...making something from nothing since 2018... @nowhinetilwednesday - Tumblr Blog

Posts

5.45am is technically a quiet time in our house. I get a fair amount done by getting up at 5.45am. Writing, reviewing, packing lunches, stomach crunches, coffee drinking - that sort of thing, So the other day I was happily sat with my headphones on, listening to and reviewing an extreme metal album. I thought to myself how impressive the sound was. All encompassing. Rich and textured. How happy I was with my pretty red headphones. Yes, they were the very thing. I looked down at my notebook which was filling with many adjectives relating to said extreme metal album. I looked down at the cable of my headphones. I looked further down at the jack of my headphones. It was not plugged into my phone. So essentially I had been blasting out some pretty heavy music before 6am to the entire house as opposed to into my tiny, tiny mind, through my headphones. And do you know what? No one woke up. No dog, no kids, no one. Yet most mornings all it takes is a sneeze or a squeaky step and everyone is up and wide awake and demanding breakfast, blissfully ignorant of the fact got up early to Get. Stuff. Done. Stuff which can’t be done when everyone else is up and about and demanding breakfast. Although that said, they haven’t latched on to Gothursday yet. That’s Goth and Thursday blended together. I invented it by accident. I realised I was playing The Sisters of Mercy on a Thursday morning, and lo and behold, go tell it on the mountains, Gothursday was born. So at 7am on a Thursday ‘This Corrosion’ fills the house.

But I digress. Because in the evening after the non plugged-in headphone incident, I took Otis for his walkies. Here he is, the handsome chap -

Look at him! (Quick plug - picture taken by Gary Trueman Photography).

So off we tootled and this time I had my earphones in my ears and ‘The Boys Of Summer’ (Don Henley) playing. I got to, maybe, a few houses down the road before I realised I was happily singing along. This time I actually was the only one who could hear the music. But the whole village could hear my, ahem, ‘singing’.

Until next time,

J x

two coats good, three coats bad

OK, so initially it was a navy blue coat stuffed with some form of feather. On top of that I added a black gilet stuffed with something similar. I was so toasty I actually got a sweat on, despite the temperature refusing to increase into positive figures. I’m not saying I looked good. No no no no no. But I was not going to let the weather get the better of me. Again. No no no no no. The problem came when I added a third coat in order to walk Mr Otis. I was wider than the pavement, unable to breathe and in a bit of a situation. Fashion and physical. There was simply too much bulk. It was an error. Speaking of bulk, have a look at this.

Am I preparing for possible Brexit food shortages? Nope. I am buying in bulk because my favourites are on offer. Chocolate, pasta sauce, pasta - how can you go wrong? And yes, they are indeed 3kg bags of pasta. Well, alright, a little Brexit panic, I admit. My brief was to just double up on the things we need for a few weeks, just in case. Unfortunately I must have heard ‘relive your days as a student’ because this level of pasta is, in hindsight, of student quantities. This stuff would have kept me going all term. But the chocolate is actually proof that I’m a good mum. Because it’s for my kids? Goodness no! That stuff does their teeth no favours at all. No, it’s not for them. It’s for me. Just in case. The thing is, my son won a bar of chocolate in a Christmas tombola. I believe myself to be a good mum because I didn’t actually eat it. Because it was a special bar with a football pitch design on it. Had it been a normal bar, I would have snaffled it down me so fast and, like the good mum I am, replaced it the very next day following a quick visit to the shops. No one would be any the wiser. Not the case with this one, however. I believed it to be irreplaceable. I’d never come across a football pitch bar of chocolate. So that chocolate stayed in our cupboard, untouched, from the start of December to pretty much February. It. Was. So. Very. Hard. Every time I opened the cupboard there it was. Telling me it could not be eaten because it could not be replaced. So imagine my joy when I found the very same bars were on offer! Buy buy buy. Did did did. So now, I can slip up many many many times and not be caught out because I can replace the hallowed bar. But the fact I held off for almost two months is a serious feat of human engineering, no? Mind you, if I get through that lot there is a high chance I won’t be able to fit into one of my coats, let alone three at a time...

J x

...i said a sentence which propelled me into my 40s...

...and I am still 38. It was just that I’d bought a natty little woolly jumper from a charity shop and I was walking along with Otis telling him all about it. And it occurred to me it would suit a bit of embellishment. ‘What I need my good dog’ I declared, ‘is a brooch’. And there you have it. Ageing myself several years in one simple sentence. I then went on to lament a brooch that I used to have but lost. It would have been the very thing. Otis continued sniffing leaves and ignoring the ponies walking past us. And no doubt thinking about anything to drown out my ramblings. I mean no offence to anyone age-wise. Here, I’ll tell you something, then you can laugh at me. Then we’re even.

Ok, so what’s wrong with this picture?

Yep. Two right shoes. Where were the two left shoes? With my daughter. Where was my daughter? At school. And it was all my fault because I sent her in wellies to avoid slipping incidents, packed shoes in nice bag, and was horror struck at approximately noon when I glanced in the shoe cupboard and realised my error. There’s never any point in rushing. You just take twice as long in the end. Well, it felt like years passed between me discovering the problem, getting self and dog into car, and getting correct shoe to correct foot. Otis was thrilled. He got a ride out AND a walk. What fun for a dog. In some ways I feel it made up for him listening to my aforementioned brooch-related ramblings.

