Bonnie Blue in Norwich

Bootstraps

2010-08-28T17:37:00.002+01:00

Despite it not being a normal timing pause for grieving, we decided that, as this past weekend was the last completely free weekend until 9 October (and even then, we have a theatre excursion), we would have an outing -- or several -- to look for a kitty who needs a home. [Note: 9 October is exactly 1 month before the tea-leafed arrival of Squeak. Introducing a rescued creature into a home with a mere 4 weeks to 'settle', and followed by And Now For Something Completely Different seems a bit mean and thoughtless if it can be avoided.]

My attempt at being pragmatic allowed my planning skills to overshadow lingering sadness, which admittedly was (mostly) beyond the constant-reminders-of-Angus-leading-to-weeping stage by last Friday. The tinternet 'tis a v. good thing for coordinating spontaneous ventures such as this, to include the entire county of Norfolk -- although Eamonn had already had a bit of a peruse around and so She started with some Excellent Pointers in the right direction.

The RSPCA, the Cat's Protection League, and several animal sanctuaries. Looked at photo albums. Read bios (where available). Make initial choices for potential good matches (e.g., prefer no long hair; prefer no kittens; should not have been abused by children in previous habitat; etc.). Planned route. Called for appointments. Printed maps. Created agenda.

Cosmic; and Chilli & Pepper; Harley; Liquorice & Cappucino; India & Gem; and Jack were some of the named ones that we started with. We visited them and from that group (and a few others who just also needed to be petted), Chilli and Pepper, and India and Gem were our two (double) initial choices... Chilli and Pepper are a 1-year-old brother and sister pair, who are absolutely sweet and shiny and purry; Pepper also was born with only one eye -- making him a Pirate (!). India and Gem are 4-year-old sisters, who have only recently been neutered, and who are respectively shy and sassy. Personality is a must.

Our aim was NOT to try to replace Angus with another black (or partially black) cat. However, as I may have mentioned before: black and black&white cats are just 'not in fashion' now. Hence the reason that so many of them end up in shelters, according to our previous vet. I think this is utterly atrocious. 'Not in fashion', indeed. People with that mentality ought to be neutered AND banned.

*******
A couple of years ago, Richard and Clem took us along to a charity event at a cat sanctuary at Beeston Regis, on the North Norfolk coast. This place was actually my first thought of a must-go-to place, as it had seemed at the time such a caring environment with great support of volunteers who help with socialising the cats, helping those who need it to psychologically heal, and caring for those who are simply unhomeable. It is a no-kill shelter.

We didn't know the full story, though.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a protective gatekeeper lady who took us inside the main house, because 'Everybody has to meet Ms. Rees before you can go look at the cats.' We went into the kitchen, where Ms. Rees was sat next to the Aga with a cat on her lap, cats in various baskets around the kitchen and on chairs. At one point my conversational attention was distracted by the top of the cabinet next to the ceiling stretching its little kitty toes over the edge. These are part of the cats which are unhomeable.

Ms. Rees doesn't move very much, and she can no longer go out to the cattery with visitors, because she is recovering from paralysis as a result of a broken neck. Her neck was broken by a male personage who runs a scam on the North Norfolk coast -- maybe in Aylsham. His chapter in her tragic story began when some kind soul found a cat roaming around, very hungry, thin, scruffy and in danger of being run over. The cat was brought to her, and she recognised it as a Bengal -- quite valuable. Ads were posted in the newspaper and notices given on the radio.

After several weeks, no one had come forward. So preparing the cat for re-homing began. This involves vaccination, neutering, de-fleaing, worming -- basically providing basic care for the well-being of the animal. Shortly after this, a man called her one day claiming, ' You've got my cat.' To which she replied, 'Well, actually I have about 60 cats, so perhaps you might tell me which one you think is yours?' His cocky reply that it was a Bengal... 'not that [she] would know anything about that' and her response that she did in fact have a Bengal (and knew very well what it was) and that he should come out and see if it was his.

His arrival and discovery of his cat in healthy condition (although missing some bits) resulted in his utter rage that she had 'cut the balls off' what was purportedly his 'stud cat.' He threw things maniacally around the cattery and at her and raged off saying that she would pay him the £5000 for his ruined cat, and more. 'More' being quite threatening.

Legal battles ensued -- but to no effect to his benefit.

However, in 2004, after the incident had for all intents and purposes run its course, she was attacked one early morning in her flower garden, shot with a stun gun, her neck broken, and a 70-ish lady was left for dead. She was completely paralysed and lay there for 2 hours until volunteers arrived to the cattery and she was able to be airlifted out.

After 6 months in hospital, the police had still not even visited the suspected culprit. Only at the insistence of her son was he 'visited' and he (of course) said, 'No. I didn't do that.' And the capable police left. The police refused to pursue it any further, claiming that since she had had her back to the attacker, her evidence was not credible.

She is no longer paralysed, but she has such a diminished quality of life now, even though she continues to run the charity that she has run for more than 20 years. She built the cattery as it now is with her own hands, however it is now a struggle for her to even go outside to see the animals she is helping.

*******
Not for this reason -- I just wanted to share the brief story of the atrocity of one evil man and a corrupt culture which allows him to roam free and re-perpetrate (which apparently he does when people 'rescue' his set-up animals) and juxtapose that with the kindness and gentleness that people like Ms. Rees and her loyal helpers have to give -- but not for this reason at all, did we proceed to the Cat House (titter). Well, actually, we were 'Approved' to go to the Cat House.

And we met Jasmine and Patches and Lucky and Russett and LeAnn (she is very saucy) and Tiffany and Tessa and Blackey and the kittens and everyone.

And then we were led through this separate door (which looked like the entrance to a store room) off the main Cat Room. But no. This was no store room. This was the entrance to Inky's Annexe.

Inky is a funny cat, who does not approve of other cats. He has his own apartment, where he has lived for 2 years (and he is only 3 or 4 years old), complete with habitat room (with all amenities, such as bed, box and heater) and comfortable porch room overlooking both the garden and the Cat Room. Inky folds his tail over his back like he is a squirrel. He is quite talkative, very friendly, and I think he will be a cuddler. He allowed the Visiting Hoomins (well, the Lady Hoomin) to pick him up and hold him until her arms were tired and it was time to go. Inky is obviously black.

We had a good discussion on the way home, and were pretty much unanimous that Inky was Zee One. Chilli Pepper were a very, very close second, but doubling all costs seemed a bit unwise.

But it really would have been fun to have a pirate cat...

The Tale of a Kitty

2010-08-12T07:03:00.034+01:00

One week ago at this time was the last time I saw our beloved Angus alive.

He jingled jauntily (with his little bell collar) out the back door after his early morning cuddle and his kitty-breakfast with Radio 4. I cannot remember if we had some sneaky kitty meelks or not (his papa did not approve of normal Hoomin meelks for the kitty, but Angus was just not a big fan of Whiskas feline milk products).

That evening, the only part I saw of his lovely shiny fur again was the top of his head which Eamonn allowed me to see from the pulled back towels in which our kindly neighbor had wrapped him. Eamonn prepared him for burial in Angus's favourite Virgin Atlantic blanket, which always went with him to Pennyback Cat Lodge -- where he spent his kitty holidays during any long-term Human Excursions from home. We buried him in the back garden next to the hydrangea.

This past week, I have been intensely consumed and utterly bereft and mournful in a ceaseless paroxysm of repetitive and self-absorbed grief. Yes, I am aware that he was a cat. Yes, I have felt quite selfish in my grief. But I have also been completely helpless to the wishful images of him popping through the front hedge to talkatively welcome us home from work; or stopping just inside the dining room door for a quick stretch on the rug (and a pat); or his companionable presence in the bathroom (with a little scratch on the jute rug and followed by a nose up in the air for a kiss); or his overt preference for the Right Shoulder Hang (rather than the Left) and the ages he would just allow me to carry him about like a human infant.

The thing I miss the most of all, though, is the daily 5.30a.m. purr and headbutt-to-the-sleeping-human's-chin session, which always ended with him curling up in my armpit and lying his head onto my shoulder for one more little doze. Even though some people may think he was only a dumb animal (as in, 'without human speech'), his absence has left a great gaping hole in our family. And I am so sad that Squeak will not know who it was purring through my tummy to him all these months; I am irrevocably convinced that Angus knew someone is in there. He would have been a magnificent kitty with a baby.

Today, though, I feel finally ready to heal. And my persistent belief in fate is edging very slowly back into the room in my head and bringing rational thought and emotion. This will be much more pleasant indeed for Eamonn, who has had rounded many corners this week to discover his wife weeping.

*******
The tale of this kitty began on Christmas Day 2008, five days after our wedding in Louisiana. Eamonn spotted him down the alley on Magpie Road as we walked past on the way home -- so, naturally I had to go and pet the creature with the fur. He was quite thin and gangly and collarless. He came to our back door later, and we had some more pat-the-kitty time -- outside, of course.

For days, he kept coming back to our door, despite a lack of food offerings. It was really extremely cold during January, and he was so scruffy and weedy (not a fortuitous combination for someone who is trying to keep Amrie from giving in to strong feelings for animal welfare). The night that it snowed, Eamonn relented and said Kitteh could come in... BUT ONLY for the one night and he would go STRAIGHT OUT at dawn -- the crack of.

Eamonn claims that he was the First One to give him food -- some smoked salmon scraps left over from breakfast one Sunday (gruff exterior, indeed). Kitteh had become a regular visitor for about 2 weeks.

We asked some of the neighbours if they knew where he came from.

We looked for signs of 'Lost Cat', but I was too righteously judgemental (and cowardly) of animal husbandry in our neighbourhood to put any 'Found Cat' signs up of my own.

We put a collar on him, in the opinion that if he belonged to someone, they would perhaps say, 'Oi! Who has put this collar on my animal (which I do not care for properly)?' and perhaps reclaim him as their own. This did not happen.

Kitty pretty much made himself at home at 112 Magpie Road from this time onward (including inside), and he was always allowed inside for bitterly cold nights (the bathroom doorway was a good lying spot as the heating pipes were under the floor). Particularly useful for maintaining body heat is the Leg Stretch with Toe Separation (as demonstrated).

Observant readers may also recall that Meester initially was interested in zee feesh, but fish really are kind of boring, and when you can't actually poke them, they are no longer in the danger zone and survived quite safely and happily through the initial Kitteh Months on Magpie and the move to La Village. Besides, there were more fascinating creatures to hunt here -- things with fur and feathers and tiny tails and beaks and squeaks.

Angus loved People and loved visitors (and even tolerated grasping and waddling small people), always making them feel at home and helping to warm (a small portion of) their freshly laundered and made-up bed. This is his most uninhibited welcome to his last holiday houseguest, Hiroko...

*******
Apparently, he was run over on The Common (where it is impossible to go more than 20 mph -- oh. the irony.) and was found right afterwards by a kind soul who came round to the Main Road since she knew that one of our houses had a black cat. Our neighbour was home and went to collect him in a basket. At least Gillian spared him the indignity of lying in the sun all day.

The heartless, soulless person who hit him didn't even stop.

Dunkirk

2010-05-27T21:08:00.031+01:00

This week is a celebration of the 70th anniversary of the evacuation of Dunkirk.

52 of the surviving 'Little Ships' are part of a ceremonial cruise to remember the volunteers and their boats who evacuated British and French troops from France in 1940, during the German invasion of France. In 9 days, more than 330,000 soldiers were ferried by pleasure boats, fishing boats, merchant marine ships and Royal Navy Lifeboats from the shore to waiting ships in deeper water. It had originally been thought that only 20,000 could be rescued.

There is just no comparison between the whiny culture of today and the bravery of most generations of the entirety of history. It makes one quite ashamed.

Heartbeats

2010-05-26T20:02:00.120+01:00

So, today I got to hear Squeak's heartbeat for the first time!

It was pretty darn cool to see the heartbeat at the 11-week scan (like a prettily fluttering fish fin in the middle), but hearing the whoosh-WHOOSH leads me to wonder if I need one of those little dopplar things. I could become kind of a Sneaky Spy Mother before Squeak even enters the world (could anyone be eating paste in there?). Squeak was moving around quite a bit, indicated by the midwife's inability to keep track of the heartbeat in one place. To me, this indicates future weariness on my part. My mama and daddy threatened me with a hyper-active child when I was young; foolishly, this threat failed to calm me down then. Payback's warranted, I suppose. :)

During the appointment, I met two more of the midwives in the community team who are looking after me (there are 6 in all). They were absolutely fabulous and, even though my list of questions was a little long, we got on like a house on fire. In the past week (since hysterical giggling began over my 'Elderly' status), a complete change of opinion has swung. Originally, my thought was to definitely plan for a hospital birth since I am fully aware that I am old. However, after talking to a useful panel of people from knitting, yoga, work, and Ms. Teresa... I think it might not be unreasonable to attempt a home birth.

For any US readers I have at this point, the maternity culture here is quite different (AND has a more favourable infant mortality rate than the US, before anybody gets too uppity). It is not an obstetrician culture but a midwife culture. One may never see an obstetrician at all -- unless there are complications. When one attends pre-natal appointments, one meets with a midwife, and the midwives one meets over the course of the pregnancy are likely to be helping at your birth, which is quite nice. There are two types of midwives (I think): community midwives and hospital midwives. Community midwives are in teams attached to medical practices and will be sent out in teams of two to home births. Hospital midwives are (quite obviously) the midwives who work at the hospital and deliver whoever is there. One might be able to have one of one's community midwives at the hospital, but it is not guaranteed.

At a home birth, there are two professionals constantly monitoring the birth and who are probably going to more likely honour wishes in a birthing plan. If at any point, the mother feels uncomfortable staying home or the midwives note something concerning, then the whole thing moves to the hospital. We are about 10 minutes from Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital. It all seems pretty unintimidating. The only logistical kinks that could send me to the hospital are: 1) someone else goes into labour and gets the shift team before me or 2) there is no incoming cover if the shift ends before Squeak emerges. My 'head midwife' thinks that I seem perfectly normal (little does she know at this early stage) and that my 'elderly' condition is also laughable -- her confidence was the final seal of approval.

I think the most interesting thing about my mental state is that my absolutely concrete terror of birth, which for some reason has always been in my consciousness, has absolutely and concretely disappeared. It was not lurking about when my condition was determined not to be an exotic illness, so it has to have wandered off at some point during the first month. What an oustanding blessing is that?!

********
Today was also my second week at pregnancy yoga. I am the earliest phase person there (at only 16.5 weeks), but my OCD nature makes me happy to be starting early. Having never done yoga before, my brain had no idea what to expect last week, but it is really good and They say that the techniques learned can be helpful during phase one and phase two of parturition. There is no worship of foreign entities. There is a lot of breath control, which is good as mine is currently weak to non-existent, and lots of stretching, which I love. My knees are very bony.

This week, we did the Camel Walk around the room (to move the pelvis backwards and forwards for flexibility) -- and I must admit to almost breaking out in a fit of giggles at the thought of someone peering through the door to see variously pregnant women in leggings stalking around the room like a Monty Python sketch. Giggling, though, does nothing for one's balance (especially mine) and so this was quickly quelled before a trauma occurred.

Now I must rest.

Elderly Primigravida

2010-05-20T21:57:00.000+01:00

This is my classification.

Revealed to me at knitting this week, we have all had a good giggle about it.

It means 'a woman older than 35 years who is pregnant for the first time'. One good thing of being an Elderly is that one theoretically gets more attention and monitoring. After all, if I weren't Elderly, we wouldn't have been able to have a scan of Squeak a month ago! Apparently, (after talking with Ms. Teresa) one is classified as 'elderly' in the US if one is much over 30 years.

Note: I shall expect due respect in deference to my elderly status, despite the elegant henna currently hiding my grey hair.

Now, my creaky self needs some sleep.

Two Babies and a Pirate

2010-05-18T09:43:00.001+01:00

Right. So, this may be my bestest excuse for blogging laxity ever.

It has been mentioned (and honestly self-recriminated) that we all are tired of reading about squash blossom quesadillas. Well, the extreme mental exhaustion that fell over me during the Mexico marathon was not the unfortunate result of food-borne parasitic infestation, as we have discovered. And the abdominal muscle pulling feeling was not the positive side-effect of my cleverly-devised triceps brachii exercise of hanging upside down and half-off the end of the Hampton Inn bed (whilst watching a compilation of NCIS, CSI and Law & Order... of course) and hoisting my table display stands to a right angle to my torso. And the comatose state that tended to settle on me within 12 seconds of becoming seated or prone was not related to either the tsetse fly or to jet lag (yes, they say that the tsetse fly only lives in Africa, but flies are sneaky).

No -- this lethargy (and accompanying psuedo-exercise symptoms -- it was pretty amazing that the muscles were still tired a week after the last hanging-upside-down event) has been discovered to be the result of the presence of Squeak. 'Squeak' is the temporary classification I have given to the very small sentient soul who is currently resident behind the non-toned muscles of my tummy (It just is too horrible a nomenclature).

[Admittedly, the title of this entry does indicate the presence of more than just one Squeak, although this is not true. There is a long story: Lady Lindsey was unable to locate any non-sicky-sweet or non-ethnically-congratulatory cards, so she instead sent one congratulating us on our Triplets -- E only had a momentary swing towards coronary failure, I believe. Then the newest honorary Cousin, claimed to see definitely 5 legs in the ultrasound, leading to the query: 'So what's up with that? Two babies and a pirate???' And this has stuck. We are shopping for a parrot as I type.]

Shortly after discovering Squeak, several things became (and continue to become) clear(er):

initial distaste for wine was not due to an ulcer;
muscle tiredness is not always the result of feeble and ludicrous 'exercise' attempts;
even a being the size of a butterbean is capable of reducing bladder capacity to quite a significant degree;
the necessity to politely request that E take his beer to other side of room was not due to petulance, but to a psychotically heightened sense of smell (and accompanying nausea);
constant nausea is just as bad, or worse, than being physically ill;
Mamas know things when they are not necessarily supposed to, but they are polite and don't mention them when there are strangers around (mostly).

At this point, Squeak is at 13 weeks of development (but THEY claim it is the 15th week of Pregnancy). I am unsure if Squeak is 4.5 inches long and kicking or 'the size of a peach' (apparently peaches don't kick). Some more research must be done now that overseas work Travel is over for a significant while (and my biology textbooks are in storage in Louisiana), but it is so confusing -- e.g., exactly what kind of peach is this? Is this an early-season peach the size and texture of a baseball or is it a gorgeous, juicy gigantic Georgia peach the size of a grapefruit? And if a grapefruit, then the size of a Bruner orchard grapefruit or a piddly little Texas one? SOOOOOO many questions.

Adventures & Quesadillas

2010-02-27T04:51:00.001Z

In the optimistic hope that my madre's tale of someone who suffered with an ailment for decades, which was finally discovered to have originated as one of the perils of foreign travel, I have eaten the looooveliest quesadilla con flora de [squashes] -- I think. Admittedly, when she asked, 'Flora, o spanishspanishspanish?', I was under the confused impression that she was asking me if my preference was flour, corn, or some new and exotic type of tortilla.
Proposition: One should always respond, 'Si!' when one is asked if one would like queso; so let it be written -- so let it be done.

My plan (unless some sort of gastrointestinal attack renders this idea a no-go) is to return tomorrow to the Belles Artes museum corner and try a different quesadilla with my superb travel companion, Jessica, who is as willing as your correspondent to toddle off in search of adventure and independent bravery (as a duo, actually, so it really isn't perzactly independent in the strictest sense of the word). Yesterday (after our Thursday breakfast of huevos revueltos and enchiladas), we ventured forth on a day of school visits, with my high-hopes plan to explore the Metro by riding all the way to the end of the Blue Line to Cuatro Caminos and take a taxi to the first visit.

On exiting the station, instead of the taxi rank Herself was expecting, we instead walked into a crossed hybrid of a cattle-market/bus-depot/tent-city-of-cheap-tat/Save-the-Children-commercial. I am pretty sure that people were sweeping crap in the street. After walking bravely past the arcade of video games with the shady caballero and not determining where in the name of Heaven a safe taxi might be, we then determined that we didn't know how to use our mobile phones to dial in-country. After looking quite shady ourselves while loitering on the corner next to the bus depot gas station, we made the joint command decision to flag a taxi -- the logic being that it had pink-and-white checker-board stripe on it. [We were also smart and demanded to see his identification.] He turned out to be quite the nicest taxi driver!

The counselor at our second visit dropped her jaw and said, 'Oh. My. God.' (in the best 90210 voice possible) and faintly curled her lip when we asked for directions to the closest Metro station. And sent us for a posh patio-balcony lunch in Polanco at La Valentina.

Where we had our primeras margaritas. (and almost got stuck in an elevator by the consierge)

Our orders included taquitos, and panuchos yucatecos (kind of like chalupas), and tacos de chilorio sinaloense, and something else... (not on the online menu). Yesterday, I was reticent, BUT escamole seems like it might need to be tried... pause, pause, pause.

Because of our fortitude, we chose to aim for the same Metro station to prove ourselves, walking through Polanco (which is quite comfortable-feeling and more than likely safer than much of the rest of the city) and then through a ginormous park. In this park live the bravest squirrels every, who are (as Jessica says) actually a little creepy in their super-intelligent expressions and mental telepathy of 'Feed ME!'

