Photo tag

I was tagged by the lovely Rosiero who writes a very brave and interesting blog http://alcoholicdaze.blogspot.com

The tag is to find the fourth photo in the fourth folder and tell the story behind it. Then I'm supposed to nominate four more. As usual, and just to be awkward, I'm going to do it a little differently...Grandma says its because I'm cussid, whilst I like to think I'm creative. Er erm.

Anyway, this is roughly the 4th of the 4th (depending on which way up I hold the computer), and I've waited roughly 4 weeks to do this...so hopefully that gets me out of nominating four more - but if you want to take up the challenge, please do just to get me out of this hole which I've dug for myself.

And here's the photo. As you can see it's been taken on a somewhat damp and overcast day. You may have guessed its Brighton beach. This is our annual gathering of friends and always takes place on the beach come rain or shine...and on this occasion it chose to shower...so the picnic courtesy of Monsieur Marks et Spencer got a little soggy.

On the far left is Adam, and then his daughter and wife. I met Adam through work, and we started a brainstorming group - meeting once a month at a tip top restaurant which also sold fireplaces (yes). Our best idea...and one that has on various occasions nearly come to fruition was to put a restaurant on the top deck of a London Double-Decker...a two hour tour with meal. Earned me a place on Dragons Den, but I ducked out last minute.

Then we have 'Fiercely competitive Dad'...who's very nice when he's not being competitive...and now his eldest daughter is faster than him on the ski slope, perhaps he'll relax a bit. Next to him is his youngest daughter who's anything but competitive. Further along is eldest daughter in the red stripey shirt...previously featured in our holiday photos. Only fifteen but probably devours boys for breakfast.

Sitting down is 'Mr Museum Designer'...yes he really dose that for a living. What a great job - I'd like to do that when I grow up. His wife says he's very grumpy. And he is, but he bares it with good humour. He's also very good at beach rounders - a game we play that drives everyone else off the beach.

The head behind the wall is the boy. You know him. He's probably with the daughters of Man Taking the Picture. I'm not sure they should be left alone together for so long.

And there I am, with now ex girlfriend. I'm 5'9", and she's 6', so she always looked down on me. Really lovely, sweet person. She's moved to Switzerland; I have another ex girlfriend who moved to Alaska. Surely it would be easier just to say they don't want to see me any more?

Next is ex-girlfriend of Man Taking Picture. There seems to be a lot of exes in this picture.

At the end is Wife of Mr Museum Designer (and her youngest), known in her own right as Ms Design PR. She was an angel when I first started up and for ten years we have been the greatest of friends, and always had a joint company Christmas celebration until a couple of years ago when at the very last minute she decided she preferred to go Xmas shopping in New York, causing our usual plans to fall into disarray; we've barely spoken since. Perhaps I should stop sulking.

There's another picture with us all smiling...after all why should a little rain stop a typical english picnic

When the weather improves in July, you're all invited.

Tow the line

I was once asked if I was to go somewhere interesting would I travel by motorway or country road. And when I return which route would I take. Evidently getting there by country road and coming back by motorway means I fall in love slowly, but fall out of love quickly. Be warned.

Completely unrelated, sort of, I spent most of last summer cycling the twelve and a half miles to work. I spent ages checking the maps to see which was the quickest route, and taking my life in my hands (or pedals) I've been following that route ever since. Its not very beautiful but it's quick - I do it in just under an hour. So this year I feel the need to find a different route. And I have. It makes the journey another four miles longer in each direction. But it's beautiful - I can take the path along the canal all the way from the Lea Valley Road to the Rotherhithe tunnel. And then coming back I can follow a slightly different route up the Regents Canal. I cannot believe the peace and tranquility to be found when going through some of the roughest and noisiest parts of smokey London. Simply stunning...here are some the siights to be seen:





Beautiful Bow Bridge



There'll be tears at bedtime



It really is the Olympic Stadium going up



Beauty in destruction



Brilliant grafitti



Another sort of crane



Methinks there used to be more



Duck!



Roadworks everywhere



Rotherhithe Tunnel...you can cycle through if you can hold your breath long enough



Amazing wrought iron stairs halfway through the tunnel



Three Mills



Recycle everything



Another crack in the wall



Some grafitti is stunning



Old Ford lock (I think)



What a character!







They used to make Matchbox toys here



The lock at Lea Valley

So if asked the same question now I would have to say...by slow boat in both directions

Happy Anniversay to me

Yesterday was the first anniversary of me starting blogging.

