When I'm the Sanest Person In The Room The World Has Indeed Gone Mad!

It all began at approximately 6:50pm last night.

I left my house bundled up in 2 jumpers, my windproof long length Salt Rock coat and the cream knitted scarf with pompoms on the end given to me by SD's Mum last Christmas.

Its been pretty mild for November in these parts but my destination was the hell hole of Antarctica aka the Pavilion in the park where we hold our VPAG (Victoria Park Action Group) monthly meetings.

I hesitated as I passed the door of our noble secretary and decided against calling in to pick him up on my way past thus saving myself the unnecessary wait while he invariably ran from room to room picking up piles of papers whilst talking to himself and then began the endless hunt for his keys, glasses and phone as I waited in the cold on the doorstep.

I DID call in to our esteemed leader as I passed by HIS door but was greeted by silence as he had clearly already left.

As I rounded the corner to the road that leads to the park I caught sight of a small figure scuttling along the pavement in front of me.

I hung back slightly.  Politeness indicated that I should catch up with Sue but then, I was about to be locked in the same room as her for the next couple of hours so I decided to give myself a reprieve.

For someone who's legs moved so fast she seemed to navigate the lime tree lined path incredibly slowly and I kept gaining on her despite my slow pace and then had to stop and hide in the shadows praying that she wouldn't turn around and catch me skulking.

Fortunately there was no one around to see me acting so suspiciously and I could keep an eye on her to make sure no ne'er-do-well jumped out of the bushes to snatch the bulging plastic bag clutched to her chest or try to swipe the half a Rothmans hanging from her lip.

As I rounded the corner to the Pavilion there was a loud buzzing sound and the lamp post that lit my way flickered and died leaving me with just the light from the full moon and the shadow of the clouds that scudded across it.

Fortunately the light spilled from the open door of the Pavilion and I hurried inside.

Already in attendance was Sue, our esteemed leader, Baarb (or Bob if you don't speak Zomerzet), Colin and Mike.  Of our noble secretary there was no sight despite the fact that the agenda he had pushed through my door earlier that day clearly stating that the meeting was due to start at 2pm on Wednesday October 21st and the rest of us had managed to be there at 7pm on Wednesday 25th November.

Baarb shook a half filled carton of milk in my direction indicating that it was yet again MY job to make the tea - 'and no half cups this time - last time I needed a ladder to reach mine!'.

I put the kettle on and did not for one moment contemplate spitting in his cup (the ungrateful git) and listened to the chatter.

'Poor show at Bingo last week' observed Colin giving me an accusing look.

'Sorry, sorry' I said AGAIN!  'Slight family crisis'.  Colin continued to look at me sideways as I filled the teapot.

'Joy wasn't well you know (as though that was MY fault) - sat there farting like a goodun AND she was running 2 sets of books because Simon had to do the calling (as though that TOO was MY fault).  'Took herself off to the Refs room in the end and was gone for half a game - thought she'd locked herself in like Dee did last time but I didn't want to miss my chance of a chicken dinner by checking on her'.

'Sorry' I said again although I wasn't really sure what for this time.

'He rang me you know' said Baarb nodding his head towards our esteemed leader.

'When' I asked, slightly confused by this information.

'At the Bingo.  I was sitting right here and he was just over there (pointing to a chair a couple of feet away) and he rang me'.

'Oh' I replied thinking that somehow maybe he had missed Baarb and his giant beard sitting on a chair at the table next to him.

'Wanted to hear my ring tone he did!'

At this point our  noble secretary arrived in his usual whirl which makes him appear to have more than the average number of arms and legs.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, late, keys, bloody dog in the bin, sandwich'.

And we all sat down.

'Ring it again' said Bob, 'go on, ring it! - Sarah wants to hear it!'

I bloody DON'T I thought but our esteemed leader fumbled for his phone.

Parp, parp - parp parp.

Sue disappeared under the table.

'Ring mine, ring mine!' shouted our esteemed leader - 'Sarah wants to hear MINE too!'

Seriously, I DON'T.

As Rod Stuarts 'I'm too sexy' blasted out Sue reappeared looking slightly flustered.

'We have snails' she said in a voice of doom holding aloft a guilty looking gastropod.

Our noble secretary shuffled papers aimlessly glancing around trying to regain order.

'Minutes of the last meeting' he said and began to read them.  After a confusing few minutes it was clear that he was in fact reading the minutes of a meeting we had back in May this year.

'Sorry, sorry' he said.  'I've got the right ones here somewhere ....'

'No, no, no, no (he said sounding yet again like Jim Trott from the Vicar of Dibley) Ahh, YES - here they are!'  As he triumphantly waved them aloft several loose bits of paper wafted down no doubt to be eaten by hungry snails at a later date.

The minutes were duly read and the confusion over the Wilfred road bat shelter demo was cleared up and the meeting progressed on to point 6 of the agenda.

'Any chance we could start with point 3 - the one that comes after point one, the welcome and apologies and point two, minutes of the last meeting and matters arising?' I enquired without any real hope.

'No, no, no, no, no, YES!!!  Sorry, sorry, sorry said our noble secretary.