Their genetic make-up seems to be a hodge-podge of red and grey squirrel, and they are kind of not pretty. But they are so terribly cute and cheeky! They must be so because people feed them and local people do seem quite taken with them. I did not look at all out of place doing my 'Let's-Talk-to-Los-Animales' voice -- it is all part of my effort to be a successful flaneuse.

Possibly because there are museums in the park including the Museum of Modern Art, there are also quite a few interesting sculptures. Since my current book is Wicked, I shall call this 'Oz'.

And this one is Wuthering Heights in my world -- for no particular reason, just a feeling -- or maybe the voices in my head.

Upon reaching a large road bisecting the park, we proceeded to cross an 8 lane super-road. There was a median in the middle where we could wait for a break in opposite direction traffic. After having a suspicious park guard not let us through a locked gate and fail to understand the directions that he and a chillaxing taxi driver attempted, the taxi driver finally zipped us dangerously around the freeway below to the second shady Metro stop of the day.

One thing that is interesting about the Metro is that at some (note the use of 'some') stops, there may be a 10-ft tall sign indicating the near presence of transport. However, when one approaches this beacon of hope, one quickly finds that this tall edifice is actually nowhere near the entrance. In best flaneur-style, one must attempt to look like one merely needs to pause and consult one's mobile phone, whilst glancing around casually and with a bored aspect to figure out where people are disappearing into an unmarked hole in the ground. This is occasionally in the middle of a combination area similar to the description of Cuatro Caminos, above. And so one heads into the tent city of smells (some delicious, some disgusting, and some possibly dangerous) or, for example in El Zocalo, a completely unmarked hole set of stairs heading from sidewalk-level into the depths.

Once on the Metro, one should not expect there to be silence in a London Underground sort of way. If it were not sad, it could be slightly vexing -- there is a constant stream of noise: women and children walking through screaming, 'Chicle! Dos pesos!'; a blind old man tooting a harmonica and using his change cup to keep rhythm; a young blind woman with a sound system and microphone, singing, and with a 3-year-old child following her and holding on to her belt loop; the long-haired political activist shoving papers into people's faces and yelling about La Republica de Mexico.

And then there are the CD-mix guys -- these are guys (and blind women) who have strapped a speaker as big as their torso onto their tummies and who walk through trains incessantly selling various mix CDs. The CD player attached to the speaker is used to skip through snippets of the songs approximately 4.7 seconds in length. Sound level is at 11.8. When the alarm screams that the doors might be able to think about maybe shutting (this lasts for about 11 of the longest seconds ever), opera might start shrilling from one end of the car, and simultaneously Los Gran Cantandores de los 60's, 70's and 80's begin with some Depeche Mode followed by Juice Newton and Queen of Hearts. Some mixes have absolutely no rhyme or reason at all.

Jessica was unamused. [the red shirt is on the arm of a Speaker Guy]

To recover our sanity, and since we were not really thinking that dinner was necessary, we ventured to the Pasteleria across the street.

This is a fabulous cultural activity; such inter-cultural engagement and educative exercise is to be strongly encouraged by International Officers. It was also dangerous.

A Pasteleria is a cake shop. When one approaches the cake shop, one walks past the armed guard... and then one is meant to locate the large stack of pans (to L) and the bakery tongs. One carries one's tray through the shop, pincering far more cakes, cookies, jelly pastries, empanadas and bread products than one would ever consider for an evening's consumption in a normal situation. And then one tootles around the corner for a litre of milk (again, past an armed guard) and returns with one's stash to one's hotel room. Oh, the exotic life on the road!

So many cakes, so little time. And more are made every day! Hoorah!

*******
In other news, my mind is relieved by the information today (from our lovely agent) that we are 2000m (or 6000 feet) above sea level. This would be the logical reason that I so quickly become similar to an emphesemic bovine creature when walking or climbing stairs. The feeling of bubbles in the brain could also be from this.

*******
Note: I am also terribly amused by commercials with talking toothbrushes. Especially when said toothbrushes are Spanish speakers.

...and so on to the weekend of two 8-hour exhibitions.

Don't Drink the Water

2010-02-25T00:28:00.002Z

Cold milk is hard to come by in Mexico. I had forgotten this. It is mostly ultra-pasteurised and therefore, superb in long-term shelf storage; but not so superb to the taste buds of an obsessive and spoiled lactophiliac.

However, (in good American culturo-centric style) I have determined that Circle K does have cold milk -- albeit in the ultra-pasteurised boxes-- in the refrigerated section. To congratulate myself, some chocolate biscuits seemed called for as well.

My primary personal accomplishment of today is that I have a) ridden the MetroBus and b) ridden two lines of the subway and c) have navigated successfully and non-pickpocketed back to my hotel. A yarn shop was also located, but that is by-the-by. .

Moving along...

For those readers not avidly following social networking blurbs of personal information about the writer, my week began at 5.30am Monday morning with a 4 hour drive through insane snowfall from Norwich to Heathrow Terminal 5. It is kind of the bees knees. Since I was not flying to the US, I was allowed to have both a carry-on bag and a purse/laptop bag; this made me happy in my own Migrant Fruit-Picker sort of way.

British Airways, in contrast to its shiny terminal with the tallest elevator in Britain or some such nonsense (but without free wireless -- cheap jackasses) is not exactly the bees knees. It almost seemed like our plane had been retired from NorthWorst airlines as no longer rubbish enough. It looked normal, but was rather tatty on the inside. The crew, though, were absolutely lovely.

However, I had a lovely Mexican lady next to me, who lives in London and was married to an Italian and who has 5 daughters from Malaysia to Arizona to Mexico to London and who (in the most precious way) would insist on trying to chat when the movie was getting good. She had made mosquito picnic covers and decorated them with crocheted flowers for her daughters. She was fascinated that I was knitting.

The last time I was in Mexico was 1993. I don't believe customs was as much of a goat-roap then as it is now. After collecting luggage, one must stand in a queue about a mile long (much, much longer than immigration). Upon reaching the front of the queue, all bags and coats are x-rayed... THEN, you have to press a button and if you are unlucky enough to have the glow-box turn red, a man must dig through your stuff with some very dodgy gloves of uncertain hygiene (thank heavens for Zip-loc packing this trip). Well, I do declare, I was not picking up and placing that luggage onto that table for him. If he wanted to look at it, he could jolly well wrestle it up there; I also asked him to return all pieces to the floor for me. Unless customs is going to welcome me with a margarita without salt, 20 hours of travelling does not make me want to unnecessarily hoist luggage around. This whole process was an incredible example of ineffective bureaucracy in motion.

Immediately upon clambering into the Mexican-blanketed interior of the most unfriendly taxi in the world (it was a pre-paid airport taxi seguro -- don't worry, madre y esposo), I was transported back to the chaos of Mexican driving. I am undecided about whether it is better to wear a seatbelt or not, as it might prevent one from escaping.

These are primary Mexican traffic principles to remember:

There are lanes; but there are really no lanes at all. In some places, there really are no painted lanes, just a 6-lane-wide area of milling, honking, polluting kerfuffle.
There are directional indicators; but these really don't signify anything.
There is a horn; and you use it a lot.
There are traffic lights; but these are merely vague indications of a suggestion of behaviour that one might want to follow. For example, there are policemen who stand in the middle of intersections and when the light turns yellow, they blow their whistles and beckon cars to continue driving; when the light changes to red, they blow harder and faster and faster and wave frantically to KEEP DRIVING!!!! *toot! toot! TOOT!*
It is perfectly acceptable to block an entire intersection.
Pedestrians in the street are perfectly normal; I have already felt the need as well.
It is perfectly acceptable to talk constantly on one's cell phone.
On the positive side, there is not a lot of visible road rage... that I have seen. Of course, that could be because everyone knows that everyone else could have guns. There are gun-toting caballeros (and cops) everywhere. Even the rent-a-cops have guns where they are guarding the bakery -- must be some crazy desperados robbing bakeries.
None of the above rules apply to bicycles or to motorcycles.

As I am staying in one of my beloved Hilton properties (because they award points and miles), my room is more than adequate and I got some Oreos and 2 bottles of water as a welcome (being a Gold member, you see. Oh.... if I could only get to Platinum like B!). I was quite over-excited about the prospect of Tuesday's breakfast, although this turned out to be excessively optimistic... although OK. Today, my day started with soggy flautas instead of the strange (and yet foggily familar) tortilla duo with cheese and sliced ham -- other daily options are huevos revueltos (this means 'scrambled' eggs but it just makes me think 'revolting'), refried beans (what an ideal way to start off a work day!), and salsa (possibly the tastiest thing there). I am happy to report that the fruit does not have the 'Hampton Inn' fruit taste of US properties (my theory is similar to my earlier-described theories of Subway alien mind control). For breakfast area entertainment, I managed to pour almost an entire jug of milk all over myself and my work attire. This was exciting.

After attempts to recover a scholarship programme with the Consejo Nacional de Sciencia and Tecnologica (I don't thrive in conflict situations, but there seems to be room for progress and everyone was very lovely), my diverting afternoon exercise was to navigate self to yarn shop -- Lanona Botona -- locate reasonable dining establishment (other than Hooters or Starbucks), and navigate self back home with public transportation. All three goals were met, and a section of the city - San Angel - was discovered, which is quite different from the unique and tragic chaos that is the city centre.

There are some lovely buildings in the centre, and at night the National Cathedral and National Palace are dramatic and pretty in their twilight silhouettes. The day is obviously more chaotic than evening for traffic, the dirt and drudgery are glaringly visible, and there is an opportunity for an absolute hey-day for British Health and Safety at every step. At least the Templo Mayor (to R) is fenced off, although the rickety elevated walkways through it look quite primitive. Since Mexico isn't necessarily the safest place, I have been quite reticent to take loads of photos since I already stand apart being a gringa and rather tall; there is no reason to ask to be bothered or thieved. Once acclimation and language memory has progressed a little more, more photos will be forthcoming.

Mostly there are people going about their business, although this business is rather varied than one might expect. Like Thailand (yes, a blog is still due for that), there are street vendors selling everything from juices or sliced fruit in plastic bags to illegal videos and music to normal mew agents. There are also random things like an old lady with a tiny side table plonked in the middle of the pavement with a selection of 5 pairs of knitted slippers (5 total, not 5 styles); a griddle and open fire surrounded by plastic patio chairs, again in the middle of the sidewalk, where someone is cooking meat and peppers; there is this army of organ-grinders throughout the Centro -- and yes, they wear uniforms with military-style hats.

The streets, in the centre at least, are a constant din of intruding and manic noise. Normal city street sounds (remember our horn rule) do not seem to be enough and are enhanced by a speaker system in nearly every shop front. These speakers may be blaring music of various genres, or a pre-recorded enticement into the shop on continual loop, OR the personalised microphone sales babble of a large girl in rather less pink spandex than is prudent. There are also people playing flutes and such like -- and the Organ-Grinder Army, of course.

Seguridad privada (aka, rent-a-cop) seems de rigour whether the shop is selling sewing machines, bathtubs, fabric, yarn, or toys. This is kind of depressing. With regard to locating specific types of items (outside of up-scale territory), shops seem to be arranged in some sort of pre-destined order. For example, for plumbing and bathroom decorating needs, you would walk along Ayuntamiento between Lopez and Dolores. For electronic products (including hawkers standing along the pavement with 3-ring binders of sheets of computer programmes available), one walks up Lazaro Cardenas between Rep. de Salvador and Rep. de Uruguay. Fabrics and such are located to the east and south of the National Cathedral.

Shops are most certainly basic. Traditional size seems to be equivalent to a mid-sized bathroom (see image to R, behind street sweeper trolley) and pretty much you just buy some stuff and randomly arrange it inside. Cheetos, some picture frames, and a selection of toilets would probably be a sensible outlet. There are three plumbers sitting on a curb on Rep. de Salvador with a little cardboard sign advertising their availability.

As in Bangkok, much of life seems to be oriented around mere survival.

However, a notable exception to 'regular' shop size (and there are more exceptions as well; this is just my current amusement) are pastellerias -- or bakeries. In this shining window and display, we can see a vision worthy of the Harrod's Food Hall. It is all very Eloise. And it is the oddest thing to find something so glamorous right around the corner from beggars and toilets and shower displays on the pavement.

*******
On a different aside, it might be worth noting that 'Do Not Disturb' signs no significa nada en el Hampton Inn Centro Historico. Generally, there is no need for me to have my room serviced daily, and so to prevent unnecessary work for lovely housekeepers, my sign goes out most days. On my return from constitutional stroll yesterday afternoon, I discovered Bear in prime princely location on bed and room completely tidied -- down to my hairbrush being cleaned out.... (?) :)

In an effort to present self a little neater today to the housekeeper I fully knew would come in, my toiletries were carefully tidied this morning. Round items were stacked, miscellaneous items were stowed in plastic bag. However, this was apparently lacking in skill, and required additional straightening (as demonstrated to L).

*******

It should also be noted that absolutely no yarn was purchased in brief excursionary and navigatory exercise today. Lanona Botona (unlike others in the centre) allows smooshing. Centre shops (perhaps in reason related to seguridad privada) have all yarn behind counters and/or in locked glass display cabinets.

Shop is located in a charming part of the city, with cobbled streets and tumbling bougainvillea emerging from walled residences.

A return for morning knitting group may be necessary whilst awaiting flight home in two Monday's time....

An Outing

2010-02-23T01:47:00.000Z

On Sunday, we took an educational outing with the Friends of the Norwich Historic Churches Trust.

This was the first of newly planned Quarterly Church Visits and was to St. Peter Parmentergate, the current structure which dates from c. 1475. It is the largest and most impressive of the remaining medieval churches off King Street, and was the last to be decommissioned, in 1981

Parmentergate refers to its location close to the city gate leading to the Street of Parmenters (or leather- and parchment-workers). King Street was the main route into and through the city, leading on to Tombland and from there across Fye Bridge and up Magdalen Street. Between the gate and Tombland, there were at one time at least 12 churches along this main thoroughfare, or right off it -- including St. John the Evangelist (no longer in existence), another St. Clement (no longer in existence), St. Francis (no longer in existence), St. Etheldreda, St. Julian, St. Peter Southgate (ruin), St. Bartholomew (ruin), St Michael at Thorn (bombed 1942, then demolished by city), St. John Timberhill (now the parish church), St. John de Sepulchre (now the Russian Orthodox Church), and All Saints Westlegate (now a community centre).

It is uncertain if any of the church fabric is Anglo-Saxon, but as it is in the Saxon section of the city, it is entirely possible. St. Peter Parmentergate now houses the Norwich Academy of Martial Arts. It is perfectly allowable to furrow one's brow, but at least the building is used and is treated with respect.

Our group of about 20 met in drizzle, but forged forward with our intrepid leader, Nick Groves -- one of the, if not the, most knowledgeable scholars of Norwich Churches. Despite the attempted assistance of a free-range harmonica-player wearing a turquoise blanket on his head like the Virgin Mary, we learnt rather a lot.

Although the church is not as ornate as others in the city, it shows a high level of quality in the build. There is little decoration, e.g., no cusps in the tops of the windows, some of which have Norman arches. However, the flints are knapped, and much of the outside is galletted.

There were originally 4 doors into the church, as well as an entry through the two-storey vestry (an unusual architectural feature). The north door has been blocked up, but it would more than likely have been the entry way used by a college of priests who lived in a community just to the north of the church. Formerly an independent group of friars, they were suppressed and re-formed as a college of priests in the 13th century. Of the 24 medieval choir stalls created for this college, 14 are still extant. Both they and the reproductions are indistinguishable from each other to the unskilled eye. The blurred lower character on this is interesting and not on all the arches -- it looks like a cross between a lion and a Mexican sun image... with its tongue sticking out.

Periodically on the outside of many medieval constructions, one can see evidence of scaffolding. On SPP, individual flints are surrounded by a square of bricks or other stone. These are the potlog holes. Some medieval builders simply cut off the logs and left them in permanently-preserved and petrified place, but a little extra care (and cost) was taken here -- the logs were hollowed out, a knapped flint inserted, and a surround put in place. There are two potlog holes in this picture.

Detail at the top of the west door is actually a probably-Victorian reproduction, but it is accurate to its original style and decoration. Four shields above the door symbolise the primary donors who contributed to the original construction: the Broom family, the Albany family, the Clifton family, and (so Eamonn suggested) the Harveys (also at St. Clement Fye Bridge). St. Peter stands within the right spandrel and the left spandrel contains a figure with a rosary and a shield with 3 hedgehogs. The hedgehogs are a mystery. On churches dedicated to St. Peter, it is not uncommon to see an inverted cross somewhere since that represents Peter's manner of execution, but there are none on SPP; an occasional conspiracy theory is that this is a symbol of witchcraft.

The west door, similar to the north door (above) also shows evidence of the raising of the graveyard from the Black Plague. Between 25 March 1666 and 24 March 1667, 390 people were buried in SPP's churchyard. 266 of these were buried between July and September, with 113 during the first three weeks of August.

A lofty and, again, plain interior is presided over by a magnificent reredos, although this is overpowered by a shockingly incongruous Victorian window.

Successful photos of the reredos are interrupted by the presence of a boxing ring. I am slightly concerned about a flailing body going into the artwork, but... this worry seems to be unique to my feeble and conservationally-unskilled mind.

At the center above the image of The Last Supper, are the crossed keys of St. Peter, and four shields along the same level represent the other churches which had been incorporated into the parish by the 19th century, when the reredos was installed and the medieval church was 'improved' by the Victorians. As Nick says their modus operandi was to 'restore' churches to how they were in the Middle Ages -- Victorian opinion being if churches had not looked like that, then they damn well should have. *titter at the victorians*

The highlight of the interior is considered to be the tomb of Richard and Elizabeth (nee, Hobart [alt. spelling, Hubbard]) Berney. An interesting description of the tomb is listed at this link under St. Peter Per Mountergate (completely incorrect spelling). The tomb is enclosed in a plywood box, and is not terribly easy to view from angles other than the door next to Richard and Elizabeth's pillows on their 4-poster bed.

Elizabeth's father commissioned the tomb in 1623 after her death, and it has on its top an impressive array of acceptable post-Reformation images: Faith, Hope, Charity and Time. Images of saints were not allowed after Henry VIII's vandals chiseled out most remnants of pre-divorce art across the country. The theological Virtues could apparently still be personified with no suspicions of idolatry, despite their being freely used in earlier papist art. (It is important to note that the other traditional 7 virtues, the Cardinal Virtues, can have vice in their extremes.)

Hope (L, above) is pictured with an anchor.

Faith (R) holds a book, possibly Holy Writ.

Charity is surrounded by children.

The three Virtues are surmounted by winged Time, holding the scythe of Death and standing above an hourglass.

*******
Another interesting sight/site is right down the street from SPP, next door to Dragon Hall.

We noticed it on our walk down King Street, and I always thought it was a part of Dragon Hall, only ever having seen it at night. And the fact that it is boarded up completely escaped my notice before. The criss-cross brickwork shows that it was constructed by a wealthy individual or family.

The unfortunate installation of the atrocious ground-floor shop front was perpetrated in the 1960s.

This was the Boleyn House. As in the family of Anne. It's current state is a travesty.

Tuesdays

2010-02-21T10:34:00.000Z

Yes, I know it is not Tuesday Morning.

But this past Wednesday, I had a rather surreal string of thought:

Three Tuesdays ago, I was asked to go to Bangkok on the Thursday for an ill colleague.
Two Tuesdays ago, Emirates was zooming me back from Bangkok.
This past Tuesday, National Express (this term is used loosely) East Anglia was dawdling me back from 3 1/2 days in London (only 2 for work).
And next Tuesday, I will be sweating in Mexico City (or Mexico Kitty, for those who might like to participate in global feline-related humour).
Then, the Tuesday following will be in Monterrey (Mexico) -- could we get away with Miaownterrey?.
Returning to the Sceptred Isle the Tuesday after that.
[One whole week home]
And everyone knows what fun Tuesdays are in Dallas-Ft. Worth for the week after that.
And then back home for at least 3 Tuesdays!

(must go finish The Pack. 5.30am taxi and feel need to prevent flapping, frantic behaviour throughout entire day since also attending lecture and hope to see snowdrops at Old Keswick Hall.)

Entre chien et loup

2010-01-31T22:08:00.005Z

'Entre chien et loup' is a French phrase signifying the period of time between dusk and dark, when dogs and wolves are difficult to distinguish.

It also spawned the title of the most recently released English translation of Irene Nemirovsky -- The Dogs and the Wolves (originally published in 1940, presumably just before it became illegal for Jews to be employed in France). Sandra Smith, the translator, spoke on Friday night at the Forum in Norwich, which coincided with Holocaust Memorial Day and also slightly with the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Berkinau (27 January) -- where Nemirovsky died on 17 August 1942. One month and 4 days after her arrest.

Only since living on this side of the Atlantic, has my selective isolationist brain absorbed that there was war (outside the story-telling world of textbook knowledge) prior to Pearl Harbor. The hardship that Europe underwent has become much more real; words cannot really describe.

Suite Francaise was, I believe, the first of her work to be translated into English and is only a portion of what was to have been a book of 5 parts. It was untouched for decades since one of her daughters thought the manuscript was her diary and left it in the suitcase with which the children had been sent away into hiding. It is a contemporary view of life in occupied France, and in her optimism, she planned to describe through to the end of the war.

It is an impressive and incredibly brave book; my copy can be borrowed from Judith.

