Purple Elephant's Corner

PURPLE ELEPHANT'S CORNER HAS MOVED!!!

2005-03-26T10:05:00.000Z

I will not be updating here anymore.
Feel free to visit me in my new home at
http://www.jimnshelle.net/purple/
Update your blogrolls accordingly.
Hope to see you over there!

Pssssst....

2005-03-20T22:36:00.000Z

Please click on this link to find out why I am a happy woman today,
Go on it will be worth it I swear!
Still here?
If I tell you that it will probably be the first and last time you see Purple Elephant singing rather than ranting, will you do it now?
You might even be able to comment.

Guess what we were doing yesterday..

2005-03-20T09:16:00.000Z

Marching the streets of London.
Thank you to the weather for finally cottoning on that it is SPRING!
Thank you to the Strawberry Thieves Socialist Choir for the entertainment. (I have tried to find a website to link to, but you’ll just have to trust me on this, they were great)
I walked past Tony Benn, but I was too shy to say hello and shake him by the hand, which is a shame because conversing with one of my heroes would have completed my life quite nicely.
I leave you with an interesting link,
The Organisation for Women’s Liberation – Iran.

The joys of Physical 'Education'

2005-03-19T09:11:00.000Z

This post was inspired by Ms Lori’s post (and its follow up) I have had trouble commenting over there (surprise surprise it’s a blogspot address) Mind you this is probably way too long for a comment anyway. So here goes.....

I have a rebellious body. Whatever my mind tells it to do you can bet your life my body will do the complete opposite. For instance my mind will say ‘Would you mind walking though this door? It’s not difficult.’ And what will happen is my shoulder will bang against the door frame, which will then set me off balance and bang my other shoulder on the other side, then my sleeve will wind itself round the door handle and my body will be sent sprawling to the ground in the most unflattering helpless position ever. In retaliation my mind will then send a torrent of expletives to my body, via my mouth, which will come out as an unintelligible garble.
Yes I’m clumsy, in fact I am possibly the most clumsy person I know. Couple this with the fact that I have never been able to follow or understand rules and I bet you can tell already that PE classes were the bane of my life.
I’ve had a few PE teachers in my life and they all share the same trait, namely that they cannot understand that some people do not appreciate baring their bodies to the elements while they aimlessly chase around after a pathetic sphere of some sort, whilst others point, stare laugh and then beat them up in the changing rooms afterwards for ‘letting the team down.’
Any so called teacher who can choose the two best players and let them pick their team one by one until only one person is left standing humiliated and dejected (guess who) Any teacher who watches as the team leaders squabble over that person (for she is a person, it seems to have escaped everyone’s notice) and turns a blind eye when they bully her; any teacher who can stand there as all this goes on, should be had up for child abuse.
My first PE teacher in secondary school was the worst of all of them, she used to strut around in a nice warm tracksuit, whilst we where made to wear those revolting pleated skirts and aertex blouses, and if we were ever to claim that we were cold, she took it as evidence that we were not working hard enough. You know me I do like to retain anonymity in my blog, especially for those who do not choose to be here, but my PE teacher’s name was so Dickensian and she did make my life hell, and I’m sorely tempted to let on, ok you’ve persuaded me, her name was Mrs Cowley, and I swear to God I’m not making that up.
Once during one of our typical British summers we were supposed to be learning how to do hurdles for the first time. The athletics track resembled the Glastonbury festival site on the last Monday in June, without the litter. Even the most athletic of students were begging not to go out in the torrential downpour, but of course PE teachers get some sort of commission for every lesson held outside. We were going out whether we liked it or not.
Now the school only owned enough hurdles for us to have a go one at a time and Mrs Cowley made us line up one by one, but no one was volunteering to go first. So naturally, seeing the picture of pure unadulterated fear on my face, Mrs Cowley nominated my good self for the task. Now I don’t make a habit of begging but faced with what was obviously about to be the most embarrassing humiliation of my life, I gathered a little bit of begging wouldn’t go amiss.
‘But I’ve never done it before.’
‘It’s easy. You just run and leap!’
‘But if someone else could go first and show me how it is done?’
‘No!’
‘Please?’
‘Just do it!’ (This PE teacher is brought to you by Nike)
So I stood for a while staring at what might as well have been a row of Eiffel Towers looming ahead of me, there was no way I was going to get over them. There was an eerie silence as even the worst bullies couldn’t even muster a snigger, they too felt my fear.
It felt like slow motion as step by step, slosh by slosh I plodded up to that first hurdle, the closer I got the higher it towered. Now it was getting to the time when I was going to have to leap but as I did I hit a skid patch, my legs gave way, my hands flew out to save me and I landed face down, in a twisted mess of human, hurdle and mud.
For a second I was paralysed with shock but then slowly as the pain shot up my ankle, I knew that even the most sadistic PE teacher couldn’t make me carry on! I’d got out of it! Then I began to shake with laughter albeit a rather hysterical laughter, all that fear, humiliation and relief rolled into one! It was over! Thank God it was over!
I had my back to everyone but I was informed later that for a split second Mrs Cowley’s face rivalled that of mine in the fear department, as she saw all the potential lawsuits piling up on her, the loss of a job even? As she came up behind me, she was actually pleasant and tried to sweeten me up by putting my arm around me. When she realised that I was laughing rather than crying and that somehow, by some pure miracle my ankle was only twisted, not broken and even the hurdle was reparable, the relief for her too must have been great. She even agreed to let us go inside after that and for the rest of the lesson, she was actually kind to me. I was flavour of the moment in my class too, for I had got them out of PE. I had my afternoon of glory.
It was all back to normal though the following day.