I spotted it today.

Dang! how I hate missing anniversaries.

Although Grandma in Cyprus will happily point out that hell will feeze over when I remember to send her a birthday card on time.

Poetry in motion

This Friday, the boy is going to his girlfriend's birthday party. It's just dawned on me that she'll be 14, and he's still a baby 13. Toy boy! He'll never live it down.

If I have my way.

The impending party meant that last w/e was largely taken up with trawling the shops for a suitable present. I had to guide him away from the ski maintenance shop...on the basis that that was a present that he might want, not her. Surprisingly he agreed. Better add that to his birthday list. I did suggest a ski hat with fur...but he didn't think that was quite right. We wandered into gift shops, gadget shops and every other kind of shop. Eventually I suggested a book might be an idea. He suggested the antique bookshop.

So off we went, and we spent hours amongst the dusty cobwebs until he found a beautifully bound book by Walter Scott. A book of poetry. They may not be love poems, but they are poetry. The perfect present. And just £5 to boot.

Hope she enjoys it. A truly romantic gesture. Say aaaaah....

On a plate

I don't want another baby...one was enough work thank you very much. But this appeared on the gadget website Gizmodo and I just felt it has a place in my life. I'm not sure where. Perhaps I have to wait for the boy to grow up and have his own children. But until then it can reside here, just because I think it's a great idea and would have made my life so much easier 13 years ago.

Here's what they said:

Labeled as "gravity-defying," this spill-resistant bowl uses gyroscopes to avoid spillage, no matter which way kids turn, tip and flip it. Impressive, but I'm sure I can still find ways to create a mess.

In fact, the other day as a kid—while eating my sugary breakfast cereal—I would jump on my bed with my bowl still in hand: Spillage. Then there were those times I'd throw my bowl across the room when my mom would make me eat brussels sprouts: Spillage. Granted, those bowls didn't have the same type of technology, but gravity-defying? The Loopa gyroscope-equipped bowls probably would only be able to resist spilling to an extent, but anything involving kids and food cannot be 100% spill-resistant, can it?

Although it seems like just another gadget for gullible mothers, with a $8.95 price tag, it still might actually be worth giving the Loopa spill-resistant bowl a shot.

can't cook won't cook

We've been working hard over the last year to make meals more interesting...I used to cook a reasonable amount, but when I was single and living alone, my cullinary skills deteriorated to opening boxes from Sainsbury's. With the boy around creating something has become a challenge. The boy himself has always enjoyed being in the kitchen...and encouraged by his mum he used to rustle up pizza from raw ingredients, could bake a cake and probably if pushed boil an egg.

I can't remember whether Grandma in Cyprus ever tried to pass on her culinary skills to either of her offspring, but I do remember her keeping herself busy in the kitchen. I do recall the odd Vesta meal...which were all the rage in the new age of pre-prepared meals. They were indeed odd. I also remember that she would occasionally serve tinned ravioli to her two boys. In those days...or maybe it was just her way of doing things...the trick was to warm the tin gently in a saucepan of boiling water. One day she got distracted, leaving the saucpean to boil dry - redecorating the entire kitchen with Heinz sauce, pasta and meat. In the interests of getting fed the next time we head off to Cyprus, I will point out that Grandma in Cyprus now serves delicious, fresh, beautifully prepared meals.

the boy's repertoir is now heading towards student meal fodder....beans on toast and so on. But he has developed an enviable ability to cook a mean stir fry. His technique seems to be to empty everything from the cupboard into the frying pan, but the end result is always delicious. But it does take me a couple hours to clear up after him.....(perhaps he's learnt the GinC ravioli technique)

Last week we bought everything he needed for chilli con carne, and in an overt demonstration of 'I have complete faith in you' I left him to it. I should mention that unlike most men he has the ability to multi-task...so whilst cooking he was also chatting to his girlriend on the phone. 40 minutes later I was summoned for supper. There was one missing ingredient. Rice. Completely abandoned. So the water was put on and 20 minutes later I was summoned. Fabulous. But one other missing ingredient. Chilli. So we had a delicious meal of chilli con carne sans chilli.

As they say, practice makes perfect.

Responsible parenting

Last night was open evening at the boy's school. Parents and pupils of the Lower Fourth (public school talk I'm afraid, and sorry no idea what that is in the real world...he's half way through his third year). We were summoned as part of the process to choose GCSE's...although we've had the form for a couple of months now.

