Four Year Old Plus Camera Equals...

If you ask me, the incidentals in an old photo are every bit as fascinating as the main subject. So, when I see photos of myself as a baby in the '60s I am as interested in the old-style car, oxo-tin or flower-power kitchen tiles in the background as I am in the podgy-cheeked toddler, gazing with some suspicion at the camera, in the foreground.

I love the photos that Michael takes because they usually feature as their main subject some random object that would normally be consigned to the blurred edges of a snap, if it were lucky. Here is a selection of his latest works, which I shall entitle "The Back Garden" (although many contain details from next door's back-garden - he must have stood on a chair and leant over the fence to take them).

One Snow White and No Dwarfs

I'm afraid that this is the best photo I have of myself as Snow White at Michael's school fair (Hello Magazine weren't there; I'm sure they would have done better)! Funnily enough, that's Michael in the photo with me.

At this precise moment, Michael is behaving as if he is on a sugar high. He is being over-noisy, over-lively (to say the least) and is hyper-excited. This is unfortunate. I have counted to "2". Once I count to "3", it's "time-out" and he has to stay in his room alone - usually for 4 minutes, but this time it'll be till morning (as it's nearly bedtime anyway). The throuble is, this computer is also in his room, which means that if and when I reach "3", I'll suffer as much as he does - computer will have be turned off and no more blogging!

OK. That's it. "THREE".

Sigh

I can think of nothing to blog about. This is unusual for me. Normally there's loads I want to spill out onto my blog. But today and of late, nothing. So I'm going to indulge myself in this meme which I found here www.repressedlibrarian.blogspot.com

1. Have you ever been searched by the cops?
No. I was once stopped (on suspicion of driving without L-plates shortly after I'd passed my test - I mean how insulting is that!) but it all came to nothing.

2. Do you close your eyes on roller coasters?
Yes I do.

3. When's the last time you've been sledding?
I can't remember - probably early teens (there was a hill behind our house)

4. Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone?
Depends upon the weather.

5. Do you believe in ghosts?
No

6. Do you consider yourself creative?
yes - but not today

7. Do you think O.J. killed his wife?
Probably - but I know very little about the case.

8. Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie?
I'm sorry, I don't know who Angelina Jolie is. So Jennifer Aniston

9. Do you stay friends with your exes?
No.

10. Do you know how to play poker?
Yes. And I have played strip poker. Twice.


11. Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
Yes. I have two children

12. What's your favourite commercial?
The prize would have to go to this one, because it's years since it was on our screens and I still remember the words:

We're here on a picnic
You can join us if you be quick
We've got lots of tasty goodies
And of course Country Life

It's fresh and it's English
It's better than you could wish
You'll never put a better
Bit of butter on your knife...

13. What are you allergic to?
Lots of types of make-up cause my eyes to water and swell.

14. If you're driving in the middle of the night, and no one is around do you run red lights?
No.

15. Do you have a secret that no one knows but you?
Yes. I have a birth-mark that's so well hidden that not even I knew about it until I was 15 years old. So make that answer "no" now.


16. Boston Red Sox or New York Yankees?
Red Sox (only because Mum recently visited Boston and bought a Red Sox T-shirt home for Michael. Otherwise I'd never have heard of either.

17. Have you ever been ice skating?
Yes

18. How often do you remember your dreams?
Frequently.

19. When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried?
Too long ago.

20. Can you name 5 songs by The Beatles?
Yes.

21. What's the one thing on your mind now?
It's hot

22. Do you know who Ghetto-ass Barbie is?
No.

23. Do you always wear your seat belt?
Yes.

24. What cell service do you use?
No idea.

25. Do you like sushi?
Yes.

26. Have you ever narrowly avoided a fatal accident?
I don't think so

27. What do you wear to bed?
T-shirts (belonging to husband) He pretends to find it annoying.

28. Been caught stealing?
Yes. Sigh.

29. What shoe size do you have?
6

30. Do you truly hate anyone?
No.

31. Classic Rock or Rap?
Classic Rock

32. If you could sleep with one famous person, who would it be?
No-one. I'd like to dine out with Stephen Fry.

33. Favourite Song?
I'll plump for "The Long and Winding Road"; but there are loads - I mean I love Judy Garland's classics

34. Have you ever sung in front of the mirror?
Oooh yes.

35. What food do you find disgusting?
A lot of what I cook is disgusting

36. Do you sing in the shower?
Yes

37. Did you ever play, "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours"?
Yes

38. Have you ever made fun of your friends behind their back?
Yes. I went through a phase of imitating people's voices and mannerisms whilst at school. People would laugh. I thought I was being simply amusing. In fact, I was being pretty horrible.

39. Have you ever stood up for someone you hardly knew?
Not for anyone I hardly knew, I don't think.

40. Have you ever been punched in the face?
I was punched in the mouth once whilst doing karate. I was day-dreaming at the time. (serves me right for #38, don't you think)

Parental Disapproval

My mother used to hate the coats I wore. They never "did up to the top" and therefore exposed my chest to the wind which put me at risk of "catching pneumonia". (How've I done with 'pneumonia' there, only I can't get the spell-checker to work on this thing..??) Mum still counsels me about what to wear on a cold day, when she comes to stay. She usually concludes this fruitless advice with "toilet anyone?" just as we're about to leave the front door. I mean: ???? I never remember to remind my 4 year old to try for a wee before we leave, and she's still remembering to remind me.

Last time she was here, she enquired as to what I was doing at the computer - I was spending a fair amount of time with my eyes glued to the screen. I had a choice: my response could be either (a) "nothing", or (b) "blogging". I was in the mood for a little parental disapproval at the time, so I plumped for (b). And then explained a bit about what "blogging" meant.

"Hmmmm???", she replied. Yes! I wasn't going to be disappointed in my quest for a hearty debate / row. "Isn't it better to meet people for real than to communicate with them like that? You don't know who you might be talking to. It doesn't seem right to me to communicate with people you don't know. I mean, you never know who might... Is this your blog? Can I read it?"

Anne introduced me to the idea of blogging at a time when I was ensconced in researching my family tree. My thoughts were provoked and I was slightly saddened by the fact that when I traced ancestors, all I had on them was a date of birth, a date of death and, sometimes, a date of marriage. I wanted to know so much more. I wanted to know how they felt about life; what their ordinary days were like; what thoughts travelled through their minds. And that's why I blog. So that the www is left with more than just my date of birth, marriage and death. I know that I could record a private journal - I might probably divulge so much more about myself in a private journal. But I'm never motivated to keep a private journal (I've tried it in the past - I've many a diary that ends on 3 Jan).

There is something thrilling about communicating with the world. I love the fact that I've met people from around the world - I can visit people any time, any where. And I never know who might visit me. I've even made new friends. I'm very much myself on my blog though. I don't want to leave the www with someone who isn't me, for heaven's sake, that would defeat the whole object. Nope. This is me.

And, if I say something stupid, hey, I can delete it!!! (soooo much better than "real life", don't you think?) Wish I could spell-check it though. I wouldn't mind leaving my ancestors with the illusion that I could spell.

Playing Away from Home

I haven't posted on my blog for a little while as I have been embroiled in discussions elsewhere. I'm half-tempted to write a post on 1 Corinthians 6, v 9 - 10, but I am not going to:
a) in case I provoke a repeat of a debate that is in mid-flow somewhere else and
b) because when it comes to matters of theology, I am wearing L-plates - lots of them, so as they are clearly visible. I'd be plagiarising left, right and centre (or, as some readers would assert, left, left and centre-left)

So, I'm sorry that I am not able to present you with the programme I had planned. Instead, I give you:
http://www.hamsterdance.com/classorig.html

Education, Education, Educ-air-con

I have conducted a straw poll of a very small number of British state schools and discovered that none of them has air-conditioning. We always had air-conditioning when I worked in (public-sector) offices. On a day like today (33 deg c) it is impossible to work productively without it. One school that was included in my straw poll has south-facing classrooms - the sun streams in and everyone melts.

This is ridiculous. I demand that we either
a) introduce air-conditioning to schools, or
b) allow our children to stay home on hot days.

Come on! If we can afford it for our HQ-based civil-servants, we can afford it for our SATs-sitting, curriculum-bound school-attendees.

Eh?

Am I going bonkers or has the font on my blog changed? I was trying to put something in the sidebar and failed. And when I republished, it all looked different. Has it changed? Was it always "times new roman"? I can't remember now.

Oh well.

I've just visited Louise's site and seen photos of horses, and now I've got the "Maybe it's a big horse" song on the brain - you know the one:
Maybe it's a big horse I'm a Londoner, that I love Lon... no?

I'm off to bed now.

Cutting Remarks

I would like to have long hair. My hair has never been long. It's fine hair and, as it grows, it's gets untidy. So I have it trimmed. And then sometimes I have it cut short.

I want my daughter (19 months) to have long hair. Sadly for her, she's inherited my hair. It's fine and fly-away. She had her second trim yesterday.

