Rambles along the South Coast

This weekend just gone saw a full moon that was truly awe inspiring in it's beauty. We watched it from Hove Lawns, poised over the Palace Pier from in a star-pricked midnight sky. Just there. Later, around 4am, further across the horizon, and the brightest yellow you could imagine, hanging by invisible threads and casting a perfect beam across the turquoise waves. I have never before seen such incredible colours, and all the people still around at that time of the morning were paused in silent admiration at the spectacle before them. All anyone could hear was the sound of the lapping of the water at the shore...nature at it's absolute best...at it's complete wondrous best...

SO WHY PLEASE, WHEN I HAVE BEEN STUNNED BY IT'S BEAUTY AND ALMOST LOST FOR WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT, HAS IT BEEN SO MEAN TO ME AND THE BOY THIS WEEK?

It seems the general consensus of opinion that this week, since the full moon, has been, at the very least, a bit 'edgy'. 'Odd things' have been happening. 'Stuff' has been going on. Things men are not wot of, or even more paraphrased Shakespearean. I'm not really in the mood to find the exact quote, but you know what I mean.

We have had a letter from the Grand Old Duke of Transport for London demanding my presence in court for a crime committed by the boy on a red route - he stopped at a bus stop, having checked all traffic and ensuring it was safe to do so, to ask the way. He had a map, but the map was inaccurate, and as it was stupid o'clock in the morning, the only people about were those at the bus stop. Who else are you going to ask? It is obvious that the car is loaded up with tools (from the handy photograph) because he was on his way to work. Anyhoo, that's what they got him for, but the car was registered to me. Apparently being lost at that time of the morning is immaterial to those at TfL towers, and all they want is the money. I suppose he was meant to drive round and round getting more and more lost, until he saw someone (NOT on a red route) walking their dog or something...

Then, I have been served TWO notices, by the Court, for two parking infringements that happened last year, 2006. One in April and one in October. Neither of us considered these two occasions illegal in any sense - one time we were acutally loading (in a loading bay surprise surprise) and the other was an emergency visit to the doctor for an inhaler. I had already written to the 'Local Authority Collections' company about the doctor related incident, and presumed/assumed (wrongly, as it now appears) that as I had not heard anything further, that this was no longer an issue. The other, I had no idea it had even gone to court. The postal delivery is distinctly iffy round our way, so I expect that letter went awry long since.

So, one summons and two notices. I expect I can sort something, and pay by instalments, or run away to Rio de Janeiro.

THEN...not only but also...I went to pay our rent yesterday...the agent, who is a lovely chap, one of lifes nice people (possibly in the wrong business, but hey, we make our own decisions) was extremely apologetic in that he had been instructed by our land lord, to give us two months notice to move out. (She wants to sell the house before the supposedly impending slump, and good luck with that, because the lady next door gave up trying to sell, and is now renting her house out, oh the irony...). There is a small silver lining in that he does have a one bedroomed, cat friendly, one allocated parking space flat which we may be able to have, and he could sort the deposit out for us, so we're going to have a look at it, and bless him, he is even going to put a 'break clause' in any new contract we take out with him, just in case we see the house of our dreams and decide to move again.

Because of these instances, I have had to telephone a very good friend to let her know that we will not be present to celebrate her gorgeous husband's birthday with them, as previously planned. I also need to telephone another friend to let her know that our planned jaunt on the 22nd can now no longer go ahead. It would appear that the boy and I need every penny we can keep hold of, just in case we are going to need it. I'm sure that recompense of some description can be made to both parties at a later date, but at the moment the immediate future (although we are trying to stay positive, dahling...) is looking a tad on the bleak side.

That has been my/our week so far. And it was only Wednesday. Today, at first glance, appears to be a relatively easy day...we shall see.

In the meantime, the cat has brought in one dead bird, one live (and rescued by the boy) bird, and as I left this morning, was busy intimidating a sparrow in the garden...nature at it's absolute best...at it's complete wondrous best...

'Hen Nights in Brighton' or 'The sun is out the WKD's blue the skirt is short I'm gonna spew'

It has just occurred to me, you dear dear people, that the Official Season of Hen Nights is about to come upon this fair city of Brighton and Hove (actually). Oh GOODY!

I was talking to a colleague, who had recently read an article which told him that the 'average' guest at a Hen Night weekend, in Brighton, would spend around £1000 over the one or two nights she stayed. This would include (I presume) alcohol, food, alcohol, hotel accommodation, alcohol, tacky souvenirs, 'rude' funnies for the B2B, a little something from Ann Summers for personal use only, return travel, alcohol and a kebab. It would not include the eighty or ninety quid spent prior to the weekend, on a new 'top' collection.

You can tell a Hen Night (depending on tourist density - the Japanese tend to huddle, whereas the Americans tend to scatter more...ah gee, look at this, Herman...you just GOTTA take a pikchewer) from about 200 paces.

For those of you who don't inhabit a Hen-frequented location, this is an informal spotters guide. This guide is in no way exhaustive and can be added to or subtracted from, at will.

There will be one Hen wearing a veil. The veil will be adorned with various 'L' plates, condoms and pink penis toys. This is the Bride 2 Be. She will be clutching a bag which contains cigs, lighter, make-up, condoms(?), Scholl Party Feet, chewing gum, but NO MONEY because all the others have told her that they'll be paying for everything for her. All she really wants to purchase is a stick of Brighton Rock but it won't fit in her bag. She will not have been forced to wear a t-shirt with her face on it, because she is the Bride after all... but has decided that a fiddly lace-up halter-neck strappy number will stand the course, together with a frayed denim mini skirt and wooden high-heeled slip-on sandals.

There will be two Hens walking along together, slightly apart from the B2B. They will be very thin, dressed in frayed denim mini skirts, customised t-shirts (All the Hens were given one, by the Hen Weekend Official Organiser, with the B2B's face on to wear just for this occasion, but these particular Hens didn't like the shape/cut/neckline/sleeves/length etc (or the Hen Weekend Official Organiser come to that) so out came the scissors), tiny shoulder bags (containing lip gloss, hair spray, cash, condoms and mobile phone), big hair, high-heeled strappy sandals and fake tan. These Hens, although they want to support their friend and B2B, are on the pull.