Ah! She Posts!

2005-03-17T07:39:00.000Z

You do not understand how much blood, sweat, tears and bad language went into the supposedly simple task of publishing the post below. I tried all day yesterday to get to my ‘create post’ page to no avail. Ended up having to write and save the post in Word. Everyone seems to be complaining about Blogger in some way or the other and the Status Blogger page is not much help, it just seems rife with understatements. I hope they sort it out soon, or I might have to start PAYING (ah!) for something a little more reliable.

Another false conviction...

2005-03-17T07:24:00.000Z

So it seems that after a six and a half year stint in prison, Donna Anthony’s murder conviction is going to be heard in the court of appeal. It seems then that she will walk free just like Angela Canning, Sally Clarke and Trupti Patel, just a few of the many cases referred to the Criminal Case Review Commission, based on the flawed evidence of Professor Sir Roy Meadows. Who claimed with very limited evidence that

"one sudden infant death is a tragedy, two is suspicious and three is murder, unless proven otherwise."

I really do not understand how a conviction could be based on such obviously flawed evidence in the first place. Even I can sit here and see that there is absolutely no logic in what he claims.
Does anyone truly believe that once a family has suffered a tragedy that they are somehow exempt from any thing terrible happening ever again. I know there is still much to be understood about SIDS but I cannot find any information suggesting that once the misfortune occurs the whole family is blessed with immunity. I’m not the world’s best mathematician (maybe someone can help me out here) but surely statistically, at the very least, it is as likely to happen the second time as it was the first?
My friend’s Mother knew someone who had two sons, both were run down and killed buy a car, in separate accidents on the same stretch of road, almost exactly three years apart. I knew someone at college who lost three kids in a house fire, tried for years to get pregnant again, suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, then had twins who were born dangerously premature and nearly died (but thankfully survived) I’m sure we all know people who just seem to attract heartbreak and tragedy.
As if losing one child is not enough but to have history repeat itself like that. To then be falsely accused of murdering your children (and we have all heard the horror stories of what happens to child abusers in prison) I just can’t even bring myself to think how I’d cope with just one of those things happening to me.
I just hope to God that if there is no other evidence to prove that Donna Anthony mudered her babies, she will walk free and somehow manage to piece the ruins of her life back into something bearable.

Whoops I missed a day!

2005-03-15T12:57:00.000Z

Would you believe it I’ve been ill again, this time a really sore throat and swollen glands. Also missed the blog roundup but as I need to catch up with all your blogs I have decided to carry it all over until next weekend and hopefully do a mighty big one.
I’m also behind on my study, after doing so well tying to get ahead before Littleone breaks up from school for Easter. I missed a tutorial at the weekend and I was supposed to be going out with my parents for the day on Sunday. Missed it all.
Nothing to blog about today except illness So if you could just click on the seal link on my side bar for me, it might just save a baby seal, or something, and hopefully we will be back to normal tomorrow.

Fur and the Fickle Fuckwits that Wear It:

2005-03-13T08:40:00.000Z

or; A Fair and Balanced Look at the Wearing of Dead Animals by Celebrities...
As if I didn’t have enough disdain for the celebrity supermodel culture. Not only do they acquire for themselves a fortune that would get a small Island in south east Asia back on its feet. Not only do they create the idea of a perfect female form, which is unachievable and unnatural for most of us but now it seems they are responsible for making real fur fashionable again.

Here is the celebrity walk of shame.
Jennifer Lopez. Think of all the people who could do with the £10,000 her lastest fox fur outfit is reported to have cost.
Kate Moss receives extra detention points for tainting Glastonbury with another animal's skin. (I bet you she wasn't roughing it in the mud with the rest of us)
Naomi Campbell When fur was not in fashion she appeared in the 'I'd rather go naked than wear fur' campaign she now wears fur on and off the catwalk. Has she no shame?
Coleen McLoughlin I don't even know who this woman is... Next?
Yasmin Le Bon Sporting a tasty fur shawl. Go on I know you want one..
Sienna Miller Hmmm, not sure I know who this one is either... Probably the ultimate insult to these people.
Elizabeth Jagger Keeping the head and tail on? Ewwwwwwwww!
Madonna I'm sure I remember reading somewhere that she was a vegetarian. Although on tying to research this on the web I have discovered that she was veggie once but now enjoys hunting, shooting and fishing. The fickleness of these people astounds me.
Liz Hurley So she likes the 'luxury'of real fur does she? While there are still starving people in the world then that word will always induce convulsions in me.
Jade Jagger Her coat is made of 20 silver foxes which have been kept in cages 2.5 foot square.
Blu Cantrell Err nope, this one is lost on me.
Cindy Crawford Also appeared in the 1994 'I's ather go Naked' ad but is now appearing in an American mink coat ad.

