My Top Ten ... Gigs, man (part one)

At the end of November I took my husband (for his 50th birthday present) to see Joan Armatrading playing 'her last major tour' at the Hexagon Theatre in Reading. She was much better than I'd been expecting, not in a slick, professional sort of way, some of her timing was a little haphazard, and she gleefully admitted three times that she'd forgotten how one of the songs started... but in the warmth of her personality, which filled the theatre in a reciprocal hug.... and her voice, of course, was and is amazing.

When we got home, or maybe the next day I wrote a post about the experience on FaceBook, and said that I'd put her in my all time top ten gig list.  Which surprised me, because in my humble opinion, I've seen some good music gigs in my time.

Going back, I'd have to put my first ever gig in the top-ten because it was my first gig, but also because it was good.  My mum took me and my sister to see Darts playing at Preston Guild Hall back in 1977 or '78.  I'd have been about 12, my sister 10, and we both wore full circular skirts which my mum had made.  The songs were in the charts at the time, and the deep-voiced Den Heggarty was the memorable star of the show with his acrobatic climbing of the theatre interior, like some urban orang-utan with a quiff, drainpipes and crepe sole shoes....

Chronologically, the next few bands I remember seeing would have been at Blackburn King George's Hall.  Punk and NewWave were doing the rounds, and I was fortunate to see The Undertones, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, Sham 69, and some others at this venue. My wisdom in deciding not to see The Police because I didn't think that they were any good, is still questionable.

Over at Preston Guild Hall I remember seeing Gary Numan drive around the stage in his wierd Sinclair C5 or something similar.  He ticked my teenage angst boxes.  Someone had to.

Time and friendship circles moved on, and in my all time top-ten I'd have to put the magnificent 'Eek-a-Mouse' a Jamaican Reggae performer who I saw with my friend SG in Bristol in around 1984 or so.  I listened to John Peel's late night radio programmes a lot back then, so Eek-a-Mouse seemed the obvious thing to be doing that night.

The gig was in a de-consecrated church which still had its stained glass windows, and the early evening setting sun made the stage glow with a multitude of colours.  You could have counted the white people in the audience on the fingers of two hands, and we were two of them, and girls to boot, but the atmosphere was good, if a little hazy, if you know what I mean.  In fact I seem to remember that we tried and spectacularly failed to 'score some grass'.  I'm fairly certain that instead of the weed we thought we were rolling into our poor excuse for a joint, we were actually rolling some weeds....

Anyhow, Eek-a-Mouse was electric, lithe and clad in black leather trousers and waistcoat, which accentuated his 6ft 6in lean frame.  He was mesmeric, charming, and a little dangerous, and the audience and we two girls loved him. According to Wikipedia he's fallen from grace of late, serving time for felonies in USA which I won't go into here as this is not the time nor place.

So that's three of the top ten so far: Joan Armatrading, Darts and Eek-a-Mouse.  More next time.

Kat :)

The cycle of life, warts 'n' all

The personality trait I admire most, and strive to attain is tolerance. In my opinion the world would be a much better place if there was more of this around, but I can only do what I can do, and in my small way I try.

Which is why, if and when I get a moment to reflect on things, I'm quite surprised by how my life has changed, for the better, since having children.

I'm not a naturally maternal woman.  I don't ooh and aah over small fluffy cute things. I don't often coo about babies. My instinct has been to avoid small children, medium sized children and teenagers, they're all too needy and noisy, too whiny, too sticky and smelly, too tangible.  I was quite happy without them.  For quite some time.  For 35 years to be specific.  Well, for 34 and something years.  To be frank, I didn't want children, and they equally didn't want me.

And then Mother Nature caught up with me, my biological alarm clock went off, and happily, in the year 2000 we got Phoebe, and in the year 2006, we got Tom.

So life changed. From being the happily independent, working woman, to part-time working mother, to full time mother, and back to part-time mother working again, has been an education in self-perception and tolerance if nothing else.  And what have I learned from this experience?

I've learned that not all children are as bad as I'd imagined.  Which is a good thing.  When we moved to Oxfordshire in 2007 I did what many mothers do to get established, and went to the toddler groups.  This was a new experience for me at the age of 41, and often made me the oldest mother in the room. A strange feeling whichever way you look at it.

Luckily I saw that I could benefit if I became more actively involved and for 18 months I ran one of the toddler groups when the other mums moved on.  I didn't realise it at the time, but looking back this exposure to very young children (en masse) gave me the confidence to expand my horizons when I started work in the Library.  I got to grips with organising and conducting rhymetimes for the under 5s, and that gave me confidence when I had to handle a class visit.

Now I'm settling down in my new job as Library Manager (I still can hardly believe it), I really enjoy the aspect of the job that involves children, as much as any other part of the role.  To this end, I've been volunteering my time on Wednesday mornings (my branch is closed on Wednesdays) in my son's primary school library.

Sadly, the school library had become neglected, and hadn't properly been used since 2010. Ah-ha. I spied an opportunity. I could volunteer - they get the benefit of a 'real library person' working for free - I get the benefit of working more closely with children, learn a bit more about what makes them tick, and then take the benefit of this knowledge back to the library to make it tick there too.

Woo hoo. It's a win-win.  This morning in the school library I had great fun introducing 30 Year 3s (ages 7-8) to the library, explaining who I was, why I was there, how I could help, and then putting it into action as they each chose just one book to take away from the shelves that aren't quite in order yet, but we'll get there, and why should we have books in order on the shelves, and if they'd written a book themselves where would they look to find it on the shelves? and go and stand where they think their book would be, and I sat on the floor by the letter 'L' because that's where my book would be if I'd written one, and it was funny to see a grown up sitting on the floor just chatting happily with them about choosing a book, and with a promise that when they come back, they'll tell me something about the book, no right or wrong answer, just how did they get on with it, how did they feel? even if they don't like reading, just to tell me something, even if they didn't like the book.  And do you know what?   They all looked me in the eye and said they would.

That's why I love my job. And I couldn't have, wouldn't have done this job without having had my two lovely (mostly) children, Phoebe and Tom.  The cycle of life. What goes around comes around.

Kat :)

Catching myself coming backwards

Most of the time I try not to think.  I've read about zen, and finding the centre and letting go, and it's harder than you'd imagine.  Yet I find that I need this emptiness more as I get older.  It's not that I've not got opinions.  I do have opinions, and sometimes I express them, but more often I do not.

The joy of getting older is in the not needing to shout.  In the knowing something deep inside, something that you hold true, and will discuss if necessary, but only then.  The thinking has, or should have, been done already, and this is very freeing.

So then, if I try not to think, and I have no need to shout, why then do I blog?  Why indeed?  I blog to leave my mark.  To say 'I was here'.  Maybe to touch the few with a knowing reference, a nod to the nostalgia of my/our youth.  To record memories here, in the 'never never' of the internet, virtually, because I'm not a diary writer in the traditional sense.  Because I like playing with words, casting a spell, winding it in and intoxicating the reader... in a harmless way.  I blog because I like it.

And then sometimes I don't blog.  Is there nothing to say? Nothing to report, record, rewind?  Playback and present it just so, so that the version you read is exactly how I want it to be.  There's a lot of thought gone into every word.  There's quite a bit of thought in each word.  I think about the words. .... most of the time I try not to think.

But I know this.

I couldn't get a twitter account.