'Point 3!'  We briefly discussed the first bullet point of point three and then neatly skipped over the remaining four points as though they didn't exist and went straight onto point four of the agenda.

Coffee mornings!

I bloody HATE coffee mornings!  I spend half a morning baking for them.  Turn up at the proposed time and the only other people that turn up are other committee members and people who wander past and want to use our loo (those that don't know about the dodgy lock and the fact that Joy spent a considerable amount of time in there at the Bingo anyway).  We all end up making a donation to whatever cause we are trying to raise money for ourselves and then spend half an hour at the next meeting debating why no one else turned up.

For the record - I KNOW WHY THEY DON'T TURN UP!!

It's bloody freezing in our Pavilion, they only get half a cup of tea and most people have no interest at all in getting to know their neighbours better and even the lure of a slice of my homemade Victoria sandwich is NOT going to entice them in.

'Repairing the toads' announced our noble secretary seamlessly moving onto the next point.

BANG!!!

Slamming both hands down onto the table and causing Mike who had harmlessly been sitting back in his chair to throw the rest of his half cup of teas over his face Sue shouted:

'NO!!!'

'I WON'T have it,  I just won't HAVE IT!!!'

'You must return that pebble to Ladram Bay FORTHWITH!!' (as though she expected him to leap to his feet, slap his forehead and agreed that he must indeed jump straight into his car and return the stolen pebble to the south west coast without delay)

With that she banged on the table again for emphasis causing poor Mike who was thoroughly discombobulated at this point to drop his cup on the floor where upon Baarb, our esteemed leader and I as one dived under the table to retrieve it and to give each other knowing looks and slight shakes of the head as we all KNOW what happened to the pebble and have sworn each other to secrecy!

Now I think this post is getting to be almost as long as that interminable meeting itself so I think I'll post part II with more on the toads, the dragon grant and Joseph and the zip wire tomorrow.

Stay tuned ...

Half An Earwig

SD is lucky in his parents.

He's lucky to have them both still around and in pretty good health but it's so much more than that.

SD's Dad is the gentlest, kindest, sweetest man with a self depreciating sense of humour.

He whistles completely tunelessly wherever he goes and if you ever need to find him you just need to stand and listen for a while for that monotone drone.

It must be where SD gets his lack of singing ability from (not that that ever stops him singing either).

SD's Dad is seemingly impervious to the hardness that a lifetime spent out doors in all weathers sometimes brings. The tough,tough life of a farmer up at the crack of dawn to bring in the cows for milking. The long hours in the Summer working 14 hour days.  The cold, the wet, the dirty, the often completely unpleasant conditions that make up a farmers lot.

He had retained a softer side.  A side that sees him scoop up the kittens that often huddle just outside the farmhouse door giving them a rough stroke with his hand before settling them gently down again.  A side that see's him throw the ball over and over again for Gus as he sits in his chair beside the log burner in the evenings watching the quiz shows he's addicted to.  A side that has him walking the fields he no longer farms checking the cows with their calves every day to make sure all is well.

In addition, he tends his 20 or so chickens, grows his own veg and can often be found with his chainsaw cutting up fallen trees into logs for the log burner.

In an untypically farmer way he also takes on his fair share of the house work washing up after meals, preparing his own when SD's Mum isn't around and vacuuming is his sole domain.

SD takes after his Mum.

Oh, he has plenty of his Dad's qualities about him too but he and his Mum are like peas in a pod.

Hard working, this he gets from both of his parents but at 80 his Mum still works part time and SD jokes that it's only because she lies to her employer about her age and tells them she's only 70 (which would be easy to believe).

She bustles around and is ALWAYS busy.  If she isn't working then she's peeling vegetables, preparing food, ironing.  Even when she's sitting in front of the telly her hands are busy knitting an endless array of tiny, beautifully crafted baby jackets and bootees or wonderfully soft blankets which she then gives to Charity shops.

SD share a sharp sense of humour with his Mum as well as a love of, surprisingly, cars and motorbikes and they often discuss the merits of the drivers and riders in F1 and the Moto GP.

He also shares her need to be busy all the time.  Jobs first, and there is ALWAYS a long list of jobs!

I'm far more like SD's Dad.  Slightly vague, a little forgetful, looking for the ridiculous in life and often laughing at myself.

SD's Mum is also incredibly thoughtful just like SD.  She will always knit a jacket for the niece or grandchild of a co-worker.  If you ever do something for her then you will be rewarded with a thank you card and usually a bottle of wine or a big bar of your favourite chocolate.  When we are on holiday SD always shops for small, thoughtful presents for friends to thank them for time spent helping him mend his beach buggy or whatever really.

When I point out that actually they have already been paid for their time as they own a garage he tells me that they worked over time or fitted him in when they were busy or just went that extra mile that that simply money can't buy.

He's right of course and a much better person than me much of the time.  This better part of him sees him cutting the hedge for his friend on a day that I would love to go to the beach because they have to work and don't have the time.  It sees him collecting garden rubbish for them because why should they have to spend their Saturday queueing at the tip when he has a perfectly good bonfire in the making.  It see's him stopping by on an evening he knows his friend is working late after a long week to make him a coffee and sit a while usually eating a cake or a crumble SD has asked me to make for him just so that he knows he had eaten something and taken a short break.

