forest debris, “Whatsup with you? You look like a wet weak Wednesday.” This is exactly what my own mother would say to me.
“Thursday! Thursday! Thursday!” pipes a small one.
“Is it Wednesday?” enquires Nonna, enunciating all three syllables perfectly.
“Abadonship! Abadonship! Abadonship!” bleats another, with several worrying undertones. My younger daughter unglues herself from the telly, “hey! You could baby sit us instead!” It’s more of an announcement than a request, as she mistakenly believes that her big sister is a soft touch.
“Ah. Is that what it is. Babysitter bailed?”
“That’s o.k. You go off. Nonna and I will baby-sit the little tikes,” she offers graciously, with a sweaty arm around Nonna’s shoulders.

We say our farewells.

I park on the back step to put on my shoes, my kind of ‘dressing up’ for a night out. I hear my Warrior Woman warp into action behind the door, “right then you lot. Turn those off. We’re going to have story time and then make dirt and worms for dessert, for after you’ve eaten your salad, if you eat your salad.”

We sit in the car on the driveway and breathe in silence.
“So what do you want to see and where are we going to go to see it?”
“Um…..anywhere that doesn’t show cartoons.”
“Hmmm I’m not feeling that animated myself.”
“Maybe we could just sit and chat awhile?”
“Or a nap awhile?”
Nonna spots us through the window, parked on the drive. She steps closer to peer. Behind her a herd of small bodies leap around the room like party revelers, a clear sign that they’re all enjoying a tale, as the expressive aural tradition is always so much more effective.

Nonna flutters her fingers. A wave or a prompt? I turn the key in the ignition and the engine burns into action, “quick! Before we doze off!” I remove my mother from my shoulder strap and tuck her into my empty retainer box for safe keeping.
“You certainly know how to light my fire,” he sighs wearily.

Well I can’t be a damp squib all of my life?

Sunday, September 28, 2008

An addition of an admirable admiral

“So why you are call im dat den?” Nonna enquires as I replace the telephone receiver after my international call.
“Call who what?”
“Your Dad. Why you call im Admiral?”
“It’s a family joke. Everyone thinks he’s an Admiral but really he’s only a passed over two and a half.”
“Naval rank is indicated by the number of golden stripes on your sleeve, the cuff. When you reach a certain age in the Service, you are either promoted to captain and have three stripes or you’re not chosen, “passed over.’”
“Oh…I tink I see.”
My daughter charges into the kitchen flourishing a sheet of paper.
“Mom! Mom! Mom! Look I finished it. Whatcha think?”
“Oh that’s lovely dear. It looks just like him. You do have an eye for portraiture, highly admirable.”
“Um ……….wasat mean?”
“Oh it means …..that I admire or like your picture very much indeed. It comes from the Latin, admirari, ad-mi-rah-ree.”
“Ooo you are be speaking dah dead! Shush, he’ll hear you!” advises the protective big brother.
“I am heared!” pipes up the little one, as usual, all ears, “I am always liking dah Latins. I’m gonna be a high admiral when I am being growned higherer.”
“No…..yur part cat. Your…….cat part…….is not liking the water.”
“No stoopid……oopsie…….I mean……my cat part will be in dah boat……my human part will be an Admiral person, dry wiv dah "golden" cuffs.”

Friday, September 26, 2008

Hot pants

When I was at boarding school I loved to iron my clothes, or rather stomp on them with a sputting iron. The results were often less than perfect but the smell of hot steam reminded me of home. The smell of singeing my own clothes reminds me of something else entirely.

Much later, when my own daughter wore school uniform, I was less keen on the chore of ironing 5 teeny, tiny, all cotton, crispy, crumpled shirts, although I am very much in favour of uniforms in principle, as they make for a much speedier decision making process in the morning. I also adhere to the underlying principal of school uniform, the ‘level playing field’ principal of blindness to social class.

Much later still, I married a man who ironed his own shirts and moved to America. Strangely, my own mother joked about our nuptials, “now you’ll have no choice but to buy a iron!” Her glee seemed disproportionate, her delight, distortedly warped. I had never before associated marriage with ironing. I vowed that despite my legal obligations to love, honour and obey, I would never, under any circumstances, ever iron anything. I would remain true to my fusty dusty feminist principles, inviolate and violent.