Let me try it here.  Tonight's blog was going to be about knowing about my new job as Library Manager since mid-July, but not starting the job until the previous manager retired at the end of September.  The coincidental timing of my new job and my parents' Golden Wedding celebrations (see previous blog entry).  The very steep learning curve of my first month in my new job (hence not much blog action here, I've been shattered most evenings and sleeping quite well, apart from waking early in anticipation).  The surprise I feel at how much I've been enjoying my running.  The usual juggling of household chores, with childcare commitments, teenage girls, eight-year old boys, and the seeming ever present presence of Minecraft in the lives of both our children.  The compromises you make to oil the wheels of family life. The love that glues our family together, that holds true through thick and thin, in the shared experiences we talk and laugh about.  The support we give and receive.  The thanks we share.  The good.

tweet:  It's been a busy few months.

See what I mean?

Night y'all  ;)

Kat

  

Golden times

My parents have recently celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.  They hosted a party in a local inn, and a good turnout of family and friends attended in very good spirits.  At my father's 80th birthday celebrations in March this year he gave a speech (in case he didn't make it to this occasion), which extolled the virtues of my mother and professed his unconditional love for his children.

After giving it some thought I decided (not without trepidation) to write and give a speech at the golden wedding party.  I am their eldest child, so I felt fairly well qualified to give an account at the occasion.  I colluded with my siblings and aunt, and the following is edited highlights of the transcript of what I said in the room full of people to honour my parents.

Whilst I was speaking I had prepared a MS PowerPoint slide show of family photographs from the decades, starting with black and white shots of my parents as a young children in the 1930s and 1940s and moving through the decades until the present day.  It was well received.

Golden Wedding Thoughts

2014 has been a significant year in the Joyce Family history.  In March my father, Eddie Joyce, was 80 years old, and we celebrated in this room.

We listened (again) with interest and pleasure to his wonderful speech about my mother, Susan, which he said he intended to give today, but as we were all gathered together to celebrate his birthday, and he didn’t know whether they’d make it to 50 years together, he did it then.

He then gave his thoughts on the children of the marriage, namely, Kathryn, Trisha, Peter and Edward.  I don’t think I’m alone in saying that he took us all by surprise - by revealing the depth of his feelings towards us in such a public way. Thank you father, from us all.

Now it’s payback time.  You gave your speech in March, so I feel it incumbent upon me, as eldest child, to say a few words in return.  In preparing this speech and colluding with certain people, Peter said ‘blimey Kath, you could write a book if we all said our bit’.  Which I think was his way of saying it’s a bit long.  So if you’ll all sit back, and give me about 10 minutes, I’ll begin.

Fifty years.  Fifty years.  This is an achievement to be celebrated and admired in equal measure.  Of course, the story of Sue and Eddie goes back more than 50 years. They would have married earlier, but had to wait until Sue was 21 and her parent’s permission was no longer needed.

From this beginning we can see the determination that has bound these two so strongly together. Not just their traditional marriage vows in the Catholic Church, but their equal bloody-mindedness in showing the world that they’d stick together.

The world my parents grew up in was very different to how it is now.  The Second World War was lived through and post-war austerity endured.

Formative years indeed, but as the photographs show, these were not miserable times.  Hard work on the farm was the accepted norm.  Thrift and make do and mend was second nature.  And then came Rock’n’Roll.  And the rest is history.

Theirs has been a traditional marriage.  Eddie was the breadwinner, and Sue the home-maker, raising the family and welcoming us home from school.

Everybody here knows Eddie and Sue.  But only four of us know what it’s like to be their children.  They continue to be wonderful parents, offering advice and supporting us through all the mistakes we’ve made along the way…. And there have been many.

Back in the 1960s and 1970s the term ‘parenting’, as we know it today, had yet to be invented.  Your parents’ word was the rule to be obeyed, and chastisement was applied in the knowledge that it was for the child’s own good, and would help them learn the error of their ways.

Like most families, a quick smack was usually all that was needed to bring us back into line.  However, unlike most families, we had the added deterrent of the ‘Board of Education’.

I assume this had been given to my parents by Aunty May from America.  It was a wooden paddle which hung over the fireplace at The Poplars, and which had a drawing of two children bending over with stars encircling their throbbing bottoms where the paddle had been applied.  I think the implied threat/message was enough to keep us in line, I don’t think it was ever used on any of us.

In the 1970s my parents had a fine garden, which my father tended assiduously, and which he would enter in the annual Police gardening compeition.  I believe his redcurrants were once mistaken for tomatoes…

My mother would make delicious strawberry jam, and we grew up big and strong, as Grandad Joyce would say, on all the home produce.  There were hens to provide eggs, and about 20 Turkeys arrived at the end of the summer (?) to be fattened up and sold at Christmas.  Another way of making extra cash was Eddie’s holly wreaths.  The family moss picking expedition on Pendle Hill would be followed by many evenings of holly wiring, guaranteeing sore fingers and much wingeing.

I remember my father making blackberry and elderberry wine and other alcoholic beverages, which he stored down in the cellar of the Poplars.  There was a yeasty smell down there, and big bottles with rubber stoppers and glass tubes and pipes.  It looked like some mad scientists laboratory.

When pressing the fruit, he’d wait until we’d had our Sunday night bath, and then get me and Trisha to stand on and squash the berries in the washing up bowl, holding our nighties above our knees so as not to stain them.  My mother was not overly impressed by that.

Some of the regular family parties stick in my memory.  Christmas and Boxing Day were at our house or Trinity Cottage, and New Years Eve was sometimes at Bolton Hall Farm.

The adults seemed to enjoy themselves and let their hair down, sometimes getting a bit carried away with their emotions. I especially remember Aunty Janeen’s ‘golden boots’ impression at Trinity Cottage one Boxing Day.  Trisha says it was “ Why did you have to die Elvis?” that made an impression with her….

Bolton Hall Farm always had a spooky undercurrent,  which was exaggerated when playing ‘murder’ in a firelit room with the aunts and uncles and their various friends, and further exaggerated when Uncle Michael would wait under the stairwell and make ghostly moaning noises, or bang on the stairs when you were going up to go to the loo!

My father didn’t really understand that his occasional/infrequent childminding duties required his presence - he once had to look after my sister and me, but it co-incided with him popping into the police station to finish something off.  We were probably being annoying, so so he put Trisha and me into one of the holding cells ‘to see what it felt like‘, and then promptly got caught up, and forgot about us …. For about an hour.  It was only his colleagues checking on us that got us released…  scarred? Not me.

Although it must have been hard work for our parents making ends meet, as children we were never aware of any hardships, and felt rich in our freedoms.  We had the run of Copster Green, and the fields behind us, and gangs of children (the Carruthers, the Hutchings, the Franklands) to play with.  Back then, this was normal. Today we’d probably have been classed as ‘feral’.  At the end of each day’s playing out we’d hear our Mum calling from the back door to come in for tea.

Bonfire night on Copster Green was legend.  We spent what seemed like forever collecting wood and rubbish from all the households, and then the night itself would see us and other family groups huddled round biscuit tins of the smallest fireworks you’ve ever seen.

The best surprise happened one Christmas at the Poplars.  We came downstairs to see what presents Father Christmas had left, and found, in the front room, a slide.  How he got it there down the chimney, I’ll never know, but my Dad soon had it in the back garden, and it was well played on for many years.

There’s been a lot said about Eddie.

My mother on the other hand seems to have taken all this family madness or quirkiness more or less in her stride.  Whilst superficially father wore the trousers in the family, Sue was the one who meant what she said… and followed it through.  We didn’t have to ‘wait ‘til your father got home’.

Where Sue is concerned it’s evident that there was more than one detective in the family.  If, heaven forbid, we ever did something that perhaps we shouldn’t have done, she was more than equal to gathering the evidence and letting you know about it.

Trisha remembers being mortified as a teenager, when staying up late and being cool with her friends, and Sue would appear at the door, in her nightie, to tell them in no uncertain terms that it was time to go home.