It's no wonder really that so many people hold SD in such high regard and when I find his endless list making, his endless chores and jobs that need to be done before we can have some fun then I remind myself of this and of how much just having him around enriches my life and makes me want to be a better person.

If you asked any of SD's friends to describe him they would say, 'He's a top bloke', and he is.

It's funny that for so many years I wasn't really aware of this side of SD.

I first met him when I was in my early 20's and he was the Jeep driving, fun loving, long haired beach bum who seemed not to have a care in the world and was always out doing things.  Trips to the beach, off roading all over the country, spending time in all the top clubs in London with his model friends, going to gigs.  He was glamorous, fast living, restless and so much fun and for so many years that was all he was in my mind. 

I had no idea that this other SD existed.

SD and I always had a bond but we weren't right for each other.  I had a child which was a tie he didn't want.  I wanted security that he couldn't offer.

It was always unspoken, we were always just friends.  We often didn't see much of each other for months, sometimes even years at a time.

But we always picked up where we had left off  until that changed a few years ago.

You must be wondering where on earth the Earwig comes into the story by now - I know this wasn't the post I set out to write!

Back to SD's Dad ...

I hate waste.  I love to cook.  I can't bear to leave a single bramley on the tree, a single blackberry in the hedge.  I'll pick plums and Damsons until my fingers are permanently stained purple and I'll even drag SD down to the park to pick the tiny yellow plums on the tree down there so they don't go to waste.

BUT ...

I really hate windfalls!

The bramley tree in the paddock is very old and some of the branches aren't safe to climb and so the apples sit on the tree until they fall.

Since the goat dies there is no one to trample down the grass and so it tends to get a little overgrown.

Every now and then SD's Dad lets in a few of the cows and they do a pretty good job of munching the vegetation and flattening the rest of it but SD's Dad worries that they will eat too many of the windfalls and become ill.

So, on a fairly regular basis I am presented with a bag full of slightly yellowing, fairly bruised, cow shit covered windfalls which I try very, VERY hard to be grateful for ...

And I AM grateful, don't get me wrong.  The apples still have a lovely flavour and are still mostly good to eat but, EARWIGS!!!

Every now and then I cut into one and a horrible, multi-legged creature scuttles out and runs across my chopping board!

I can cope with most things.  Spiders don't really phase me.  I quite like snakes and rats are just like scaly tailed kittens (sort of ...) but moths and earwigs I can't abide!

So I dread the well meaning gift of a bag of windfalls not because they are covered in slightly slimy grass and cow shit, I can deal with that.

But earwigs - WHY??? 

What possible purpose does an earwig have other than to scare the crap out of me?

Oh, and YES, half an earwig is just about preferable to a whole live one!

Life Is Too Short To Be Racist, Elitist, Intellectually Superior Or Bigoted

I have umm'd and ahhh'd about writing this post for a couple of days.

I am NOT a political animal, this is NOT a political blog.

Were I to attempt to delve too deeply into either politics or religion then my ignorance would very soon be clear and I would not only be opening myself up to (justifiable) criticism but I would almost certainly (and unintentionally) insult those far more informed than myself.

For those reasons I tend to steer well clear of both these subjects.

That doesn't mean I don't have views, it doesn't mean I don't care, it doesn't mean I don't have opinions.

I DO!

The whole world is aware of the atrocities carried out in Paris last week.

An act of war carried out in the name of religion.

The massacre of innocent people.  People who were unable to even attempt to defend themselves.  People, who maybe just like me, had only a limited understanding of why this happened.

My heart goes out to those people.

I am shocked, horrified, angry and bewildered.

I am also a little disturbed by some of the reactions I've seen on Facebook to these attacks.


THIS shocks, horrifies and bewilders me:

posted along with the caption: 'I had the balls to re post this - do YOU?'

This shows a level or ignorance far beyond my own.  This shows a level of hatred I can begin to comprehend.

This person is no longer on my friends list.


Yesterday I saw this:

I found this rather offensive too

People are angry.  People are shocked.  People are SCARED!!!

I don't necessarily agree with these posts either although for different reasons but I understand that they are a reaction to something that has shaken people to the very core.


This suggests that only people who have served their country in the military have a right to feel this way.

This is untrue, patronising and (in my opinion). elitist

This isn't a totally ignorant view point.

People very close to me have fought and been injured at war in the Falklands and in Afghanistan.

I may not have first hand experience of war but I do have very close second hand experience of the fall out from it.


Another post suggested that anyone who had turned their profile picture red, white and blue to show solidarity and support for France.  To show that they too were mourning along side the family and friends of those who died were somehow ignoring the fact that people in other countries have suffered in similar ways.  This person went on to say that they would not be changing their profile picture and basically anyone who did was just jumping on the bandwagon because it was politically correct.