For thirteen years of marriage the iron and it’s board are resurrected from the garage twice a year, when Nonna comes to visit. We spend considerable quantities of time removing cobwebs, oiling hinges and replacing covers and padding. We adjust the height to accommodate a seated ironer. We wedge the foot to prevent the wobble. We dig out the extension cord to permit ironing to take place in the centre of any room that the children happen to be playing. The children play and Nonna barks warnings to protect teetering piles of neatly starched linens.

But not today.

“Eh Maddy?” she giggles. I lift my steamed up bifocals to look at Nonna and wipe my fetid brow.
“You are lie to me I think.” She grins.
“How’s that?”
“You said that you didn’t do any ironing.”
“Hmmm I know, but……”
“Yes, times change.”

A whole new skill revival for me.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Leaf location

I stagger upstairs at the end of the day to flop into bed and snap on the light to read. I reach gingerly across to the teetering tower on my nightstand. If only I could finish the last 20 pages of Bill Bryson, preferably before the end of this life time. I lift the broken spines of several semi lifeless tomes but my brain capacity isn’t up to the challenge. Maybe I could just flick through April’s issue of the Good Food Magazine but it too appears to be adrift. I wonder where I left old Bill? Before I have the chance to determine Bill’s destiny I am suddenly awake. Morning has already arrived as I blunder downstairs for our daily meet and greet, where physical contact is desirable but not always negotiable with my children. As we clunk against kitchen cabinets I notice that the pile of paper next to my lap top is vying for top place in the race for Reem Supremo. There could be any number of half read books buried in that pyre.

I set about breakfast when Nonna appears.

“So are you going to do dat den?”
“Yes, I’ve just started, shouldn’t be too long.”
“No. I mean are you going to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure to be cooking today. Ah..... do you mean you’d like a cooked breakfast?” She rolls her eyes in frustration at the dim wit.
“I mean……are you going to cook dis one?” she asks snapping my rolled up Good Food Magazine against her thigh.
“Ah……that’s where it was.”
“Nothing. Which recipe did you fancy then?”
“I don’t know, you are already cook all deez tings. Why do you buy it anyway?”
“Oh, I see….well ……” I am momentarily distracted as she smacks it down on the kitchen counter, in the invisible soggy patch, “actually I haven’t read August’s issue yet, and April is still adrift.”
“Oh right. Well here you are, you can read it now. I enjoyed it very much thank you.”


Read it now?

What sort of dream world would that be?

I check that the laundry is still with me and not absconded next door, that last night’s dishes await my attention, that mass starvation is imminent as breakfast has been unduly delayed and that their father has already left for work, just in case I lose sight of the prize, as my navigation skills have always been a bit dodgey.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Atlas [and and Award = Pull a Pint!]

I am weighed down by the heavy burden of my responsibilities, where a wrong word can spell disaster.

As it is, I am anchored in place by my son at my feet, my daughter wrapped around my waist and my other son on my shoulders, to get a better vantage point to view the giant who has entered our home.

I peer at the 6 foot three man with the face of a twelve year old as he beams with delight at us all. My elder daughter stands at his side wearing a backpack the size of an average sized hog, but considerably heavier. I see a vein flinch on her neck. Her beam matches his beam. I have temporarily mislaid my beam but it could just be a weight and balance problem, if not a wait and balance problem?

“So I’ll see you in a few days! Don’t miss me too much!” But I’m not ready yet! I adopt a delaying tactic and hobble her polite climbing partner, “so are you thinking of Half Dome then?”
“Oh no, probably somewhere a bit more off the beaten track.”
“It’s probably still going to be awfully busy at Yosemite National Park don’t you think?”
“Yup, but I know a few places we can climb in peace.”
“Will you climb and abseil?” I wonder which is worse?
“Would you like to take some snacks with you perhaps? I have lots in the kitchen,” but she interjects again, as I’m making them late to hit the road, “we’ve got everything mum, so we’re off.” It’s like being at the race track without any brakes. I remind myself that she has already traveled all over China and Tibet, alone, conquered Mozambique single handedly and has reached the stunningly independent age of 27, but I’m sure there are some words that I ought to be able to retrieve rather than spittle and an air of desperation.

Nonna pats him on the bicep to catch his attention, or possibly test for signs of weakness, “don’t drop er den!”