There will be another two, again wearing frayed denim mini skirts, everso slightly customised t-shirts and both with not quite such big hair or teetering heels. These will be close friends of the B2B and will also be two of the Brides Maids. They are possibly drinking a bottle of Bacardi and Coke, cunningly disguised as a bottle of Coca Cola, they will definitely be giggling and one of them will be smoking a Sovereign or a Benson and Hedges. They will both be bag-less having decided to take the 'hold everything in one hand and a drink in the other' option. One of them will lose her mobile phone a bit later.

The Chief Brides Maid (and Hen Weekend Official Organiser) will be dressed in a more conservative style having decided to wear an unfrayed denim skirt in a longer length and well supporting shoes. She will have pulled the t-shirt down over the waistband of her skirt so that we can see the face of the B2B in full because, after all, it was her very self who organised the purchasing and printing of said garment. The Chief Brides Maid (and Hen Weekend Official Organiser) is a very (very) old friend of the B2B, and the B2B would rather have chosen one of her newer and not quite so bossy buddies because she thinks they would have been more fun, but it would have been too much bother to pick another friend without causing arguments among the 'girls'. None of the other members of this Hen Party, apart from the B2B's sister, know this 'old friend' personally, but have formed their own opinions since the B2B announced that she would be asking her to do the job. She will be making sure that everybody is ok, and will probably be buying most of the drinks today.

Then there is the sister of the B2B. She has brought a friend, and they think it's a real laugh being away for the weekend. They are probably slightly older than 18 and the sister is the other Brides Maid. She has already arranged that her friend can 'sit at the top table so that she isn't left out' too. They are wearing as little as they can possibly get away with, and have risked the wrath of the Chief Brides Maid (and Hen Weekend Official Organiser) by not sporting the t-shirt. The sister has never liked the Chief Brides Maid because she wouldn't let her out of the shed when she was 6. They may be on the pull a bit later if they can shake the others off, but it depends how many bottles of blue WKD or Breezers they knock back between then and now.

Then we have the chubby friend. She is wearing the t-shirt, a frayed denim mini skirt, a small shoulder bag containing her purse, a hair brush and an inhaler, and trying to keep a pair of black ballet pumps on her feet. She is slightly taller than the rest of the party, and appears to be a lot bigger. This is not to say that she should be classed as fat per se, it is just that the rest of the Hens are a shorter and between an 8 and a 12 size-wise, but her unfortunate demeanour, and the fact that she had to get dressed on her own, in her own room at the hotel, makes her look, for want of a better description, a bit of an Ugly Betty. She won't be drinking, as apparently she can have 'just as much fun as everyone else' and will be complaining about the smoke everywhere they go. The chubby friend knows everyone, bar the Chief Brides Maid, but is too shy to join in. The Chief Brides Maid will, therefore, spend a fair bit of time chivvying her to take part, and the sister will probably be spiking her J2O before long.

They will all have a pink, sparkly cowboy hat slung on elastic, hung around their necks, in the vain hope that this will enable their group to stand out from the crowd. Unfortunately all the other Hen Night/Weekend Parties visiting the metropolis, will have had the same idea, so if you get more than about 10 of the individuals under one disco ball, you are in danger of severe eye-damaging glitter dazzle.

At about 7pm one of them will be doing the rounds to see if anyone has any paracetomol.

At about 9pm the Hen Weekend Official Organiser will suggest that perhaps it's best that they all go to get something to eat.

At about 10.30pm the Hen Weekend Official Organiser will notice that the two Hens with the heavily customised t-shirts have disappeared, but only has the mobile number for the (by now) lost phone. This will be answered by the person who has found it, but didn't see 'your frenz' and has no idea who it was that lost it, and cannot understand your instructions to meet you at the bus stop at the bottom of 'that street that goes down to the seafront'.

At about 11pm clubbing seems like a fabulous idea. Those who remain relatively vertical will queue for about an hour, pay at least £15 to get in, another £6.50 on a cocktail, and come about 12.30am wish they had gone back to the hotel earlier.

At about 12.45am the chubby friend and the Hen Weekend Official Organiser will get fed up holding the long hair of their 'friends' out of the way while they throw up, and go back to the hotel.

In the morning it is only the B2B who makes it down to breakfast, but she will only have muesli and orange juice because she doesn't want to put on any weight else THE dress won't fit. When asking Reception where everyone is, she finds out that only three of the others made it back at all, but fortunately one of them is the one who is driving her home. This would be the Hen Weekend Official Organiser.

Once their rooms have been tidied and cleaned by the hotel staff, the hotels, the bars, the clubs, the street cleaners and the entire population of Brighton and Hove, gird their collective loins for the next onslaught...next weekend.

I hope you have found this guide to be informative and useful. If you have, please tell your friends. If not, please tell me.

By the way, in case you'd thought I'd forgotten...the new 'top' collection? Still with the labels on, left in the suitcase in the room, taken home again, sprayed with a bit of Hilfiger and returned to the stores for a full refund the following weekend...

Wikipedia or Nature

I have just found out that the two birds that I can see just up the field having relations (not the auntie and uncle kind) are in fact CROWS! And that crows are the same as ravens and jackdaws, but not rooks. Although they are all part of the same family. They aren't half making a racket too.

A crowd (you'd have thought it'd be that really wouldn't you?) of crows is called a 'Murder'. (I think we should let Taggart know) but apparently scientists prefer the term 'flock' (dull) or 'horde'. But what, without disrespectin' the venerable Dr McC, do scientists know eh?

Then there are Muntjacs. I have herd of muntjacs, but y'know when you can't quite put a face to the name, so bang, and there they are, on Wikipedia. Ten species of them. The bit that makes me smile though is the note towards the end which says 'There is also an introduced population in the UK.' You can hear it can't you, 'Lionel, I'd like you to meet Sheila.'