My next reading assignments to myself (in addition to various Spanish vocabulary lists for my Tuesday night class) are my Friday purchases: The Dogs and the Wolves, Fire in the Blood, and the new biography of The Life of Irene Nemirovsky, which is not released until 1 March (quite excited re: advanced reading). And I will also be venturing into an attempt to read a shorter Nemirovsky in French, as Ms. Smith recommended to me. Busy, busy, busy (a la Oma)!

Keeping busy hopefully delays the onset of dusk and the impact that has on one's awareness.

Worm. Charming.

2010-01-27T21:51:00.001Z

And in today's lesson, boys and girls, we shall all be introduced to the phenomenon called Worm Charming.

Of course, we are all well-aware that the study of worms is known as Oligochaetology (oh-lee-go-kett-ah-luh-gee); but then there are people who do more than study. Some get quite involved... since 1980.

They have an International Committee.

It is called the International Federation of Charming Worms and Allied Pastimes (IFCWAP, for short).

Their 18 rules have been translated. Into 30 languages, including Tibetan.

There are 4 primary techniques: twanging, twickling, tweaking, and twacking.

Twanging is simply inserting a garden fork into the ground and 'waggling' it back and forth; twickling involves a rotation of said garden fork; tweaking uses a long-handled fork; and finally (my favourite) twacking, in which the charmer strikes the ground with the fork and uses the handle as a sort of tuning fork.

This (w)hole (titter) phenomenon was started by a headmaster from Cheshire and the first world record was held by a miracle-worker named Mr. Shufflebotham (titter, titter). However, it is no longer Mr. Shufflebotham who holds the world record for being Mr. Charming... a 10-year old upstart seems to have snatched it from his talented fork in 2009.

.Thousands of people attend their annual international competition. Peut-etre une plan pour certaine de les gens qui journey across L'Atlantique cette summer? Je pense que oui.

Just Another Day at the Office...

2010-01-26T21:59:00.000Z

It is a nice compliment, or consolation, to yesterday's impression of Une Pincushion to a) have managed to dress nicely for work and b) to be reminded that The Prince is visiting when you get there. Prince Charles, that is.

He is the patron of the School of Environmental Sciences. So he was visiting, possibly to see what was the cause of all the CRU email-hacking row and scandal (which managed to get UEA in the news even in lil' ole' Bossier City). I would venture to propose that it might be the fact that ineptitude and the hiring of unskilled monkeys seems the order of the day in IT, but... who knows for certain? Surely the fact that hired consultants were able to hack into the system was completely an aberration.

Being pro-Royalist (in a most un-Colonial manner), it seemed like a necessary excursion from the office to toddle the 25 yards around the corner to stand in the freezing cold behind a barricade made of plastic chain. My amazement at all of this (besides slight giddiness at having my first royal-spotting) was the perceived lightness of security. Yes, there were some Springer Spaniels wriggling over parts of campus today (I want one... hint, hint) and there were also a few police walking around with mirrors, looking under buildings, but...

Having been fortunate enough to observe President Clinton's visit to Barksdale from the vantage point of the air traffic control tower and to attend a Presidential debate in 2004, it was shocking that people could just wander up randomly -- half the wanderers not even knowing why they couldn't walk that way to their lectures. I cautiously went back to the office and put my handbag back since I was sure there would be bag searches. There was no frisking. There was no guard-type bloke observing to see if you looked shifty.

Nope. Nada. Walk on in; stand right there; baby, let your hair hang down (it is best anyway, as this warms the ears).

The cool bit of this was that I was literally one person away from him as he walked past, and he was honestly gentle, soft-spoken, and observant and thoughtful in his questions of people. Not at all up his own backside. I rather liked him and shall purchase Duchy Originals when I can afford them. :)

This was all quite lovely in a civilised (and yet, cold) sort of way, but the tragedy of it is that we do not live in a civlised world. Not at all. If it were my event to organise, I would have gone mildly deranged with a week of orchestrated security checks; there would have been a lock-down of campus; and bag searches.

But then, he is not really my Prince yet -- dual-citizenship being a few years and a few thousand £s down the trundling road... *sigh*

RELAX!!!!

2010-01-25T20:33:00.001Z

It used to be my opinion that I was calm and relaxed and pretty chill in general. However, the ongoing internal cobustion of my back, my joints, my patience, and my tolerance levels towards unruly children and cats who attempt to cover up their pretty crockery food dishes after eating does seem to perhaps indicate otherwise. Obviously, I have been engaged in quite a high level of self-delusion.

Fortunately, the National Health Service has agreed to provide services of a therapeutic and healing nature. This makes me relatively happy since, despite not being a citizen, I am worthy to receive something for the nearly £700 per month which is thoughtfully extracted from my paycheck. Presumably they don't want to overburden my already traumatised back with the weight.

So, after a considerate referral from my GP (at The Mulbarton Surgery), I have been to the physiotherapist five or six times now. Of course, the physiotherapist is in Wymondham (pronounced 'Wind-umm'), which is possibly the most awkward location to reach either to or from the Main Road in Swardeston OR from The University of Easy Acronyms (UEA) if one does not drive. Normal bus tickets are not good enough (one must invest in a £4.70 day pass, which makes one want to just ride around on the bus and judge -- or not. Especially if one is trying to be more charitable to the cretins surrounding one.) since Wye-mond-ham is apparently in the outer zone of Norwich Worst -- oops, I mean First -- Bus system.

After my first encounter with the physio -- a lovely person named Jane -- she either thought I was neurotic, a victim of muscular hypochondria (possibly requiring NHS psychotherapy), or a severely broken person. Now she is aware that she beheld a trinity.

On one's first -- or in my case, one's first and second -- visit(s), one has what is called a 'triage' appointment. This is where they go through all the aches and pains of things that you, in your feebly deluded state, might think are wrong with you. They ask you to tell them whether the pain in ________ region is constant, periodic, or infrequent and then to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10.

They refuse to explain this rating scale. Is it on a scale of 1 to 10 of what i can bear before I lay writhing on the floor next to the washing machine crying and singing Edith Piaf songs; or is it on a scale of 1 to 10 of how painful it has ever been; or is it on a scale of 1 to 10 of whether I believe it is possible to have a stiff upper lip and Keep Calm and Carry On without resorting to surgery? What is this scale business?

Based on one's completely flawed scaling of the pain, they draw little coloured sections on the part of the diagram person on the computer. Yellow means numbness; cerulean means scrintchety periodic pain (apparently); pink means you are messed up. My little diagram has an entirely pink back with blue polka-dots, and a little yellow streak going down the right leg (and NO! This does not have anything to do with wet pants. Ahem... Rude.). Poor Jane.

Apparently, your correspondent who spends 120,000 miles a year in the air, and most of the rest of the time sitting on her haunches has a condition called 'Hypermobility Syndrome'. I am quite appalled to have a label, but maybe it will be good for me; I could get a nametag: 'Hello! My name is Anne-Marie, but you can call me Gumby!' On the bright side, the x-rays for which I was zapped in December happen to show an absence of slipped discs or anything pinched, so no incisionary activity close to My Spine is imminent (this is good, particularly in light of my inexplicable fear of deathly punctures in my person -- well, other than shots in the arm. I'm not a complete chicken.). On the negative side, my job is sedentary. Hypermobile people need to move alot (ahem -- it seems a good time to perhaps point out that it was not hyperactivity in my childhood; it was my syndrome. My body knew that it needed to move incessantly...). Because my body languishes in front of a computer all day and a good portion of the evening (when it functions -- the computer, not my body), my muscles are no longer managing my hypermobile connection points and the joints are mad. So I hurt. My back is pink with blue polka dots. And I have a yellow streak down my right leg (AGAIN... NO snickering. How childish. *rolls eyes*)

I am meant to do stretchy exercises and retrain my nerves. I should really do them more often (instead of sitting in front of a computer -- oops), but I am getting pretty good at regular stretching in the ladies room at work. The shelf on the wall next to the hand drier makes a lovely support bar and one can also do pushups agains the wall -- whilst beadily watching the door for approaching shadows, at which point you have to shove yourself speedily away from the wall, simultaneously pivoting on heels as if heading for door, and pretend to have been using completely silent hand drier. This is definitely a skill worth honing; I expect to have upper arms like Courtney Cox by March.

In addition to my Bendy Bruner-Tracey (BBT) regimen, Lovely Jane recommended acupuncture. For a person with a morbid fear of punctures, this was a big step. After all, haven't we all heard about people who have an acupuncture needle emerge from their foot 4 years after having a treatment in their eyelids or something? I was brave. The needles were small. And the first two treatments really relieved quite a bit of pain in my back.

Until this past week, when I had to go 2 weeks between treatments. And then I had a nerve completely freak out in my big toe -- it is a long story. No doubt many of you can look forward to long evenings with a lovely shiraz while I detail the agony of a mysterious feeling of shards of glass living inside my toe rather than the lovely bones which ought to be there. Copious amounts of Vitamin B (gracias a los parentes) seems to be helping. And then my back decided to relapse and go all Octogenarian on me on Saturday whilst doing laundry.

However, the whole scintillating Shards-of-Glass feeling which has persisted over the past week (but very strangely only with downward pressure, such as a blanket during SleepyTime) had me a little leery today. Jane decided that it was most probably coincidental, this dramatic Shards of Glass thing; she bent my phalanges and metatarsals, this a-way and that. And no radiating shocks of pain. None atall. Until she decided that we should start with that particular needle... next to my big toe.

Today was absolutely pitiful. I wept. Snot ran from my nosey to the floor through the little hole where they put your head so's you won't suffocate on the relaxation table.

The weeping and gnashing of teeth did not stem from the big toe one needle; I was braver than that. Just nearly reflexed her in the face -- oopsy. No. It was the building up, I think. When you (or maybe just I) am/are supposed to relax, my brain kind of goes into 'MUST RELAX!' , *...am-i-relaxed-enough-yet?*, 'NO! MUST RELAX!!!' hyper-repetition syndrome mode. And pretty much everything just flipping does the opposite.

One of my most significant spot of tension, which is most-of-the-time invisible, non-painful and completely menacing, is on either side of my spine, about 3 inches below my shoulder blades. If this area has any sort of pressure applied, I cannot help it: spasms and convulsive twitching results. And I flee, if possible. (This is in no way a recommendation as potential amusement to so-called 'friends' during social and cultural outings. Obviously, this is a little more explanation than some people might have needed, but how else are we to be honest with each other if not broadcasting to the whole webernet-connected ribbon of civilisation? No. Seriously; do not try this -- I might have to get mediaeval on yo' ____.)

Being unable to flee, and with an indeterminate number of needles in my back (actually there were 22), weeping was my only resort. But I told her to keep going... Keep Calm and Carry On! However, the whole situation was worsened by the pinching that the tension in my muscles was making where the needles had already gone in. And then, Poor Jane hit several capillaries -- which hurt like crap. And made me twitch, which tensed my muscles, which made the needles hurt, which made me cry (and produce snot, which was unreachable due to arms flapping at sides of table with needles in hands). The additional fact that a pressure on my middle back caused a twinge of electricity in my right hip did not help.

Poor Jane.

Her assessment today was, 'Well, you are just wired pretty funny.' She attempted to smile and comfort me, but I think she was afraid.

My next acupuncture treatment is in 2 weeks. We'll see if Jane is in, or if she has become a florist.

Bananas

2010-01-10T23:30:00.001Z

Due to one's frugal noticing of the sale bananas at Bobbins (the farm shoppe dans La village), this afternoon's primary culinary activity involved making Banana Pudding for a certain Wirish person, who seems to be unfamiliar with said dish. Despite a typically apathetic attitude toward dessert-type foods (odd, I know), he did manage to clear his bowl and then ate a couple of bites out of the pan (there was no company, so this was acceptable). This indicates to me that it has been approved.

I was quite pleased with my pudding texture and so happy to have the recipe from The Oma Cook Book (ed., Judith and James). Banana pudding is the first recipe that my Oma's mama taught her to cook, and the recipe has been passed down from the five maternal generations preceding moi. Oma is unfortunately not here in La Village to concoct puddings on request, and since it appears that January is now Oma-'Spa'-Month, we must hope that she returns from the hospital soon so she can make sure we are cooking our puddings correctly.

*******
This past week was an interesting week. It has been my first 'normal' experience with long-term snow, and the exoticism and thrill has not worn off yet. We have had probably 4 inches (or maybe more) of snow this week and it has been cold enough that it has stuck for almost the whole week. It is the coldest winter in Britain in 30 years!

Kitty likes snow. Angus is obviously related to Simon's Cat, as the 'Snow Business' video is pretty much his hyper reaction to the crunching snow. However, after his outside frolicking, Kitty likes to come inside and be cosy. This is an example of stretching and looking cute in order to have some tidbits of gorgeous seabass dinner with leeks and rostis... (the snow is not forcing us to diminish the culinary exploits of Chef Eamonn).

Along with the kitty, the snow is fascinating to me, too. I am quite obsessed by snow clouds and learning to see snow coming over the fields, although I am glad not to be in charge of driving to work in the snow (see L).

I love how snow makes everything quiet. Except for the ducks and the pouncing kitty. I love seeing parents pulling children to school on little tobogans. I love the crunch and squeak of the snow under one's boots. I love the way it sparkles in the sunshine. I am not so taken with wind-frozen teeth, so I suppose I had best be quiet.... nahhhhh.

Monday was my first acupuncture treatment, and whilst it is quite bizarre (I am going to wear my contacts to tomorrow's needling, so as to see the two that are in my hands... it is all quite wierdly fascinating).

Thursday was the first Knit Night of 2010, and Clare convinced me not to wimp out. We have returned to The Forum, now that loud Mondo Night is no more. It was a little chilly :)

Pretty Night Snow.

Saturday was far too cold to open St. Clement's to the public (even with the Cloak), but we made it into town on La Bus with the goal of climbing the tower and getting some snowy photos. Dawdling in the bank caused us to miss the sunshine, but maybe the snow will still be here next week (although my enthusiasm may cause me to have no playmates remaining).

The view towards the Cathedral looks over the River Wensum and since the road below is a bus route, it is obviously a little clearer than the view down Colegate, below on R (the second church tower down Colegate is St. Miles -- where I lived in my little flat). The river has not frozen :(

The climb up and down the tower is always a little dusty and wind-ing. Stopping to continually take photos of one's feet can get a little vexing for the person behind you. But, oh well... :)

Stairs at the very top are really quite tiny. There is a very small section where the stairs are not stone, but are wooden.

So many hands have touched the central support of the spiral stairs, the stone is smooth and shiny. This is my favourite part. Despite its being a bit wonky, there is no risk attall of anything falling to pieces quite yet.

At the bottom, the person behind the photographer can finally escape into the less claustrophobic air.

Twenny Tee-yun

2010-01-02T16:31:00.036Z

Yes. I think I shall go with 'twenty-ten' as the verbal reference for '2010' instead of using 'thousands'. Why this seems to have sparked such critical and intensive debate is rather beyond me. Thank the Heavens for the wisdom of the National Association of Good Grammar! [I feel a slight tinge of guilt for my hypocrisy as a pedant in mocking NAGG, but then, they really ought to have organised a better acronym.]

Perhaps some people have nothing more productive to think about, for example: considering the newly joyous state of Christmas Day air travel as a result of rabid and annoyingly well-educated fundamentalist psychotics; or what is behind the soaking of beans and pulses before cooking; or perhaps why snow renders felines utterly mad; or how time is able to slow or race, depending on one's enjoyment ratio and/or dread of returning to meaningful employment.

My goal for Twenny Tee-yun is to write more regularly (as compared to the tragic state of 'twothousandnine') , instead of keeping all my eccentric thoughts and interesting stories nebulising in my brain -- which clogs up general functionality of said brain and leads to meaningless, disconnected tangents during various conversational activities. This sometimes can alarm fellow conversationalists and one should really avoid alarming people... unless they deserve it. Or are trying to set their underpants alight.

So far, I am slightly behind in my goal outlined unsuccinctly above, due to faffing with photos and getting self distracted with snow (a la feline) and knitting (also, possibly, a la feline) and tidying (definitely, a la feline).

New Year's Eve was spent uncertainly wondering if our Letter K Correspondent would brave the forces of nature and join the Norfolkians for an icy celebratory activity. Therefore, the promised birthday cake was not created until just before midnight, upon finding out that LKC would not be remaining to even break his fast on New Year's Day -- choosing instead the tantalising fun of driving 4 1/2 hours back to Wales (oddball). Additionally, my failure to venture to La Shopping before 5pm resulted in a failure to make either cream cheese ball or cherry cheese pie.

However, through a miracle of collaboration (and with some grand patience on her part), Clare and I managed to pull together a last-minute snacky, and relatively healthy(ish), buffet of delicious homemade hummous, tomato-mozarella-basil salad, semi-homemade guacamole, homemade salsa and mango salsa, fresh olive bread -- and a nip of Clare's sloe gin (scrummy!). This was entirely useful, since the Burger-Maker was ever so slightly delayed in producing edibles for nibbly persons. There were no homemade tortilla chips... again due to lack of time and planning [since our return from La Louisiane, we have become mildly obsessed with creating legitimate salsas and tortilla chips. Efforts were well received and fully consumed by E's office colleagues.]

*******
Sadly, New Year's Day was not well-planned for, past breakfast, by moi and our main meal lacked black-eyed peas. And ham. I am a b-a-d Southern Girl -- who doesn't keep black-eyed peas in their pantry for emergency year-change celebrations?! However, the tinternet indicated to me that lentils would perhaps cover my sin and so we had them with our cabbage and cornbread. It was passable, but there shall be more adequate preparation for Twenny 'Leven.

Additionally, after damage had been done did I become aware of our other failures (also delineated by the previously helpful tinternet article):

to NOT do laundry. Oops. Obliterating Clothing Dirt.
to plan for a first-footer. We went out before someone new entered the home... actually no one other than us has actually entered the home after midnight. The cat probably doesn't count, although he is tall and dark. Ah well... give up.
to open all the doors to let out the old and let in the new. It was a tit bit chilly.
to wear something new. That would have required shopping instead of occupying resident pajamas during shopping hours last week, so... ick.
making loud noise. Even the kitteh was quiet and slept late on New Year's.

However, despite these glaring faux pas, I am sure it will be a lovely year. And I wish any readers remaining after my Protracted Twothousandnine Depth-of-despair-and-mental-distraction-silence all of the Love, Peace, Joy and Goodwill they can handle for their year to come!

xx

(...and now, I must go and test some more salsa.)

Sunday in Munich

2009-11-16T21:58:00.018Z

Sunday is a quiet day in Munich.

It was not raining (at first), and arriving in the late morning, one might have high hopes of engaging in productive activities... such as searching for new and exotic yarns to smoosh and to buy. Or things.

Munich Airport (voted Europe's Best Airport), it is the simplest and least ridonkulous airport into which I have ever, ever flown. I may endorse moving here; E should be encouraged by many close friends that German will not be impossible to learn (ahem). Already, thanks to Dawny, we know not to sing the first verse of Deutschland uber alles, so we are well on our way to assimilation.

On the train into the city, a Portuguese lady made friends with me (so that I could help her with her luggage off the train, since she had apparently purchased an entire newsagent/grocery store and packed it into her second suitcase). She has lived her for 36 years and likes it much better than her time in London. She will be going home for Christmas, and her mother collects magazines for her. She has 25 people in her family for whom to buy presents. She prefers Lufthansa to AirBerlin, and she doesn't approve of EasyJet at all.

My best decision of planning this trip (since I have failed, failed, failed to research either my yarn or beer options on my own) was to elect to not stay at the conference hotel, the Hilton Munich Park. It is in a park. My Hilton points would have increased, along with my proximity to Platinum level. But it would have been sooooo dull and 20 minutes from the centre! My 'super secret' hotel from lastminute.com is directly across the street from the Hauptbahnhof (Central Station), and it is a 5 minute walk to where the ice rink will be and where shops are open (but not on Sundays).

On Sundays, everything is closed. Except shops in the Central Station. The sushi bar there does not take credit cards. You must spend > euros5 in the quick shop or you get glared at until you manage to add enough Snicker bars and gum to make up the difference. Hauptbahnhof Starbucks is the speediest Starbucks I have ever seen.

Upon venturing up out of the subway, the first sign was at least recognisable. It is next to the Starbucks (but it does look a little older).

Despite shops being closed, there are loads of people walking in the city on a Sunday, and it seems that Germans, like the French, save Sundays for family. This is such a lovely concept that more of the 'developed' world should adopt, and it makes one not too traumatised to miss one day of manic spending. Unfortunately, there is yarn to yearn for...

It was approximately 34 minutes after leaving my hotel (for Sunday constitutional after 3.00am start to day) before the first person asked me for directions. It is slightly less comfortable when you speak nothing of the language (well, other than 3 numbers and hellos/goodbyes -- not enough time to coordinate appropriate language prior to trip), but the repetition of this phenomenon wherever I go makes me think that my attempts to follow E.M. Forster's endorsement of immersing oneself into the place one is visiting, has relatively successfully developed (I cannot locate the precise quote, which makes me cross -- so shall have to re-start reading A Room with a View and A Passage to India again.). My travel game is to figure out my bearings, navigate shortcuts, and find local shops and restaurants -- basically to see how quickly I can become (or give the illusion of) a pseudo-local. One has to think of something amusing when one is a solo traveller so much of the time.