When I started this blog (a year ago now) I remember wondering could I keep it up? Would I be able to keep finding something to write about? Clearly if I continue to operate at this level then yes, yes I will be able to keep blogging well into the future. Because as we can see from the above evidence, it writes itself sometimes. It really does.....

...i’m not sure i’ll get out without assistance...

So, which footballs do you choose? The not quite fully grown ones which are two for £6, or the proper size spherical do-das which come in at two for £20. Of course you do! Because they’re only going to get booted over the fence first kick, so you buy the cheaper deal. And you do right. I on the other hand juggle the more expensive option to the till, netball pass them to the assistant, and get on my merry way believing myself to have bought superior pieces of kit which will keep my children entertained in the fresh air for many hours. I was wrong on several counts. Yes. The ball only went and got booted over the fence first kick. But it’s ok - we have two balls. However, in a bid to actually keep possession of this one, the kids invented ‘indoor football’, the rules of which are exactly the same as its outside counterpart, but, well, inside. This could not go on. But the news was not all bad, because apparently the new ball had landed in a gap between our fence and our neighbours’ wall. I was despatched to assess the situation. Light was fading, but I assured all those concerned I would be able to get it out the next day. And armed with long-handled garden shears, completely covered in clothes and gloves and scarves and any other makeshift ‘protective’ stuff I could find, I entered the gap just wider than my shoulders. This was not the main obstacle. The presence of long-handled garden shears should have indicated a prickly hazard standing between me and a £10 football. That’s right. Brambles. So I had to hack down the brambles while walking like a crab in a gap that was getting progressively and significantly smaller. Balls were flying out left, right and centre, however, as I made my way towards the point of my expedition. It seems quite a few of them had been booted into this crevice of doom. I’m super happy to tell you I retrieved the brand new ball. Back over the fence I threw it - and it landed back in our garden too. I edged my way out of the gap, covered in green stuff, thorns, leaves (dead and alive) and, seconds later, dog lick. Apparently Otis had missed me. So I went inside, put on the kettle and looked out the kitchen window to see that there were no longer brambles climbing over the top of our fence, and a fine selection of footballs in our garden. Good Jo. Very good Jo. And then into my vision bounded Otis. Why so sprightly for a nine and a half year old Labrador? Why moving at such speed? Aw, look at that. He’s playing football. Aw, look at that, he’s... he’s... he’s... Oh please no. He’s got the brand new, freshly retrieved ball in his mouth and it’s no longer spherical. Slowly deflating. Me and the ball. Once Otis had finished charging around like a dog possessed, I patched the ball up as best I could and later presented it to the kids. Who informed me they had found one of their old balls that they liked a bit better anyway. It was a bit smaller. It turned out to be one of the balls you could get in the two for £6 deal that I had bought when my head was screwed on a bit better. I went to find Otis for a stroke and sympathy. I checked every bed in the house (human and dog) but to no avail. That heart stopping moment when you cannot find your beloved (ball popping) family pet. Turns out he was so worn out after his one dog football match that he had fallen asleep the first place he landed. Which was on a jigsaw....

...the spirit of Christmas continues...

So, how was your Christmas and New Year? Mine? Really good, thanks for asking. No one complained about the turkey (I don’t eat it). No one complained about my Christmas cake (I don’t eat it). No one complained about ... you see where this is going ... And the best bit is that the spirit of Christmas is going to live on in us and radiate out to those around us. Because the joy, kindness, happiness and er pine needles will continue to be felt all year. And well into the next decade judging by the amount of pine needles on every conceivable surface - human, home and Labrador...

Speaking of dog, look what he got for Christmas. Isn’t he just too happy? How does he contain himself? I’ll just never know.

So, the thing is, our tree was a dropper. Now, we didn’t notice this until it was time to get the tree ready for recycling. Yes, in hindsight the beige carpet had turned a shade of erm, forest. I had been shouting yeeeeeoooouuuuccchhhh a little more than usual. But then, I’m very clumsy. And the thing is, nobody really knows what day it is during the festive period, so it’s not implausible that we (I) missed that the sitting room was resembling a woodland area in peak pine needle dropping season.

But as I carefully removed the baubles from the branches, and many (all) the pine needles came off in the process, I realised we had a situation. One requiring heavy duty gardening gloves and my dog walking waxed jacket.

Here is a list of where pine needles have been discovered so far. This is in no way the definitive list, and I feel I could blog about their whereabouts for the rest of the year. I won’t. Next time I want to tell you about me squeezing myself between a fence and a wall to retrieve a brand new football from some angry brambles. How big was the gap? WIder than my head but it became narrower than my shoulders...

Pink wellyboots

Coat pocket

Socks

Sofa arm

Handbag

Floating in a mint tea

But the thing is, we do get a reminder of the joy and lighthearted feeling many of us are lucky enough to experience at Christmas time. Yes, it is in the manner of a small piece of nature that causes much more pain than its size leads you to suggest, but still. It’s nice to be nice. It’s good to be good. And at Christmas time it’s sometimes easier to act as we know we should.

So thanks to our lovely little (it was actually two metres tall come to think of it) tree, we will be getting many reminders of that Christmassy feeling and hopefully spreading a little more happiness through this New Year.

That should make our house/general vicinity a pretty nice place to be. Just be sure to wear some sturdy socks if you’d like to come round for a cup of tea...

J x

...keeping it simple...