So now we come to Swifts and Swallows. I had a near miss with two swallows the other day, when the pair of them came flying through my office door, realised they didn't wanna really be indoors, and doubled back out again. My colleague asked whether they were swifts or swallows, to which I replied, I don't know, but they were bloody quick.

It turns out that they are Swifts. My colleague says they are back early this year. When I asked from where? He replied, from wherever they went I guess.

Swifts can walk on the ground, but swallows can only 'stand' on a vertical surface. The name Swallow comes from some Greek word meaning shoeless, as they thought they never landed, so didn't need feet, but in actual fact they can only perch, and that is by hanging on for grim death...and if you've ever seen a Martlet Rampant, you will notice the lack of claws, webs or otherwise...and house martins have square tails whereas swallows have the pointy ones. Swifts have pointy ones too, but are more capable of walking about on a flat surface without falling over.

The main thing they all have in common is that they fly about with their mouths open...and believe me, when you've got one straight coming at you, at around, oooh, lets say, 40mph, you don't really care, and you certainly leave the identification parade until later.

On the bird front...I know that in general Magpies are the complete bastard of the bird world, but I have a couple here who are winning my heart just a little bit more every day.

First. There is a magpie, balancing very precariously on the branch where I have hung the fat balls and nuts for the smaller dangly birds that visit.

He carefully unhooks the cable tie from which the fat balls are hanging, from the twiggy bit, and then manouevres the whole caboodle along to the end of the branch where he can then lift it in his beak to fly away. He dipped a bit on take-off, and had to do the flight in stages, stopping every 5m or so, and eventually vanished into the bushes over there.

Second. There is a magpie, bumbling across the car park, hopping up the kerb, and making his way over to where there are a couple of slices of bread under the tree.

He reaches a slice and proceeds to take several beaks-ful, and knocks them back with every indication of relish. He then takes several mouthfuls, and just tucks the bread further and further back in his beak without swallowing. Then, after having a quick look about, he turns towards the tree, and spits out a little pile of munched bread.

Then, oh dear reader, if indeed you are still with me, he does a neat little everso nonchalant stroll around the tree...stops by the bread...has another look round...picks up the bread in his beak...and flies off.

The pair of them generally seem to hang around together most of the time, and they really make me laugh. Smart as tacks they are, and really smartly dressed too...black suits and spats...and looking for all the world like the Duke of Edinburgh walking about with his hands behind his back. The sad thing is that the beautiful pheasant was knocking about with them for a while, but I've not seen him for ages, so even nature's gangsters couldn't save him from some dreadful pheasant phate.

Anyhoo...here endeth todays nature ramble...now there is a man with a kite. I shall watch him for a bit.

St. Trinians.....SSSSCCHMOKIN!!!

Just been reading this article. Two particular points struck me (for want of a better description, baring in mind the uniforms...)

Firstly - Talulah Riley, who plays one of the unruly pupils, warns: "They will do anything and everything - there's drugs, there's sex, there's tattoos, piercings."...

...and secondly - "It's curious because certain things will be a bit edgier and more challenging than they were, then again in the early films the girls are puffing away on cigarettes and of course you can't do that now," says Parker. (Co-director Olive Parker)

Now, I used to go with friends to 'Saturday Morning Pictures' where they quite often showed St. Trinians films. We used to really enjoy them, wishing our schools were the same, but never came out wanting to buy a race horse, blow up a lab or smoke in our classroom - I think we knew where fantasy and reality had the line...(Of course this had a lot to do with the fact that schooling, discipline and respect for your teachers were totally different, not even that long ago, but that is an entirely different soap box...)

Having read this article, I think my mother would most definitely NOT let me run off clutching my £1.00 to spend on a morning of cinematic delights, because while the upper forms surreptitious indulgence in the odd ciggie and a bottle of hooch, (but always with the knowledge of the mistresses, some of whom were possibley worse-behaved) may be overlooked, the fact the film is to contain 'drugs, sex, tattoos and piercings' would chill her to her core, both now, and even more so if I was still only about 12 years old.

So it strikes me that 'now' it is acceptable to do drugs, sex, tattoos and piercings.

Is it me? I'm SO sure it's not. I expect I shall go and see it. Why not. I may even enjoy it. But then I may just hanker for the olden days, and everything was based far more on fantasy, than things you can't do now. I wonder what certificate it will get. The irony being that if they don't show people smoking cigarettes, they can probably get away with a younger rating, so the youngsters can get to see all about how 'edgy' it can be to do drugs, sex, tattoos and piercings. Bloody ironic that, isn't it. Mind you, as long as they make sure all the gels having any sex are over-age, they should be ok to get away with it, I suppose.

And I'm jolly sure that Policewoman Ruby Gates would have something to say about any 'gels' who may be found in possession of any 'illegal' substances. Not on our watch surely, Sammy!

Perhaps they should have Kate Moss playing the Science Mistress...and don't even get me started about Russell Brand...

I know it's mean, but sometimes I just gotta...

I thought to myself, that's ideal...get a job as a traffic warden, because everyone can't stand you anyway.

Gordon Brown, Prince Henry, New Genes...will the excitement never end!

You'd have thought really, that what with all the news going on at the moment, which is probably more earth shattering than usual, that a story about baldness would have been saved until the truly silly season.

A new definition of Male Pattern Baldness then? Place pattern on head. Trace around pattern, then cut where area marked. Lift off pared skin. Allow to dry for at least three weeks or until scabs fall off. Enjoy new hair.

ps can someone get those mice some genes to cover up their shaved bits, thank you.

Yet another trial. No tribulation apparent.

It isn't just when I'm moaning. I promise you. But the boy and I do seem to lurch from drama to crisis with alarming regularity. In the meantime, and on the FANTASTICALLY GOOD NEWS FRONT, I have been offered a place on a course. I REALLY REALLY REALLY want to do this course, but now total acceptance is dependant upon a bank to give me a Career Development Loan. It does all appear to be going in the right direction, but if there is one thing I have learnt whilst being with the boy, any chickens counted before the hatching time, can definitely be discounted come the cracking of the egg. We never have it just 'easy'. There is always something, and usually not a small something, lurking in the shadows for us to do a bit of laurel resting.

