Pets need Bed and Breakfast Too

 

Head down concentrating hard with the heavy patter of torrential rain beating rhythmically down on the conservatory roof; I became aware of people in my garden.   I looked up to find Mini Son with one of his teachers.  She was carrying a large box and he, a crutch. A pang of panic punched my stomach; had he been in an accident, why did he need a crutch, haven’t I been here before?  They reassured me he was fine, as out of the box they pulled a white fluffy rabbit.

I have two rabbits; technically they are my children’s but guess who looks after them.   Following another long cold winter we have let them out of their hutches into the garden which gives them freedom and exercise.  They have now discovered the weather worn holes in the back fence not to mention the broken panel in the back gate that no longer closes.   I also suspect they have dug a tunnel under their hutches to the field behind.  A large expanse of open field which is public ground, unfortunately planted with so many tiny trees that no-body is able to use it.   My children being the exception, they play the modern equivalent of cowboys and Indians shooting and hiding and battlefields.  They have a base up in the trunk of the ancient tree that commands the far left corner of the field and watches over the estate.   They play a mix of ball games or rugby tackle mauling with a range of local kids on the small area kept tree free for future development.

This has given the rabbits a hitherto unknown freedom which they are currently taking full advantage of.  Smudge has developed a teenage attitude and has a regular nightly meeting around midnight with two local cats.    They sit on a nearby roundabout and play together.  Somehow I do not think it is the cats in command.    Smudge has also developed a strong attachment to getting into the cage of a nearby female rabbit.

I often get people returning Smudge or telling me my rabbits are out.  I have stopped running after them.   They come back when they want food, when it is wet for shelter or sunny to lounge on the decking and have a wonderful life just lolloping around the fields.  A few dogs have chased them and they lead them straight home and under the decking where they have I suspect a myriad of tiny tunnels.

Mini Son’s boxed rabbit was a young fluffy white one not unlike our own Magic, it had been running round the car park at school, cars narrowly missing her and she was now cold, shivery and very frightened.  I was sure it was the errant female Smudge had previously been enamoured by. Mini Son had come home for some bedding and rabbit food and if I knew the owner could I contact her.  Impulsively I told them to put the rabbit in Magic’s cage. At least she would be dry and could be picked up once I had contacted the owner.

I rang my friend.  It wasn’t hers, their female was still locked away safe from stud in waiting Smudge and tucked up warmly and dryly in her pen.    I spent the rest of the working day contacting people to no avail; it seemed that no-one had lost their pet.  I left messages with the vets, haven’t I done this before Reg ( http://tiggyhayes.wordpress.com/2012/06/28/reg/)!.

As I prepared our evening meal, contemplating with each chop of the carrots how I should break the news to Sexy Sporty Dad that he might need to feed an extra mouth tonight, there was a knock on the door.  A man dripping wet in overalls and wellies stood on the step.  He looked as if he had spent hours chasing round looking for a lost pet.   Delighted he had found me before Sexy Sporty Dad arrived home I was about to take him round to the hutch when he asked if I had lost a rabbit.

Was I not supposed to say that to him?

I stood, now dripping with the  rain beating down my back looking at all three rabbits as he produced yet another rabbit.  This young blackish brown one was cold, shivery and very frightened.  He had been caught under the cars in his road near the school.    He had been running about all day apparently with a white one earlier and caused many a car to break suddenly.   It had taken the man ages to catch him.

Coincidences! There are some coincidences that I just don’t believe in.

These were a pair that had escaped together, it made sense to keep them together.  That is how I came to have two extra bunnies when Sexy Sporty Dad arrived home from work.  All my contrived explanations and assurances that I had already prepared were unnecessary as he knew the whole story before the door had even closed.   Mini Son desperate to show him the new pets, Middle son was busy thinking of names for them and No 1 Son nonchalantly asking to borrow the car while our attentions were turned.

Jungle drums finally worked and a series of texts, mobile calls and facebook messages led a local mother to ring me to ask if I had one of her missing pets. Over the moon that I had both, she arrived as the rain began to cease its relentless pommeling with a large overnight bag to retrieve her mischievous monsters.

Reunited with two rabbits a much relieved parent left, our own pets resumed their quest for freedom and I served dinner.

The crutch? It had been used to catch the rabbit!

Writing

I have a very exciting development in the Memories saga.   A friendly barrister has agreed to read the book for authenticity.  I have naturally sent it off to her before I or she can change our minds.  I hope she doesn’t throw it back as rubbish.

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

Driving Passed!

I should have been out meeting clients, persuading them to take out advertising and how it is the best thing for them.  I should have been updating the web site and adding items to the online calendar but instead of which I have been sitting looking at the computer flitting through different windows in a very manly way.  Not able to concentrate on any one program.  I have read a few e-mails and then re-read them as I did not take in what they were saying first time.

My stomach has been turning somersaults as I wait for the phone to ring, but it has taken such an eternity to ring.    I have made so many cups of tea and then not drunk them as I watch the phone, checking it can still receive calls, checking I have turned it up as loud as possible just in case I put it down somewhere I cannot quite reach when it does call.  The longer the phone call doesn’t come the worse I feel.  Negativity begins to attack the edges of my reason, maybe it will be bad news, maybe it didn’t go the way I wanted. What if….

The phone did try and ring but I answered before any noise came out.  Breathless with excitement, daring not to sound over enthusiastic especially if the news was not good.  Eventually No 1 Son managed one word.

“Passed”

I remember the excitement Sexy Sporty Dad and I had as we watched the then 9 month old No 1 Son take his first unbelievable steps and the freedom suddenly that entered his world.  That was nearly 17 years ago.  Now I have to ring Sexy Sporty Dad and tell him I have just had a call from the happiest boy on this planet.

No 1 Son has passed his driving test.

He will go on and take his AS levels in just a few weeks from now and then hopefully on to A2.  No exam he will take will give him the freedom that he will now have open to him.  He will be able to get himself to work, another pass he has just heard about.   He will be working at a restaurant occasionally when they have functions through the summer which will bring him some long overdue cash;  I wonder if I will see back any of the money I spent on  those driving lessons.  He will be able to drive himself to rugby training and home without one of us turning out on a cold winter’s night.   He may even be able to drop a girl-friend home if one ever appears on the horizon.  I am not sure my car will have the pulling power to get the girl but at least he will be able to drive her on their date.

I can see battles ahead over the use of my car, the cost of petrol and the mess inside but tonight we will celebrate and savour every moment with him.