Sue’s major passion is her family, and like a lioness she is tenacious in her love for them all.  If ever there was a disagreement Sue stepped in.  Not for Sue Eddie’s adage of ‘Never go to bed on an argument - Stay up and fight‘.  Her peacekeeping skills should be observed and adopted by the United Nations.

Sue has often demonstrated the power of prophecy.   When Blackburn Rovers were top of the league she couldn’t relax or celebrate, because she knew the only way was down…. And how right she was.

She is unassuming, artistic, and maintains an active participation in badminton and tai chi.  Her garden is well tended and colourful and draws lots of compliments, and we could also say the same of her, as she continues to effortlessly look much younger than those of a similar vintage.

When my parents finally became grandparents, after years of waiting, in October 2000 their family grew again, and has continued to grow.  They now have six grandchildren who they dote on, and who in turn adore them.  That the grandchildren obviously love them is plain to all to see.

To conclude. We all know Sue and Eddie. They are generous, adventurous, hard working, determined, energetic, inspirational and stubborn.  They have more than lived up to their marriage vows, and have become an example to us all.

Their love for each other and their family is not gushing or superficial.  It is not spoken out loud but demonstrated with actions.  It is solid and dependable, no-nonsense and compassionate, constant and enduring.

Although we don’t say how much we love them out loud often enough, I’m sure they know we do.

Finally I’d like to read you a small passage from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernières which best fits how I think we can regard Eddie and Sue’s relationship after 50 golden years.

Love is a temporary madness,
it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love" which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches,
they find that they are one tree and not two.

I would now like to take this opportunity to propose a toast.  Please be upstanding and join with me in toasting Eddie and Sue, our golden couple.

The no win situation (or getting 'it' off my chest)...

In May this year I joined a weekly running group for beginners.  It was targeting unfit adults, and for a small subscription we met for an hour every Wednesday for 10 weeks.  The ambition of the course leaders was that we would build our fitness week on week, and aim to complete one of the Saturday 5k ParkRuns - without stopping.

To begin with I was rather reluctant about it.  I'd attempted the course a couple of years ago, but for one reason or another (probably child-care related) I hadn't had the focus or determination required for success.  In other words I'd flunked out.

This time the children were both older, and if I didn't start to do something about my fitness soon I'd find myself hitting 50 next year and it would get harder.  My BMI (body mass index) was wavering between 26-27 (2 points over the government healthy range, technically 'overweight') and I'd had a run in with high blood pressure a couple of years ago. Everything added up.  Time to make a change.  I decided to 'commit to get fit'.  I call it my 'Fit by Fifty' mantra.

It wasn't easy.  Well, actually, the running wasn't bad, but the timing of the course clashed with my work commitments.  I finished work (contracted work in a public library means keeping the hours you're contracted to) at 5pm, and the course started at 6pm.  So far so good.  The only problem was I was 45-50 minutes 'rush-hour' travel away in Witney, and the course was 6pm in Wantage....

The logistics of driving home, with a child pick up on the way, meant I was always late, but I didn't miss one week.  And my first ParkRun (http://www.parkrun.org.uk/abingdon/) at Abingdon on 28th June saw me complete the course, without stopping in 34:36. I've since completed five ParkRuns and have brought my time down to 33:02.  Yey me!

Now that the children are older, more independent and (in some ways) less demanding, I'm enjoying having some 'me' time.  I try to run a couple of times a week, and have recently joined in a group doing 'boot camp' style exercises on Tuesdays 6-7pm.  There's no way I'd self-motivate to do sit ups, step ups, side-planks, squats, bicep? dips, burpees, lunges and the like, in sets of 10, 15, with sprints in between each station, but the group ethic has inspired where lack of willpower failed.

But.  There's something bugging me.  I'm not expecting to lose weight immediately, indeed, the weight seems to have stayed the same, although I must have shaped up, as I've noticed that most of my summer clothes have become looser since I began running.  The problem is, that if/when I lose weight / tone up my torso, then my boobs look bigger by comparison.

This is not something I'm trying to achieve.  I'm over-sensitive to the size of my bosom, and would dearly love for them to be smaller.  I'm much like many women in their dislike of a particular part of their body.  My dilemma, however, is the opposite to the majority, and therefore puts me in a minority position, and not one evoking much sympathy from either sex.

So how big is the problem?  In UK sizes I'm 36" measured around the ribcage and under the bosom.  My cup size is GG.  I've tried to ignore it for many years, and have adapted my wardrobe accordingly. I wear tops with V-necks to flatter, shaping, darts and separates are my strength, and I'm never lost for a safety-pin holding the gape between straining buttons at the appropriate place...

This irritation becomes more apparant when I'm running.  Indeed, being big breasted has put me off running for quite a few years. There is the obvious issue of boob bounce, and the less important but no less irritating issue of wandering eyes.  What's also annoying is that I'm the only female in my family with this kind of breast size. It's not inherited, so must be a quirk on my genes that my female relations don't share.

Over the years it has crossed my mind to investigate breast reduction, but I haven't got that kind of money, and how good a result do you really get?   However, I am curious to know how much a breast of my size would weigh (so how much weight could I lose if I did have a reduction?).  A bit of poking around on the internet and there's quite a variation of opinion, from a couple of UK pounds (1kg approx), to a melon-sized (all puns intended) 4kgs (!).

http://www.myfitnesspal.com/topics/show/720520-ok-ladies-weigh-your-knockers-here

According to this link, my size roughly equates to 2.1kg or 4.6lbs.  It rings true to me, I've got the shoulder grooves from the strain my bra has been under these many years.

Think about it.  (OK, any menfolk reading, this is not meant to be smutty in any form.  If you think this is smutty please leave this page immediately.  I may intend things to be funny, hopefully we all may smile, but smut-lovers should navigate away now).  2.1kg is the equivalent to strapping 2 x 1kg bags of sugar to my chest when I go for a run.  Well, actually, they're there all the time.  Imagine how cumbersome that is to live with.  (Smut-lovers, stop imagining please).  If I lost 2kg of weight, I'd be within the healthy range of BMI for my height.

So, logically, I should be tempted to investigate breast reduction.  But no.  There are many more important things to be tackling, and my breast size is in reality just an annoyance I have to put up with.  And I've purchased a very solid looking bra to help with this enormous challenge.

When it comes to running with a large chest, there are two trains of thought, to camps to choose from, two babies to help you reduce unwanted bounce.  Firstly:  to compress and contain and, secondly, to support.  Both 'systems' claim to reduce bounce.  You can compress your breasts by selecting a specialist bounce reducing sports bra.  Smaller breasted women claim this type of bra is 'all you ever need'.  Believe me, if you're into double cup sizes, it's not.

So you wear your sports bra, and then on top of that you wear a sports support crop top of some design.  Double protection, double struggle getting them on, and even more effort taking them off when you're done and sweaty.  The look is very matronly, one-boob roll effect, but the overall chest size appears reduced, and the bounce is minimal.

The alternative is to wear an underwired sports bra - select one with running in mind.  I've recently purchased the Panache underwired sports bra.  It's very comfortable, and is incredibly well padded.  The effect is to make me look larger than I am.  However, it does seem to support my breasts very well when running, and it's now my preferred choice when I'm wearing my white running shirt.

It's all well and good posting a photo of the bra without anything to offer scale.  So here's my actual bra, with a pineapple and some bananas in it.

When I weighed it, the scales said 4lb 4oz or just under 2kg.  That breast reduction is beginning to look tempting.....

Keeping it real!  Kat  :)

Doing the right thing...