And Lastly:-

An award for Amazon people who are not burdened by a yoke but flex their funny bones instead.

For "Mommy Dearest" and her blog "The Quirk Factor: resistance is Futile." If this is a new one for you, then you can taste the flavour of the chaos and coping skills on this post here called "Sundays Crappenings."

You may wish to copy and paste the code from the box below to display your award.

No rules as such, but it just might be that you know of someone who is also like minded, so be a good sharer!

Cheers dears

I love your blog award

"Barbara" over at "Ther Extras" although that's the first time I've ever noticed the extra r! have very kindly awarded this new blog the 'I love your blog' award. Thank you so much for thinking of me, as that means this is my first award for this new blog = how frightfully confusing it all is. It's like being made a virgin all over again, not that I'm not still a virgin as all those children were dug out of the compost heap.

"Dantes Inferno with Children" because I'm pretty sure her mum and mine are related.

"The Phantom Scribbler" now that she has miraculously been resurrected, I had almost given up hope!

"Genevieve Hinson" who blogs at "Mother of Confusion" amongst her many, many other activities.

Also to "Kaber" and her blog "All About [my] Boys" as to have three children on the spectrum and home-school them, is far more of a challenge.

Then to "Everlasting Mercy" who blogs at "The Ancient One," it's hard to decide which of those 'titles' I prefer!

Also to "Jayne" who blogs at "Our Great Southern Land," as she's always a soft spot for me to land on when my brain is burned.

And lastly to "Dulwichmum" because we both struggle to conquer Wordpress and all it's fiendish ways, together we shall never be defeated! {especially if I cheat and hang on to my older blogger beta!}

Cheers dears

Whilst the Cat's Away

I determine that self help is the only way forward.

I prepare dinner for five, clear up and hover by the window for the cavalry. When he arrives to take over, we kiss and move on. I charge out of the house already 30 minutes late to meet my pals, my first dinner out in….......a very long while?

Driving is so easy when you are alone with no distractions. It provides me with 25 minutes of blissful thinking time. My own mother’s voice drifts into my mind from across the ocean. “You know dear, in my day we just told the children to play and then took a quiet couple of hours to ourselves. Is it really that different these days?” I should have been born two generations ago. I try to determine how other people cope, the sandwich generation. What is the secret and why isn’t anyone telling me what it is?

I make a mental note to buy some more Ensure as excessive busyness is not good.

I enjoy three hours of convivial company, with like minded women and an excellent dinner. I ask a great many conversational questions. Every one of us has a unique set of circumstances which we somehow manage to also have in common. I narrowly avoid answering any direct questions myself.

When the lights dim and we hear crashes in the kitchen we take our cue. Outside I leave them with my passing shot, a joke, which has the advantage of being true.
“So I met this woman the other day.”
“She has three autistic boys.”
“Did she have any tips?”
“Does she live near?”
“Did you like her?”
“How do they cope?”
I beam, “she has a nanny, an au pair and a home help!”
“Geez how did she swing that?”
“Is part of that from Respite?”
“Must cost a fortune!”
I beam, “she works full time!”

We snort in the car park like school girls, as laughter is the best therapy.

Like the woman has any choice! Horses for courses, that’s what I say.

On my return, the house is dark.

To all intents and purposes I am alone. I tip toe inside and close all the windows, lock all the outside doors. Every electronic gaming device is still running. I wonder if I could read a few chapters before going to bed? I notice that my eldest, temporarily absent daughter’s room door is closed.


I peek inside as a cat charges through my legs like a bat out of hell. I flick on the switch. It looks as if it’s been singled out by burglars. The curtains are on the floor, as it the track. A small bowl of cat food and water are overturned on the carpet. There is a distinctive odour. I wonder how much it costs to therapize a traumatized cat suffering the abuse of solitary confinement?

Nonna appears at my side, the insomniac side effect of many elderly people. I pull the door to, behind my back, so as to not alarm the already fragile sleeper. “Oh you’re back Maddy,” she beams in her diaphanous nightgown. “I’m so glad you got to go out wiv your friends.” I know that she really means it. “I know……." she adds expectently, "....shall we ave a cup of tea?”

I blink.

I think.