Now, hairdressers tell me that in order to grow hair, you need to have it trimmed regularly. But I once knew someone, when I worked at the Science Museum, whose hair went from being quite short to being quite long within the space of a year. "How do you do that?" I asked her. "You don't have it cut," she replied. And she was clever. She had a degree from Cambridge University. She should know.

Long haired people past and/or present: how do you do it?

Forget Housework....

... over on this blog:

http://teamhammer.blogspot.com/

we're debating "homosexuality and the bible". The Church is divided over this at the moment. If you are interested in hearing both sides of the argument, laid out coherently and in full, you may like to pay it a visit.

(I'm sorry I can't get my links to work, but I'd still urge you to go there and have a read of the post and the comments that follow it).

I hope that TeamHammer don't mind me drawing your attention to their blog. I'm assuming not. I mean I just love it when I have a new reader!)

Housework

This...



... is not meant to be happening. We spent-up and over-spent recently when we re-furnished our dining room. "From now on," I said "surfaces are to remain clear and CDs MUST STAY ON THE CD RACK!"

And once I've finished blogging, I'm going to go downstairs and make a start on tidying up...

Holiday Snaps

Italy, June 2006:

Fields...


Cherries...


Step out of the front door and what do you see? (And sometimes, when there's low cloud, you see nothing, and you are alone for the day)


Highlight of Michaels' holiday...


And (because I wanted to finish the film) my favourite drawing of Michael "as a wise man" (hence the head-gear) produced spontaneously by him after taking part in the church nativity play, Christmas 2005

Where's my heart?

Oh. It's ok. It's right there. On my sleeve. Where it always is.

Over the past three weeks, I have had a number of rather demanding tasks to perform, in addition to the exceedingly demanding task of being a mummy. I had to take a very deep breath before embarking on all of this. In short, and in addition to ferrying little people to and from nursery, toddler groups, music groups, french groups and baby-gym groups, I had to run three sessions over three weeks on strategic planning for the teachers at Michael's nursery (something I knew a lot about 5 years ago in my previous life as career-woman), help organise a school fair and be Snow White at it and run two Sunday School sessions. You may say "and...?", but for me, that was stretching, and to be quite frank, I didn't want to do any of it. You see all of it could have gone totally to pot. The fair and the sessions on strategic planning were especially liable to go pear-shaped.

But week 1 went well, week 2 went well - the nursery fair was a great success and raised loads of money for the school - I'd hoped (in my wildest dreams) that we might raise £1k - we topped it by at least £300!!!!!

My final task was yesterday evening: session 3 on strategic planning at the nursery. And, to be honest, it flopped. I'd not prepared it well enough, I was de-mob happy after the fair on Saturday and I just could not carry it off. It was embarassing. But it was ok in that I was free of charge, I'd not taken up too much of their time and we've almost achieved what we set out to achieve during these sessions (I'd been over-ambitious in my goals). We can fix it (with a little help from my friend: FIONA! FEEE-OOOO-NAAAA!)

So what would you do? Put things in perspective and say "I did really well to run 2 out of 3 good sessions after all this time away from work?" Or feel totally inadequate and fret about it all evening and then go to bed to dream about having to re-sit your finals, going into the exams knowing only what you know now about your degree subject.

How many more times am I going to have that dream?

Feeling A Bit Left Out Today

Well, you see, I'm the only one in this household who didn't win the World Cup yesterday. My husband, Mario, is, well, Italian. Therefore our children are half Italian and I'm English and useless at football.

BUT, I could become half-Italian by virtue of our marriage. A bit of form-filling (yeah right) and I'd be there. I'd never really considered this until recently (when England were knocked out of the World Cup and Italy weren't, if I'm honest). "Get me sorted!" I said to Mario, "Immediately!" Wow. I was to become half-Italian. I really liked the sound of that.

And then I went off the idea. I went to bed that evening and, with my head resting on the pillow, realised that this was not a good idea at all. It didn't feel right. Not one bit. Why? My reason for nudging Mario awake and saying "forget it, I don't want to be half-Italian after all... and by the way sorry for waking you up -I know you've an early start tomorrow" had nothing to do with my feelings about Italy, Italians or being Italian, but more to do with how very English I feel and how not at all Italian I feel. I realised, there and then, that my country has shaped me, to some extent, and that Italy hasn't (I mean that's not surprising - I'd never been there until 6 years ago). Now, if we were to move to Italy and I were to start feeling influenced by the fact that I lived there, then that would be different.

Anyway, here are some of my favourite things about England (I am not going to list my least favourite things - not today). I'm going to be honest here. I'm not going to include things that I feel I should include but actually know nothing about, like "great works of art":

1) London - magnificent buildings (like the Law Courts on the Strand, where I worked for a time), tiny networks of roads and alleys around St Pauls - all Dickensian in their Geography, theatres, museums, parks, shops, wine bars in cellars. Favourite bit of London? Probably Green Park / Victoria.

2) Historic buildings and all that come with them (including cream teas in their "tea rooms" and lavender bags in their gift shops - can't remember the last time I purchased either of those, but I just like to know that they are there) - so we're talking Windsor castle, Warwick Castle, etc. etc.

3) Yorkshire - well, you know, it's where my roots lie. I know that for a fact. I've studied my family tree.

4) proximity to loads of other great and very diverse countries - (including Wales and Scotland, of course)

Just going to pause here. This is quite difficult. I do not want to have to save this in draft. I NEVER do that. I MUST publish it. but I might come back and change it. I'm in danger of two things with this post:

i) sounding patriotic in a right wing sort of a way - don't want that. It's always difficult to talk about good things in England for fear of sounding like a total nationalist

ii) producing a list of twee "English" things that feature heavily in any holiday brochure aimed at enticing Americans to come over (I assume) but that actually never feature in the life of anyone who actually lives here.

OK - let's swiftly finish this post:

5) Coronation Street

6) Radio 4

7) The Times letters page - but only the amusing letter that they always publish at the bottom right

8) M&S food

9) This tiny and very ancient church in Wales that I fell in love with - worthy of a post all of its own. You have to walk through fields to reach it and it sits in a small round Norman churchyard. I'll do a proper post about it, one day. Actually it was the church where my father took his last service on Easter Day 2003.

But that's not in England, Ruth. Oh crumbs. Let's leave it there. I've strayed over the border. That must mean I've reached the end of a very uninspiring list of things that are good about England!!!

Right. I'm off to get meself a nice cuppa tea.

Tattie-bye.

Oooh, hang on:

10) History. Especially 18th century social and economic history and places you can visit to explore relics of that, first hand - e.g. Manchester, Ironbridge.

The Sermon on the Amount

The church I attend has been turning its mind to money, of late, and recently, traditional sermons have been replaced by presentations on giving (money to the church). I have missed all of these, as I've either been teaching at Sunday School or wandering around the churchyard with Isabel in order to spare the congregation from her screaming, running, jumping, singing and other attempts at disruption.

I have, though, read the vicar's piece on stewardship in the church magazine and, as well as providing me with the lovely bit of wit that I half-inched (pinched) for the title of this blog, it has given me a little food for thought. Our church was built for £12k in the late 1800s. It is now insured for nearly £9m (berlimey). It's a beautiful church. So anyway, if we were starting from scratch as a parish, we'd need to find rather a lot of pennies in order to build a church like the one we have. I suspect that if we were all to chip in, we might be able to afford a large tent somewhere.

Aren't we lucky then, that our ancestors made this investment in fabulous church buildings when they did? I mean, religious or not, I think most people would be heartbroken if these historic buildings were to disappear from our cities, towns, villages and hamlets.

So it's BDDGHSS

I may be quizzed on this tomorrow at 11.00am, when I become Snow White for 100 eager children (who can't WAIT to meet her - OOOOHHHHHH HEEEEEELLLLLLLPPPPPPPP). (Michael has asked me to repair his torn Snow White book, so that he can show it to "the real Snow White" - OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLPP)
So it's:
Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezy.

I'm off now, to collect my costume. Michael's coming with me (how will I explain this???? "Mummy offered to have Snow White's costume cleaned and ironed for her and we're just going to pick it up....?")

Oh what a tangled web we weave
when first we practise to ....open the nursery school fair as Snow White.

Wish me luck. I have to say, I'll be offering one of my more bizarre prayers up to the Good Lord at 10.57 hours tomorrow!! If you, too, can bear to say a quick "Lord, make Ruth a good Snow White, Amen" it'll be much appreciated!

Heigh Ho

Perhaps I should be Postman Pat (... and HELP)

But when I tried on the Postman Pat nose, glasses, hair and hat, I looked just like.... Ruth wearing Postman Pat's nose, glasses hair and hat. So I opted instead for the Snow White outfit which seems, thanks to the black wig, to hide the real me to a greater extent (and I get to wear false eye'lashes for the first time!). And that's how I shall open Michael's school fair next Saturday.

