BonnyLogic

Shopping today for school uniform. Most children pass the time spent on a long journey by playing the red car blue car game... not Bonny. She uses the time it takes to get to the next big town, by musing on inventions. Past inventions have included a tube that goes up ones bottom to enable poop to emerge stripey and rainbow coloured, a la Aquafresh toothpaste. This is, apparently, to cheer us up. We have had to draft a letter to Ford Motors which suggests a single top mounted windscreen wiper (like a train has?) instead of two which sweep in arcs across the screen. No reply.
Today, after discussing the swine flu epidemic (down nationally, way way up locally) Bonny suggests that someone needs to design an outfit to keep swine flu at bay. This outfit will consist of trousers, hat and jumper. These items are peppered with valves which puff out sprays of disinfectant, and should be worn in all public places. A letter to Versace may do the trick.

Other fantastic news - whilst standing outside Asda to receive an important phone call, a sudden gust of mean spiteful wind resulted in my skirt whipping up around my chin. There were no wolfwhistles, however a surge in the purchase of over the counter anti emetics was reported at the pharmacy counter in store.

Email.

You want me? Come get me.

pesnikinja'at'gmail.com

Dreamy.

The Measure of a Man

When a man tells you you who he is, believe him. Maya Angelou, apparently (and unfortunately) but it is a fabulous quote anyhow... I was reminded of this recently by The Fish, and she is right. So why do we not do this? Trust your instincts, we remind others, with a sage nod of the head, yet we are SO shit at managing to do this for ourselves. We meet someone, we like them. We pluck out the fabulous things about them and wave them in the air gleefully, like a prized nugget of gold. What we should do, is remember to take note of the stinky silt that surrounds the gold. (Not that we dont have stinky silt of our own of course)

Once, I dated a man a couple of times. The first time we met each other with mutual friends and much wine was drunk, rendering the evening hazily pleasant. The second time, we met with just our own selves, and went to a popular and by all accounts excellent Turkish restaurant in Islington. I am going back several years here, the name of the restaurant but alas not the details of the date, elude me. The service was shocking. The food was borderline edible, being barely warm and rather overcooked. This was compensated for by a liberal use spices and herbs. My mouth was cold yet hot. The courses were half an hour apart, allowing the diner to drink too much and not mind the shocking service, the surly waitress and the crappy food. Top marks for distraction techniques Islington Turkish Restaurant. Anyway anyway anyway, the end of the meal and the bored and tetchy waitress clears the table (with her hands, though she could've blown the pots to the kitchen with her sighs of irritation and boredom).
"Please give the chef my finest compliments!" beamed my date. I searched for a hint of irony. None. "The meal was fabulous!" he gushed, oil of a million shish kebabs oozing through his every pore. The waitress stared at him as though he was mental. She knew it was crap. I knew it was crap. He was mental, I think. I wanted to slide under the table. She walked away, without even answering.

After the meal, he walked me to the train station, and attempted to kiss me. I got on the train. Yet, I STILL met this man again. Why? Because I couldn't quite believe my instinct. I didn't believe how he was, though he'd shown me.
Some years later I met a man who made me laugh. In a pub on our first date, he shocked me with his intensity. We sat outside in the snow so he could smoke, which he did angrily. On our second date, he belittled a Polish guy, who (whilst being a bit of a tosser and a bit of a pillock) was pretty harmless. In a manner designed to confuse the polish guy, he was over friendly (whilst accepting his whiskey and beer) and gave him his phone number, whilst all the time poking fun, dragging me into it by the very dint of me being there. Nudge nudge eh Pesk?
He rarely spoke to people who served him in shops. Just took his change and walked, leaving me to smile and say thanks. He shouted at a train clerk sarcastically and rudely. Vile. Did I believe the man he showed me he was? No. I ploughed on regardless for at least four more dates. What a prize pillock I am.

A man I used to know, planned everything, and if I didn't fall in with his plans, or fancied doing something else, he drove over me like a tractor in springtime, a man on a mission to get his work done. Eventually I always concurred. Did I spot this? Nope. Klaxon HOOTED at me on one particular occasion, but no, my ears were stuffed with the Cotton Wool of Hope and Admiration. In restaurants he was polite without being oily which was good, but generally distant. And with me too. Didnt see that either.