“Why not? Come along, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Monday, September 15, 2008

A fashionable new trend

“Yes dear?”
“Why dya have that piece a paper inya pants?”
“It’s a packet of seeds that I didn’t want to leave in the garden to get soggy and these stupid pa……trousers don’t have any pockets.”
“Stoopid is a banned word! 25 cents please!”
“Oh very well. Here you got. Pop it in the jar.”

“Yes dear?”
“Why do you have a lighter tucked into the top of your trousers?”
“Because I need a lighter for the tea lights but a lighter is a dangerous thing around here and I haven’t found a safe place to hide it yet, somewhere that I can remember where I hid it more to the point. And these stupid trousers don’t have any pockets.”
“Language mother dearest. Language!”

“Yes dear?”
“What it is being?”
“Which bit?”
“Er……dah bumpy fings on yur tummy.”
“Pop beads, they slipped a bit from the waistband of my trousers. I picked up in the garden even though they’re ‘inside toys.’ I haven’t had time to find the stupid pop bead jar.”
“25 cents please!”

“Mom?” calls the last one, as Nonna steps over to observe and listen, with patience and encouragement.
“Yes dear.”
“What’s dat ……hard…….shape…….chest?”
“I stuffed my i-phone down my bra as I haven’t had a chance to buy one of those cover clip things and my stupid trousers are already full because I haven’t got any pockets on any of my stupid clothing!”
“Tell er!” urges Nonna to my son.
“Tell er dats 50 cents!”

"Yes Nonna?"
"I tink dat old jar is too small for a swear jar."
"Which jar?"
"Dah old Pop Bead Jar."

Oh for a pocketless, pantfree, penniless life!

Friday, September 12, 2008

Comment of the week

A blogless, but otherwise highly intelligent person, emailed me this week to point out that not only was I muddling one week with another, but additionally, I was muddling one blog with several others. I plead guilty on both counts. However, it did prompt another stunningly brilliant idea! Why not give the award on each blog? Far less confusing, well for me at least.

Hence this post is repeated on "alien" and "Sandwich" but with different awardees. http://letitbeautism.blogspot.com/

{Don't want you to have to wade through this more than once, just skip to the end.}

Another brilliant person "mit blog" castigated me [in the nicest possible way!] for my neglect of the "Hub," which once again I need to ‘fes up to,’ as we Americans are wont to say. I’m lucky if I mange to read through the first two or three postings in the list and since my intelligence quotient is at an all time low, I rarely comment either. Ooo the irony.

Since I am now on a confessional streak, I would also admit that I have spent time on the "photo blogs" for several reasons. Firstly I like "piccies." I am a very visual person.

Secondly, it is far easier to choose a "picture" and post it, than it is to write intelligently. Whilst I continue to take daily notes on our doings, it is hard work to channel that material into something worth reading. There again, if your enjoy reading schedules and lists who am I to criticize. Just think of it as my attempt at quality control.

The photo blogs also have the advantage of a thoroughly international flavour. This means that I can convince myself that instead of embalming my brain, I am really learning to be a linguist. This is sure to come in handy in the future when I travel round the world. I shall be able to say ‘post comment, email, URL, spam filter, preview and post,’ in every language in the world.

In my defense, all I can say is that I promise to try to do better soonishly.

I still struggle to juggle!

Sad to say that Ricky has had to go as he was crashing everyone's computer. [some kind of bug] Hence this rather dull replacement. I shall try and spend some time removing Ricky's bugs from all my sites. Humble Apologies

[Inspired by "Scribbit."]

This week's award goes to "Patois" at "Whee all the way home" for her comment on the post "below" where she writes as follows:-

'Soon, very soon, it will be too cold to enjoy that water, water everywhere. Oh, wait, they're kids. It's never too cold."

Kids! They're all alike.

Cheers dears

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Water , Water everywhere

“Don’t forget to take your kangaroo!” I yell at her retreating body, but my words bounce.

My son scoots past me on fast forward before skidding to turn the corner, “just a minute Sunny Jim, why are you all wet? What happened?”
“It is just be water,” he explains by way of excuse.
“Water? Well I suppose that’s good…” I pause to process the "full magnitude" of this unexpected development in my son…. ”but where did it come from dear?”
“Eleven-armed sea star.”
“Star fish?”
“No. Eleven-armed sea star.”
“Fair enough.”
“Yes we are be play together.” I am surprised, again, by this unexpected additional and voluntary piece of information. Almost a "conversation?"
“Ah the plastic ones.”
“Yes, upstairs……in dah water.”