I really should blog more often. The issue I now have is that there is so much stored up in my head, I’m going to end up trying to fit it all into this post, and make very little sense (at best). So, the plan for this blog is to make a list of why running is the best. A nice, simple list. It’s inspired by Otis, because he has written about why he loves walking for next month’s Simply Spalding magazine. He’s clever like that. Here he is:

Really, I should tell you how I am so very fed up of seeing ‘not yet recyclable’ on the back of pretty much everything. And then there is the homemade lasagne paradox (again). I mean, I need to feed the family well, so I make a lasagne from scratch. But that takes a while, so I have to tell said family I can’t play football because I am making lasagne. Dog cannot be walked for a while. Washing cannot be put out. You see where I’m going with this? Should I buy a readymade lasagne so I can just shove it in the microwave and then spend time with family? But there is hidden veg in my homemade lasagne. Much goodness for aforementioned family. Yet it takes me out of their loop for a bit. A microwave one would mean I had more time. Yet the packaging may well be part of the ‘not yet recyclable’ tribe that has put a bee in my bonnet. I should probably skip this post, and get out my pen and paper to plan my next blog, which shall be called ‘a post for those who don’t feel so merry at Christmas’. Because let’s face it, Christmas can be a tough time of year for many, for various reasons. But that needs handling carefully and with thought, and compassion. With a cup of tea to hand and a kind heart. It cannot be written by a very cold me, sat in a car, balancing tech on my knee and under the steering wheel, wearing a hat which covers my head and ears and does up under my chin.

So, without further ado, here is My List Of Why Running Is The Best:

It gets you out in the fresh air.

It gets you out the house, come to think of it.

It’s pretty much free.

You usually feel better after a run. You pretty much never feel worse.

I have run so many miles I can pretty much eat what I want. This, inevitably, includes the Christmas chocolates. Today is December 13. I started them yesterday.

It provides a good fitness base for Padfit classes / any other classes.

Running leggings can be thermal. And comfy.

I get to wear a panda hat.

And it goes on. So I suppose as Christmas approaches and the inevitable over-eating that goes with it, at least there is running for when the old jeans get a bit tight. Better still, maybe I should just have some respect for myself and show a bit of restraint. Better, better, even better still, I will definitely put a pound in a jar every time I am about to stuff myself beyond the realms of what any human should eat. And then maybe I actually can make Christmas a bit merrier by giving my pounds to charity. Not a bad idea for someone wearing a hat that’s been done up under the chin...

Black Labrador vs Black Trousers

Today I drove to town, opened the boot and something black fell out. Yes, I too thought it was Otis jumping out. Which came as quite a shock really, because he should have been safe and sound at home, eagerly awaiting my return while I ran my errands. Shops are no place for an Otis. Apart from our local garden centre, where he is treated like one of the attractions and if I turn my back on him for one second, I find him with his happy head in a stranger’s hands, wagging his tail and being told what a nice dog he is. It took a nano second and that slight burn of shock you get to make me focus, and realise that it was the arm of a jumper I was about to take to the charity shop. And that, my friends, was the purpose of my mission. To take four bags full of clothes to the charity shop. And that’s just the start of it. I am in the middle of the clear out to end all clear outs. These are good clothes, but I just don’t wear them, so they have got to go. The amount of toys/books/games/stuff in general I have unearthed that we don’t use anymore has been astounding. And I am ashamed of the pairs of shoes I have boxed up and taken to be recycled. If I replace a pair of running trainers, it is because the old ones are worn out. Why then, do I not recycle the old pair as soon as the new ones come over the threshold? Why? Why is this? Children’s shoes. When they don’t fit, they need to be recycled/re-used. So why did I have a cupboard bursting with them? It wouldn’t close without an industrial strength shove. And yes, I feel purged, and yes, I feel much calmer in my mind, but the guilt of having all this stuff is currently a fairly constant companion. I feel like hanging my head in shame, I really do. I found a nice pair of black trousers in my wardrobe. Followed by another pair of… black trousers. Followed by… you get the gist. Pens that no longer work, tubs of clay that can no longer be moulded. Colouring books that are full. Ugh, it goes on. I bought some Christmas gifts today, and before brain was engaged and mouth was open, they were kindly placed in a nice pretty paper bag. But I had my reusable bag with me, and now I will have to throw away this pretty paper bag, else the whole sorry cycle of accumulating stuff begins again. Because I am still clearing out wardrobes, and I know full well that the next one on my list is stuffed with pretty bags deemed too nice to throw away. Yes, I could use it as a gift bag, but then not only am I passing on the clutter to a friend, I’m also getting their hopes up that their entire gift is from the shop named on the bag being reused. See my problem? And don’t be thinking Otis isn’t part of this. Nope, he is also a hoarding hound. But his spare beds and toys will find a home with a doggy charity I discovered today. So what is the answer? Clearly I need to stop buying black trousers. And shoes. This is not hard to do. I’ve learnt my lesson. Because I’ve wasted A LOT of hours decluttering. The house is a tip, but look inside the wardrobes and toy boxes, and they are a tidy thing of beauty. So I’d better get on with the tidying and make room for Christmas. And if you see me in the shops looking longingly at a pair of black trousers, you know what to do...

...in which i accidentally earn a running name...

… ‘The Radcliffe’? ‘The Warrior’? The Greyhound’? Nope. None of these. Having trained as a journalist I know better than to put my new found running name so high up in the start of this piece. But I also know better than to start the Christmas chocolates before Hallowe’en. I know better than to buy size ten jeans on the principle they are size ten although I may well not be. And so, without further ado, my running name is …

…The Soggy Bear.