I guess I need to calm down, finish my cup of cool tea and get back to work.  My stomach is still a flutter but with butterflies for the future not knots about the present.   I feel lightheaded with emotion and the realisation that the tiny remembered creature learning to walk is, in just a blink of an eye, now nearly a grown man driving on the streets of this country.    Where did that time go?

Keys to freedom

A special thanks to his lovely driving instructor Andy (Andy’s School of Motoring  01747 824460) who has sat beside him, guided him, advised him and got him this far.  Now he is on his own and will learn, like we all have through experience.

As if waiting on his news was not bad enough.  He has now arrived home and my car has been taken out for a spin.   Am I going to feel this nervous every time he goes out?

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

Future-proofing Insurance

Future-proofing insurance

I received a reminder that my insurance is due on one of my cars this week.  I began the task of finding cheap insurance cover not just for myself and Sexy Sporty Dad but this year we have the added complication of a learner driver to consider.   Hopefully, he will pass his test within the year, so we need to consider this as well.

I looked at my already expensive insurance schedule and rang the insurer who had sent the new policy details.

It is Old Faithful that requires renewal in more ways than one.   This car has seen us and particularly the children a lifetime.  It has stayed reliable and economical and has seen so many uses.   We acquired Old Faithful when Middle Son was just born.  We traded in my bachelor girl Renault 5 which had just about squeezed ourselves and No 1 Son with all his paraphernalia in, but when the second baby arrived it meant we needed to take two cars if we went anywhere.

We had already changed Sexy Sporty Dad’s girl pulling Triumph Spitfire for a more sedate family style car that could at least fit more people; now that I had filled any need or want he may have to pull. So now I too needed a family car capable of expansion within the family and the ability to transport the resulting luggage.

Old Faithful is a Peugeot 405 Quasar limited edition Turbo Diesel Estate registered in 1994.  She was sleek exterior, pristine interior and with an engine size of 1.9 had a kick like a rocket when needed!  The boot was half the length of the car and had room for every conceivable baby implement I would ever need to carry.   There was a tow bar for the future, little did we know then, along with the roof bars. And she was aquamarine; a limited colour choice from Peugeot only available on the 1994 Quaser editions. She remains to this day the only car I have ever owned that was new enough for one year at least not to require an MOT.

She is now in her dotage, although still used daily for Sexy Sporty Dad to get to work.  Old Faithful has served us well.  She still manages to run about 75mpg, she has pulled trailers, boats and carried all kinds of camping gear, rugby kit, furniture and animals in her boot.  She has held shopping and baby prams, done tip trips and the school run and for a time she was out on lone to a friend of the family while she was carless and we had three.

Like all old ladies she is a bit wrinkly at the edges, her ceiling cloth no longer held by the roof, drapes tiredly down resting where it can.  Sometimes she staggers in the mornings when you turn her on and has even needed jump starting to shock her back to life.  Bits of rust and discolouration drop off her and she has completed worn away her gear stick handle.  The feeble windows now unable to open smoothly are fixed shut so we have to get out to go through parking barriers or kiosks.   Give her the green light though and she can still do 0-60 before the boy racer next to her has worked out which is first gear.  Her annual MOT check continues to give her the all clear and her once sleek body still elegant but no longer the envy of would be thieves.

This is the car No 1 Son has been learning to drive on.  History repeating itself, I learnt to drive in the prototype for this car; the Peugeot 504.  A few differences, the 504 had a longer wheelbase and 3 rows of seats, but in essence the same car.

About 2 years ago I had traded in my then People Mover which was not performing at all well, down to 13 mpg and struggling with failing electrics regularly affecting the performance and often the whole ignition.  My journeys were short, in and out of town often in the mornings stuck in a traffic jam.  I no longer needed the 7 seats the People Mover afforded me as the older two children no longer had school events requiring lifts or large groups of friends coming out for the day.  I didn’t need to do a school run as we live next to the primary school and a 10 minute walk from the top school.

I studied the form of differing cars, the fuel economy, the all-important tax band, Insurance group and overall performance. I also premeditated future and ongoing requirements of this car.  Finally a runabout that ticked all the boxes was found and I bought my 1.4 Peugeot 206 Urban.  She was neat, speedy and so easy to park; I loved her.  Best of all she was a small economical car the children, two nearing that age, could learn to drive on and then use.

When it came to December and No 1 Son began learning, because of the way the insurances ran out it was better to put him on the 405 initially to learn to drive but now this insurance requires renewal it was time to review all our insurance policies.   The most logical thing was to move him once he passes his test onto the 206 so that he can use the car when Sexy Sporty Dad is at work, for running around in town or running errands for me.

I was quoted:

As a named driver on Old Faithful and still on a provisional licence £470.99.

As a named driver on the 206 and still on a provisional licence £637.00.

As a named driver on Old Faithfull and on a full licence £470.99.  No change!

As a named driver on the 205 and on a full licence £776.00.

These are not the extortionate prices quoted in the press but they do not allow him to build up any no-claims in his own right and as well as the annual rise in costs would not come down next year. If we were to buy him a car of his own then he would have his own policy but initially we are talking thousands of pounds.

My disbelief and argument is;  they would prefer my 17 year-old boy learner/new driver to be let loose in a 1.9 turbo estate car, which I can assure them still has one heck of a boost when you put your foot down, than in a small easily manageable 1.4 saloon.

What amazes me is that they cannot understand what I am getting at.  “That’s what the computer says” was the helpful answer from the girl who obviously had no idea what the difference in 1.4 or 1.9 turbo was let alone length.  I could have been ordering haddock as opposed to cod, both battered and with chips.  To her I was asking for insurance on car a or car b, “the computer say….”

I am back to the drawing board and will investigate further in the meantime he can keep practising on his driving instructor’s car but at £25 an hour that adds up fairly quickly.

An update on the animal situation.   We still have a cat; Princess who has now produced four little cats : Zeus, Sparta, Obama and Nelson,  two black, Zeus is the colour of damp sand and Sparta is grey.  Zeus and Sparta have stripy tales and Nelson a tiny splodge of white hair on his chin.

The kittens have now opened their eyes and are beginning to move around.  I am still of the firm belief that the family will have the cat back and the kittens are going to go to the cats protection league who have homes for them.   My family having named, stroked and loved the kittens are not of the same belief as me.