I run upstairs to check the source of the said water but I’m nabbed by Nonna, mid muddle, “Maddy?”
“Yes. How can I help?”
“Dis ting!” she flaps the thing at me to aid eye tracking. An empty water bottle.
“You want some more? It’s in the fridge.”
“No? You don’t want some more? Want do you want?”
“I want to put it in the ting.”
“Ah! I’ll put it in the recycling for you then.”

I tuck the bottle under my elbow and leg it upstairs on the theory that a gallon or two gathered now, will save considerable cash outlay later. I bump into his brother at the top of the stairs who screams with surprise. His scream of surprise surprises me, as I am usually off radar. This can only mean one thing, “what are you doing?” I demand.
“Nuffink,” he says sweetly.
“You’re wet too. Why are you wet? Were you playing with the star fish too?”
“Plastic whale?”
“No Orca.”
“Fair enough.”

I dash past him to pursue my original pursuit. I find my youngest daughter and her pal in the bathroom along with many, many soggy towels.
“What on earth are you doing?”
They pull back hanks of wet hair to grin at me.

“Are you playing………hair dressers or something?”
“No, we’re just helpin out the guys.”
“Really! In what way might I ask?”
“Our hair is the seaweed in the underwater wonderworld.”
“The sink!” I pick up the towels when I hear the front door open. I careen back to hall counting heads en route, but it’s only my daughter setting off on her bicycle trip. As the rear wheel exits I decide not to admonish her for having her outside toys on the inside, as since she is 27 years old my mantra message is rather mouldy. “Have a great time! It's very hot! Don’t forget your kangaroo!” She reverses back into the hall to peer at me with an air of condescension, “it’s a "camel" mother, not a kangaroo.”

I stand and wave. Nonna appears, retrieves the bottle from under my arm and waves it too, by my side as she mutters, "children! Not Sunny Jims but dah Jimmy Know it alls!"

Little squirts!

Friday, September 5, 2008

Female persuasions

I rush out into the garden on a snail trail campaign and a sack of pellets half my body weight. In the 93 degree heat I am determined to eliminate all the pests I can possibly find.

I find it odd that a but a few decades ago I had entirely different campaigns in my mind, generally of the ‘change the world’ category. If I had known that I would end up with what many would describe as ‘feminine pursuits,’ I could have saved myself a bundle. Who would have thought that four children later, I could have left nature to her natural course, rather than bother to burn my bra? There again, these days, with the thinness of the ozone layer, I only have myself to blame.

As the window is open, I am able to conduct a reluctant conversation with my first born.

“The site just died in the middle of the video!” At 27, she sounds more like…….11?
“Oh dear…..dear.”

I yank out handfuls of self seeding seedlings so that I can plant hand picked cuttings. Clouds of Bonemeal fill the fetid air. I really should drink more tea and less coffee around this time of year to remain hydrated. I can still see the sewing machine through the glass, beckoning me to finish the curtains for the "red room."

Fortunately I cannot see the kitchen but I can hear it’s yells, to command the short order cook for mass food production. I can also ignore the growing list of messages on the answering machine, all of which require my personal attention to streamline a triple line of play dates in the same afternoon. When they left for school and after several moments of scrubbing toilets, it is my hourly wish that they should remain pristine for at least 60 minutes. It's hard to believe that bean burritos could turn out to be a very serious error of judgment.

Nonna leans on the door jam to allow the flies free passage into the house.

“What you are do den?”
“I just want to finish off before it gets too hot.”
“What are doz den?”
“Peanut plants from those wretched squirrels. They’re everywhere, little pests.”
“The peanuts are pests?”
“No the squirrels that plant the peanuts are pests.”
“Wot you can do about dat den?”
“I really have no idea. I wish there were squirrel pellets as well as slug pellets. I wonder if beer baits would work or would I be reported to the Humane Society? Why don't the cats earn their living and chase away the squirrels?”

I jam the fork into the soil as I need to speed up.


The sprinkler hose is violated again!

What can I possibly cook for seven people in this heat? Why if it's so hot did the compost heap fail to reach sterile heat, to kill all the tomato debris from last year? It's hard to figure out if I have more tomato plants than peanut plants? Maybe I should admit defeat and start an organic market garden?