It’s true. I am not the self-styled Soggy Bear. No. This was a name actually given to me as I charged around a half marathon course last month. It must have been in the first 6.5 miles of the course, because there was not much charging going on in in the second half of the race. Indeed, there was not much of what would traditionally be counted as running either. It is fair to say I waddled, huffed, spluttered and almost cried through those last cold, wet miles. It was the first time in my life I have ever been soaked to the skin.

But it was not the first time in my life I have wanted to lay on the side of the road and cry. That happened a few weeks before the half marathon, during a flat 10k race. The roads were just so long. There were people behind me. There were people in front of me. A glorious sea of Lycra was affronting the countryside. And there was me, looking at the surrounding fields and debating laying down in one and pretending to be a pumpkin. I was in orange shorts. Reading that sentence back, I feel it was a pretty bad idea, regardless of the colour of my shorts. But still. It was just so hard. Everything is hard. Nothing worth having comes easy. That’s worth getting caps lock involved with. NOTHING WORTH HAVING COMES EASY.

My 10k time? Oh, right. 55 minutes and something seconds. My PB this year is 54.32 on a hilly course. The funny thing is, I hit the 10k mark of the half marathon around this time, so I ran the first 6 miles in a time to be proud of, no? The truth is, I ran the whole thing in a time to be proud of – it was my fastest ever half marathon. But the thing is, it started raining at 7am. We started running at 10.30am ish. It stopped raining at 3pm ish. So I decided to run in my hat. Do tell us, Jo – is it a waterproof hat? A running cap? A stormy weather hat of sea-faring proportions? Allow Otis to show you…

Now the name makes sense, hey? I was pretty much the closest thing to a ‘novelty runner’ the (understandably sparse) crowd saw that day. Cries of ‘nice hat’, ‘that’s the best headgear I’ve seen all day’ and, of course, ‘GO ON THE SOGGY BEAR!!!!!’ followed me around for 2.05.09 seconds. And thank goodness they did, else I would still be there now, sobbing and sweating and curled up in a ball, pretending to be some sort of vegetable..

Agh, 520 words. I need to tie this up now, if, indeed, anyone is still reading. So onwards and upwards. I have a 10k race in a couple of weeks’ time, and I’ll report back. I’ll just have a check of the long-range weather forecast for November 18 – The Soggy Bear may well run again….

...i can’t take the pressure and it’s starting to show...

Here’s a fun test. You are making a little purchase from the shop. You get to the till and realise you have only pennies, a trolley operating coin thingy, a safety pin and an old ten pound note in your purse. Then you remember it is 2018 and contactless payment exists. You rejoice. You are told you need to spend five pounds to use this technology. Your purchase falls short by three pounds (I can’t find the pound symbol on this keyboard btw).

What do you do?

You need nerves of steel for this.

Would you like to know what I did? I panicked. I looked around and all I could see were multipacks of Monster Munch. That great big monster on the front, mocking my confusion. A queue was forming. Think, brain, think. Alas, I was saved. Peanut Kit Kat mini bites at one pound a pack. The relief and joy as I put them on the counter, paid by card and went on with my day.

Except that no one in my household likes peanut related items. Apart from the one carrying an excess four pounds in weight (sadly not in money terms, otherwise this whole sorry episode could have been avoided). And the worse bit is, I’ve eaten them all. Yep, all three family-sized bags. I ate those bad boys like you would a bag of crisps. They were goooooooood.

But you know what, that’s actually not the worst part, because what would you have bought in those circumstances? Wine! Yes, exactly. It’s next to the counter and can be put away for another day. Same with a bottle of spirits. Everyone likes gin these days. Why didn’t I get a bottle of gin for the Christmas gift cupboard? The maybe even worse part is that there was a voice inside my head screaming at me in my hour of need. Except the same brain that has seen me fairly successfully through school, university, employment and motherhood was yelling....

Oh man, I can’t bring myself to type this.

It was shouting...

BUY BENSON AND HEDGES!!!!!!

I don’t even smoke.

See, this is what I have to put up with. Bad brain. Very bad brain.

I don’t know. I am usually fairly reliable under pressure. I passed my driving test first time. I passed my 100 words per minute shorthand exam first time, and went on to get 120 words per minute, and these things require a pretty cool head.

But, alas, on this occasion, I let myself down. Although, you know what? I’m currently typing this with a cup of buttermint flavour tea next to me.

And it would go down a treat with some peanut butter Kit Kat bites........

...is this ironic? Do you think?...

It’s 5.37am and someone’s alarm is going off. Too early to get up without being groggy all day and shattered by 8pm. Too late to go back to sleep. So it’s blog time...

I’ve got a few gems to share. I’ll tell you about our little supermarket visit another day. It involves me saying to the kids ‘you can go find yourself something to eat in the park if you would like’. One came back with a Dairylea Lunchables. Fair enough. The other came back with a chilled twelve inch pepperoni pizza. Couldn’t quite eat it in the park (I’m good but not that good), but he pretty much demolished it all as soon as it hit his plate for tea.

Anyway, irony. I have a nerve in my face that can play up, and when it does so, it hurts. It’s pretty angry with me at the minute. It’s also my own fault because I was anxious (still am I guess) about the kids returning to school. When I worry I gnaw on my gum, grind my teeth and my jaw gets really tense. So it’s kinda the perfect storm. Why is it that if we cut ourselves we don’t feel the need to keep prodding the wound to see if it’s still there, and check if it still hurts. But with mouth/tooth pain, we feel the need to explore with our tongue every five minutes. So I stuck my tongue in the drop zone of pain and had to hold on to the kitchen worktop because it knocked me backwards. I’m not going to keep banging on, but it hurt too badly for tears.