 

Tiggy

With the sun still struggling to appear check out the warm comforting Hotpot at  Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

Princess

So just maybe I went down to the local tattoo parlour and had the words mug or gullible tattooed across my forehead.

I know I should learn to say no but sometimes it is not so easy.

I was on my way to work when someone banged on the door of my home.  Thinking it was a delivery that we had been waiting for, for over a week I rushed to the door and flung it open.  There on the doorstep, no coats and snow fluttering all around was a friend and her children.

The last people I had expected to see following their sudden departure to a safe place.   She was nearly in tears and the children had sombre and strained faces which lit up as I pulled them in, out of sight and into the warmth.

Delighted as I was to see them, I was somewhat surprised.

They had come home briefly to say goodbye to the cat they left behind.  There was nowhere they could keep her and she was to be put down.  It was such a shame, she explained because they were only in temporary accommodation and as soon as she was settled they would be able to have her back.

The children were of course distraught.

I have to confess I am not a cat lover.  Yes I have a wonderful relationship with my friend Natty; I look after her cat when she is away and in return she looks after our rabbits but it a reciprocal arrangement that does not mean I am particularly fond of cats.   Why when you go to someone’s house does the cat always single me out to sit on my lap when I am probably the only person in the room who really does not want it.

I already knew what was coming; every argument and logical reason was running through my mind.   I work, Sexy Sporty Dad works, the boys are at school all day.  It is bad enough trying to get them to acknowledge the rabbits they begged and pleaded and promised to look after.  We don’t need any more pet commitments.

But somehow the words didn’t quite come out like that.

If we could just take the cat until the family were sorted then at least they would not need to put her down for no reason.  Her children would see their precious cat again and my boys might realise that pets are a commitment and cease their continual nagging to get one.

No, it is such a small word, but it takes such a lot of effort and determination to utter.

The next thing I know I am walking to work having left one cat “princess” locked in my utility room.  I did manage to remove the sausages I had thawing in the sink and hoped she would not chew through the coats and shoes in her distress.  It had been the parting words that struck such a chord;  “her babies are due any day now and she needs looking after”.

How was I ever going to tell Sexy Sporty Dad what I had agreed to or not.  The boys would be ok with the idea.  Staff at work brought me back down to earth.  “they need to exercise, they need the run of the house.  There at least I am adamant I do not want animals in my kitchen, upstairs, in fact inside at all; but she is an inside cat.   They need food and care and vets bills especially if she is going to have babies.   And really what was I thinking, did I really think the family would come back and get her when they were settled.  Past history told me otherwise and by then the cat would be established and probably several offspring to boot.

The best advice I was given by several people was to take the cat to the cat’s protection and let them re-home her.    Every sensible fibre of my being tells me this is what I should do. Every long term plan or that matter short term plan doesn’t involve pet sitting.    We have enough issues with the local cats using our garden and sitting watching our rabbit hutches

I am also the proud owner, albeit temporary owner I am supposed to believe, of one very smelly cat litter box which is enough for me to want to give the animal away instantly.

So my dilemma is do I keep this cat to add to our already chaotic lives with the threat of kittens appearing on the scene very soon.   What about the risk, my boys become attached to the cat and her babies, before the family settle enough to reclaim their pet.   Or do I leave the cat’s protection league to sort the cat and future offspring out and wash my hands of the whole thing.  Then I will have to face her children if and when they next appear and tell them I have given away their beloved pet.

Writing

I have written a strong piece about an old home which was well received.   Just this month I had to write a piece about finding a body which opened up all kinds of avenues to explore.  I hope I have given the reader just enough to feel mixed emotions and to leave them wondering who, how, where and when.

Time runs away so quickly month by month that I have little time to work on Memories but I do the odd bit.  I am looking for someone to read through it for accuracy in the professional sense but also someone who can comment on basic editing which no matter how many times I look at it I only read the correct intonation or tense and not what I may actually have written.  Only now do I really understand the importance of an editor.

Update on the cat saga.

I did ring the cat’s protection league and guess what?  They are unable to take her from me at this point in time but I am now on the list.   The better news was that they paid

Princess

for a visit to a vet.  We have a young year old cat with about 4 weeks till she gives birth.   She has now been de-flead and wormed courtesy of the cats protection league and I have a new best friend at the league.  But we still have the cat and the boys are now calling her Princess and the cuddles she craves are being given freely and willingly except from me.

And that was just a Monday morning!

 

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

Team Player

Are you a team player?   I try but sometimes it is difficult to be altruistic enough to be a true team player in sport.   The ultimate aim of any game is to win, that is why we take part and there is no denying it.  Remember the old adage, quoted by parents and coaches alike “there is no I in team; it does ring true in sports that involve groups.  For many years, I too have passed on this very same message to the boys of No 1 Son’s rugby team who did not score the actual tries or the conversions; trying to convince them they all did well as a squad.

The job of the wingers in rugby is to get the ball out and over the line.   The job of the kicker is to convert the ball that is why it goes to him.  The team are there to use their wingers and get the ball to them.  In football it is exactly the same; the job of the striker is to score the goal, although anyone can score goal or try if they are in the right place.    Netball is a little more formal as the ball is passed to the goal scorer or help scorer and only they shoot for goal.

I remember many years ago trying to work out who was eligible for an end of season trophy.   A parent whose fast son had scored a lot of tries out on the wing was adamant there should be a special award for the top three scorers of which his son came third.    I on the other hand was against this new award.

As all three would get awards for other commitments to the team  it was not that they would leave the award ceremony with nothing.   I put my vote behind the solid support award that went to 8 players; who may not have been high scoring in points, but in team value played a crucial part in each game.    When they played, they were always in the right place and read the game well enough to know that if they passed to another player the team would score rather than keeping the ball.   Without these guys getting the ball to the right people the tries would never have been made and the points never won.

At the time it caused a fair bit of acrimony but on the night of the awards not only the three top scorers came away with their own glory so did eight other boys who felt special at the recognition they too had unexpectedly received.  Parents were enormously proud of their offspring who never normally got noticed because they were not playing in the glory positions.   It was the reaction of the team that delighted me most; they were particularly praising including the three top scorers who were thrilled their team mates were also valued.

Mini Son is not a rugby player.    He is very good at rugby, a very intuitive player who knows exactly where to be on the pitch and is fast enough to get the ball out and be a very high scoring winger.  His passion however is football!   His dream like many other boys is to be an international striker and play at the very top of the league and the country.   Unfortunately for him he again is very intuitive and reliable so he is usually left in defence to field the last chance post before the goalie.   A position he hates as he feels he misses so much play and the opportunity to strike time and time again.