I couldn't find the actual post but it was something similar to this:

"I feel that just changing my photo, writing a few words and a hashtag on social media minimises (even cheapens) the tremendous, horrific reality of what is going on all around the world, not just in Paris. From suffering arises another trendy social media gimmick, another way for us to show the world how “clued in” and “with it” we are."

 For the record.  I HAVE updated my profile photo because for me it felt like the right thing to do.

Also for the record.

I DO NOT judge anyone who has chosen not to.  I don't think (that for the majority) it means they don't care.  I don't think they are being disrespectful to others.  I don't think it means that they are ignorant or have forgotten that things like this are happening all over the world.  I think we all express how we feel in different ways and we all have a right to do that.

For me it's my personal way of showing my respect for anyone who has died at the hands of radicals - ANY radicals in ANY part of the world.

By spreading the message of peace, love and solidarity we are doing something positive. It is very small in it's own way but surly it's better than lethargically standing back in an intellectual air of superiority?

I don't have solutions only many questions.

I do have view points which some may not agree with.

My intention isn't to offend anyone with this post.

If you have or agree with the posting of the first picture then YOU have offended  ME and I am not interested in your opinion because we have no common ground.

If you have or agree with the second picture for the reasons that it was posted then I think you are slightly misguided.  While the military provide a valuable role and I have the utmost respect for those who choose this path please do not insult those who choose a different one.  Our value is in combining our strengths.

If you choose not to change your profile photo on FB then you have no need to answer to me, I am not judging you.

I'm not being flipant with my title when I say life is too short.

LIFE REALLY IS TOO SHORT!

If the attacks in Paris haven't taught us anything else then surly they have taught us that?

'Weak In The Head'

Yep, that's the latest label SD's put on me.

Apparently I am, 'WEAK IN THE HEAD'.

Seriously, If I weren't so forgiving, If I didn't have such a good sense of humour ...

Well, then I could be severely offended!

Who even says 'weak in the head' anyway???

BUT ...

There ARE times where I have to concede he may just have a point ...

It was Miss Mac's GCSE presentation evening last night and you already know how proud I am of her so I won't bang on about it.

Anyway!  The dress code was 'smart' and I don't really know what that means ...

I mean, I know what I think is smart but that doesn't necessarily equate to other peoples idea of smart and I thought that as this was the very last time I would be doing anything school related then it would be nice to actually get it right for once.

I decided to wear a plain, pale grey shift type dress that I bought a few months ago.  It's a little longer than most of my dresses at about 3" above the knee so quite sedate really.  With it I thought Id wear my black boots.

Not the New Rock ones, not the long black leather ones, not the over the knee suede ones and not the (look the same as Uggs but are in fact Goldigga) short ones or even the Doc Martens but the, look a little like D M's but are less clumpy ones just to give the dress a little 'edge'.

I've only worn these boots a few times and the last time I was really disappointed that they hurt me feet so much.  I'm not really one for buying boots that need to be worn in, I like them to be fairly comfortable from the start so I couldn't understand why these had pinched my toes so much and I'm sure they hadn't the first few times I'd worn them.

Maybe my feet had somehow got fatter?  Maybe be my 'fat foot' problem had returned!

For those who missed it, my left foot inexplicably blew up (not literally!) almost 5 years ago.  In a matter of hours it was about 4 times the size it had been and was really painful.  It stayed that way for several months before eventually returning to it's original size.  No reason for it was ever discovered and I live in fear of it happening again.

I would post a photo but in deference to Val should she pop by I've decided not to but take it from me - it was HUGE!

Anyway, I hadn't noticed any difference in my feet since last wearing the boots so I decided that it had probably been a one off and they would be fine.

I got dressed and went to put the boots on.

My feet felt really cramped and my toes hurt straight away.

I thought maybe I'd pulled my tights tight as I put the boots on so I took them off again, pulled the toes on my tights to loosen them and tried again.

Same thing - they really hurt!

I tried a few more times before getting really cross and throwing the boots across the room.

SD came in to ask what the problem was having heard the boots go flying and me shouting at them.

My boots have shrunk I told him - either that or my feet just get fat every time I try to put them on!

It was the same last time I wore them and I don't understand it - they were fine before that!

SD picked up a boot - looked at it - put his hand inside and pulled out a sock ...

He then picked up the other boot and did the same thing ...

After silently handing the boots back to me  he just looked at me - that look that said:

WEAK IN THE HEAD ...

Bygone Days

I've written quite a few post about my childhood.

The best of times spent with my Grandparents when we shared their home in South Devon.

I've probably made it sound idyllic, privileged even with our outdoor carefree life, our ponies, church on Sundays and the characters that passed through our daily lives.

The truth is that much of it WAS idyllic, the kind of childhood I would have loved for my own children. 

The kind of childhood I would love for EVERY child.

Some aspects were a little harder, not so sugar coated, things that made me unhappy.  But they aren't the things I like to dwell on.  I don't want them tainting the happy memories.

The biggest event in our small seaside village every year was the annual show.

The whole year was a lead up to this with gardeners busy growing the biggest and the best produce.  Jams were boiled to perfection.  Chutneys and pickles were preserved in jars and carefully labelled.