Don’t worry. Help is on the way. And I also have my medicine.

Hang on. Need to put the kettle on again. 5.37am start, remember. The alarm’s still going of, by the way. Brrrrriiiiiing briiiiinnnnnggggg briiinnnnnnggg. At least I think it’s still going, and it’s not just stuck in my head like Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots. I wake up at night with that playing in me.

Right, so, yes, I have medicine for this nerve issue. Which, of course, I don’t like to take. But this was getting serious. So I opened my little medicine cupboard and located my meds. And that was when the packaging bit me.

There was blood. I had cut my thumb on the packaging of the tablets that make things not hurt anymore. The thing that takes away the pain had caused me pain. I am typing this with an animal themed plaster around my thumb. But my face doesn’t hurt.

Is that ironic? Do you think?

Can I also add at this point I’m using a good quality mouthwash just in case, and am wondering, at which point am I able to taste anything other that mouthwash?

Still with me? Here’s another ironic situation. It involves this old boy.

Wook at the fwuffy wickle puppy dog.

A few months ago we noticed our four-legged friend was charging around the garden on, erm, three legs. We ran out to him, checked his leg, and he just stood there and let us. Nothing seemed to hurt him, so we let Otis hobble on his merry way and crossed our fingers really tightly that he’d just landed on it funny as he tore around the grounds.

Happily, the situation resolved itself, and normal service was resumed.

But I still mentioned it to the vet when Otis had his annual MOT and service.

The vet checked Otis over and suggested a joint supplement would help him out. He also told us that he would usually recommend weight loss, but that wasn’t necessary in Otis’ case.

Well, has there ever been a prouder puppy dog? He jumped into his travel box in the boot more sprightly than ever before, and reminded us all the way home that he was a jolly good weight for a Labrador. He’d probably start going on about it again now, but he’s fast asleep. At least someone can sleep through this alarm which, FYI, is still whirring away.

Off we trundled to the pet shop to buy some finest oil for doggy joints.

Tea time rolls around. We get out his Labrador specific kibble, mix in a drizzle of this oil and set it down. Big wet nose dives straight in and demolishes the lot at speed. His second human comes home. Otis starts licking his lips. Human assumes dog has not been fed, gets out his Labrador specific kibble, mixes in a drizzle of oil and sets it down. Dog gobbles it up in record time. Returns to first human licking his lips. I am forgetful. ‘Have I not fed you?’ I ask. He’s not forthcoming with an answer, but wanders to his bowl. You see where this is going.

Otis is quite unusual for a Lab, in that he won’t always eat his food straight away, or even at all. He is sometimes quite happy to have his breakfast in the middle of the afternoon, and his tea (very noisily) in the middle of the night. It’s our fault, I guess, for leaving it out when he was a puppy. He got used to eating whenever he fancied.

So, essentially, Otis retained his trim form by fussy eating, charging three/four legged around the garden, and by daily walkies as far as he fancied.

Now he cannot get his meals in him fast enough because he loves his oil for his doggy joints. So he’s probably going to put on weight. Which will not help his joints.

Now isn’t that irony? Have I got that concept correct?

I’ll wind this up in a sec, stay with me here.

The obvious answer would be to let him go on longer walks. But this eats into my time, and means my runs can’t really get any longer. This is unfortunate because a) I have a half marathon coming up, and b) I need to run further and faster because I, myself, have four excess pounds of weight that I need to shift but cannot. It is going nowhere people. This is just one massively vicious circle, no?

Ahhh, 7am. You know what? I think that alarm may have stopped....

J x

...ode to the summer holidays...

So many things we had planned,

Unplugged tellies, tablets banned.

‘Shoes on, outside, stop complaining’,

Back inside - it’s started raining.

‘What are we doing today?’

It’s still pouring - trip to Soft Play.

Holiday traffic, roads are jammed,

All attractions totally rammed.

Smoothies, slushies, lollies, ices,

Every shop has doubled its prices.

Chips, fish, sausage in batter -

How long will that take? AN HOUR AND A QUARTER!!!!!!!????

Sun comes out; unbearably hot,

Everyone gets plagued by wasps.

Grass is brown, replaced by weeds.

Skin now sticky with sun cream.

Parks are packed, boiling hot slides,

People covered in thunderflies.

Annual checkup for the pet,

Family outing to the vet.

Different activities for brother and sister,

Because, apparently, they cannot stand each other.

Pick up after peaceful morning apart,

Squabbling before car even starts.

‘What’s for snack? For dinner? For tea?’

‘Mum! He/she’s upsetting me!’

Library challenge; reading books.

Painting pots, feeding ducks.

Most days blissful, some days challenging,

Each one is fuelled by caffeine.

Five weeks gone, that sinking feeling

Summer holidays are close to ending.

Soon have to return to rushing,

Packing bags, school run cursing,

Going to bed before it’s dark,

Setting alarms, clubs, homework.

So much stuff we thought we’d do,

A whole six week stretch to get through.

Couldn’t tell you how we spent each day.

Probably laughing, running, eating, play.

Didn’t take a day for granted

And although summer’s almost ended

We can look back and remember the joy, love and fun

And look forward to the future and what’s to come.

...in which a penguin is misplaced...