At least it seems that Sharon Osborne is a refomed fur addict and actively encourages others to ger rid of their fur.

An embarrased thank you to ICircle for featuring this article. (I know they have been the recipient of my wrath in the past)

If anyone knows of anybody not included on this list, add a comment to this message and help us to name and shame them in true tabloid style.

In addition it seems that PETA have proved that there is such a thing as a well informed, intelligent, caring celebrity. They have compiled a list of those who have spoken out against fur. There are the obvious choices, (Stella McCartney, Pamela Anderson) etc and also some suprises (Simon Cowell)

I assume I don't need to insult my readers' intelligence by ranting about what is wrong with fur. FurIsDead.com is a useful resorce for all sorts of information. If you are strapped for time then their FAQ is an informative starting point or refesher course.

A dream

2005-03-12T07:29:00.000Z

So I’ve managed to secure myself a ticket to the They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Book Awards, mainly because I want to see Benjamin Zephaniah. So I’m sitting there at this posh table with a posh table cloth drinking champagne out of a posh wine glass when they finally get round to reading out the nominations. There was Zola (although presumably he ‘sadly can not be with us tonight’) and the obvious choice of Karen Joy Fowler and Paula Byrne. Each time they read out a nomination they held up a nice neat copy of the book in question. Then they hold up this coffee stained, scruffy computer print out and say that it is a surprise nomination from a new author Purple Elephant.
I sit rooted to the spot with fear, how the hell did they get hold of my novel when it has not even been edited? Some chapters have not even been read through.
I open my mouth to scream ‘But there must be a mistake, it’s not finished!’ but naturally my voice doesn’t work.
In all the excitement Richard has dropped my novel and everyone is looking disgusted as all the dog-eared pages are landing in their dinner.
All the nominees are expected to stand on the stage for when they announce the winner and I’m eyeing up the door contemplating escape but everyone at my table is nudging me, telling me to get up on the stage.
Reluctantly I stand up and try to make my way to the stage without stumbling on my long cocktail dress. Only when I get to the steps I realise that what has been flapping around my legs is not in fact a cocktail dress but my dressing gown. My old purple dressing gown, with the hole in the back that I keep meaning to patch up.

Yay Mona!

2005-03-11T13:08:00.002Z

For Red Nose Day the kids had to go to school with their hair in the style of their favourite character. I was so busy spending the whole week thinking about how I was going to get Littleone’s short bob into the style of Mona the Vampire that I totally forgot until 9pm last night that we were also supposed to make a red nose too. After raiding the craft cupboard for inspiration I finally came up with the idea of making a red pom-pom. So there I was late last night watching Question Time and winding the wool round and round and round and round the donut shaped cardboard.
As luck would have it I actually managed to keep her sitting still long enough to do her hair this morning and as uniform is not compulsory in the nursery, she headed off in her red jumper and little skirt. Here is the photographic evidence, spot the difference if you dare.

Anyway when we got there it turned out that only about five kids out of two full classes had made the effort and I wasn’t sure if in her eyes this earned us cool brownie or total embarrassment points.
So when I went to pick her up I discovered that she had won a prize for her hair. Shall I repeat that? SHE WON A PRIZE! Her first ever prize!* Not the Nobel Peace or the Orange or Child Prodigy of the Year but a prize for wearing her hair in a few plaits! Not a bad start I have to say. (but had I known there was a book up for grabs, I might have made a purple cloak out of that old sheet upstairs. *Tut*)
Even so on the way home she told me that one of her friends who has red hair and looked like he does every day, claimed he had come as Ron Weasley. So she walked through the front door, prize in her hand exclaiming ‘Why couldn’t I have gone as Ron Weasley?’
No pleasing some people.

*This reminds me of a weird dream I had last night I will share it with you later.

When is Dairy Free not Vegan?