He naturally was picked for the local area football tournament this week, trying to win the trophy for the school. Having stood on this same field for many years now; my final tournament I really hoped we could win something to show for all those years as supportive parent. For the first two games Mini Son  was in defence prohibiting any would be opposition striker the chance of success.  He ducked and weaved to claim the ball and twist it away.  He has a repertoire of succinct little touches using his feet, his head and his chest to tap the ball to safety.

Changing the team around slightly he was moved for the third game to a midfield position which if nothing else challenged his fitness levels to the maximum as he ran the length of the pitch passing and saving and winning ball to pass to his team mates.    He brought the ball into striking distance and provided several opportunities for the team to try for goal.  He moved to the other end of the pitch in time to defend and block yet more opposition chances.  He performed reverse kicks over his head to stop the ball going out of play and tackled bigger boys than himself squirreling around the melee before tapping it out to his supporting teammates.

The fourth game took place immediately following the third and with a swift change of sub the team remained the same; still in midfield he organised his team and encouraged them to be where they should be.  He was quick to spot an undefended player and get the ball out to him or to mark up where the ball was most likely to land.   The game although on a small pitch moved from end to end closely fought by both teams; a place in the final four at stake.

As this game ended we were called through for the pool results.  The top two from each group would go on to play the final games.   Sadly we were beaten by just one point into third place so would be going home.   Thanks were said to the youngsters from the top school who had put the games together refereeing them, line judging and scoring.  Thanks to the hosts and the adults who had helped.  Then the organiser surprised us by announcing she had had the youngsters out watching the games to choose 4 players for her special sportsmanship medals.  These medals were for players who did not hog the limelight, played as a team player and supported their teamates.

A hush fell over the assembled children as she called out “Mini Son” along with three other boys.  They were called up to receive their medals and returned to our team

a medal for show

where I just had enough battery left in the camera to take a wobbly couple of proud mummy photos.

As a mummy I know we went home with the top prize, but for the car full of miserable players I tried all the old placations “it is the taking part that counts, you came first or second in all the games you played, it was an afternoon out of school.”

Finally it was the chocolate biscuits and the promise to drive slowly back to school and miss the afterschool SATS club that seemed to ease the pain of not winning.  Each child however had a little wear of the medal giving them all a share in the pride and delight of being part of the team to win the team player medal.

So for all those years of standing on the cold, damp sidelines of primary school pitches I am as proud as any parent with a medal that encompasses all the altruistic team play and finally a win.

 

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

Question of Balance

It is half-term and as usual we welcomed the break from school routine with friends coming round and a late night party.    The format of the night has evolved as the children grow up and have social lives and work commitments of their own.  The celebration remains just that a celebration that we have made it to the half term without too much stress and strain.  A few bottles are opened and a take away ordered.

So what does the week’s break mean for my family.  Sexy Sporty Dad still has to go to work, although he has managed to secure three days holiday with us.  He plans to paint the downstairs rooms and try to find a few hours to do a practice cycle ride.  Practising for what doesn’t really matter as long as he can get out on the road and feel the chill of the wind whipping past him as he pushes his body onwards through the pain barrier, ignoring the beads of icy sweat freezing before they have a chance to fall.   I suspect the gym will be well frequented this week  although he may use the better weather to go on a run.

No 1 Son will be bored.   He should be studying and has a stack of homework he could be doing but he will go out of his way to avoid.   He too will spend the time running, visiting the gym, playing tennis.  He will train for a rugby match that he will not play in as it is for the older colts cup but he will train.   He will turn his nose up at the meals I put in front of him because their calorific  value is too high.   He will forgo his breakfast in return for a whey product that he assures me is not banned or illegal.   He will pick at his lunch only eating the bare minimum before exercising to the point of collapse and stuffing himself with a snickers bar, a wispa bar and a packet of crisps.  Then he will return to bother his brothers; getting bolshy about their time playing x-box not through any concern for their slouchy lack of exercise but because they are hogging the machine.   Still full of chocolate and crisps he will only allow a tiny plate of food in front of him at tea time.

Middle Son who should be spending his week revising for GCSE’s will entertain his friends and Mini son’s friends on the x-box, I-pad or PS2 before cycling down to the local supermarket to stack up on his private supply of chocolate, pizza, croissants and crisps.   His allowance which is meant to help him survive the month with some independence will be blown probably in the first couple of days.  He will do some studying for his maths module which he takes soon after the holidays are finished.  The effort put in to get the studying done should guarantee an A but unfortunately the effort will be from Sexy Sporty Dad and I who will be drained by the end of the week remembering how to do factorising and line graphs.

Mini son will enjoy the holidays as his friends all live locally and he will probably go to stay over at his best friends for one day possibly stretching overnight.  He will play on the x-box but get bored quickly and want to go out and run around.  He will find himself playing rugby, football, cycling or scootering  around the estate with any children prepared to forgo the constant trigger thumb of  console battles.  He will be up early so he doesn’t miss any of the holiday.   He too will come up with elaborate plans and excuses not to do any reading or writing; despite my best efforts to get him to enter Chris Evans’ 500 words competition.

So what will I do with my week.  It may be half term week but working at a school is only one of my many jobs.   Having a school holiday will give me time to concentrate on

Weighing it all up

one of the other tasks that I try to balance.  I will write some articles and get the magazine to the printers, I will update both blogs and the magazine web site.  I will have my hair cut and coloured so that I have a few hours to read my writing magazine.  I will come out revived and determined to find time to rewrite memories, planning my time to include editing time as well as writing time for new fresh copy.  I will spend time cooking, clearing, chauffeuring, washing, shopping and being wife and mother on constant call for anyone else’s needs.  I need to pop round and see a couple of houses for my mother who is toying with the idea of moving close by if her house sells. I may, late at night steal a few moments to browse some holiday destinations;  I know we can’t afford them,  we cannot pick a suitable time to go and do the boys really want the same thing as Sexy Sporty Dad and I;  for that matter do we want the same holiday.  I can dream! Sun, sea sand and someone on hand for my every need ahhhh.   One day when my ship comes in the scales will balance until then I continue dream and keep writing.

Writing

I don’t normally double up on my blogs but inspiration comes in funny ways;  this is the piece I have sent into the magazine for March.