Flowers were tended so that they reached their peak in time to be cut and artfully arranged.

Toys were knitted, blankets crocheted and buttons were sewn onto tiny baby jackets.

The morning of the show was always complete chaos with cars full of bounty drawing up at the village hall.  A hubbub of voices.  Boxes of carrots, cabbages and soft fruit.  Ladies wearing hats with armfuls of greenery.  Men wearing flat caps seeming unconcerned as they surreptitiously glanced at the competitions marrows.

My sister and I were employed as 'runners' for the judges.  As each section was judges and the score sheets marked we would 'run' them up to the person totalling the scores and would be given the next scoring sheet to 'run' back to the judges.

It was a huge responsibility.  Often we could spot the handwriting of our Grandmother against one of the entries and I would silently will the judge to award her first place.  She always won for her bread.  No one in the village could touch my Grandmother for making bread and I thought I would burst with pride every time I saw the judge taste a slice and then nod before putting a first before her entry number.

There were categories for children too which my sister and I would enter.  I remember winning first prize for my entry of wild flowers arranged in a jam jar.  I'm sure that between us we won many other prizes too but that's the one I remember best.

At the end the scores were totalled up and overall winners were announced as well as the winners of each class.

My Grandmother never won the overall prize to my knowledge.  There were many classes she didn't enter preferring to concentrate on her baking so she couldn't accumulate enough points for the overall prize.

When I was 12 and my sister was 13 my Grandmother announced that now she was a teenager my sister was old enough to take part in the adult classes.

Under her guidance my sister baked up a storm.  Cakes, pastries, bread, jams, puddings and chutneys.  You name it, she made it!

My Grandmother was very clear that it all had to be her own work, she was there to supervise and that was all.  She offered advice but no actual practical help.

That year, because we she was so involved in the competition it was decided that someone else should take over the role of runner in my sisters place and I should just be the runner for the children's section so we had no idea until the prize giving how well she had done.

Like my Grandmother, my sister ONLY entered the baking classes.  She didn't knit or crochet anyway and didn't have much of an interest in gardening or flower arranging but boy, could she cook!

Time after time her name was called out as the winner of a class.  She still didn't win the bread class though.  Despite not entering many classes that year my Grandmother DID make her famous bread and so kept the title of the best bread maker in the village for another year.

After the prize giving we were all congratulating my sister on her efforts when they announced the overall winner across the classes.

When they called out my sisters name I think we were ALL in shock.  I don't think ANYONE had ever won it purely on their baking.  I don't think anyone realised it was possible to total enough points to win it without entering other classes too.

The truth is that she had won first prize in so many categories that her total points made her the overall winner at just 13.

I think many noses were put our of joint on that day.  I suspect that had my Grandmother not been so highly regarded and respected that she might have been suspected of 'helping' my sister.

She didn't and my sister had won the coveted prize on her own merit and her talent for baking.

She had a great mentor and teacher in my Grandmother but she also had a natural ability and worked bloody hard!

The following year I turned 13.

Sadly my Grandmother fell ill and all thought of the annual show was put to one side as we nursed her.

I remember sitting by her beside as I did every day talking to her.  Some times she would nod off as I talked and often she seemed a little distant.

One day she turned to me and said, 'I'm sorry about the show, this was your year to shine'.

I told her it didn't matter, that there would be other years.

It didn't matter, I didn't care about shining although it had been something that up until that point had been so important to me.

My Grandmother had already instilled a love of baking in me that I carry on today.  I'll never be the baker she was and my bread has never won any prizes.

I think of her often when the smell of baking fills my house.

Sadly there weren't any more years and my Grandmother passed away that Summer.

I still picture her in her blue house coat pulling a tin of piping hot bread from the oven.

I still miss both my Grandparents but I'm so thankful that I had such wonderful people in my life.

Bragging Rights

I read a post just now by Val where she was justifiably proud of her son for achieving a perfect score in his ACT.

Now I have to confess that I didn't actually know what an ACT was so I googled it.

ACT (American College Testing) is very similar to the UK's SAT's (Scholastic Assessment Test) in that they test a students ability at particular stages in their education.

The national average for an ACT score is between 20 and 21 and a perfect ACT score is 36 which is what The Pony achieved so no wonder Val is proud!

I don't have ANY problem at all bragging about my children's achievements.  I don't necessarily take any personal credit for them although I like to think that I'm supportive and provide a healthy and encouraging environment  which helps them fulfil their potential.

The bottom line is that anything they DO achieve is down to their own hard work and effort and I'm happy to say how proud I am of them.

I mentioned before that tomorrow night is the presentation of Miss Mac's GCSE certificates and it's our opportunity to see for the first time all of her course work and it's something I'm very much looking forward to.

Miss Mac got great results in her GCSE's and I've no doubt that it's something I'll be blogging about after the event too.

The thing is, although I AM obviously really happy that she did so well the thing that I'm most proud of is the way she worked really hard to get those results.

She's always liked to do well.  She's very bright but it's not effortless.  To some the A grades seem to come easily with relatively little effort.  This doesn't in any way detract from their achievement it just means that they are very fortunate.