I date someone now who is gentle. In restaurants, he sets himself up to become the butt of a joke between the waitress and myself. I like this. This is sweet. This is a man who sets others at ease. Will there be something I am not seeing? Stay posted.

Happenings and Holidays

I finished my work today. I have Five Weeks Off. Five whole weeks! Now all we need, is for the rain to finish.

Three patients saw a ghost on Sunday night. Hmm. The fact that two of the patients were in one bay, and one in a side room a few yards away makes it a little more interesting, but meh, as my younger friends say. During shift handover, staff nurse was matter of fact, describing the ghost as though it were a new patient admitted to the ward at 4am... "Mid forties, female, shortish brown hair".

"It's me, I said. "This place has sucked all spirit out of me"

Glances were cast. Ah well.

Bonny however is terrified by and interested in this hospital ghost. Wibs seizes on this interest and tells her that she has seen a ghost in OUR house, sitting in an empty bath. "I see it when I clean my teeth" she nods, evilly and seriously.

"Rubbish", I tell Bonny "As if Wibs EVER cleans her teeth". Bonny nods, but she has wide eyes, threatening to spill fat tears. Wibs, encouraged, adds further details to her spook. "He has a beard" she says, "and he opens his mouth WIIIIIIIIDE like he is screaming in agony..."

Bonny begins to cry. I thank Wibs, who is delighted with herself and cackling away like the worst witch herself. I glare at her.

Wibs apologises and says that she was only joking. Bonny is not convinced and is still boohooing in the way only an 11 year old with a vivid imagination can do.

"Come onnnnn" says Wibs. "What could a ghost do to you ANYWAY?"

"Punch you with it's misty fists?" I offer.

Wibs looks at me. "Misty Fists?" she says.

Bonny looks at me. "Misty fists?"

"Yes. It could run at you and start punching you. With its fists, made of mist." I say solemnly.

"Misty fists...." muses Bonny, offering a ghost of her own, that of a smile.

I grin.

Wibs grins.

"Misty Fists!" we all shout, and soon we are rolling around, hooting and shrieking with laughter, punctuating our mirth with breathless "misty fists!"

Maybe you had to be there. I think its holiday madness. Five weeks off!

I say.

Ted.

Bonny is once again obsessed with Sylvia Plath. At the age of four she took to reading various Plath / Hughes biographies and collections whenever she had a poo - the top shelf of the lav bookshelf used to house a Hughes and Plath collection. I moved it because she began to obsess over Ariel (true) and also because I fancied a little lighter browsing myself on occasion. Currently - Dear Fatty, by Dawn French. Oh how the mighty reader has fallen...

Yesterday I painted and varnished the mahoosive bookshelf in the living room. This entailed hauling many many books off, and doing a fresh sort out. Bonny helped me to reinstall, and as she passed them across, we had a running commentary.

Bonny - ... hmmm. I might read this.."The Journals of Sylvia Plath"

Pesk - (silently) Oh no. (Aloud) It's VERY big.

Bonny - (pause) She put her head in the oven didnt she?

Pesk - Aha.

Bonny - And that second wife, Asha Weevil. She killed herself too didnt she?

Pesk - Assia Wevill, yes, she did.

Bonny - Did he get married again, Ted?

Pesk - Yes.

Bonny - Hmm. I wonder if he went out on dates in one of those false moustache/nose/ glasses things to find another wife. *I* wouldn't marry him, would you? Men. Huh.

I don't know so much. I have always been a little in awe of Big Proper Men who stroll around in big tweed overcoats with serious frowns, a trout in each pocket and a well thumbed copy of a book called "I can build owt wi' three lengths of wood & a mouthful of nails" in one hand. Add to that his poetry magnet of a soul in torment and I think I might've definitely given him the glad eye.

There is no gas in my village.

Safe.

Old Bag.