They don't make it easy sometimes.  The number of decisions we make on a daily basis seems to be growing, and it's all time consuming and thus frustrating.  Slow internet links beg the question 'to bother to wait, or not to bother?'.  Traffic decisions are second nature, both as a driver and as a pedestrian.  Household chores priorities constantly change depending on a multitude of factors - the weather, the children's innate predisposition to being untidy, number of visitors and frankly whether my nerves will stand the kitchen floor being that grubby for any longer....

Shopping is a maze of decisions and we usually fall back on tried and trusted favourites, for many reasons.  Selecting what we've bought before re-inforces brand loyalty, shopping at the same shop ditto, although there is the advantage of usually knowing where things are - so long as they've not re-arranged the aisles again.

But.  My mantra (to myself, and to the children) while shopping is: 'they want my money', so I try to shop intelligently, beat them at their game, and thereby keep the costs down.  If I've got time I will study the price 'per 100g/kg/500ml/ltr/sheets per roll/tissues per box' details on the pricing strips and select my items accordingly.  Sometimes 2 packs of 9 toilet rolls is better value than the jumbo family pack of 16 rolls.  You've got to keep your wits about you.  And a bit of mental maths helps.

I've been disappointed by a recent purchase of Ecover Washing Detergent.  Here's a link to their website:  http://uk.ecover.com/en/laundry/product/laundry-liquid-non-biological 

Having an urge to be an eco-warrior, but living in the 'real world' with a real family, I like to think I do what I can.  So purchasing an eco-friendly washing detergent, stroked my ego, and let me think I'd be doing my bit for the environment.  It's not my normal brand, as it's usually too expensive (comparatively), but it was on special offer, and had extra branding to say it was 'Good Housekeeping Institute' endorsed 2014.

Performance wise it does the job.  The washing appears clean, and the washing machine certainly froths with detergent bubbles nicely, which can be difficult with other brands as we live in a hard-water area.  However, once washed, I was disappointed to find that the washing doesn't smell good.

It's not scented, in as much as they've not put in artificial scent or even natural scent.  This goes with their ethos, and in principal I approve of this gentle way of treating our clothes, and as the used washing water goes into the drains, I appreciate the ecological impact is lessened by the ingredient list they use in Ecover products.

My head understand the 'nature' of the product, but in practice, my heart and nose say 'no'.  In doing the right thing I've been sold a dud, and in order to minimise the effect of the smell of the 'unscented' laundry I've taken to adding an extra rinse to the washing machine cycle.

How does this save the earth, or my pocket?  I'm using/wasting more water to rinse the unscented smell out, and therefore my water bill will increase by the extra volume of water used.  A false economy to my mind, and negative enforcement of the ecological message.

It seems I can't do right for doing wrong.... so in this instance, and not wishing to wear clothing that smells 'like a hippy', but not in patchouli way, on my next purchase of washing detergent I'll be testing the scent BEFORE I buy.  Nothing wrong with 'hippies' mind you, I just prefer my washing to smell nice and clean rather than just clean.

Keeping it real!

Kat

In a parallel universe

I'd be an eco-warrior.  There, I've said it.  There are some regrets I have about the way this life is lived in this consumerist society we call the UK.  We all have choices to make, and these choices have consequences.  Such is life....

I'm quietly passionate about saving the planet.  I believe this is best done by careful use of our resources - be it energy (keeping heating down / improve insulation - saves on the bills and reduces the greenhouse effect), transport (food miles, people miles, pollution, carbon emissions), choosing recycling / upcycling / freecycling and by trying as much as I can to be anti-consumer - in that I'm not influenced by the global brands and shop purposefully in charity shops and the like - I hope in some small way to 'tread lightly' and do as little harm to the planet as I realistically can.

When we were on summer holiday this year I read a book called 'The Moneyless Man' by Mark Boyle.

The premise was: 'is it possible to live for a year in the UK without money?'.  The surprising answer is yes.  If you're a fit young man, it would appear that is it absolutely possible to live for a year without money.  He planned it carefully, found a place to pitch his freecycled caravan for free (in exchange for 3 days of work on a farm each week), and was attuned to eating seasonally and in glut and from the supermarket bins he and his friends raided regularly.

The book highlighted the amount of waste that goes on - food waste from supermarkets being an especial bugbear, but to my mind he was preaching to the converted.  Whilst idealistic in the extreme, I had to admire his stance, and his gumption for sticking it out, and although some of his practices would be difficult if not impossible to translate into everyday living for the majority, it gave me hope.  That there are still dreamers out there.

Here's a link to tell you more about it:  http://www.moneylessmanifesto.org/the-moneyless-man-book/

Apparently he's now been doing it for three years.  I'm impressed.  There are certain things I couldn't do without.  Hot running water (showers); no matter how bad on food miles I need my tea 'normal style' not nettle; and with certain issues pertaining to the menopause (it's an age thing) I've discovered that I function much better, on many levels, by ditching dairy and replacing it with soya.  He's a 35 year old male.  I'm an almost 50 year old female.  Some things don't compare.

But his aspirations appeal to the essential me, to the teenage me, to the rebellious me and to the me before me.  In a parallel universe I'd be ... more me than I feel I am.  This probably explains a lot.  Well, it makes sense to me at least!

Night night y'all.

Kat

Decisions, decisions.....

I should have included Joy Division, 'Love Will Tear Us Apart,' in my previous lists for Desert Island Discs, an omission I can't quite believe I made. This does now beg the question which track to remove?  I don't think I'll ever get a definitive list, it's too difficult a quandry.

Summer is drawing to a close, and Autumn's fingers are creeping up on us, a certain chill in the morning when letting the hens out, and the nights drawing in again.  The greenhouse project from April/May this year has been a huge success.  Those cynics amongst you might say 'well, is it really worth it to spend £70 or so just to have tomatoes?'  To which I say:  'Voila!'

and, well, yes. I suppose it has cost me £70 or so to have tomatoes this year, but next year it won't cost that, and the year after that, and so on.  And it's not just tomatoes, there's peppers and my aubergine plant as well.  The next decision is what to plant next year, and what to cook with the crop this year.

The summer holidays are so busy, working, taking children here and there, playdates, and all the usual chores.  In all this whirlwind I've been somewhat distracted by my new job.  The interview was in the middle of July, but I don't start until the 19th September, so I won't say much about it here until I'm in the driving seat and have the keys in my hand, so to speak.

The hens are on their last legs. They had a very rough winter with the flooding (see Jan/Feb blogs), and they both seem to have stopped laying.  The paler one never really re-feathered and her shells had been dubious for most of this year.  Shell quality is an indicator of the condition of the bird, and will decline with age.  I'm fairly certain she's not laid for about a month.  The darker one moulted in the middle of the flooding (with the shock?) and re-feathered nicely.  She maintained laying, but we've not had any eggs at all since 2nd August.

I decided to buy some eggs in order to put off the decision of what to do with the hens.  What decision?  I hear you ask.  Well.  The hens, whilst being decorative and entertaining, are livestock, and not pets.  If they're not laying they're not earning their keep.  In my previous experience I've had to despatch birds which aren't laying because they've gone 'mucky' at their back-end.  These two are obviously aging, but both having maintained a clean back-end so far, I'm loathe to despatch them yet.

It's a fine balance of judgement, but one which has been swayed by the quality of the eggs I bought.  I chose 'free range' 'organic'.  Not good enough.  I suppose in keeping my own birds for almost 10 years I've become choosy about the quality I seek.  We had 1 of our eggs left in the fridge along with the 6 I bought, and I was making 'eggy bread' or 'french toast' as it is also known.