Miss Mac could have happily coasted at school and still got decent results, still been accepted at college and still been able to follow any path she chose.

She chose to put in many, many extra hours of study before and after school.  Often starting at 8am which meant leaving home before 7:30 and sometimes not getting home again until after 5pm.

Sometimes it was torturous for us all.  We poured over Maths revision guides, stumbled through French assessments and laboured over English essays.

Much of the time I wasn't much help and we fell out on a regular basis because of my lack of understanding or because the way I'd been taught was different and neither of us could understand the others way.

Mostly she worked on her own or in groups with her peers.

I really admire her drive and her determination to be the very best she can be and I'm sure it's something she will carry with her through college and university and beyond.

Whilst I'm on the subject of pride ...

Artistic ability isn't really something you can be taught.  It IS something that can be honed and developed but intrinsically it's something you either have or you don't.

I have it to a degree and I've been told my Father was a good artist.  This is something that I think Miss Mac has inherited and, although despite her Art teachers best efforts to encourage her into fine art, she has chosen not to pursue it at the moment deciding that photography was the area she wanted to concentrate on.

I'm perfectly happy with that, I love photography too so it's something we can enjoy together and I can show a genuine enjoyment and understanding of her work.

But she still loves to draw ...

I think she has a particular talent for portraits (something I never really got to grips with) and I love this latest drawing she's been working on:

The Jungle (part II)

So,  back to Internet dating .... (I have edited this post slightly putting it into the past tense to avoid confusion)

It's a bit of a jungle out there guys.

The thing is, people aren't always who they say they are.

I can honestly say that I never lied to anyone.  The photos of me on the site were genuine.  If I did agree to go on a date with someone then I was be up front about who I am and what I was looking for because that's the way I am.

 Integrity is something I value very highly in myself and in others.

In other words, don't bullshit me, I'm dealing with enough crap already thanks!

Moving on ...  Never let it be said that I allowed introtrospection to stand in the way of a good blog post :)


I thought I'd share a few tips and hints with any men out there who

a) might be (or are already) contemplating the dating scene and

b) actually want to get a date out of it :)

Photos

Badoo (FB's dating site) it pretty crap in that it doesn't let you write your own profile.  Basically you get a a preordained tick list so everything is very generic, very samey, very interchangeable.

This means that your photo is even more important.  It's the only individual thing that you have.

The truth is, I was never not going to message you (or reply to a message) if you were wearing ANY of the following:

A nappy (and sucking a dummy)

An anorak

A bird on your head

A fez

An orange curly wig

A plastic green rain hat

If you were naked (or appear naked) - If you dressed as a Tellytubby - If you were a dot in the distance - Draped all over another woman - Lying in a pool of your own vomit - Pouting - Or your photo is of animal from the Muppets (altho' I DO have a certain fondness for THE Animal;)

If you have huge nostrils (and yes, Badoo choose my 'up the nose' shot as MY profile picture but as I never tire of pointing out, that is an ART shot ok!) - If you have an even bigger overbite - If you are licking a truncheon - If you call yourself Tally Wacker or Spunky or even King Jiz the chances are I'm not going to fall over myself to go on a a date with you.

If you are called Jerry I would probably give you a wide berth purely because I would feel obliged to assume Margots persona from the Goodlife and while I'm pretty sure I could carry off the pseudo snobbery fairly well, I really couldn't be arsed to dust all those ornaments.

If you could avoid ALL of the above AND manage a message without sexual innuendo that sounded semi normal then your luck could be in.

Did I say LUCK???  Haha, lets not forget, it was ME they might end up going on a date with ;)

The chances are I'd break a limb (yours or mine), be mistaken for a hooker or jinx their car in some way.*

*All of which have befallen the poor unfortunates I have dated in the past ...

Just Another Blog Splat

Some people blog every day (or at least aspire to).  I really admire the one's who manage that.

I've almost always got a post or several posts part written in my head.  Somewhere I've been, some thing I've done.  Sometimes serious, sometimes just the silly stuff that happens to me.

There are posts that almost seem to write themselves, ones that are just bursting out of me and it all seems SO easy.  Others need more work.  These are usually the ones I'm less happy with.  If it doesn't flow then it doesn't really work for me.

I post them anyway though ;-).

So, today I thought about writing a post about Caerphilly Castle.  We were in Wales at the weekend to pick up a Beach Buggy.

I know, I KNOW - SD JUST SOLD ONE!!!

But apparently some things you just can't pass up and this:

Is one of them!

Actually, I like this one better than the last.  It doesn't have the fancy metal flake paint job.  It doesn't have the flashy turbo engine or the racing harnesses or the very expensive roll cage.

BUT, it does have seats that fit my bum and a roll cage I can navigate without looking like some kind of trapeze artist every time I try to get out of it!

Anyway.

We picked the Buggy up from a place not far from Caerphilly so we left a little early and took a detour to look at the Castle (only from the outside though a there wasn't enough time to do it properly).

It's bloody HUGE!!!

 You actually can't get the full castle into a photo unless it's an ariel view.