“Did you know he’s 75?” calls my daughter through the open window.
“75? Oo is 75? 75 iz nutting. A baby!” scoffs Nonna.
“Dahl,” I mutter into the greenery.
“Ooo no. Not curry again?”
“Oh, I tink he iz dead, surely? Eez ever so old you know?”
“He visited! Isn’t that incredible!” rambles my daughter.
"Wot's she on about?" enquires Nonna, flapping a hand towards my daughter, inside, on the computer with the flies.
"She greatly admires Roald Dahl and "Quentin Blake." She wants to be an "illustrator."
"Ooo I fort she want to be an "EMT?"
"Ah.......she is young."

I stand up in the flower bed smothered in snail shell debris, compost and sweat so that my sun glasses slither down my nose. I hear a huge black monster truck burble up the driveway. A man with a business card sidles up. My daughter leans on the other side of the door jam to watch the visitor. Why is everyone watching and nobody doing?

He commences a long spiel about the many advantages of ‘black top,’ his qualifications, experience and total delightfulness, as I gulp warm air and trickle. I can feel myself sinking into the soil as the minutes pass and I wait for him to also draw breath. As he slithers to a close, he throws me a life line, “ya cud talk ta ya husband when he gets home from work.” I suddenly remember that I have a husband and that there is the remote, but truthful possibility, that he might indeed come home at night, although not necessarily this particular night.
“Thank you so much, I shall be sure to draw it my husband’s attention.” I beam with huge smugness at his departing form. I turn to face Nonna and my daughter, trapped and guilty. My daughter is in for the kill, “husband! You’re going to ‘ask? Bloody traitor mum!”

Nonna merely raises an eyebrow, unplucked and unflustered.


"Carmi" over at "Written Inc" is running a "Photo Theme" although it's supposed to be on a Wednesday. I'm a bit up to my ears on Wednesday, but I see no harm in a late entry.

{I hope!}

Here are the rules [although the numbers seem to have mysteriously disappeared!

# Every Wednesday evening, I post a new Thematic Photographic entry.
# Each entry has a unique theme. This week's is...faded.
# You post a similarly themed image over on your blog.
# You paste a link to your entry in a comment here.
# If you've already posted something that fits (on a blog, Facebook, MySpace, wherever) simply post the link to the existing entry.
# You may post one per day, many per day, one each day of the entire week, whatever suits your fancy. This is all about sharing, so feel free to share to your heart's content!
# Please share this link with friends, too. I want this thing to being photographic happiness to lots of people - and I need your help.

Photographic happiness is hard to interpret, but I think I get the general gist of the spirit.

Some might say 'faded.'

Although this one is a bit blurry.

However, if you have a sharp eye, it becomes pretty clear that someone is all to full of beans.

Not nosy, but endlessly curious, which when you're an elder, means you're entitled to seniority, at least in my book.

I suppose it all depends upon your perspective?

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Tooth Travel

I put down the receiver and skip back to the kitchen to wash up after breakfast. I have been remiss in my telephone calls and the weekly time slot has slipped. Busyness is relentless. My ‘to do’ list overflows, my working memory is straining at the leash. I too have given up on showers as personal care is at at all time low. If I only had a tardis I would warp speed myself forward, or possibly backwards? A time traveler is surely the only solution?

“So……. How is your mum den?” asks Nonna as I steer past her and refuse to acknowledge the progress of her washing up efforts with enough water to fill an average bath.
“Oh she’s on great form but the weather!” I grab the chopping board and knife to begin prepping for lunch, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, within easy shouting distance.
“Weather?” The drier pings so I zip over to put on the next load and start folding.
“Yes coming down like stair rods,” I bellow from the utility room.
“What are you about doz tings den?” asks Nonna.
“Which things?”
“Those tings in the garden?”
“Which things?”
“Oh you know……tomatoes…….you are going to pick dem before dey spoil?”
“Um…in a minute.”
“Anyway……..what is wrong wiv you today?”
“What is wrong wiv you today?”
“You know?”
“Not really?”
“You are talk funny wiv, your mouth. You know?”
“No. Know what?”
“Your mouth.”
I think.

I have neither spat nor lisped all morning.

Oh no! My retainer!