But Snow White? What kind of a role model is she? I had a quick think about her and other female fairy tale characters last evening and realised that they all seem to send out the same attrocious message: "Girls. Find your Prince Charming (or better still, get fairy god-mother or 7 dwarfs to find him for you) and you shall live happily ever after". So now I really wish I'd opted for Postman Pat instead (despite the poor cover-up job). "What's so good about Postman Pat as a role model", said Mario last night? "Dunno. Have you seen Michael's library book?" came my reply. Oh we just love to debate these things, Mario and I. Sometimes we spend 30 - 60 seconds discussing the major issues that affect the modern age.

Anyhow, it's impossible to change my costume now (don't make me bore you with details of why - ok - if you, like me, hate minor details, go to the next paragraph now - woman who runs shop's on holiday from 5am this morning till the morning of the school fair and will already have ironed my dress and adjusted the choker).

So I am Snow White, minus dwarfs. I must say I did laugh at myself in the costume. I'm to be the Disney-cartoon version of Snow White and two things stand out when you wear a female Disney-cartoon costume:
1) the fact that your waist-line is greater than 10 inches
2) the fact that your eyes are not gigantic and your mouth isn't minute (is that how you spell my-newt? But it's the same as minute... hmmm. Oh well)

(It also looks very odd if you adopt anything other than a "shoulders back and breath in" stance - I caught myself slouching "Rigsby-style" in the mirror and made a mental note not to do that on the day!!)

But HELP: what am I going to say? How am I going to open the fair? Do I put on a Snow Shite (sorry, but I am leaving that typo there!! There's no way I'm removing that typo!!) type voice? If so, is it girly and pathetic or should I work to improve the role model and try to sound a little, oooh, I don't know, intellectual or something? What if the children point at me and shout "That's Michael's mummy"? How am I going to carry this off?

A stiff drink beforehand is not the answer - I considered that for a brief moment and decided swiftly against it...later, yes. At 8pm that evening I'm meeting a good old pal of my mine and a stiff drink'll definitely be my number 2 priority.

Lessons learned: never volunteer to do anything. Ever again.

As thingy as a wotnot

Many's the time, during conversation, that I need to call upon a witty or, at least, original, simile to add a bit of fizz-pop to what I'm saying. And never can I dream any up on the spur of the mo. Never, that is, until the other day when blogging,and my "like dust to a Dyson" flowed off the tip of my tongue (or fingers), like something from I don't know what, to describe beautifully how, every 4 years, I'm "sucked into" the World Cup. Yes. I was rather proud of that one. OK, it would have been better had it not contained a brand name, but "like dust to a vacuum cleaner" was both lengthy and lacking in alliteration. And, let's face it, nothing sucks like a Dyson.

What I like about my new Dyson simile, if I may make so bold, is that it aint funny, so it can be re-used. Funny similes are only funny once - they do not re-cycle. Not at all. As useless as a chocolate fireguard / ashtray on a motorcycle / one-legged man in an arse kicking competition are all, quite literally, one-hit wonders.

My favourite simile of all time was included in an edition of the dire BBC soap "Eastenders". It amuses me a little that in British soapland there is but one accolade worth achieving for all characters, be they great or small, and that is to get their "name above the door" of the local rub-a-dub (pub). The pub in Eastenders is called "The Queen Victoria", or "The Vic". Dirty Den was especially obsessed with this haunt (he'd travelled the world but returned to Walford, so eager was he to see his name above that door). I don't remember what he was bleating on about or to whom in the particular episode where he chimed in with something along the lines of "... and she'll be out of this Square faster than you can say Queen Vic". Great! What a pricelessly rubbish piece of script-writing or ad lib.

I use the phrase all the time now!

Ah yes. Neil Kinnock. I'd forgotten all about him.

Just been reminded of a lovely line from a Kinnock speech from yester-year (when everything was being privatised):

"The thing about Tories is they begin by promising you the earth and end up selling you water."

[Sigh] We've had some good Labour leaders in the past.

Another "Oh bother, I wish I hadn't started this" type scenario

I was running a training course (.... oh the number of times I, as a management trainer, e-mailed course delegates to tell them that I would be ruining their course, but that's a subject for a future post all about funny typos!). Anyway, as I was saying, I was running a training course for managers, and I'd bought a "business game". I'd not tried the game out before "going live" with it. I'd barely even read the instructions or guidance notes. Had I done any of the aforementioned, I might have realised straight away that the game was not going to provide the lessons in team-building and project management that it promised it would on its box.

The game was long. The course delegates had to split into three teams and spend hours doing something under certain conditions, having first designed a map of "their island" and a "national flag" (to improve team cohesion). They were meant to barter and negotiate with other teams, but using communication-styles that were dictated in their mammoth instruction pack, styles that they would never actually use in reality. We broke for lunch and returned to the game. "No-one will solve the riddle", promised the game's blurb, and the idea was that the group would spend ages after the game had finished discussing why this was. Well, my course delegates did solve the riddle. They rather enjoyed playing the game too. But I could think of abolutely nothing to say in relation to team building or project management when the game was over. I mean that's not necessarily a problem at all. The job of the trainer is to pose good questions, not answer them. All I had to do was to re-convene the group and ask them "what lessons have we learned in team building from this game?" But really, the game provided no lessons whatsoever.

So, moving swiftly on...

It gets me EVERY time

The World Cup. I always groan when I realise it's a World Cup year and humph at the sight of the England flags strewn all over the place (NOT cars as well - prriiee). And then, I'm sucked in, like dust to a Dyson.

I am ashamed of this fact. I'm not ashamed of the fact that I get hooked on the Olympics 2 years later. But I am ashamed of being a closet World Cup fan. I am, by now, even watching non-England matches when I can. And I am enjoying them. Enormously. I really loved the Portugal match the other evening (already forgotten who they were playing) - the ref. was the most comical character I've seen in a long time - he had the temperament of Basil Fawlty and the sleight of hand of Paul Daniels. He couldn't produce the cards from his pocket quickly enough! It was hilarious!

Here is what puzzles me about football (and I am not going to list "the off-side rule" here - that's quite simple):
1) players' earnings
2) the fans: they seem to leave a match with the idea that they themselves have won or lost the game. No! It's the 11 men down there on the pitch who have won. Not you! By the look of most of you, you couldn't even walk the length of the field, let alone run up and down it for 90 minutes plus stoppage time. Oh you may wear the strip, yes, and I could wear a tutu and go and see the Royal Ballet perform, but that doesn't make me Darcey Bussell...
3) pre-world cup parties - No! Parties are for AFTER the event; celebrate when and if you have won..... well, ok, party on while you can, I s'pose...
4) players'hairstyles - they are fabulous, they really are. They are beautifully cut and styled. Now, maybe if you look good, you feel good and you peform well. BUT, if you're having a bad hair day, and we all have them (365 a year, in my case), performance will be affected. Ought our players to be so reliant upon their hairstyle when playing international football? Beckham ought not to be thinking "hope my hair's still holding up" every time he takes a free kick, he should be concentrating on the ball. Sven's mind's clearly on the game - the player's should follow his example and adopt his barber. I suspect that the day "our lads" enter the pitch (or whatever it's called) with hair skew-wiff will be the day we bow out of this championship.

Sirens are sounding and red lights are flashing because I am now going to make a very sexist statement: I wish that their shorts were shorter and I love the bit at the end of the game when they take their tops off. I apologise for any offense caused by that remark, and I would have deleted it from my blog if I lived in a society which disallowed page 3 girls to appear in a national newspaper. Can you BELIEVE that still goes on...? (I know 2 wrongs don't make a right but I'm a desperate housewife and ....doh, I can't think of any excuse really but the comment is staying. I know for a fact that a fair few of my friends will agree with it even if they don't agree with it, if you know what I mean!!!)

Sadly, there's no footie on the telly tonight - I shall knit instead. It's high time I finished my scarf (nearly done) and then I can start project number 2. Anne?! (I wonder if Anne's still reading - this'll test it!!!!) Anne! What next Anne!

Another Fine Mess

You see, I once got myself into a rare old two 'n' eight (state) when I started something that I couldn't quite fin...
The year: 1995
The Place: The bathroom of my flat in Shepherd's Bush - my spinster pad, if you will
And ....ACTION:

Ruth notices a very small flaw in the paintwork above the sink and to the right of the mirror. She peels a small amount of the paintwork off and concludes: "there are too many layers of paint here. The whole room needs stripping down to the plaster and then re-painting".

Further peeling ensues until Ruth decides that "peeling's not the way forward. Sandpaper is needed".

Ruth has sandpaper in her kitchen drawer, fetches it and begins sanding. 45 minutes later Ruth realises that sanding is:
(a) very hard work
(b) going to take for ever

There is now a 30cm square patch of exposed plaster above the sink and to the right of where the mirror should be. Ruth repeatedly looks from plaster patch to the rest of the bathroom, as her heart slowly sinks. "How many hours of my life is it going to take to remove the paint from this room?" Ruth regrets ever touching the paintwork in the first place.