But it was a chance to listen to a very stiff master explain everything in the minutest detail. All the children (Children? most of them tower way over me) take 10 GCSEs. And not more. And they can only take the courses on offer. Evidently it's all about texturing. Which I've translated as this is the best way of ensuring the school achieves the best grades irrespective of what pupils and parents might want. Still no reason to be petty about it eh?

After the short speech, we all had the opportunity of visiting the sixth form common room where each subject had an exhibition stand. There was also wine and nibbles on offer to sustain us through the evening.

What I hadn't expected was that each teacher was desperately flogging their wares. I dread to think of the atmosphere in the staff room before and afterwards. Even the Reverend was pitching RE as the best foundation for a legal career...it's all about morals you see. Not that I can see any relevance to the legal profession myself.

I should now point out that the boy had firmly decided his options a couple of months ago, so he decided to treat it as a social event. Not to be outdone, I thought I should too, so headed to the bar, where I spent the evening pouring a fine red wine (well the fees are high enough to pay for it) down my throat. I should now also point out that I'm not much of a drinker. So I was enjoying myself....and did manage to engage one or two of the teachers and plenty of other worried looking parents in animated conversation. Though never about geography or history or Latin, or anything else which vaguely resembled academia.

The boy came over and suggested I "chat up...erm I mean chat to" his German teacher. At this point I should also mention that she had once attended an Old Boys dinner, and two of us had mistaken her for a girl that had been at the school at the same time as us. She had been HOT STUFF. In our drunken stupor we failed to notice that she was in her twenties, a couple of decades off the age she would be if she really was HOT STUFF. So we had engaged in earnest chatting up mode, as if we were still 14. She humoured us and has continued to do so ever since. Foolishly I had told the boy this story. And I'm glad to say she continued to humour me last night.

So the evening passed in a jolly way. The boy claims that in true St Trinians fashion the headmaster (she doesn't use the term mistress)was sozzled too..I'm not so sure. But given my head this morning I'm probably not in a position to judge.

The boy escorted me home with me keeping in a pretty straightish line. I'm pretty sure I didn't disgrace myself. I think.

Anyway its a great school. Really.

RTFM

Picture added for The Dotterel

You may remember the enormous motorbike I bought earlier this year. It's big fast and orange. And made in Austria by KTM. Although one dear friend has renamed it the MLC. You may wish to work that out for yourself. Its 1000cc engine is a bit of a step up from the 125cc Vespa I've been riding around on for the last six or so years.

I like cars, and I like bikes, but I don't really know very much about them. What I do know is what I think of as the basics...you know, generally a car has it's engine at the front (although I do have one that's put the engine behind your head), a wheel at each corner and so on. Dashboards are fairly straightforward..big dial in the middle that tells you by how much you're breaking the speed limit, a needle that tells you how hot the engine is (why should I care about that) and another needle that lets you know if you'll be pushing your precious car to the garage.

I have occasionally ventured under the bonnet of my various cars...changing spark plugs on a Cortina who's engine bay was illuminated like Blackpool Pleasure Beach because one of them was cracked, filled up the radiator when an engine got thirsty and topping up the oil on an MG (errr well MG Metro anyway) which could barely reach the end of the road without needing another litre of the golden stuff. Imagine how it faired on regular trips to see my Scottish girlfriend when I was living in Coventry.

However, it seems that motorbikes may be a little different. The dashboard..sorry instrument panel is hi-tech digital. So I know precisely whether I'm doing 29 or 31 in the city. I was somewhat confused by the fuel guage...a series of bars, a bit like the bars on your mobile phone that tells you how strong the signal is. The strange thing is it obstinately stays somewhere between half and three quarters full. Even when the fuel warning light comes on. Once consulted, the manual revealed that this is not in fact the fuel guage, but is indeed the temperature guage. Which should stay somewhere in the middle.

I spotted that there's a translucent tank with minimum and maximum markings on. The water was slightly below the minimum mark. And as I know this is not the windscreen washer bottle, I thought I should top it up. It's attached to the radiator, so taking the cap off and pouring anti-freeze in seemed the right course to take. Wrong. The fluid just doesnt go down. I rang the garage, "Can I ask a stupid question?" "That's what we're here for" they say. Well OBVIOUSLY you have to unscrew and remove two side panels to get to the cap to refill the tank. And if you put water directly in the radiator you'll cause an airlock, my brother says. Doh!