Case in point. Watching V+ (The man from delvirgin did eventually say yes) in the p&q of our house last night, I suddenly jumped in reaction to a HUGE BANG!!! from the direction of the kitchen. Everything then went dark. I checked the neighbours - all their lights seemed to be fully functioning - so I called the boy. Obviously being so far away at work, there was nothing he could physically do, but you want to feel that you aren't on your own at times like that don't you, but he suggested I examine the fuse box. Balancing on the wobbly chair and clutching a candle, I pronounced nothing appearing untoward. He suggested trying the main lights. Hoorah, they worked, so at least I could see. He then said that he would be home as early as he could manage so that he could wake me up, and I would not be late for work.

When he duly arrived home, he tried two replacement 30amp fuses, as they had indeed blown, but this had not been apparent the night before. Both these fuses blew too.

Am now going to cut this short, as the morning went on interminably while I waited for our rental agent to locate an electrician, and I ended up having a cold wash, two bowls of weetabix and a pint of squash, so I wasn't feeling of my best...

Anyhoo, I eventually left for work once the boy advised that he was able to take over Electrician Watch, and then my account of what I was doing prior to the explosion was 'unsatisfactory' according to the sparks...apparently I must have 'plugged something in'.

'Are you sure she wasn't doing any washing as it appears that it was the washing machine that was the cause?' Very sure officer, and do you want to know why? Because we need to go shopping for washing powder. That's why.

Still. I won't be doing any washing whilst alone in the house now. He told the boy that he was surprised I didn't smell something or notice smoke. Well, when there is a massive explosion and everything goes dark, there are some things that slip past your conciousness while you are still checking presence of arms and legs I'd say.

All power back on now. Several new circuit breakers and a recommendation for a new fuse board and I am yet to purchase any washing powder.

Then we realised the new Virging on the ridiculous phone line wasn't working, and probably hadn't since installation, and then we got the phone bill from BT.

"Help! I am trapped inside a telephonic hell!"

So, after yesterdays car shennanigans, you'd have thought the day may have settled down some.

Well I guess it did, but, having spent about 3/4 of an hour on the phone to the RAC, I then spent around 1 and a 1/2 hours on the (free) phone to O2 to try to get a contract phone for the boy (so that he never needs to worry about credit again, thereby avoiding any unnecessarily long waits for me to call him when his car may have broken down again) that also has satellite navigation...AND THEN, quelle suprise dear reader, yer man from Virgin, didn't turn up AGAIN! I had already telephoned to enquire that the guy WOULD be at my property between the allocated times, and the lovely young man stalled me, and then said he'd call me back.

It is all very well having free minutes, but you don't really wanna be spending them on appalling customer service now do you?

He duly called back (this is a chap in the Operations dept, and nothing really to do with customer service per se, but he was absolutely superb...possibly because he doesn't have to speak to cross people all day...) to advise me that the lad I'd spoken to on Monday (after the no-show on Saturday) hadn't booked the installation, but had booked for someone to call me on the telephone, regarding my complaint!

Anyway, they are now supposed to be coming this afternoon. I hope they jolly well do because I need to record 'Hustle' for the boy, and I don't like to disappoint him.

All in all, I enjoyed approximately just under FOUR (IV, 4, IIII, count them) of your English hours on the telephone yesterday.

Because, slightly later the same evening, the Chinese takeaway called back to find out why the line had gone dead halfway through the conversation, (The boy had put the phone down on them because the Portuguese bloke they have working the telephone orders speaks even less English than the proprietors do, and it was easier for him just to go there and point at the menu. (This is not intended to sound racist, or xenophobic or anything like that at all. It is just bloody hard work over the phone, particularly when you are hungry)), then a friend called the boy's phone (which he hadn't taken with him) so I had a chat with him, then a wrong number on the house phone.

The boy's Fortune Cookie contained the legend "Help! I am trapped inside a Fortune Cookie factory!"

...and the tiny printed slip of paper inside my biscuit said, I can barely bring myself to tell you...ah well, here goes nothing...it said...DEEP BREATH now...

It's all blimmin cars sometimes isn't it...

Sony eh? WARNING: THIS IS A 12 MILE RAMBLE WITH NO BREAKS

Just want to say, on this wee weblogette, a MASSIVE congratulations to Mr Chris Evans on his double Sony win last night!

Without him, none of us would know each other...yes there have been some hiccups on the way...and yes, some people who perhaps should still be around, aren't...but then they shouldn't be scared, or feel intimidated by those others who are too small-minded to allow others freedom of speech.

Chris set the tone...everyone else followed...and I think it's a damn shame that the minority spoilt the bigger community...but then, that's their choice to stay or go, so they went.

However, I enjoy Chris' show. I enjoy the blog. I think his insight and inspiration has encouraged many of us to do things that we doubted we may have the capacity to do, and through his enthusiasm, we have actually gone out to at least try, and with the encouragement of others, we have actually succeeded.

Look at it this way...all those of you with new jobs. You took the bit between your teeth and went for it. Now you have a new job. Others who had problems of a hugely personal nature, felt the freedom to ask advice from total strangers, knowing that everyone cares, because ultimately (and even though he has his moments, but don't we all?) Chris cares about his listeners, and they knew they would get caring and considered answers. Others who just needed some encouragement to start or finish something, who couldn't rely on their friends or relatives to give them the truth.

We don't 'know' eachother, but there are enough of us out here (there) who have been through, if not the same, at least similar situations, so we feel that there is somebody better qualified, or who may have a different view or idea. We have all dealt with 'stuff' since Chris went back on air last year...and I think a lot of us have found it a little bit easier with the involvement that EVERYONE has had, and it has been ok to be open and frank, because that is what Chris does.

There is no need to be stuck in a rut, because we can all get out of it...look at the blog, or listen to the show, and I defy you not to smile at least once!