Following the Dream   When I was little I was subjected to the age old question; “what are you going to do when you grow up?”  It was easy I wanted to write a book,  I wanted to see my stories in print giving pleasure to generations of readers.

In those days my heroine was not J K Rowling but probably Enid Blyton whose Famous Five stories  left me thirsty for adventure. I saw criminal conundrums  or puzzling problems requiring  solving in everything I did.  My poor teachers would tear out their hair complaining that my imagination was just too vivid and could I not just do the homework devoid of embellishment and fictitious characters.

Obviously my parents were concerned about this ethereal world I frequented and over the years I was persuaded to grow up and get a job that paid money with firm foundations in the world of security and career paths.  

It didn’t go away; that niggle, that itch to put down on paper a story made up in the dim recesses of my mind that had escaped my teachers’ tyranny and my parents’ persuasion.  Recently I was rewarded by seeing a fellow blogger publish her first novel.  Hannah Evans is someone I identify with strongly and her book MOB Rule epitomises my life nearly as well as if I had written it myself.  MOB  = Mother of Boys.  She is me ten years ago except; she has taken the bull by his proverbial horns and accomplished what she set out to do rather than waffle around the issue and keeping  the desire hidden.  If ever I need a prod to kick start my flagging writing career here it is. 

I have followed Hannah Evans for a while having met a friend of hers who commented on how similar my writing and hers is.   I came away determined to find the blog the friend had shown me.   All I  could remember of her was she was a mother of boys and had a blog -  you try googling MOB.

Finally my birthday arrived and unsuspecting, my sister asked me to wait for my birthday present;  she would explain when she gave it to me.   A week later I received the gift.   MOB Rule  the book had been published only that week; hence the wait.   I had a copy literally hot of the press.  It was not only finding this writer that delighted me, but Sexy Sporty Dad who rarely; except under severe duress reads anything I write, was hooked.   He has not put the book down denying me any chance of reading it.  However from his comments and gales of giggling I know he is identifying closely with FOB.

Go Hannah go and yes those scales will tip towards giving me time; after all my boys are old enough to join in and be an active participant in this family of ours.  She is still coping with the young demanding 24/7 needs of tiny tots so here goes.

 

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neanderthal Sport

Having lost the battle of the TV remote I was forced to watched one of the six nations games.   I have of course watched many games of rugby over the years but usually with a vested interest in one of the teams winning.  To be honest whichever side won the match didn’t matter to me; what struck me more than anything else during this particular battle was how close to Neanderthal man we still are.

Great hulks of unkempt hairy muscle closing in on the prey with grunts and groans.  They hunt in droves to win their prize and whisk it away supported by other pack beasts

Neanderthal Prop?

thundering down the pitch. Diving and coveting the quarry so no-one else can take it; whilst opposing creatures maul each other in a bid to steal away the prey.    A quick span of the watching crowd reveal vividly preened and painted females cheering on the brutality taking place in front of them.  The prize, in this instance is not the chance to win the love, ownership or dominance of the female spectators but a title which will elevate their prominence and their masculinity until the next competition.

In fact all games, hockey, football, tennis have an element of raw brutality, courage and dominance about them.  The Olympic games, the world cups even inter club competitions are all about being the best, the king of the pride, the undisputed top dog.   Winners not born to this elevated position; win by strength, determination and often sacrifice.  When the time comes, and it will come they will lose to younger fitter adversaries as their vitality falters.

The highly emotive and controversial sport of hunting is another battle of prehistoric supremacy lingering on into modern sport.  A team of contemporary well turned out hunters chasing down not; an unsuspecting ball but a cunning  fox or swift stag.  Opposition protesters protecting the prey who will go to devious extremes to prevent the chase.  Protesting has  evolved now taking its place as part of this quick thinking sport, where  three sides do battle;  hunters, protesters and prey and in this case  it is not always the hunters who win, often the quick thinking cunning can outwit the brawn and magnitude of an advancing hunt.   How many protesters will go home and catch the highlights of the six nation matches later on.      Watching and cheering as the bloodied winners leave the pitch in triumph when hours before their prize as antagonists was preventing the bloodied winners catching from prey.

Of course I feel blessed that my children do not behave in this pre-historic, grunting and intimidating manner.

Although watching No 1 Son playing rugby there are some very similar stances, builds and grunts.  The thunder on the pitch as they stampede towards another try before meeting the opposition with a deafening crunch is definitely reminiscent of the charge from out of control wildebeest. Thankfully No 1 Son’s team-mates are able to revert back from their animalistic instincts following a shower and cooked meal as do the international players.

I am assured by parents and friends alike that the grunts and shoulder shrugging along with the fierce dagger looks from Middle son is perfectly normal and he will grow out of it rather than regress further into caveman mentality.   Maybe if he played more rugby he could channel his barbaric behaviour into something constructive.  His rugby coach is certainly impressed when he finds time to turn up.

Meanwhile Mini Son is still perfecting the art of defending his ball before kicking it past the goalie to score.  Being the fastest and the best at football in the whole school is the only prize he desires. Sexy Sporty Dad and I are immensely proud that he has been chosen to represent the local Area Athletics Academy; one of only 9 to have been picked from hundreds who train weekly. I am not sure how the animal adrenaline will spur him but feel without a ball in front of him his focus will not quite be as motivated.

Having sat through two brutal demonstrations of supremacy and violence I have missed the Saturday afternoon Catherine Cookson weepie on Yesterday; one of the multi channels I could have inflicted on my family had I won the remote control.   Maybe if I am cunning and think like the prey I can hide the remote before the beginning of the Sunday game.  I can then enjoy a serious weep together with my box of Kleenex and a hot water bottle.

Writing

I am quite excited that I have actually managed to do some writing.  It was not a press release or a blog it was a short story.   I was given a brief for a story between 1500 and 1700 words relating to a valentines card for a competition.  I thought I might have a go and laboriously managed to get 600 forced words down setting the scene and describing my characters, without knowing where the story was going.   For a couple of days I pondered and added a few words till at 900 I gave up.  I left the characters pondering the card sorry I could not do them more justice.

Two days later the story had mulled and churned through my daily routine, I had tarnished passers-by with the characteristic flaws and failings of my heroine and her workmates.   I re-read the story.  I cut whole chunks as I went, adding in little phrases that had been brimming over the days, to the now growing text.  I became the heroine receiving the unwanted card but why and who from.    I added in all the possible senders filling in little tit bits of information and back fill.  Suddenly I was in full flight and had to finish the story but I was still unsure of who the card came from.

