Eye Have Amnesia

When I looked in my diary this morning, I set my phone alarm for 3.10pm, to make sure I didn't forget my 3.15pm appointment at my new opticians. I did of course forget, but my forward-thinking alarm-setting got me there safely.

In another uncharacteristic display of forward-thinking, and knowing that I would never remember the type of contact lenses I wear, I had put an old contact lens packet in my bag to show to my new optician. "I wear these", I declared, thrusting the packet towards her. "They're soft monthly disposables".

"Great", she smiled, peering at the small print through her specs, "only you're supposed to change this kind every 2 weeks". I made that face where you frown, look sideways and bring one index finger up to lips tightly pursed in thought. Hmmm. Apparently I used to have monthly disposables, at some point changed to fortnightlies, and then forgot all about it and carried on wearing each pair for 4 weeks. Der. No wonder I had sore eyes.

Excuses made, we got on with the tests and eye-related paperwork. Then it was time to put my glasses on. "How long have you had these glasses?" she asked with no warning, catching me off-guard. "Oh about 3 or 4 years" I blurted, in a panic. "Actually no, I was still in London, so it might have been 10 years. Actually, I have no idea". And I still have no idea - I've completely forgotten.

To make my eye-test amnesia ordeal even worse, the optician must have forgotten to brush her teeth today. Or perhaps she forgot that if your job involves putting your face 8 inches away from someone else's face and breathing on them whilst wielding bright lights and optic cameras, then it's best not to eat smelly food for lunch.

So anyway I left, got in my car, made sure I remembered where I lived, and turned the engine on. My phone rang. It was the optician. "Oh hhhhhello", she breathed (luckily it wasn't a smellephone) "you've forgotten your glasses case, will you come back for it?" I didn't go back straight away, but I've put it in my diary so I'll remember to go tomorrow. If I remember to look in my diary.

p.s. Today I was given a home-made (and therefore extra tasty and nutritious) award by Dumdad ... how utterly girlish of me to grin and blush so ... it made my day!

Not an Unusual Weekend

The girl was out-numbered by 3 little boys on Sunday. She wanted to play families; they felt like riding their bikes. She wanted to make a school for teddy bears; they insisted on riding their bikes. She wanted to have an ice cream picnic; they relented for a moment, scoffed it down before it had a chance to melt, and then carried on riding their bikes. The girl gave up and came inside to watch TV.

Where Are They Now? On My Doorstep!

In April we had a birthday party at home for our 8-year old. The bell rang so I opened the door, and there stood my old History teacher, Mrs. S. She was dropping off her granddaughter. I gushed oh-hello-agains; she politely pretended to remember me.

Mrs. S was a combustible dragon of a teacher, breathing hellfire and brimstone into every lesson. And I mean that in a good way. She brought History to life. She awed and inspired us teenage kids, usually sleepy after a big stodgy lunch and too many late nights watching 'Are You Being Served?' The class trouble-makers were crushed, and we had to pay attention or pay the consequences. I loved her lessons.

I remember Mrs. S being in full theatrical flow one afternoon, bellowing her lesson about some bloody battle or queen-slaying king; captivating us, gesticulating wildly, jet black hair bobbing up and down in agreement. There was a storm outside and the thunder and lightening made her story even more dramatic. Suddenly she stopped and froze. She stared motionless out of the window at the rain pouring down from the heavens, and the class froze too. Nobody moved. Silence. And then she said, "Damn, I've left my washing on the line".

Predator

It's good to be back in the blogosphere. I stopped because I needed to clear some of the backlog of administrative shite that was giving me headaches, like a never-ending upheaval-hangover from hell. I made some headway during my blogless evenings. Changing town, job, home, school (and leaving my friends behind) all at once (with a husband working abroad) made me feel quite wobbly and fragile for a while; more jellyfish than great white.

And speaking of sharp-toothed predators, I met a real bull shark recently. She is a 32-ish Londoner with size zero waist, silicone DD's and muscles. Her long wavy hair bounces and floats like seaweed; she has lips like rose-buds, and eyes to drown in. I don't mind being around drop-dead gorgeous women, in fact we had a good laugh to start with. But when she noticed my unsuspecting husband and started pulling her blatant man-hunting limpit routine on him, several times over, right in front of my eyes, it all went a bit salty sour.

Anyway it's all forgotten now (grrrr).

Moon With a View

Hello. Is there anybody out there?

Big, stormy mama Jupiter and her bright little moons hang out together, just like a proper family. The moons face their planet and circle her at different speeds, her tides and gravity steering their course. Just like a proper family.

My son is 'doing' Jupiter at school. He taught me that Jupiter has 63 moons. I looked for them in cyberspace. Apparently, humans have given them names. Lo is volcanic and covered in sulphur; Europa is icy and covered in water; Ganymede is the biggest moon we've found so far, and may have an ocean beneath its surface.

My daughter is 'doing' Neil Armstrong at school. Tomorrow she wants to take in a photo of his footprint on Earth's only moon. Why didn't we name that one too?

Blogbye For Now ...

I love writing on my blog, and I love reading what all you other bloggers have to say too. It's blog-brilliant! But I've decided to take a little blog-break for a while. I've got too much other time-consuming stuff to sort out at home, and blogging is so delightfully distracting! But I'll be back ... GBS

Hello and Goodbye Again

So off we went back north last weekend. Just the kids, me and a car-full of duvets, food and too many clothes. It was surreal to stay in the house we used to live in, camping out with the memories. I felt like I'd never left.

We had a hectic schedule, trying as always to cram too much in. It was brilliant to see old friends, that part was magic. Really, really magic. The children seemed to take all the craziness in their short-legged strides, but their fighting and pale faces at the end of the weekend told me it had all been quite emotional for them too. I was exhausted by the time we'd driven home on Sunday, and I haven't really covered all week. Thank goodness it's a 4-day weekend - YAY!

Anyway everything's changing now ... again ... because we've found a family who want to rent the house. And they're moving in on Tuesday! Poor Big G just flew back from the US, only to be confronted with rent-a-van and a 2-page list of jobs to do in the house to get it ready for our tenants. I made up a booklet of instruction manuals for the boiler, kitchen appliances, etc. I couldn't resist writing a welcome letter, telling Mr. and Mrs. Whoever in detail about all the little quirks and eccentricities of the place - just like a new mother leaving a tiny baby at nursery for the first time. Anyway we're nearly there, and the extra money will save us from debtors prison.

Happy Easter all, may you be blessed with peace, salvation, contentedness and oodles of chocolate.

Joyce

Joyce is 80-something and lives alone, next door to our old house in Cheshire. She has a sprinkling of grandchildren who appear occasionally, one flaky son, and two devoted daughters who come round and mow the lawn. She was a good neighbour, and always liked to chat over the fence and ask about our lives.

When we went up at the weekend, the children insisted we go straight round to say hello. We walked up her square garden that bursts into bloom every summer. After 4 or 5 knocks, Joyce finally made it to the heavy wooden door and slowly pulled it open. Daylight pushed its way in to help the single low watt lightbulb hidden under the mustard lampshade. The brown hall carpet is worn thin after decades of slippered feet padding to and fro. Velvet wallpaper is covered with fading paintings of roses and photos of long-gone relatives whose memories are fading now, too.

Joyce appeared in her knitted cardigan with her grey hair standing up on end, blinked from the daylight, and smiled from ear to ear. She put one arm round each child, hugged them close and didn't let go. "I miss you kicking your balls over my fence!" she laughed, and showed off her latest missing tooth.

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Tellers of the Tale of the Three Little Pigs fall into two camps: Heartless writers who let the wolf eat the first two pigs; and compassionate writers whose first two pigs run to the brick house to eat wolf stew with the third.

If I were writing it, I would probably be in the latter group (unless I was in a bad mood that day). Imagine how that pink, porky little family must feel after its hair-raising ordeal. Despite all their protests and talk of chinny-chin-chins, they still had to go through the upheaval of moving house in a hurry. But now they're huddling together by the fire, enjoying the warmth and familiarity, safe and secure within those solid brick walls.

Tomorrow, we are driving back up north to Cheshire to catch up with friends and stay in our old white house for a couple of days. It hasn't been sold yet, and we're going to rent it out for a while. The kids grew up in that house and we poured gallons of time, effort and cash into getting it just as we wanted it. I love our old house.

There'll be no wolves involved this weekend, and probably a fair bit of huffing and puffing when I pack in the morning. But I'm looking forward to us huddling by the fire, enjoying the warmth and familiarity, safe and secure within those solid brick walls.

Why Kids Should Have Cameras - Part 3