Slight bruising, Saint George's Day and Cheese String

I got home a bit early last night and couldn't get in. The boy is on nights, so was asleep...all fine...but he had left his key in the other side of the door...which meant I could not get my key in to unlock it...most definitely not fine. I banged and rang and banged and rang and banged and rang and phoned and phoned and phoned and went round to the locked back gate to scream up at the (open) bedroom window. All to no avail, and getting un-finer by the minute...

Fortunately we live next door to a pub. The natives are usually friendly, and the bar staff are lovely, so I decided to carry on my 'redialling' efforts from there. This was at about 1710.

Once in the pub, lovely barman gave me a sympathetic ear (and, dear reader, he has heard a similar story of woe from me a few Fridays ago) and recommended a pint of Sussex.

I duly finished the beer and was halfway through reading someone else's newspaper, so I though I'd give the redialling another go.

A friend then suggested that I may as well order some food because it could be some time before I gained entry TO MY OWN HOUSE...

I ordered and received, in due course. Saint George's Day Traditional Pie and Mash with Parsley Liquor...and d'you know, it was blimmin GAWJUS.

So, later the same evening...around 1900, and still not being able to get in...having banged and rang and banged and rang and banged and rang and phoned and phoned and phoned as before...I knocked on the door of our neighbours, who have access to the same garden, and asked if he could place the handy ladder against my wall so that I could climb up to my bedroom window.

Handy hint: If you want to scare the bejesus out of your partner, bang on an upstairs window, shouting their name in a not very complimentary manner, whilst they are sound asleep and should really be awake.

Having roused him, descended the ladder, thanked the neighbours rather profusely for their assistance, and got in through the back door (oooer...) I don't think I have EVER been apologised to quite as much.

Almost begging he was...for AGES...and do you know what he gave me to try to placate me? A present from the lady at the corner shop?

My hand is KILLING me from banging on the bleeding door, my tummy is windy-full of Saint George's Day Traditional Pie, Mash and Parsley Liquor, and he is giving me Cheese Strings.

I ask you...and you should see the bruises on my hand. Looks like I've punched someone...

...and in case you were wondering...33 missed calls...all from me...can sleep on the edge of a knife, that boy...

Vive Saint Georges! or Long (and it IS long) Live Saint George!

Well now. I wake up on the dull, cloudy morn that hails the start of Saint George's Day here in jolly old blighty, and guess what? The headlines are stretched to the limit with French election news. Not a dicky bird about 'England' apart from how few 'celebrations' are planned, how 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' is to be screened in Trafalgar Square (with or without the swearing?) with a competition prior to find a (inspired by the film itself) Coconut Orchestra?

Every year, no-one comes up with anything quintessentially English. We don't have an equivalent 'Danny Boy' or bag pipe or welcome in the valley. The thing is, if we have been 'celebrating' this day of Saint George since 1222, there must be SOMETHING in the archive...however small...that we can maybe bring up to date, or maybe not, that we can use now, in order that we can celebrate our Saint's day in style, rather than the muted efforts being made at the moment.

France. Where they have a 35 hour working week. Apparently this has been 'a disaster' although I can find nothing particular in my original search which backs up this statement...what I would give to be able to work a 35 hour week - although to stay on the same salary of course - again, I haven't yet found anything which relates to salaries over the Channel (English).

...and my birthday is 30th November. I can wear the Douglas Tartan if I so desire, but although way back when, my 'roots' would be Scottish on my father's side, I am the daughter of an English Rose...and would rather be wearing an English Rose today, than a Thistle on my birthday...for that is Saint Andrew's Day...but you already knew that, didn't you?

I know that in the olden days, England was mostly at war with other countries, but we must have had times when everyone just got on with it, and we must have had some years (since 1222) when Saint George's Day was greeted with whoops of joy and mugs of ale and celebrated by all the English, because this would also probably be the only day of the year (except maybe Christmas?) we could all come together in a common cause.

DEAR GOVERNMENT, PLEASE DON'T SAY WE CAN'T CELEBRATE OUR SAINT'S DAY IN ENGLAND BECAUSE WE ARE A 'MUTLICULTURAL SOCIETY'! BECAUSE WE STILL NEED SOMETHING THAT IS ENGLISH, THAT IS OURS, AND IF IT CAN'T BE SAINT GEORGE'S DAY THEN WE'RE BUGGERED REALLY AREN'T WE?

That's me. All done. Feeling all patriotic. Mainly because there is very little at the moment to be patriotic about. Oh, the Olympics...oh yeah.

George, St (died about 303), Christian martyr and patron saint of England, born in Cappadocia (eastern Asia Minor). His life is obscured by legend, but his martyrdom at Lydda, Palestine, is generally considered a matter of historical fact, testified to by two early Syrian church inscriptions and by a canon of Pope Gelasius I, dated 494, in which St George is mentioned as one whose name was held in reverence. The most popular of the legends that have grown up around him relates his encounter with the dragon. A pagan town in Libya was victimized by a dragon (representing the devil), which the inhabitants first attempted to placate by offerings of sheep, and then by the sacrifice of various members of their community. The daughter of the king (representing the Church) was chosen by lot and was taken out to await the coming of the monster, but George arrived, killed the dragon, and converted the community to Christianity. In 1222 the Council of Oxford ordered that his feast, on April 23, be celebrated as a national festival, and in the 14th century he became the patron saint of England and of the Order of the Garter, despite the absence of any historical connection between him and England.

Source from www.stgeorgesdayevents.org.uk

St. George is one of the most popular Christian saints ever to have existed and has been venerated at different times in every Christian tradition, Eastern & Western. He even finds a place too in Islamic Hagiography, that gives him the honoured title of "Prophet".

He is best known as the slayer of the dragon and

saviour of the maiden but, although this story exists in a number of different medieval literary versions and artistic representations, it is without any historical foundation and does not seem to have existed before the 11th century.