Ruth leaves the room and "sleeps on it".

At work the following day, people are amused to hear of Ruth's exploits. One keen DIY-er offers to lend her his electronic sanding machine. "Problem solved", thinks Ruth! Chap turns up to work with the goods the following day and Ruth happily carts the thing home on the tube - "can't wait to start with this!"

No time for tea, certainly no time for reading any instructions, switch on, sandpaper pressed to the wall, whizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz and "****fire there's a hole in the wall. Ok. That's bad. It's powerful. Slow down." But all that I could produce were several more, smaller holes in the wall.

Abort mission.

Ruth returns, yet again (had several previous minor disasters when trying to hang pictures from the wall) to her stock of polyfilla. Out it comes, on it goes. It's way from smoothly applied - "think outside of the box, think outside of the box, buy a gigantic mirror and cover the whole think up"

There we go. All done and dusted.

Why didn't I just use paint-stripper? I don't know. There will have been a good reason, but I can't remember what it was....

Politics

David Cameron plans to replace the Human Rights Act with a British Bill of Rights. The legislation contained within the European Human Rights Act is three things:
(1) lengthy
(2) complex
(3) vital

It may well contain flaws and could well need tweaking, but if David Cameron starts tampering with it - trying to pull it apart and improving upon it, I just know that he'll end up in the same sort of predicament as the poor soul referred to in this blog: www.yarnharlot.ca/blog under heading "Out of Words", June 23rd, 2006. It's well worth a look; even if you know nothing about knitting, it's an amusing read!

These things are worse than pringles...

You Will Die at Age 82

Congratulations! You take good care of yourself. You're poised to live a long, healthy life.

What Age Will You Die?

Your Bumper Sticker Should Be

Buckle up - it makes it harder for aliens to suck you out of your car

What Bumper Sticker Should Be On Your Car?

Your French Name is:

Marcelle Bernier

What's Your French Name?

What Your Sleeping Position Says

You are calm and rational. You are also giving and kind - a great friend. You are easy going and trusting. However, you are too sensible to fall for mind games.

What Does Your Sleeping Position Say About You?

Lots of blogging from me today!

You Are 32 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

The Mouth Says It All

I went to the dentist for a check-up today. For many years I had a phobia about going to see the dentist. I don't know why that began, but by the time you've not been for a check-up for 16 years, you have good reason to fear going for one! I conquered my fear of dentists 6 years ago and I am rather proud of that - because it was a very deep-rooted fear. I still become nervous before a visit - doesn't everyone? But it is totally manageable now.

I was driven to seeing a dentist in the end because of the extreme pain that I was suffering as my wisdom teeth came through. These were rather painlessly removed and on top of that I needed just two (very large) fillings. So I was lucky. Today I escaped scot-free but for the bill.

Prior to visiting a dentist 6 years ago I searched the internet for ideas to help me conquer my fear. I found sites containing details of why other people were afraid to go to the dentist. So I was not alone. This helped. I also found details of many practices that specialised in treating nervous patients - using everything from hypnotherapy to soft-music, aromatherapy, counselling, pre-consulation visits, mild sedation... I realised that at the end of the day, regardless of whatever music was playing in the background or whatever scents filled the air, I was going to have to lie flat and allow a dentist to look in my mouth (I hate the lying flat bit -it makes me feel so vulnerable). So I skipped all that and just went.

I am now considering a little cosmetic work. It has been suggested by my dentist that "teeth straightening and whitening would make all the difference". My mouth, when relaxed, looks like a squashed tomato that someone has thrown at my face and my chin manages to be strangely none-existent and yet, at the same time, double. My husband feels that I need no longer concern myself too much with my appearance as I am married now, and I can see his point in a way. (So nothing at all to do with the cost of these ventures then, dear husband!) But I rather fancy entering my 40s with something of the Cameron Diaz about my looks...

But, who cares! I'm alive!! I've conquered a fear!!! If you never have, you MUST. You must develop a fear right away just so that you can conquer it. It's WELL WORTH IT! (If you have difficulty thinking of a fear, please feel free to contact me. I have a few more that I could lend you).

(I'm sorry, Kathryn, if you are reading this. I know you told me to stop saying horrible things about the way I look and I will. From now on I will. I promise. OK. The truth is: I think that I, like many, many people, can look everything from $1m to 1 euro, depending upon an awful lots of things (make-up, mood, month-time - I wonder if I can make them all begin with "m"? I also think that a kind, smiley face is worth its weight in botox).

Anne and Louise have this and it's only right and proper that I should too.

The idea is that you copy and paste this into the comments section and then answer the questions. I'll put my body armour on! (Re question 4, I would love it if a man were to answer this. I used to wish that I could invent a computer into which you could type a name, press "return" and it would reveal whether said person "fancied you or not"!! I had so many crushes as a young person. I kept very quiet about most of them. Mine was very much a tale of unrequited love ... at least I think it was. I have been tempted to list all my crushes on my friends reunited entry so that those listed could tell me now what they thought of me then!! - go on, dare me!!)

01. Who are you?
02. Are we friends?
03. When and how did we meet?
04. Do/Did you have a crush on me?
05. Would you kiss me?
06. Describe me in one word.
07. What was your first impression?
08. Do you still think that way about me now?
09. What reminds you of me?
10. If you could give me anything what would it be?
11. How well do you know me?
12. When’s the last time you saw me?
13. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn’t?
14. Are you going to put this on your blog/journal and see what I say about you?

And off he went into the tunnel, leaving me with just his cap....

My dear son, Michael, will start "big school" in September. Yesterday, all new parents and pupils paid his new school a visit. The parents were to sit through an info session in the hall, and the new pupils were to go into their classroom for an afternoon of play, stories and whatever else.... to sample what was to come, I suppose.

The headteacher introduced herself and then asked our offspring to follow Mrs Davis out of the hall and into the corridor that would lead to their "Reception" classroom. My friend was sitting next to me with her daughter. Her daughter wasn't totally sure that she wanted to follow Mrs Davis out of the hall. "Go on," said her mummy, "perhaps you can hold Michael's hand. Michael. Will you hold hands?" So off he went, one hand holding onto his friend, and most of the other stuck inside his mouth.

(as an aside: how do I stop him with this terrible habit? If it's not his hand in his mouth, it's his sleeve and if it's not his sleeve then it's a cussion/ sofa / chair arm.... anything??).

I was left in the hall with the other parents, holding onto his little cap. My friend next to me was left holding onto her daughter's comforting teddy bear. "Off they go into the tunnel", said my friend. "It's really sad," she added, looking at teddy. "Mmm," I agreed. "Off they go into the tunnel, to emerge age 21, clueless as to what to do next".

But it's a lovely little school. It is very friendly, cosy and calm. The children there are happy, as are the teachers and the parents. It is a C of E school and I am glad that each of his days there will begin with an assembly with some religious content.

Mikey is really ready for this now - he was upset at having to leave the school yesterday and couldn't sleep last night because he is so excited about: his school tie (we had to buy his uniform yesterday); plimsoles and shoe bags; and school dinners. He was also very excited about all of the technical equipment that was in the hall (sound centres and lights and stuff).

All I could think of during the info session though was how similar it was to the ante-natal classes I had attended only the other day - or was it 5 years ago? - mums and dads sitting in a semi-circle and listening. Except now it's school...

Conversations with my husband

He was sitting on his sofa and I was sitting on mine, and we'd just caught the last 4 minutes of the England Vs ??? match (I like to hear the match analysis following a game, as coaching and people-management interest me - kicking balls doesn't though - so we switch on for extra time and the natter. Pretentious? Moi?)

Me: Who decides where the world cup takes place?

Husband: [answered question. don't remember answer. I think it contained lots of "Fs" but I don't know how many because I'm no genius (see previous post)]

Me: So which sporting competition is it where the winner hosts the next event?

Husband: That's the Eurovision Song Contest

Me: Oh yeah.

Husband: (eyes fixed on TV) shheeesh

Me: (eyes also fixed back on TV) hng

My scarf and other animals

It's growing. Slowly I'll grant you, but it's growing!



By law, every one who has a child in Britain must purchase a toy car like this. You will not enter a British law-abiding household with children and no such vehicle.



I look as if I am saying my prayers - but actually I dislike having my photo taken and my hands are clenched through mild anxiety. A quick poem about this photo:
I can only do a grin, never a seductive pout,
If I try a seductive pout, I look a bit a like a trout.




Boy I love this scarf.



Michael's patch of the garden. He waters it every so often ... in fact whenever he's playing outside and needs a pee.

Karate and Personality

I am going to be brief here - could write a book on this. (for knitting and a question about the bible, please see below - lots of posts from me today and I'd hate my question on the OT to go unanswered!!)

This post follows on from a recent discussion on Supergroup7's excellent martial arts blog.