I am awake. It is 6.30am, and I am in bed, listening to BBC Radio 2, and drinking a large mug of tea.
In my pyjamas.

I am old, suddenly. Oh my God.


At least it wasn't made with a teasmade. I can't help thinking I'd like one though.

Ho hum. Last day at uni today for a while. All tasks and essays done, all exams sat.

Dear Mrs Blackbird

I am remarkably patient with you. I am not whinging when you wake me at daybreak as you fly in and out of the eaves under my roof, and then flap around in the loft space above the bedroom where every morning I lay and listen. I know you are being a Very Good Mother, feeding your babies. I do not grumble, even when I think of the blobs and globules of bird shit that will no doubt be spattering my water tank (not to mention my Christmas tree), or hear the flapping and rustling that you make. I marvel, you sound like a whole flock of seagulls, how do you manage that? Do you have tap shoes I wonder? Anyway. I do not call someone to block up your entrance to my house. I know that to do so, would ensure certain death for your little lovelies, being the featherless little gannets that they are at this time in their lives. I sympathise. I have myself mothered three graceless, ungrateful, feeding/pooing,pooing/feeding machines for what feels like years. I do feel your pain.

However Mrs. Blackbird, I must point out that my patience has a limit. When I go outside to stand on my patio for a rare 5 minutes peace with a mug of tea, I do not expect to be shrieked at as though I am an expenses heavy MP strolling round Lidls in the Wirral, waving my rolex and flashing my Amex. I do expect to be able to hang my washing out without you perching on the clothes prop giving me the evils and hopping up and down, bellowing your miserable beak off in an impersonation of a mid rage Rumpelstiltskin.

My life, Mrs. Blackbird, is not peaceful often.

Do me a favour and shut the fuck up for five minutes.

Thanks,

Pesk.
xxx

Procrastination

I bought a new radio yesterday. A pink one, with a CD player and a usb port to allow hook up to my MP3 player. If only I hadn't dropped my ipod shuffle into a vat of oil.

Bonny - oh no will it still work?
Pesk - *glare*

I cleared the old non functioning DAB radio off the shelf in the kitchen which is also home to a clock the size of one you might find at Crewe station, 12 cookery books, various powders, herbs and spices,a blackbird pie funnel,pickled garlic and chilis and a string of neon blue fairy lights. And a huge metal hand mincer (for mincing potatoes a la bramborak, not hands). All this when I should've been finishing an essay on the importance of the family in the nursing process. Did I say finishing? Starting, finishing, whatever. Anyway, I found two pennies. Not tiny bright coppery pennies you might find in your purse, but dull oak brown birthday badge sized pennies.

I lay them on the table later and the three of us stare at them as we listen to the radio and wait for the tacos to be ready. The most noticable thing is how the design is worn away. Wibs offers that a million people have probably rubbed the Queens face. 1887! says Bonny, picking up the oldest one. 1887! That's like 130 years ago (she had her SATS maths exam today, so she's confident).
Wibs drops one on top of the other and remarks how they sound different to pennies.More serious. Like the Victorians, she says, as though they manufactured the coins to resonate with the mood of the era. They sound like when Scrooge counts his money in A Christmas Carol, she says.
Well, Dickens could've handled these coins, I say, (exaggerating slightly for effect, yes, I know he died in 1870 thanks) eliciting a goggle eyed look from each child as they pick them up and weigh them in their hands.

Or Hitler? says Bonny, who is hideously obsessed with all things Nazi presently.
Wibs (scoffing)- Hitler was GERMAN
Bonny - So? He might've been here on holiday.
Wibs - *considering*
Bonny - And brought an ice cream with it.
Wibs - silly. You could've bought like 50 ice creams for a penny then.
(inflation eh? tsk)
Bonny - I wonder how many murderers have touched this coin?

The penny is now worth 49p on ebay it seems. The conversation is priceless.

Books, Books.