The medieval section of the city is still delineated by gates, although they may be rebuilds since the city was pretty devastated after WWII. The 'Americans' were in charge of rebuilding Munich, and the history lecture by a tourist representative at our conference indicated that this was extremely fortunate since, unlike the other rebuilding forces, they did make efforts to recreate the city as it was. E says, in Britain's defense for its reconstruction strategies in other cities (including unfortunate Norwich), that the US was the only country to emerge from The War not fiscally devasted, so their efforts could afford to be cavalier. Either way, the result in Munich is lovely.

For example, Lisa (my New Jersey friend, who works for a London university and who crosses my path quite frequently) and I are not sure that the gates might be one of these rebuilds. The plaque looks old, but the main body of the walls looks new. This newness continues down quite a bit of the main High Street, with only a few obviously old buildings remaining -- e.g., The Rathaus (to L).

'Rathaus' means 'town hall' and is usually the prettiest building in Germanic cities. Munich's Rathaus clock tower has a ginormous glockenspiel (the green bit in the photo). It plays at 11am and noon each day, and at 5pm in the summer (it is no longer summer). Unlucky friends will be forced to watch my hand-held video of the glockenspiel during lapses in Christmas conversation.

It is quite fantastic with tilting knights (with armor and on horses), dancing peasants and other little twirling figures. However, it is slightly dangerous to be a tourist doing an impression of a goose in the rain for this event when the Kristkindlmarkt (Christmas market) is being set up; the men driving the forklifts are not delicate in their attempts to get on with their work, and you know they must want to just forklift all tourists in the backs of their oblivious little knees.

It is important to point out as well that this part of Germany takes its identity from its history. They are Bavarians first, hence the reason that the Bavarian knight always wins in the glockenspeil tournament :) The region is the Bavarian Free State (a remaining privilege from falling on the correct side in earlier conflicts -- the tourist lecture said it was granted by Napoleon, but this is not what Wikipedia says).

The city of Munich was (according to the history lecture, not wiki) was ruled first by Henry the Lion, who built a bridge over the river Isar next to the Benedictine monastery. He apparently wanted tolls (Why else would you build a bridge? The French built one into Wales...). This occurred in or before 1158, as this is the first date the city was mentioned in literature. 'Munich' comes from the old Germanic word Monche (with two dots over the 'o', but I do not know how to force this into blogger's html), which means 'monks'. The symbol of the city is still a monk, and he is everywhere from drain covers to over doors (not terribly easy to see in this picture, but he has cute red shoes!). It is more likely that he is holding a Bible, but if you just glance, it might look like a stein of beer.

In order to fully appreciate the city's long religious and brewing history (and on the recommendation of CAMRA Peter), I located an Augustiner pub off the main street and had a lovely repast, after visiting the Frauenkirche (since my 3am start hadn't really inspired much hunger until the smell of lovely snaussages hit my nosey). Its name, Augustiner am Dam, refers to its proximity to the Kirche.

Due to current building height restrictions, The Cathedral of Our Blessed Lady stands out in the skyline of the city, even after 500 years. The whiteness of the interior gives it an almost sterile atmosphere, but this in no way detracts from its beautiful quietness. Bosses on the ceiling are not as intricate (nor probably as numerous) as Norwich Cathedral's, but the spans do seem much more regular -- possibly since it is 300 years younger than Norwich's.

Bratwurst and sauerkraut is nicely accompanied by eine Weissbier. An interesting fact to note is that sauerkraut is not only fabulously healthful, but also apparently as effective as Viagra in its functional benefits (from a Kings College London study). Not to be rude, but my sausages were longer and thinner than one expected, especially compared to Texas German Bratwurst, although the flavours are pretty similar. But the beer is definitely better...

The Augustiner brewery is Munich's oldest independent producer. Beers are sold in .50 l or 1.0 l. One litre is rather a lot of beer. I only ever had Weissbeir on this trip, but next time adventuresomeness will win out -- as the wiki article has made me regret not having some Helles or Dunkles.

As it is winter, darkness descends quite thoroughly by 4.45pm, and since my energy was flagging after the early start, I managed to make it through the entire book that was my 'trip' book. You just can't win -- when I bring 3 books, I don't have the energy to read more than 2.784 pages per night and have hence wasted the luggage weight comparable to a new pair of shoes. sigh

Craftiness

2009-11-10T18:54:00.016Z

Admittedly, the lottery has not come in yet. This is a shame, but not terrifically shocking since I have never bought a lottery ticket in my life.

And I do seemingly have to continue my attendance at work if my paycheck is to arrive in its monthly manner. sigh

So, whilst crafting (NOT to be confused with 'arts and crap') is not yet my prime time-consuming activity, it is indulged in quite a bit -- between Gu & Fru puddings [in place of Nutella, I am now using promotional sale specials at Sainsbury's and Waitrose to justify my addiction -- kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous with coffee & ciggies... but this is much less odoriferous.].

*******
As may have been noticed before in previous Making-and-Doing episodes, it is particularly pleasant and focussed to craft when Clare comes out to La Village. This generally leads to a fair sense of accomplishment (unless one has not got one's spinning wheel working, and one has to find something like carding wool to look industrious). Clare is always industrious and Makes-and-Does at a remarkable rate (as evidenced by her blog and Flickr accounts and by the blur of all photos of her).

After several failed attempts at getting my own spinning started once I got my brake band rigged with a champagne cork (similar to L, but really not...), it appears that failure was due to my insistence that the wheel go in a counter-clockwise direction. [It is supposed to go clockwise... Hence breaking of all attempted fibre batts and many leader strands; and much fruitlessly vociferous berating of wheel.]

*******
His Lordship also enjoys crafting, and has his own techniques and everything. Generally his assistance involves locating, from the vastness of the couch the precise spot where my yarn ball resides, and planting himself squarely on top of the smooshiness. Occasionally, though, he just commandeers a project. (Whatchu lookin' at, Willis?)

This project, with His assistance, is now finally finished -- about 2 months later than planned (frown). The second one (in white) is well underway. It is a raglan pattern knitted from the top down; having never knitted a raglan before, the pattern was simple but everyone at knitting was intrigued at how it would be difficult since they are used to knitting raglans from the bottom up. It is a really fun pattern, and for this second rendition, a method for monitoring cables appropriately and more accurately has been devised.

*******
It may be possible to crochet a wee green edging on the white version cardi so as to match... the newest booties! Tiny is just sometimes too much -- squeeeee![This is why i need to craft full-time. Dang the need for money and responsible behaviour.]

*******
Dave the Train finally has his small tea cosy... he is reported to have worn it on his head during the final Beer Festival Planning meeting. And another one is now commissioned by Dave. Need to figure out RNLI pattern for this one, as is for Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

*******
And the Big Knitting has been developing, too.

First, we started with a large fabric strip ball (created with the Singer assistance of E. He is a much smoother treadler than Herself.).

Then we cast on (a little trickier and fiddlier than one would think with materials similar to ginormous crayons).

One does not recline on the sofa whilst wielding these implements. Personally, I find it easiest to stand behind sofa using pillows as props for needles ends. If one happens to be watching a musical of some derivation during creative industrious activity (such as South Pacific or The King and I or Moulin Rouge), one can also sing and dance about a little bit and alarm people who may happen to be sat in the room. This behaviour generally makes them not want to cause any problems. Although, it would be nine times cooler if the singer/dancer were wearing a Snuggie...

Because I decided not to spend my valuable crafting time hemming the edges, there is a great deal of stringiness on the edges, but at the moment, it is pretty cool (as it is not currently on a floor) and secondly, i think the strings will be vaccummable and mostly go away if it is ever put on a floor. However, the current size of the remaining ball makes me suspicious that this will either be: a decorative pillow cover or a patch in a larger patchwork rug.

*******
As if collecting yarn weren't enough, I have further forced my hoarding onto E in the form of corks (slightly more understandable to him). He built a frame for me last year, but there has only now accummulated enough to create the finished product!

*******
And, finally -- it is probably not very good to admit excessive gloating and pride over activity at a church. But I am quite elated with my waxing project of the moment at St. Clement's.

Only the choir stalls and the back two rows (both sides of the aisle) have been done so far. In the photo to R, the floor beyond the heating pipe has not been tackled yet.

In L photo, is compare and contrast -- the dull bit is the dry wax prior to buffing. One really might ought to wear ear protection as the ringing took about 30 minutes to stop on Sunday.

But now with my clever brushes, let the tackling commence... on Saturday.

A Witching Moon

2009-11-06T18:00:00.003Z

Perhaps it is not honestly the moon which is making things loony. But perhaps it is.

There is postive insanity and then there is just plain vexing stupidity.

Either way, if one could just sit and look at the moon for a while, things would be calm and good in one's head. There have been so many gorgeous cinematographic-quality moons over the past week, and they cannot be simply have been ordered for All Hallows, All Saints, and All Souls. But it is tres cool that they have coincided. Even though la lune is now on the wane, the nights are still unbelievably bright.

The moon, though, seems to be having an effect on many things, including:
* politicians (a continuing saga)
* Human Resources personnel
* the running of buses and trains
* property 'management' companies (also ongoing saga -- nothing to do with moon, but rather hair colour and grey matter)
* my hair

I am aware that there are many complaints in and about Obama-land, but reporting on them is not nearly as entertaining as the British approach. Self-deprecating humour and an eloquent debatory approach (which E refers to as Radio Argue) just make my day.

Human Resources seems to require proof that I am allowed to work in this country, despite their having a two-year-old copy of my work documentation which expires in 2012... So we have now wasted 3 more pieces of paper (because you have to have a copy of the outside cover of a passport, you know. That isn't a completely anonymous image or anything.)

As it is now Saturday morning (I started blog last evening, but was forced away from computer for evening excursion), it is my strong hope that my bus-riding does not go as last week's in which I ran for bus three times (with granny trolley and in wellies). The busses were early, I swear. Stopping a bus in the dead middle of the village (to great annoyance of other motorists, most certainly) is not recommended, but it is the sign of a kind-hearted (albeit grumpy) driver; it was amusing, and completely against Health & Safety, to leap onto bus as it is still moving. And I was grateful. And standing in heels for an hour and a half on a late and crammed train is not recommended, either.

Also as it is Saturday morning, it is noteworthy that the washing machine is going (on what is, if figures are correct, the 8th load of laundry since Tuesday evening). After 2 weeks of ineptitude, our property 'manager' managed to have a washing machine delivered (Sunday) AND finally installed (Tuesday). Jones/Strain genes really particularly useful when services are required from unintuitive creatures.

Finally, the hair. This was definitely due to the full moon. After months of waffling about bangs (aka, fringe), the scissors came out two weekends ago and approximately 1.5 tentative inches were sacrificed to the Waitrose bin liner. On Tuesday (in celebration of washer installation), a further 4 inches cavalierly bit the dust. E has been slightly suspicious throughout this manifestation of madness, but change seems to be accepted now. No photos as of yet.

*******
(This really is an attrociously and not a relaxed- and/or thoughtfully-written piece, but one has to get back into things somehow)

Other things that have been going on:

32nd Norwich Beer Festival -- E volunteered 114 hours last week. Herself volunteered only 4 evenings, 7.30-10.00. Donations from our hours going to Anthony Nolan Trust (leukaemia) -- same charity as the dragon boat races.
Craftiness -- this really needs its own blog...
The Great Waxing of 2009 -- this is my project of the moment at St. Clement's. Having imported (in my luggage) some Murphy's Oil Soap, washed portion of floors in Cinderella-style two Saturdays ago and applied wax the following day. Last Saturday involved complete failure to buff floors with lambswool pad on floppy drill attachment. However, (following a great philosophical debate) my new (!) drill buffing brushes arrived yesterday; and (after removing the dust which will have accumulated in mediaeval manner over the past two weeks) the waxing shall commence in approximately 1.5 hours! One thing that may shock my American readers -- should any remain -- is that Murphy Oil Soap is a) not sold in the UK and b) completely unknown. Perhaps my surprise is funny in a dense sort of way, but because those Irish ladies in an old commercial seemed to know about it. This is not the Irish ladies, since that one is not on YouTube :(
November's First Friday Five -- on which there was knitting and commentary
The Beginning of Rugby Season (i think there are about 4 rugby seasons per year)

Now must run (in very bad writerly style) so as to make it to bus... because we all know how that goes.

Ally Pally!

2009-10-11T20:01:00.010+01:00

Wow.

This is shameful: more than a whole month of silence (literarily speaking, that is).

When I told E that a blog was imminent, his response (which received an extremely raised eye-brow, resulting in effusive reiterations that 'it was only a joke!') was 'Oh! So I get a break, then, eh?' [and that was yesterday, so I figured it best to get off the proverbial backside and attempt to amuse even in the smallest way about at least one recent excursionary activity... the backside here is proverbial, because it's not like herself has just been sitting around. She has far surpassed the 95,000 miles-in-air mark, and she is busy, busy, busy!]
*******
Our activity on Friday (mine and Clare's) was to excurse with some others from the Norfolk Yarns shop and some WI (Women's Institute) ladies to Alexandra Palace in London for the Knitting and Stitching Show. The coach, pictured in middle below, left Castle Meadow at 8am (sharp) and made it home around 9pm. ...of course Bear went... What a silly question, Auntie!

Oh my Lord, one would never imagine that it could be so giddily & completely joyously fatiguing to hunt, smoosh, pet and drool over yarn, silk, buttons, beads, and envy creative people, etc., etc., etc. To put it in perspective: this was not a little car boot sale of Arts&Crap and about 10 times as large as the Ark-la-tex Gun Show ('Sure as shootin', I'll probably see you there!'). There was an awful lot of 'sqeeeee' noise-making, as this is how Clare and I communicate a lot of the time [this is something akin to a squeal mixed with a squeak; generally, a sign of happiness.].

It seems more tasteful not to bore with descriptions of every hoarding decision that we made (and safer, too. The Holy Bible says that we should not make our brother (or sister) stumble, and I certainly wouldn't want to cause any readers to sin -- either through jealously or judgementalism over my silk purchases. Or my yarn. Or the alpaca fleece.)

Ahem... anyhoo, it has come to my sociological attention (totally should have taken Soc101 with Dr. Fisch a year earlier), that although knitters are by and large a friendly and welcoming segment of the population, stitchers of other persuasions (a lot of them; NOT all. I know some lovely needlepointers) are rude, self-absorbed shrews. It is inconceivable that cute little old biddies (and large ones with frizzy hair, who aren't so cute) can charge right in front of one, knocking arm out of aim for what one was reaching; shove frequently past one in an aisle with a shrewdly placed shoulder; ram backwards into one, glare, and refuse to apologise. Shocking behaviour! [and one dares to wonder why rudeness has become de rigeur... if the aged do it.]

Also on the sociological note: there were an awful lot of Americans there selling wares... this seems to be a productive route into the UK. A couple from Texas were selling Buffalo Gold (admittedly their graphics are not so great on the site, and the yarn kind of looks like buffalo chips -- titter -- but the yarn is amazingly soft and smooshy). I do declare; The Colonists seem to be bringing the 'coolness' of knitting to the Motherland! [It even made the Daily Wail -- I mean 'Mail' -- this week.]

However, there was more than enough inspiration to make Clare and myself wonder why the hecks we haven't been able to figure out a way to turn our obsession into sustenance [this is a knitted 3-D 'painting']. We may have figured out a method, though -- there was a definite dearth in spinning accoutrements (other than fleece, which we happily hoarded). No, we mean bobbins, lazy kates, wheels, spindles, and those crazy pointy Disney princess hats [well, perhaaaaaps the last item wouldn't sell so well, but as one might ask 'What good is a dinghy if you haven't got a paddle?', likewise 'What good is a truckload of fleeces if you haven't got a pair of carders?']. So... think, think, think.

As at events of this kind (or just generally similar to my many previous whims), something caught my eye. Extreme Knitting. This is knitting on a LARGE scale. Large doormat-size rugs start at £200 (those are the ones with silk in the mix). Then there are the ones with strips of fabric (a fabric ball costs between £7-12). Many fabric balls in a willow basket is an unusual and alluring sight. Oh, there is just so much to knit! I am hooked (pun probably intended).

M. Townsend had posted this fascinating link on my Facebook wall last week, actually; but, my defeatist thoughts had merely turned to self-pity over not having gone to art school and/or dyed my hair purple or blue and/or been Dutch and/or clever and minimalist. But then, on Friday there was a 'Squeeee!' and magically I have developed a slight blue tinge and a smoke-stack on my head: 'I think I can; I think I can!'

Showing the only moments of self control all day, no needles came home with me (the crochet hooks were £12.95); but I happen to know the most wonderful Enabler (who also cooks, as evidenced in photo background).

E made these this afternoon in less than 2 hours. AND had the added skill and patience to throw a crochet hook into the creative mix as well! [I planted some pansies.]

Clare will be so pleased when she gets back from hols in Edinburgh!

Now, I have the legitimised capacity to start hoarding fabric. Well, no. My plan is to actually knit a rug for the study to cover that hideous carpet. And then, who knows -- £200 doormats by commission...? An added incentive is, no doubt, toning of triceps -- everyone wins. Hoorah!

Now, I had best get back to my hoard...
(if one is giddy on yarn spastickisity, this little ensemble looks like a little face with a hat. If you squint a bit, there is a mouth and moustache. Actually, now that I look at it again, he looked better when there was less knitting done.)

Will report on auction (Sat) next. Another incredible outing!

The Repercussions of Yarn Bombing

2009-08-30T18:25:00.004+01:00

Alert readers (or simply those with excellent memories-- since that is what you need to 'follow' my blog lately) will recall that as an indulgence in Worldwide KiP (Knit In Public) Day, several of us tootled around Norwich knitting. Most of us are imports, you see, so we do try to fit in with Normal for Norfolk as much as possible.

On this tootle, we further indulged in very mild Yarn Vandalism (if one were unimaginative and mean-spirited and Uriah-Heepish enough to throw such an epithet at amusing and harmless activities). Said Yarn Vandalism involved leaving three balls of wool (with accompanying needles) in two locations. These have been tittered about occasionally since, but none of us had the presence of mind to check back or the idea that anything would have happened to any of them.

However, following a Norwich Beer Festival planning meeting this past week, Herself received first-hand intelligence regarding the current situation of the ball of wool planted surreptitiously in a drawer in a table at The White Lion.

So, she had to go and verify this for herself (Clare being away from home and unable to accompany as witness, she was forced to take photographic evidence).

One can here see the setting of the Yarn Vandalism:

And for the knitters amongst readership, a close-up here demonstrates an impressive range of knitting skills which have followed Wonderland-style instruction.

According to one barman (not Ralph), it is reported that one of the knitters was a 19-year-old lad with a mohawk and tattoos. There are very few dropped stitches, and by and large I am impressed.

It is time to replenish the yarn supply methinks :) (and someone needs to check The Playhouse!)

Tagine!

2009-08-30T17:39:00.007+01:00

Even though some people are woefully behind in thank-you notes (b-a-d), lamb chops seemed a strong reason to bring out the tagine and give it a go! Friday was the Time to Do This.

As with all things culinary, E (Himself) had a Plan. And it was Good!

The beginning involved preparation of Le Fire. (3/4 of a bag of charcoal seemed a bit gregarious, but...)

The Second Step was the preparation of (utilising handy garden table located in bargain section of IKEA -- see, I don't only think of myself when indulging in Swedish-style-organisational-mania):

mushrooms
onions
garlic
ginger
bell pepper
tomatoes
sliced potatoes
zucchini/courgettes
garden herbs (mint, dill, basil, parsley)
spices

Thirdly, the monitoring.

*******
Herself assisted by talking telephonically to entire matriarchal section of family in preparation of non-surprise-pour-Le-Oma on Tuesday (this apparent laziness was mostly due to Chef's dubious judgement regarding her knife-handling abilities, despite 33 years of successful chopping, deboning, and formative part of childhood as a sous-Butcher and Deer Meat Processor). His Lordship assisted by mewing pitifully around feet of chef at various moments of crucial cooking activity in attempt to trip person, causing trip to A&E (American translation: 'emergency room' or 'ER' -- smirk. When I first moved here I kept wondering what Arts&Entertainment television had to do with unfortunate incidents and why people always said they had to 'go' to A&E... were the high quality films, or perhaps Actors Studio, going to help the pain in some way?), thereby leaving lamb sustenance for himself.

Snake!

2009-08-30T10:23:00.004+01:00

Not a snake as in Badger, Badger... Snake! but a real, veritable, scaley (and smished-ed) snake.

This is the first snake I have seen in the 3 years I have been in Britain. It was slightly alarming as if I had travelled through some space-time continuum, the delirium of cycling up the hill ending not in quaint English countryside as at the bottom but in a Stephen King version of sunny Colorado (in this story, the population of zooming Smarty&Fit male cyclists who make pseudo-encouraging comments to wheezing cyclists has been decimated by either a plague of locusts or the local zombies).

There are apparently three types of snake in Britain (I thought there was only one). The Grass Snake, the Smooth Snake and the Adder. The only poisonous one is the Adder. In my skilled estimation, this flattened specimen is/was probably a Grass Snake (although it looked like a Rat Snake or Cottonmouth to me at first), but unlike any little old grass snake I ever did see before.