This isn't going to be a history lesson on the castle though but if you are interested you can read a lot more about it here.

It's definitely somewhere I'd like to revisit when we have more time.  Maybe I'll write a proper post about it then.

I also thought about continuing with my re-posting of my Internet dating experiences and I probably will later in the week.

Today though, the thing that's mostly been on my mind is the invitation we received last week to the year 11 certificate presentation evening at Miss Mac former school.

It's a chance to see her presented formally with her GCSE certificates and to pick up her coursework both of which I am very much looking forward to.

I can't wait to see her Art coursework.  Obviously I've seen SOME of it but this will be the first time I've seen it in it's entirety.

I remember before she started at secondary school and we were invited to an open evening.  We looked at some of the previous years Art coursework and marvelled at the talent it showed never imagining for a second that one day she would be awarded and A* for Art and others would probably look at her work in awe too.

I'm really pleased that she has decided to take photography as one of her A'levels.  She's already taking some great photos and I love to see her expand her artistic side like this.  Life drawing classes start tomorrow and although she's still ummming and ahhing over it I'm hoping she will decide to take it up, we shall see.

Meanwhile, taking her to places so that she can get the photos she needs for her coursework means that I have lots of photo opportunities too!

To be honest, most of my photos are taken on my phone and I just click away as Miss Mac carefully sets up her camera checking light and shutter speed etc and while she gets some great shots I occasionally get a lucky one too.

I love these photos taken last week in the woods behind Hestercoombe House:

Across the valley

My mate Gus

Leaf strewn pathway through the woods

Miss Mac concentrating on something tiny in the grass

 And this one snapped at Lyme Regis in Dorset as the sun was going down a couple of weeks ago.

 Joe wrote a post today about the noise we make (or do we ...) - I don't make a great deal of noise here on my blog but that's ok.  I like to be able to hear the rustle of the leaves and the sigh of the waves and I could sit and look in silence at that horizon for a very long time.

Internet Dating - It's A Jungle Out There

 Yesterday I read a post by Kate at The Suddenly Kate Show.

Kate has been dipping her toes in the Internet Dating pond recently with interesting results.

Her last couple of post have reminded me SO much of myself a few years ago when I was doing exactly the same thing.

I started firstly with a reputable site that actually required you to hand over hard cash each month and you know what?  I had quite a  lot of fun.

It didn't end in happy ever after for me but I did make some good friends who I still keep in touch with and more than that, having enjoyed writing the diary element of the website so much it was the driving force behind starting this blog in the first place.

Anyway, THIS post is about FB's dating website Badoo.  Now I DIDN'T sign up for Badoo.  I opened an email from a friend which turned out to be a virus or something and Badoo STOLE my details and put me on the site.

I was completely unaware of that until I started getting messages and then I discovered I couldn't get off it.

Well, in for a penny ... I was curious ...

Then THIS happened!

Epic Fail

Way, way back, sometime at the beginning of December you may remember I told you the story of how I ended up on Badoo (FB's dating website).

Now, after my last social experiment epic fail (how to alienate all your FB friends) I was determined that I was going to go ALL the way with this one and post a selection of messages I'd  received and let you guys chose which one I went on a date with.

Anyway, 'things' got in the way and after a really good start I let it slide.

The emails from Badoo have continued to drop into my inbox and I've ignored them UNTIL last night.

I was curious, I couldn't sleep and I was bored so I thought it might be time to revisit Badoo.

Ok, now I'm going to rewind a little and go right back to the beginning.

My very first message was ... possibly from a pshyco interesting.  He waxed lyrical about my beauty, how overjoyed he would be to have someone like me on his arm, how he longed to kiss my lips and how he hoped that this was the beginning of a beautiful relationship ..... (cue noise of car slamming on brakes, crashing gears and reversing at high speed!).


My second message was more promising.

Short, pithy and with a little touch of humour.

Oh, and he was local, absolutely gorgeous and had a great smile.

At the end of his message he said, 'can I ask you a question?'.

Well, I picked up this message as I was walking into town and  I decided not to lose anytime and send a reply straight away.

What was I thinking???

Me, the effing android and my fat fongerz, SUCH a bad combination whilst walking!!!

Curious about what he wanted to ask me I started typing. .
.
Like me, many of you probably use predictive text.  It saves so much time and just generally makes life easier.

I don't know if yours works in the same way as mine but after 2 letters mine will make suggestions based on the words I most use.

Merrily I typed (or at least intended to type) 'of course you can ask me a question'.

Part way through the message I realised that the predictive text had substituted a word for me.

Smiling I hit the back space ......

Not looking where I was going I nearly walked into a lady walking the other way.  After apologising profusely I went back to finish my message

Fuck, fuck, F U U U C K  - I'd hit send by mistake!

So, the message I'd actually sent read:

'Of course you can ARSE me'!!!

I pondered my position for a while and decided that there really was no way back whichever way he replied but, I needn't have worried ...

HE DIDN'T ;)

I have so much more to share but I don't want to shoot my bolt (such a descriptive phrase) so I'll do a series of small posts on this after leaving you with one of this mornings offerings:

Spunky - 27 - from London - 'I'd take you'.