Had a gorgeous day. Yesterday I bought a shameful book on a whim in a chazza shop. Julian Clary's autobiog, A Young Man's Passage. I started it last night, fell asleep reading it and continued reading it at 6am when I woke. It is deliciously bitchy yet so incredibly touching. So many autobiographies skim the surface of truth - this was was painful it was so honest - and you can never trust the biogs written by others (even worse than this, the life stories as imagined by novelists. I once read one of these about Plath and Hughes that made me actually do a small scream of horror, so bad was it).

Had to take Wibs to work at 12, Bonny expressed a wish to visit her gran, and the sun today was intense. Drove to Halton and had an hour in the pub with a friend - or rather outside the pub. Talking about books over a Batemans in a sunny garden - this IS the life. Took the mutt too, she's a happy Hats. Drove home listening to The White Lies which my friend had copied for me - so thoughtful. Liked it well enough, but it needs more listens. Another cd which needs listening to, I've had for three or four years now - Kate Bush's Ariel. I cant get enough of it right now, it's perfect for driving in sun, its perfect for feeling happy to, its perfect for feeling sad to. Yum.

Got home, picked the young ones up, went and bought three more books, and then finished Julian. Tried not to race to the end, couldn't help it. Loved it, recommend it.

Foof!

That's me, blowing off the cobwebs.

So, what's happened? Resigned. Retracted. Resigned. Got new job (NHS blood and transplant thanks for asking), applied to do a further degree in nursing, got accepted, got called to the loony test twice (and finally passed, go figure). Went to Prague, came home. Ooh, life is strange. Change is afoot...

Cutbacks.

I have been pondering lately whether to cancel my Sunday paper delivery. I actually did for a while during my 3rd year oh-god-i-haven't-started-my-dissertation-yet-and-I-have-7-billion-due-essays crisis, but restarted it once that was all over. Lately though, in an effort to pull back on unecessary spends, I have been analysing the use I get for my money. The Observer remains the SP of choice, but I seem to throw away so much of it. Sport? Get lost. Media & Business? Life is grim enough thanks. These go automatically onto the log basket in their pristine, flat, unread state. Review, the main paper and Escape make it onto the tray that goes upstairs with the giant cup of tea. Then Escape, with its pale blue crystalline sea smug cover, is the first to be flung. I used to have a travelling life, I do find other countries fascinating and long to visit, but, and this is the thing you see, I can't right now. Anything other than my frequent (and hugely fun) Prague bound weekends which cost approximately £50, is out of my league, and I can't bear to see anyone else spouting on about it. Escape, is only mildly less annoying than those TV programmes where some middle aged couple (you know, the annoying ones who didn't split up and sell their house at a loss) prance around buying holiday flatlets and villas with their spare change in up and coming bulgarian seaside areas. Those programmes turn me into a rabid psychopath.

Anyway, to return to the point. Is it worth it? I seem to pay the paper shop the cost of a small mortgage for the priviledge of chucking this lot out every week. Every Sunday it invariably wakes me up when the grumpy git who delivers it crams it all in once lump through the letterbox. Kerrraphhhhchunkperlunk. Boom. Thats me then, 7am. Then more than half of it is burnt. And the magazines - Observer Music Monthly is often worth a read, but when it is Food or Sport monthly, more wasted money. I do like cooking, but I'm not about to throw a dinner party for 12 where I will cook individual black puddings in apple sauce and mustard, so that's a waste of time too.

Then we have Euan Ferguson, and this is my dilemma.

Euan Ferguson, is the most fabulous man in the world. I look at his cocky sneer, his ginger tufted spiky hair, his sharp suited hand in pocket stance, and I think 'cor'. Today he is writing about his rubbish life with no central heating, and his ex who has loaned him a Noddy duvet, and I think, yes, Euan, I love you deeply and you are entirely worth a small mortgage every month.

So the paper stays. Now, how else can I cut back?

Book Stuff Pinched from Azahar...

Four childhood books -

1. Susan's Secret Garden. I used to demand this again and again and 'read' it aloud at the same pace as my parents were telling it to me. What a fucking annoying child I must've been. Found it for sale at a car boot sale a couple of years ago and almost weed myself with excitement. Read it aloud to my parents during Sunday dinner and almost got a pasting.