2005-03-10T07:56:00.000Z

When Tescos have anything to do with it.
So they are selling an own brand Dairy Free Easter egg, which is great for all the people in the UK who just happen to be allergic to dairy. However for the rest of us who choose the diet for ethical reasons the egg is out of bounds. The reason, a small packet of marshmallows that aren’t even vegetarian due to that fatal ingredient pork gelatine!
I just don’t get it! There are all sorts of non-gelatine sweets that could have been included. It is not as if Tescos are doing themselves any favours, I’m aware that the dairy free market is relatively small so why not make the egg available to the grand majority of this market. This survey suggests that 90% of vegans choose the diet for ethical/ moral reasons so presumably they are not going to eat gelatine sweets.
Oh well, I’d rather shop here anyway.
I feel a snarky email coming on…

Some thoughts on Milly-Molly-Mandy

2005-03-09T16:37:00.000Z

(I am having one of those days when words just keep coming out all wrong, so I apologise if this makes no sense whatsoever)
The school celebrated World Book Day last week by having a book fair and dishing out £1 voucher to all the kids. Apparently the school got 60% of whatever we spent at the fair to spend on books for the school. Something inside me wants to rant about why the kids aren’t getting free books to encourage reading etc but that is not the subject of this post.
So I took Littleone to the fair and she chose a book on extreme animals and we also came home with Milly-Molly-Mandy Stories which was more for me really because I loved those books when I was little. Coming to think of it, if I remember rightly my mum bought them for me because she too read them as a child.
I used to get excited over the little maps in the front of the books and so over the past couple of days I have been sitting with Littleone tracing my finger along the paths saying things like ‘Oh yes, that’s Mr. Blunt’s Corn Shop, where Billy Blunt lives!… and there’s the short cut to school,(but only in dry weather.)’ It was as if I had lived in that very village myself, along with Billy Blunt and Little Friend Susan, which in a way I guess I did, certainly if wishing was anything to go by.
Yes I lived out my little dreams in a bygone era when little girls could go roaming in the fields, exploring gypsy caravans they just happened to find there, when they could go riding with their friends on the back of their Grandfather’s pony cart, without their mother saying ‘Now only go as far as the end of the cul-de-sac and don’t talk to strangers.’ I also think my obsession had as much to do with what I thought were ‘pretty dresses’ worn by the women than anything else. (I knew nothing of the restriction of corsets)
It felt great sitting there sharing these stories with Littleone just as I had done with my own mother, that was until I got a couple of lines down on the first page, when I found myself reading out loud the following paragraph;

‘Father grew vegetables in the big garden by the cottage. Mother cooked the dinners and did the washing. Grandpa took the vegetables to market in his little pony cart. Grandma knitted socks and mittens and nice warm woollies for them all. Uncle kept cows (to give them milk) and chickens (to give them eggs). Aunty sewed frocks and shirts for them, and did the sweeping and dusting.’

Ouch!
Despite all this a grand part of me still wants to share the charm of these stories with my children yet now I feel the urge to say to her ‘This is the way it used to be but now things are different, we still have a long way to go but at least these days Mummy can grow vegetables (well if she had a big garden by a cottage that is, or just a garden will do, but I’m sure you get my drift) and Daddy even cooks dinner sometimes.’ But then I still keep having to remind myself that she is only three, and maybe I should let her have her gentle age of innocence without bringing politics into everything we read.
Maybe it is all about balance, as well as Milly-Molly-Mandy, we also read Princess Smartypants (a fantastic story of a princess who doesn’t want to get married and has to keep fighting off endless suitors) and her favourite TV programme right now is Mona the Vampire, who I think is a feisty, imaginative, independent role model, so I do approve of her.
When I used to read Milly-Molly-Mandy I would look back to an idyllic time that I thought had gone forever. With Littleone I hope to read these books and look forward to a time where we can take what is appealing about Milly-Molly-Mandy (the simple life, a return to nature) whilst still retaining and improving on all that has been achieved elsewhere.
Oh and as much as I love them, I don’t think I could cope with living with grandparents and uncles and aunties etc. *Shudder*

But I was a Quaker last time....

2005-03-08T16:58:00.001Z

Via Kate

You scored as paganism. Your beliefs are most closely aligned with those of paganism, Wicca, or a similar earth-based religion. You may also follow a Native American religion.

paganism

75%

Buddhism

75%

Islam

71%

Hinduism

71%

agnosticism

67%

Satanism

63%

Judaism

33%

atheism

29%

Christianity

21%

Which religion is the right one for you? (new version)
created with QuizFarm.com

I remember doing something similar a while back.

A Question for you today...

2005-03-07T12:31:00.000Z

How does my sidebar load for you?
Is it slow and does it seem to jam at the Currently Reading and the Blogroll? Does it do this at any other blogs that use All Consuming and Blogrolling?

Weekend blog roundup...

2005-03-06T09:15:00.000Z

1) A great post at Half Changed World about the minefield school choice. Yep that's another stress to add to the Purple Elephant household right now. Elizabeth makes some interesting points.
2)Purple Elephant's favourite poem of the week goes to 'Praise be to God who pities wankers' by Harry Smart posted here. Found via Feministe.
3) A funny gag at Wildwriter
4) Talking of gagging (did you see that link? Did you see it?)Just to prove that someone with talent can take any subject and make it appealing, I bring you Joshie Boy on Grandma's Festive Holiday Puke Buckets. A response to the beautifully titled Baby we were born to run over at One Whipped Mother. Oh and in case you were wondering ours is yellow, with a broken handle.
********
Looking back over the links, you can probably tell what sort of mood I'm in this week.

