Sandwiches

"You English, with your sandwiches, on the bread which is so limp and the edges, so square. You are obsessed with these foods but they are so horrible! Ugh."

That wasn't a real person, saying that. Or at least maybe it was, very likely it was, but they never said it in range of my ears. No, that was said to me by one of the imaginary people that live in my brain. They follow me round and talk to me. This one was French, and was berating me as I drove down the motorway with a sandwich on my knee and a song in my heart.

For I happen to think that the sandwich - and particularly the British sandwich, with its neat square edges and nice soft bread - is a rather wonderful invention. Because I'm one of those weirdos who can't be doing with complicated tasty food that takes ages to make and more ages to eat. As Tom Robbins once said, it's the maintenance that gets me down about being human. And eating is just maintenance. Refuelling. It gets in the way of living. So you can go away with your crusty bread that needs two hands, sixty teeth and an oblivion of crumbs to eat. I want my food conveniently packaged. I like my eatables formatted in a way which allows for variety (so many different flavours of sandwich) (but OK, I might nearly always plump for ham, tuna or chicken) (and salad) (a sandwich isn't a sandwich without a little bit of something crunchy), but can be eaten with one hand. On the go. Without making a mess. Or losing half of it down some crack or other. Or cutting your tender mouth on sharp unfriendly crustiness. And can be made for yourself, cheaply and quickly, as a last minute thing, when you realise you're off out the door again on some errand or other, and you haven't got any money and you've forgotten to eat.

My handbag often contains sandwiches. And nearly always a cereal bar, or flapjack, or some emergency snack or other. Number One Son said to me today, "I think we should call your handbag The Magic Handbag, because it always has food in it." And what if you're caught on the hop, with no sandwiches in your handbag? Why, you can visit almost any shop in Britain and find a fridge in the corner containing sandwiches!

They are magic. I like them.

Can you tell?


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Roll Over Beethoven

Seen on a kids' quiz show this afternoon. A team of three are presented with a multiple choice question:

Who composed the wedding march?
1. Mozart
2. Beethoven
3. Mendelssohn

The children confer. "Well it can't be Beethoven, cos he's a dog."


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Flicking Scabs

6-yr-old: "Clare, what's this on my leg? Is it a bit of old food?"

Me: "No, it's a scab."

6-yr-old: "So can I pick it off and flick it?"

Me: "I don't think it's ready yet. You'd probably start bleeding again."

6-yr-old: "Oh."

Me: "Did you know some people call scabs magic plasters? They're made out of blood. They cover up sore bits, then magically drop off when the sore bits are better."

6-yr-old: "And then you can flick them?"


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The Human / Dancer Conundrum

There's this track they're playing everywhere at the moment. It's by the Killers, apparently (whoever they are). I doubt very much I'm the first person to comment on this, but it's annoying me so I'll say it anyway. It has this lyric: "Are we human, or are we dancers?" and all I can think is, THE TWO ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE.

Sorry. It's not that I'm a dancer, or feel any great need to defend them or anything, it's just a REALLY STUPID LYRIC.

Thank you. That is all.


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Ectopic

No, don't worry, not an ectopic pregnancy. They're horrid. That would be horrid. I'm not having one of them.

But for ages now I've noticed that sometimes when I get uber-tired, late at night, I get a weird fluttery sensation in my throat.

With hindsight I'm very surprised that my hypochondria hadn't kicked in yet. I would have expected me to self-diagnose everything from cancer to subcutaneous egg-laying spiders by now. But for some reason I'd just noted it and then forgotten all about it. It's just that funny thing that happens when I'm tired.

Then last night I suddenly decided that actually, it wasn't exactly in my throat. It was more like upper chest, and oh my God, is it my heart? So I tried taking my pulse while the flutters were going on, but Oscar was being skrikey and distracting so I couldn't get any kind of obvious conclusion. I tried again while I was singing him to sleep with The Endless Lullaby, but my own singing somehow prevented me from feeling my pulse properly. Then finally he was asleep and I could focus on what I was doing and hmmmm, somehow my pulse seemed to miss a beat every time the flutter happened.

I still thought I was probably imagining it and it was probably indigestion or something, but I went to bed before I was intending, then got up early and rang the doctor in the five-minute window you get between 8am and 8.05 if you want an appointment that day.

And there I am in the surgery, feeling silly, because I seem to make doctor's appointments every five minutes and it's never anything serious, but anyway describing my symptoms and thinking how laughable they sound.

"Oh yes," he says. "It's called an ectopic beat."

What? You mean it really is my heart?

"Yes, but it's nothing to worry about and they probably wouldn't do anything to treat it anyway."

So, we decided I should give up caffeine (again), as I think that's when it happens: When it's late at night, I'm super-tired and I've been drinking coffee or my super-strength fair trade cocoa what is simultaneously comfort-drink and a stimulant.

If the caffeine-free-ness doesn't get rid of it, there'll be ECGs and stuff, but it's still nothing to worry about.

And of course it's only after I leave that I think of all the useful questions. Like, I can handle living without coffee, I've done that before, but my lovely hot chocolate? I mean, he said it doesn't really matter, right? So maybe I can just carry on drinking and fluttering and everything can continue as normal? Or do I have to never have caffeine ever again? And do I officially have a heart-thingy? Do I have to announce it to people like yoga instructors and aerobics teachers and aeroplanes and other people who ask about these things?