2. Polly of Primrose Hill. Originally in a fusty smelling slightly furry pale green hardcover, I bought this from abebooks for my own children recently. I read it to them, and the descriptive passage about the orphan Polly shopping for her first party dress (pale lemon and fluffy like a chick) still had the power to make me sniffle a little. My children loved it too, which just goes to show that little girls will always be thrilled by stories of invalids, grandpas, secret tunnels, orphans and evil housekeepers. Sigh.

3. Helen Keller's Teacher. A badly written, indulgent, shmaltzy tale about the life of Annie Sullivan, the woman who 'rescued' Helen Keller from her 'life of darkness'. Passages from that book stayed with me for years, until (finding it on amazon) I read it to my own daughters (are you spotting a trend here dear readers?). Annie and her brother Jimmy, cast out by a cruel distant relatives after the death of Just About Anyone Who Ever Loved them, are sent to a poorhouse where they shared beds with foul smelling old women with no limbs or eyes or ears (or something like that). Bonny loves it so much she sleeps with it under her pillow. It gave me the bleddy nightmares. Kids are weird.

4. What Katy Did. More invalids. I fear I'm a bit sick myself when I analyse this lot.

Four authors I will read again and again -

1. Milan Kundera. Especially Laughable Loves. Made for the loo.
2. Slavenka Drakulic. Especially... well no. All of her stuff.
3. Ted Hughes. Poetry counts, right?
4. Pat Barker - but only Union Street.

Four authors I will never read again -

1. Jodi bloody Picoult for starters.

2. Jackie Collins.

3. Emily Bronte. Yes yes, I know. Shut up.

4. Joseph Conrad. Bleurgh. Even if he was Polish, he's rubbish.

The first four books on my to-be-read list -

I have a wicker picnic basket by my bed, stacked high with two wobbly piles of books I have yet to read. The four top ones...

1. Patricia Highsmith x 2. The names escape me, but I am recommended them, and lent them by a dear friend, so I shall. Soon. The writing is just so bloody small and my eyes arent what they used to be. (Pass my pension book and ear trumpet)

3. Magda Szabo, The Door. I'm a whore for east/central european books/writers. I want to read this, but still it sits there. I might move it to the top.

4. Iain Banks, Dead Air.

The four books I would take to a desert island

Hmm. Difficult.

1. Slavenka Drakulic - Taste of a Man.

2. Nicholson Baker - Vox.

3. Ted Hughes, Collected Works. I love him.

4. Shakespeare- Collected Works. And I'd learn to love him.

The last lines of one of my favourite books -

"She's never found peace since she left his arms, and never will again till she's as he is now!"
(the exclamation mark rather ruins it, but Arabella always was a hysterical type)*

*(that last was me incidentally, not Hardy)

take it and run dear readers...

Old Prune

Today will mark my fourth day in a row, pruning the runners off the strawberries that grow on the tabletops by the farm shop that I work at during the summer months. I cannot tell you how cold it is there - coast road, November. The next person I overhear in Tescos remarking on the unseasonal warmth with feel the wrath of my secateurs I can tell you.
The day before yesterday, severely berating Wibs for leaving her art book at her dads, I managed to leave the house without my coat or my wellies (flip flops are not ideal in wet mud). Luckily my dad came up trumps with a pair of workboots and a rather fetching lime green anorak (with oil stains) so I didn't freeze to death. (It was hard to see where I should be pruning mind, with the paper bag I wore in case anyone drove past and recognised me). Yesterday I managed to trump even that, grabbing the wrong kagoul as I legged it out of the house, I ended up pruning in a kagoul aged 10-11, with a 32" chest. At 2.30 I had to leave, what with the pins and needles taking over my whole torso.
No lav either in the field... imagine me, arms straight out either side because of massive jumper (and baps) stuffed into said kagoul, bent double, running along the plants making very fast very tiny baby steps to get to the car (and find a lav) before I peed myself.

On Friday, I have an interview. At a school no less, teaching English. Please, please God I will be successful, and I can finally get out of the part time farm/part time medical work that I've been doing for the last few months. Fingers crossed. And legs again today no doubt.