It is a brief summary of the findings of a single, small scale study of women shotokan karateka. I do not know which psychomtetric assessments or other methods were used. Significant findings were:
1) the shotokan karate women (SKM) were significantly more extravert than females who did not do karate, and more extravert than male karateka
2) SKW were more impulsive than the average male, and than the average male karate-ka
3) SKW were as "tough minded" as male karateka, and more so than non-karate women (where tough-minded means aggressive, hostile, generally troublesome, cruel, insensitive, have difficulty making friends) - but they were still low scoring in this trait
4) SKW scored much lower in "mental well-being" than non-karate women (where mental wellbeing is measured using indicators such as insomnia, fatigue, depression, loss of confidence, suicidal thoughts and so on) :-(
I have to say I'm confused about point 4 - I'm not sure how we are meant to interpret "scored much lower in"? I may have to speak to the original author about that, which may be possible....

Source: Layton, C and Randall, M (1998) "A Shotokan Book of Facts, Vol 3"

More is written in Vol 1 about research into the effects of karate upon the personality. I am interested in finding out more about the personailty traits of those who become interested in the martial arts... The above research was carried out using a small sample of women. It appears that there may be scope for more research here.

This is for Anne, but....

- a better one will follow when I get myself sorted, and
- the scarf is now a lot longer than this (nearly onto ball 3), and
- for absolutely wonderful pictures of knitting, go to Anne's blog

The Old Testament

I have a question (Anne, give John a nudge!)

Maybe everyone in the whole world knows this, except me. If so, apologies for being stoopid.

Here goes:
What is it about the writers of the Old Testament that means we should either believe what they wrote or follow any of the advice contained therein?

I hope that question makes sense - and I do not mean to imply any criticism of the OT or its writers. I would just like to know the answer to the question (in the same way as I like to know the qualifications and credentials of my doctor or health visitor before I take their advice etc.)

And whilst we're on the subject of the bible: what is one to make of:
a) the bits in the NT where people follow advice that comes to them in dreams (e.g. where the angel appeared to Joseph in a dream).

And
b) the bits that begin: "and the Lord spoke to him and said...."?

Photos

I know that I promised more photos today but I am unable to deliver on this owing to a broken shutter at Asdas. I apologise for the delay in showing my photos and can assure you that they will be appearing as soon as the problem with the shutter at Asda's is recitified.

Ideas Please

You may wonder how I've managed to bring this upon myself but, unless anyone more capable volunteers, I am probably going to be opening Michael's nursery school fete, dressed up as a character from a fairy tale (or as something else that will delight the children). Any ideas as to who, what and how???

(I need to be unrecognisable to the children, including my own, if that is at all possible.....)!!!!!!!!

Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop

... that's the sound as I lead this particular horse from her stable. Foot in stirrup; grab hold of saddle (Louise'll correct me if I'm wrong in my mounting procedure); one, two, three UP - she must be 17 hands, this horse. But I've made it up. Yet again. Yeap. I'm on my high horse. (Was that paragraph beginning to sound a little odd and unsavoury...?)

This time, it's the news. It really tees me off when news reporters try to go all poetic like this (from Channel 4 News yesterday, but they all do it far too frequently - BBC's the worst offender):

There is to be a by-election in Bromley (London) following the death of their MP. It's a Tory safe seat. Cameron hopes that one of his "A-listers" ("modern Conservatives") will win the seat. But Bromley is likely to elect more of a right wing traditionalist. News Reporter: "So, are the traditional Tory's here in Bromley safe as houses" (camera shows the handle and lock of a front door and pans out to show a house), "or is it not all wrapped up yet?" (camera shows a large box being wrapped up with ribbon)

Here's another recent example: a news report on problems associated with rural living ended with:
"... or is it all too woolly?" (camera panned from close up to long shot of a sheep).

I hate it when they do that. It's really contrived and it's just so patronising to the viewer. They always pause for a micro second before they lavish the visual punn. It REALLY ... gets my goat (camera shows goat chewing grass).

Now then let's see if I can get this to work....

Here are some photographs.



This is the bed that Mario and I recently planted. In time it will hide his (beloved) shed. He sees no reason to hide the shed. But I do. We dug and planted this bed one evening whilst the children were asleep in bed (can not garden properly when they are awake). We were still digging and planting at 11.00pm, but we enjoyed a good bottle of bubbly in the process. We couldn't see our finished product until the following morning as it was really dark by the time we'd planted the last shrub!



And these are the knitting needles that my friend Anne sent me in the post today, as a reward for persistence in her caption competition (made in USA and painted in Russia and then returned to USA for assembly). I have fallen in love with these knitting needles - in fact it was a case of love at first sight. My next knitting venture will definitely make use of them. You can just see a tiny bit of the scarf that I am knitting to the left of this photo. It's there to tease you... I have a proper photo of it but I can't get it to appear upright. I'll have to fathom that out and get back to you...

You blog, I copy...

Thanks Sarah for this. It's very interesting.

www.sarahcontrary.blogspot.com

You fit in with: Spiritualism Your ideals are mostly spiritual, but in an individualistic way. While spirituality is very important in your life, organized religion itself may not be for you. It is best for you to seek these things on your own terms. 60% spiritual. 60% reason-oriented.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Try this

ALZHEIMERS' EYE TEST


Count every " F" in the following text:

FINISHED FILES ARE THE RE
SULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTI
FIC STUDY COMBINED WITH
THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS...

(SEE BELOW)




HOW MANY ?









WRONG, THERE ARE 6.
READ IT AGAIN !
Really, go Back and Try to find the 6 F's before you scroll down.


The reasoning behind is further down.








The brain cannot process "OF".




Go back and look again!!



Anyone who counts all 6 "F's" on the first go is a genius.


Three is normal, four is quite rare.







More Brain Stuff . . . From Cambridge University.

Olny srmat poelpe can raed tihs.


cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The
phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy,

it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.

Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! if
you can raed tihs psas it on !!

Tales of the Unexpected

Some of life's biggest, longest journeys can start without you ever realising that they're about to. You are totally unprepared for them. At 6.45 am on 23 April 2003, I was preparing myself for a journey. I thought that I might take my 18 month son to visit my mother and father in Wales. I wanted to leave London for a while and spend a few days up there surrounded by hills - it's so beautiful. I arose and started to pour a bath for myself, hoping to have a wash before Michael awoke.

The phone rang. "That'll be mum and dad now". I thought. Then, "It's a bit early. I hope everything's alright." Mario answered the phone and I could hear him talking downstairs. I could tell by the tone of his voice that something was not right. I walked downstairs. "Ruth's here now", he said. "No, you should tell her". And he asked me to sit down.

Mum then told me that my dad had died during the night. And I felt my self shatter into a million pieces...

Over time the pieces reassemble, but in a different way to how they were before. I miss dad hugely but I carry this sadness like a rucksack - it's on my back so that no-one can see it from the front, but I can feel its weight. And I am comfortable with its weight too. The wonder of a rucksack is that after a while, you barely notice that it is there.

So I did begin a journey on 23 April 2003. A journey that I have to take without the wit, wisdom, friendship and comfort of my wonderful dad. Except that I still feel his wit, wisdom, friendship and comfort every day. Thank goodness for that.

I want this for my blog

I'm not sure how naughty this is, but I've just lifted a post, lock, stock and barrel, from someone else's blog and I'm going to place it right here (I mean, fortunately, of course, the post also remains on the original blog so it's not that bad, but...)

yearning for the sea

‘If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work, and give orders. Teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea’

-Antoine de Saint Exupery
www.thedeepend.squarespace.com/journal

You can see why I just had to have it, can't you.

To Wee or Not to Wee. That is the Question

My first relationship lasted four years. It ended dramatically and disastrously when I was 24 years old. I figured that one of the numerous things that had contributed to the downfall of this partnership was that we had become so familiar with one another as to saturate all romance. There was no air of mystery or excitement in our relationship. This manifested itself in many ways. One manifestation of this was that we had no qualms about going to the toilet in each other's presence. I thought nothing of taking a wee whilst he cleaned his teeth in the same room. I decided that all future relationships would be conducted wholly outside of the bathroom door.

So, I always ensured that I'd been to the toilet before meeting up with boyfriend number 2 and it was months before I could bring myself to go to the toilet in the same building as him, never mind the same room. It had become a bit of a thing for me. This relationship fizzled out, neither helped nor hindered by my lavatorial policy. It made way for liaison number 3. Again, no weeing together. It ended and I met the man to whom I am now married (although not necessarily in that order).

Mario and I will celebrate our 6th anniversary this year. He has seen me wee, poo, vomit, give birth, laugh my head off, cry my eyes out, drunk as a Lord, sober as a judge (I used to work for a chap who was both a Lord and a judge - don't know anything of his drinking habits though), be totally reasonable, be totally unreasonable, overweight, underweight, angry, calm, depressed, contented... there is not a side to Ruth that he has not seen. He is the only person on this planet and beyond who could put up with me, but he does far more than that. He encourages me to be me. "You do it", he says. Quite often. And I say the same to him.