The manual is not half as interesting as Che Guevara's diaries which I'm reading at the moment. And I've not even got to the bit about the chain yet. Perhaps I should have started with his motorcycles diaries, and not his exploits in Cuba...

Crisis

We have a major crisis at home, which I think puts the banking crisis into perspective. I was surprised this morning that when I picked up the papers, it hadn't made the front page, pushing Gaza, the banks, Fred the Shred and Jade Goddie to their rightful place on page 7.

The boy has had a haircut and it's too short. Once upon a time, we used to go into the barbers and he'd ask to have a trim, about half an inch of the mop to drop on the hairdressers floor, so I took to standing behind and indicating the right length to make sure we got value for money.

However, that seemed to cause a degree of friction.

In fact more friction than the Shuttle faces when it returns to Cape Canaveral.

So I stopped doing it.

But this time, the barber took it on himslef to make the boy look smart. And indeed he does. But I think there are two issues, and I'm not sure which is the most important.

"Why didn't he do what I told him?" says the boy. Well don't ask me...you were managing this project all by yourself. You need to take charge, exert your leadership skills.

And the boy is very proud of his mop...so even though it looks so much better under his army cadet cap (which he's very pleased about), he doesn't like it. And he'll have his leg pulled rotten when he goes through the school gate this morning.

And don't you dare say it'll grow back. BECAUSE THAT IS A RIDICULOUS THING TO SAY.

So if you could just organise some aid convoys to our house, that would be appreciated. Thank you very muchly.

It's Lent

I'd like to say we're religious in our house. But we're not. The boy does exceptionally well in his religious studies lessons, but I've noticed that often his essays are along the lines of 'God doesn't exist, because....' When he was half the size he is now, he used to enjoy visiting the odd church or two, but I think that's because when we're younger anything that's bright and shiny exerts an unreasonable interest.

Anyway, the great thing about Lent, is that it kicks off with pancakes. And we love pancakes. A great feast before the famine....I mean fast. I even have an electric pancake maker...it's like an inverted frying pan that you dip in the mix. It's been a firm favourite for the last fifteen years, being one of those catalogue purchases that should slot into the category of 'Why?'

However, in fact like many other years, Shrove Tuesday managed to come round a bit quicker than expected, so I was less than organised. The pancake maker is in Brighton and we're in Buckhurst Hill. And I'm not the sort of chef that can toss his pancakes with a frying pan. So I made an emergency stop at Waitrose last night. The only thing they had was oversized (i.e. about the size of a side plate) Scotch pancakes. Fortunately, that seemed to fit the bill...the boy was well and truly satisfied. And that's what counts. I guess.

And as it's now Lent (which I'm told is actually 47 days as Sundays don't count), I've given up tea and coffee for the duration. That's quite a sacrifice (although I do actually try and do it once a year just to appreciate them all the more when I start imbibing again). However, already the consequences have been devastating...so tired that when I was the only one in the office this afternoon, I grabbed some 400 winks. Extremely hopeful the boy might run around after me this evening in my stricken state, laying on the sofa, cook dinner and generally tend to my every need. Bets can be laid at William Hills.

Parallel lines

We've been on holiday this week and I'm typing this when I should be snoozing or perhaps getting a massage to remove all my aches and pains. The boy and I have been skiing in the fairytale village of Megeve. I'm told the mountain is owned by the Rothschild family. When I grow up I'd like to own a mountain. It would be a nice addition to the back garden. Along with the gnomes.

The trouble with going away is that all the things I meant to write down I simply forget...even though I did take a little computer with me...it's just that the holiday got in the way.

We travelled by train from the newly discovered Ebbsfleet. I know it's newly discovered on two counts. The SatNav thought it was about an hour further away than the big station in the Kent countryside tended to indicate. And when we got there we discovered mammoths. Yes a quite extensive natural history display dedicated to proving that Ebbsfleet had been around a lot longer than the British Museum.



We arrived late in Paris, necessitating a costly ride in a less than official mini-cab. The jolly driver (if you read the personal ads, you'll know what that means) turned his CD up full blast...fortunately we both appreciate a bit of Youssou N'Dour. This was clearly a part time job...although he told us he'd been doing it for a decade; his other full time job was stunt driver for films such as French Connection or perhaps the french series of films Taxi! (I can lend you the DVDs if you like). The boy grinned, I cringed, and the police frowned when they spoke to the driver...on a couple of occasions.