I Like.

As much for me, as for anyone else. I shall keep this as a work in progress. To start, Billy Collins.
And this too. I love this.

Boom Boom.

(Afternoon break at the hospital, Pesk and Debs are drinking coffee.)

Pesk - I had a patient in this morning, lifted up her blouse, and all around her middle she had this band of crusty yellowish scabs.

Debs - Ewwww!

Pesk - Yes, ewww! I said, have you seen the doctor with that? I reckon you've got pringles!

Debs - Pringles? (pause) Is that like shingles?

Pesk (waiting)

Debs (blank)

Pesk - (waiting)

Debs - (blank)

Debs - Is that a joke then?

Pesk - Yes.

Debs - Oh! Ha. Ha. Pringles! Shingles! You got me there.

Pause.

Pesk - Did you know that the word gullible isn't in the dictionary?

Debs - Is it not? Wow!

Pesk - Actually it is...

Debs - Oh. Oh... Is that another joke?

Pesk - Yes.

Debs - I don't get it.

Pesk - Is that the time already?

How to be a lightning tree.

It's been an age. Sometimes I don't feel like coming here and writing things down. Other times it feels like the only thing that makes sense. Then you can get stuck, how do you do it? Things used to be easy.

So it goes.

On a road -
1. An old woman leaning heavily on one stick to bend and scratch her fat labrador under the chin. The dog looked like he appreciated it. I wondered how she might straighten up again from such an angle.

2. An old man on a bicycle pedalled very slowly along. On the front of the bike was a basket, and in the basket was a very big, very elaborate bouquet of flowers. The man was smiling, a lot. I hope someone loves me that much at 80.

3. A child in a red hat and coat was staring at a puddle by the kerb. The puddle had an oil sheen across it, and the child looked like it was the most exciting thing he had ever seen. His mother stood by, looking the other way and smoking a cigarette. I thought - this wont last forever. Save it for yourself too. I tried to push the thought at her, but she carried on smoking looking off into the distance. She missed the rainbow.

4. I saw the lightning tree that I've seen a thousand times before. This time it looked as though it was beseeching. Those long bare arms raised heavenward.

Sometimes we miss rainbows. We miss the tiny things like scratching a dog, riding a bike, giving flowers to someone. We carry on looking for something better, someone better, and we gaze right over the top of that which we have. As though we are stuck with someone boring at the most perfect party, we search and dismiss, search and dismiss.

So it goes.

Physiology, Vermin and Warriors.

So, after the major maths triumph, I now discover that I also need a GCSE in a science. Apparently the A level psychology won't do. Hmm. It's a conspiracy. I signed up for the first class and duly went last Thursday night, after a days work at the hospital. Can anyone tell me the seven things that prove a thing is/has been alive as opposed to not, i.e a table? I could feel myself slumping lower and lower through the two hour lesson. Oh easy, said Elle, the babysitting daughter when I got home. MRS. NERG -

Movement
Respiration
Sensitivity
(MRS)

Nutrition
Excretion
Reproduction
Growth
(NERG! Clever isn't it! Ha!)

Theres two hours well spent then. Could've got it for free from the smartarse.

Whilst she is telling me all this mnemonic nonsense, I'm putting the kettle on, she's lecturing me on cell structures, and then I notice the dog and the cat being suspiciously and uncharacteristically matey, sniffing around the table. A sense of dread began to creep slowly over me. The cat shoots to the end of the (non mrs nerg) table. I'm torn between watching, finishing making the mug of tea I've been dreaming of since lunchtime, and getting the hell out of the kitchen, when Elle realises that Something Is Up. Her conversation peters haltingly to a stop and she follows my gaze down to the feet of the table. I'm edging out of the door at this point, and then she screams.

Very loudly.

And shouts. "RAAAAAAT!" (and it's definitely a MRS NERG rat, as opposed to the footless, headless, plastic one that the dog carries around with it).