There is, in fact, every reason to believe that George was a genuine martyr who suffered at Lydda before the time of Constantine. Indeed, certain accounts record his death to be in the year 307. It is written that George was an officer in the Roman army who, after giving his goods to the poor at the outbreak of persecution, confessing his Christian faith and refusing to sacrifice to the gods, suffered "terrible tortures" which lasted for seven years and was eventually beheaded.

In Jerusalem, a monastery was erected and dedicated to him in the fifth century. Pilgrims in the Holy land between the sixth and eighth centuries speak of Lydda as the main place associated with George's cult (which resulted from his exploits) and final resting place of his relics - although the Coptic Church claims that these were transferred to Egypt and finally placed in the church dedicated to him in Old Cairo.

How he came to be regarded as patron of England is somewhat unclear, but he has been recognised here from at least the eighth century. His act of martyrdom was translated into Anglo-Saxon by Abbot Aelfric (c. 955-1020) and some pre-conquest churches were also dedicated to him (for example at Doncaster in 1061).

In 1222 a national synod at Oxford included a feast in George's honour among their lesser holidays, but it was not until after the battle of Agincourt in 1415 that it was included as one of the major feasts of the year. In 1348, King Edward III introduced the battle cry "St. George for England" and later founded the Order of the Garter, with St. George as it's patron.

George later went on to become patron saint of Venice, Genoa, Portugal and Catalonia and his cult also became strong in Russia and Ethiopia.

and finally St George's Day

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

St. George's Day is celebrated by several nations of whom Saint George is the patron saint, including Georgia, Bulgaria, Portugal, England, Catalonia and the Gora. For England, St. George's Day also marks its National Day. Most countries who observe St. George's Day celebrate it on 23 April, the traditionally accepted date of Saint George's death in 303. For those Eastern Orthodox Churches that follow the Julian Calendar, 23 April and 25 December are main holidays for St. George, according to the Gregorian Calendar. The Country of Georgia celebrates it on 23 November.
The Scout movement has been celebrating St. George's Day on 23 April since its first years.

In 1969, Saint George's feast day was reduced to an optional memorial in the Roman Catholic calendar, and the solemnity of his commemoration depends purely on local observance. He is, however, still honoured as a saint of major importance by Eastern Orthodoxy. His feast date remains the second most important National Feast in Catalonia. There, it is known in Catalan as Diada de Sant Jordi and it is traditional to give a rose and a book to a loved one. This tradition inspired UNESCO to declare this the International Day of the Book, since 23 April 1616 was also the date of the death of the English playwright William Shakespeare (according to the Julian calendar) and the Spanish author Miguel de Cervantes (according to the Gregorian calendar). Shakespeare died on his birthday, meaning the date was of double-barrelled significance.

St. George's Day in England

Saint George wood carving

St. George's Day is not celebrated as much in England as other National Days are around the world. The celebration of St. George's Day was once a major feast in England on a par with Christmas from the early 15th century. However, this tradition had waned by the end of the 18th century. In recent years the popularity of St. George's Day appears to be increasing gradually. BBC Radio 3 had a full programme of St. George's Day events in 2006. And Andrew Rosindell, MP for Romford, has been putting his argument forward in the House of Commons to try to make St. George's Day a public holiday.

A traditional custom at this time was to wear a red rose in one's lapel, though with changes in fashion this is not as widely done. Another custom is to fly or adorn the St. George's Cross flag in some way: pubs in particular can be seen on April 23 festooned with garlands of St. George's crosses. However, the modern association of the St. George's Cross with sports such as football, cricket and rugby means that this tradition too is losing popularity with people who do not associate themselves with those sports. It is customary for the hymn Jerusalem to be sung in cathedrals, churches and chapels on St. George's Day, or on the Sunday closest to it.

There is a growing reaction to the recent indifference to St. George's Day. Organizations such as the Royal Society of Saint George (a non-political English national society founded in 1894) have been joined by the more prominent St. George's Day Events company (founded in 2002), with the specific aim of encouraging celebrations. They seem to be having some effect. On the other hand, there have also been calls to replace St. George as patron saint of England, on the grounds that he was an obscure figure who had no direct connection with the country. However there is no obvious consensus as to whom to replace him with, though names suggested include St. Edmund, ^[1] St. Cuthbert, or St. Alban, with the latter having topped a BBC Radio 4 poll on the subject.

St. George is also the patron saint of the scouting movement. Many Scout troops in the United Kingdom take part in a St. George's Day Parade on the nearest Sunday to April 23. A message from the Chief Scout is read out and the Scout Hymn is sung. A "renewal of promise" then takes place where the Scouts renew the Scout's Promise made at joining and at all Scout meetings.

St George's Day is traditionally the occasion when the Queen announces new appointments to the Order of the Garter.

St. George's Day in Catalan Countries

St. George's Day is celebrated in all the Spanish autonomous communities from the old Crown of Aragon: Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia, with different intensity. St. George is the patron saint of Aragon, where he is known as San Jorge.

In Catalonia , on "Sant Jordi's Day", people exchanges a rose and a book. This tradition, which combines a rose as a symbol of love and a book as a symbol of culture, has turned April 23rd into a festive celebration which fills the streets and squares with book and flower stalls. It is a day for walking around and enjoying the spectacle of streets turning into open-air book shops.

Catalonia has exported this tradition of the book and the rose to the rest of the world. In 1995, the UNESCO adopted April 23rd as World Book and Copyright Day.

Saint George Orthodox icon

St. George's Day in Orthodox Countries

Roast lamb, a traditional dish on St. George's Day in Bulgaria

St. George's Day is never celebrated during Lent or the Holy Week. Consequently in whichever year Easter is on April 23rd/6th May or later, St. George's Day is moved to Easter Monday.

St. George's Day in Bulgaria

Possibly the most celebrated name day in the country, St George's Day (Гергьовден, Gergyovden) is a public holiday that takes place on 6 May every year. A common ritual is to prepare and eat a whole lamb, which is an ancient practice possibly related to Slavic pagan sacrificial traditions and the fact that he is the patron saint of the shepherds.