On the train, the boy and I travelled in separate compartments. Just like royalty. Nothing to do with a somewhat late booking. We kept in touch by text. His first one read "im with a nice family they helped me with my bag =) im worried my feet smell =S"

Over the course of the week, we had some highlights....



Our glass runeth over...one too many drinking games

Drinking unusually featured heavily in our holiday. Me not the boy! (yet). One afternoon, we did a runner from a bar after downing vin chaud. When I say runner, I mean saunter having tried to no avail to pay. Really. Yes really. Not done that since I was a teenager.


Our friends dining on the mountain

We managed to let a waiter throw a glass of water over himself...a very serious waiter indeed who picked up a wine glass not realising it was half full of water, he spun it in his hand soaking himself, And then spent the next minute looking variously at the glass, the ceiling and the window trying to work out what happened. We collapsed.


The boy posing with friend on top of a house roof

Some years ago, I had promised the boy a pair of skis, and of his own choice he's waited until he'd grown enough. As we came out of the shop where we bought them, our friend decided to take a picture from the other side of the road. The continuous line of traffic seemd to put paid to the idea. Until a car screeched to a halt. The driver grinned, his wife looked less than pleased. Our friend took the the picture, the traffic started moving again. Who says the French are all bad?!!



Whilst we were away, we had the builders round. We moved into this little victorian cottage (properly translated as end of terrace workers house) a couple of years ago. It was well decorated and meant that we didn't need to do anything. But the observant will have spotted the York stone fireplace, some may have previously seen the swirly patterns on bothe curtains and the carpets. Yes it was ideal for the retired couple who lived here before us. In our absence, the artex walls of the staircase and upper corrider were being replastered. I should perhaps thought it through a littel more. Half way through the week, the builder admitted missing an important delivery. He didn't hear the door bell because "It was very noisy". At that point I realised my first port of call on our return would be the neighbours. And indeed it was. They were charming as ever, but not sure we'll still be on their Christmas card list.

Oh and I must mention the boy (again), who's been working hard for the last eight years, and achieved a 9* award for his skiing. That's the best you can get...ski instructor standard I'm told. Not bad for a 13 year old. And I feel my chest swell with pride.

Suitably rewarded/nothing like a bit of crumpet

I've won an award and I'm very pleased.

I have to say I can't post it here, and nor was it quite given directly.
But an award is an award. I'm sure.

At school, the muggles chatted amongst themselves and the important quote is "Well Charlie, apart from The Boy's Dad you've got the coolest mum."

Now I'm think that means that I'm cool. That's cool. But it also makes me a mum. So not sure if I should start wearing a frock?

Unfortunately the boy doesn't exactly know how I'm a cool Mum. But he's happy that I am. And me too.

And on a different note altogether:

"The Boy, where are the crumpets I bought"

"I've eaten them"

"But you don't like them, you said so. I bought them for me"

"I know I don't like them. I was hungry.

"But if you don't like them why didn't you eat the fruit, the cheese or the biscuits in the fridge. Or have toast."

"I was hungry"

I'll just go an chew my arm off then.

And then there's:

"Can you turn the music down, I can't hear myself think."

"But I can barely hear it"

"But Dad, you're disturbing the neighbours"

"Oh right, sorry. Oops."

Crash bang wallop

We were woken up at eight minutes past six on Friday by an enormous thunder clap. The house shook and from down the corridor I heard a slightly shaky and questioning voice, "What's happening Dad?" In proper parental fashion I said in 'I am master of the situation' tone, "Don't worry, it's just thunder." I said this looking out of the window as it snowed heavily. In truth I've never experienced a snow thunderstorm. It was very exciting, and it set me thinking about how as we get older we get fewer and fewer new experiences, and how lucky the young are because there is so much that is new and exciting for them. And often as you get older, new experiences are not to be welcomed either because they are bad, or because they are not welcome and challenge our life view. So I'm very pleased to have been woken up at 6.08 on Friday and look forward to my next exciting new thing; meanwhile the boy will continue to take these things in his stride.

Two of a kind

Not to be outdone by the boy doing his homework (actually I think he's just chatting on line to his friends) in his new helmet (see my last entry), I have decided to type this update whilst wearing my new helmet. It's carbon fibre...and dead sexy, and has a thing inside to cover my nose so it doesn't steam up when I have the visor down. Most importantly though it has a five star rating, which is (evidently) two more than my previous 'lid'. So on the off chance I fall off the sofa this evening (and because I've got man flu, I could collapse at any moment) I am twice as likely to survive.



Boys. They never grow up.