Rumour has it as well that there are some sort of wierd reptile that looks like a snake but is actually a lizard -- a slow worm. Who knew!? Anguis fragilis is a legless lizard -- apparently the top reason for population reduction in suburban areas is Felis catus. However, our Catus blackus seems to prefer furred, pointy-nosed prey. Or feathered...

*NOTE: This entry is slightly deceptive, as the snake is nearly two-week-old-news by now. Death Of Snake didn't make the EDP (as far as I know) but you never know when they might need a news story... (see Woman Trampled By Cow). Reason for delay in reporting (this time) is a recent spending of 10-12 hours on the computer each day in preparation for a manic work trip and a complete lack of desire to look at, let alone type on, any sort of keyboard object.

Added to this is the near constant pain in elbow, shoulder and back from mouse over-usage -- age is catching up, you see. Am now on NHS physical therapy list -- let's hope it is slightly more 21st century (or even 20th, for that matter) than the NHS dental service.

Fun on a Friday Night

2009-08-07T18:02:00.005+01:00

(or evening... post-work whatever.)

Indeed.

It is 6.03 pm. We have the Appletons arriving at 7.00pm (or earlier, as they are quite perfectly punctual).

Since Himself had to work until 6 this evening, I cycled today with the optimistic goal or making it home by 5.30, vaccuuming madly, taking shower, fussing with annoyingly uncooperative hair and eyebrows, lighting candles, plumping pillows, arranging post-dinner drinks, feeding repetitive Kitty -- generally being obsessive compulsive and having high blood pressure for a whole hour and a half (woo hoo!).

However, about 3/4 of the way up that complete b----- of a hill before you make it to the cattery, I realised that, like last evening, I probably didn't have any house keys. [This was after the annoyingly healthy fit man zoomed past me at Mach 3 and in Gear 16, no doubt -- chipperly offering the encouragement, 'You're almost to the top!' as a type of cyclist greeting. If I hadn't been wheezing asthmatically in Gear 1, I would have attempted some smart retort. But as it was...]

My premonition was proven true as I dug fruitlessly through all pockets of panniers and various bag-like accoutrements.

Fortunately, the side door was open to the alley, so's the bike (and Herself) didn't have to sit by the front door looking homeless and a complete fool [It is preferable to do that online, instead].

Have swept the back yard pavements (as a half-hearted attempt at obsessive complusion, but it just really wasn't enough to make me frantic. I ought to be hyperventilating by now... alas.), rearranged tomato plants (again), talked to neighbors, who weren't sure if it was Angus or Arthur who wandered through the pub today (snicker).

So, am sat sweating in the back garden, with a black kitty on the table, a dead blue-tit (frown) in the grass, and some chips and guacamole (made fresh this a.m. and tookened to share with work!). At least it is not raining :)

*******
.... It is 6.17pm and the back door has just been opened by Himself (who is now home)!

Let the Obsessive Compulsive behaviour begin.

Scrumping

2009-08-05T21:01:00.008+01:00

Technically, 'scrumping' is stealing, particularly apples from an orchard. However, it can be used casually to refer to general hunter-gatherer activity, and it is this sense in which we indulged in scrumping today (at the instigation of moi). It comes, no doubt, from being a Keachi child, and perhaps watching and reading a bit too much Little House on the Prairie.

I have been itching to pick blackberries for weeks, esp. when I am organised enough to cycle to work and greedily look at all the lovely fruit. However, they are more deceptive here than in Loosyanna -- probably because of the lack of traumatic heat -- and are still quite tart until they are plumper than plump.

Along the alley that leads to the High Common, there are quite a few plums; there are crabapples on several massive trees along the Common; we even picked THREE raspberries in the WILD (very exotic for children from the humid South) when the Traceys and the Irish aunties came for a visit. Then, of course, I am keeping an eagle eye on the elderberries, so I can remember where they are in November. Simply so much scrumping to be done!

Naturally, it is most definitely not thievery if one picks tomatoes that have grown in one's garden; but it doesn't really count as scrumping since it is kind of 'planned' vegetable produce, I think. Consuming 'planned' produce can very loosely be considered scrumping if one happens to be visiting someone else's garden and that kind soul lets you nibble on several different little appetizers (such as rocket leaves, and tarragon, and raspberries).

We have two ripe tomatoes (finally)! The garden has gone quite nicely this summer, despite being started rawther a bit late. There is still a veritable plethora of green tomatoes, and we have had beans with dinner about 5 times now. I have had weeks of lettuces for my lunch salads, and they are still going strong!

*******
Another activity in which to indulge when one is out and about scrumping, or scoping for future scrumping opportunities, is to feed the ducks on the Common pond...

This is always amusing and guaranteed to cheer, even those in the glummest of moods. The rustling of a bread bag (or maybe it is the sound of the cycle gears clicking) leads super instantly to a zipping, flapping, quacking migration across the pond (as seen to L). Because my camera is so blessedly smart, it made me miss capturing the frantic ones who felt the need to fly the extra 10 feet. *sigh*

However, today's feeding of the ducks was more amusing than average when an additional odd clucking sound began and 4 chickens emerged down the muddy bank and decided they were interested in this frenzy of duckish activity as well.

Approximately 2 minutes later, as the bread supply was decimated, two tiny kittens with festive collars emerged from the trees by the bank as well, boldly and blithely meowing at certain people! The chickens chased them onto the road (and one poor kitty had perhaps had its eye damaged by a chicken talon), which leads me to suspect that chickens would be safe here as they would be perhaps able to bluff the locals of the black feline persuasion...? Hmmmmm...

A Big Step

2009-08-04T20:38:00.009+01:00

Today, herself took a Big Step towards intercultural assimilation.

Before everyone goes all hysterical, this does not mean she suffers any loss of affection for her storage container or her Coon-Ass Kitty or her wonderful fambly and friendses. (This is not her Kitty, but it is a dead ringer... for some reason E seems to think it is remarkably like certain persons, too. But he is deluded.)

Of course, she does still have her Loosyanna driver's license (which has the incorrect address, because DMV employees are only hired based upon a complete lack of customer service and high levels of illiteracy -- I don't think I am offending anyone I know by this hyper-generalisation, but hey, it has been known to recur with startling frequency). But today, she finally sat in a little booth with a dodgy curtain with Godknowswhatall bacteria on it (and she kept having to touch it to hold it closed since it was windy -- ewww) and a sad simile of an ice cream parlor stool; she ooched and scooched and lowered the ice cream stool until her head fit in the little oval on the screen and took a picture for her provisional driving license.

One is not allowed to smile. One has 3 chances. The monotonously chipper woman's voice bleats instructions with only 4-second pauses, so there is really no time to gather yourself. There are buttons to push (green to take a photo -- at least she counts down for you; and red to say that you want to take another), curtains are blowing, the woman is telling you to move your head backwards -- through the wall, apparently -- it is just all quite a lot to coordinate, esp. if one is carrying any items at all other than an elegantly engraved cigarette case with lipstick accessory, or a bowler hat.

This glorious image cost £4. Bless.
Scary, Southern, psycho-killer character actress available for glaring and eyebrow arching.

Then, hyperventilating all the way (and for about an hour after), she posted application form, photo (NOT attached to form, where handy photo-sized grey area is delineated with instruction:
'Official use only DO NOT attach your photograph here Simply include it loose in the envelope'. There is apparently no need for punctuation on government forms.), and beloved passport to Swansea.

I am sure it will be fine. They claim that all identity documents will be returned within 10 working days. Which I sincerely hope, since my next voyage dans l'aire begins 4 weeks from today.

However, there is a wierd feeling of intense alien-ness. Obviously, n'est pas La France Occupee c. 1940, where one needed identity papers at all times; but without a passport, one would perhaps (in some unfortunate eventuality) have a hard time proving one's identity. You don't really think about this when you are in your home country, because after all, you generally don't have to go anywhere where government issued photo identification (not issued by local illiterate) is necessary in case of emergency. It is perhaps silly, but it is an interesting awareness.

Fingers crossed that the passport follows DVLA optimism of a 10-day return. Otherwise, I might take an ulcer with me on September trip. This whole thing is, of course, my fault for delaying -- just because someone didn't want to sit in that horrid little curtained hut. But it was simpler than dealing with the Walgreen's girl. She don't let you have 3 tries... mmmm, mm, no ma'am.

Spot the Kitteh.

2009-07-30T16:13:00.002+01:00

Our game today is Spot the Wrong Kitty!

True skill comes when one is able to determine the Correct Kitty without restorting to mundanely obvious clues such as the tinkling of the pink bell or the yowl for instant-service food upon sight of Human Staff Member. Hints on how to do this include ascertaining a certain guilty/defensive look on one face (indicating full expectation of imminent bouncing from house) as well as distinguishing fur quality and pointiness of nose.

But there is not going to be an ejection of interloper, Arthur, today, as it is tipping it right down (today has been a FABulous windy day of thunder and rain and interspersed with sunshine -- proper weather instead of stiff-upper-lip weather!)

And now for something completely different...

2009-07-27T21:05:00.009+01:00

Sometimes, I go wandering off. And yesterday, I was chasing butterflies (during the semi-finals of the racing)... and picking blackberries. And people worried. But it was all fine!

Earlier in the day, I noticed the prettiest butterfly on the Buddleia next to the Porta-loos (I called them 'portolets' and was mocked -- oh, come on, people. USE YOUR FREAKING CONTEXT CLUES! I'm obviously not talking about the nearest Starbucks... However, I must admit that portable toilet facilities have come a looooong way -- these flushed with blue liquid and had water faucets with a floor control, like the train!). Not being the kind of person who normally takes a camera to the toilet with them (although in airports, I am sometimes glad to have one handy to take photos of silly stick figure signs), this stalking opportunity was missed.

However, after the first round of the semis, I turned around from reading a history sign I was reading and Mr. E had disappeared. So I wandered the opposite way (from where our settlement area was) down the path less travelled, except that it was still fairly travelled, most notably by a large number of chocolate labs -- who seem to have absolutely no sense of occasion when persons are trying to caaaaaarefully stalk an insect and photograph it. But that is okay :)

[For the benefit of Judith, will think this looks like a path along which brigands might be lying wait, this is the smaller path right next to the larger path, which was very open and not filled with lurking murderers. Norfolk is the safest county in England!]

Quary would be spotted, camera made ready (because heaven forbid it should retain settings), creeping motions through nettles and grasses would ensue... and butterfly would fly off. Normal walking would proceed for a bit, some berries would be consumed (purely for energy and fibre), and then behaviour repeated, with some more productive interludes when other creatures would sit nicely.

This may or may not be golden rod -- I don't seem to be allergic to it, though. I think this is what they call a 'wasp' here. They ain't seen no real wasps...

This little fellow posed for quite a good while for me. He is rather dignified, and the tips of his antennae look like they have been dipped in gold. He is a Tortoiseshell. There is downy almost fur on his body (maybe it is) and it was a lovely olivey-browny-goldy colour.

A little further down the path (after another failed attempt at the main objective and a nettle sting), this nice Common Brown was willing to be photographed. Although, maybe he is a Gatekeeper, instead...

And a dragonfly, who bravely withstood an onslaught of shrubbery beating by a wagging tail and stayed still for me to capture several lovely shots.

Then, we have some ladybugs (or ladybirds, as they are called here). They always pose so nicely and don't flit away with the slightest hint of breeze. We need some to come live in our garden, but despite rumours that you can purchase a bunch of them and bring them home to set free, I have not yet found where one does this. (S'pose I could Google it, since I am constantly impatient with people who do not Google their questions.)

And finally, this was the only photograph I managed of the Peacock, which was taken during a veritable gale and involved me balancing on my toes with camera reached out as far as my arm could go, with an aim and a click. He is rather stunning, isn't he!? But after all that kerfuffle, I think my favourite is the Tortoiseshell, since he was so well-behaved and I got to see such detail on him.

Swan Lake

2009-07-27T19:34:00.006+01:00

There are few things more fabulous than large tattooed blokes wearing tutus and pink tights and Dragon Boat racing.

It was even more entertaining when they were walking around the day-camping site, but I didn't want to get smacked.

Over £25,ooo was raised for the Anthony Nolan Trust at Sunday's Norwich Dragon Boat Race. Our team -- Stan's team, The Pedantic Smart Alecks -- came 19th out of 21 teams.

The Race was at Whitlingham Broad, just outside of Norwich in Trowse. A broad is a lake, usually signifying man-made in some way. Most of the broads in Norfolk are a result of the peat digging in the Middle Ages, but Whitlingham Great Broad is a new creation, being used as a quarry until the end of the 20th century.

Like myself, some readers (if there are any of you left since I am currently such a bad on-the-ground correspondent) may not be acquainted with 'Dragon Boat Racing'. It involves long boats with room for teams of 12 -- 10 rowers, one drummer, one helmsman. The helmsman is (for events like this, with loads of novices) provided by the organising company. The drummer sits on a precarious little chair at the front of the boat and... um, drums. It is meant to keep the rhythm of the rowing, since it is imperative to row in synchronisation in order to reach optimal speed, but a lot of the time the whole thing just went higgledy-piggledy. On other boats, of course -- we were actually doing pretty good after our initial row out to the starting point in the middle of the lake.

The racing begins with each team doing 3 heats, with 3 teams in each heat. The top 2 times of each team are averaged and the top 9 teams compete in the semi-finals, with 3 teams in the final (to R, very tight finish -- the winners were 2/10 of a second faster). The course is 40 meters long... and that is a whole heckuva lot longer than you think and than it looks. Sadly, we were not as buff as the rugby teams and other groupings of powerful human specimens, but it was still a Grand day out!

Swan Lake (pink tutu-ed tattooed persons, above) won in both the Best Dressed Category and overall.

We will be there next year, but it is yet undetermined if E will be dressing in tights.

Yes, ma'am. You and your hydrangea may go through...

2009-07-26T20:12:00.011+01:00

This is a nice phrase, because it means that I can make my bus which is on the other side of the closed street... And if you got a good bargain (say, £4) on your hydrangea, the police/guard-ish type person will approve and tell you so.

This is fab. And probably only happens in Norfolk. I like Norfolk and find more reasons to like it here all the time :)

Certain aspects of 'professional business' culture have little part in this positive feeling, but paying my bills does, I suppose.

This Hydrangea Walk followed closely upon quite an eventful day (and prepared for yet another).

Firstly, yesterday (after a swivet relating to the forgetfulness of herself and the lack of organisation in La Casa), Sally collected me from the top of Elm Hill and we headed off to the Worstead Festival.

Worstead is northeast of Norwich and its festival is the largest village festival in Norfolk. In the Middle Ages, worsted fabric was woven here, preceding the wealth of Norwich weaving culture.

Sadly, unlike last year, Norfolk Yarns did not have a booth. This was actually fortuitous, though, since as a result, no extraneous wool was purchased and added to stash. (This is a feat of glorious achievement). I did, however, get some Crafty McCrafty ideas -- ideas are free and take very little storage.

And the sheep were bald by the time we saw them, so I didn't beg to bring one home (although I think my plan for putting one on a leash/lead and bringing it to The Common to graze sounds like a marvelous plan).

In the second field, were the heavy working horses, old cars (such as the Model T Roadster, to L) and tractors and machinery displays (and the hog roast -- yummy expectations were sadly disappointed).

The machine display looked to be about the most boring thing imaginable, but it was actually really interesting -- although if you had to sit there all day in the constantly humming and popping racket, you might have gone deaf. Each contestant had their machine(s) up and running and doing whatever they were supposed to do, and a little provenance tidbit was on some of the signs, too; the men (mostly), and their dogs, sat in lawn chairs behind their treasures and/or fiddled about with parts and oil and things. It was like a geek section for manly men :) Some of the tractors (even as modern as the 60s and 70s) had hand crank starters!

Another section of the field was for ploughing trials (I never figured out if there was a competition, or if they were just demonstrations). Commentating was a well-dressed and well-fed gentleman sat under a small white tent with a cane and a straw hat, looking every bit the part of a county fair cast member from Babe or Charlotte's Web.

Next to the ploughing section, was the horse judging arena. It was all quite fancy proceedings and the horses were noble and ginormous. The judge's assistant was another character actor, I swear, in a navy suit with lambchop sideburns and a bowler hat! The judging was very involved, and ribbons were won, but Sally and I had no idea who actually won. This horse was my favourite, but he only got a pink ribbon...

The chicken ark was quite tempting, but I refrained (£160 for ark and 2 hens; child not included). Sally was probably pleased with my lack of animal/foul purchases since her car might have absorbed some sort of unfortunate odour... so I brought five plants home instead. I notice an unfortunate, and increasingly frequent, tendency to aquire greater quantity of things than I can carry...

After a state of rosy-cheeked browsing was reached (from the brilliantly glorious day that it was -- see sky above for evidence), Sally dropped me back in Norwich (with my collection of plants) for to meet up with the rest of the winning quiz team... for an evening of riotous debauchery.

Hardly.

Despite the fact of my tardiness (and an attempted barring of the Plant Lady and her trolley) and everyone else's head start on the 6 pints per person (which was our prize -- and of which I managed only half of my allottment), it all remained quite civilised.

Emma had brought along the most intricate puzzle of King Solomon's Mines (second row, third in at this link). 1000 pieces does not fit even on the largest table in the King's Head, so we put the border together and then split it in half vertically and moved the halves opposingly sideways. Eamonn and Adrian decided that working two halves of a puzzle was the silliest thing ever, so they got the chess out.

Perhaps a little more eye-pattern coordination than realistic having not started puzzle at the beginning of the outing and in fading light, but SUCH a good time!

The Hydrangea Walk followed and E was gentlemanly and pulled my trolley with the lavender and multi-coloured yarrow inside. He is so tolerant!

NOTE: The puzzle remains unfinished since John (the landlord) wasn't too keen on our leaving puzzle out on table for us to come and finish at various times.

...and then there was fire

2009-07-02T21:28:00.008+01:00

So, when a person decides that burgers sound nice for dinner and they don't have a barbeque, and they don't want them pan-fried, and they have a garden.... dinner might get more expensive than their shopping partner bargained for (even though they are stood in Waitrose).

The dinner shopping trip then might take one on to a Homebase store (where they sell grilles et accoutrements. And also propane and propane accessories, but we didn't need any of that.).

And then one might end up leaving Homebase with a Weber charcoal grille, a bag of briquettes, some organic balsa twigs from Romania (for fire lighters)... and a hand fork and a pitchfork -- because you might need them, too.

Then, before one gets one's dinner, one must wait until said grille is put together :) Kittehs is helpful as wellllllll.

At the edge of the grill construction photographie, one can perchance spy some of the lettuces, which are doing extraordinarily well. Well, since I have never grown lettuces before, I think they are doing very well! That was the lettuces yesterday (above), and this is my harvest of lettuces today (left)! They are being taken to work to share tomorrow (the tidy ones, that is... I am keeping the ones that are a little tattier, but still scrummy!).

*******
Earlier in the week, The Grille Man was also The Golfing Man. The first bringing out of the clubs in Norwich and what more fitting outing than the Royal Norwich Golf Club with Stan? Oh, certainly, my good fellow -- simply smashing! I am threatened with becoming a golf widow... so I may have to start grilling all by meself.

However, as smashing as the golfing is, the hollyhocks (at R in photo) are fabulously smashing and are blooming magnificently! However, there is a slight problem with rust -- which one can combat organically with milk (?) or non-organically with chemicals. The rust is winning. Any recommendations welcome.

*******
In other news, there is still concocting going on with the elderflower! On Monday, concern kicked in because there was a type of scum on the top and no bubbles; I was distraught. On Tuesday, we decided to add a pinch of yeast, just in case it wasn't quite dead yet. And it has resurrected! (Or maybe it wasn't actually dead yet; the scum appears to be part of the normal process. Coming from the land of swamps, scum to me generally means 'ick'. But no more -- this is delish!)

Tonight, Clare confirmed by phone brewing consultation that scum is normal; one is also meant to stir so that the sugar gets eaten by the yeast, causing it to ferment more (although elderflower is not going to really get anyone tipsy). The big puffy bubbles are a good sign of life. And I tasted it, too -- YUM! But it is still sweet, so Clare says it is not ready to bottle.

Updates will be forthcoming! Bubble, bubble, toil, but no trouble.

Duck herding

2009-06-29T19:48:00.003+01:00

The collective noun is a raft of ducks (actually there seem to be several collectives! Hoorah for more ways to be vexatious in conversation!).

On Friday (when I was on holiday... working on immigration crises -- grrrr), there was a little amusing break in the day which began when I glanced out the dining room window (which other than in working hours is blocked by a large white panel van) and saw a multitude of ducks come waddling up the drive!

E managed to take a picture of them, before heading on his way back to work.

And then the herding began. They started wandering into the main road (our address is 'Main Road'), so E bravely went forth and stopped traffic and the bus. The ducks were intended to head back to this side of the road, but instead decided to cross the road fully and go to the car dealership diagonal across the road and mill about under and between cars.

My sole contribution was to go inside and get some bread (which was pretty pointless since ducks need water for to eat zee bread). A biker guy sitting out in the sun on the patio at The Dog Inn saw the predicament and came out to help. So in a lull in traffic, E (chief herder) and the biker and I steered the ducks (quacking a blue streak) across the road, aiming for the alley that runs along the neighbors' house and towards the Common (a much better place for ducks than the main road, and also with the amenity of a p-o-n-d).

