We're the Witches of Hallowe'en, The Scariest You've Ever Seen

That's what we used to sing as we went round the neighbour's doors in the dark, distant past (according to Hobbits, *very* distant!)

So the glut of sweeties is done, the jars are filled and I won't need to buy another sugary snack until Christmas.  All well and good.

There are a lot of sour pusses around here though, lots of people who ignore the advice to turn your hall light off if you don't want disturbed. ("Hey, it's my house, I do what I want" - then don't grump when you get a score of kids knocking!)  Never the less I am always impressed at the begging standard of my two.

And the pumpkin.  I remember (adopts old voice) my mother carving a turnip.  Have you ever tried to carve a turnip?  Yes, well, not advised unless you like impossibly frustrating tasks.

This year I wanted to do something different.  I wanted to do a cat, shadow in front of the carved out moon.  Instead I did this.

Which is meant to be one of these.

Yes I know it looks like mine has wonky eyebrows, I meant it - honest!  I'm sure in the game, when you lose, the piggies wiggle their eyebrows and laugh.  They do don't they?

Anyway, now that is over, roll on bonfire night.

Just A Quick Thought

The people who go down to the shore to see the tidal surges coming in - surely this could be seen as God's way of eliminating the stupid?

Hurricane Sandy, this will not be the last time I mention you.

Hurrah for you!

Long Ago and Far Away

It felt as though we were there for months and now it feels like we weren't there at all.  *sigh*

I do love crisp autumn days, I quite like the cold as long as it isn't damp, manky cold that seeps into the bones.  Crunching through the leaves with dog at my side.  

Oh for the means to go on holidays several times a year.  Really they should have them on the NHS, save an absolute fortune on anti-depressants.  A week in the sun.  Bliss.

Forget that you have to come back to the grinding reality.

I Know It Has Been A While

But just look at where we've been.  

There was real, live sun and warmth and everything - vitamin D get in my bones.  We climbed into volcanoes like some weird tribute to Torville and Dean.

Hmmn, ok just take my word for it - it was a proper volcano, Google "Montana Roja" if you are a doubting Thomas, ner ner see!

The Hobbits (as was) grew fins.

We found (semi) precious stones - not emerald but very sweet Olivina - like little mining gnomes and we didn't have to go into a mine, they're on the beach!

We lived in a yellow submarine (if only for an hour) 100'/31m underneath the Atlantic.

All in all for one entire week the world was all right again.

And then to home.

*sigh*

Truthfully the government could do everyone a favour and give them one whole week away somewhere sunny and hot (it was 80 degrees and after a while our weedy Scottish bodies got used to the oven feeling).  It really did pick up and get rid of the grind of life in a grey climate.  I mean, I managed to climb a flippin' volcano - all 400+m of it.  I have CFS, I shouldn't be able to do that.  Ok so I spent the rest of the day (and every afternoon) slumped by the pool but I was up in the morning and not zombie at all.  We were able to do such fun things and although I'm still recovering it was worth it.  Please but if I can scrabble enough money together to go away again next year.

It's Getting Like Old MacDonald Around Here

Only with pets rather than farmyard friends.  Right enough I did like the idea of chickens but with cats and our friendly neighbourhood Mr Fox that is not such a good idea.

The cats pretty much rule themselves, that's just how cats roll really.  I sometimes feel I am tolerated in my own house simply for the talent of being able to open a tin.  I would never go this far though.

As much as Anakin cat loves his boxes (see evidence below), I'd go to the effort only to be thwarted by cat apathy at the end.

What?  I'm busy, call back later.

Of course I've mentioned happy dog many times and he is just...happy.  

The Hobbits had asked for their own pets, something small they could look after.  We are in the age of small furries.  Hamster Dragonborn (aka The Escape Artist) is another blondie with a lovely temperament.  

I had tried to push the idea of guinea pigs.  My own Gwynnie pig was a sweetheart.  I would come home from school, she'd be waiting at the gate to her cage.  I'd tuck her into my cardi and she would burrow in, talking to me the entire time.  My mother hated her but she was truly the best.  

Youngest is set on getting a gecko.  Well, it'll be different that is for sure.

So, if all goes to plan, at the end of the year, the humans will be outnumbered by three cats, one dog, a hamster and a gecko.  Sometimes I worry that it sounds like we're going down the hoarder route but then I think, stuff it, they're part of the family!

I Love Dogs

There was a viral clip a few years ago, a kid being asked a question who replied with the completely unrelated quote "I like turtles."  ** Rummages in internet handbag, oh here it is **

Anyway, as I've been communicatively silent for a month - wish I could say it has been because I have found my inner zen and have been peacefully tranquil, nope, not a chance - I decided to kick myself up the pants with the utterly trivial fact stated in the post title.

There, I'm like the kid, someone asks me something and I'm thinking "oh, yeah, um, so, ooh look out the window, pretty doggy!"  I'm not being glib, I should probably be embarrassed that it is true of someone racing headlong towards year 41 on this Earth.

One of our neighbours has two Newfies and a St Bernard (or the bears as we like to call them) lovely dogs but oh my god the drool. It's like slimy shoelaces sticking out their mouths. Bleurgh! 

Lovely Newfie

Our boy, big dopey Labrador Retriever, enjoys playing with said dogs who are that big they don't bounce around much, rather they watch him and the other dogs run around and that is as much exercise as they want.  Every time he goes up to them I think "please don't get any of that gunk on you because I know who is cleaning it off."

(Note: neighbours live in the same size house as I do which isn't huge, I believe the dogs have their own bedroom, and I bet it's the biggest one!)

The Hobbits are enjoying a camping sleepover with the Scouts.  I am enjoying doing what I usually do, which isn't much, while thinking of all the things I should be doing, which is a lot.  I am accepting of what the doctor has now decided is Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (I'm apparently moderate which is better than severe but not as good as mild), that doesn't mean I like it but it does mean I'm not fighting against it now.  That was completely counter-productive.  There will be a way around it, I just have to find it.  I need to move on and get started with working from home, with my writing,  and get to a place where I can work and also manage this.

Don't Know What To Make Of This

So, watched this, nearly turned it off after the first few minutes but kept on and saw the whole movie.

Melancholia.

I have no idea what to say about it.

Truthfully.

For a film I hated turns out I think of it often, certain scenes.  Confused.  I may have to watch it again just to try and unravel it.

We Can Be Heroes

I should really let my once omnipresent optimistic side out more often.  She has been much diluted but is still there so this is what I once would have sounded like.

We have watched as gold medals roll in and confused at the apologies from those for winning mere silver medals (you won a freaking silver, silver in a highly competitive field of finely tuned athletes is nothing to be ashamed of.)  

The only grumble was when the widely excellent BBC coverage cut away from the track athletics where Team GB were winning an embarrassing amount, to show a penalty shoot-out between Team GB and whoever.  Naturally Team GB lost but the change in mindset was interesting.

Perhaps the lack of sporting interest has much to do with the prevalence of football over everything.  Seeing the prima donna footballers, earning stupid amounts for not doing much (considering there are 11 of them, sometimes not even playing during the 90 minute game, and one ball - which is lucky to see the back of the net more than once or twice) their very messy private lives all over the gossip pages. 

Then there are the other group idolised by the general public - the reality shows.  The hard work, perseverance and determined dedication shown by the Olympians makes a refreshing change from the faux tension of someone not singing in tune but their granny just died so that's ok.

Wait, I'm not putting it right...here, let Bradley do it.

There is much talk about how if Yorkshire were competing as a separate country they'd be 8th on the medal table.  No mention of how far up Scotland would be but, as we only have 5 million of a population I think we'd be proud!

(Note:  Scotland will never become independent of Britain.  Britain is the island, no escape from there unless we start digging a jolly big trench, we will (hopefully) become independent of the United Kingdom government.  This is not due to hating England but a wish to see what would happen on our own again.  It was a parcel of rogues who bankrupted Scotland, leading to the need for a union.  Anyway, that's a whole other subject.)

Ok so this is really something wonderful...

I admit, the thought of the London Olympics had me cold - we're 423.8 miles/682 km (yes, I Googled that!) and a whole other country away.  It would have little impact and mean absolutely nothing to anyone north of the M25 let alone we dubious, problematic Scots.  This was costing a fortune, was yet another London-centric thing we'd heard about forever more.


And then the Opening Ceremony happened.  No one had any thoughts other than remembering the utter, toe-curling, bum-clenching awfulness that occurred at the end of the Beijing games, when a big red bus full of UK shame horrified more than this nation.


Whoever it was that decided to give Danny Boyle the reigns must be now sipping champagne on a sun-drenched island of gratitude because they made an entire nation sit up and take note.


Apart from the ending (how to clear a stadium, Macca) it is an event that is hard to describe properly - you had to be there and yes, tv counts.  The hill in a sports stadium; the Industrial age towers; the dancing Isambard Kingdom Brunels; the music (actually ear-pleasing!); the cyclists with wings; Mary Poppins killing Voldemort; the beautifully amazing flower-fire-cauldron with copper petals; the everything!


Written down it sounds like someone was tapping the alcoholic beverages when coming up with ideas, or putting down stuff as a bet (oh they'll never go for this..shall we...oh go on...teehee.)  Boyle managed, in the however many hours it took, to make people who scoffed in horror at the ticketing disasters, the transport disasters, the umpteen other disasters leading up to these games actually change their minds.


The Hobbits fell asleep at 11 pm but up until then had been transfixed, even if a little confused at the slightly eccentric goings on.  We've gone from not wanting to watch a minute to oohing and aahing at the tense archery finals, cheering at the cycling, trying to figure out who is who in the swimming.  And all this from complete apathy.


Amazing what a fantastic event can do to lift the spirits.

I imagine the organisers of the Rio games watched in open-mouthed horror.  "Ah hell, let's just do the carnival again."

Oh Bugger The Hamster Has Gone!

Eldest had gone up earlier to put his jammies on.  Ten minutes and lots of loud thumping later Youngest goes up to see what is happening.


I hear crying.


Oh hell, this can mean only one thing.  His hamster, of two weeks, has escaped.  Eldest swears he closed off all exit routes when he put him back in earlier.  The hamster, who goes by the name of Dragonborn (it's a Skyrim thing), is a cute little fella.  Blonde and curious.  Definitely curious.


So after much comforting we have set out several traps, his cage is on the floor and if he does go back in tonight then he'll head straight for his wheel, Eldest had taken to blocking it off at night due to much noise from the energetic wee devil.  


Oh, and the cats will remain outdoors for the next few nights - luckily the weather is a lot nicer for them.


If he is back tomorrow I'll be looking like this...

But it IS always raining!

The name of the blog would only be a curse if read by anyone.  So...I shall continue without apology as this is how *I* roll.  As the saying goes.


At the moment (16:55 GMT) the sun is making a rare appearance in this little part of Scotland.  This has to be one of the worst summers ever, according to the boffins it is because the jet stream moved - it can jolly well move back.  Was watching an excellent BBC prog this week called Volcano Live.  Volcanoes being a dangerous interest for both me and Hobbits alike - they mentioned a Byron poem 'Darkness' which was written in 1816, the year without summer.  


Caused by a volcano spewing forth in the Dutch East Indies the previous year it got me thinking (for I have nothing better to do with my time).  What if this is caused by last years eruption of Eyjafjallajökull up in Iceland?  Wouldn't that make sense?


I also think if you can pronounce Eyjafjallajökull you should get a free holiday to Iceland with a visit to all the volcanoes for free - I have been practising.





John Martin - The Destruction of Herculaneum and Pompeii

Things To Do When Insomnia Strikes

Part One:  If I can't sleep then why should you?

From the 2 minutes in mark suspend all disbelief.  The things some girls have to do to make their money.  Happy nightmares!


Part Two:  Remembering in frustration when Saturday nights were fun.


The black masks might make the brain boiled nation think of that ridiculous best-selling (say through gritted teeth) book but wouldn't things be a lot more interesting if this happened...ever.

Made With Love

It was noted by Eldest Hobbit that their grandfather did not have a gravestone or a marker to show where he was buried.  We have the bay to visit every year but he had a point.


So we made this, perhaps it will be there next year, perhaps the sea will have reclaimed the stones from their place.  I hope no one disturbs them although there is nowt as strange or selfish as folk.


Anyway, this was made with love for a much missed grandfather and dad.  

Of My Own Undoing

There is a film, which I'm not bothering to name, where the lead female character spends a few terrifying screen moments balancing on her tippy toes knowing if she slips the noose around her neck will end her life.  I've spent the last year in a fug of illness and confusion and now I'm on my tippy toes, the noose is tightening and I don't know how long I can keep up.

It's a bloody good metaphor and horrendously true.

Am Feeling This Right Now...

A gorgeously warm blanket of a song, a heart breaking video (or at least I think it is, plaintive things always get me).

Tomorrow is the last day of school term, the Hobbits will no longer be in P6.  When summer (which doesn't depict anything but constant rain at the moment) ends they'll be in their last year of primary school and that makes me sad.

I said goodbye to the P1 class I helped out in today.  Lots of little people hugs and some tears but, said I, we'll see each other in the corridor next year and we'll say hello!  But it won't be the same, they said.

Oh bless.  The teacher wants me back next year, oh but to make that a permanent position.  I would be so very happy.

Ah, That Hits The Spot

Happy dog is happy.

Resolution

Do you like my skilful hiding of my government name?  Oh how arty am I.


So, Resolution.  Another title cannibalised from the P52 thing.  I'm on that again, oh yes I am.


This took me four years to achieve.  Now the snobbish amongst anyone who comes across this may look at my meagre upper second class honours and sneer.


However this is also what else happened in those four years:

• Very messy, humiliating marriage breakdown.
• Divorce.
• Illness and loss of a beloved parent.
• Dependency and then care of the other.
• Clearing out, decorating and then selling my family home.
• Buying another.
• Moving mother from her home to ours.
• Then moving all of us to new home.
• Working (boo) and volunteering (yeay!)
• Raising the Hobbits.

Meanwhile, I studied my level 1 introduction course.  Tutor nearly put me off the whole thing.  Two level 2 courses (including the brilliant creative writing course that I would gladly do every single year if just to keep me in).  Three level 3 courses (two of which were history as I do like my punishment to be severe).


When I finished, and I was well and truly finished, I was very pleased to have gotten my little degree - and with the mark it settled on.  Chuffed to bits and a big two fingers up to everyone who had talked me down in the past.


Resolution - see the date?  December 2010.  Time to use it and no more excuses (okay the illness wasn't an excuse as such but it may slow me down, it shouldn't stop me.)

A Matter Of Timely Tasting

For some reason this little gem was dredged from the furthest, darkest recesses of my warped memory as I walked the dog today and, in the way these things sometimes do, it got me thinking.

My parents had taken my younger cousin and I to visit my dad's sister in Helensburgh (what used to be a fairly nice town, birthplace of John Logie Baird and retirement heaven on the river Clyde coastline*).  Now we (me and female cousin) had a particularly awkward relationship - being on my mother's side of the family, the side that encouraged competition and favouritism.  She was younger, prettier and blonde and I could be catty enough to say she is none of those now.  She was everything that side of the family wanted, including remarkable unambitious.  Me, too much of a daydreamer for them, a common comment was "what do you want to do *art* for?"  Said in the tone used if someone announced a desire to become a tax collector.

Anyway this has nothing to do with what I was starting to say.

We went to this "Italian" restaurant where both of us picked spaghetti bolognese and yes I know it won't have been genuine, this is Scotland in the mid-80s not Masterchef.  It arrived, yummy yummy and we were asked did we want parmesan cheese?  Thinking of home cooked spag bol with a bit of cheddar grated on top we said yes please.  (Here we'll end that rumour of Scottish people eating deep fried everything.)  The cheese that ended up sprinkled on top of our pasta not only smelled of sick, it didn't look that appetising either.

We quietly scraped it to the side and ate the rest.

Now, fast forward 25 years.  I adore what the Hobbits call "sprinkle cheese" and yes, we do put it on our  pasta.  Proper Italian version, not the kind called "hard cheese" either.  Yummy yum.  So what happened?

I'm walking along the path beside the burn (small stream, I'll teach you Scots one word at a time).  I'm thinking of this for no reason whatsoever and wonder - was it poor quality substitute we got or just how things were back then?  I know tastes change but surely not that much that I would now love something I once associated with sick?

Plus my Hobbits, much as I love them, can be occasionally and frustratingly picky on certain things, cheese is one.  They love it and I would have been told if there was anything untoward about it.

Now I've unburdened this erratic mind fudge I'll leave you with a panda.

*It was too near Faslane for my anti-nuclear war view liking, at times the submarines would surface as they returned and the noise they made was so horribly metallic that it served the idea of them as machines of apocalyptic war very well.  It is very hard to describe the noise perfectly but even thinking about it sends fingers of ice down my spine.

Where'd you go?

It has been a busy time of late and then, for an entire week, there was sun...sun...SUN!!!  Lovely, warm, summery sun.  


Being Scottish this is a rare enough event to bring out immediate wearing of light and bright clothing, a raising of spirits, a general feeling of camaraderie.  The sun, not venturing on these shores for too long, disappeared yesterday.  


The weather equivalent of taking a lollipop from a baby.


We have the memories of course, and the hope that one day very soon the sun shall return.  Our shorts and flip flops demand it.

My Love of Old Books Is Really An Addiction to Lignin