We have two sofas in our living room. He sits on one in the evening and I sit on the other. We watch old comedies together and laugh hysterically in totally different places. He says potato and I say tomato and there is no one I'd rather be with.

My conclusion: I think on balance it's better to save weeing together until after marriage.

Communication Problems

How does it affect us to receive the depth and breadth of news that is now broadcast?

This morning, I continued to spread my toast when I heard the news on the radio that 8 people were killed in Iraq yesterday by a car bomb. News of 8 innocent deaths? Shouldn't that bring me to my knees in horror? I am immune to tragedies that do not personally affect me or those I love. Maybe people always have been immune to the tragedies of others, but it is only recently that we have started to receive news of them on a daily basis.

A hundred years ago I may have heard of a death in my village or town. I would have heard very little of occurrences beyond that. My sphere of influence, if you like, would have been, say 5 miles in radius and, say 2,000 people. Now, we each have a sphere of influence that is global. We hear of tsunamis in the Pacific, hurricanes in the States, genocide, terrorism, shootings... We also hear of a 13 month old baby who lives in a far away town who dies in hospital because he is mis-treated by the staff there. We hear of the death in a car crash of a celebrity. And via the telephone we hear that someone we worked with 10 years ago and did not know very well has died suddenly of a stroke at the age of 39. And via the internet, we know of the life's work of all those we were at school with. Are our minds designed to cope with all of this information?

But are we subject to more tragic news today than were our ancestors 100 or so years ago, when infant mortality was up to 50% and when we ourselves could expect to lose babies to stomach bugs, whooping cough, measles? Is it the case that our own lives are, on average, less tragic than those of our ancestors, but to make up for this we hear a whole lot more about the tragedies of others around the world.

What concerns me is that a century or so ago I may have heard, first thing in the morning that Mrs Miggins from the pie shop down the road had died in the night (were I Black Adder). I would then have ceased to spread my toast and run to the rescue of Mr Miggins and their children, with offers of comfort and practical help. Now, we hear news of terrible things and do absolutely nothing about it. The Morning News washes over us like the soap we used moments earlier in the shower.

When I did hear by telephone, fairly recently, that someone I had worked with 10 years ago had died suddenly of a stroke at the age of 39 I was dumb-founded. I could not stop thinking about it for 48 hours. I had to counsel myself about this and the only way that I could let it go was to tell myself that I ought not to know about it. This was information that had reached me via modern-age technology. It was information that I could do nothing with - I did not know her family; I could neither attend the funeral nor offer help. I had to put it out of my mind (impossible, of course, and I think of her family who I do not know at very regular intervals).

What a jumbled post this is. I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make other than to say that I am fascinated by impact of the "global village" on our psyche. I am intrigued that I know more about Tom Cruise and his wife's birth, Jade Goody and Paris Hilton than I do about my next door neighbours.

I'd do well to save this post as a draft and come back to it when I'm less tired, but I'm terrible for not doing that. I'm gonna stick it up the flag pole and see who salutes. And then I might come back to it and clean it up another time.

London: A Large Village Surrounded by Beautiful Countryside

That's what the estate agents would have us believe if they could. Have a read of Louise's life-style up there in Scotland www.gemini-scotblog.blogspot.com In her most recent post she describes how she drops the children off from school and then goes bird-watching for half a hour or so before getting on with her day. This sounds idyllic to me.

I could not believe it when I first came to London (having spent my teenage years in the middle of nowhere, 12 miles from the nearest town) that people would pay a hefty, and I mean HEFTY, premium down here to live in a house that did its best to pretend to be in the middle of nowhere - e.g. on the edge of Wimbledon Common. And people called part of Wimbledon (where I lived at first) Wimbledon Village. Village???? It's in the middle of one of the largest conurbations in the world.

This morning I took a drive to one of London's satellite towns (which the estate agent's brochure also describes as a village!!!!) to look at a brand new 4 bedroomed house. This house is tucked away amongst a load of other new-builds, each of its rooms as tiny as they can possibly be without totally preventing you from exhaling. It'll cost comeone half a million notes to live there. They'll save themselves ten-thou if they opt for the identical house opposite, as that one does not enjoy a view of the "river": green swampy canal with corrugated iron sides to it. Oh, and there's a footpath nearby, through one field. So this location is almost rural....

Apparently where we live now is "semi rural", according to the estate agents. But we're on the Piccadilly Line! Twenty minutes from here and you're into Central London!!

What price a view, eh?

Sin and Sunday School

As you will know if you've ploughed your way through previous posts in this blog, I am new to the wonderful world of Sunday School teaching. I lead the group one week in six - nothing too arduous - and, in fact, rather enjoyable. I've not been able to take on these light duties, however, without much soul-searching and to help me along with this, the vicar has started to host monthly meetings where I and other leaders can voice questions: anything to do with Sunday School (which I'd prefer to call Sunday Group, but I've not told them that yet.... some of them may in fact read that here for the first time, which will allow them time to arm themselves against that bit of "political correctness gone mad" (except please don't let's use that phrase, as it'll only make me worse).

At the most recent meeting, I voiced my concerns about the issue of confessional prayers. These are prayers that, for children, might begin with "Let us now call to mind all of the things that we have done wrong". I do not say these prayers with my children, nor do I relate any of "what they do wrong" to God, Jesus, Christian beliefs, church or morality. I have a four year old and, oh, I "tell him off", yes! I do a lot of that. But I try to stick to three rules:

1) If he is doing something to jeopardise the health and safety of himself or others, or if he is doing something that will have a tangible effect on his or someone else's property, tell him to stop and why.
2) Keep it short.
3) Move on. Do not rake over it again at a later stage. And certainly not at prayer time.

Sometimes, my four-year-old tells lies. I tackle this, despite it falling outside of rule number 1 (I mean you didn't think for one second that I actually succeeded in adhering to these rules, did you?) I am very careful to request that he tells the truth because otherwise it confuses mummy, or it wastes a lot of time. I do not tell him that "lying is wrong". Not yet. Maybe never...

"Why so woolly and liberal?" I hear some of you cry, whilst the rest of you shout "carry on like that and your son'll end up a knife-wielding axe-murderer."

Here are my fears. There are two of them. First, if a child's appreciation of what is right and what is wrong is founded primarily upon a moral code, such as the Bible, then if they let go of that code, they may well let go of their appreciation of what is right and wrong. So, let's say a child flies the nest at the age of 18 believing that promiscuity is wrong because the bible tells them so (can't say for sure whether it does or not, I'm afraid, but many Christians oppose sex outside of marriage so there must be something about it somewhere in there). They go, let's say, to university where they question the bible; their beliefs; the moral code with which they were brought up (all very healthy), they decide to reject it (maybe for a time, maybe for ever) and they no longer see any reason for not joining the rest of those in their Hall of Residence bonking the night away till kingdom come. Far better, in my opinion, for a young adult to reject promiscuity on the grounds of the emotional turmoil that it could bring about and, of course, on the grounds of the sexual diseases that can result from it if they do not use protection or if that protection fails them.

My second fear is this. I fear that too much talk of sin and confession can bring about a sense in a child, as they grow into a young adult, that they are, in fact, a "miserable sinner" and unworthy of being loved. I fear that may have repercussions on their ability to formulate healthy and loving relationships with others. I am concerned that unless it is handled very carefully, a focus on sin and confession can leave a child with a guilt complex that may take years to unravel.

I am open to opinion on this. Am I wrongly denying my poor Sunday School attendees, one week in six, of their opportunity to receive God's forgiveness for their sins, innocent as they are? We do say the Lord's Prayer (and I have not gone so loopy as to omit the "forgive our trespasses as we forgive those" bit). My concerns come into play not at the mere mention of sin and repentence, but when one dwells on it for any length of time. And I am not certain about the age at which I believe confessional prayers should be introduced.

I'm 37 years old and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up

I'm a "full time mum" now and I'm very happy. Today Isabel clapped in all the right places during a rendition of "Wind the Bobbin Up" at her "Monkey Music"class, and that gave me as great a sense of "job satisfaction" as anything ever has.

But this phase of my life will come to an end. Isabel will not be 18 months for ever (give it another month ....) Soon she'll go to "big school" and I'll be back to where I was having graduated at age 21: clueless as to what to do.

Prior to motherhood I was a management trainer. In many ways, that was good and suited me, except that it didn't. Ohhh, what am I here for???? I have considered becoming a career's adviser, which begs a whole new take on that well known saying regarding teaching: "those who can find their ideal career, do; those who can't become careers advisers".

And of course I am not in the same boat as I was when I was 21 and had just graduated. Lots of career doors have now closed to me on the grounds of age and flexibility. I do not want that job on a North Sea oil rig, thank you very much, as I wish to be home every evening to feed, bath and bed the little ones. I enjoy hearing the slamming sound of those career doors closing actually - less choice makes for easier choosing.