E only needed a floppy hat and a little crook as he headed off down the lane behind the ducks. I think I shall make him one. A manly one, naturally. Camoflauge maybe? And some fishing lures to decorate the crook...

*******
Oh dear, oh dear. Someone has taken the notion and turned it into a corporate activity! For your own amusement, just google 'duck herding'; shockingly most of the returns are UK-based. This is kind of what I feel like at work most of the time, anyway :)

Activity Review: KiP Crawl, Elderflowers, & Duck-herding

2009-06-27T07:56:00.011+01:00

Oh, and auctions, and spinning, and immigration fun (for work -- whew!), and gardening, and mouse-killing, too.

Such as lot has managed (somehow) to happen in the 20 days (b-a-d) since the last blog.

Firstly, there was Worldwide Knit in Public Day (around 13 June every year, so get planning for 2010, fellow knitters!), of which Clare sparked the organisation and I just figured out the route -- the 'route', you see, because instead of a stationary and sedentary 'knit', a little walking in between seemed like a good idea and also increasing chance for more people to see the Knitting Missionaries. (This is an ironically amusing term since we started at 2 churches -- giggle.) I suppose we could use the term 'Proselytes' but to the uninitiated or to the unreligious, that might sound like a kind of amoeba... and we are not Those! We were not cycling missionaries, since the yarn can so easily get hung up in the gears. However, there was a Naked Cycle Ride in Cardiff, which their KiP day happened to be on the route of... (oh my -- it appears to be worldwide as well!)

Our route covered a good part of the city centre and the weather cooperated gorgeously. Walking and knitting (not at the same time) does really poop you out, though! We started at St. Clement's (selfishly, you may say -- but I was typing the route and we had to start somewhere... and this let us get started earlier -- 11 am-2pm knitting in the churchyard). Jonathan and Jack and Molly were terribly amused and possibly bemused by our motley crew and Jonathan regaled us in quite an out-of-character style -- and he brought me a daisy plant from his garden and some seeds, which I had to carry through Norwich with me instead of leaving at the church since he might have thought I didn't appreciate them. So, yes -- your correspondent strolling the streets of Norwich with a large bag of a daisy plant, stopping periodically to knit for 45 minutes -- all successfully adding to my attempts to fit into Norfolk.

The Cathedral Cloisters was out next stop, and we managed to pick the spot immediately next to where a wedding party wanted their photos taken about 10 minutes after our arrival. So most of the time was spent trying to stay hidden behind columns and out of photos.

From here, we migrated to Frank's -- sadly all the comfy couches were taken, so Clare and I perched on the edge of the most uncomfortable-built in bench-on-the-wall ever. The daisy plant fell out of the window and onto Shelly's head. And we had to have the first Pimm's of the day. Frank's has scrummy food and cakes and the best use of adjectives like 'shiny' and 'lovely'. They also occasionally have an 'Animal of the Week' on their signage.

The Forum was skipped because a) we didn't expect any more knitters to join (wrong! oopsy!); b) we were behind schedule; c) we felt the need to stop into St. Gregory's Pottergate and check on their previously unknown KiP event -- which was non-existent by the time we arrived; and d) the Forum was deemed 'boring' since we go there every thursday eve anyhoo.

So, we descended upon The White Lion (right around the corner from St. Miles Alley) and may have startled Ralph slightly, although he quickly recovered and made us some Pimm's. It was a good location, with nice big windows and lots of light (since Caroline didn't feel comfortable in the red-painted room at the back); and it was mostly quiet except for the tipsy man who kept wanting to commission some baby booties off me but who has yet to call with his order :) Clare yarn-bombed The White Lion (well, Clare bravely did) by hiding a ball of yarn with two needles stuck through into a table drawer along with a little note. Since it was hidden, maybe it should be termed 'Undercover Yarn Bombing.'

Skipping The Golden Star as well, we proceeded to The Playhouse (for one more Pimm's and some tea) and one final UYB in the hanging magazine rack (Can clever readers spot it -- actually there are 2...?). By this point, we were all fairly flagging and so Here Endeth the Knit Crawl.

Another crawl should be forthcoming soon!

*******
The work weeks over, say, the past 3 weeks have been nothing to write home about. Let's just say morale has swayed between incandescent fury and maniacal laughter at institutional and governmental incompetencies. After a while apathy sets in and you feel you have sold your soul and become a civil servant -- oh wait. You have.

Cycling is a positive aspect of my 'work' life right now, though. I have managed to cycle roundtrip to work 3 times now and one-way (from work) either once or twice... It is 4 miles from Lyndale to UEA, or twice as far as from the centre of Norwich -- surely 8 miles a day, twice a week (or more) qualifies as vigorous exercise, right? BUT even thought it is further, it is not as traumatic because the route is through pretty, wind-ey country lanes bordered with hedgerows and horse pastures and wheatfields and rape (canola) fields. Birds sing; cars do not honk or spew fumes in your face; there is only 1 traffic light, in Cringleford; and it is lovely decompression time to attempt to convince yourself that work is not necessarily the pinnacle of your vexation and does not need to control your life. This is a good thing!

Of course, I do feel like collapsing into the grass sometimes, but it is getting easier and I am now quite refreshed and hyper once the destination is reached. The first day, I fell asleep on the living room floor behind the sofa while trying to empty my panniere bags -- '...just a quick rest of the eyes...'.

*******
Last weekend was just busy-busy-busy!

Friday, we had to dash from work for the auction viewing. It looked quite promising.

Saturday a.m.'s agenda had E and me at Blyth's at 9.35 (but I did manage to win bidding on two green man garden pieces before being sent off to St. Clement's and leave him to manage the situation -- which ended in his purchase of a ginormous cane conservatory chair for £1 and which has created 5 days of amusement and activity for all. Now that it has finally made it into the house -- a funny tale to be shared with a glass of wine -- Kitty approves entirely.).

Jonathan and I attacked St. Clement's quite exhuberantly, following the exodus of the plasterers, who repaired and painted the archway between the chancel and the nave. I believe I emptied the vaccuum bag 4 times (ick). We have a little more to do today, but it is well on its way to being back to full viewing tidiness.

Leaving St. Clement's I walked back to the auction house, to finalise everything, since E had had to depart early to take car home and make it back to the city for The Rugby (British Lions v. South Africa, Test 1 -- or something like that).

THEN, loading as much as I could manage into my old-lady shopping trolley, I wheeled the 30 minute walk up to Norfolk Yarn -- for 'try-new-things' day! After some very patient teaching, I managed to successfully card, spin and ply wool. A bit of investment later (that is what we tell E, you see!), and I have a spinning wheel maintenance kit, a bag of 300 g of raw wool (£4.95 -- yay!) and two new bobbins! My plan was to get that project going yesterday on my day off, but instead I chose to spend the day on the phone to the US, talking to various people about UK immigration for students... hoorah.

Sunday -- we made a good team effort at a picnic lunch, and Houdini packed a remarkable amount of food into the picnic bag (from Georgia and Matthew -- merci!) and toddled off to Sheringham Park for Yssy's First Birthday party! Despite the grey skies when we left Norwich, it was sunshine and sunburn close to the coast, and E has only now stopped peeling (mostly). A lovely afternoon was had by all, although all photos that we had are on E's N96, which has kicked it and died. This includes evidence of the knitted summer hat and amigurumi turtle -- 'something green'!

*******
This week began on Monday (as they occasionally do) with Clare and me venturing forth into Nature to collect elderflowers for a concoction. The original plan was to make cordial, but since her attempts to purchase citric acid from various drug stores failed (apparently, they do not stock it anymore because people use it to cut illegal substances with... damn them all), we had to resort to starting champagne with Mr. Fernley-Whittinstall's recipe. It is doing its thing in the pantry, but I am just not sure I can hear fizzing...

His Lordship was very helpful in picking out the best flowers and shaking off the little buggies who felt the need to come along for a ride. [Not to alarm anyone -- and the bugs ARE all gone -- if you have the flowers in a plastic-coated grocery bag, you can hear the little bugs scurrying to get out of the bag. Kind of disconcerting and yet amusing. Like maggots :)] Persons who know what a disaster the back garden started out as will be able to note some progress in bed creation/edging, severe budleia pruning, and some new plantings. As well, all the little pots on the top of the wall are volunteer foxgloves and hollyhocks from the front of the house which had to be removed for the edging to go in there as well.

Back to the elderflower concoctions... E has now managed to get to the home brew shop before 5.30 one day and I do have citric acid, with which I will start a cordial concoction this weekend. And I will wear long trousers and shoes and socks to go through the nettles (which is generally where elder trees are located) instead of a skirt and flip-flops (what a pillock!).

The garden is coming along rather splendidly, although one of the violas has been unceremoniously flung aside by some creature using the garden as a loo (slight frown).

Wrong Cats & Mousers

2009-06-07T18:05:00.022+01:00

His Lordship brought us his first mouse on Tuesday.

At first, I did not realise the significance of the muffled 'mrreeowfff'-ing sound walking in the back door (due to the fact that I have not be gifted with micey things in quite a few years). But then it all came rushing back (the visions of glassware being broken and pre-work mayhem -- but nothing bad happened), as I saw the mousey dropped twitching on the floor -- and so we got treats and we got praised and petted and told that we were brave; and Eamonn in his dressing gown (American translation: terry cloth robe) was most concerned and bemused by the whole thing.

Especially when he realised that it (the mouse) was still breathing. And then he pursed his lips in a most disapproving manner and wrinkled his ickle bitty nosy (giggle). Then he removed the tomatoes from their plastic container on the counter, picked the mouse up by its back leg and deposited it in the tomato container.

'Rescuing' the mouse consisted of taking it to the back door, staring at it for a few minutes in distaste and flipping it in a flinging manner through the air. Poor mouse paused briefly during freefall in a tree before the last little floof into the leaves in the upper garden. There was vehement reprimanding from The Queen Rescue-ess (me) and vexed mewing from the capturer of said rodent, who had been interrupted mid-swat/bat/pounce by the removal of his prize. Going out on a limb here and guessing that Eamonn will not really be interested in going to see The Tale of Despereaux with me...

Final notes on La Mouse: the mouse was lying by the plant potting area (rescued from the leaves by industrious hunter) when we arrived home from work and has been buried under the re-potted rosemary plant.

*******
Periodically, there is a frantic bit of panic in the house when someone realises that the kitty crunching away at the food area is the Wrong Cat! 'Wrong Cat' alarms lead to a group rescue flit from room to room chasing Arthur (occasionally ending with dirt, leaves and detritus on the temporarily white sofa). We have found that blowing a hair dryer at a Wrong Kitty who refuses to be extracted from under a bed leads to positive results. The key is to have 'catcher' at the other end of the bed who will leap on kitty and make capture instead of being gentle with it. Most of the time it is easy to capture the Wrong Kitty since he is stationary whilst eating and also when he surreptitiously comandeers a piece of furniture for a nap.

One might say, 'Erm... if you just shut the doors and windows, then the Wrong Cat would not invade your space...' But, you see, we like having doors and windows open as that is one of the charming things about living in the country and not next to a dog/rabbit latrine. It is also charming to be able to leave things unlocked if you run across the road to the Farm Shop or the baker's. We like it here!

The Wrong Cat is actually quite sweet (although his coat is nowhere near as silky as that of His Lordship and he does have a biting problem), he is fixed (and therefore does not try to mark the house as his) and he does clean up food that Angus will not eat, but we are trying not to encourage itinerant residence (although Angus seems not to care one way or the other).

We do not take time to photograph interior incursions, but they are quite cute in the garden together and Arthur waits outside the back door every morning for Angus to emerge for his morning constitutional, chirps at Angus and rolls adorably on the ground. Angus generally looks at Arthur as if he is quite simple.

There is at times the need to guard against invasion.

*******
The abode is coming along quite cosily (and we have been here for 1 month and 1 day now), although there is still some work to be done: soot to be removed from carpet; plant detritus to be burned in garden; pictures to be hung; and LPs to store once Qubes arrive :)

Welcome to the living room. To the viewer's right is the sofa which has been selected by The Wrong Cat for a nesting place (and dirt/leaf deposit) twice this week.

And we head to the dining room, across the entryway. There is still a bit of stacked stuff in here -- this will be stored appropriately when we right Welsh dresser comes along. But the fish seem to like it :)

The kitchen has gotten quite a lot of use since Eamonn is still overcome with joy at having a gas hob (stovetop) and cooks nearly every evening. I am eating far too decadently and shall start cycling to work as soon as I have faith in myself to make the 4 mile trip without looking like something the cat dragged in and/or fainting by 10.30am.

But back to the tour...

Forgot bathroom (with Victorian tub!). Will take pics and add.

Back to entryway and up the stairs. Photo with up-the-stairs perspective failed due to bright light through fab window at top (and because I don't know if my camera will adjust to compensate for this and have no idea where instruction book is at the mo). So no pics of stairs -- let it be simply said that they are lovely and old and creaky and quite steep. Holding on the rail is best. [However, the person who came up with the wallpaper/carpet pattern combination was either blind or stoned. Persons will have to visit for the full effect.]

At top of stairs to right is now where guests have option to sleep (instead of in living room). Knitting machine shall also be set up in there in near future! V. excited!

Book case in hallway with lovely memento designed and handmade by Ms. Susan. To right of this, is study/music room, but photos are impossible at the moment, due to it being the last room to be organised and attacked.

And the master, to left at top of stairs, is extraordinarily-sized for middle-class British houses by and large. His Lordship likes to have so many nooks and crannies to hide and nap in, behind, under.

*******
Lyndale was in fine fettle one month on, therefore, for our third 'company' visit this weekend -- Richard (aka, Slinky) and Marleen drove up yesterday for the cricket and some cycling and a walk through the wheatfields to The World's End! [See, I missed the last 'company', Keith (aka, Cockney Buddha), since he always waits until I leave to come up to Norwich... sigh. I would like to remind people that this blog is sponsored by the Letter K.]. There also is sadly no photographic evidence of Peter (aka, Freshy), our first houseguest because I was not organised enough to waylay two males who are not too keen on being documented in pleasant pose.

BUT, my camera battery did not die on our outing today with Richard and Marleen :)

We headed to Horsey to see if we could see some seals before the rain came and before they headed back to London.

The outing began just past The Nelson Head (instead of at the windmill -- where we started last time). Despite cloudiness, there was still good enough light to dawdle behind everyone else taking random pictures of flowers and bees (I am totally turning into my parents! Next, I will be taking photos of sunsets and have even planned out several settings... dear me.)Wearing wellies (since I am quite attached to them and don't get to accessorise with them nearly as much as had been hoped) was a wise plan and allowed me greater freedom to venture into the freezing North Sea more than with normal shoes or barefoot would have done. However, they also resulted in a rather cavelier sense of confidence in depth and a bit of water did splash over and into them.

Maybe it was the lack of sunbathing capacity today, or maybe it was just June 7th and seals go somewhere else on June 7th, but we only saw two seals during our sojourn: one in the water, and a single pup on the beach. The other swam along gracefully in the water in actually a very social sort of way.

I am amazed (but then some people are easily amazed) to learn that seal flippers actually have metacarpals and so it looks like little hands in mittens when they scratch their chin or their side. And the same for their back flippers. Fascinating!

Watching seals is indescribably calming.

Sprinkles started on the hike back to the car, but we made it well on the way to Wroxham for some lunch before the Rain-Ex really got a workout.

Marleen and I were 'allowed' to have dessert after eating a lovely lunch of kedgeree .

We are grateful to have such permissive husbands who spoil us.

And now I need a nap in the clean house.

Unless Clare calls to go pick elderflowers for our elderflower wine-making project... :)

Movin' to the country...

2009-05-22T19:17:00.015+01:00

...but there are no peaches.

There are, however, dangers around the Norfolk corner (evidenced by the alarming local news headline to the far right). It is not funny; but, oh, it just so is...

For those readers who have not been telepathetically connected to the inner workings of the writer's mind (consider yourselves fortunate and take refuge far away), we upped and moved from Magpie Road two weeks ago. Punny people might think it amusing and cute to say 'We flew the coop...' but those people should be beaten. Oh wait -- I am one of those people.

Our new abode is located in the village of Swardeston, which is 4 miles south of Norwich city centre (or a 15 minute bus ride) and, according to one of my work friends, 'out in the sticks'. It's most famous daughter is Edith Cavell, famous WWI nurse who was executed for helping Allied soldiers escape occupied Belgium.

However, we now have:

a garden (as opposed to a miniscule concrete rectangle),
birds in the garden (as opposed to drunk people slurring down the road at 3pm or 2am or dog and rabbit foul wafting from the concrete rectangle next door)
a driveway (as opposed to vying for a spot near the curry house and hoping the window don't get smashed in)
room to move (due to someone's absurdly large yarn collection and someone else's LP collection and book-blame on both sides)
a guest room (for our fabulous and loved friends who will be visiting)
a reasonable kitchen for the chef (although as any good chef, he wants a larger one)
a gas stove-top (enough said)
a pantry (E's favourite feature, methinks)
and a cupboard-under-the-stairs!

[the owners have left all this rubbish that lives in the 'unfurnished' house, such as catty-smelling rugs; random, mismatched and hideous pot holders; painted-duck door stops and the like. The stuff that we have not boxed and put in the attic in an orderly fashion, i.e., some paint tins, a bathmat anti-slip mat that has had God-knows-whose-feet on it, etc. are thrust to the back at the pointy bit behind the handy shelf that bisects the cupboard. This is known as The Chamber of Secrets. End of annoying HP references.]

The house plaque on the front says 1881, and we are quite thrilled that it has not been overdone inside too modern-tastic. Yes, we do have running water and indoor bathroom... but the bathtub is a roll-top, the floors downstairs are quarried stone, there are two fireplaces (the upstairs one is supposed to work -- and is still connected to the downstairs one since soot exploded out of the chimney into the front room the second day we were here), doors are lovely unfinished wood and quite old, and the stairs creak. We apparently have the village's best collection of foxgloves and hollyhocks or something-else-I-forget.

Despite the lack of prolific peaches for you and peaches for me, we do pass the entrance to 'Ye Only Shoppe in the Village' every day on our way home (where the news headline board, above, is handily located), so there is a location to obtain cookable sustenance. As long as one makes it there by 6.30.

The Dog Inn is also located 2 doors from our front door, and it is promised to open 'in a couple of weeks'. More news shall be forthcoming when it does, as it appears to be gastro-pub and also v. nice b&b.

A 20-minute walk to Mulbarton (unless you want to drive and leave your car there), is The Wo rld's End, which is a reasonable-enough pub with good family garden. But food only middling between average and above-average and, as is Adnams pub, pints are pricey.

*******
Anyhoo, here is an idea of the moving experience in pictographic form. One person looks less stressed and manic than the other, because one person is going to come home from work to a new house where all the furnishings have been moved![For the reader's amusement, it is fun to keep in mind that herself left Norwich on 13 April with The Mama and The Eamonn heading to Cardiff and Ireland and Austria and NYC/DC, returned on 4 May; the packers came on 5 May; the movers on 6 May; and herself was back at work on 7 May. It was all perfectly looovely, just a bit of an organisational, and mental, challenge. Do not feel this is evidence that I am mentally challenged. ]

Magpie dining room before /after

Magpie music room before / after
(note almost-full moving truck through window)

Lyndale living room before / after

Lyndale dining room before / after

While these pictures are incredibly amusing, more photos of the Martha-Stewart transformation of the abode will be posted if I can keep one room tidy for 10 hours straight and take a photo soon.
*******
ANGUS UPDATE

He wore our collar for 3 months without response being received, so the kitteh is now mine, mine, mine (and ours -- Eamonn is actually quite concerned about him more than I). He is chipped and shotted and pilled, etc.

Angus pretty much approves of his new domicile. He did very well and has adapted to having space, birds, trees, grass (the legal, Beatrix Potter kind) and a 'friend'. His 'friend' is named Arthur(pictured loitering outside kitchen window to R), lives next door and is almost his twin, except for the white spot on Arthur's tummy. Arthur likes to come inside when the back stable-door is open and eat Angus's biscuits (or 'crunchy food').

Angus does not approve of this behaviour, and we have had to have Time Out for both parties several times.

This is moving-day night. There is rather a lot of Kitty Backside...

in the bedroom

by the bedroom fireplace

nosing around the fish table

exiting the pantry (note paddy paw pads on bottom of feet)

A week and a half later, we had our first Outside Kitteh Time...

... and there was much sniffing and chirrupping and rejoicing. Although in moderation because, after all, he is a British cat.

He typically wakes up with the dawn chorus at 4.17 am. This is getting to be a habit.

Must now stop and prepare for next trip (and final trip of this recruitment cycle!)... LA tomorrow morning/afternoon. *sigh* :)

Que mariachi!

2009-04-28T17:28:00.007+01:00

It was a bit of a culture shock coming almost directly from Vienna, which has brilliant airport transport options, to JFK on Sunday. My comments on my personally selected transport options will give creative readers inspiration of appropriate adjectives to use.

Train 'service' in NYC is complicated at best and useless at worst. Why on earth would you have trains that show stop(s) on the map but which don't stop there at all, or only stop there going either uptown or downtown? How are intruders to this planet supposed to glean this useful information without becoming telepathic? Additionally, trains do not appear to be terribly disabled/handicapped (whichever term the reader's culture deems to be momentarily PC) friendly in this city. I have discovered only one elevator/lift in the past two days, entirely by accident -- and that smelled strangely of unpleasant things and was approximately the size of an upright coffin.

Since I had luggage and also because I didn't anticipate being able to haul said luggage up 3 flights of stairs (IF the damned train were to actually stop where expected), I made the seemingly intelligent decision to book to shuttle to Lower Manhattan, based on Expedia's marketing to idiots (me), the fabulous fare (£19) and the promise that I would be delivered to my hotel destination within 30 minutes or so. (HA!)

The above assumptions become roll-on-the-floor-until-you-have-an-accident-funny when one realises that my journey from the airport to my hotel took approximately 1/3 of the flight time from London Heathrow to New York.

My flight arrived at 11.50am, 20 minutes ahead of Virgin's scheduled landing (woo hoo, right? wrong.). Immigration, customs, baggage claim, blah, blah took maybe 30 minutes. After following non-existent signs and directions and then being directed by one SuperShuttle driver who was wasting time holding his vehicle at the curb to the desk inside, where one 'makes a reservation' to go with the reservation one already has (don't ask), I was finally yelled at at 1.13pm and led like the naive child I am to my sweaty doom.

We left Terminal 4, with me sitting in the front seat as the sole passenger and the first passenger and with effusive apologies for the air conditioning being 'broke'. No worries. We headed out of the airport, but then at a logical junction to head to the City, we made a series of turns following signs saying, 'Back to Terminals'. (sigh. perspire.). But, patience is next to godliness or madness or apathy or something.

Might I mention that Sunday was a record-breaking day for the thermometers -- the record of 88*F was set in either 1942 (according to the shuttle driver) or 1982 (according to a high school counsellor yesterday). It was 96*F on Sunday. And there was Spanish plinketty music on El Radio. Que bueno.

We drove to Terminal 2. One passenger got in. Turning off at the last minute once more (curses!), we headed to Terminal 8. Two passengers got in. (each pickup taking between 5-9 minutes of good perspiration time.)

From here, we headed to Terminal 3, where an unfortunate couple were added to the sauna in the back. And then back to Terminal 4 for two extremely dawdly people with ginormous backpacks (I would venture to stereotype yuppie American or Australian). Note: by this point, we are one hour from the time that I (yo, moi, je) left flipping Terminal 4. ...and then we head back to Terminal 8. Since the van was only a 10-passenger vehicle, we could only cram two of the three people.

Then we could finally breeze down the highway to reach the traffic jam and inch our way through bumper-to-bumper cars, road closures, detours and dodgy back streets to Manhattan -- ay-yai-yai-yai all the way. Where we sat in traffic. And more traffic. And then a lady in the back started getting heat sickness and retching.

By 3.00, it was all just too much and it appeared to better to try my luck on foot/subway/taxi, and no plinketty-plinketty music. From Broadway in the 40s to the WTC (the Millenium Hilton across the street from the site) took only 30 more minutes. And then I had to have some sushi from The Amish Market.

*******
There is a flag in the lobby which flew on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 and which employees rescued when the hotel re-opened. It is smudged and the stars are grey and there are tatters in it.

Oddly, there is an old, old cemetary right across the street from the site.

1/2 a block down is the WTC cross.

*******
Today's amusing anecdote relates to the repeated instructions from various people to 'Be Careful', 'Take care of yourself', 'Don't eat Mexican food', 'Don't visit a swine farm' and 'Run away from sneezing Hispanic peoples'. As helpful as these recommendations were, it was just impossible to decide upon action when a 3-Mexican mariachi band approached my seated position on the 1-Train this morning and set up shop 3 inches from my left elbow. There was a guitarist, an accordian-player and a banjo (he was the guy with the collection hat, so I didn't examine his musical talent closely).

I would have tried not to breathe (as one might not know when this group had last visited their homeland), BUT all my psychic energy was taken trying not to guffaw loudly. Having photographic evidence would have been best but then they would have wanted paying, and besides my stop was next.

After a good but unproductive meeting, and trying to get back on trains that don't go in the direction from the same station of debarking and trains that one has to ride in the far front or far back if one needs must change and get on the train at the next station going in the correct direction, I had to have some more sushi from the Amish Market.

And after 2 more meetings this afternoon, I had to stop and get some sushi for dinner.

It is still hot.

Cattery Chattery Telephonically

2009-03-30T06:58:00.002+01:00

It is just always like a little puzzle world around La Maison.

This was the out-of-the-blue reminder that E gave me on Saturday morning to fulfill his Friday evening task to 'Remind me to call catteries tomorrow!' But, you know... it keeps one on their toes. Or on the edge of their seat. Or on the edge of reason. And those are good and interesting places to be.

This type of Edward Lear approach works well with some people (me) and has successfully resulted in Angus's being now booked into an appropriate cattery for his own little holiday whilst we are galivanting through Wales, Ireland and Austria in a couple of weeks (and we hope not to come back to a cat filled with angst and malicious tendencies to look his people balefully in the eye and immediately wet in the corner of the room).

His vacation will be spent at Pennybeck Cat Lodge, which is to the north of Norwich. The people seem nice, facilities seem clean and well-maintained, and they have very good security (not that anyone who might thieve Angus would know what early morning madness they are getting themselves in for).

In the US, most veterinary offices have lodging for kittehs, but not here (not sure if this is Norfolk, or everywhere in Britain). Apparently, that is what catteries are for -- and this answers my silent puzzlement before now as to why there are so many signs for catteries along the roads on our drives around the countryside. Catteries in the US are breeders, and it was rather alarming and vexing as to why there were sooooooo many breeders when cats are hardly in short supply in the whole scheme of the planet. But, vexation over.

Who knew?

Kitteh is now officially ours and has a Revelation-style micro-chip implanted in the scruff of his neck proving this fact. He was the bravest kitty on Friday and didn't flinch at all for his shots or the implantation of his chip (which was through a needle almost the size of a bone-marrow needle!). And on this trip, he didn't yowl once in the cat carrier on the trip over; this went a long way toward holding me on this side of sanity, as I am traumatised by sounds of animals in distress (probably for the best that I didn't become a vet as my sign would have had to be The Weeping Veterinarian: We'll Cry Over Your Animal As If He (or She) Were Our Own. Not the best marketing scheme.)

A photo of the mad, mad, mad, mad kitteh will be inserted here as soon as E transfers from his phone.

Back to Blighty

2009-03-23T16:36:00.002Z

It is good to be back in Old Blighty -- even if it has been randomly hailing today.

Most of the day (since well before 4.30am GST, landing time in Schipol), I have been mostly fine, coherent -- hyper even -- and not jetlagged... except for a brief period when washing a woolen scarf on delicate in the machine seemed logical. Said scarf semi-felted itself in annoying manner and had to be carefully separated from halfsies and stretched back into relative artistic attractiveness.

However, I have had a brief period of comatosity similar to C-A-T. This blog entry is merely a quick break in overall limpness and mental atrophy (frequently leading to drooling on pillow) to relate my recently acquired relief at getting out of Sydney Airport yesterday (although that yesterday was more than 40 hours ago. Don't try; it just hurts your brain switching time zones with flights.) as there was apparently a gang war in another terminal before my flight left... I am cravenly glad to have been happily buying small duty-free stuffed animals and missing seeing someone beaten to death, although continue to be appalled by humanity sometimes.

... still much to catch up on, but this must needs wait for another respite from drooling.

g'night, mate. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz -- taking lessons from kitteh.

Let the Gay Times Roll!

2009-03-17T20:36:00.003Z

Right -- this is a total aside from my main purpose of documenting more than the first day (and week) of travel, BUT this just makes me giggle hysterically and almost wet my pants everytime it comes on the t.v.

There is apparently an ice cream bar in Oz called Golden Gaytime -- and this commercial is just too much. Am not sure how one would culturally critique this advertising mode and stereotypes, but at the moment, the enjoyment of guffawing is preventing any academic approach to it. (Perhaps when I am feeling more intellectual and less adolescent... Or not.)

You can see there are '4 chances to have a gay time!'

A Tale of 10 Airports

2009-03-14T23:30:00.006Z

Well, it actually is a bit of a stretch -- it is only going to be 8, and that only after today's flight to Sydney. But in math, we were taught we could round numbers up to the closest five and so this aids my humourous literary reference :)

Since my journey to the opposite side of the planet began, I have been composing in my head and am thinking that I need a small gadget to help me instantly write things down. That, or a battery for the Dell that lasts longer than 4min27sec. And maybe a computer that gets its gear cranking within 10 minutes...

This expedition began on the 5th March. Ten days later to publish is unforgiveable, yes. Departure was from NWI (the international hub, where self, all carry-on baggage and liquids were examined, tested and smilingly approved -- *rolls eyes*). Then, Tracey (the newest Intl. Officer, who had not been able to travel to China the day before as planned, due to Embassy idiocy) and I had 5 or 6 hours to kill before my flight (and 8 hours before her flight). So, we walked through the museum twice, had some yummy mustard soup (a Dutch speciality -- who knew?) and then just read and watched people in dozy silence. [There is also, apparently, a new space at AMS -- and one at Heathrow -- called Yotel, which may be worth checking out as a place to sleep, refresh. If anyone beats me to it, let me know, as looks appealing, most esp. for those 5am Schipol arrivals when you are 30 minutes from home, but you have to wait 4 excrutiating hours for a flight.] We took a photo right before I got in the queue with 873 Korean people heading home (and for some reason my hair thought a forehead comb-over was the look I wanted).

I noticed on this gander, however, that AMS airport has some really nice amenities in addition to the museum, the casino (which for the record I have never visited, in case people start to get hysterically judgemental), the cow statues, and the fresh juice bar -- there is this clever little mother/baby care area, which is dim with individual curtained booth sections, tables and chairs included. Overall, I am just impressed with how a noticeable proportion of European culture respects motherhood as a valued social contribution (the whole maternity leave comparison -- along with US 'holiday/vacation' policy -- could be a veritable sticky wicket in future. I think I used this phrase correctly... cricket persons can tell me if not.)

The flight to Seoul was good, but I seemed to draw elderly planes for this trip -- with no individual viewing screens. I am becoming spoiled and expect to be able to watch at least 3 movies of my personal choice (or listen to audio books) whenever seems reasonable to ME (Eloise), esp. if I am not to be bumped up to Business or First. However, it really wasn't so bad: 3/4 of a book was consumed; higher ration of sleep:wake than normal was accomplished; and those darn Sony noise reducing headphones are the BOMB. Best recommendation ever -- thanks, Wayne!

Schipol is civilised; Seoul Incheon Airport is civilised and calm.

There are orchid beds throughout the airport; there are cultural exhibit spaces with people beating drums and playing flutes; there are quiet relaxation areas which are kind of like Zen malls (the loud shopping is downstairs) -- with massage, showers, museums, children's play areas, tv/dvd viewing rooms and these fab chaise lounge things which look out onto the mountains (I wanted to take a better picture of these as a little flock of caterpillars, but chose not to risk removing people from their meditative and sleeping states and causing them to beat me with my water bottle for disturbing their energy flow.). As a whole this makes a 5 hour layover quite pleasant -- my favourite part was the £48 hour-long Thai massage, and I truly think this helped reduce jetlag.

(tbc... am going to publish and then come back tomorrow, as this has been being typed for 3 days now and people are starting to get mouthy about no blog. -- 16 March.)

Spring is springing

2009-02-23T06:57:00.011Z

Admittedly, it is a bit early and optimistic (esp. since someone mentioned there might be more snow this week! Wheeee! This may be a pipe dream, though), but spring is busily springing.

The snowdrops have been out for several weeks, the croci are colouring up the roadsides (and gardens) and the trees are working very hard to bud. Yesterday, I even saw a daffodil (a dwarf daffodil, as it was on pretty much a 2 inch stalk)! I would have taken a picture of it but was being regaled by Rosie the 3-year-old (who is pretty much Eloise with an English accent) as to the merits of digging rocks out of roadways and saving them in special places for the next time one walks that way... The Dawn Chorus begins about 5.15 a.m. :)

This weekend, we pumped up the bicycle tires (E had had to air his already for the emergency cycle commute on Monday last) and went for the first foray into the countryside, along Marriott's Way until we reached Chav-Land, where we turned back instead of barrelling through the children with their spawn and their herd of small Paris-Hilton-wanna-be dogs. We birdwatched. I petted the sad gypsy horses and untangled one's chain :( There were no ducks, so the stale loaf of bread is still in E's panniere bag.

We watched I Hero, a Chinese film that Lisha lent us. It is fun to try to figure out subtitle settings when everything except the word Hero is in Chinese... But I found the translation of the intro text online and it was a really gorgeous film. The water theme reminded me of Prospero's Books (and that I need to buy it on DVD).

Then, Sunday, was not quite a Day Of Rest so much... started out following a horse trailer and then a tractor (not the most efficient way to travel -- unless one is knitting), getting to Walsingham Cross about 10 minutes before 11. [Hint: church started at 11] One missed turn later, we managed to make it into St. Mary's with about 2 mins before the opening bells rang. (pic is of weathervane in Anglican Shrine, not St. Mary's. It is the Annunciation Angel.)

The service was particularly uplifting in that the hymns were sung, not in the traditional feeble quaver towards heaven (almost where you feel that you need to be singing in your whisper voice so as not to distress the people around you), but at a normal level and quite enthusiastically. Like people were actually happy to be there! Wow! Eamonn has discovered that there are nuns in the Anglican Church, too. It is interesting how it is the little things that are missed between parts of the Christian world -- in some of my conversations with various people, it is almost like discussing two completely different faiths and this cannot be healthy for encouraging any sort of unity. However, St. Mary's does seem to have a warm sense of unity, with its very friendly congregation (esp. towards so many outsiders) and its worshipful dog.

St. Mary's is a lovely church, set on the edge of the town, on the far end of the Abbey grounds. From the churchyard, you could see over the wall into the Abbey (you can just see a ruined tower through the trees). And then it became clear why people were 'going to Walsingham to see the snow drops' -- they are like snow! (Mayhap the reason for the word 'snow' being in the name?!?)

Our reason for going up in the first place was to meet up with the 21 pilgrims from St. Martin's Roath, who had been there for several days of lectures and such; and we briefly visited with them after the service at the Black Bull (meeting random people who know other Americans in London who we know!). Sadly, no lunch for us, since we needed to drive back through tractor-horse-trailer populated roads to Wymonham (pronounced, 'wind-umm') for to meet Stan, Juliet, with Rosie and Tommy (the twins) for a little wander through the countryside.

However, on the drive back, there were some funny things which must be returned to on a sunny day (the people in pic to R were giggling at me as we drove around the circle and out the other end). We also drove through Little Snoring, but I
was not quick enough to capture anything but directions to the airfield (hahahaha!)

A little knitting later, we arrived to the one-way streets of Wymondham, which does not put E in a very Christian mood. I believe some of the words were, 'I hate bleeding Wymondham!' (said in vehemence and extreme swivetude).

After catching up with the small group of explorers on the banks of a nameless stream, perhaps part of the natural border of the Abbey (lots of Abbeys today, no?), we moved through the Hundred Acre wood (where the Giant lives) towards the Pooh Sticks Bridge at the pace of 3-year olds who are fascinated by dirt, and snails, and grass, and ducks, and fences, and dirt, and rocks, and sticks, and hills, and dirt (see small human figures far back in pic -- Stan and Tommy, digging dirt and rocks). It was so much fun! (and it was so very cold by 2pm, since the temperature apparently did not want to stay at mildly mellow 10am levels).

We raced floating snail shells down the stream, and this is highly recommended for keeping small people focussed and moving. And then we played Pooh Sticks on the bridge (after the white snail shell won the race).

Juliet brought some snacks as well, which was good for keeping up flagging energy levels when you are going on a bear hunt.

There was lots of muddiness and next time, I shall take my own wellies so as to be able to splash in puddles as well.

After, we went for some much-needed sustenance (and toe-warming inside air) at the Marsh Harrier, and Tommy conned some sliced cucumber out of the servers by being cute and batting his eyes (since that is his favourite food in the world right now). Rosie and Tommy have agreed that they are willing to come to our party in Ireland, and we are happy! (I think they are two of the smartest 3-year olds ever.)

Clever Monkeys

2009-02-20T18:57:00.010Z

...those darned students!

They are just too smart for their own good. But it does make one snicker :)

So, the story is that our Marketing and Communications Division (MAC) developed a super-duper-magical-forward-thinking marketing campaign with real alums, which I may have mentioned previously -- through fits of giggles -- as they had a 'Back-End' strategy to put the ads on the backs of busses.
(mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha... okay, focus.)

It is called the 'Made In...' or the 'Born and Made' campaign. Some grammarians in the group have a problem with awkwardness of construction of both here, but what the hey. We are only Crawling Insects, so it is best to Keep Calm and Carry On.

Well, lately some current students have become disaffected with the University, because of some 'green' policy preventing construction of more parking lots on campus (after a new educational building took away 50% of the parking lot). While I do applaud the 'green' intent to encourage people to take public transport, walk, cycle, etc. -- it is just sometimes not feasible. But anyhoo, staff get preference for the meagre remnant of parking slots in the morning...

...resulting in queues of students sitting in cars for ages, blocking the car park entrance and repeatedly pushing the button for a ticket until they are allowed in at 12.01pm, or some such nonsense. This blockage can prevent staff from getting in as well. It is all a big kerfuffle (that word makes me happy. And what fun etymology!).

And this causes vexation, increased angst and rage apparently.

So, in retaliation, the clever monkeys designed their own advertising campaign:
Clever monkeys! Personally, I think we need them on our design team, since they have been very creative in their protest -- and I bet they didn't even have to pay an overpriced designer (instead of the on-campus 'Publications' office, with their completely wasted Macs) to produce them. I mean, I do my best with Word, but £100 for a Quark license (which I discovered today) would save money and time since I design my own brochures, write the text AND do the initial layout anyway -- do you think they would pay me half the fee they pay the designer?

Yesterday, there were posters plastered all over the University, as above. Yet, today, they are mysteriously missing... a spate of thievery of clever objects (in which students are so apt to indulge), or a severe infringement of Freedom of Speech?????

However, the chef has just informed me that there is no UK law for Freedom of Speech!!!
Shocked! Shocked and appalled, I am! And shall perhaps need to go outside and jaywalk (since it is not against the law here) to make myself feel better.

*******
Thankfully, today is the beginning of National Margarita Weekend -- although I have severe doubts it means this nation... and we have no tequila.

My husband does not know who Jimmy Buffett is... we shall have to remedy this travesty.

Kitteh Can Stay...

2009-02-18T20:35:00.007Z

for one more night at least!

We have just returned from a foray up t' 'e Tesco to peruse a sign advertising a lost black kitteh-cat, which Clare was good-souled to inform about. Said advertised kitteh has white paws and since ours is coal black (except for the green eyes that peer at you through darkness and gloom), he can stay tonight. And tomorrow (we hope).

Situation also good because C also was kind enough to let me buy a kitteh carrier off her last week (after knitting), which belonged-ed to her brave kitteh Erasmus. And it would really be kind of silly to have an Angus C-A-T holder without an Angus.

So, hoorah! Now, we plan our foray to the vet... and if he is not chipped, he will be mine. Mine, mine.

*******
Other excitement in the week is that Wales beat England in the rugby. We were in Caerdydd -- and there was much singing of 'Bread of Heaven', etc. [in the pub -- one forgets how much the Welsh do like to sing. And so loudly, too!] (and we got to see the little ones from Ireland on half-term break, although we did not play our word game; the Traceys; both Eamonn's sisters; Keith; Maurizio and Gabby; and to spit at Matthew through various messaging services).

We also went to Cardiff Market for laverbread (and cockles, because it couldn't be helped. Last night, E cooked the laverbread with shrimp, cheese and mushroom and we ett it on toast. And it was delish!).
We demonstrated that Amrie has no memory for card game rules.
There was also the thrill of going to IKEA, which somehow escaped Eamonn! The vexing part was that the sale items (bookcases) that we needed were on sale at every UK store EXCEPT Cardiff and Edinburgh. Thank God we hadn't driven to Scotland. So we have ordered them for delivery.
I went to St. Martin's and visited with my lovely church friends -- even bumping into Sheila on the way up the steps below Crwys Road and walking in with her. It is an interesting/odd/bizarre/familar/strange feeling going back somewhere where you lived for a short time (after not living more than 40 miles from where you were born for 30 years) and where you don't live anymore. Funnily enough, 21 people from St. Martin's are going on pilgrimage to Walsingham this coming weekend, so we are going up for Sunday 11am service with them and lunch at the pub!

It was a lovely Valentine's Day, but I didn't get enough chocolates (yet) and my attempts to indoctrinate E this year with the Gospel of Martha do not appear to have taken complete effect. It may take some constant monitoring, and it would perhaps be prudent to sign him up for the Organising Tip of the Day and maybe the Craft of the Day.

The Cookie of the Day might be taking it a bit far.

*******
Less enjoyably (and one reason for fewer blogs, among many lame excuses), spending 9 hours a day staring at mon computer de vexation dans l'office (and 'working' with a wretched CMS which contributes nothing to the efficiency of the Organisation, but seems to keep jobs for muppets who would otherwise be mere oxygen-thieves), I do not want to type or stare at a screen -- preferring instead to knock my head against a wall. Or knit.

Speaking of knitting -- a quick share of a little heartwarming story (possibly could be interpreted as Normal for Norfolk). A lady has rescued 1500 battery chickens from death and brought them to the Little Hen Rescue Centre. As people may know, stress makes these birds lose their feathers and they are therefore fitted with little jumpers which people have been knitting for them! It really is the sweetest thing to see them (on t.v., as we have not been out to adopt any so far) pecking around wearing their little jumpers, seeing sunshine and grass for the first time in their lives.

For E, the highlight of his week has been having the clutch replaced on the car. After the long trip to and from Cardiff, the clutch decided it had had enough (that, or the P.G. Wodehouse I forced us to listen to). He cycled to work on Monday boldly, after 4 (?) months off.

Another highlight for him (no doubt) was watching the Sound of Music all the way through for the first time in his life. I expect to hear him singing 'Raindrops on Roses' in the shower if I am sleuth-ey enough.

And now, off the computer. And on with life. What life, you say? (Hush, Matthew. Keep looking out your window, and there will come some sunshine!)

Yes, Let's!

2009-02-10T20:14:00.013Z

This week, I am more than a little baffled by the narrow-mindedness of this country in reference to St. Valentine's Day (mayhap this bafflement has occurred before, but like Dory the Fish...). It has taken me a couple of days to recover from my shock enough to go on a rant (that, and needing to interview other British folk surreptitiously to determine if it was simply that some boys don't pay attention to things around them, esp. if those things have to do with pink and flowers).

It appears (and perhaps people might notice this if they ignored the circus music soundtrack in their heads) that it is just not kept (the holiday, I mean) here except in the following circumstances:
a) a bloke is dating a bird*
b) a bloke wants to date a bird
c) a bloke is married to a bird
d) a bloke wants to be married to a bird
*[bloke=male; bird=female]
Note: This woefully brief explanation no doubt extends to other-constructed couples.

After the horrified look that I got in reference to my suggestion on Sunday that we needed to prepare Valentines for the family (including three adorable children), it did dawn upon my easily distracted mind that there were not rows upon rows of Valentine cards surrounding me in the stores; nor were there multi-packs of Valentine cards for schoolroom distribution. Or the quintessential 2.5lb bags of conversation candy hearts; no ginormous heart-shaped creations of chocolate delectability filled with pink marshmallow fluff; or feathery balloons. No Valentine pencils with heart erasers to give to friends at school. No containers of grocery store bakery crap Valentine cookies with painfully hard sprinkles on top (yet, they are so good!).

And I don't believe the British know what a cookie bouquet is. [They are also not acquainted with Christmas popcorn buckets.]

Eamonn's explanation is that they are prudish here. I retorted with, 'Hellooooo! We were the Puritans... and we refused to pay tax on your bloody tea!' And this Puritan is horrified to be visiting people and NOT taking any Valentine greetings -- these are the best cookies, no? (from gensler97 photostream on flickr)

There are no doubt good things about this (like, such as the South Africa and... ummmm, not being left out of getting Valentines because children can be such cruel little beasts. But then there is always the kickball team, where you might be last, too. You just learn to kick harder, run faster, and have someone help you make the most delicious Valentine cupcakes and you will be fine.). But a negative thing is not learning how to be nice to people you might not like; or missing out on a reason to show your friends you care -- whereas they might think you were alarmingly odd if you gave them a bunch of pink heart iced cookies on sticks on a random day in November, especially if it were close to Hallow E'en. Surprisingly, there is no real religious reason for St. Valentine's Day (unless you need to go into some Catholic heathen cover-up, and then there will be NO cookies for you!). But I think it is just nice to encourage the practicing of random kindness and senseless acts of beauty.

*******
A living example of this philosophy is Clemmy-poo! (Not that I am insinuating that she is giving Valentines as this would apparently be dodgy) She has brought us a wee gifty this evening. And we are thrilled! After the omelettes and fresh buttered soda bread settles in the tummy there shall be a knees-up with The Alexander Brothers :)

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Further adding to my righteous hysteria over this Valentines dearth and the prudishness it represents (and I have been forwarding the Martha Stewart Valentine's Day Workshop Craft-of-the-Day to a certain bloke for several days now), this album cover has 3 ladies (or birds) dancing in a circle while two men (no doubt with really heart-melting brogues -- swoon) with a reputed lack of undergarments sit and grin inanely over their keyboard instruments.

Attentive readers may notice the playlist includes such perrenial favourites as: The Auld Paisley $hawl, The Hill O'Kinnoull, The Rose O'Aberfeldy, and The Quiet Men O'Lanarkshire. And should folk be interested in more o' the collected works o' the Alexander Brothers, we have several listings to the right -- such as The Lass O'Leven Vale, The Barnyards O'Delgaty, Bonnie Wee Jeanie McCall, and The Cock O'The North (and this popularised by a prudish society...!).

Negating everything just ranted, I must apologise in advance to my family members who are not getting Valentines on time ... but I will make some, dangit! Martha Stewart Community 'My Collections', here we go!

LET'S HAVE A CEILIDH! (Indeed, let's! 'Tis scheduled for the 18th April...)

Oh, AYE!

*******
(and now I must go and find some pink marshmallow fluff)

Lazy girl

2009-02-05T18:38:00.009Z

Grumpy blogger (self-loathing for lack of blogging discipline and focus).

Slightly vexed knitter (pattern-induced anger--by the time these darned flappy mittens are done, it will be June).

Cat-napper (ahem, rescuer).

Cape-wearing wise woman (due to wonderful eccentricity of my St. Clement's friends!)*.

So, I am sat home not going to knitting tonight with a kitty on my lap and having a grand old time listening to the 'flishy-flishy-pause-flishy' sound of the washer going in different directions. This is okay because will be on manic trip to Cardiff this weekend, and unless I spend all of my time in IKEA the store or IKEA the catalogue, there should be a little time to knit in the vehicular transport (it really makes me happy not to have to drive in this country! yet.).

Last week, I sort of went to knitting. But never actually got there. The journey began when C picked me up at 7 and we drove in to the Forum. Forty-five (45) minutes later, we were sat at the barrier in the parking garage waiting for someone, anyone to freaking leave the car park so the machine would let us in... 3 minutes later when we finally got in, we both decided we couldn't be arsed (and I needed to go home in less than an hour for a husbandly creation of completely homemade pizza -- a 20 minute walk away). So we drove all the way back, she parked her car at hers, introduced the kittehs to me (mew!), received decline from hubby to join the pizza/knitting/cider outing, and we walked to E's Pizza Wonderland, where tomato sauce was being flung with wild abandon (have I mentioned that cleaning is my task? sigh.). It was all excellent fun, but not a whole lot of knitting was accomplished on my part. C has this outstanding sock technique she invented herself where she knits two socks, toe-up, at once on 2 circulars -- my next project is to learn this; sounds like an Oz/NZ trip project to me!

Fortunately, I was able to do a little knitting on the (3-hours late) train to and from London on Monday/Tuesday, but two (further -- i think I have ripped this flap out 7 times now) attempts had to be abandoned and re-started. At this point, I am beginning to hate the mittens -- for the knitting problems and for the fact that I am running out of the purple angora from Kneece. Kneece, move back to France!

The rest of this week, I have been pooped in a sort of 'grump-and-stay-at-home-drinking-hot-chocolate-and-knitting' sort of way, and no more knitting has been done.

*******
Above, I must admit that I optimistically said there will be a trip to Cardiff (and IKEA -- slightly obsessed with storage solutions for my life at the moment) this weekend -- there is a forecast of 8 more inches of snow across south and west England, so we may be in drippy Norfolk instead. But if so, I shall selfishly and suspiciously indulge and drink hot chocolate, knit, sit with kitty, etc., etc., as mentioned above... so as to fit in with national culture.

In case it hasn't outstripped the local need to report on drive-bys and bar fights in the Ark-La-Tex, it has been a snowy week in England -- the snowiest in 18 years! London was as quiet at Christmas on Monday night. Banks were shut (or at least the 3 branches of Lloyd's I tried to visit on Tuesday). Transport has been chaos (London busses didn't run on Monday, and 90% of the Underground was suspended).

As the girl who got married in 79*F heat on 20 December, snow/ice/frost is exotic and thrilling. I take pictures of it. I force the macro setting to capture the frost on the car roof; people stare at me as they walk down the street. I peer out the window in the morning in anticipation of a snow day (in vain). I smile in my water-proof-waxed and fleece-lined hat. An understanding of the logic of legwarmers is continuing to develop (no, I still haven't any of my own -- cannot take that idiotic step yet).

Eamonn has only let me scrape the ice off the car windows once, because he said it made him look like a b-a-d man for him to sit in the warm car while the wench scraped the window.

*******
I may have mentioned there is a warm kitty on my lap. This is all well and good except that my toes are on the ground and they are cold. So I must now relieve myself of the computer position and adjust everyone so that my toes are on the insides of my knees where they can begin to thaw.

* Explanation of cape-wearing in medieval church. One of our regulars is just lovely and thoughtful and, as he is clearing out some unneeded things from his house, happened to bring a clerical cape into St. Clement's on Saturday since he has watched me slowly turned blue over the past few weeks (a medieval church does hold the chill to an impressive consistency). So, I put it on and then when Tom (pictured above, another regular) came in, I think I rather terrified him, standing alone in the middle of the nave next to a heater :)

However, I think it may become necessary for me to wear capes -- not in an attempt to be the best Harry Potter fan ever -- but because that thin cape is warmer than my hugely thick woolen Gap coat! Judith is afraid that I am becoming blasphemous, although her logic in this conclusion baffles me somewhat. I shall have to force British humour and eccentricity on her during her upcoming visit.

Being locked into Cathedral grounds

2009-01-27T18:50:00.017Z

...might sound entertaining (and it is), BUT it is not as entertaining if you ought to have found a loo before planning your walk home.

Fortunately, the pain was not so excrutiating that the clouds around the spire missed being photographed. It was really pretty, but the fog was cold! It almost made me consider knitting some legwarmers. Almost. I haven't sunk to the Flashdance level quite yet.

Now, the reason for being locked in the Cathedral is kind of funny. E and I were walking (or waddling, to tell the truth) back from Lisha's flat, where we had enjoyed a marvellous Chinese New Year dinner cooked by Lisha, her mum visiting for several months from China, and her 16-year-old Chinese lodger! A long walk was really needed after 3 hours of constant feeding (water-lily salad, aubergine dumplings, leek pancakes, pork skin, stir fry, meat dumplings, and thai chili soup), but E opposed my idea to go the dodgy way through alleys around the south side of the cathedral. His option was to go through the pedestrian gate that was in the process of being locked by a security person. So, I trotted along, too.

And was quite happy to see the gorgeous light on the clouds around the spire. Until I noticed the closed Ethelbert Gate (the south vehicle gate)... and E walked ahead to find the closed Erpingham Gate. Titter. So, there was some large amount of sighing during the walk back around the entire cathedral -- along with fervent prayers that the Bishopsgate entrance would be open, as desecrating the church grounds would have been poor form (we kind of figured it would be -- after all, people live in the Close and posh people do not go climbing over medieval walls and gates after an exquisite dinner out. And sometimes those dinners might go on past 10.30pm...).

We walked along past the massive evergreen at the back of the cathedral, where scenes from Dean Spanley were filmed. And were very joyous to find Bishop's Gate open -- whew!

Then we found a shortcut through to the river at St. Martin at Palace (it is so cool to live somewhere that you can feel safe tootling around in strange territory at night!), and walked up to Magdalen Street on Quay Side (across the river is Fishergate). The reason it is called St. Martin at Palace is that this medieval church is directly across the street from the walls of the Bishop's Palace, part of the Close, I suppose.

Walking up the river, there was absolutely no wind, which E commented on (coming from the constant windy-ness of Wales). This made for nice reflection of the Ribs of Beef, which is quite a pretty Dutch-influenced construct. And which has some nice ales on most of the time.

*******
Today, we had cake at work! An odd thing in Britain is that the birthday person is responsible for bringing one's own cakes (or cookies, or something generally sugary and fattening) for everyone to share. My opinion of this practice has not been fully formed; it just seems like the birthday person should have cakes brought for them. Maybe that is just me being culturo-centric and only-childish. One is also meant to bring in cakes on one's anniversary of work, and then pretty much any other occasion possible :) Offices pitch in for birthday cards and there is much subterfuge in obtaining signatures and well-wishes in an inter-office envelope, which everyone knows is a card. It is a funny thing.

The reason for cake today was that it was Sally's birthday. I am quite pleased that her sons have gotten her a Cinema City membership for a pressie, and we can pehaps lure her out of an evening now!

Sally and I have also begun the final evolutionary adaptation to our new space, after two office moves in the past two weeks (most everybody else moved once). Admittedly, the shelves in this picture are now full (the second desk is mine and the far one is Wayne's), and more are due to be hung, so that Sally's desk will indubitably be tidier than mine...

*******
After the trauma of a move last week, we did try to liven things up by attending a ceilidh (click on 'Kier Hardie Ceilidhs') in preparation for a certain upcoming event in Eire[Sally has (with her therapeutic baking efforts) recovered from the shock of being whelmed by so much madness in one week]. There is apparently a ceilidh in Norwich on the 3rd Wednesday of every month, and Clare, Eileen, Sally and I went along -- this was the first one possible since I found it; we didn't quite know what to expect. But it was a grand time!

It was absolutely jam-packed and between the cold and vigorous exercise, my lungs are apparently in need of some work. Sally questioned later why she had thought it was a good idea when I suggested it in November, but we may be able to peer pressure her into returning next month. She was quite dubious after having noticed that it was at the Working Man's Club, and alarmed by E's non-appearance for the same reason. She was most dubious of the loos, and we all giggled at her. We got her onto the floor for 2 1/2 dances; but we have a cunning plan for E to assist in upping this number at the next ceilidh.

Admittedly, the caller was not the best, but this consolation did nothing to help Sally feel comfortable in not knowing what to do (she was slightly annoyed and flumoxed). It was mayhem during some dances! There were loads of students there as well (very cool) but some of the 'old hands' were not impressed by the flailing about in wrong directions -- I got a cutting glare for trying to 'Thread the Needle' the wrong way. One man totally looked in need of some castor oil. Oh, we are going back, we are! (and future Naarrich visitors need to plan their sojourns around the 3rd Wednesday of the month...)

*******
And finally, a sweet (and tear-jerking) story:

Jack is the Methodist minister who was caretaker/tenant of St. Clement's for 30 years. He comes across the street every week to visit us (and to fuss at me for being there in the dire cold or to scold at me not to wear myself out cleaning). For a few weeks (since we got back to St. Clement's after Christmas), there has been a red rose in a tiny vase on the candle stand.

Many years ago, a lady asked Jack to place a red rose and light a candle three times a year on her behalf in memory of her son who had died: one for his birthday, one on his obit day and one at Christmas-time. The lady died about 2 weeks ago, so this is the last red rose and candle for her son. Jack was going to the funeral on Monday, and he was torn as to whether or not to take the rose and place it on her coffin...

Happy Blue Monday

2009-01-19T22:16:00.006Z

That is kind of contradictory to some people, particularly people like Lightnin' Hopkins [i.e., happy + blue], but there is really no need to sit around and moan.

Ever.

...Well, maybe for 6.7 minutes or so, but after that, one is really doing nothing but stealing extra oxygen than their allocated share; stealing people's peace and quiet; and stealing others' right to be happy about little things like: ginger nut cookies or warm lamb stew or finishing the flap on fingerless mittens. [admittedly, it is only one flap on one mitten and the other mitten still languishes for a flap of its very own, but we can be happy!]

However, there is one reason to pull a briefly long face, and that is because panto season is over for another 11 months.

The last performance of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (why do I think it should be 'dwarves'?) was last evening, and the panto nutcases went along! We had hoped for some extra final show silliness (and there may have been, with the fire extinguisher aimed at one actors bum for an extra-long period of time), but there was nothing obviously OTT. Sigh. Nilu was extremely disappointed by the fact that only 5 packets of candy were thrown at the audience -- very weak... But it was a great show! And we always have fun, and I do miss working backstage :) Because I am mad, no doubt.

The panto was a consoling end to last week, since we moved offices (slightly chaotically) last week. The amusing (or not so much) part is that 4 of us moved last week and -- for additional fun and entertainment -- are moving AGAIN this week! Ha.

Saturday, I could only manage about 2 hours at St. Clement's again -- because it is COOOOOLD in a medieval church in the middle of winter. (shock and awe) I Swiffered the tile floor where we have a cunning plan to have a table and chairs area (with tea, coffee and biscuits of course) and that warmed me for a while, but the toes do go numb so very quickly. Must. Find. Kettle.

There is construction work being undertaken on the Cathedral ceiling, and so service was said in the Presbytery. This had two results: the singing is much richer being in a smaller space (than all the feeble Old Dear voices in the massive Nave as normal); and there was also a nutter in a big plaid blazer behind us in the small space who muttered to himself (or perhaps to his invisible friend) through the whole service -- he even pronounced the sermon, which included an informative and interesting section on figs as complete... erm, refuse. ha!

Since it is now late, and time for good creatures to go to bed, I had best get to my evening stretches, includine toes -- demonstrated here by a certain Bete Noir (who happens to be absent this evening due to the disruption in the din-dins schedule caused by a free viewing of Frost-Nixon...). Backdoor meowing will most probably be quite vehemently chiding tomorrow morning.

A Thoughtful Spot

2009-01-12T20:05:00.010Z

That is really what we all need, isn't it?

And sometimes we go to that place (albeit not quite as idyllic as Pooh's) and we think we might blog and communicate with the outside world; and then the circus music starts. And we get distracted with little piddly things such as: 'Should that picture be hung on the wall 2.7 more inches to the right?' or 'The kitty is outside, so maybe I should vacuum.' or 'Oooh! Just a Minute is on (or Top Gear, or Oz and James Drink to Britain or a CSI marathon -- despite the fact that I have seen them all --) and I need to finish these fingerless gloves with the mitten flap I am attempting to knit.' or 'Why is that Robert Mugabe still thieving oxygen -- and why does nobody seem to care about anything other than the intensely personal fact that they might have to cut down to only 2 new pair of shoes per month due to the recession?' (Do not expect sympathy from me when you still have central heat, do not work in a sweatshop in Manchester and haven't been sold to the highest bidder. I do sympathise when your bank attempts to take your house from you for the sake of two late payments after your husband leaves you with two kids when his business fails -- and you have worked for said bank for 17 years, never being late with payment before now... -- I am sorry to have lost electronic evidence of this story)

And the best laid plans, you know...

Now, in my Thoughtful Spot, thinking does actually occur (I don't just sit there tapping my head, repeating 'Think. Think, think. Think, think, think.). Usually this thinking is misanthropic (as demonstrated briefly above) or mockingly comical (or would that be comically mocking?); but it is generally amusing to myself and those who might happen to be in my immediate vicinity -- friends and acquaintances, I mean. NFN hasn't rubbed off to the point that I yap at random people I meet in Roy's. Yet.

But some things that make one think are:

Like, totally, why do cats always smell like haybarns? (this is a cosy smell, in case you did not grow up in a barn.)
Why is Facebook so addictive? (Or, why am I so darned nosy?)
Where does time go? (probably here)
Can one really go to too many auctions? (The correct answer is: NO!)
When can I be Martha Stewart?
It is impossible to have a) too much ginger or b) too much garlic (although not often together).

In other Norwich news (yah... I have not given proper newsy updates -- people should scold me more often):
1. The International Office at UEA is moving this week. This is all very exciting and dust-creating; it is also after the building we are currently in has begun to be tarted up from 1960s Cold War bunker-style and colour scheme. I have been mostly packed since yesterday, because I am batty. My influence has exerted power and caused others to talk in funny voices (or squeak like meese, whilst holding a computer mouse).
2. The January First Friday Five was entertaining (despite the foray into a pub newly acquired by the karaoke-ing lesbain couple), and Sally came along for her first CAMRA experience. I forgot to take any pictures -- sigh. However, the pubs weren't overly memorable. We are unsure if Sally will repeat her venture.
3. My knitting in public may be a topic in the review in the next Norfolk Nips. I am knitting Dave the Train a sock...(it is a long story).
4. Suspicions exist that Angus (the kitteh) belongs to the unfortunate people next door. Moral query: If we feed him better, since he keeps sitting on our window and taking his space on the bed -- does that actually constitute stealing or catnapping. Kitties do have choices, right? He still has no collar from any other peoples, but we (translate, The Cat Lady) may put one on asking if kitteh belongs to __?__.
Kitteh likes the spot on the bathroom floor where the heating pipes run underneath. He also likes the mat next to his food bowl. And the under-the-stairs closet. And the hand-knitted throw. And the polka dotted chair. And laps.
When he sits on the stairs or on the roof breast in the dark or under furniture, he is invisible unless he opens his eyes.
5. As mentioned above, there is work to be done on the fingerless mittens (which are supposed to look like this) and my obstacle at the moment is figuring out how to do the flap.
6. This past Thursday was my first time back at knitting since before Thanksgiving, and it was a good time (although Clare the knitter was missing -- I must organise a pub-knit. Clare, the Irish was there, and although she didn't knit, she had an outstanding time.).
7. Photos of Le Wedding de Bonnie Blue are up (in various places, such as here and Facebook), and they are wonderful to have, because I don't remember parts of it -- like ringing a bell.

Since 7 is the number of completion (or perfection, depending on your numerological semantics), this is a good place to stop. And to go and look for some more Ronaldo's ginger ice cream...