Our egg's yolk was the deep rich gold, almost orange colour which we've become accustomed to.  The shop bought ones had yolks which were smaller, and although they looked yellow, they paled in comparison, literally, and paled even more when beaten.  I was disappointed, but more interestingly, so were Phoebe and Tom.

So, the decision is made.  Come pay-day, I'll get another couple of hens at point of lay, and then when the time is right, I'll have to do the logical thing, and say goodbye to the two who aren't pulling their weight.

Ah, me.  Decisions, decisions.  But not the chocolate box conundrum.  Speaking of which, I'd really fancy a chocolate.  Ho hum, trying to get 'fit by 50' probably means I shouldn't.  And as there aren't any in the house I'll have to make do with a hot chocolate instead.

Keeping it sweet y'all ....  Kat  :)

History repeating itself...

There's that song by Shirley Bassey and the Propellerheads, or the Propellerheads featuring Shirley Bassey....  anyway, here's a link to youtube if you're interested:  http://youtu.be/bE_1tCasi_Q

When writing my blog I think carefully what title to give to the post, and when 'History Repeating' came to mind, I had to find a link to the song.

Anyhoo.  The prompt for this post is the things that happen whilst you're minding your own business, and which could easily be forgotten if you neglected to share them.  Some are fanciful, some are farcical, some are downright absurd.  This incident ticks all three boxes, and happened on Saturday whilst driving along the A417 towards the A34 Oxford ring road, to get to the M40.

We'd just driven past the Land Rover garage, and ahead of us were these blue flashing lights.  'Oh, oh' I thought to myself, and slowed my vehicle as we drew closer.  Two police vehicles were skewed across the road, and the oncoming traffic was also at a standstill.

image found at:  http://pixgood.com/english-police-cars.html

The action unfolded in front of my eyes.  It wasn't an accident, as I'd first suspected, but an escaped sheep, which was giving the two police officers a jolly good runaround.  One of the police vehicles was mobile, driving around to block the sheep's escape, so none of us were going anywhere for the timebeing.

I chose this image as embodies the attitude of the loose sheep, not as an accurate representation...
image found at:  http://www.warburnstud.com.au/index.html

So, I sat back in my driver's seat started to enjoy the show.

The lady driver of the Volvo at the head of the queue of oncoming traffic had got out of her vehicle, and after rummaging around the rear of the car found a piece of rope.  She joined in the chase, but the sheep was having none of it.  There was no obvious place for the sheep to be herded towards, no gates, no field with a broken fence, both sides of the road at this point are bordered by high hedgerow, but it was determined not to be caught.

Having had a country upbringing, I'd venture a guess that the police officers attending weren't entirely comfortable around livestock... they were trying to catch it, but it was a bit half-hearted, and the sheep definitely had the upper hand.

Help arrived after a time, in the form of two men who got out of the large horse box which was several vehicles behind the Volvo.  Judging from their attire I'd say they were Polo players, being kitted out in riding boots, jodphurs and the figure hugging polo shirts they wear.

image found at:  http://www.sussexpolo.co.uk/

They wasted no time, grabbed the sheep by neck, and both men quickly straddled it, one over the front shoulders, one over the rear flank, and clamped their thighs firmly over the poor animal.  The Volvo lady proffered her piece of rope, which they tied around its neck, and then once they'd got it to the side of the road, I deemed it safe to drive on...

As I passed by, the sheep was still not giving in without a struggle, and was collapsing its back legs, to make leading it on impossible.  Ah me, we laughed like drains, and I'm still regretting not having had the presence of mind to reach into my handbag (in the passenger side footwell), pull my camera out, and take a piccy (or two).  But as I was the driver, I acted responsibly and didn't take advantage of my front row seat.  Boo hoo.  

So, why is this amusing incident 'History Repeating Itself'?  Because, we're the proud custodians of a rather good photo from the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, which was taken sometime in the 1960s.  I've scanned it in for your enjoyment, and all I'll say is when my father was a policeman, he was on hand in Blackburn Market when some sheep got loose, and the local paper sent a photographer and journalist to cover the story.....

My dad's the policeman in the middle of the photo....  now, where have I seen something like this just recently???

Keeping it sweet!  

Kat

Fighting is futile

I'm fed up of all the fighting in the world.  In Syria, Gaza, Israel, Afghanistan, Somalia, and all the rest.  I'm fed up of hearing about it on the news.  Not because I don't care, but because I can't understand why they keep on fighting.  Surely by now they'd have realised that fighting is futile.  It gets you nowhere.  Surely they'd have learned the lessons of the past.... especially in this centenary year of WWI.  But no.  The 'big men' with their 'big guns' and their 'big penises' (in their minds, no doubt) want to keep shooting because it makes them feel good to avenge...

Essentially there are no winners, so why don't they all just stop (the game) and put their toys (guns) away?  Because they're men, full of testosterone, full of pride, intent on destruction, and if they can't win themselves, then no-one else will either.

It all seems such a waste.  As a woman, and mother, I can't understand this caveman urge to anahialate your opponent.  (It appears I can't spell it either...).  And I'm certain that's where it stems from - a primitive need to oppress your foes, to dominate the tribe, to reign supreme.  But at what cost?

Women could not and would not willingly fight to the death over something as insignificant as a piece of land.  Why?  Because it is in our nature to nuture.  We carry the infant internally and externally, and we know the true price of life because of this.  Our viewpoint of the world is intrinsically different to that of our male (soul)mates, but all our needs (love, food, shelter), are the same.

I am lucky to live where I do, and when I do.  I have never known the horror of war nor the sorrow, misery and hardship that people living in war-torn areas do.  And maybe I would feel differently if my circumstances were such that I was trapped in such a place and time.  And yet.  I am troubled by the part that the women in these parts of the world play - or maybe is it just that we don't hear of it other than they become refugees and downtrodden and victimised and worse.  Because in my heart I cannot believe that women would have so little influence over their men.  So little sway, so little caring as to allow their men to go from them, to leave them, to prefer to fight with the boys than stay at home and make love with their wives, girlfriends or mistresses.  To stay at home and watch their children grow.  To stay at home, live life, make memories, and grow old together.  Because by fighting none of this can happen.

So why don't they all just stop.  Like children.  Stop fighting and apologise.  Stop fighting and tidy up.  Stop fighting and start living.  Stop fighting each other, and start striving - to make the world a better place, for all our children.

Kat.

Lush

So, if I could pick my Desert Island Discs tonight I'd choose:

Pixies - Gigantic (or Surfa Rosa, probably Gigantic)
Paolo Nuttini - Pencil Full of Lead
Caro Emerald - Riviera Life
Rolling Stones - Gimme Shelter (or Brown Sugar, or Sympathy for the Devil)
The Smiths - This Charming Man
Yousou 'nDour - Rubber Band Man
Lou Reed - Perfect Day
Joni Mitchell - Big Yellow Taxi

This is a game/format/theme that could run and run.... enough!

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So, how does my garden grow?  Well, thankfully, because we're in lovely rural Oxford, and the weather's been fair, it's all growing really nicely, thank you.  Too well in places (ahem, there are more than a few weeds in the vegetable patch).  It's trying to keep on top of it all that's the kicker.  If I mow the lawn, I can't trim the hedge.  When I trim the hedge, I can't weed the veg patch, and so on.

I've been watching my lovely richly scented red rose bush with it's 5 buds developing...  The pictures speak for themselves.... Lush, in my opinion, anyway.

30.6.14

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There was a 'fun day' to promote play for children (?!!!) in the park yesterday.  I toodelled over there with Tom, and, since he now goes to the local school, we met a friend of his there, Daved.  The mobile Library van was there, stalls from various youth and sports projects, and everything was free.  The boys got stuck into the laserguns (doh, obviously), and ended up at the face painting stall.  Daved painted Tom.  This is the result.  8-yr old boys, eh.

If you've been wondering about my greenhouse, here's tonight's picture, after watering.  5 tomato plants, 6 sweet peppers and 1 aubergine. Lush.

These are the hollyhocks I 'guerilla gardened' in the derelict land (awaiting development) behind us. I'm quite taken with the colour of these - they do vary from year to year, but these are very pleasing.  I haven't figured out how to take a good photo of them yet, but I wanted to share the colour of them here.  I'll keep trying until I get something I'm happy with.

It's been another busy one, so I'll call it a night. Well, I say I'll call it a night.  That depends on the hen.  The dominant hen, 'Brownie' is a real night owl - at the moment she's not usually gone in until 10.15pm, and then if there's a clear sky and a moon, she's still been out peedelling around, until 10.30pm.   She's making me tired.

Keeping it sweet!  Kat :)

Not Desert Island Discs

I take it you're familiar with the concept?  The radio show, where the interviewer and interviewee chat for 45 minutes or so, interspersing the conversation with 8 records the interviewee has chosen to 'take' with them if they were cast away on a desert island.  The radio programme started in 1942, as part of the BBC Light Programme, to keep up the morale of the country during the war.... and it has endured to this day, with slight tinkering to the format, and only several changes of interviewer.  Only 40 people are chosen each year, so it could be seen as a higher honour than receiving something from the Queen on her birthday, or at the New Year.

How do I know this?  Because I'm listening to the audio book 'Desert Island Discs, 70 Years of Castaways'.

image from Amazon.com

I've taken to listening to audio books recently for two reasons.  Firstly, I seem to have (temporarily) lost my reading mojo - in-as-much-as I've started several books, but not made progress, and certainly haven't finished them.  There's still a big pile of books I want to read, but I can't settle down with any of them.  For some reason.  All I seem to manage at the moment are non-fiction medical confessionals. Nothing against them per se, but I'll be running out of Doctors/Medics etc soon.

Secondly, the radio is poor company on the drive to work.  The news is all depressing, war, politics, scandal, tragedy, and there's only so much radio DJs I can take....  So, deep joy, I've discovered audio-books, or books on CD.  I don't have an MP3 player, or I suppose I could download e-Audio and plug into the adaptor in my car.  Perhaps that's something for the future.

I've just devoured Jim Butcher's Blood Rites - the 6th in the Dresden Files series - about Harry Dresden, Chicago's only wizard private investigator.  I've been shelving these books, and read the blurb, and thought 'hmm, sounds intriguing'.  But they're quite thick books, and with my lost mojo at the moment I've not dared borrow one - when I do read I tend to read quite slowly, so doubt my ability to finish it in the alloted 3 weeks.  I'd be useless in a book club/reading group for the same reason.

image from Amazon.com

I didn't mean to start The Dresden Files in the middle of the series, but that was the only audio book in the whole of the county, so that's where it started for me.  I've since been to Amazon to order the first of the series.... and we'll see where I go from there.

I'd picked up a couple of audio books in the Oxfam Charity Shop in Witney - they've a good music/disc section at the back, and I thought I'd give it a try.  I started with Gervase Phinn - Head over Heels in the Dales - there's a whole series of them, memoirs of a school inspector, quite drole.

image from Amazon.com

and then went onto

image from Amazon.com

which was a very enjoyable story:

London, 1806 - William Thornhill, happily wedded to his childhood sweetheart Sal, is a waterman on the River Thames. Life is tough but bearable until William makes a mistake, a bad mistake for which he and his family are made to pay dearly. His sentence: to be transported to New South Wales for the term of his natural life. Soon Thornhill, a man no better or worse than most, has to make the most difficult decision of his life . . . The Secret River is a universal and timeless story of love, identity and belonging

Being a Radio 4 listener for the last 30 years, I've often had my own go at compiling my list of 8 discs to take to my desert island...  and the choices can change as the mood takes me.  Today's list comprises:

Heroes - David Bowie
Piece of my Heart - Janis Joplin
Bigmouth Strikes Again - The Smiths
How I wrote 'Elastic Man' - The Fall
One Day Like This - Elbow
Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash
Chuck E's in Love - Rickie Lee Jones
She's a Star - James

But don't quote me on that.

Keepin' it real, don't 'cha know?

Kat :)

Too much too soon?

I think I've injured my right foot.  There's been a dull ache on the top for, maybe, a week.  I've rubbed/massaged it a few times, and tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away.... and it hasn't.  This morning it's become more nagging, appears slightly swollen in comparison to the left foot, and is painful when walking.  On a scale of pain of 1-5 where 1 is slight discomfort and 5 is excruciating pain, I'd give it 2.5 when walking.  When standing it's 2, and when resting, elevated, now, as I type, I'd say it's a 1.  It's a good job I don't work on Thursdays.

I suspect that the running I've been doing recently has something to do with it, which, obviously poses a dilemma.  What to do about it?  Ignoring it hasn't worked (doh!), so what to try next?  It doesn't feel serious enough to go to the GPs surgery/minor injuries unit, and it'll cost for an appointment with a physio/chiropractor whomever, and by the time of the appointment it may have sorted itself out (or not).  I'll just have to play the waiting card for the time-being - rest and wait-and-see.

The problem is that I'm not very good at 'resting'.  There's so much to do - both in the sense of chores that need doing, and other more interesting/fun/life affirming things as well.  So, working a part-time contract in the Library Service means I usually have Mondays and Thursdays to myself - unless I've picked up some extra hours overtime.  This gives me time to get/keep on top of the household chores - the floors, the ironing, the cleaning - and if I'm on an even keel inside (the house/my mind), then I can (in my 'world', in my sense of order and right, in my slight obsessive compulsive compunction) allow myself to do the gardening.

Some people may see gardening as a chore, but to me it's a pleasure.  There is the sense, the small victory, of putting nature in order, but that doesn't last long in June, and it's more than that.  I enjoy the physical aspect, the digging, the turning earth over in fork or fingers, the meditation of mowing the lawn, the challenge of the hedge and satisfaction of a hedge well tamed (for the time-being).  The anticipation of the opening bud, the scents, the contrast and ever changing colour of the seasons, or just the life-span of the yellow roses which tint peach as they open fully, smell heavenly, and have shocking thread veins of scarlet as they go over and fall.

There is always something to catch the eye, something new and arresting in the juxtaposition of the different plant forms.  I love the spiky leaves and flower heads of the eryngium and echinops, the filling of the spaces with a myriad shades of green and shadows, and the flash of colour, planned or unplanned to please the eye and steal your heart a little.  I have to admire the sneaking up of the unwanted weeds, the dandelions, bindweed, nettles, couch grass and sticky weed, vibrant and vigorous, nestling in the spaces, and cheekily growing, I know I can't win.

flowered in 1 day from fat bud - smells divine, has gone to fully blown day 2, and 5 more buds coming 

So today, instead of ploughing on in the garden (metaphorically speaking), I'll take it easy inside instead.  A little light ironing, a quick vacuum, maybe sort out a couple of drawers in the kitchen (late spring clean?), and, I feel like making cauliflower cheese.  That's taking it easy... in my world ... and I'll put off the next run for a couple of days, assuming my foot feels better.

It's a jungle out there....

well, OK, not strictly speaking a jungle.  Mid-June and everything's growing like mad.  The garden and weeds alike are thriving, and it's a challenge to keep on top of it all... and so, I don't.  I do what I can, when I can, time and weather allowing.

We moved this rose bush 5 yrs ago and it's thriving, usually flowers twice - nice!

I've tidied the background border of the rampant nettles, buttercups and goose-grass sticky willie or whatever you call it - that stuff that spreads and is sticky with little balls which I assume are the seed packages...  I can't get into it other than with a rake, so it was a bit slap-dash, but now there's room for the rest to fill in and hopefully splash some colour about.

The grass needs mowing every week, it's having space to put the mown grass that's the issue.  My two compost bins are full, and I also have a 'green' bin which the binmen take fortnightly.  But that's not usually enough, and sometimes there's a trip to the tip, or, if I feeling lazy, then I may tip it on the derelict plot next door to us.... which is, of course, another thing.

The house was demolished back in March....

.... and has subsequently been levelled.  The space between our house and our previous next-door-but-one neighbours', and our now next-door-but-space neighbours, has been levelled, and exactly nothing has happened since.

Now, you'll be surprised to learn that I don't know much about property developers(!), but, I would have thought that having demolished the house would have signified the impending start to the project of building the 18 or so houses on the field behind us.  Apparently not.  According to our now next-door-but-space neighbours, they've spoken to the developers, who have a lot of other projects going on in Swindon (home of the Magic Roundabout!), and they've not enough people available to start here before December at the soonest.  The concern now is that the developers will watch the market, and possibly sell the plot to other developers - at a loss or profit?  who can say?  Well, it doesn't make much sense to me, but like I said, what do I know about it?

In the interim, and unsurprisingly, in it's wild and untended state, it's a jungle out there - the grass is overgrown with the usual suspects of nettles, bramble, sticky willie, and the rest.  My hollyhocks which I seeded over our end boundary in the pre-jungle growth (guerrilla gardening!) are doing their best and are taller than me already, so I strimmed round them to give them spreading space.  'Every little helps' as the saying goes.

And it's a jungle on the footpath to Letcombe - which is normal for this time of the year, but is becoming an assault course if cycling with the dog and Tom, or on my 'get fit before fifty' run out either by myself, or with the 'JogWantage' group I joined in May.  Ha ha! You didn't expect that one did you?  I've done the jogging thing on and off over the years, but have usually fallen at the child-minding hurdle. This year I've managed full attendance on Wednesdays mainly because Tom's older and if he doesn't come with me to the field to play on his bike, then I'm less stressy about leaving him at home (with older sister, on strict instructions not to fight!) for 45mins or so.

So, the footpath is disappearing either side, with the heavy headed cow parsley intermingled with bramble, nettles, dock, grasses and buttercups, ivy, bindweed, scabious, oilseed rape which has self-seeded and is doing very well thank you, poppies, red and purple, and the occasional overhanging branch, one of which has fallen onto the high hedge on the opposite side, bridging the path and making you duck your  head when cycling.  If it falls any further they'll have to get a chainsaw and remove it, it's a real hazard.

The running's better than I remember, and I'm feeling fairly good about it.  I'm not going to break any records, but all I want to do is get fitter and stay committed to it.  So, yesterday in a fit of madness, I ran the 5K 'parkrun' in Abingdon.  Well, when I say ran, steady plod would be more like it...  I came in 209th and although I was a 'ghost runner' as I'd not pre-registered, we think my time was around 36.5 minutes.  More importantly, I enjoyed it, and am looking forward to doing it again.  I've now registered so next time I can get an official time.  Parkruns are a global organisation/movement, and are free to enter and are usually on Saturday morning at 9am from what I understand - here's a link if you're interested....  http://www.parkrun.org.uk/

me in action - don't know why I was doing 'jazz hands'...

Umm, don't look too closely at the photo - unfit mum of 48, nearly 49 - needing to lose some pounds, better than some, but definitely room for improvement!  Hence my 'fit for fifty' mantra, slowly, slowly catchee monkey as they say.  Slowly slowly, fit for fifty, as I say.

Keeping it real!  Kat.  :)

To be Frank

There's a new movie recently released called 'Frank', which is loosely based on the character 'Frank Sidebottom', a comic persona of the late Chris Sievey.  Who????  I hear you ask, on all the above. Here's a link to the BBC report which sums it up quite nicely....

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-26820227

I can't remember the first time I saw a Frank Sidebottom gig.  It must have been back in the late 1980s, downstairs at King George's Hall in Blackburn, or maybe some pub in Preston, and possibly Manchester or Bolton.... I was into 'independent music', and would often go to gigs, and Frank was a small part of this alternative scene, the buzz coming out of Manchester... or, in Frank's case, Timperley.

I think Blackburn KGH had a comedy club, circuit, scene, and that's probably the link.  I remember seeing up and coming comedienne Jo Brand http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jo_Brand  there once (outrageous, I didn't like her much, but I've warmed to her as I've got older), and Mancunian punk-poet John Cooper Clark  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Cooper_Clarke (brilliant, droll, twinkling and often drunk) more than once.  Frank Sidebottom must have been on the listings, and it would't have cost much, and what else is there to do in a boring Blackburn on a Thursday night after all???

The fact that I liked indie music went hand in hand with the culture of the North at the time.  The Smiths were in their prime, or just fading, and I had one of the greatest thrills of my life when I saw them live in 1986 in Manchester.  There was a 1 day concert in the G-MEX halls to celebrate the 'Festival of the 10th Summer' it being 10 years since the break out of punk music.  It was a long day, starting at 12noon, and going on past it being dark, and having to run to the railway station to get the last train home.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festival_of_the_Tenth_Summer

I can't remember the full line up, but I do remember the stage stealing lead singer, Mark E Smith, of The Fall, performing in full scarlet hunting gear, jodphurs, riding boots, and whip in hand, menacing and mesmerising at the same time.  I've been a fan of The Fall ever since, and many more tales hang there, believe you me.

I'm pretty certain the Buzzcocks played, and Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, then the build-up to the star-billings, New Order played brilliantly, before the lights dimmed, the strains of Carmina Burana stole into our consciousness, and Kapow! the stage was set, and The Smiths dazzled us with their sovereignty, they reigned and rose and were more real than any dream I could have dreamed, they were dreaming before our eyes, and we were there with them and didn't want the dream to be real...

Ah me, happy days, I digress.  Setting the scene for Frank Sidebottom, you really have to understand the rest of the social compass of the time, the Northerness of the humour, his references to the Northern music scene, to the integralness of football to the region, to the normalness of life in a Northern town, and the ridiculousness of the joke, being in on the joke, being part of the joke, being part of the performance, part of the act, the inclusiveness, and warmth of his performance, of his persona, which was of a 12 yr old boy, could be pop-star, would be football star, that awkward age, where you don't quite understand the nuances of the adult world you are on the cusp of, or the dreams you are dreaming, have dreamed and aren't entirely sure you woke up from.

I'm also pretty sure you had to be Northern to love him, to understand him, to get the humour, and join in, for part of the evening had the audience singing along with him, and I have etched into my memory the exact Timperley twang to his end of sentence '... actually'.

So this is a tribute to Frank Sidebottom, and the late Chris Sievey, and a thank you for all the joy they brought to the Northern towns in the 1980s....

Comedy Club downstairs at Blackburn King George's Hall, late 1980s - I'd be in my early 20s

Kat

DIY

Do It Yourself.  DIY for short, and words to warm the cockles of my heart.  I consider myself capable of most things, but also wise enough to know where to draw the line - my talents do not extend to plumbing nor electrics.  But give me a drill, screwdriver and tape measure, and I'll happily have a go at most round the house/garden jobs.

Well, when I say most, my vertigo would exclude high level ladders jobs, but I did manage to wallpaper the chimney breast in Phoebe's room, and tackled the guttering round the playhouse, so 3-4 step height maximum is what I'll stretch to (all puns intended).

I can get carried away when it comes to pruning.  There's almost nothing I like better than giving a hedge a trim (mind the cable of the hedge-trimmers!), or getting secateurs or shears out to errant branches.  It's knowing when to stop that I have difficulty with.

I'm happy cooking in the kitchen, so long as I've decided what to do - it's the deciding that makes my brain ache.  I'm competent at needlework - I can sew and knit, and I've forgotten how to crochet, but I'm sure it would come back with a bit of coaching.  I can decorate - but it's not my favourite thing, as there's so much preparation to get a good result, so that's something we put off for as long as possible...  and I'd like to spend more time in the garden, but life tends to get in the way.  So I keep chipping away at it, bit by bit.
 
As you know, I built the greenhouse myself - the only help I asked for was holding the frame together during assembly, and then Simon checked the bolts were tightened properly, but apart from that I did everything else myself....  and I find myself wondering/pondering/accepting that, for a 'woman', I may not be cut of the same cloth as my 'sisters'.

And I ask myself why this is?  Is it an innate quality, something genetic, something in my upbringing, my values, or, more likely a strange and unusual combination of the above? It is an eldest child thing, this self-belief?  because, I have distinct memories of being very shy growing up (not now!  I hear you splutter!).  Or is it the farming side of the family background, and the grandparents influence (on both sides) of the make-do and mend mentality of struggling through the War?

Or is it more than that?  Something deeper? And I wonder, in this age of superficiality, in the sexist society where women of a certain (more mature) age become invisible, of less value, lost... and women of another age are pestered for their looks, criticised for their looks, idolised for their looks, hounded for their looks, twittered about for their looks, teased, taunted, and tattered for their looks.  And yet others hide their looks away, beneath a veil of dignity, which still gives no shelter from all the abuse inflicted because of how they look. It's the double standard which is confusing, and I'm certain there are no winners.

And it never occurs to me to even think about how I look.  Granted, I make sure I'm presentable, showered and if working in the Library, then there's a quick dab of face powder to take the shine off, and a quick flick of mascara, and maybe some lipstick, nothing too gaudy, it's not a disco after all....

But I have no sense, myself, of being anything other than myself, which is me and is who I am, defined, I hope, by my actions, and not how I look.  I do what I do because what I do is who I am.   For the most part I rarely think of myself as 'woman'.  I think of myself as just 'me'.  And equally, whilst acknowledging that friends and family are male and female, I don't see them that way.  I see them for who they are, each unique in their relationship to me, with history and love and acceptance.  What they've got in their trousers doesn't matter.  What I've got in my trousers matters only to me, and if there's a spanner in the back pocket, then so much the better.

Great.  I've just googled 'spanner in back pocket' to get an image to put here, but all the ones of women/girls are wearing shorts (yeah, right) or cropped t-shirts (highly impractical I'm sure you'll find), and more to the point, they seem to be confusing wrench with spanner, so I'm not going to bother.  Fume.

So, how do we guide our 13yr old daughter through this maze of confusion?  I hope by acting consistently, by telling her we love her (she squirms when I do), by answering her questions honestly, and keeping a conversation open for her.  By treading a careful path between praise and criticism - more of the former, less of the latter, by leading by example, keeping our eyes and ears open, and living a tolerant life.  (Although if the fashion for boys wearing their trousers at crotch level and showing their underwear 'hanging loose'?, is still prevalent when Tom's a teenager, come back and ask me about tolerance then...  I may just have lost it!).

Here endeth the lesson for tonight.

Keep it loose, mother Goose!

Kat :)

What happened to last month?

May 2014 was very busy.  A much busier month than usual, and quite expensive as well.  Bleugh.  My car went in for its 40,000 mile service.... 'The big one'.  Ahem.  It's quite something to be quoted £395 before anything extra, (as on my 14 hour per week contract I usually bring home just under £500 each month).  It would have been more, if they hadn't had me arguing with them on the phone that I could go to Halfords to replace the wipers myself, and save the £30 they wanted to charge!  In the end they backed down and changed them for free.  However, the fan resistor needed changing, as I only had a speed selection of zero, or gale force four(!) and that would have added £100 - I told him I could go to £450, but any higher and I'd have to call my husband!  I don't know why, but that did it, and it ended up costing £450 with the fan resistor and wipers included.  The lesson from this?  Kick ass as/when needed!

Luckily I'd been doing quite a few hours extra, and I've claimed 17.5hrs overtime in the last claim period, and the month before that had clocked up 27 hours to claim as well.  Which is all well and good, but sometimes doing all this extra time I don't know if I'm coming or going.  Granted, the extra hours mean extra money, hooray!  But, the extra hours mean less time to be doing other things - chores, gardening etc. which is still waiting if I don't keep on top of it.  

So, in order to save me money, I finished building my greenhouse!  Yippee.  Let's see, the greenhouse cost £21.12.  Bargain.  Then I spent £35 on perspex to replace the windows in the playhouse, about £10 on bits for the guttering, and £18 on paint to decorate the playhouse before erecting the greenhouse.... extras total so far... £63.  Ho hum.  Cleaning the greenhouse frame cost 2 scourers and 1 pair of gloves, say, £5.  Time spent, let's say 3 weekends or so.  And then once it was erected, and the glass was washed, pane by pane, I discovered that 4 pieces were missing, and had already ditched the broken ones from the door, so 6 and a half replacement panes of glass cost ..... £41.70!  More than the greenhouse itself. Still it was worth it, even at a grand total cost of .... £109.70. Hope that's right, I've done all the maths in my head.  Ta-dah!

All my own work!

So we come to the end of the month, a second bank holiday, and half-term for the children.  So here's the thing. When working part-time, it's a job to have enough leave.  In as much as because you don't accrue the hours of leave (you'd like) you have to be cautious in how much leave to take.  We're planning to go away in July, and as we'd had time off over Easter, I didn't book time off for half-term.  Which means having to pay for Tom to go to holiday clubs/child care.  Bleugh (again).

We did manage a couple of days out - on Bank Holiday Monday we went, along with every man and his dog, to Avebury National Trust.  http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/avebury/  The standing stones of the neolithic monument/stone circle were excavated and re-erected in the 1920s and there's a good museum, and Manor House to visit as well. I'd recommend it, but not on a bank holiday...

On Thursday we ventured over to Chedworth Roman Villa with the National Trust again....  http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/chedworth-roman-villa/

Tom's topic at school for the next term is The Romans... so it seemed a good idea to get him in the mood, and a good time was had by all.  The site is celebrating its 150th anniversary this year, and the facilities had been updated in 2012, so it's worth a visit.  What's also good is that it's extremely remote - a good 3-4 miles down single track farm roads to find it, so you think you're lost, and therefore, it's a quiet place as I think some people may lose heart and leave before they arrive, so to speak, which in comparison with Avebury made Chedbury a haven of peace.  The weather stayed fair, the company was good, and the children played nicely.... Ave!

Et tu Brutus?

My favourite part of visiting Chedworth, apart from the amazing mosaics, was the very interesting and incredibly well informed 'Roman Sue'.  She's a wool expert, and, we found out this time, a champion sheep shearer as well, who talks about and demonstrates how the Romans would have made cloth and clothes with wool, the techniques involved in weaving, 1-needle knitting(!) and yarn dying.  I love meeting people like this - crafts people with a real passion for their art, and more importantly, a passion for sharing and passing on the secrets to the younger generation (myself included!).  She's not always there, so do check the website if you're thinking of going - to avoid disappointment!

It's late again, and there's always too much to do, but I'll stop here.  June, for the moment is looking a bit quieter than May was, so hopefully I can keep more on top of the blog.  Night for now.  Kat.  :)