St. George's Day is also the Day of the Bulgarian Army (made official with a decree of Knyaz Alexander of Bulgaria on 9 January 1880) and parades are organised in the capital Sofia to present the best of the army's equipment and manpower.

St. George's Day in Georgia

St. George's Day on November 23 is a public holiday in Georgia. Coincidentally, in 2003, the Rose Revolution reached its peak on St. George's Day when Eduard Shevardnadze resigned as President of Georgia.

St. George's Day in Serbia

Main article: Đurđevdan

In Serbia St. George's Day is called Đurđevdan (Serbian: Ђурђевдан) and is celebrated on 6 May every year. Đurđevdan is celebrated by Serbs not only in Serbia, but also in Republika Srpska and Montenegro. Đurđevdan is celebrated, especially, in the areas of Raska and Kosovo and Metohija in Serbia.

References in Literature

In the book Dracula by Bram Stoker, evil things are said to occur on St. George's Day, beginning at midnight. It should however be noted that the date of St. George's Day presented in the book, May 5th, is St. George's Day observed by the Eastern Orthodox churches (the difference between Gregorian and Julian calendars was one day less in 1897).

(Excerpt from Dracula, 1897) "Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again: "Oh, yes! I know that, I know that! but do you know what day it is?" On my saying that I did not understand, she went on: "It is the eve of St George's Day. Do you not know that tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway?"

Interesting reading huh? I think I may get a joint of Lamb for my dinner this evening, as I quite like the Bulgarian angle...or maybe go for one of England's favourite dishes...a lamb passanda...with pilau rice, onion bhaji, peshwari nann and some mint sauce...ooooooh yes...a lovely curry...oooh yes...

Bees - A Public Information Broadcast

Something along the lines of 'There is a Bee in the office'. I wouldn't normally be persuaded to comment on the presence of our insect friends, but this Bee was HEEEEEEEOUGE! It had a little basket hanging from it's belly from which I could see the glint of a camera or binoculars - too small to identify any more clearly.

I then read, in the Current Bunne that there is a new species of Super Bee, equipped with Zeppelin type qualities and the capacity to carry extra loads. This is no ordinary blimp, this Bee feeds on pollen harvested from the Robert Plant. (Genus: Jimmuspagii. A tall flowering shrub, native to these shores, with appealing helixate foliage and a pleasing blossom).

The Queen Bee prefers muddy waters in which to start a hive, but should the marshland not be available (having been built on by greedy land development companies) a small local arena may prove a suitable substitute.

There is also a rogue Bee, of a similar species, named the 'Remington Buzz-away'. This Bee looks as though it is wearing a striped vest with arrows on it. Do not approach this Bee under any circumstances, especially if you have extraneous nasal hair, or bobbles on your knit wear. This Bee can be extremely dangerous...

For any more information about Bees, please contact www.honeyhoneyaha.co.uk or call 0800-HIVES

Friday Pomes (or not necessarily) - UPDATED AS AND WHEN...if you care...

OPINION by Hazel Love
In the sixties, Reading and it's environs, including Wokingham, was considered a pretty swinging place to live. How unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on your point of view) that it chose to retain only half of that apt description.

Hump Day Pome for Gaby by Hazel Love

There once was a lady from Reading
Who wore nothing at all to a wedding
When asked 'Why the nude?'
She said 'Don't be rude,
I'm just after a wee bit of bedding.'.

Wottapallava

You have never seen such a palaver as my boss trying to put on a tie. He can't tie his own tie, so asked a colleague to tie it around his neck, then lift it over his head for easy transference over boss's head onto boss's neck. This cannot be done.

Said colleague has a shaven head, so every time he tries to remove the tie, it gets caught, and he has to undo it again. He then had several goes at tying the tie around boss's neck, but couldn't do it 'round the wrong way', and it was voted by all that it wasn't the best idea to stand behind him and do it.

Eventually the tying and exchange method worked, ably assisted by myself rearranging his collar, although boss now looks as though he is 11 years old and missing a satchel.

Boss is boss of loads of people and colleague owns his own company, and is ultimately boss of loads of people.

The boy and I went to help out a couple of friends who are moving house. Well, he is moving from a three bedroomed house into her two bedroomed house. There is stuff everywhere in her house, and she has been cleaning his house like a demon because otherwise he won't get his deposit back from his landlord.

Anyhoo, we weren't back late last night, but were hot and tired. I went to bed, apparently to be followed 'in a bit' by the boy. I awoke at 00:23 with no boy snoring next to me. Before I bowled down the stairs, he called out "I'm still awake baby, but I won't be long!"

I was most rudely awoken by the cats playing Hiss Chase at 06:08. I had no memory of the boy having been in the bedroom at all.

Yes, dear reader, he was FAST asleep, downstairs, on the sofa, and then had to do the rapid waking, dressing, tea-drinking, toast eating thang, which is virtually guaranteed to set you up in a vile mood for the rest of the day.

He appeared next to me on the bed, and proceeded to drop off to sleep. Consequently when I telephoned him at 08:05, he still hadn't yet arrived at work.

I've had enough already thank you...and now you come to me with your blimmin' tie! PURLEASE!

What do you think about when YOU can't sleep then?

Convulsion. Revulsion. Revolution. Convolution. Concatenation. Contradict. Procrastinate..or is that what they prefer to use in Spain to make that clacky noise? Anticrastinate...

Are these all words? Actually, yes, because I have written them down. Whether they mean anything or not is neither here nor there. Because I don't care. I lay awake (I actually didn't manage to sleep two hours together last night, and have got an appointment with the dentist this afternoon...with a headache the size of Wales/a rainforest.) with all sorts of words going around and around in my head. Some of them I remember, others I don't. If they come back to me, I shall list them, otherwise they have been lost to me, probably for ever...

When something is revolving, why can it not be said to be revoluting, or why, when it has revolved, has it completed a revolution...would you say it was convolving if it was going the other way? Or would a convolution be a series of linked revolutions?