Time now to reveal the sender; the words just tumbled out surprising me as much as any future reader.   I suspect the novel I am reading at the moment may have something to do with the surprise.  I didn’t even realise that I had thought that seriously about the subject except as a background to my current reading. There it was though out and on the page.

My feeble 900 words had developed and expanded into 2641.  I have pared it down now to 1720 with judicious editing but where to lose those extra 20 words.  I feel like a slimmer who has reached a plateau just before her final target weight although I wish it was that easy to slim without noticing it.    I still have a few days before the competition closes so will see what my writing group think.  I may not even send it off as I don’t ever do very well at these things.  The fact remains that I have managed to write and come up with a passable piece of fiction.   If I could only find the same inspiration to finish my re-edit of Memories, it may actually see the inside of a publisher’s office.

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Déjà Vu

I would never class myself as well off in monetary terms, it is an aspiration yet to be reached.  However outside the world of filthy lucre I feel I have been richly rewarded; my ever enduring Sexy Sporty Dad, three brave and beautiful boys, five loquacious siblings and two enterprising parents not to mention a strong network of faithful friends and relatives.

Many years ago my royal marine father decided to escape the world of regimented rules to bring up his burgeoning brood; I was just four years of age.   Taking an enormous risk he mortgaged his life and bought a very run down village rectory. “Lawrence of Clyst st Lawrence” had resonance that money could not purchase. With no income coming in to speak of, he went to teacher training college and obtained a civvy qualification as numbers five and six of his children made their appearance on the world.

updated and modern but still housing the ghosts of the past

 

The cold, dark, haunted historic house became the most beloved childhood home anyone could wish for.  From the word go, the house had to pay its own way and so developed a long list of enterprising endeavours for my mother.  Initially taking in lodgers in one wing of the house kept us from poverty while my father trained. Later homing a small number of foreign students during the holidays led to a sustained period of the house become a locally renowned international school with pupils as young as 6 being left with us to avoid kidnap or worse at home.  It was not an unusual site to arrive home to a diplomatic limousine parked in our drive; the body guards with bulging lapels ready to shoot at any perceived threat.    My mother would receive a brown envelope with thousands of pounds in Stirling, American dollars or other untraceable cash to cover their board, lodgings and education for the year to come before a parent might spare the time to see these poor children again.

The school funded the construction of a small but well used swimming pool which led to years of fun filled frolics along with a hand painted tennis court.   Finally there was enough money in the pot to revolutionise part of the house with an antiquated central heating system.  With the numbers of growing children requiring food, sustainability became a necessity and we acquired the beautiful big eyed Susie; a jersey milking cow who provided us with milk, cream and often butter a plenty.  A series of runt piglets passed through our garden saved from an early death; brought up on rich jersey milk and copious peelings to develop a flavour uniquely ours when their time finally came.  Chickens too provided eggs and Sunday lunch and most of our summer vegetables together with the copious strawberries all came from the walled kitchen garden, bigger and better kept than most modern day allotments.

There were not many things that came into the house that did not pay their way in some form,and Tiggy was no exception.  A pedigree golden Labrador arrived; no more than a puppy saved from a dubious existence,  who became my father’s constant companion, not only did he sire two offspring which we kept he also sired 90% of the puppies born in a 10 mile radius of the house.   He also became known as a ferocious guard dog protecting the house and all children who played within, as the postman and other tradesmen found out on more than one occasion.   Now long since buried in the rose garden of the house he called home he gave me my pen name and will live on in my writing forever.

The school came to an end as less and less foreign children were requiring an education from such a young age so the house became a bed, breakfast and evening meal accommodation.   The clientele were executives wanting a particularly luxurious weekly accommodation with quality home cooked food and stimulating conversation as they were parted from their loved ones.   Regular clients became lifelong friends as they returned time and time again long after the house became a base for growing teenagers and a mother who ventured into the retail business creating one of the first co-operative craft centres with cream teas on tap in the market town of Exeter.

My parents were renowned hosts and the house was always filled with laughter and fun times. Parties were well attended and remembered long after the event.  Unfortunately times change and we grew up and my parents reluctantly sold our childhood home.  They moved several times in the intervening years prior to my father’s death.  So too has the home we all loved metamorphosed through yet another happy family home with the addition of a stable block before now becoming a luxury self-catering holiday home; Old Rectory

Birthdays come and go and every now and again we celebrate a significant one; some we look forward to but more and more now we dread.  My mother has just reached the grand age of 80.  It is difficult to find a suitable present to celebrate such a milestone.  She was never going to learn to paraglide or parachute over the Wiltshire countryside.   Sending her on a cruise or the Orient Express without my father would not have given her the pleasure we would have wanted to gift her. It turned out to be the other way round; she presented us all with an invitation some months back.

For a similar price to what my father had paid in 1967 she was able to hire our home for her birthday weekend.  Calling back her six children now with partners and children of their own the house once again rang with children laughing and playing.  The rooms housed clothes strewn about them while mattresses moved and children slept altogether in the snug that had overseen many a sleeping child in the past.   Saturday night the house rang with champagne and drinks as old friends and relatives again made the trip out for a party.   Memories flooded back as every guest savoured their own sweet reminiscence.  I suspect a few Sunday morning heads were also recalling past parties. The ghosts of the past hiding in every secret cupboard as the modern children re-created our own hiding places.

With a labour saving change to our original living conditions we used the opportunity to bring in caterers to feed us all; our contribution to the weekend’s celebration.  Kate and her lovely staff from Kennford Kitchen laid on the most wonderful meals all weekend.  She was there for a wonderful three course meal on Friday as we all arrived and she provided a fitting array of dishes for Saturday’s party.  She sent our partners and most offspring off on Sunday following a scrumptious roast dinner with sumptuous side dishes and perfect puddings to keep even the hungriest teenager full.    She arrived early each morning and breakfast was cooked and laid out before most people even woke.

It was sentimental stepping out into the driveway that I once had known so well. A turbulent turmoil of emotions collided as I walked to the door.   Slipping the latch and

unchanged over all those years

holding the unchanged dated key in my now grown up hand catapulted a cacophony of conflicting feelings. The house now very luxurious with additional current touches had changed and modernised immensely but the presences of a previous period still pervaded each room.   Laughter lingered from a lost youth while a new generation created their own memories as happiness and hilarity radiated from the hot tub and the soft play room. Enough cousins to make a competition on the multi-games court I once began my non-existent Wimbledon career.  Watching my 17 year old son driving in and around my old haunting ground replicating my own initiation to the world of driving in the same make of car left me with a blow to the solar plexus of emotions.

We raised a large toast to missing friends and relations who had not been able to make the party; some through snow, some because of their own fragile health and some whose mortality had moved on.  Absent they may have been in physicality but omni-present among the ghosts of the past.

my father – in his rightful place 

Overseeing the whole affair was my father, still in pride of place in front of the fire where I remember him pontificating, presiding and saluting friends and relatives over the years as he hosted many a party.    His story of our childhood was immortalised when his book was published, copies of which are still available through Amazon or requestable at the library; Our Grass Was Greener by Peter G Lawrence.

Returning home to the present day and making my own memories for my children I continue to carry the past not only in my mind but through who I am and what I write.  One day my book Memories will be published and sit alongside my father’s on the bookshelf; maybe!  I of course wish my mother a very happy birthday and hope the memories of the past colliding headlong into the present give her the stamina and strength to embrace the future.  Who knows when we will make it back there again, her 100th?

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

 

Learning to Lose Control

I am sure it was not that long ago I was struggling with the complexities of pregnancy, birth and sudden motherhood. An alien inside me was making me feel unwell and unable to depend on my usual choice of medication.  It was growing independently of me yet deep within my burgeoning belly. Organised and planned as I was, it was this independent entity who chose to come into the world 10 days early with no adherement to my carefully orchestrated birth plan.  Gone were all my plans and routines, my social life curtailed once and for all as this tiny blob of humanity took over my whole world.

Following his arrival there were only a fleetingly short few months where this wonderful creation and I were so entirely wrapped up with each other to the exclusion of the rest of the world. He was so dependent upon me for everything.  A tiny cry amid the cacophony of daily sounds to tell me he was hungry, craved cuddles or needed a nappy change.  I could tell them all, instinctively I could sense his every requirement.    This miracle of mine would stay where I laid him, the soft gurgle of his baby’s giggle would be my answer to the myriad of questions I would ask him, his young awe filled eyes would wander the room lighting up as they caught my reflected gaze.

No 1 Son grew up and has just recently had his 17^th birthday.  He is never where I last saw him, the monosyllabic answers lack any mirth and the only gaze in my direction is followed by the exasperated glance heavenward.    Although still  my baby but we now had to find him a suitable birthday present.

A little bit of digging around and mixing together gave us the perfect shoe box of goodies.   We filled it with his provisional driving licence which I had managed to apply for online, a copy of the new insurance documentation allowing him to drive our car, a copy of the Highway Code changed and much updated from my ancient copy, a set of L plates and a gift voucher for 6 hours of driving lessons.  After that he would have to pay for his lessons himself.

The plates were attached instantly, and the eagerness untamed until he was permitted to drive.  Any driver will know it is not just a question of leaping in the car and going.  There are gears to get to grips with, the clutch to contemplate and the speedy reactions from the accelerator.  Decisions to be made as to when to use the brake pedal on the floor or the one beside you; why on earth do you need both.   Why on earth does Sexy Sporty Dad use kangaroo petrol in the car, because the vehicle jumps and stalls when you try to move away? And the road; full of other cars, pedestrians, lorries, bikes, parked cars, roundabouts and traffic lights.  How is anyone supposed to cope with all of those without multi-tasking?

No longer that tiny dependent baby, 17 year olds have an inherent inner belief, they are invincible, and they do know it all.   They learn through the osmosis of their friends.  Only a fellow 17 year old has the ability to interpret the correct grunt, the angle of the slumped shoulder or the glazed gaze.  Only another 17 year old has the right to impart his complete repertoire of experience in a ritual of nods, mumbles and snorts.  What do mine and Sexy Sporty Dad’s nearly 60 years experience of driving count; after all we learnt to drive before the wheel was even invented.

So my incredibly brave husband ventured out amid furious protests and drove the car to a thankfully deserted industrial estate where he was persuaded to vacate the driving seat.  No 1 Son took control of the car and spent a few hours kangarooing round the local roads.

The following night was my turn to be the willing passenger allowing him to drive me around town.  I still unable to quite relinquish my control totally retraced the route to the once again deserted industrial estate and left the safe security of the driving seat.   Sliding myself sluggishly into the passenger side, I pulled the seatbelt slowly across my trembling torso, holding my breath long enough to allow my shaky hands to plug it in.   We, and I use the word deliberately,  were ready and raring to go!

Into first gear we pulled away gently without jumping or stalling, the car speeded up fractionally and was moved to second gear.   My breath held; I could hear my heart pounding as I realised we were coming to a junction. My brain screamed slow down as I glanced at the speedometer, there must be a mistake we were nearly doing 12 miles an hour – reminder to oneself – get it checked out.   Even the feeling of slowing was not strong enough for my body not to brace its self and my right leg to force the imaginary brake pedal nearly through the floor.   We came to a stop.

We checked both ways for any other soul who might be drifting along these dark desultory drives before pulling out of the junction smooth and slickly.   Ignoring my consider squeaky advice to do a few more turns of the empty roads No 1 Son took me on a tour of the town.   He dipped his lights at the appropriate times not blinding the oncoming drivers.  He waited patiently as the red traffic light gave me a moment’s breathing space.  He allowed the other driver who had now idea which way he was coming off the roundabout to make his choice before following him round to our exit.   We made it home to the waiting arms of the rest of the family and the place I am in most control.

In the month he has been learning to drive I have been coerced into allowing him to drive me regularly interspersed with the lessons from the expert.  I have even permitted him to transport the whole family together; although Sexy Sporty Dad being so much calmer and relaxed is the passenger while I protect the unconcerned two in the back.  The roads round the Peak District during our Christmas holiday, so narrow with stone walls either side or deep ravines over the edge of the ditches provided a challenge for me in letting go, while the parking in the supermarket car park will forever be too much for my control to relinquish.  I don’t even like doing that!  In fact not even Sexy Sporty Dad parks safely enough for me.

So if you happen to be out and about and encounter the big red L emblazoned on the car in front or behind, spare a thought for the passenger;  it just could be me surrendering my authority.

 

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Cheer

Weeks of preparation to reach this point, nothing left to chance to make this the best ever Christmas for my boys.  The work is done, the presents all bought and wrapped and  now we can enjoy the festivities.   A battle of giants has been fighting it out to claim the Christmas number one ratings with writers, producers and directors working hard for months to outdo each other with their showcase Christmas production.

We settle down for the final ever episode of Merlin; comfortable in the knowledge that Merlin will finally overcome the dark magic of  the once dear sweet innocent Morgana and Arthur will eventually discover Merlin’s secret then allow magic to return to the kingdom of Camelot.  Too much hatred, violence and evil had happened over the years to allow even a flicker of hope that Morgana will turn back to the good side.  However her brooding flashes of  evil, her sensual good looks and body-hugging dresses had coaxed many a dad to sit and enjoy the show with his children on a Saturday evening.

In the words of middle Son, who left the room angry and unimpressed with the BBC “What is the point?”  Words I might even utter myself;  allowing Arthur to die in the last scenes was not on the schedule of Christmas indulgences.  As a devotee of the program aimed at children  I felt the ending too brutal. We have seen the young Merlin arrive in Camelot unaware of his hidden powers, he has grown in magic and loyalty to the Pendragon’s despite their fear and intolerance of magic, to his final acceptance of the accolade of greatest sorcerer to ever live.  Here in the final episode could we not have a happy ever after.  Could Merlin with all his powers save his king one final time.   Could Arthur return to Camelot and allow magic to once again  be practised.  There were unanswered questions left hanging which can not now be remedied.   Arthur never knew, and I am not sure we ever heard the full story of the bargain with magic Uther entered; resulting in the loss of his wife in exchange for Arthur’s birth.  A back story which may have helped Arthur understand his father’s attitude and changed his attitude.

They could have kept the ending with the old Merlin still traveling modern  roads but left Gwen and Arthur together in earlier times.    The legend may state that Mordred kills Arthur but it also says that Morgana despite her enmity towards Guienevere was the one to take him to Avalon to heal him.     The program had veered far enough away from the legend that to leave them in our imaginations living happily ever after together would have brought a closure of peace and goodwill over this Christmas season, for my children at least.

Maybe the Christmas day Dr Who would placate my saddened children and replace my tear filled eyes with a sparkle.  Again great fans of the time traveller and still saddened by the end of the last series, we were optimistic for a new companion to  join the Dr.  Cast back again in time the Dr appeared in sombre mood as he refuses to help this planet of ours.   Scared of commitment following the sad loss of Amy and Rory at the end of the last series, he hides himself away on a cloud just above the curious goings on in the dated dismal streets below.  Goings on that include a green lizard lady and a soltarian warrior taking to the everyday town to  investigate strange events.

Predictably there is a girl who follows the doctor and convinces him to save the world, also predictably she tugs at both his hearts’ strings and is given the key to the tardis.   Back on course for a miraculous saving of the world followed by them travelling away to live happy every after or at least save other lesser known planets.

No!

The final scenes are at the grave side of the poor unfortunate girl who had ensnared the Dr back to his usual altruistic self.   I realise from the trailer and the Dr’s upbeat mood at the graveside that this is part of a deeper story which will see Clara reappear in future episodes as his sidekick.   In the reworked words of Christopher Ecclestone’s Dr “for once why can’t everybody live”

As we settle down for the evening with plates of snacks and nibbles, the children enjoying their hot chocolates and yet more sweets.  Dabbing the dampened tracks of my tears the evening calls for a bit of seasonal cheer as we tune into Call the Midwife, hoping for a more upbeat cheery ending.   We are not to be disappointed there is a happy ending; the girl gets to keep her baby, the old woman is remarkably cleaned and treated having come to terms with her tragic past.  Now able to help sew the wonderfully detailed costumes for the scouts and brownies as they put on their seasonal production of the nativity; everyone is happy.  My eyes still appear somewhat dampened but the sparkle is working its way through.

I do however wonder about the sense of putting on such graphic viewing at such prime time. I don’t remember this level of explicitness in the series normally.  Wonderful as it is for a baby to come into this world healthy and alive, to show it at such a prime time when children may still be watching is a little audacious.  No 1 Son’s comment “who would ever have a baby this is absolutely disgusting!”

By the end of the program and finally our happy ending all three boys had surreptitiously vacated the room and gone to find entertainment of their own in other rooms.   Even Sexy Sporty Dad had retreated to the kitchen for tea and further nibbles.

So I am left to indulge in my favourite Downton Abbey.  Settling in to a comfy seat and warmed by the flames of the fire I cast my mind back to the closing scenes last Christmas where Mary and Matthew finally after two series actually get together as the snow settles in front of the magnificent lit Abbey; a warm glow creeps over me in anticipation.

Having lost Sybil earlier in the series, it is worrying as Mary has twinges throughout the program. Surely they could not repeat the emotive loss.  Have the family and their loyal watchers not been through enough, are we not entitled to a little bit of joyous emotion on this festive night.  My heart lifts as I watch the antics of the upstairs and downstairs relationships now merging together, losing the class distinction that was once so sharp.  As the final minutes of the program climax we are rewarded with the safe delivery of  Matthew’s long anticipated son and heir.  A second joyous moment in the evening’s  television viewing. The relief is palpable, at last my happy Christmas cheer, the Downton family are rejoicing, their staff relieved and Mary’s smile is contagious as my eyes water and my smile widens.

No!

It is not to be. Moments later we leave Downton with the image of Matthew lying dead under his overturned car;  news not yet divulged to the cast.  Another beloved character killed off this Christmas season.  Trying to convince my disbelieving children that the red eyes and sniffs are only part of this never ending cold, I finally leave the my warm cosy chair to find a good book.

Is the news of floods and car accidents, war torn Afghanistan and Syria not sad enough.  Please can we have some happy programs.  What happened to the myth – go out on a high note,  yes we know with period dramas all the characters will be old and wrinkled if not dead by now.  We also know that they are only characters and if you watch them on I-player they will be alive again but so much anticipation and expectation are channelled into the Christmas scheduling of treasured favourites that negativity is not really required.

I note that another old favourite is revisiting our screens for one final time this coming weekend.  Dare I tell the children that Wild at Heart is back.   I have a forlorn feeling low down that the outcome may not be a happy one.  The memory of Danny returning to Leopards Den at the end of the last series was a great ending and one that should have lived in our hearts forever.

I hope your Christmas was filled with good cheer and happy emotions, surrounded by the ones you love and cherish.  Hopefully the only sadness tugging at your heartstrings this season was like mine lived out through the television.

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy