Citizen Smith!

'Power to the people!' was the catchphrase of Citizen Smith - the British TV sitcom of the late 1970s.  Funny how things pop into your mind from so long ago.  I've just googled it and checked Wikipedia, and there's an entry with a photo of actor Robert Lindsay giving his character's people power salute of a clenched fist. I used to like that show.

People power was exercised by me earlier this week.  I reported some potholes on the pothole website.... Yes, it's great, there's a website called 'fixmystreet.com' which logs your (essentially) complaints and links them to the appropriate County Council.

The interesting thing is the potholes I reported had originally been reported on 14th February (how romantic!).  They had been marked as 'fixed' a week or so later, and then the file had been re-opened with comments saying they're 'still not fixed', 'not fixed and getting larger' and so on.  The other reporters had been brief, you might say concise....  I was not.

My report pointed out that the 'fixed' pothole was further down the road, and the continuing problem lay in the effect the position of the unfixed potholes had on the traffic flow.  There was a large and deep pothole on the left-hand side of the road, which traffic swerves towards the right to avoid. In doing this traffic was unavoidably confronted by two further, centrally located potholes, which caused either (a) traffic to swerve over the central white line, or (b) stop.  Oncoming traffic at this point of the road is often central as there is on-road parking which the oncoming traffic hasn't had time to return to correct position on carriageway.  The potholes were also located outside a primary school, and at school rush hours this was an accident waiting to happen.

My report got results.  2 days later the holes were fixed.  Hooray. I think it was the pointing out the consequences that got the action.

In the meantime I googled the meaning of the word 'potholes'.  Obviously we all use the term, and know what it means, but why are the holes in the road called that?  The version I liked the best is that the potters in Josiah Wedgewood's era (1730-1795) used to collect clay from the fields.  In the winter, when the fields were frozen, they turned to the roads, as these were no more than dirt tracks which would have had a broken surface from the horses hooves and the carriage wheels.  The potters dug holes in the road in search of clay, and that's where the term 'pothole' comes from.

Back to people power.  I'll be voting in the local elections next week.  In my opinion it's important to vote, because if you don't participate in the process how can you criticise it if there's something you don't like?  If you're going to moan, then at least take a part and vote.  Make your voice heard. Count for something, not nothing.  'Power to the people' and to the Tooting Popular Front, we're back to Citizen Smith again, aren't we?

Night night, keep it sweet, Kat :)

Self-inflicted .....

.... pain again.

There was a time in my life when self-inflicted would have meant an almighty hangover.  Not a regular occurrence, but I can remember my parents not having any sympathy on the odd occasion I'd visited them on 'the morning after' - when everything was spinning and the headache competed with the sick feeling in my stomach. 'Self-inflicted? no sympathy', I remember my mother saying to my younger siblings as they went through the same giddy phase.

There was also a time in my life when self-inflicted pain would have been from working out too much at the gym.!!! Seems a lifetime ago, and a different life.

Today's pain has been in gainful gardening: lovely lawn-mowing, terrific turf turning, crazy compost chucking, wanton weeding and steadfast seed-drilling. This weekend's weather has been so mild that the call of the garden superceded all else. (Well, almost, but that's later down).

Yesterday my left thumb caught a few wacks as I hammered staples into a fence panel to re-position it.  We then had the happy game of 'catch the hen', as I had decided to re-locate them into my overgrown veg patch.  This serves two purposes.  Firstly it lets their usual area have some time off - it'll need aerating, filling and re-seeding.  Secondly, they can have a good scratch in the veg patch, and do my weeding for me(!), and fertilize the ground at the same time.

Today, Phoebe and I decided to save the strawberry plants from the hens (the ones I didn't have enough netting for).  We've made a makeshift raised bed - raised off the ground about 2 feet high - so Roly doesn't pee on them. So I spent this morning digging out strawberry plants and passing them to Phoebe, and once that was done I decided to chuck the compost from the compost bin into the hens old patch before they re-distributed it themselves.  Bend the knees, not the back!

After lunch I mowed the lawn at the back, and the orchard, as Simon had mowed the front yesterday.  However, it seemed a good opportunity to find the stepping stones in the front lawn......  There are about a dozen small paving slabs positioned in the front lawn from the gate to the front door.  The weather last year was so wet that the lawn was hardly mown at all, and the stepping stones had all but disappeared.  Hands and knees job this, tug at the turf, cut it back to size, and then recycle - to the hens patch at the back. Took about 40 minutes.

I then decided to go to one of my favourite places - the tip! Filled the car, got Tom, and off we went.  However, when we got there, it seems that everyone else had been doing the same as me, and there was a queue of 2 cars on approach on my side of the road, and 6 cars on opposite carriageway.   I wasn't in the mood to wait, so we turned around and came home.  I should have guessed it was going to be busy, but I've not seen that before!  Not too miffed, as I drive that way to school every day, so Roly won't get his walk tomorrow morning until I've come home (after the tip!).

On top of this glorious weather, we also had a house-guest. Richard, Simon's oldest friend, was this side of the world, and paid us a visit.  He normally resides in Singapore, and co-incidentally it was his birthday.  So I managed to rustle up a birthday cake (4-egg Victoria sponge) in between all the outdoor activity (and 2 lots of washing dry on the line).

Felt a little creaky this morning, but once I got going was OK. The problem is I took Tom to Tae-kwon-do tonight, and sitting down for 1 hour after all the gardening today was the killer.  I've been stiffening up ever since, and I've already had a bath to relax things as well.  Well, I've only got myself to blame, but the garden's starting to look cared for, and that's a good thing.

Night night, keep it sweet, Kat.

Return of the .....

ROBIN!

Spring is upon us, and the mood to tidy up overtakes me.  I've removed our rusty old swing frame to the collection of scrap metal on the back field that has been overgrown by the bushes it was abandoned in (tidied to by the field owner) a couple of years ago.  Looks a bit obvious, but one of two things will happen. Either (a) the bush will grow further and envelope the swing frame as well; or (b) when the back field is eventually developed (later this year if it goes to plan) into new houses, then the builders will remove.  A little devious, but job done...

Pottering about around the garden is now finally something I can do because it's not too cold any more. Yippee!  Since my mad spree of lawnmowing a couple of weeks ago, I've caught myself up on the housework (Easter Holidays take their strain, and if something's going to give, then housework it shall be). So Sunday morning caught me mooching around our 'back passage'.  How else to describe it?  Side entrance or back door storage area.  AKA (also known as) the dumping ground.

I'm loathe to throw anything away in case I can find another use for it. Simon hates this, but I find the challenge stimulating, and money saving.  But sometimes you can have too many plastic plant pots, broken crocks, cardboard boxes etc.  I decided to have a bit of a clear out, a tidy up and re-arrange.  I even planted some seeds, but's that getting ahead of myself.

I'd recently found a robin nest box in a charity shop.  £2.99, that'll do.  Robin nest boxes differ from other types by having a very open access instead of a small round hole. Looks something like this:


So I was wondering where to position it, where to hang it, store it, put it, for now, until I find the right place, the place a Robin would like, the place to start a new family... and this is what I found...

Top shelf, nicely secluded, that should do.

On closer inspection it seems I'm too late.  Mrs Robin's already in residence, I wonder if she'd like some neighbours?  Can't you see her?

Let's Z-O-O-M in then....

Mrs Robin, 15thApril, 2013...

I know I've said it before, but watch this space!

Keep it sweet, Kat :)

Shortcut to ...... pain!

It's more dangerous than you'd think.  Dogwalking.  Last year walking Roly round the Folly in Faringdon I took a shortcut through the dry ditch, slipped, and sprained my ankle rather painfully.  As it wasn't broken (I could walk, just) I didn't go to A&E, but I followed the PRICE technique (Pain relief, Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) and took things slowly.  Literally.

At around 10 weeks after the incident I was still finding the ankle stiff and lacking in mobility compared to the other ankle, so I took myself off to see Tony, a neighbour, and our local chiropractor, who said I'd got 'calcification' and manipulated it accordingly.  The relief was immediate, and I've not run since.  That's because I'm not all that fond of running, not because of the treatment!

This morning, whilst walking with Roly on the return leg of the Letcombe walk, I decided to climb over a gate.  Roly had jinked round the gap to gaily gallop across the King Alfred's Playing Fields, and it's a quicker way home.  The weather was very close, much much warmer than of late, with a strong wind and spots of rain.  'March winds and April showers' all at the same time.

So how to climb a gate?  Here's a (rather nice!) photo of a gate which is similar in style to the one I climbed over this morning....

www.edulink.networcs.net

Now, picture that style of gate, with a concrete fence post either side, accessing neatly mown school playing fields. Couldn't find a more accurate photo, so bear with me on this.  The bottom half of the gate has chain-mesh over it - to stop people climbing I assume, and possibly deter rabbits.  However the gap Roly went through would let an entire warren of rabbits through, but not an adult woman, so I think it's the former reason.

So I took hold of the concrete post, stepped to the mid-point rail, so far so good.  One leg over, but I'd not really got the twist right to place my advancing foot steadily enough.  Plus it had rained in the night, and I was wearing wellies.... you can see what's coming...I knew what was coming, and couldn't stop.... Whump.  I crashed with my left thigh and shoulder onto the concrete post, and wacked my right calf on the top of the fence rail.  Ow!  That smarts.

It's been an uncomfortable day.  Nothing more than bruises, and lost dignity.

On a brighter note, we visited The Vyne (National Trust), near Basingstoke this afternoon. They've got a new 'Hobbit' themed play area for under 10's, and had an exhibition of the gold Roman ring which is said to have inspired Tolkein to write The Lord of the Ring.  Sadly, the play area was so new the turf still showed its seams, and with the recent rain squelched and squished and was at risk of coming apart. However, the design is lovely, and all the children were really enjoying exploring the tunnels and treehouse and playing with the sluice gate rill.

Here's the sunset this evening from the bottom of my garden.  Hope the old saying holds true....

Night night, thanks for reading, Kat :) 

Hello world!

If you're reading this then thank you.  Looking at my blog statistics is becoming a bit of a guilty pleasure.  Not just the number of page hits (a boost to my ego), but the page view locations.  From the top of my head I know you're reading/have read this in USA, UK, Netherlands, Norway, Australia, Russia, Finland, Venezuela, Oman, Belgium, and I'm amazed and slightly curious.

Certain locations make sense, there are obvious connections that I understand, but other places I'm read in I have absolutely no idea how I've arrived there (Venezuela and Oman!).  But to you all, thank you.  I may be a middle-aged woman in a middle-aged mini-identity crisis, but thanks to you readers I feel like I have a voice.

Blogs are a funny old thing.  Some passionate with a considered theme,  like a political campaign, with ardent followers, and others blow hot and cold, depending on the blogger's available time and (dis)inclinations.

My inclination is that I write this as a kind of therapy.  A balm.  A way of reconciling and recording events, an aide-memoire, a diary.  On a mortal note it's also something for our children if anything happened to me....  And I do now wonder what my memory of recent events would have been if I'd not written them down.

I'm not exactly worried.  About my memory.  I think it's just some people are better at remembering details than others, and I'm not sure it's all that important.  Maybe the dementia nurses would have something to say about it, but I'll worry about that when I'm older (or maybe I won't)!

Some friends, and family, can remember exactly what happened at junior school, or what they were doing when they were 21, or are good at remembering facts and figures.  I feel I'm more of an impressions person.  I have a sense of how something appeared to me at the time, and may recall small details, but certainly wouldn't be able to give a verbatim account.  So by writing things down here and now, I've got the account, both recorded (time and date) and impressionistic.

Equally, unless I've just finished reading, I will tend to forget the exact plotline of the story, but will have a sense of whether or not I enjoyed a particular book/author.  Maybe that's just my way of handling the vast number of books I've read in my lifetime.

In the meantime, here's a photo of the Easter hot cross buns I made.  Quite pleased if I say so myself. May make them again!

all my own work!

Keep it sweet, thanks for reading!  Kat :)

A rude awakening... literally!

Increasingly I find it difficult to go back to sleep if I've woken up or been woken up in the 'middle of the night'.  Sometimes I wake up at 4am, 4.30am, 5am. Is this just aging, my body changing, the birds singing, or some disturbance outside that I'm too bleary-eyed to investigate?

Sometimes I woken by my husband's early start - a couple of times a month he's in the shower at 4am so he can catch the first flight to Dublin, or Amsterdam.  The shower's located next to our room, so I can hear the patter of the water splashing down as he runs it to get the right temperature.

This morning, at 4.30am I struggled to identify what the noise was and where it was coming from.  Eventually, although it must have only been seconds rather than minutes, I realised that Phoebe's radio was on, and seemed to be increasing in volume, playing 'We are the Champions' by Queen.  Grrrrrr.  I put my light on, went to her room, put her light on and found the source of the noise.  'What????' said Phoebe, sounding how I felt!  I turned the radio off at the socket (couldn't find the on/off switch), and went back to bed.

The problem, when I wake up at this time in the morning, is that I can't get back to sleep.  I assume my usual 'go to sleep position', I'm the right temperature for me (nice and cosy), and I recognise that I'm still tired.  But I can't seem to drift off.

In the past I've said to myself, well I'll get up and do something, read the newspaper, do the ironing, but in recent months I've tried staying put and going back to sleep.  I must slip into a sort of dazed slumber, because when the alarm goes off at 6.45am, I'm very tired, very grumpy and very resentful.  Grrr.  Any ideas anyone?

We're in the final days of the Easter holidays.  Hooray!  They do seem to go on.  Yesterday I took the children to Buscot Park - a National Trust property fairly nearby, which we'd not properly visited. The last time we went we did the gardens and tea-room, so yesterday we did the house. I'd taken my camera, but when I came to take photos of the children in the gardens I found that I'd left the battery charging in the kitchen at home. Bother.

So to the House. What a treasure trove!  It's packed with antique furniture, art (old and new), objet's d'art and objet's de virtu, magnificent views, tromp d'oeil, and personal items of Lord Faringdon's family. However, the piece de resistance, the magnet, the thing that surprised me, moved me and blew my mind was 'the Saloon'.  I didn't realise how much I liked the pre-Raphaelites until I viewed 'The Legend of the Briar Rose' by Edward Burne-Jones.

Here's the Wikipedia link:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Legend_of_Briar_Rose

It was a privilege to spend time looking at the lifesize, beautiful, romantic, colourful panels, and I'm looking forward to taking my parents next time they're down this way.  Don't know if it'll be to my Father's taste, but my Mother paints, and I'm sure she''ll like it as well.

Time for breakfast!  Have a good day y'all. Kat.

I love the smell of....

(a) .... 'Napalm in the morning'...
(b) .... baking bread ...
(c) .... 2-stroke engine oil / lawnmower smell
(d) .... a new book
(e) .... hens

All of the above?  Who guessed correctly?  Well, if you're a certain age, and a movie-goer, you'll always respond to the prompt 'I love the smell of' with 'Napalm in the morning'.  Apocalypse Now was and remains for me one of the most powerful, all encompassing films I've ever seen.

So, not quite Apocalypse Now then this afternoon when I started up my lawnmower for the first time this year, but the smell of the petrol, the smell from the exhaust, the sound of the engine buzzing.  It almost overwhelmed my senses and screamed 'S-P-R-I-N-G!!!'  At last.

I wasn't the only one.  In the relative quiet of my emptying the grass (and moss) cuttings, I could hear other lawnmowers humming, an urban, suburban and rural unruly orchestra, a distant cacophony of little engines up and down the road, up and down the town, up and down the country, crying out, calling out, marking their territories like some ancient ritual, like the birds singing and the bees buzzing, Spring is finally here.  Yippee.  Everyone mowed today because it's forecast to rain (for a couple of weeks) from Tuesday.............