In the past, BC (before children), I attended career seminars, read books, completed psychometrics, gazed long and hard at my navel and still did not know what I should do job-wise. I had hoped that during this extended baby-making career break some vocation or other might make itself apparent to me. But no. Retirement appeals. I know that much. But what's to do between now and then....?

Dear Denise Robertson (oooh, I do like her advice. I'd love to talk to her)
I'm a 37 year old has-been who needs to re-train into something exciting and well-paid with lots of time-off. What do you recommend?
Confused of london.

Of course, my plan is to return to not thinking about this for at least another 12 months.

It's just that I visited pastures old this weekend and realised that everything had changed and decided that it was time for me to change too. The village where I lived as a child just did not feel like home at all any more. It was like Trigger's brush in the comedy "Only Fools and Horses". Trigger was the road sweeper who won a prize for making his brush last for 12 years. "That's amazing, Trig", cried his mates down the pub. "You've really made the brush last as long as that." To which he replied "Yeah, Dave. Well, of course, I've changed the handle on it 8 times and replaced the head every year, but other than that, it's the same brush". And my old village was about as much like my old village, as Trigger's brush was his original brush.

So people are right when they say there's no going back, I concluded on Sunday evening. Time to look to the future.

Right. Time to bath the children. Except no can do. The water's off owing to a burst pipe somewhere. Remind me not to work for the Water Board.

Out With The Old

It's the time of year when (other) people do their spring cleaning and this year I'm going to do some too. Noooooo, not the house, silly, my blog-profile of course. If it's an interest that I have not pursued in the last three months, then it has to go from the list. So out goes "performing magic tricks" (read one book, learnt one trick); out goes learning Italian (tho' it'll have to come back soon as we're due over there this summer and I've promised relatives I'll be able to communicate with them this time); out goes reading about history (sorry to see that one go - "miss you loads - I'll be back"); and out goes "running toddler prayer group" (I'm Sunday School teacher now instead). Hmmm.

One friend suggested that I should remove "over-weight" from my "About Me" bit but that's because she's not seen me for a few weeks now. It has to stay, I'm afraid.

Movies, music and books can stay the same, even though to admit to liking hymns is "so, like, not cool". I wish my "likes" were a bit less mainstream and I was more mysterious and interesting. But there we go.

If you are reading this today, why not go to www.rivendellfi.blogspot.com and wish Fi a happy birthday!!

Thank You

Thank you for your comments and responses to my theological questions below. What wise and supportive friends I have, both "real" and "virtual". I really did find your thoughts helpful. I also find it very encouraging that not one of you comes across as being a bible-wielding nutcase (sorry, I should have phrased that differently but I can't think of how else to put it at the moment). I do fear that "any member of the public who learns that I go to church" may think that I am either:
a) going to try to convert them
b) going to quote chapter and verse willie-nillie, like Dot Cotton off Eastenders, or be in some way like any of the other vile "religious" stereotypes they place in Soaps that are watched by a third of the population
c) going to be anti-gay, anti-cohabitation outside of marriage, anti-divorce or anti a whole host of other wonderful freedoms that allow us to live our lives to the full in a way that no previous generation has been able to

I don't know why I feel this need to question the issue of faith at the moment, but I do. One of the reasons that I can not simply dismiss it all and turn away is because I have known some really wise and intellectual people who have devoted their lives to the church. A friend of mine who is an atheist responded to that comment from me recently by saying that she knew a host of really wise intellectuals who are atheists (Mario's reading this from over my shoulder and he thought I'd typed anaesthetists there; GO AWAY HUSBAND. He's still there: GO AWAY ). Yes. So do I. A lot of my friends are atheists and very clever ones too. (He's just thrown a hankie at me: GO AWAY). But my counter-argument is you don't devote your life to being an atheist. It's not just that these people believed in God; they became priests or monks, rather than lawyers or doctors or whatever. And I think that if they believed in it all so much, then there must be something in it, or at least, it has to be worth exploring. So once again, thank you for helping me with those questions.

Two Theological Questions

(1) If God is omnipotent and loving, why does He or She "allow" suffering such as that resulting from the Tsumani, which might itself be described as "an act of God"?

(2) John 20, 9: "For as yet they knew not the scripture, that he must rise again from the dead". As Jesus' rising from the dead had been "predicted" in the scriptures, what's to say that the NT is not founded on what actually happened but is simply a document that restates what had been predicted, in order to sort of "save face".

Part of me hates raising these questions, but they are two issues that I am grappling with at the moment. I'd really be interested to read people's thoughts on them. (Hope I've worded them in a way that's clear).

Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land

I do not like to see very young children wearing football T-shirts, be they for Ing-er-land or any other team. To me, it smacks of a "you will wear my opinion" approach to parenting.

I suspect that you might respond to me on this in one of three ways. Actually, no, I'll rephrase that: one of many ways. And here are three of them:

1) Lighten up Ruth. It's just a bit of fun. No-one's forcing any opinions on anyone or anything else. They're just getting into the spirit of the game and hoping that their young offspring will pick up on some happy vibes.

2) Get serious Ruth. This is not just a game you know. Football's a matter of blah blah life or death blah blah 1066 blah blah all over it is now blah blahGermany blah blah

3) Will you stop blogging about children and parenting please. It's boring for those of us with kids; it's even more boring for those without. And if you're going to get on your high horse about something, can't you make it something really important and then actually do something about it instead of sitting there spouting....

And my response to that would be "well I have done something about something important actually. This very day. I've made a complaint at the Tesco Customer Service Desk about all the cars who were parked in the parent and child parking spaces with no children on board (having been beaten into the last available space by such a vehicle).

What? Is that not what you had in mind...?

Help.

Will somebody please tell me that it's ok to miss karate for the 4th lesson in a row this evening, on account of feeling totally cream crackered?

Thunderbirds Are.... Gone from our house for the time being

I take my children to the local library every fortnight (good mummy). Last week I allowed my son to borrow a Thunderbirds DVD (not so good mummy) - his friend enjoys watching and "playing" Thunderbirds and he'd been talking about it a lot lately. That afternoon I let him watch the DVD whilst I was out of the living room cooking the dinner (bad, bad mummy: TV ought not to be used as a "babysitting device").

It wasn't long before son was asking "mummy, what is a gas explosion?"

"Where have you heard about gas explosions?" came my reply.

"On Thunderbirds. A lady was trapped in her cellar when there was a gas explosion. Do we have a cellar...?"

And last night he had a nightmare that our house was on fire. "Do we have gas in our house? Why do fires happen? Will our house have a fire?"

It was hard to resist giving my natural response which would be something along the lines of "Yes, fires are a real danger with terrifying consequences; I sometimes go to bed fearing what might happen if the house were to catch light during the night. And I am forever double checking to ensure that I've turned the gas off. And that glass over there is half empty, son, I tell you, half empty."

But I did resist (good mummy), and he should sleep soundly tonight, safe in the knowledge that fires are extremely rare, and firemen are there to help in the unlikely event of one occurring.

We go to great lengths, don't we, to gradually introduce our children to the harsh realities of life. There was so much "Winnie the Pooh" in our house after Michael was born that I wondered whether he'd grow up thinking he'd been born into 100 Acre Wood. Piglets and Eeyores grinned down at him from cot mobiles, sang at him from toys and spoke soft cuddly rhymes at him from books. When would he realise that a bear would not actually appear yellow with a barrel of honey in one hand and a pink piglet in the other. How was he ever going to recognise a real, live cow from the pictures he'd seen of smiling, flower-chewing Ermintrudes in his board books? I was mildly concerned but not at all surprised when he actually saw a field of cows and said "look sheep!" on the way to Wales a couple of years ago.

TV does accelerate the process of getting to grips with reality though.... a little too quickly sometimes. I'm not sure whether I ought to continue watching the daytime news now when he is in the room.....

I'm off now. He wants me to get him some ice-cream (not so good mummy), one hour before dinner time (bad, bad mummy). Well, it's hot outside.

I've written a terrible poem...

... so it'll feel nicely at home with all the other rubblish that I've dumped onto this blog!

Busy old foole, unruly sunne,
Why dost thou...

No, not really. That was John Donne, complaining in metaphysical verse at the sun for rising and bringing an end to his night of passion. He liked a bit of how's your father, did John Donne. We read him for A' Level Sex, oops, I mean A' level English Literature*. I hope I've not misquoted him; I'm certain I've mis-spelt him a bit. After a hard day's toil I can not be bothered to shift my heavy frame from this long-suffering chair of mine to scan my bookshelves to check - anyway I probably lent my Oxford Book of Verse to the Bermuda Triangle (my sister) months ago so it'll not be there.

"And this," as Mike Yarwood used to say, "is me":

I like to listen to Radio Four
But there's one programme on it that's really a bore
And it's "You and Yours".