I slam the door closed and leap onto the little footstool. Elle is still in the kitchen (I'll be writing my speech for Mother of the Year later thanks). She wrestles the handle down and skedaddles into the living room, almost knocking me off my perch. The phone rings. Faintly, as it is in the kitchen. Elle and I look at each other in a woebegone fashion. It's my mum, who is ringing to check all is ok before they leave for London in a few hours. Realising that no one is picking up, mum then wanders off around her (rat free) house chatting to my dad with the phone still in her hand. We are treated to a conversation about signposts, a rather loud burp and some scuffly shuffly noises. Terrific. I cant even ring her back from my mobile because she's forgotten to hang up her phone.

Elle bravely goes back into the kitchen and I ring dad's mobile. "There's a rat in my kitchen!" (sing it to the UB40 tune if you wish) I gabble. "Again?" says dad. (Oh yes, this happened twice last year too.)

We're on our way, he says. Dad my hero. The dog then barges her way into the room, rat in mouth. Elle screams, startled dog drops it, Elle screams again. I peek through a crack in the door to see Elle grab the TAIL OF THE RAT, run across the room with it SWINGING FROM HER HAND, open the window and fling it out!
My admiration knows no bounds. I rush off to find my sterile handstuff from work and spray her madly. I call dad back and he says they'll come over anyway. They too, are admiring.

I finally get my tea and there's a knock at the door. Mum and dad are there, dad like an assigai warrior, a large thick length of garden bamboo in his hand, the end of which has a large chisel inserted within it. He seems disappointed that he won't be making a kill, and looks fleetingly yet longingly out of the window. "Are you sure it's gone? Have you checked for any others?" (as though I live on the council tip). He peers under the table, says mournfully - "I made this spear especially when you had the last rat". And sighs.

Can someone, anyone, swap lives with me? Please?

The Scent of Success

On Sunday, we cleaned out the office. Wibs starts at grammar school today, and as Chez Pesk is miniscule, we needed to create a warm, quiet place for her to study in. I converted the coal hole (don't laugh) when I was at uni a few years ago, and it was perfect. It has a radiator and plug sockets, a desk, a filing cabinet and two bookshelves. Perhaps 'coal hole' is a bit of an exaggeration, it's more of an internal shed, but anyway. In the gap between me being at uni and Wibs starting Big School it had semi reverted to shed status, but we got cracking and soon it was once more fit for purpose. We left a pile of things that came out of the office in the kitchen for More Sorting Later (yes I know). Then Monday we were exhausted and it was sunny. Tuesday was my dad's birthday so we were out, and yesterday - bad smell. Really bad smell. Every time we came into the living room, there it was. Passing through into the kitchen - there it was too. Strange. And not nice - like a exceptionally strong and severely vintage frankfurter.
So, rubber gloves on, bleach out. We moved the cooker away from the wall, swept out crumbs and mopped the tiles - nothing there. All the surfaces washed down, floor swept and mopped. We needed to clear the pile of papers from the office. Chatting away with Wibs and Bonnyholding out the recycling bag, I sorted and riffled. Then I saw it. With a comedy whooooOOOoooooarghh and a jete that Darcy Bussell would be proud of, I leapt two kilometers away from the table.
There are times that owning a cat is not a good idea. This happened last year too when I discovered a writhing brain of maggots underneath the bookshelf in the living room, all feasting on a vole.
I got the trowel from the garden, put seven carrier bags one inside the other, and troweled it up off the table. It left its skin behind.

Perhaps those motivated moms should enter mouse hunt onto their daily chores list. I might join up.

A Full Heart...

This ad really moves me - I find it just astonishing. When I saw it last night, I watched as the gorilla breathed, eyes closing and opening, nostrils flaring, that barely perceptible lunge at the camera, and was almost moved to tears at the grace of it. The perfect background of swirly Phil Collins (yes, I am inordinately fond of Phil Collins and often play his albums when no one else is around. Tell anyone and I will hunt you down and hurt you), I suspected a save the gorillas charity appeal any second. When the drums kicked in, the camera panned out, and well. Have a look if you haven't seen it yet. I laughed out loud in surprise and delight, and the memory of it has had me grinning all day.



Fantastic. And very clever.