And what is it with me and caffeine? I gave it up a long time ago cos it give me heartburn and I was also suffering from anxiety. Then I developed a bit of a thing for it during pregnancy cos I was getting so very very tired, and one cup of strong filter coffee each day really perked me up... but it exacerbated my IBS. Gave me diarrhoea and stomach cramps, in fact. And now it's fucking with my heart, on only one cup a day? Caffeine really doesn't like me, does it?

My body's behaving a bit like my car at the moment: Showing its age, frequently breaking down, full of little quirks and foibles so that simple tasks have to be approached from oblique angles and a lot of maintenance is required. Just since Oscar was born I have had sore/tingle wrists, forearms and knuckles (carpal tunnel syndrome), a weird-shaped stomach (muscle diverification), painful knees (worn joints), a hurty back (heavy baby, general wear and tear), leaky bladder (weak pelvic floor), and now this. Pah. I want a refund.

But the weird patch of ouchy skin under my thumbnail is apparently not cancer, as I thought, just a wart.

So that's all right then.

Update: According to this site here (I know, I know, never trust anything you read on the internet, but still...) the ectopic thing really isn't anything to worry about and I don't even need to give up caffeine, except that they seem to imply it should be more random than my experience, but still, probably nothing to worry about. And my pulse, BP etc are all fine and the flutteriness isn't painful or even uncomfortable so it really isn't anything to worry about.


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Being Sensible

The "Party Like it's 1999" series is temporarily suspended, pending approval. I had a bit of a Sensible Moment. Which is all very well, but now the blog is contentless. I get so little computer time these days, I've taken to having marathon blog-writing sessions and then splitting the results into parts and scheduling them to be posted in advance.

So, um. what do I have to report? Oscar is lovely. Teething at the moment, but even that isn't phasing him much. It just means he wants to chew everything, but hasn't got the manual dexterity to put things in his mouth without dropping them or jabbing himself in the gums, which makes him annoyed. But even that only means minor whingeing from time to time. This evening he wouldn't go to sleep and kept chuckling at everything. Which may have something to do with the pub lunch I had this afternoon, which involved the chocolatiest chocolate pudding ever, and two pots of super-strong tea, culminating in far more caffeine than I/he am/is used to.

He's four months old now, does a lot of smiling and a fair bit of laughing, also cooiung, gurgling, squeaking and squealing with delight. He can't roll over yet. That's the next thing, then sitting up, reaching out for things, crawling, reaching out to be picked up. I'm getting bored now, want him to learn something else. He's a lovely easy baby though, in that he doesn't cry much and sleeps well at night, although quite demanding during the day, hence all my jobs getting done at stupid a.m.

Last night I drank two pints!! of beer and listened to a lot of glam rock after watching some documentary or other about it on the telly. The first pop music I was ever aware of / into was glam rock. It was the mid 70s, I was five or six. There are a whole load of singles from that time that send me into ecstasies of nostalgia and always have. By people such as Slade, Mud, Sweet, T. Rex, Suzi Quatro, Status Quo. I particularly liked Tiger Feet (I used to imagine people with tigers' feet, it was a nice image) and Girls Grab the Boys (made me think of kiss chase).

When I was six, I had this massive surge of nostalgia for my fifth summer (1974). I think that's when I first experienced nostalgia. It was incredibly strong. It was like it had been the best summer in the whole world ever, and there would never be one like it again. I think it may have been about this time that I developed all these nostalgic attachments to all those glam rock songs, but there was one track above all others that from that point until, well, now, had this powerful effect on me whenever I heard it. It was / is the epitome of cosy warm home-coming nostalgia. I played it to Ally last night and he didn;t get it at all, said it was just bog-standard 70s rock. It's Davy's on the Road Again, by (I think) Manfred Mann. I just think it's gorgeous. It wasn't even very famous, I have no idea why it has such a strong effect. Maybe it was playing during some significant event in my life, but if so I don't know what.

I also don't know how I heard all these tracks, as I'm pretty sure I didn't have control over any radios at that age, and my dad was a Radio 3 / modern jazz / Beatles and The Who man. We did watch Top of the Pops as a family though, so maybe that was the sole source of my exposure to the pop music of the time. Well anyway, last night I had fun playing all the old tracks. And drinking two cans of beer.

A small thing I noticed in the midts of it all: Our cats do enjoy jumping from surface to surface in the kitchen. Sideboard, kitchen table, work surfaces, they're all pretty much the same height, and good vantage points for keeping an eye out for mice and dogs. I guess if they were lions in the wild, they'd be perching on rocks. And then I thought how much lions would appreciate it if you scattered kitchen units around the African savannahs. Perfect for perching on. Not sure anyone else owuld appreciate it, though. And maybe they'd need to be proportionately outsized, to account for the size difference between domestic cats and lions.

I leave you with that thought. Good night.


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Faulty Equipment

Have you ever noticed how tempting it is to view GPs and other health professionals as though they were manufacturers of faulty equipment?

"This isn't working. What are you going to do about it?"


Also: Sumo wrestlers look like babies, but with tiny heads.


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Bulimia by Proxy

Ah yes, I was going to talk to you about bulimia.

You see, the thing is, every time I get pregnant I put more weight on. And don't get me wrong, breastfeeding is wonderful and essential and you should just bloody do it anyway because it's lovely and is so very good for your child... but take that stuff they say about weight loss with a pinch of salt. Or rather, several spoons of sugar. OK, so not everyone has a sweet tooth like me, but boy, does breastfeeding make me crave sugar. So yeah, maybe Oscar is a stupendously hungry baby, and maybe breast milk is full of calories, and maybe it's made out of my body fat, but what does that matter if I shovel chocolate down my gob and make great handfuls of new fat every few hours?