Every day from noon to the news
They talk on and on about consumer issues
And it's poor.

I'd like to complain of this dull waste of time.
So why do I listen (I can't find a rhyme)
Whilst I'm doing my chores?

It's a habit. But really I'd rather not know
Which Councils are better at clearing up snow
And which wait till it thaws.

I don't really care if Ms Chisholm from Leeds
Can't get a plumber out just when she needs
Or which kettles have flaws.

And so, I'm going to stop listening,
But first I'll write to the infernal thing
And say "up you and yours"

Apart from that, Radio Four is the best of eggs and my ambitions are to:
1) form an opinion on something and ring Any Answers with it on a Saturday afternoon;
2) be an audience member with a question on Gardeners' Question Time (imagine having (a) enough time to seriously garden (have to stop blogging for a start...) and (b) so few cares in the world that you can turn your mind to questions about which variety of cabbage grows best in a north facing, humus-rich patch just slightly to the left of the strawberries and downwind of the spuds);
3) go and see one of their funny programmes, like The Now Show or Money Box.


*it was definitely the latter and not the former - I was awarded an A for A' level English Literature.

Try this. It's Great

At last, the cure for information overload. Stunning!

Head Banging

Dear all,

Answer me this: am I the only one to follow this routine after accidentally banging my head? First, I think unprintable thoughts along the lines of **** it all, who put that there? ****, ****, ****** that hurt. Then I check that I've not done untold damage to the old grey cells by reciting a times table (to myself; in silence). Can I still manage the 4 times? Yes, even the tricky middle bit, so I must be ok. You never know, I may even have "knocked a bit of sense into my head".... but I have to wait to see whether that's so, and to date: nope.

I suspect that everyone follows the same thought processes after a blow to the old nut, but I can't be sure. I've never really given it much thought. Until now, I've never mentioned it to anyone. And it's a silent routine so no-one's queried the habit in me. However, I now have offspring who ocassionally bang heads. And I have a compulsion to follow the same neurotic pattern with them - at least the older one. (It doesn't work unless and until they can talk). "Ouch", cries Michael as he plays a little too vigorously at the local playground. "Ok Michael?" says a concerned mummy. And then I can't stop myself. The 4 times table's no good. He's too young for that. It has to be more of a: "look at those flowers over there Michael. Tell mummy what colours you can see..."

Phew, he's ok.

But am I? Am I?

Faith

www.cartoonchurch.com/blog has drawn my attention to the threatened closure of the chain of Christian bookshops called SPCK. Father Richard has commented on the threatened closure and one of the points he raises is this: "What worries me, as a bookseller and as a parish priest, is how much harder it is becoming to engage people in thinking about their faith, in exploring it, pushing at the boundaries, growing a deeper knowledge of Christ."

I think that this is a very interesting point and I have some thoughts on it, based on personal experience. One of my thoughts is this: I believe that people are especially, though not exclusively, driven to examine their faith or their spiritual beliefs at times of loss: when someone close dies, for example, or when a partner leaves them. If I am correct in that belief, then the decrease in a search for spiritual truths might be a healthy reflection of a healthy society - no more is infant mortality or death in childbirth commonplace; life expectancy is good 'n' high and we're not losing our husbands and teenage sons in World Wars.

But in the midst of life still comes death, and divorce rates are soaring; loss continues to present us with tremendous struggles. For that and for other reasons, people still have a desire to explore spirituality. Why do they not flood into our churches or SPCKs in order to satisfy this desire? Atheists aside, I just wonder whether people find more satisfactory solutions to their spiritual dilemnas elsewhere.

I shall be very interested to read whether other commenters respond to Father Richard's point on the cartoon blog, and I'm sure several of my friends (church-goers and non-church-goers, atheists, agnostics and theists) will have some very interesting views too.

My life has been rated:
See what your rating is!
Created by Bart King

OK, if you really want to know...

A number of you* have asked me how the May Fair went on Monday. I was in charge of the children's stalls. Here's a copy of an e-mail I sent to my helpers. I think that it says it all.

(* one actually. But hey, "one" is a number - or it was when I did maths. It was the first of many, if I remember correctly)

Dear helpers

Just a quickie to say a HUGE thank you to you both for yesterday's work at the May Fair. We'd have flopped big time (do people still use the expression "big time"?) without you - my nerves would have caved in had you not been there. Both of you have a very able and calming presence. According to the Treasurer, the Sunday School stalls made something in the region of £500 (after expenses). And that's brilliant.

I've learned some lessons - as you know it was my first time - and I should probably jot these down for next year. I feel a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad compulsion to take the reins on behalf of the Sunday School again next year - if only to improve on this year's performance (which was v. good in that it raised a nice sum of £ but was less good at times for us poor troops running the stalls, frantically searching for toy number 185 on the tombola, and trying to keep people's thieving little hands off the prizes!!). Next year.... no tombola, no guessing games and lots more dippy duck type things (i.e. activities followed by instant gratification). It was the tombola where we incurred all of our major expenses too... I don't watch the programme, but I feel certain that Alan Sugar's verdict would have been "Ruth, you're fired"!

Of course, if anyone else wishes to take responsibility next year, I won't hesitate to graciously allow them the dubious honour, but if the position remains vacant, I'll have a second crack.

Anyway, I have some nice cakey things to give to the Youth Group who deserve an enormous THANK YOU. Without them we'd have folded. Might I suggest, if it is at all possible, that you give the Youth Group a 5 minute de-brief regarding the fair? (You may have already planned this or you may think it a bad idea - please forgive me if I am being either patronising or silly). It's just that we had some rather difficult customers from time to time and I wonder whether they might like to talk any of it over. On the clothes stall, one of my helpers whose name I've forgotten (age 12) felt quite belittled and teased by an older customer (may be 12 - 13 - 14 years old) who goes to her school and who was quibbling about prices. I, needless to say, put my foot in it (sometimes feel my foot's never out of it...) by quoting the customer's price as the correct one, not realising that she'd been quibbling with my colleague. It was embarrassing and I think that she was a bit hurt. There's no need to single her out at all (as it could make things worse) but it might be worth a general discussion.

Hope this makes sense, if not, please feel free to ignore, or ring me!

Finally, I'd like to write a note of thanks for Sunday School parents whichI'll hand out on Sunday. Those who helped on stalls were fantastic AND it's extremely hard if not impossible to volunteer to run these stalls when you have little children who need looking after at the same time. The donations of clothes and toys were first class this year.

Best wishes

Ruth

I would like to take this opportunity to apologise for the ridiculous length of some of my sentences

No. I've not "done time". Nor am I a magistrate, although one day, definitely. I'm talking sentences - you know, the things that a little boy at my school once defined as being "a line with a dot after them". The second sentence in my previous post had 100 words in it. Impressive, yes; but not good. So I am going to really try to reduce my posts' average sentence length henceforth. I shall use words like henceforth so to reduce them in length. Take a look at the next one. It's short. But I can do even better than that. See? And if you liked that one, take a look back at the first one in this post.

I've nothing to say today, but I think you'll agree I've managed to say nothing at all in rather a succinct fashion.

I'm proud of myself

You Passed 8th Grade Science

Congratulations, you got 7/8 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Science?

Swimming

I've recently started to take Michael swimming on a Saturday morning. I'm not sure which of us hates this more, but when he announced this week that he felt a little too tired to go swimming, I had his trunks, towel, goggles, arm-bands, noodles and floats unpacked and back in the top drawer, and my "teach your child to swim" book back on the shelf, faster than you can say "it's hard to know whether the worst thing about swimming is actually being in the pool, or clambering inelegantly and shiveringly out of it and then attempting to re-dress yourself and son without drenching everything you wear from top to toe". It's impossible to get yourself dry (must be something to do with the humidity) and it's impossible to prevent your clothes from getting wet. Hate it. Always have done. Always will.

Blogging I like. And I think that my blog might be rather like the small, shallow, baby pool that Michael and I use when we can't think of any way of persuading ourselves not to go swimming on a Saturday morning. It has squirty dolphin fountains, bubbles that come up from the floor (at least I presume that's their origin ....), a wave machine and a helter-skelter slidey thing at the side. It's ok for a frolic and a splash about, but if you want to swim some serious lengths, look elsewhere.

Here are three of the fabulous blogs I read when I'm looking for something challenging and thought-provoking; when I want to "swim lengths" instead of lark about (I'm not including commenter's blogs as you can already access those):
www.john.pettigrew.org.uk/blog
www.thedeepend.squarespace.com/journal
www.goodinparts.blogspot.com

and for a giggle:
http://www.cartoonchurch.com/blog/

I haven't asked permission from these people to list their blogs. I'm not sure if you need to ask permission as all blogs can be accessed via links on comments etc. anyway (and I only know one of the writers). They are all either theology-based or include lots of theological posts in them, but that's what I enjoy reading and pondering at the moment.

Happy blogging.