Never is a memory fail worse than when it involves a kid’s teddy bear. Well, more like a soft little penguin who is not even 24 hours old. And bought as a ‘thank you for not eating sweets and getting a clean bill of health from the dentist’ gift. Its big glittering eyes, golden beaky beak and fluffy black fur.

Gone.

Now, I’ve had multiple memory fails over the past few weeks. My diesel situation being a case in point. I have 50 miles left in my car. I just keep forgetting to pull into a petrol station and diesel up.

It makes my eye a bit twitchy to be honest, because I like my tech to be at least 80 per cent charged at all times. It’s a source of frustration to all in our house that my gadgets are therefore always plugged in. So it follows I like my car’s fuel reserves to be substantial. If I was to become a bit of a parody of myself, I’d say I like my white wine stocks to follow suit, but this is not a post of cliches. It’s a post about a lost penguin.

Stay with me here, because I’m getting to the point, but going the long way about it.

So, we are going out today, and will need; suncream, towels, spare clothes, snacks, keys, (fully charged) phone, money, lip gloss, plasters, antiseptic cream. Aside from the towels and spare clothes, the rest is pretty standard handbag stuff, no?

But here’s the thing. Because of plastic bottle issues we all now have to take our own water flasks as well. It’s too wasteful and expensive to buy water when you’re out, so that’s four flasks needed. Add reusable fabric bag to the pile because I like to buy. Buy what? Don’t care - I like to buy. Therefore must be prepared with environmentally sound bag. Will probably need coffee. So must take reusable hot drink cup. Times two.

See! I’m loaded up before I get out the house. I don’t mind. I mean, we’ve all got to do our bit. But not only am I having to anticipate all the things the kids may need (standard parenting), I’m having to consider what I, as an adult, may need. And as we have discussed, I can’t find a lost penguin. I currently do not have the space in my head to work out what I may or may not need.

And could stuff not have been made recyclable in the first place?

Anyway, as I began stuffing all the above into my rucksack (because a handbag doesn’t have the necessary capacity) guess what I saw peeping up at me. Oh happy day. The penguin was there! How I smiled. How I then had to apologise to everyone (dog included - we thought he may have eaten it) because I had clearly put penguin in the rucksack at some point.

BUT I DON’T REMEMBER DOING IT. In all seriousness, I have no recollection of this. No clue. Not one.

So it’s a happy ending for all penguin fans out there, but not so much for me because my memory is still shot.

How badly? Let me end on this. It had been so long since I’d driven my own car in the rain, I spent a good few minutes in a car park the other day working out which stick on which side of the steering wheel controlled the wipers. Mission eventually accomplished. It was only when I set off that I noticed I had started the back wiper going too. So for the entire journey my car looked like an excitable Labrador with a wagging tail, because I clearly had no idea how to turn it off. Maybe that’s where all my diesel’s going...

Until next time,

J x

...in which a person, a labrador and some clothes end up in the fridge...

How about this weather hey? I kinda panic bought another pair of shorts in preparation for a week of molten hotness and the fact that I'm blogging about it rightly implies that I wrecked myself in the process.

Spectacularly...

Because the pair of size 10 denim high-waisted shorts I put in my online basket disappeared. They somehow sold out. Whilst in my basket. And I was disappointed. So I figured I could give the size eights a go. I mean, what could go wrong?

WHAT COULD GO WRONG???? WHAT WAS I THINKING???

The shorts duly arrived, and I carefully opened the packaging. Note I didn’t rip it. There was an element of caution deployed, as though I knew what was coming. That a return was imminent. I held them up and inspected them. I declared to all around (Otis) that these shorts seemed to have a bit of ‘give’ in them. And I tried them on.

Success! Mission accomplished. I was in said pair of size eight shorts. But it wasn’t pretty. And they had to go back. Now to just...just...just squeeeeeeeeeeeze myself out without any rippage. Easy does it. Gently. Careful now. Nope. Still inside shorts. These bad boys were not suitable for wearing in public. And they were not cheap. So they had to be returned. At this stage I was going to have a first-hand view of the returns process because I was still inside them. And I was going nowhere.

Panic set in. It was getting hotter. I started to swell. That’s right, my friends - I was expanding in the heat. I COULD NOT GET OUT OF THE SHORTS. ‘What do I do Otis?’ I asked in desperation. ‘Lassie would know how to get out of this situation. Can you use your canine intuition?’ He could not. He went to his cool spot, stetched out and fell asleep.

I declared a state of emergency. No one cared.

Then inspiration hit me. I was saved.

How?

I opened the fridge door. And stuck myself inside the fridge as far as I could go. I opened the icebox at the top to add extra cooling power. Did it work? Yes. Yes it did. The shorts and I were separated. But you know what? My good self was not the only thing in the Smeg that shouldn’t have been there. Otis appeared as soon as he heard the fridge door swing open. One human (struggling out of a pair of shorts) and one Labrador (snuffling at a packet of ham) and A PAIR OF PYJAMAS.

That’s right. We are all living in 2018 but my daughter is living in 3018. Because she had put her pyjamas in the fridge to keep them cool.

I have no words. I may be a total clown who (once again) ordered the wrong size of clothes but proceeded to force myself into them regardless. But my daughter appears to have inherited none of this nonsense and is forging ahead with world-beating ideas.

So here endeth today’s post because, well, clothes in the fridge. Hope you are all keeping as cool as possible, and if you would like to clear some space in your fridge so you too have room for your pyjamas, I can loan you a black Labrador who is good at getting ham out of the way....