I keep thinking, I should make the most of this. My body is taking my fat and turning it into milk. If only I could eat less chocolate, that would be a Very Useful Thing.

But then I think... hang on a minute...

You see, I express milk every day. I squeeze it out of my currently-GIGANTIC boobs and put it into bottles, which are then given to my son. And there it is, in the fridge. Little containers full of my excess fat. A kind of home-made liposuction, if you will. And what if I didn't give it to my son? What if I threw it away? It would be like a kind of sanitised bulimia. Binge on chocolate and bad stuff, then express milk and throw it away!

It all came about because I went out - my second proper night out since Oscar was born (I'll write about the first time later). I expressed tons of milk in advance, so I could stay out as long as I liked and not have to worry about getting home to feed the baby. Whilst out, I got drunk. And ate loads of chocolate. And came home, with boobs full-to-bursting with milk. So full it was painful. I had been planning to wait until the following morning before expressing, so the alcohol would be out of my system. But then I thought, hang on. My breasts have been filling gradually all evening, while I was drinking. So the milk there now will already have alcohol in it, and it won't matter how long I wait before expressing it. So I expressed as soon as I got home, and thought, this is tainted milk. It'll have to be thrown away... oooh, so all that chocolate I just ate, I am now throwing it away again! Yippee!

And then a week or so later, I did an experiment and deduced that all the strong coffee I'd started drinking to help keep me awake... was probably causing Oscar to projectile vomit all over the place. But I was very very sleepy and it was really hard to resist drinking the coffee. Which tasted so nice... and then I thought, aha! I can binge on chocolate AND coffee, and then Oscar will be sick, thus the milk will be wasted, thus the calories are thrown away... bulimia by proxy!

Sadly I am a slightly better mother than that, and have now given up coffee.

And although I'm tempted to eat tons of chocolate and then throw breast milk away... arrrggh. I was brought up by war babies. Waste not want not, and all that. And, you know, it's breast milk. It's magical precious stuff with super healing properties, and I can't bring myself to throw it away.

Bugger.


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Cat in tree!

I rarely take photos. And as you will have seen, when I do I make a bit of a fist of it, and use sub-standard equipment... but occasionally there will be weeks-long bursts when I remember I have a camera. Having a baby around has obviously had that effect.

But anyway, given that I have severely limited computer leisure time at the mo... and posting pics is quicker than posting words...

OK, enough of the excuses.

Look! A cat in a tree!



I looked out of an upstairs window and saw our cat, Abbey, curled up quite happily in that improbable place. An hour later I looked out of the same window and saw the following, which gives you an idea what a desirable cat location it is:



The little brown blobs are birds. Tons and tons of them. Sparrows, mostly. Apparently there is a national shortage of sparrows. This is because they are all in our inner-city Manchester garden. And under no threat from our agile, but still not very good at catching birds, cats. They can catch squirrels though. A baby squirrel is currently lying dead on our lawn, under a bucket, under two bricks. I couldn't bring myself to move it, but didn't want the cats to bring it into the house...


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And you not even nice at all

I love this website I found.

I particularly like this one.


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Woof

Dancing dog!


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Sorry, I didn't quite catch that...

I spend an aful lot of time laughing at Oscar's many and varied gurnsome facial expressions, and trying to imagine what he'd be saying if he could speak, or think, or make jokes, or be neurotic, or, well, do all the things he can't actually do yet.

Is it anthropomorphisation if the subject is already human? I don't think so, but it may as well be.

Anyway. In my previous post I said that Oscar, in the picture above, was saying "They're all mad, I tell you, utterly bonkers!"

Except that he clearly isn't. There may be an element of scorn in there, but there are some good measures of affection and amusement too, I reckon. It's more like, "Wtf are you doing? Hahaha, you don't seriously believe you can make me laugh when you have a silvery box thing instead of a face, do you?"

That's not quite it either though. It's surprisingly difficult, this anthropomorphisation* lark. So, what do you reckon? What's he saying?

Ooh, caption competition! That pic makes me smile so much I currently have it as my PC desktop. I'd like to add a caption too.


* Try typing that in a hurry. For that matter, try saying it.


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On the box

I applied to be on Countdown today. I really want to do it, it's the perfect thing for stay-at-home mother-of-twos to be doing.

But Carol Vordeman is leaving! Boo. I left it too late.

Still want to do it though.


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Tidying Ham

I found myself in the kitchen the other day, tidying ham.

If anyone walks in right now, I thought to myself, they'll say, "What are you doing?" and I'll say, "Tidying the ham," and they'll go "What?" and get all incredulous on me and think I'm silly.

I've never bought this particular kind of "wafer-thin ham" before, mainly because wafer-thin is normally too thin, and it's just too fragile. But subconsciously I might also have been perturbed by its general untidiness. Certainly once I got it home, after having to buy it because Asda Longsight is being refurbished and all their shelves have gone totally mental and it's impossible to find anything, I discovered that the thin-ness wasn't an issue - it was the same thickness as the (nice and neat) stuff I normally buy. But the presentation was utterly bonkers.

This particular kind of ham, instead of being stacked neatly in its box, is tumbled about in an artfully carefree fashion. I think the idea is that you do the same on the plate, or in the sandwich, scattering the stuff about your kitchen with gay abandon. I imagine a happy skipping housewife with glossy tumbling hair.

But personally I like my sandwiches closable, and eatable, without the contents spilling out all over the shop. And even if I didn't, I'd struggle to do much ham-scattering cos the stuff sticks to itself and it's impossible to get hold of a few slices without removing the whole contents of the box. It's a bit like trying to eat noodles with a fork, or trying to remove badly-packed paper towels from a dispenser in a public lavatory. You know when you end up with about thirty instead of just one?

And that's why I had to remove every single one of the forty sodding slices of ham and then put them back in the box, stacked neatly in a proper pile, all folds and creases carefully flattened out, to make future sandwich preparation less likely to be a hair-tearing-out-and-swearing-a-lot event.

So, anyway. Ham tidying. It makes sense, it really does.


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Sex, Glue and Subtraction

I'm very proud of the fact that I've been doing homework with my 6-yr-old son during the summer hols. I don't want the start of Year Two to be too much of a shock. I want him to remember how to Do Sums.

I am so proud, of him as well as me, I want his new form teacher to know about. He has suggested that we show his homework to his teacher, and I agree.

I use old manuscripts as scrap paper. It makes me feel slightly better about printing them out in the first place. I pile them up in my son's room next to an old shoebox full of felt-tip pens, pleased with my parental plentitude. I am Encouraging My Son To Express Himself.

How come I never remember to use different paper whenever it's anything that might be shown to someone who isn't a family or friend?

And how come, whenever I forget, and turn over in the hope that it might be something innocuous, I find myself faced with a graphic sex scene and several swearwords? I'm sure my novels don't contain that much sex.

I sighed yesterday and discarded the ever-so-well-done homework, never to be seen by his teacher. It was sums: addition and subtraction, with Big Numbers. We did the same again today. But today he was contrary, not concentrating, kept getting it wrong, wouldn't write neatly. Yesterday's homework was so much better.

So this evening I pulled it back out of the recycling pile, and glued a blank piece of paper over the back of it.

But what if she's intrigued (as I would be) and dismantles my artifice? What if she kicks up a stink?

I have been in his room and removed all manuscripts from the scrap paper pile.

I am an idiot on several levels.


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Woof! Eek! Grr!

The cat has her eye on my dinner plate and is hovering outside the room.

The dog decides to take urgent action.

"Woof!"

I am in a breastfeeding stupor in front of Big Brother on the telly. The woof is very not anticipated and I leap several inches in alarm.

"Eek!"

I shriek. It is an inviluntary reaction of shock. It is ear-splitting.

I am shocked by the woof and the eek, and much put out. I shout at the dog in anger.

"Dipsy!"

I bark. It is an angry "bad dog" bark. This is adrenaline x 2. Shock adrenaline followed by anger adrenaline. Stupid dog has disturbed my evening peace, and she knows how I hate it when she barks. And anyway, she should leave the poor cats alone. Although to be fair, they should leave my dinner plate alone.

"Clare!"

barks Him Indoors. He tells me my dog-directed shout was unnecessary. I shouldn't give the dog such a hard time for giving the cats a hard time. He is berating me for berating the dog for berating the cat. He tells me my scream hurt his ears.

"The scream was involuntary! She made me jump!"

I counter. I am defensive, and still shaky from woof-shock adrenaline number one, never mind dog-anger adrenalin number two. I now have leave-me-alone poor-me adrenaline number three buzzing around my system.

The baby starts to cry.

I wonder what's wrong with him, and check his nappy.


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Idle Queries Explored Further

(read this first)

Oh my God.

I clicked the "read more" button and ended up staring at this:



And now I'm thinking, not only can it be used as a dildo, but also some kind of home-operatable speculum?

Or what, are you supposed to squeeze and release, using that spring to create resistance? What if bits get trapped?

Thanks, but no thanks.


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Idle Queries

Idle Query Number One:

Why don't pedestrian crossings make noises any more? All the crossings in Manchester seem to have been replaced over the last few years, and most of the new ones are silent. Apart from sone, which are still noisy, which just makes the whole thing extra confusing.

I can't seem to get the hang of looking to see whether the green man has arrived. I press the button, I stand and wait, my attention wanders. I read advertising hoardings, watch birds, wonder vaguely whether the woman walking towards me has a shaved head or just all her hair scraped back, check the pram to see if my baby is still asleep... am I really supposed to stare at a not-yet-green man non-stop? The window of green man opportunity is surprisingly small (only a few seconds), and horribly easy to miss if it doesn't go beep-beep-beep to remind you.

And what are blind people supposed to do? As far as I can see nothing vibrates, and even if it did, what if the blind person couldn't get to the vibratey bit cos other people were in the way?

It's rubbish. I can think of no good explanation, particularly seeing that not all of them are silent, only some. Bring back the noisy ones, I say.

Idle Query Number Two:

Does this work in the way I think it does? Is it, in fact, just a glorified dildo? Maybe a convenient excuse for people who really want to buy dildos but feel more comfortable claiming to have a weak pelvic floor? And is anyone seriously going to use it in the way intended?

Better than a carrot, I suppose...


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Limeral Fun

I've been having lots of fun writing limericks for Lucy Diamond's competition.

You should play too.

As long as yours aren't better than mine.


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Lords of Bastard

The Other 'Alf is a loacal radio DJ and erstwhile music journalist, so we regularly get freebie CDs dropping through the door. They're always accompanied by press releases, most of which follow the usual format and are rather dull, so it's always fun when something more creative slips through the net:

"lords of bastard

www.lordsofbastard.com
www.myspace.com/lordsofbastard

BEEEEEP! Tshhhh, tssssh, burr ba burrrr ba burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

- This is the musical masterstroke that kicks off Lords of Bastard's self titled debut album, Lords of Bastard.

Following tthe planetary success of their single, Off With Their Heads / Kingsize Karma, this release offers more of the same journey through sludge, doom, punk and stoner rock, but this time there are seven more whole songs. As lead singer Mike puts it, "This is an album".

So if you like albums, then this might be for you.

Having played with many excellent touring bands across Scotland, over the past few years, LoB's sound has really developed. There are quieter bits and louder bits, and some bits that seem faster than others but might not be, when drummer Rik was intrerviewed about this recently he said "yes".

As the sleeve would suggest, LoB like their vintage amps turned up to "Big"; this could be what it would sound like if the 1970s were angry at you.

Recorded in Edinburgh by no-one famous, and not featuring Mary J Blige, this heady mix of space weed, dungeons and purple promises to be a trest for fans and a dreadful risk to others.

Available from 8th Sept 2008, in exchange for money, on CD and download."

Sadly I didn't like the music much (not my thing - lots of thrashy bass guitars and people screaming "Aaaaaargh!" a lot), but there you go: You can't have everything.

Today is my birthday and I'm off to the cinema to see The Mist (see if I can frighten the baby out of me), then going swimming. I made a yummy chocolate cake last night. I shall also be eating that.


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Somebody Else's Problem

Speaking of SEPs, I did a terrible thing a few weeks ago.

Felix had a friend round after school. The first thing he does when he gets home from school is demand a snack. Fuck knows where he gets that from. *cough*

So we had a look in the fridge, and his friend spotted some cheese triangles (small cheesy snacks). Felix doesn't like them but his friend scoffed happily away. And after they'd eaten about half of it, they commented that it was kind of wet. And it was then that it occurred to me to check the Use By date. Which was February 2007.

Oops.

So I had a bit of a sniff, and it smelt fine. And those things are packed with preservatives, right? And it had been in the fridge all that time? And... er...

Well, you see, and this is where I do become very ashamed, honest I do, but what I thought was... if they get ill, it won't be me who has to clear up the vomit. And anyway, if I make a fuss I'll only plant the possibility of psychosomatic illness in their head.

So, rather than take the cheese away from them instantly and alert their parents, I let them eat it. And kept quiet.

And spent the next few days worrying they were going to die of food poisoning and it would all be my fault. And wondering whether to dispose of the evidence (remaining cheese triangles, now relegated to the bin) or keep them for the health inspectors. And forgetting to ask my son whether his friend had been in school or not, despite setting myself several reminders ("Ask F: X still alive?") in my phone.

They're not dead, by the way.

So that's all right then.


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Bodily Harm

I've been doing a lot of clearing out lately, and came across an old pair of crutches. Not as old as the being-run-over-by-a-bus incident, but still. Not technically my property.

So I decided to take them somewhere they'd be more useful. Like a hospital, for instance.

But MRI, my local, is big and rambling and has very few parking spaces and precious little useful signage, so I found myself this morning driving around randomly, past a myriad of "NO PARKING" notices and a couple of wheel-clamping buggies, but no orthopaedics department.

I could have parked somewhere remote and wandered around on foot, but I'm nine months' pregnant* and walking / standing / generally being on one's feet are extremely taxing operations, particularly when carrying anything at all other than the several sacks of potatoes strapped to my middle, and especially when I don't know where I'm going or how much further I might have to go.

In the end I found something called the "Adult Rehabilitation Unit." Which may well involve crutches, no? Not only that, but it had an empty disabled parking bay outside. Not that I'm disabled, although I'm sure I could argue the case... but no. Not to a wheel-clamper, I couldn't. So I parked and ran - well OK, waddled a little more quickly than normal - in. No reception, no obvious location for crutches, just a bored-looking nurse and a very old man. And me, suddenly feeling furtive.

I hid the crutches in a doorway, round a corner, where nobody could see me. If challenged, I would say... that I was... er... oh fuck it, look at me, I'm about to give birth! Watch out, my waters are breaking!

Nobody challenged me. I left. My car didn't get clamped. None of the exciting endings, which you were already anticipating, happened.

Or did they? Will we ever know? Did the crutches ever get moved?

Will they stay in that doorway for several weeks, everyone thinking that someone is about to come back and reclaim them, someone who will be reduced to crawling through inhospitable hospital corridors like a dying fish without them?

Will they ever reach a useful home?

Will someone, being rehabilitated in fact from a long prison sentence or maybe a hideous designer-drug addiction and not in any more need of crutches than his or her co-clientele, fall over the crutches and break their neck or even their leg (in which case at least they'll have some perambulatory assistance immediately to hand)?

Will I be traced from CCTV footage and charged with manslaughter, or Wilful Abandonment Of Hospital Property?

I don't know. I don't really care. It's an SEP**.

As long as they don't have CCTV footage.



* This is really bugging me. I want to include an apostrophe in the phrase "nine months' pregnant" but I'm not sure why. The pregnancy doesn't really belong to the months, does it? I know I'm probably wrong. But I can't seem to stop myself.

** Somebody Else's Problem


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Birthday Eclipsingness

It's my birthday on 10th July, but the baby is due on 7th July. Indeed, given that I know when I ovulated and therefore probably when I conceived, I'm pretty sure the baby is actually due on my birthday.

Therefore I've been unable to make any birthday plans, cos I may be heavily-heavily pregnant and awaiting a birth with baited breath, or in labour, or recovering from a terrible birth, or relaxing with a babe in my arms all blissful and happy, or pacing the floor with a baby that won't stop crying... too many variables. Will not compute.

It's a bit sad though.

So can I recruit some of you into putting my birthday into your diaries and coming here on the day to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY! or ringing or texting me if you know me well enough to have my number, or even sending me a card, or doing SOMETHING to remind me that I am a separate person with a birthday all of her own, as well as a mother-to-be?

Thanking you kindly.


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Clare Likes, Too

Best line ever, from Coronation St this evening: "He'd be a typical Taurean if he wasn't a Virgo." I mean, think about it.

But anyway. That's not what this post is about. I decided to do this meme I found on Everything Katy is Electrically Newton's blog, cos I liked the look of it. And I'm s'posed to be doing other stuff.

You have to google the phrase "[your name] likes to" and see what you get. So here is what Clare, apparently, likes to do:

Clare Likes to Share (because she is of a mathematical bent, apparently) (which is true) (the second part, anyway).

Clare likes to barge the Argies off it.

Clare likes to entertain at the drop of a hat.

Clare likes to chew on her clothes.

Clare likes to accept about 8 to 10 students each year, depending on the quality of the applicants.

Clare likes to watch telly and eat chips. She is also a qualified equine massage therapist.

Clare likes to win ribbons (according to the Real Girl of the Year contest) (I guess that is the ultimate in girliness, if you are happy with a ribbon as a prize).

Clare likes to think she can draw.

Clare likes to rant.

Clare likes to work and fix things.

Oh dear, there are more and more of the buggers. I know some of them aren't exactly interesting, they're just... well, true.

Clare likes to describe herself as fast and feminine (oh no she doesn't) (but when they say "fast", do they mean, er, racy? Ah, the days of my youth...).

Clare likes to spend her time having random fun.

Clare likes to eat, she likes to share each tasty treat.

Clare likes to break into dance wherever she is (according to the "Pole Fetish Dance School").

Clare likes to crash cars for jokes.

Clare likes to spend time in her built-in wardrobe.

Clare likes to pretend it’s Bubble Tape in his back pocket.

Clare likes to shoot modern architecture.

OK, OK, I don't know when to stop, so I'll just stop there.

What fun.

Oh and, you know. If you want to do it too, then do.


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Biggering and Biggering

No, not buggering. BIGGERING.

I suspect I'm half-remembering some quote from a Dr Seuss book (have I ever told you how much I love Dr Seuss?) (well I do. I really love Dr Seuss), but I can't remember which book or exactly what the quote was so I'm going to try really hard to stop thinking about it now cos otherwise it'll drive me mad and I'll spend the next two hours hunting through my son's bedroom for Dr Seuss books (we have a lot) and getting sidetracked by tidying his bedroom instead of being sidetracked by writing blog posts, which is what I'm supposed to not be doing instead of what I'm really supposed to be supposed to be doing.

Where was I? Oh yes. I am bigger.

(biggering and biggering... oh damn it, what IS that quote?)

I can still reach the keyboard. But what happens when I can't? I only just can. I've heard people talking about balancing keyboards on bumps but frankly that's just silly, particularly at the rate and ferocity at which I type, and anyway what about my RSI? Huh?

This whole bump-getting-in-the-way thing is actually getting to be quite a pain. Not because I can't reach stuff, cos so far I can always find a way to reach stuff. No. It's literally a pain. The problem is, when you know it has a bit of give in it and you just need to stretch a liiitle bit further to reach the jam or the tea or the drill or the TV remote, then that's what you do. And if someone tries to squeeze past you in the kitchen or in the pub, you end up pushing the bump against the nearest obstacle in attempt to make yourself smaller. Which would all be well and good if it weren't for the fact that it hurts. Not at the time, but afterwards. I have a kind of permanent bruise on the tip of my bump. And sometimes it gives me nasty shooting pains. No no, I'm not in labour. It's not that kind of pain. Although I do wish constipation pains and labour pains weren't so similar. When I had the miscarriage I was convinced it was just a blockage in my tubes, and now every time my poo gets stuck I think I'm heading for premature babyville. Or worse. I do wish I hadn't watched Coronation St over the last couple of weeks (they have a character who up until last week was exactly the same amount of pregnant as me, but then her baby stopped kicking...) (mine is still kicking) (but I am keeping a very hawk-like eye on it).

Well, anyway. I am also hot. Because the weather is hot. Which is all very well, but pregnancy and hotness don't mix, and my hair needs cutting, and I hate hairdressers at the best of times, but I really don't fancy being pregnant in a hair salon. All that sitting about in unsuitable seats. All that chit-chat. Pregnancy makes me very intolerant of shit-chat. It happened last time too. Ooh, that was a typo but I like it. In the last sentence but one, I mean. Or is it but-two? Anyway, my hair is thick and makes me hot.

Of course, given that I am sitting here right now shit-chatting at you in the most brazen fashion imaginable, maybe I better shut up about that.

I'm supposed to be doing other stuff really. I'll go do that instead.

P.S. I made a key lime pie last night. On a whim, because I just happened to be passing a cupboard with a broken door and there was an ancient tin of condensed milk in there (I'm not sure why, I never use condensed milk) (what's it for, anyway?) (apart from making key lime pie, that is) (and why is it sometimes called evaporated milk?) (or are they not the same thing?) and it had a recipe on the side for key lime pie, and I liked the sound of it. So I made it last night. It is YUMMY. I had to freeze most of it though, because I also made a chocolate cake two days ago and all this biggering (oh damnit, what was that book?) makes me bruised.

P.P.S. And I made a fence and a gate and a ramp at the weekend. And they work, and are much less dilapidated than the last fence and gate I made (I have never made a ramp before though) (it is for a dog) (I am proud of it), although perhaps a little lopsided.

But I am supposed to be doing other stuff than this, and I will either go away now and do that instead or find something else to distract me from it.

[wanders off in search of Dr Seuss books]


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Self Storage

I passed a sign for self storage units today, and momentarily misunderstood.

I do like the idea, though, of a place you can go to store yourself. Would it be a small box, I wonder, which you folded yourself into? Or a nice comfy sitting room? Would you take yourself out every now and then, dust yourself off and reminisce for a while before putting yourself back? Maybe you'd only use the facililty temporarily, for when the builders were in and you had nowhere to keep yourself, or if you were getting in the way and people had got fed up of dusting you?

It has gone down in my list of potential ideas for short stories...


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Even Less Cool

NB: don't read this post if you've only just arrived! Read this one first!

No, go away. Like I told you. Shoo. Then come back.

...

I have to own up, cos I'm rubbish at lying and anyway I know you'll all be expressing great consternation for the plight of Heavily Pregnant Lady in Playground Disaster Shock.

It didn't really end like that. I climbed back down again after perching there for ages and enjoying the view.

The rest did happen, though.


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Trying to be Cool

Pregnancy makes you tired. It makes you tired because you have to carry an extra couple of stone around your waist all day. It makes you tired because your body uses all its energy on baby-building and doesn't leave much over for you. It makes you tired because babies hog all the space in your middle and squish your lungs into a smaller space, leaving you out of breath all the time. It makes you tired when it gets you so ill you spend three months in a rocking chair and get really unfit and then can't get back in shape again because pregnancy makes all your body-bits vulnerable in a way which renders all but the lightest exercise inadvisable.

But despite all this, today I found myself in a playground with my son, at the top of a climbing frame and rather pleased with myself and my rediscovered monkeydom.

"You used to like being cool, didn't you?" says Felix.

"Why, am I not cool any more?" says me.

"No, you're too old!"

"Oh."

"Emma* used to like being cool, as well."

"Is she old too then?"

"Oh yes. Anyway she says she stopped trying to be cool cos every time she did, bad things happened to her."

Me: "Oh."

And then I fell off the climbing frame.



*Emma = a friend of ours, who I always think of as young, because she was only 18 when we met her. But that was 13 years ago.


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Ooh, I can get that one...

Help, I can't stop doing this quiz! (via Rachel).

I really wish it didn't have a "Try Again" button...

And oh bloody hell, I've just discovered there are 110 damn questions! Ouch.


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Local Shop For Local People

Him Indoors has written a good article on CiF about our local Netto supermarket.

But what I love about it is the comments. They quickly descend into a discussion of the merits of various supermarkets, which is entertaining in itself. But then this thing happens - which always happens when Ally writes articles for CiF - people (who have previously only seen him as the prolific CiF commenter "AllyF") start exclaiming in surprise at his gender.

Like this:

"I just thought AllyF was a poster who just happened to be able to write better than the rest of us and lived in an oddly similar situation to that of the author [of this article]. I had the whole backstory in my head as well, she was female, married, 2/3 young kids (7 and under) who kept up a blog relating to her everyday experiences, the struggles of raising a family in some of the scariest parts of Manchester and only very occasionally exposing us to her political viewpoints."

and this:

"Yes, I had done much the same as you mention. The children were very vague from my point of view - merely hazy, almost formless blobs playing in the garden, just beyond a glazed back door, leading to a small garden with a rotary washing-line.
AllyF herself was, to be honest, not much more distinct herself. She had slightly curly, blondish hair to her shoulders, but her face was very shadowy and slipped out of view when I attempted to apprehend it by anything other than peripheral (and that imaginary) vision.
What I can say for sure, however, is that I never thought she had a beard. I was most surprised and somewhat disconcerted."

...both of which made me giggle.

When I use gender-non-specific pseudonyms on the internet, people often mistake me for a man. Go figure.


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Cake cake cay ca-cay-cake, yeah

I LIKE CAKE.

Aswell.

Like.


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Swimming Myths

I was reminded of these myths by Petite's recent post about the caca in the eau, and was so struck, as I always am, by the strength of the second one that I have decided it is my public duty to set the world straight.

There is no dye in existence which can indicate the presence of urine in a public swimming pool. There never has been. Really!

Not only that, but you will not die or get stomach cramps or nearly drown if you swim after eating. It's a load of rubbish. It always has been. Yup, that's right, all that time you spent sitting to one side and looking longingly at the sea or the swimming pool... it was wasted time. Food in the stomach of a swimming person does not create cramps.

Why there is no whistle-blowing anti-piss dye.

Why my life was not in danger when I went swimming immediately after lunch yesterday.

And remember, snopes.com is your friend. You can spend happy hours there, happily seeing all your favourite myths elegantly debunked.


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That New Title

I thought Asta had cheated, when she made her guess as to the title of my new book... and got it 100% right. And then Mike got it right too... and neither of them cheated!

It was cheatable, you see. If you do the right Googling, you come up with this link, where my agent announces the sale on his blog. So. Yes. It's called Dance Your Way to Psychic Sex, although titles are very fluid so who knows what will end up on the spine.

My favourite guesses were these:

Honey thought Never Look Sad in Serious Sex.

B thought Clare Says Yay in Twisted Sex (yeah right, I've written a book about my own sex life).

Rob thought Never Seek God in Tantric Sex.

And my absolute fave... oe thought Using Your Hex in Psychic Sex (and other stories).

The rest were just filthy. Wash your mouths out, you disgusting bunch of degenerates. Well, OK, they could have been much filthier. But it is about other stuff, apart from sex...

Guess What?

Rob was asking in the comments what my new book is called, but I'm still coy about telling that until I've signed an English-language deal (as opposed to Germany (yay for Germany)).

I will tell you that it's not called "Xxxx Xxxxxx" any more. It is now called "Xxxxx Xxxx Xxx xx Xxxxxxx Sex".

So, over to you! What do you think it's called? The Xs represent letters, and the capital letters are also accurate. If it were a crossword clue it would be (5, 4, 3, 2, 7, 3), so it has six words in it and I'll tell you for free the last word is Sex. Oh yes, and if you follow this link you'll find a description of the book, which might help to stir your creative juices.

You can have as many guesses as you like, and I'll print the best ones on the blog. If you're one of the privileged few who already knows, no cheating. I'll delete your comment if you do.

Now watch me go red-faced as nobody plays the game...


Update: If you've come to this post late and are wondering why I am asking people to guess the title when I've already announced it... Well. When I wrote this post, I hadn't. Announced it, I mean. But I've edited old posts since then. Just to confuse you all.

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Tis Funny

I just found this (after watching The Big Bang Theory and wondering what was written in small-print on the screen at the end), which has been making me giggle.


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Samson & Delilah

I'm not exactly back... it's just that a snatch of song came into my head just now and try as I might I can't find any reference on Google, and it's puzzling me...

I learnt this song at junior school, in the mid to late 70s. I have no idea where it comes from, but it has the definite feel of something out of a musical. Indeed, it's got distinct Tim Rice / Andrew Lloyd Webber leanings. Was there maybe a musical called Samson and Delilah? I don't know. I'd love it if someone else remembered the song too, or could even tell me where it comes from. Here's what I remember of the lyrics, but I may have mangled them a bit in my ageing memory:

Samson was a hero in the days of old
The spirit of the Lord had made him bold
The muscles on his arms stood out like iron bands...
...and he had big hands.

I do love that last line. It always made me giggle.

So, any ideas?

Update: Hurrah for never throwing anything away. I just had a bit of a hunt about and found the original 30-yr-old typed songsheets from when I was 7 or 8. There are six songs here, all about Samson and Delilah, and the whole lot is entitled "Swingin' Samson". And a bit of Googling reveals it was a "popular cantata for children's groups", by a bloke called Michael Hurd. From here:

"The composer, choral conductor and writer Michael Hurd ... [had a] long-standing association with Novello & Co, who not only published almost all his music, but also his books, and whose history, Vincent Novello & Company, he wrote in 1981. When, in 1983, Novello issued a brochure listing Hurd's works published by them, it ran to 12 pages.

His many commissions came from local societies such as the Havant Symphony Orchestra and Havant and District Schools Music Festival, Southern Orchestral Concerts Society, the Farn-ham Festival, the Petersfield Music Festival, the Stroud Festival and the Hampshire Federation of Women's Institutes. Out of these, Hurd developed an accessible line in popular cantatas for children's groups including Jonah-man Jazz (1966), Swingin'Samson (1972), Hip Hip Horatio (1974), Rooster Rag(1975) and Captain Coram'sKids (1988), which for perhaps 20 years were widely performed."

I wonder if it was commissioned by the Hampshire Confederation of Women's Institutes??


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Misunderstanding?

I hate not knowing stuff and I hate not understanding stuff. I don't like enigmas, I dislike it when people hint at stuff but won't give you any details, I'm almost pathological in my need to always Know What's Going On. It goes a long way to explaining what a terrible nosey parker and gossip I am.

Don't get me wrong, I like puzzles. I like teasing and suspense, as long as it's resolved at some point. I love films and books where you have to work out what's going on. As long as I find out before I leave the cinema / switch the telly off, I'm happy.

This is why I hate those adverts where things aren't explained. This is why I have developed something of a buzzy honey-making stripey creature in the old whimsical headgear department over a certain Twinings advert currently on telly.

I may just be thick or not paying proper attention. This happens. I am a scatter-brain and a bit dim sometimes and occasionally it is my fault. If this is the case and someone can explain it all satisfactorily to me, I will be happy.

So here's the thing: It's Stephen Fry. In some kind of tea cupboard. Drinking coffee. Twinings coffee. And then a younger really-rather-gorgeous man comes in and looks at him suspiciously, and Stephen Fry looks all guilty and hides it behind his back, but finally he has to 'fess up. He is - gasp - drinking coffee, not tea! But then he reveals that it was made by Twinings, and he is forgiven. And then he says something about getting a dog to help with his accounting.

Wtf?

Where are they supposed to be? Why does the younger man care what he's drinking? What context is it that means he may only ever drink tea, and not coffee? What is his relationship with the younger man? Are they lovers? And WHAT THE FUCK HAS A BLOODY DOG GOT TO DO WITH ANYTHING? Not to mention dogs and accounting which have never been two things I've thought of as being connected.

I need it explained. I need it explained now, because otherwise it makes no sense. And I seriously disapprove of things that make no sense. I've been ill this week which means I've spent most of my time in a rocking chair watching telly, and the Twinings conundrum is spoiling my enjoyment of Deal Or No Deal.

Thank you. That is all.


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Kittens!

I have new kittens. Two of them. Little cats. And that's all I'm saying, until I've found a way of blogging about them that isn't either unbearably twee or unbearably mean. I mean to say, for fuck's sake, kittens. I can't do it.

[they're very cute though]


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