It took 2 hours.  The first cut always takes a long time, and I'd set the height a good 4-5cms, so not too bold first time, and if the weather allows it'll be a quick trim the next time.  If I were a lawn fanatic I'd do it every weekend, and it wouldn't take too long.  But things happen, weather happens, children (and washing) happens, so the lawn's not as looked after as it should be.  Not the end of the world, I know, but I'd like to spend a bit more time in the garden.  And after the wettest year on record last year, it's not surprising that the neglect my lawn has suffered has turned a good portion of it over to moss.  Still it's green (yellow-ish) and I've other things to do with my time.

So, on a good day, with conditions right, it would normally take 1hr 15 minutes to do the lawn, front and back and orchard. (Get her! she's got an orchard!  The dictionary definition says 4 or more apple trees makes and orchard, and we've got 5, so I've got an orchard.  That's how posh we are!)...

There was a light breeze today, and it was nice LOVELY to be outside.  However, having spent the morning helping out with the White Horse Harriers' Half-Marathon - I was on the refreshments 'crew'- the rest of the day's chores were squashed into what was left of the afternoon. I started the lawn at 4pm, finished  at 6pm and persuaded Simon to collect a Chinese take-away for supper whilst I showered the effects of the lawn-mowing away. Great.  Lovely to have a take-away for a change. Felt I deserved it, and everyone enjoyed it.

Note to self. Next time we get takeaway, after an afternoon spent gardening, don't get the 'Salt and Pepper Beancurd' starter.  The salt stung my wind-chapped lips and I felt like I was suddenly Mick Jagger.

Too tired to write any more, and I've got plenty of vaseline on my lips to calm them down.

Keep it sweet.  Kat  :)

Tea

There's something about tea.  There's nothing else quite like it.  Nothing hits the spot, for me, like a good cup of tea.

It's not an exact science.  Some cups are better than others.  Sometimes it's the time of day.  Or the cup/mug.  Or the fact that someone else made it for you.  Or you just need it, like an addict.

It can be dreadful.  Think polystyrene cup from a vending machine.  Think the tea that comes from the dispenser on the table at the back of the room during the training course/conference.  Those sinister black and stainless steel bulked up thermos thingys, with the spout, and the lever you press to extract the stewed brown liquid that you crave and at the same time despise because it's not fresh.

In fact thermos tea is invariably awful, but you still take it to the point-to-point because at least it's hot and didn't cost £2.50 a cup to be terrible, and you can drink it in the car out of the wind..

But when you get a good cup of tea it's like sunshine, music, and birdsong.  A good cup of tea will lighten your mood, and settle your nerves.  It'll break the ice, give you something to do, bring some joy and start the day right.  It gives you time.  To think, meditate, mull things over, plan, scheme, or you can simply use the time to warm your hands on the cup.  And then, when the cup is finished, you can act.

I sometimes liken it to a cigarette.  I don't smoke myself, but I imagine a good cup of tea is akin to the 'hit' or 'rush' you get from nicotine.  I daresay I'm addicted to tea, and when we've been travelling I have felt withdrawal symptoms if tea is not freely available.  Certainly in other countries they don't 'get' tea.  How to make it, how to serve it, just any of it.

And some of my cups of tea are habitual (like cigarettes?), the first of the day, the first at work, and so on.  But there's still something about it.  You can have too much.  I peak at around 4 cups a day.  I sometimes hit 5, but rarely finish the fifth, as if my body is saying steady on there.  I move onto Redbush tea in the evening (no caffeine) but it's no substitute.

And I have my favourite, Twinings Everyday, but can't always afford it. So I shop around, and buy it when it's on special offer, and make do at other times.  Tea bags in the mug are fine and convenient.  Tea leaves are too strong and messy to clear up afterwards.  Tea pots are a pain if they don't pour, but useful if serving a few people at the same time.

Which is what I'll be doing at the weekend.  We're helping out at the White Horse Harriers annual Half-Marathon on Sunday, and I'm on tea 'duty'.  We've got a good team, and a good system, so looking forward to that.  Will need to make a cake to bring, but that's no bother. Phoebe's on 'luggage' duty, and Simon and Tom are lead car again.  It's a family affair.

Back to work tomorrow, but the children are still on Easter Hols.
Night night.  Kat :)