Our Mystery Guests aka ‘have i got the right house?’ NO!!!!! NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST!!!!

A pretty van drove past Otis and I the other day. Otis looked up at me. I looked down at him. It was a dog trainer’s van. Otis stuck his head in the nearest hedge pretty sharpish. He pretended to be interested in the leaves and disappeared further into the foliage. A lesser Labrador owner would have said he was hiding. It would have been a pretty poor hiding place in fairness, because:

A) his massive great big tail was still sticking out and wagging,

B) I was still holding his lead, and who takes a hedge for a walk?

He reappeared a minute or so later, covered in cobwebs and hedge trimmings, no doubt having also found a snack under there, but it was too late. The damage had been done. I HAD THOUGHT OF ANOTHER BLOG POST...

So, this is about two separate occasions which kind of meet in the middle - when Otis got an unexpected visitor who asked ‘have I got the right house?’ And when I got an unexpected visitor who also asked ‘have I got the right house?’

In both situations the answer was ‘No. No no no no no no no no,’ but my case was a little more clear cut.

I’ll start with me and end with doggo.

Well, there I was, some years ago, sweeping the kitchen floor at 7am on a Sunday morning. A little silver van thing pulled into the drive. Now, the unusual thing here is that the van stayed. Usually unidentified vehicles use us as a turning circle. Which is fine. Because we’ve all turned around in a few driveways in our time. Then a smartly dressed gentleman got out. And came to the door.

So who was it?

They stated the address they thought we were. We were not. He was not at the right place. Then I looked at his identity badge. I have a habit of saying ‘no one died,’ when giving situations a little perspective. I didn’t expect to be using it at 7am on a Sunday morning. Because my unexpected visitor was ... an undertaker ...

Right, beat that Otis.

OK, so a couple of years after this somewhat unusual incident, there was, again, an unknown vehicle which pulled into our drive. And the driver got out. Yep, they too came to the door. It was a more acceptable hour this time, so Otis was up. He bounded to the door to greet our guest, ears flapping, tail going round and round like a windmill. Bound bound bound wag wag wag woof woof woof. And as we managed to shift the rather lively and enthusiastic Labrador out of the way so we could actually greet our visitor, we were asked ‘have I got the right house?’

So who was it?

We stood there making noncommittal noises, looking puzzled and unsure. The correct answer was not ‘yes’. Neither was it ‘no’. That’s right. Our next mystery guest was ... a dog trainer ...

We had to concede that no, alas she was not at the right house. But yes, in a way she was. We all looked down at Otis. It was then he seemed to sense something was up and scurried off, finding sanctuary in one of the kids’ rooms and not to be seen until snack time ...

Until the next random visitor,

J x

A GuEst BLoG...FrOm a DoG...

Ah, you humans. Well, more specifically, my human. She’s been running after me with cold things. A nice cool bowl of water? Most welcome. An ice pack wrapped in a tea towel that she keeps putting next to me? No. No. And thrice no. I get up and move, and she pursues me with it. I must be hot apparently. I’ll soon heat up running away from her, the crazy ice pack woman. If you want to give me something, I’ll start with your tea, thank you very much. No. Wait. It’s meat free. Face paw.

So,welcome to my guest blog post. Have you seen my column in Simply Spalding magazine? My travels took me to Mouton in this month’s edition. I’m in Pinchbeck next issue. I don’t want to give anything away, but I’m not the sort of Labrador to lie, so I’ll give you a heads up - it’s brilliant. Speaking of fibs, my human told a massive one a while ago, and it’s now coming back to haunt her on the daily. The smaller humans in the house share a telly in their games room, and the crazy ice pack woman who appears to be no closer to giving me her tea, taught them to change the volume and the channel. So far so good. Except she told them there were only two that showed kids’ stuff. CBeebies and CBBC. And up until a fortnight ago they believed her. Then one day they started to click in random numbers on the controller, and lo and behold, after trial and error, and spending sometime in unchartered channel territory, POP was discovered. Adverts! They now want shoes you can draw on, balls that start squished and end up big enough for me to run off with and erm, a new puppy to keep me company. But it gets better. Do you know what their new favourite show is? It’s on all the time. Alvin and the Chipmunks. That’s right. The ones that speak so quickly and sqeakily that only the under tens can understand them. The theme tune stays in her head all day. I’ve heard her tell the mini humans that the truth, no matter how bad, is better than a lie. You got that right love! Lies always come back to haunt you in the end. Do do do de dee do....

Now, I was going to tell you about my family’s efforts to save water, which, as you would expect, has ended up in them all facing a shortage of clothes. In fact, the lying lady has just been told she looks like a ballgirl at Wimbledon. She is, indeed, wearing a purple tennis dress, and she has just been hit with the realisation she may also look like Barney the Dinosaur...

Until next time, your friend,

Otis x

...Queen? I thought that was the Bishop????...

It’s tricky to predict how your week’s going to go, but there’s a fair chance it’s best to be on your guard for the unexpected when you have to find a house-sitter early on a Monday morning because the backdoor is refusing to lock.

That same house-sitter then received another phone call, this time asking her to bring kid car seats, because mine had just been driven down the road in a car that was not mine.

Add this to a game of chess I got roped into finishing off before my second coffee of the day, in which the state of play was as follows:

Me: ‘Can I move this piece there?’

Worthy Opponent: ‘Yes mum, the Queen can go anywhere.’

Me: ‘Queen??? I thought that was the Bishop????’

Worthy Opponent: ‘Check....’

On the other paw, Otis’ week has started very well. He met a Great Dane yesterday. Now, usually when he bumps into little dogs on his wanders, they yap at him or try to go underneath him. Puppies inevitably put their paws on his head. There was much mutual respect from His Royal Dogness and the Great Dane (who made Otis look little), however. They rubbed their handsome doggy heads together, sniffed the sides of each other’s faces, and (due to the height different) Otis emerged from under the Great Dane’s beautiful floppy ear a few seconds later. It was a joy.

None of the lead tangling that always follows when he meets fellow members of his breed.

This is how I like to think the conversation goes when a herd of Labradors meet:

Lab 1: ‘You’re a fine looking dog.’

Otis: ‘I am a fine looking dog. Gosh, you’re a fine looking dog.’

Lab 1: ‘I am a fine looking dog. Shall we see if your owner has a snack?’

Otis: ‘Yes, let’s. I’ll stick my fine looking snout in her pocket.’

Wagwagwagwagwagwagsniffsniffsniffsniffsniffsniff and so on.

Here’s Otis cooling down.

And here he is again.

That’s not his bed.

Problem door is problem door no more, so my week is looking up. In fairness, in my top three list of door-related issues, Monday’s malfunction only ranks at number two, so it was never that bad in the first place really.

Would you like to hear what number three and number one are?

Number three - when the same door refused to UNLOCK.

Number one - at a previous house when the FRONT DOOR refused to UNLOCK. Me locked in, everyone else locked out. Back door not reliable because hardly ever used, and well, who expects their front door to decide to stop working?

Did I ever tell you about the car I had that refused to let me open it from the driver’s door? It got so upset when I dared to try to get in through the, oh I don’t know, correct door, that its alarm used to go off.

Fun times.

I feel the problem is me.

J x

...taking on the ten miles...

So, as you may remember I signed up for a ten mile run. And while my brain maybe wasn’t quite engaged at the time, my heart was most definitely in it.

And as we travelled down in the car I went through my little checklist. Could I run the distance? Yes. Could I manage the hills? Yes. Could I run on grass? Yes. And on tracks? Yes. So far so good. With pockets full of energy sweets and chocolate eclairs (toffee ones, not fresh cream), a donut shaped bottle full of water and plans of running 10 minute miles, I was good to go. It was then I made possibly the best decision of the day.

I decided to take my iPod with.

I had been planning to spend each mile inside my own head, remembering natty little facts and titbits, fun, japes and giggles, and then blogging it to you. This is what actually happened....

Mile One - Right, the first mile is always the hardest. I appear to have started in the wrong place because I’m going to have to use precious energy passing these people. That’s like the time I lined up for a 10k race in the middle of a group of sponsored walkers. Also, it’s getting quite hot.

MIle Two - Use iPod when it’s getting tough.

Mile Two and a Half - TURN UP IPOD.

Mile Three - I seriously evaluate my life choices as I turn left at a sign that says ‘10k runners turn right’.

Mile Four - This one’s a long time coming. It’s really hot now. Why is my left eye watering? Am I crying? What will hurt more - running into these nettles or leaping onto the ridge in the middle of the track to avoid them? Aggghhh prickly branch. Oh man, now I’ve swallowed a fly.

Mile Five - It’s eclair time.

Mile Six - I still have the same eclair in my mouth. This is possibly the best race snack ever invented. Time for one more. And water. And louder music. Check watch. The hills/heat/general terrain/sweetie snacking/iPod faffing are taking their toll. This is not a race for a PB. 10 minute miles????? What was I thinking?

Mile Seven - It’s time for mind games. I’ve just run a 10k, now pretend it’s a half marathon. That’s clearly not working. Just enjoy the surroundings. This must be the world’s longest road. Oooooooohh, cows. Is that another hill? Do not curl up in a ball on the side of the road. Do not curl up in a ball on the side of the road. DO NOT CURL UP IN A BALL ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.

Mile Eight - What are my legs even doing? Time to take on board more water and energy sweeties. I have severely underestimated this course. I have my iPod on too loud. I think I have a blister. WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH. Think about the finish. Think about the finish. I DON’T THINK I’M EVER GOING TO MAKE IT TO THE FINISH.

Mile Nine - Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Did I say the first mile was the hardest? Scratch that. The last mile is the hardest. A mile is a long way. I still have a long way to go. Is the end around this corner? Nope. How about this one. Nope. There is my family. It’s them! I’m sprinting to the finish. WHERE IS THE FINISH? I can’t keep going at this speed. I have made a serious error of judgement. Must go on. Can’t feel legs. Oh man, I’ve made it.

10 Miles Complete.

Just a few notes to self before I close with a picture of me crossing the finish line. I thought I was going really fast. As you will see, I was barely lifting my legs. Face palm. Will I run this race again? Absolutely. Are chocolate eclairs my running snack of choice? Why yes, yes they are. Do I have a better relationship with my shorts? Nope, they rode up something chronic but did keep me cooler than leggings. Will I be running a half marathon in October? Most certainly. But not before I’ve compeleted a flat 10k in September - 54.24 is the time to beat. My time in the ten miler? You really want to know? 1 hour and 45 minutes and 53 seconds. I was 66th. Out of 65. Never gets old that one. No, out of 144. But what matters to me is that I got round and gave it my best.

And what matters to my family is that they got home in time to watch the second half of the England game..........

J x

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

...making something from nothing since 2018...