More 'Epic Fail ' posts to follow along with a few of the more interesting messages I've received, my 5 worst dates AND and a selection of 'experts' guides on everything from kissing to relationship counselling - Stay tuned!

Port Isaac - The Home Of The Doc

The first thing that struck me about Port Isaac was how, almost to a person, everyone stopped on the curve of the hill leading down to the harbour to lean on the grey stone wall and scan the corresponding hill on the far side of the beach before pointing excitedly to the Doctors house.

See the small grey house with the 3 windows?  That's the Doc's house!

I say almost to a person as SD strode on obliviously down the hill as I jumped up and down excitedly shouting 'look, look, there it is!!' to the empty space where SD should have been.
 

Port Isaac is the location for Port Wenn, a fictional town in Cornwall where the drama series about the curmudgeonly country Doc Martin is set.

I've long badgered SD to take me but until now he had resisted.  There have always been other beaches to explore, cliff paths to walk, coves to discover and towns to while away the hours.

I suspect the slightly inverted snobbery I sometimes get a whiff of in SD.

EVERYONE wants to visit Port Isaac therefore SD shies away.

Partly I think it might have something to do with my rather odd crush on Martin Clunes who plays Doc Martin.

It's ok, I get it that you don't get it - to be honest, I don't get it either ...

I know, Martin Clunes .... A rather odd choice with his big ears and his big lips and his big hands, in fact EVERYTHING about him is a bit over sized and slightly clumsy but he has a certain charm that I find very attractive for some reason ...

The second thing to strike me how everything felt slightly out of place.   I felt like I should know this place, this Port Wenn, this place that I hang out in with the Doc, Louisa, PC Penhale and Miss Tishall on a weekly basis but everything was just a little different.  It was like someone had taken the town I know, put it in a snow globe and given it a good shake so that everything, once the swirling snow had settled, was still there but slightly differently to how it had been before ...

This house is the setting for Bert Large's restaurant.  I don't know why but I thought it was on the OTHER side of the harbour ...:

The first recognisable building you pass as you descend the hill is the school.  The entrance to which is the setting for many a tense exchange between the Doc and Louisa.

It clearly WAS a school but is now a rather prim and proper looking hotel and restaurant.  Although we didn't go in I suspect you would find linen napkins, lots of silver wear and an air of gentility inside.

At the bottom of the hill lies the harbour and a larger than expected beach.  I guess on a bright sunny day in August it would have looked a lot more welcoming but it didn't have the pure white sand you often find on beaches in Cornwall, it didn't even have the fine golden shale of Port Curnow.  It was a combination of grey sand, pebbles and LOTS of seaweed.

The harbour area has a lot of charm with narrow streets and pretty cottages.  It reminds me in many ways of St Ives or even Clovelly and only a foolish person would venture to drive down there in anything bigger than a micro car.

That point was proved when an unsuspecting lady drove her huge 4x4 right down the hill and then realised that there was nowhere for her to go.  We watched the ensuing argument as her husband and young son tried to direct her as she attempted a 57 point turn to go back up the hill.  After a very heated and stressful exchange she eventually managed to turn that monster with bull bars - and seriously, WHY would anyone NEED bull bars on their car in England?  Are they frightened of being attacked by a really pissed off pheasant or something?? She was in such a rage by that point having been the centre of considerable interest that she roared off up the hill leaving her poor husband and son behind.

Reassuringly similar was the Chemist's where Miss Tishall spend much of her time looking out for the Doc on whom she has an unrequited crush (you would think that would make mine more acceptable had you never watched the series but to be honest, Miss Tishall is barking mad ...)

This is how it looked when we were there

And this is how it looks in the series.

Of course I had to have my photo taken outside the Doc's house:

How I wish I could manage NOT to look constipated in photos ...

 I'm rarely disappointed in Cornwall and, to be honest, I think I'm probably being a little unfair in expecting everything to be the way I feel I know it but I was left feeling slightly flat after my visit to Port Isaac.  It is undoubtedly a pretty place and, as I've said before, full of charm but something has been lost.

Maybe it's the fact that visiting in October meant that we didn't have brilliant blue skies (although it was very warm, see, I'm wearing shorts still!).  Maybe it was that the harbour area was almost devoid of locals and many of the cottages were clearly holiday lets and would stand empty for half the year.

Maybe is was the class of visitor (and yes, this is probably MY inverted snobbery making an appearance ...).  Everyone seemed to be freshly pressed.  The children were called Tobias or Constantine and wore Hunter wellies that matched Mummies.  All the Daddies wore cable knit sweaters knotted around their shoulders and no one went onto the beach because, well, SAND!!!

Maybe it was that they charged the nearly 3 quid for a fairly insipid cup of coffee at the Harbour Inn ...

Who knows.

I AM glad I went and I wouldn't discourage anyone else from going.  It was great to see the Doc's house and, despite my grumbles I DID have a nice day.

My favourite photo of the day was just as we were leaving.  The sun was setting beyond the hill and I took this one looking out to sea: