tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4524669760810638432024-02-19T16:27:54.404+00:00Gone Back SouthGone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-26959818953996293562014-02-02T00:41:00.001+00:002014-02-02T01:31:29.689+00:00Frilly Yellow Rays of Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was good to get out of my home-office and get some fresh air. But as January grumbled through its last few miserable days, the rain kept coming, the sky stayed grey and the cold wind blew my hood off and made me screw up my face like a prune. I shivered gloomily as I plodded around town and worked my way through my list.<br />
<br />
In the last shop, something small and green caught my eye. Bunches of daffodil buds, tightly wrapped up in themselves at the top with thin leafless stalks, in groups of 15 or 20 with elastic bands holding them together. <i>"Excellent"</i>, I whispered to them, <i>"you're here because spring is nearly here. You'll make me feel better".</i><br />
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I bought a bunch, came home, released them from their elastic band and let them relax in a sturdy blue plastic beaker full of cold water from the tap. For the rest of the day, the daffodils didn't move. They seemed unimpressed, too chilly to bother. <i>"Don't expect us to cheer you up"</i>, they seemed to mutter.<br />
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On the following day they hadn't bloomed, but the tight green buds at the top seemed a bit less tightly wrapped than the day before. <i>"Well, maybe we'll try ... if you move us into the sun"</i>, they murmured.<br />
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The next day the sun came out, and the daffodils decided to bloom. <i>"Ta daaah!"</i> they grinned. And I love them. Frilly yellow rays of hope that remind me that winter is nearly over and spring is on its way.<br />
<br />Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-75455773935057983892014-01-25T23:10:00.004+00:002014-01-25T23:13:23.488+00:00An Old Man's Old Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A baker friend of mine posted a photo of a cake on Facebook, with the words <i>"For the Cake of Auld Lang Syne"</i> written in icing on top. Quite funny but a bit random, I scoffed. But then I remembered that it's Burns Night tonight ... and then I remembered that I wrote this wee post exactly one year ago today ... and I decided to share it with you: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRSoczK2xF5A4rFF6tQQmmIIFA8xlP8jl120lRhV5aQJ09xjem8GitmQHnD00k9TJGWs2veTgL-KndwzHtHSVGb1_uYnUy9BUJCgAWSYw3hYXqPFqAi5jS52-a1hr8Ed89bGUDFVkSCx_W/s1600/robert-burns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRSoczK2xF5A4rFF6tQQmmIIFA8xlP8jl120lRhV5aQJ09xjem8GitmQHnD00k9TJGWs2veTgL-KndwzHtHSVGb1_uYnUy9BUJCgAWSYw3hYXqPFqAi5jS52-a1hr8Ed89bGUDFVkSCx_W/s1600/robert-burns.jpg" height="198" width="200" /></a></div>
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<u>An Old Man's Old Song</u></h2>
<i>For auld lang syne, my dear, </i><br />
<i>For auld lang syne, </i><br />
<i>We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, </i><br />
<i>For auld lang syne</i><br />
<br />
I have just learned that Robert Burns, Scotland’s favourite poet, wrote that
song. Or at least he heard an old man singing a version of it, wrote it
down, changed it around a bit and then it was his. A sweet, nostalgic
celebration of friendship; all around the world, people hold crossed
hands and sing it heartily to see the New Year in.<br />
<br />
Tonight is Burns Night, and millions of friends of auld acquaintance
will mark the great man’s birthday with bagpipes, whisky, poetry and a
wee speech read to a haggis.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-88134842618137570832014-01-24T17:17:00.001+00:002014-02-02T00:42:32.468+00:00Seduced by a Bergamot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've got PG Tips, Peppermint Tea and Apple & Mango ... but NO EARL GREY. Cuppa catastrophe! And the fact that I mind, very much, indicates that something strange has happened to my tea-drinking habits.<br />
<br />
You see, dear Reader, I've been absorbing a steady stream of ordinary bog-standard builder's tea several times a day since my late teens. But to my great surprise and for no apparent reason, I've recently switched to Earl Grey and now I can't go back! What the ...? Have I gone posh? Have I become delicate in my middle age? What is about Earl Grey that has turned my head and taken up residence in my mug, perhaps forever?<br />
<br />
I googled it of course. Apparently it's the flavour of Bergamot that has seduced my tastebuds - a funny sour little Mediterranean orange that thinks it's a lemon and, according the Daily Mail online (so it must be true, er, right?) can help to lower cholesterol and protect against diabetes. So if you'll excuse me, I really must dash to Waitrose ...<br />
<br />Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-49683077638943203372014-01-23T20:03:00.002+00:002014-02-02T00:47:10.884+00:00Hello Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Wow, I was mighty prolific as GBS in 2008, eh? I wrote 4 times as many posts that year as I did in the following 4 years altogether. And I wrote no GBS posts at all in 2013! I've been a bit busy, y'see. I blogged elsewhere, but it all seemed a bit pointless. Elsewhere just didn't work out for me.<br />
<br />
So if anybody who knew me (well, knew me in a bloggy, electronic sort of way) in 2008 is reading this, here's an update on my life: I still live down south. I'm still married to the lovely Big G. I work part-time doing PR/marketing stuff for a local business. I also work for a theatre, publicising the marvellously eclectic assortment of shows that are performed there. My little kids are not so little now - they're 12 and 13 already - so much of my day is spent providing vast volumes of food, dodging mood swings, discussing tricky social situations and negotiating peace deals between fragile young teens as they blaze and blunder along their own precarious and prickly paths through adolescence.<br />
<br />
There's lots more to tell. But later, dear blog, later.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-69890627191132370692012-11-09T22:11:00.001+00:002014-02-02T00:48:28.050+00:00Low Key Sparkly Bonfire Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb94UVNoblll0Iv277IgwjzeX43MD8ZXTgG6xmEOs978361297_8PD8u8-L9UXRHYVCOnsGTVzumCiGZdY8t6pEHVxSHO5q9M9f1CbmFU9oBZKGJrBZ2Q40HQsgCaeuqbFcIKkO3JYkMOk/s1600/sparkler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb94UVNoblll0Iv277IgwjzeX43MD8ZXTgG6xmEOs978361297_8PD8u8-L9UXRHYVCOnsGTVzumCiGZdY8t6pEHVxSHO5q9M9f1CbmFU9oBZKGJrBZ2Q40HQsgCaeuqbFcIKkO3JYkMOk/s200/sparkler.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
This year Guy Fawkes Night came and went past our family in the most low-key fashion ever. The big town fireworks were on Saturday night - but we were at a friend's birthday party so we missed that - and on November the 5th itself Big G was working so we didn't arrange to go anywhere and it was just an ordinary school-and-work sort of day.<br />
<br />
Luckily L remember-remembered that we had a packet of sparklers left over from last year. Inspired! I've no idea where I had stored them, but somehow she found them. At around 7pm - that handy hour after dinner but before Eastenders - we put on warm coats and old shoes and went outside.<br />
<br />
The big tree in the back garden seemed huge and loomed over us like a gigantic vulture, and the area at the back behind the goal posts was thick black and silent. The children had two sparklers each and I had one. B solemnly did the man's job and lit the first ones with a barbeque lighter. We then cheerily ran around the lawn on squidgy autumn leaves, waving the sparkles here and there against the cold dark sky, writing our names in bright seconds of gold and surprising the guinea pigs.<br />
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Then we went inside and watched Eastenders. That was all.<br />
<br />Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-74583735805993246352012-10-28T00:11:00.002+01:002012-10-28T00:12:26.405+01:00The Leaves Leave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday we felt the first bite of winter. I had forgotten how unpleasant cold air feels on my skin. The leaves on the trees have been turning from green to yellow lately - I've tried to ignore it - but in the last week they have suddenly sped up and changed dramatically to reds and browns instead. I can ignore it no longer. The leaves are now withered and dry. They are giving up the fight, giving up their spectacular view, letting the icy wind push them off their comfortable branches and blow them ruthlessly into the cloudy sky. With a defeated sigh, they float down and land any-old-where, where they will let the ground take them back as mulchy muddy muck. The death throes of summer.<br />
<br />Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-15418082806037338112011-01-26T21:55:00.007+00:002011-01-26T22:28:27.836+00:00Piggy Now, Perky Later<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLTZbplBN1-7AHNLICDeJzpvLGibhwMHqLhqlNLO41T-et0QbAOWVVQbWSRcDcKKFHyjWrZQpU3qgK-rPpbsDmVpGWyEbRqdOyddPuXe0NluULjxWJqOD7kolfkGPNmOsXQ5MXgGEVeD7/s1600/pinky.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLTZbplBN1-7AHNLICDeJzpvLGibhwMHqLhqlNLO41T-et0QbAOWVVQbWSRcDcKKFHyjWrZQpU3qgK-rPpbsDmVpGWyEbRqdOyddPuXe0NluULjxWJqOD7kolfkGPNmOsXQ5MXgGEVeD7/s200/pinky.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566623395758804354" /></a>January: the time for exercise, detox and healthy eating.<br /><br />But I honestly don't know why I thought January would be a good month to stop drinking wine and scoffing crisps. I must have been deranged. January is an odious month and all I can do is try to mask its beastliness by ... well ... drinking wine and scoffing crisps as I wait for it all to be over.<br /><br />I submitted my tax return today (<span style="font-style:italic;">slightly less hideous than expected</span>) and I cleaned the bathroom (<span style="font-style:italic;">far more hideous than expected</span>) so I have achieved something today, even if it's not healthy eating.<br /><br />But never mind, payday will soon be here and soon after that the sun will shine and the clocks will change and I can wear sunglasses and then I expect I'll feel all perky and sprightly and decide to spring clean my insides with gallons of water and barrels of fresh veg. Until then, oink.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-53295087683714157592010-09-14T23:21:00.000+01:002010-09-14T23:22:04.742+01:00Blue Polyester SpaghettiI bought the blue blanket nine years ago. I waddled into Mothercare like a bulbous penguin – hot, huffy and in a hurry to find comfort for the baby who had yet to draw his first breath.<br /><br />I took the blanket home and washed it. I dried it, sniffed it and folded it up with gleeful anticipation. I dreamt of wrapping it around the soft little body that was kicking and wriggling and growing inside me, as I waited and waited and waited …<br /><br />Eventually he came out and so did the blanket. At first it gave him warmth; later it gave much more. Security. Friendship. Somewhere to hide his face and cry. A plaything to wrestle with in his cot, he held the blanket up and gazed at the sunlight through the woven holes. He twisted it, hugged it and wrapped it around his feet. He learnt to walk so then he could drag it, swing it and take it outside. <br /><br />Oops the blanket has torn, but never mind because now we have two! Oops torn again, but where did the other piece go? The baby got bigger and tougher, his blanket got smaller and tattered. No longer needed, all that’s left of it is a scrap – a tired, tiny tangle of blue polyester spaghetti. I had to use scissors to get it out of his bottom drawer, because some of the more wayward threads had wrapped themselves like ivy around the other ‘special stuff’ that he wants to keep: a carnival whistle, a sports day medal, a Mr. Funny bookmark, glass-less glasses and a cornucopia of other childhood knick knacks with cherished memories attached.<br /><br />Now my small boy prefers football to snuggling, but the remnants of his blue baby blanket will never be thrown away. Sometimes, at bedtime, we look at it and laugh like fellow conspirators, remembering the olden milky days with a knowing chuckle. We feel ever so grown up.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-26631617312129726362010-07-26T22:58:00.004+01:002010-07-26T23:38:48.831+01:00Goodbye Little White House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgnPS69onUKpyl8Mr04zI-sjtzMMDicMu150KErCZ_DZc_N1ZdmQKVNaPQzuJNi1o5dSCj9yRj6zNpUS-e8_yQsWK1IuYWsAVMbhXQARjVPLl-sS4Z88lhumuf2RHl26fpbqPlFvsrDJ8/s1600/goodbye.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 129px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgnPS69onUKpyl8Mr04zI-sjtzMMDicMu150KErCZ_DZc_N1ZdmQKVNaPQzuJNi1o5dSCj9yRj6zNpUS-e8_yQsWK1IuYWsAVMbhXQARjVPLl-sS4Z88lhumuf2RHl26fpbqPlFvsrDJ8/s200/goodbye.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498346275106536146" /></a>For my patient and forgiving readers who have been peering into this unreliable window on my life through their computer screens since 2008 ... when I first started wailing, and wondering why, and writing about how I had packed up and left my home, all my precious (but now fading) friends, my livelihood and the familiar streets of the birthplace of my precious babies and moved back down south ... <span style="font-style:italic;">well, we've finally sold the house!</span><br /><br />Yes, our little white house in Cheshire. A place that holds a pinata-full of memories ... a little poke and they all come tumbling out. I still wish I could pick up that house that we nurtured so, and bring it down here. But that is of course fanciful silly-talk, and we've agreed to sell it to a stranger named Johns. Or is it Jones? Whoever they are, I hope they'll be happy there. I know I was (most of the time anyway).<br /><br />Perhaps now Big G and I will be able to put down some new roots? Goodness knows, we have a bag full of homeless, dangling roots that need to be dug in somewhere.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-57227510290202886232010-06-20T23:14:00.006+01:002010-07-27T11:53:16.231+01:00Lime Green Time Machine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKibZ6cbByUjW7UPGeghaYvTZ615azLIrF37FrmP7pAxhw8kqz5xhsRgJgQ-IkxgtVBclUWuAdvTeuQI8ihQ1_VDRrEuSImy7heuR4iUfSBOTJroWfF_54J6n3aUCfI1IgMVRGrRAavRu/s1600/notepad.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 152px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKibZ6cbByUjW7UPGeghaYvTZ615azLIrF37FrmP7pAxhw8kqz5xhsRgJgQ-IkxgtVBclUWuAdvTeuQI8ihQ1_VDRrEuSImy7heuR4iUfSBOTJroWfF_54J6n3aUCfI1IgMVRGrRAavRu/s200/notepad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484987028952583922" /></a>I keep meaning to google 'Alzheimers Prevention Techniques', and then I forget to do it. This does not bode well.<br /><br />Over the course of this joyful, irritating, delightful, busy and utterly mucky weekend, full of me-and-the-kids-at-home-shenanigans and mess and distractions and sillyness, I've been more than usually despairingly sensitive to the passing of time, and my children being so deliciously young yet growing up so terrifyingly fast.<br /><br />Many many times I've thought to myself: <span style="font-style:italic;">"I should blog about that - I don't want to forget it".</span><br /><br />I didn't blog. And now ... I've forgotten all of it.<br /><br />The red wine isn't helping.<br /><br />So here is my pledge to my blog: Tomorrow I'll scribble down (in my new lime green notepad) as many anecdotes as I can think of about this weekend, and then list the best of them as a 'Weekend Top Ten' list on my blog.<br /><br />Okay with you, dear Reader?!<br /><br />* * * * * * *<br /><br />p.s. 26th July 2010: Dear Reader, never ever EVER believe any promises I ever make. Okay with you?Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-68549209700239791602010-05-20T23:50:00.006+01:002010-05-21T07:19:48.898+01:00Feathering the Nest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxpVyCCU6qMd0f1Jbd51eB2QjBi-dJDZrgAVLpd_hWGrYP4oW3wlQQHS7MvlSudFizqVJYS6FNpT5m7yjYPi8FlgySNSaIwzYhT3hNbJCwbxP9ZDiCrCphyphenhyphen7hz1V8Ij920Y0tTFCmSvS9/s1600/feathering+the+nest.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 158px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxpVyCCU6qMd0f1Jbd51eB2QjBi-dJDZrgAVLpd_hWGrYP4oW3wlQQHS7MvlSudFizqVJYS6FNpT5m7yjYPi8FlgySNSaIwzYhT3hNbJCwbxP9ZDiCrCphyphenhyphen7hz1V8Ij920Y0tTFCmSvS9/s200/feathering+the+nest.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473491949739233202" /></a>A couple of nights ago, I heard Big G pad along the carpeted corridor in socked feet, and flump into bed. Knowing that he doesn't 'feather the nest' as I do, before sleep, I decided to go and investigate.<br /><br />He was lying in bed with his eyes closed and the bright ceiling light on. Although very tired after several disgustingly early mornings, he forced his bleary eyes open so we could have a little chat.<br /><br />As we talked, I picked up and put away the piles of clothes on the bed, wondering how anyone could get into a bed covered in stuff.<br /><br />Next I offered him a pillowcase, as I had taken them off that morning to wash, and he was lying straight on the pillow. <span style="font-style:italic;">"If there's one handy"</span>, he mumbled.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Shall I put the duvet cover on then, before you nod off?"</span> I asked. He thought that was a good idea, so I pulled the king size duvet off him and wrestled with getting it inside the cover, as he turned on his side and closed his eyes again.<br /><br />Then I covered him up, gave him a kiss, turned the light off and left the room.<br /><br />What would he do without me?Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-31025186952395881672010-05-17T23:03:00.012+01:002010-05-18T22:18:32.653+01:00Sandy 1970<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVkSnuszhHhr5WT1Ak7Qqddw31zez6DsMnVZQVRXXH9-BvTCMgXb1M8UxaYYXmZnsbxGzecvlPJACBQO3DZKyGsPTPdsKPb8H7JNrKCsUXf1jBd_jwFjjjTPAYUqdR0WX6BBHHvMr0Jak/s1600/BeachPhoto0001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVkSnuszhHhr5WT1Ak7Qqddw31zez6DsMnVZQVRXXH9-BvTCMgXb1M8UxaYYXmZnsbxGzecvlPJACBQO3DZKyGsPTPdsKPb8H7JNrKCsUXf1jBd_jwFjjjTPAYUqdR0WX6BBHHvMr0Jak/s200/BeachPhoto0001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472365074786625682" /></a>This is one of my favourite family photos from ye olden days gone by. My sister is too busy guzzling to smile at the camera; my Dad inexplicably has a pair of knickers on his head; my Mum is having a helluva time; and my baby brother (who has just turned 40) is rolling around with his head in the sand and an elbow in his chin. No wonder he grew up to be the most laid-back of all of us.<br /><br />Me, I am the toddler on the right, dressed in a woolly jumper (my parents took us to the beach whatever the weather), clearly enjoying the chaos in front of me, destined to be forever the diplomatic middle child, cursed with a balanced view, usually hesitant with indecision, and blessed blessed blessed blessed blessed.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-53462298127453627662010-05-15T22:50:00.004+01:002010-05-15T23:12:28.057+01:00Dreaming of Enid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGUAwymnTrdj2OPWxZKV2q_dTbQzVf5iLbxyF1i-ZBafd9uWYotgMRV1nkRcbVGwxy_f69Azc0EcRvOtRXBLFiS6Ochyphenhyphen6dLIYPsPgijMr4qbH74FDUsxAFbhGhe-kAOvxuw5qW9qPb_09/s1600/image-enid-blyton-day.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 175px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGUAwymnTrdj2OPWxZKV2q_dTbQzVf5iLbxyF1i-ZBafd9uWYotgMRV1nkRcbVGwxy_f69Azc0EcRvOtRXBLFiS6Ochyphenhyphen6dLIYPsPgijMr4qbH74FDUsxAFbhGhe-kAOvxuw5qW9qPb_09/s200/image-enid-blyton-day.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471621191112430450" /></a>Having glued my eyeballs to non-stop Enid Blyton books at my most delicate age, I grew up convinced that no decent day out was complete without a yummy picnic in the fresh air. Hard-boiled eggs and tomato sandwiches, home-made lemonade and great slabs of cake for afters. Hoorah!<br /><br />But a real-life, grown-up picnic is never quite like that, is it? By the time we decide to have one, it’s usually too late to go shopping for chicken satay and potato salad, so I peer into the cupboard and cobble together some sandwiches and crisps. If I find a packet of chocolate biscuits, that’s good. Raw carrots and a few water bottles in the bag and we’re good to go.<br /><br />The time comes, and we meet our friends in the car park of our chosen scenic spot. I lug bags as the children shoot off like speeding bullets before I can ask them to carry anything. If there are picnic benches, they are splattered with bird poo or next to an overflowing bin, so we wander down to the riverbank or up a hill. Choosing a spot turns into a game of <span style="font-style:italic;">‘find the least muddy bit’</span>.<br /><br />Out comes the food. Unless I’ve had a rare Nigella moment the night before, my friends will usually have out-lunched me. They joyfully nourish their patient, grateful offspring with delicious pasta salad and garlic rolls on smart orange plastic plates; Me, I wrestle my children to the ground and plonk squashed sandwiches and a packet of hula hoops into their grubby hands, growling <span style="font-style:italic;">“eat the sandwiches first.”</span> We nibble our chocolate biscuits (melted) as we are attacked by wasps or menaced by dogs that look only slightly scarier than their owners.<br /><br />But the dream never dies, and I will still plan picnics in the hope that they will be more romantic and delightful than they probably will be. Tonight I was reading some Enid Blyton to my daughter, and the children in the story did indeed have yet another picnic - this time it was a ham and a fruit cake from the market wrapped in a tea towel, and some ginger beer. Hoorah Hoorah Hoorah!Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-5464079755605961492010-05-12T19:05:00.012+01:002010-05-12T20:28:49.695+01:00My Lunch and the Queen's LunchI had this lovely award from the delightful <a href="http://nappyvalleygirl.blogspot.com/">Nappy Valley Girl</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZyy4KIl12jwjElNw8xkSVV6k7AC2IaroEXC8cmWiOnUdQGFegx_EX-1hF3XZGwBOFADIKRkwTZUlHHC63r9mn3rJQbNXXAi5gudpLCmRceZr3_VUbooSe65RTQ-acEtyvYnAqvqdDFUA9/s1600/beautiful-blogger.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZyy4KIl12jwjElNw8xkSVV6k7AC2IaroEXC8cmWiOnUdQGFegx_EX-1hF3XZGwBOFADIKRkwTZUlHHC63r9mn3rJQbNXXAi5gudpLCmRceZr3_VUbooSe65RTQ-acEtyvYnAqvqdDFUA9/s200/beautiful-blogger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470460399966705042" /></a><br />Thank you. It comes with an invitation to share 7 little known facts about myself, so here goes:<br /><br />1. At lunchtime I had an accident involving my thumb and a sharp kitchen knife. My daughter, off school with a cold, went chalky green and had to lie down. I calmly and efficiently soaked up the blood, bound the cut with steri-strips and plasters, and then went chalky green and had to lie down.<br /><br />2. There are many good things to appreciate about my job … but I secretly resent feeling like a tired middle-aged mum that does part-time office work.<br /><br />3. Sometimes, when Big G climbs quietly into bed and I’m already asleep, I wake up suddenly with a fright, demanding to know <span style="font-weight:bold;">who he is?</span> and <span style="font-weight:bold;">what does he think he’s doing?</span> He finds all this highly amusing.<br /><br />4. Many sleeps ago … I used to make my own mini dresses and wear them with Doc Marten boots.<br /><br />5. My soft, loving, lavender-laced grandmothers were called Daisy and Dorothy.<br /><br />6. My favourite moment, in the early hours of Election Night, was when David Dimbleby said: <span style="font-style:italic;">“the Queen has made it quite clear – she won’t be seeing anyone until after lunch today”</span>.<br /><br />7. I have a few dark secrets that I may never tell anybody … although I might, when I’m very old, think: <span style="font-style:italic;">“that’s a waste of a good secret if it never gets told”</span>.<br /><br />As for passing this award on, I gladly give it to anybody kind enough to visit my blog.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-11788636826490031862010-05-07T22:16:00.004+01:002010-05-07T22:34:36.006+01:00Not Cold, Hungry, Hot ... or Running<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQnj1kd0ehvuL4ezccpIAKTIm-ARZ1przsh34P4I1dzaVAcdN-4bdpA5CwY9Dh9gQlPDYXAp_TPMdfRLOSyIRtlKJPZYDg0L9oO0sfBqryt7C0lL4T_gAqwW9cCR1j-al-80uMIlU97k1/s1600/runner.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQnj1kd0ehvuL4ezccpIAKTIm-ARZ1przsh34P4I1dzaVAcdN-4bdpA5CwY9Dh9gQlPDYXAp_TPMdfRLOSyIRtlKJPZYDg0L9oO0sfBqryt7C0lL4T_gAqwW9cCR1j-al-80uMIlU97k1/s200/runner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468640362798957890" /></a>I had completely forgotten how important it is, when planning a training run, to <span style="font-style:italic;">time</span> your food intake. If I eat too soon, I don't have enough energy and get hungry again just before the run; If I eat too late, I get a stitch and running is painful. So, as the only time I could run on Wednesday was 1.30pm, I ate my lunch at 11.30am! And it went well.<br /><br />The other tricky thing to get right is layers of clothing: If I'm not cold when I leave the house, I'll definitely be too hot later. But if I am cold when I leave the house, I might never warm up enough later and that's even worse! Nevertheless, when I do manage to get <span style="font-style:italic;">most</span> of those things <span style="font-style:italic;">more or less</span> right, and the ipod's pumping out a great song, and my legs and lungs are feeling strong, and I don't step in dog shit or get a fly up my nose ... running can be BLISS!!!<br /><br />One thing I got very wrong this week was registering online for the 10K I volunteered to run on May 31st. The charity told me that, to claim my 'guaranteed' place, I must register by 5th May. I wrote it in my diary, in pen. But what I failed to notice was that I had to do it by <span style="font-weight:bold;">5pm</span>, and naturally I didn't log in until 6.30pm. Oops. One lost place and many embarrassed grovelling emails later, I now feel terribly guilty and have promised to find another event to do to raise money for this charity instead. Oh well, at least I'll have more time to train.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-3475482899196639862010-05-05T12:45:00.010+01:002010-05-05T22:13:13.177+01:00Amazing Rosie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ra6a4imykOmajeAua-8slrhwEFbE4sxHtSPdcIAFIGWNhVspkzWkZHu3O8uiyEJVHLcFQ6eZmXplulnguqunWUpCJyQEpQKfi4mC6BGifAKeaFoPMKkV0lHLQELR04ZsBMoccmZejWNU/s1600/Rosie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ra6a4imykOmajeAua-8slrhwEFbE4sxHtSPdcIAFIGWNhVspkzWkZHu3O8uiyEJVHLcFQ6eZmXplulnguqunWUpCJyQEpQKfi4mC6BGifAKeaFoPMKkV0lHLQELR04ZsBMoccmZejWNU/s200/Rosie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467757273590193506" /></a>I don't watch much TV, but I made a point of seeing one of the Eddie Izzard Runs a Million Marathons for Sport Relief programmes. Eddie had a brief visit on the road from Rosie Swale Pope, who ran solo around the world to raise money for prostate cancer awareness, and other charities.<br /><br />I had never heard of the adventurer Rosie Swale Pope, who set off at the age of 53 to run across Europe, crossed Russia, Siberia and Alaska, then ran through the USA, Greenland, Iceland and arrived back in the UK 5 years later. She mainly camped alone, dealing with hunger, extreme cold, frostbite, blizzards, villians, wolves, broken ribs; you name it, she dealt with it and lugged her stuff in a cart the whole way too.<br /><br />When I saw Rosie on TV, I immediately bought her book and couldn't put it down. What I loved most about this book was her enormous gratitude for all the people who helped her along the way - very poor people with almost nothing took her into their humble homes and warmed her up, shared their food, let her wash and sleep in a warm bed before heading off again. It is a tale of overwhelming kindness.<br /><br />Rosie inspired me start running again, to raise money for charity. I have run marathons and half marathons in my past life (i.e. before kids) but as my fitness levels are now a fraction of what they used to be, I'm starting slowly with a 10K on 31st May.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-19730597034420301802010-05-04T18:53:00.005+01:002010-05-04T21:52:32.855+01:00Back From the Dead<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgol_Lci776XbQhLwBaFj3H66SedGpEFKJVRyYFImF6RfKURrq_6rzpM18u0UiIqr7GmJCjmJxOXiysZAEimUeDvZ4mfBrLHzUEVuXT0oOHgycL1LAFb4VDN4HOfLmfi5mMhLUHulFWO_gm/s1600/path.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgol_Lci776XbQhLwBaFj3H66SedGpEFKJVRyYFImF6RfKURrq_6rzpM18u0UiIqr7GmJCjmJxOXiysZAEimUeDvZ4mfBrLHzUEVuXT0oOHgycL1LAFb4VDN4HOfLmfi5mMhLUHulFWO_gm/s200/path.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467486760407563218" /></a>I've been having a minor identity crisis. There has been an unhealthy abundance of umm-ing and ahh-ing going on in my life this past year; dark thoughts, life coaching, self-obsession, heart-searching, soul-searching, reflection, rumination, oh, that sort of thing.<br /><br />I've started several new blogs and given them up because they just weren't ... well ... me, so I've come back here where I started. And very nice it feels too.<br /><br />The intimate details of my little trip around <span style="font-style:italic;">WhoTheHellAmI?</span> would be as dull to you as waiting for a bus that never comes in the rough end of town on a rainy Sunday afternoon, so I won't bore you with them now.<br /><br />I will reveal, however, that I now have an A5 sheet of paper with a 5-year life plan on one side and a 20-year plan on the other. It's laminated, and tucked inside the front of my diary. Sad, maybe? But it works for me.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-76025087144177072112009-02-26T08:54:00.006+00:002009-03-15T19:15:42.276+00:00That's Enough of That<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1xPA3EGVDJhiHH1iIKl9UrTaUPMD1iffFS0y5RzEANyS6BTSE3Fwh1M3X1lOl4OcSDxvZxhqMRULVovftL59JUDZJpM4CCtaU5QYCYTcWLTbu3PhkpL_k0z8CEYDvyL5V3TMDMecWrOe/s1600-h/happyhouse.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 147px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1xPA3EGVDJhiHH1iIKl9UrTaUPMD1iffFS0y5RzEANyS6BTSE3Fwh1M3X1lOl4OcSDxvZxhqMRULVovftL59JUDZJpM4CCtaU5QYCYTcWLTbu3PhkpL_k0z8CEYDvyL5V3TMDMecWrOe/s200/happyhouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307066766511355250" /></a>This is my 100th post, and probably my last as Gone Back South. I'm glad I started this blog - it was fun and wonderful therapy when I needed it, and I've found some lovely lovely LOVELY people in the blogosphere. The thing is, I just don't feel like being GBS anymore. The future is calling ... I'll keep reading my favourite blogs, maybe leave some comments, and when I start a new blog with a new name I'll pop over and say hi. Life is sweet!<br /><br />With love,<br />GBS<br />xGone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-57620538436175499262009-02-15T22:43:00.009+00:002009-02-16T09:10:47.532+00:00Life's Punctuation Marks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4Sgd9iHMD88jjuoGy1pCQ4ySqQC9cWDFzcwyhTp7JVC5bc0Amt_Wi9bBhcpzqGIw4UDtHTuK6AvKAbkMH8C28FttJXCxvNXa6SE122BZVwoJZZ8JOQ610Lk6vTu1yD13bjbdtCDVwV8t/s1600-h/RedHotChiliPeppersPic.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 167px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4Sgd9iHMD88jjuoGy1pCQ4ySqQC9cWDFzcwyhTp7JVC5bc0Amt_Wi9bBhcpzqGIw4UDtHTuK6AvKAbkMH8C28FttJXCxvNXa6SE122BZVwoJZZ8JOQ610Lk6vTu1yD13bjbdtCDVwV8t/s200/RedHotChiliPeppersPic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303170448642196754" /></a>Everyone was away except me. Big G was abroad and the children were at my sister's. I kept hearing noises and imagining somebody shifty was trying to open the back door. I microwaved an odd but surprisingly tasty combination of leftovers, poured a glass of wine and soaked in an almost unbearably hot bath. It was so quiet. Then I plodded downstairs and slumped on the sofa.<br /><br />Having zero tolerance to most mainstream TV, because frankly, it's shite, I amused myself by hopping through the music channels. It's one of the joys of solitude, channel hopping in peace. Q is by far the best: I was treated to Placebo, David Bowie, REM, Radiohead, Alanis Morissette, and then Scar Tissue by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on.<br /><br />Ah yes, scar tissue. The reason I'm sore and resting and should not lift heavy things. Scars are Life's Punctuation Marks. Every time you collect a new scar (emotional or physical?!) you slow life down to a stop, pause, breathe in and think for a little while.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-22926155389481699402009-02-08T16:55:00.010+00:002009-02-08T18:21:16.648+00:00Opium for the Wounded<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5TQnQM8HiWco_wgR9uvYdA79xOxrkza_ESgnYx4VZEWFMKgTbMpfFxuwExM0Ku6NarmXhC7ZqyLQp9umKhCXaT4mJnPSrwOO-97w0hDOPYSmHjObr16fmKM106HSdE0NDBIy3SM5fBtm/s1600-h/opium.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5TQnQM8HiWco_wgR9uvYdA79xOxrkza_ESgnYx4VZEWFMKgTbMpfFxuwExM0Ku6NarmXhC7ZqyLQp9umKhCXaT4mJnPSrwOO-97w0hDOPYSmHjObr16fmKM106HSdE0NDBIy3SM5fBtm/s200/opium.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300491970943120594" /></a>A woman knocked me out, and a man sliced me open like a fish.<br /><br />I had an operation on Thursday, stayed 3 nights in hospital, and now I'm home in bed. Nothing too serious, don't worry, but I have to rest up and take it easy for 6 weeks!<br /><br />When I awoke, after the surgical deed was done, I was fuzzy and muzzy and floppy. They checked me and fed me, and I nodded off with a piece of tomato in my mouth. Like a baby I lay helpless, as strangers soothed me with words and fiddled with wires and tubes. I knew I had to trust them. I knew I had to lie on my back and not move. I knew I had a button to press which beeped and released morphine on demand.<br /><br />I drifted in and out of sleep, waking and beeping as I sailed on a wierd and colourful morphine-filled voyage that night. I dreamt I was at home, that my children had grown up, I was chopping onions, I was chasing bees, I was a pirate, I was putting papers in the fridge, I was Brad and Angelina's nanny. In my dream, Brangelina lived in a small house with their 6 children, one of whom was my nephew. I suggested boxing up some of Angie's designer dresses that were lying around the spare room still in their wrappers, and giving them to a charity shop. "Good idea", said Brad, as he mowed the lawn.<br /><br />Sadly, they don't give you morphine for long.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-86475550939629042882009-01-14T21:57:00.008+00:002009-01-14T23:09:23.183+00:00Maximum Madness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftNSJnnatxvt8frVrA7ZmJACYTsAXLiUbmeth8jWSIrcn2bv6CYzog8b-hzvAshel6FAQPScebiQ5HAiEUuguYpyGXusCvBW1ngUxeIFjiigBFJcoP60aE6dOBD_3h5QGa5TyMcybUdC0/s1600-h/hamster-hiding-in-a-blue-bag.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftNSJnnatxvt8frVrA7ZmJACYTsAXLiUbmeth8jWSIrcn2bv6CYzog8b-hzvAshel6FAQPScebiQ5HAiEUuguYpyGXusCvBW1ngUxeIFjiigBFJcoP60aE6dOBD_3h5QGa5TyMcybUdC0/s200/hamster-hiding-in-a-blue-bag.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291281532841057554" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;">"Have you gone mad?</span>" asked my parents, as I told them the plan.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"We all think you're mad"</span>, said one mum, as she dropped off.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"You must be mad"</span>, said a dad, as he picked up.<br /><br />My son's 7th birthday party was at our (fairly small) house on Sunday: 16 children, mostly boys, mostly aged 6-7.<br /><br />We played games like Pin the Trunk on the Elephant, Pass the Parcel and Treasure Hunt in teams.<br /><br />We caused a riot between the sofas with a candy-spraying pinata.<br /><br />We settled disputes over prizes.<br /><br />We fed them junk food.<br /><br />We let them trash the boy bedroom and run about in police clothes and helmets, shooting and sword-fighting with anything that might resemble a weapon (with a little imagination).<br /><br />We freed the boy who got stuck in the loo.<br /><br />We gleefully accepted sister-in-law's offer of help.<br /><br />We marvelled at how boys won't walk if they can run, won't run if they can roly-poly, and always <span style="font-weight:bold;">SHOUT FOR NO REASON!!!</span><br /><br />We declared our bedroom strictly off-limits. Strictly. Off. Limits.<br /><br />We hid the hamster.<br /><br />We threw punch balloons (big ones on elastic) down the stairs, turned the music up and got out of the way as our guests almost combusted with excitement.<br /><br />We shouted a lot and hardly anyone listened.<br /><br />We turned off the lights for the candles on the Spongebob Squarepants cake ... how I love watching kids' faces when everyone sings <span style="font-style:italic;">'Happy Birthday to You'</span> (and just for once nobody bellowed out a rude version).<br /><br />Have I gone completely ding-dong-doo-lally-stark-staring-bonkers-checking-into-cloud-cuckooland MAD? Probably. But it won't be long before the kids want to do something more sedate on their birthdays like bowling, cinema, or pizza, with just a few close friends. And then they won't want me at their birthday parties at all. So I reckon I might as well make the most of this short time and keep their parties as insane as possible.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-21536176873089132172009-01-04T22:32:00.008+00:002009-01-05T00:40:18.131+00:00Our Lazy Days Are Numbered<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3LWepT7c_W31RCw4UEmMCHmXSR6UgBZGQh1tb9FMtpAgj1CRNgoS2mR_h0bJaX2vp3FwjaHZXFoE7AUOYc8e-v7sNOlE6vrhVsS3dUjKvX0ETRSspfNrxOWWYaMuz7XLPaqQxSnyl1iIP/s1600-h/lazy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3LWepT7c_W31RCw4UEmMCHmXSR6UgBZGQh1tb9FMtpAgj1CRNgoS2mR_h0bJaX2vp3FwjaHZXFoE7AUOYc8e-v7sNOlE6vrhVsS3dUjKvX0ETRSspfNrxOWWYaMuz7XLPaqQxSnyl1iIP/s200/lazy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287575212643511250" /></a>Tonight the kids and I had one of those long-film, easy-food, no-bath kind of evenings. They tumbled about laughing, gave each other wedgies and went to bed deliciously late and mellow. I slobbed about in sweatpants, neglected all the chores and took a leisurely tour round some of my favourite blogs instead.<br /><br />Over Christmas I was sick and had no appetitite, so I lost quite a lot of weight. Now I'm better, my body has moved cleverly into post-famine fat-hoarding mode, which coincides nicely with having a kitchen full of Christmas chocolate biscuits. It's getting out of control ... surely I've had enough catch-up calories by now?<br /><br />We only have one day left to be lazy toads, before going back out into the real world to report dutifully to work and school on Tuesday. Shame really, I'm quite enjoying this!Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-321390325082550512009-01-03T23:07:00.007+00:002009-01-04T20:22:27.251+00:00Beach House Treasure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnuL3o8RZtnp19f26a5lZwywHC6GxMjVYV0YufuiZ2VGBO1ljDfDVWnH4fC1cXnf90_HM84tQ-obL3KaA8tvXD7hyiEuFL2MApqhALEvSCV0zfVZJscdFPnHGzwfpAz3TqvWr9Nloc-pZ/s1600-h/stony+beach.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnuL3o8RZtnp19f26a5lZwywHC6GxMjVYV0YufuiZ2VGBO1ljDfDVWnH4fC1cXnf90_HM84tQ-obL3KaA8tvXD7hyiEuFL2MApqhALEvSCV0zfVZJscdFPnHGzwfpAz3TqvWr9Nloc-pZ/s200/stony+beach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287221688499084818" /></a>Grandma Dorothy's white hair was rinsed pale blue, pink or purple at the hairdressers. "My hair used to be thick and dark, just like yours", she told me as a child, leaving me wondering if I too would go lilac in old age.<br /><br />She and Grandad Wilf lived in a bungalow near a stony beach by the sea. Her oil paintings of roses and holidays hung on the walls, and a clock tick-tocked on the sideboard, keeping us kids awake at night. Grandma Dorothy made her own jam and stored it in jars with paper lids in the larder. There was an apple tree and a bird bath in the neatly manicured back garden, and squidgy white sofas in the 'sun room' where they snoozed after lunch. The greenhouse - Grandad Wilf's hideaway - was full of buckets, watering cans and seed trays. It smelt of soil and home-grown tomatoes.<br /><br />We used to take bets on what colour dress Grandma Dorothy would be wearing, when we drove to the south coast to visit. Her dresses were always bright, often floral, and she wore them with slippers and an apron while she cooked lunch. Her teeth fell out after the war, probably because of having babies on food rations. But she had false ones, and the brightest and most genuine smile I have ever seen. I'll always remember her laughing eyes as she hugged us when we got out of the car.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-54631007363204122292008-12-31T10:47:00.007+00:002008-12-31T17:47:14.477+00:00The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BkAjO5tNN6KBRV3IjW3uXvs49F2eIM0_0fv-qLL6VOf3mw1A2_zhFWIQHHq2rYtuPGFKf6mnnKbPkzDJMwG4Qyc-CCnCqHH-yqbruMAkcsRKKSasB10PZIVgGk5HbONRPc0u3ZQCJ1Nw/s1600-h/tigger.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BkAjO5tNN6KBRV3IjW3uXvs49F2eIM0_0fv-qLL6VOf3mw1A2_zhFWIQHHq2rYtuPGFKf6mnnKbPkzDJMwG4Qyc-CCnCqHH-yqbruMAkcsRKKSasB10PZIVgGk5HbONRPc0u3ZQCJ1Nw/s200/tigger.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285923766046607490" /></a>What an odd year this has been. For our little family, 2008 began with sorrow and is ending with optimism. The rest of the world examines its cuts and bruises, and wonders ... <span style="font-style:italic;">what next</span>? 2009 is waking up.<br /><br />For me, the new year is a time to hug my loved ones close and give thanks for all my blessings. Whatever might have pulled me down last year, it's time to bounce back and start afresh this year!<br /><br />May all you delightful writers and readers out there in the blogosphere be blessed with fine fortune, rosy-cheeked good health, a spring in your tail, joy in your hearts and fun fun fun fun fun. xGone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-452466976081063843.post-25313020527023508042008-12-27T21:35:00.006+00:002008-12-27T22:29:08.011+00:00The Wrong Kind of Cough<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzBlXCXaT8xIa8kAQ1F5GD85-_4iZN1y7G65t8Qjtvf55EYrBbtebY00jQDea3IaZ-o24-nxFJEeprXWQ4J3PwtITz18eyi5lQY2T6aqOFa2zponz938sA0cfNyhxp_K1OQbqh4QzV3aL/s1600-h/cough+medicine.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzBlXCXaT8xIa8kAQ1F5GD85-_4iZN1y7G65t8Qjtvf55EYrBbtebY00jQDea3IaZ-o24-nxFJEeprXWQ4J3PwtITz18eyi5lQY2T6aqOFa2zponz938sA0cfNyhxp_K1OQbqh4QzV3aL/s200/cough+medicine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284592344103394994" /></a>I can't sleep because every time I lie down I start coughing. Sitting up helps the cough, but not the sleep. I spent Christmas night on the sofa so Big G could sweat out his flu fever in delirious solitude.<br /><br />So I went to the chemist today and asked for some medicine that would suppress my cough at night.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Is it chesty or tickly?"</span> asked the pharmacist.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Chesty"</span>, I wheezed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Sorry, no, we've only got tickly"</span>, she said firmly, with a sidelong glance at a large shelf groaning under the weight of at least 30 different types of cough medicine.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"But I bought Benylin for chesty coughs"</span>, I explained, coughing, <span style="font-style:italic;">"but it just loosens everything up and makes you cough more. I want something that stops me coughing at night"</span>.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />"Well, I don't know ... if it's chesty ..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"What about that one?"</span> I blurted, pointing at a serious looking bottle labelled NIGHT-TIME COUGH SUPPRESSANT MEDICINE.<br /><br />The pharmacist frowned. <span style="font-style:italic;">"Hmmm, well it won't cure the cause of the cough, it'll just stop you coughing".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"I'll take it",</span> I said.Gone Back Southhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01391620186388562057noreply@blogger.com14