What is the opposite to contradict? Possibly agree? But then, you may not say anything...I was led to believe (by my Gran'ma) that to contradict was to speak out loud, and it was a better way to say 'don't answer back' (my girl).

...and procrastinate...and concatenation...what excellent words. They just are. Discombobulated...never used by the boy until he met me...and if you 'anti' crastinate, does that mean you're gonna do it now?

And something else which has disturbed me, just this morning in actual fact. "If the 'coffin' was reduced by using wraps or simple cardboard the volume of ash would be reduced." This was posted as part of a longer comment on the article to be found at http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6529215.stm. I worry about what some people believe happens during cremation, but then it is possible that she has never been told. She certainly should have sorted herself out before putting pen to paper (she also spelt 'their' wrong...there...) and I have to resort to a bit of Matt from Rudgwickism...

The box containing the body is placed in the retort and incinerated at a temperature of 760 to 1150 °C (1400 to 2100 °F). During the cremation process, a large part of the body (especially the organs) and other soft tissue is vaporised and oxidised due to the heat, and the gases are discharged through the exhaust system. The entire process usually takes about two hours. All that remains after cremation are dry bone fragments (mostly calcium phosphates and minor minerals).

There is no way, what so ever, that wood could survive these temperatures, and during my sojourn working within the offices of a Funeral Home, I needed to explain this to quite a few mourners.

Now I'm sounding callous. I don't mean to at all. If you don't know, you don't know. I'm not being mean...I just think she could have spent some better time finding out what really happens...

...and there is still enough carbon to make a diamond...ironic really...original diamonds are made from wood...

The blimmin' shops are open AGAIN!

...and did anyone hear the chap on Jezza today...talking about shops being open all year...how 'everybody should have the right to shop when they want to'...if this had been on around 1st April, I'd have thought it was an April Fool. The reason he was giving was our 'multicultural' society...so shops should be open ALL THE TIME just in case your religion, colour, gender etc etc forbade you or inhibited your abilities to get to the shops ever...just wondering if anyone has been to a predominantly 'other religion' (ie not 'Christian' like the UK) multicultural society country, and noticed that the shops were open on the religious holidays?

For crying out loud, the shops in Spain still shut for the siesta! Neither religious nor caring about the tourists...who should surely have a right to shop when they like...they're on HOLIDAY! It's too hot...and they shut everything, all day, on the high days, holidays and religious days...except the bars and restaurants, so the poor sods working there never get any time off at all...I spec this'd cheer him up a bit!

I'm not arguing with anyone especially, but that bloke, saying what he did, as though shopping is a God-given (other deities are available) right! Incensed. Like a blimmin 3-king of orientar.

Isn't it funny...

I mean funny peculiar, not funny ha ha...how someone you have never met can make such a difference to your life.

Someone you met somewhere else, and through them, you have formed an odd sort of group of friends, who all seem to have had a similar sort of life to you, and who are all, really, really lovely people. Then the central person disappears...it leaves a hole...and you or the others, don't know quite how to deal with it.

What happens now then? It isn't as though they have died, albeit that they have totally closed off to the world, so you can't grieve as such, but you still feel some kind of sense of loss. It's as though the glue has gone from the sellotape in your photo album, and the pictures are now sliding about.

There isn't a similar way to the previous format, because it would be too difficult to emulate, so would it just be easier to stay in touch via email? There wouldn't be the involvement everyone previously enjoyed if you all revert to email, but at least then you would stay in touch - maybe - or possibly, because the 'common' field was gone, you maybe wouldn't.

This definitely would worsen the feelings of bereavement, but then it is the same the world over. Some people come into our lives, for however short a time, and you feel as though you have been visited by an angel, who has brought other angels to look out for you, but this angel needs their own, and it doesn't seem to have helped (very much) having you (or the other angels) around for them.

I hope you find your own angels. I hope you find your direction. I hope that all you wish for comes true, and I very much hope that we all did you some good too.

I may or may not keep this on here. It does read like a real ramble. I get like this when I grieve...

Yes I KNOW I'm bigger than they are, but still...I DON'T LIKE SPIDERS.

Margaret Thatcher movie planned

Interesting. Apparently off the back of 'The Queen'? The success of these 'biopic' films seems to be beyond the realms of belief. Get someone famous to play the chosen 'name' and don't call me Oscar.

The impersonator, Steve Nallon, puts forward the theory that who ever is chosen (or found at all come to that) to play Mrs Thatcher, will need to be able to find the voice that she used in parliament as well as that which she used in private. He said "That would be the difficulty - finding that private Mrs Thatcher that, frankly, the cameras never saw."

So, basically, what we are looking at is an impersonation of (now) the Baroness, rather than an accomplished actor, playing the part of an English person who happened to be the Prime Minister. The reason Helen Mirren worked so well as the Queen is because she has a lovely, natural, BBC if you like, proper English accent. As does my mum.

None of the American films, from what I saw, went to great pains to get an actor who sounded or particularly looked like the subject. As far as I am aware, they all spoke with their usual accent. The American films are big on period make-up, fashion and events of the time. They also try to make damn sure they had a potential Oscar winning actor in the lead role. They also seem to make a habit of calling the film by a relatively exciting title. The life of 'Howard Hughes' became 'The Aviator'. On that note, from what I can gather, Mr Di Caprio bore no physical resemblance to Howard Hughes other than being male...'The Untouchables' all about a tax man and Al Capone...does anyone remember what Eliot Ness looked like, or did Al Capone (apart from the violin case and spats) resemble Robert De Niro?

It makes me wonder why does the film world feel the need to start having impressionists rather than actors? Is it because Helen Mirren was just so good? Not even doing an impression - just acting for crying out loud - because she is a superb actress! Or is it that the BBC aren't that interested in it at all, and raked Steve Nallon up from goodness knows where, for a quote?

I can 'do' a passable Mrs Thatcher. I am a natural blonde, (although I'd have to go from the bottle to get back there at the moment...). I look good in navy blue, bright blue and royal blue. My first husband's father was even called Dennis.