The Fear..

2005-03-05T12:02:00.000Z

Well my first essay for this course was finished, stamped and posted yesterday. I never feel the relief straight away, for a few days after the work is out of my hands the fear sets in. Did I answer the question, or did I meander off on some sort of irrelevant tangent? All those long words, did I use them (or spell them) correctly, or did I point out my ignorance in a most embarrassing way thus demonstrating that I have been bluffing all along and have no literary ability whatsoever? Coming to think of it, did I commit the worst faux pas ever by spelling the author’s name wrong? (It’s Jane Austin right?) And to top it all off, will our postal service deliver the thing in one piece? (Don’t even think about it oh post person, for I have a certificate of posting)
I know what you are thinking, as an older student I am supposed to have more of a grip, I am supposed to see the whole thing in perspective, there is more to life than having a couple of letters after your name. Yet I feel that having been a drop out the first time round, as I get older it becomes more important to me, I have more to prove and more to lose. I think of the wage I have taken away from my family, all that barking, ‘Not right now I’m studying.’ It has to come to something.
So all this navel gazing goes on for a few days, and I can bet my left arm (for I am left-handed) that at least one person (usually me) will turn round and say in a cheery voice, ‘No point in worrying! Not a lot you can do about it now!’ without realising that this is the exact reason I am worrying in the first place because there is nothing I can do about it now.
After a few days I usually find something else to occupy my thoughts (I hear Zola is not bad) and I put it to the back of my mind. Then, in few weeks time something drops though the letterbox and I know that my blood, sweat and tears have been returned to me in an envelope with a grade scrawled on the front. Then the fear returns again.

A meteorologist in the making

2005-03-04T07:51:00.000Z

So I was going to write a whole post bitching about this godawful weather we are having, when Littleone summed it up far better than I ever could. ‘Oh Mummy’ she declared on stepping out the door yesterday. ‘It’s so cold that it’s made all the hot go away.’
I might just hand this blog over to her, what do you think?

Same title, different day..

2005-03-02T07:45:00.000Z

This time via Scone
You are 'programming in QBASIC'. This programming
language (of which the acronym stands for
'Quick Beginners' All-purpose Symbolic
Instruction Code'), which is so primitive that
it cannot easily be used for any purpose
involving the Internet nor even sound, was
current more than a decade ago.

You are independent, in a good way. When something
which you need cannot be found, you make it
yourself. In writing and in talking with
people, you value clarity and precision; your
friends may not realize how important that is.
When necessary, you are prepared to be a
mediator in conflicts between your friends.
You are very rational, and you think of things
in terms of logic and common sense.
Unfortunately, your emotionally unstable
friends may be put off by your devotion to
logic; they may even accuse you of pedantry and
insensitivity. Your problem is that
programming in QBASIC has been obsolete for a
long time.

What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I am the procrastination queen

2005-03-01T17:47:00.000Z

When you have cleaned the house, read bag loads of blogs, surfed the net, read some (non-academic) books, and prepared dinner. There is nothing like a good friend to bring a good old quiz to your attention so that you don’t have to make a start on that assignment….
But this quiz is really important, I might learn something…
Cheers Lili..

The Commonly Confused Words Test:

English Genius
You scored 93% Beginner, 93% Intermediate, 93% Advanced, and 77% Expert!
You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go!

So the above screen came up and I routed about in my so-called ‘extensive vocabulary’ for the right words to describe my shock and do you know what I came up with?
‘Fuck!’
Beautiful innit?

Zolafest 2005

2005-02-28T20:57:00.000Z

I finished Germinal a couple of days ago and I have to say that Zola has blown me away. It is so rare that an author can do everything well, character, dialogue, suspense, tension, romance, love and politics. But I’ve thought about it and I’ve tried to find fault and really I can’t.
So then the ‘which author have you read 10 books by?’ meme came along and I just happened to notice that Purple Pen has read 10 Zola novels, it was instant jealousy!
‘But I want to read 10 Zola novels!’ I wailed as I stamped my feet.
Then I had an idea… I could set myself a little task to complete 10 Zola books before the year is out. One down, only nine to go, that would be one a month and should I fall behind there would even be a month left over for catching up.
Every rational bone in my body screamed ‘Nooooo,’ and so I put the silly thought to one side along with my copy of Germinal and moved on to a pleasant light read from the they-who-must-not-be-named book club.
But the voices in my head are screaming ‘We want Zola! We want Zola!’ and the only way I can shut them up is to read the bloody books. I mean it is not like I’ve got anything else to do, a degree to finish, a novel to edit, a child to drag up, dinner to cook, kitchen to clean, not at all. Bah! It can all wait!
So what I have decided is to have a Zola book of the month, for March I have chosen L’Assommoir, for no other reason than it was going cheap in the local bookshop. The aim is that is shall be read by 1st April when book of the month will change.
This would be so much more fun if someone would join me, or challenge me or just jump right in wherever I am….
Anyone?
Thought not..

Weekend Blog Roundup.

2005-02-27T23:03:00.000Z

I have started this three times today and the computer has crashed on me, so forgive me if I sound not quite so enthusiastic as I should. Nothing personal and all that….
1) I have already mentioned Fragments from Floyd once this week but I have suddenly become addicted to this blog. Take a look at this picture, also Fred is compiling a list of all those taking part in the Where I’m from exercise, he is aiming for 100, so if you have taken part, head on over and give him your link.
2) There are many great blogs dealing with infertility and adoption but over at Wet Feet, Kateri gives us the other point of view having given up a child for adoption herself. I have learned a lot, maybe you will too.
3) Julie at A Little Pregnant gives us her Mama manifesto
4) And while we are on the subject of poetry. I love Scone’s limerick.

Entertaining the intelligentsia…

2005-02-27T09:13:00.000Z

Another reason not to take you three year old shopping on a Saturday;
as well as making you buy impractical, hideous clothes, she may let out your dark family secrets.
When I was ill this week, I couldn’t move and my head hurt too much to read so I admit, I watched a little too much daytime TV. One of the programmes I stumbled across was *looks from side to side* RichardandJudy, and lo and behold I actually want to read almost every recommendation on their book club list. Unfortunately the urge to read one or two of them got too much for me yesterday and I decided that a 40 minute walk to Waterstones in the sleet, hail, driving rain and biting wind would be the order of the day. (Spring where are you? But that is another post.)
So we stumbled through the doors looking like three harassed, bickering, drowned rats, only to discover that the Cambridge Intelligentsia had torn themselves away from their research papers for a pleasurable, dry, peaceful afternoon browsing the bookshops.
I felt like a teenager trying to buy condoms in the local chemist.
There I was thinking I would be able to surreptitiously grab the books and run (to the checkout of course) pretending that I didn’t even know they were on the RichardandJudy book club list. No one told me however that Waterstones have their own special RichardandJudy bookshelf, with a subtle RichardandJudy life size cardboard cutout alongside. Oh yes.
So amid one or two not so favourable glances from the Intelligentsia I wandered over, trying to sound surprised,
‘Oh look that’s handy! The two books are next to each other on the shelf.’
Then there was a sudden excited rumbling from somewhere half way up my leg.
‘It’s Richard and Judy!’
Vital parent lesson number one; NEVER ignore your children when they are embarrassing you. It can only make things worse.
I chose the neatest copies available and began to move.
‘Mummy, I said. Look it’s Richard and Judy!’
Mr PE suddenly remembered something he urgently needed to purchase from the shop opposite.
‘Is it?’ I mumbled under my breath as Mr PE disappeared out the door.
Vital parent lesson number two; Do not mumble your reply, it is just not going to work.
‘MUMMY LISTEN TO ME! RICHARD AND JUDY ARE ON THE BOOKSHELF!’
I do believe I saw the Intelligentsia snicker; hopefully there was still time to redeem myself.
‘Oh yes. I think maybe you are right.’ I said in my best oh-yes-I-think-I-recognise-them-from-somewhere voice.
Vital parent lesson number three; Do not walk away from embarrassing object. The child will only think they have to shout louder.
‘I AM RIGHT! I SAW THEM ON TV!’
‘Did you indeed?’
By now we were in the checkout queue but we could still see the freakin’ RichardandJudy cut-out. Littleone seemed to think that if she hollered loud enough, RichardandJudy would come to life and offer her a special ‘I heart Richard and Judy’ badge. (Oh! The shame!)
‘YES YOU WERE THERE! REMEMBER!’
‘Was I? Why don’t we keep the noise down a bit? People are trying to read.’
WRONG! Even the Intelligentsia find listening to someone dig a hole for themselves far more interesting than any book on the shelf at Waterstones.
‘YES. DON’T YOU REMEMBER? YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU LOVE RICHARD AND JUDY!’
‘I did NOT say that!’
‘YES YOU DID! I WANTED TO WATCH TIME BANDITS BUT YOU SAID NO BECAUSE YOU WERE WATCHING RICHARD AND JUDY!’
‘No, you see I was sick. I couldn’t reach the video shelf.’ (I can’t believe I said that)
By now we were at the checkout and the assistant was trying not to laugh.
‘I CRIED AND SAID ‘I HATE RICHARD AND JUDY’.’
At this moment I kept quiet and started praying instead.
‘AND YOU SAID ‘BUT I LOVE RICHARD AND JUDY’.’
Transaction complete, we were out of there but first we had to pass the godforsaken cut-out and of course just in case there happened to be anyone (on the uppermost floor of Waterstones perhaps?) that didn’t catch our little conversation. Littleone had to ice that cake, big time.
‘BYE BYE RICHARD AND JUDY.’ she waved at their smug, cardboard smiles.
‘I LOVE YOU AS MUCH AS MUMMY NOW!’
Oh Littleone! I’m sure all those professors are so glad there is a happy ending to your little love story.
So how long do you think I should leave it before I show my face in Waterstones again?

I love this!

2005-02-26T10:31:00.000Z

Via Michelle I found this wonderful writing exercise that seems to be flying about the blogoshphere at the moment. It is based upon a poem by George Ella Lyons called ‘Where I’m from.’All the instructions and a very helpful but by no means restrictive template can be found at Fragments from Floyd.
If you need some inspiration then this post at Pratie Place is linking to everybody taking part, you will find some beautiful writing there.
Most of us agree that is will probably be an ongoing thing, so what I have here is only a first draft.
I enjoyed the excecise from a finding out about myself point of view, but here is sure evidence as to why I don’t usually attempt poetry… be warned.

I am from words,
from Alice in Wonderland under the Christmas tree
and Mr Small in a hospital bed
again
and again
and again.

I am from the narrow room above the garage,
barely big enough for a bed,
matching Holly Hobbie duvet and curtains,
from Littlewoods catalogue,
and the feel of pink, fluffy carpet underfoot.

I am from a fairy house in a hollowed out oak tree,
a den in a bush like an upturned mixing bowl,
and the first snowdrops of Spring.

I am from cuddles during a lunchtime episode of The Sullivans,
tears and tummy ache in the mornings,
from Ben,
Mikey and Janey,
and a long succession of hamsters.

I am from a fierce collision
between the Guardian and the Telegraph
and from dodging the political sparks that fly.

From a fear of Girl's World, Big Ben, and broken tulips,
from cruel taunts on the climbing frame,
humiliating rehearsals for the school play
and the shame of never making the netball team.

I am from the Church of the Holy Motor Car
and ‘Don’t kick the paint on your way out’
from ‘work hard’, ‘don’t be lazy’
and ‘you’re treading play dough into the carpet.’

I'm from a supermarket, once a hospital,
salt and sand filled sandwiches in the biting wind
and a shared whiskey and a wink when the women weren’t watching.

From a candle extinguished during childbirth,
a half-orphan bought up by a theosophical aunt
and a bold Communist bookshop in wartime.

I am from a box of old journals in a smoke damaged attic,
a cabinet of tiny china shoes
and many blank pages yet to be adorned.

***
OK, so I know you can do better, so give it a go.
And as this is a blog entry and none of this is overly private, feel free to ask me to expand on anything in the poem.

She didn’t kill them…

2005-02-25T14:09:00.000Z

I’ve got some vital information for all you Daily Mail readers, for I know how you get all worked up over your sensationalist headlines without reading any further, are you ready for it? Here goes; Maxine Carr did not kill Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman, therefore your comparison to Myra Hindley is inaccurate, not to mention unjust.
Now I am going to ask you to do one for thing for me, I know you are going to find this difficult but take it slowly and you might learn something. I want you to take a step back from the hideousness of the actual crime committed by Ian Huntley (Maxine Carr’s boyfriend, not her. Do you get it yet?) and forget those cute pictures of those innocent little girls, just for one moment. Now imagine something just as repulsive has happened in your community, are you still with me? Now think of the person you love the most, husband, wife, son, mother, father? Now imagine they were alone in the house on the night of the murder and have already said they were the last to see the girls alive. The police are about to descend upon them like a pack of hounds. What if it never crossed your mind that your loved one would commit such an atrocity? Don’t you think it would be so much easier for everyone; your loved one, you, the community, and the police (because then they can get along with finding the real criminal) if you just told them you were in the house too? Are you telling me that the thought wouldn’t even cross your mind, not even for a split second?
For she probably only had a split second, and there it was, it was said, no going back now.
If at any point during the above paragraph you thought, ‘but my loved one would never do anything so terrible.’ then you have proved my point.
So she lied to the police, she was tried and sentenced, she was punished accordingly, she served her time and now she is free. Except she never will be free because of people like you, oh Daily Mail reader and your pathetic sensationalist bog roll of a ‘news’ paper and its idiotic and illogical insinuations. Yes rather than trying to pick up the pieces of her life, where she left off, she has been stripped of her friends, family and her identity, all for that one misguided mistake.
And before you start going on about your hard earned taxes being spent keeping her in bullet proof vests, don’t forget that it was people like you, threatening to take the law into your own hands, that caused the need for anonymity to arise.
And I know you are sitting there muttering something about the girls’ families and their life sentences. Don’t you dare insult their grief by suggesting that having Maxine Carr hounded for the rest of her life, would somehow alleviate their pain.
The murders of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman were sickening, everyone agrees with you on that one. Ian Huntley will never see the light of day and it looks as if there will be a tightening of policy so that accused sexual offenders do not work with children. Please let us calm down about Maxine Carr, her vilification is not going to help anyone.

10 Books....

2005-02-24T13:11:00.000Z

Today is the first day that I'm feeling 100% better after the freak illness. As a result I've got a lot of catching up to do, so bear with me whilst I fob you off with another meme.
Purple Pen and Billy actually did this a week and a half ago and yes I have been thinking about it all this time. It’s a difficult one…

‘Which authors have you read more than ten books by?’

1. Shakespeare (Yes it does count, they are books are they not?)
2. Enid Blyton (Lashings of ginger Beer anyone?)
3. Beatrix Potter (Scraaape that barrel)
4. Roald Dahl (Of course)
and finally one of which I’m actually proud…
5. Virginia Woolf

I cannot actually think of any more. Pathetic isn’t it?

Can you do any better?

When Littleone grows up she wants to be….

2005-02-23T19:04:00.000Z

She came home this morning and made that announcement for the first time.

She wants to be a Fire fighter!

So I told her that it was a very noble profession and that I was proud of her.
And then I pictured my little baby running headlong into a burning building and I thought, hell can’t you just sell out to the corporate devil or something?!
And then I remembered that she was only three and that perhaps I was taking her revelation a touch too seriously.

Bleurgh…

2005-02-22T07:39:00.000Z

Yesterday I was struck down by something mega nasty. Spent most of the afternoon on the sofa wearing every item of clothing I could find but still shivering and sweating at the same time. Thinking about it maybe that had more to do with the daytime TV I was forced to watch than anything else.
The worst thing was that I couldn’t sleep, the crawly skin feeling coupled with the fever meant that I couldn’t get comfortable. My special trick of the long night was tying to keep a paracetamol down long enough to bring my temperature down, once that was established I finally slept like a baby.
This morning, I feel well enough, considering only a few hours ago I was at death’s door. Just had a coffee, now tying to decide if toast is a good idea.
Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the rest of the family to go down with it…
Now don’t thank me all at once..

How the other half lives..

2005-02-20T23:49:00.000Z

An old friend of mine got engaged to Mr Right who, on the back of a job offer they ‘couldn’t refuse,’ whisked her off to New Zealand about a year ago. They have recently retuned to the UK for a brief visit. So this afternoon Littleone and I, plus a couple of other friends popped round for a cup of tea.
It turns out that they have bought a plot of land in NZ and are having a house built to their own specifications; naturally the plans got passed round. You see there I was dreaming this one extra bedroom cum spare room cum study (for both of us) cum hobby room all thrown in together, when really I think I’ve got it all wrong. There in front of me on this piece of paper were four bedrooms; a family room (but you have no family I thought. It’s just the two of you) as well as a living room; a study and a separate hobby room; more bathrooms than I’ve had hot dinners and to top it all off a laundry room. For them this is no dream, it is being built right now.
As I held the papers on my lap, I dared to dream a little more. I tried to imagine Littleone having fun running in and out of all the rooms, Mr PE in the hobby room playing his guitar, me deciding which bathroom I should choose for a nice long soak…. Yet for some reason in my dream I was strutting around in a cream power suit and heels, Littleone was wearing a white silk dress with pink roses embroidered around the seams and Mr PE was clean-shaven and I couldn’t make him play anything other than Eric Clapton. However hard I tried I couldn’t make it us.
Somewhere from the depths of my psyche, an evil voice cried ‘This could have been yours, if you had chosen a Mr. Right.’
I looked at Mr. Right with his neatly combed hair, crisp blue jeans and starched jumper, his polite surface conversation and his polite surface sense of humour, not to mention his job that couldn’t be refused, and I wondered if that was a price I would ever have been prepared to pay.
As I waited in the biting cold for a train home I thought once more of those plans and I saw those two warm cars parked in the double garage.
So the train finally came and I phoned Mr PE, he was in the pub with some friends and suggested I stop by on my way home. When I reached to door, I glanced though the glass and stole a moment before he noticed me. I saw the straggly hair peeping out from behind his bandana and his grisly beard, but most of all I saw the stories told by those dark eyes, slightly glazed by many years of depression.
They were playing Under the Bridge on the Jukebox and we all joked for a bit calling it the Real Under the Bridge as opposed to that version by that dappy girl band whose name none of us could remember. We had all been invited back to Mr PE’s friend’s place but I insisted that I had to get Littleone tucked up warm in bed. Mr. PE offered to come with me but I sent him on his way with a kiss and then began the last leg of my journey home.
I thought about getting a bus but knew they were infrequent at this time of night on a Sunday and decided that I’d rather walk for 30 minutes than sit and wait at a bus stop for even half that time. Just as I reached the halfway point, it began to snow again, a bitter icy sleety kind of snow. Littleone had fallen asleep under her warm blanket and once again I thought of the cars. I stepped up my pace and as I turned the corner into our street and fumbled for some keys, a group of youths shouted some abuse from the open window of a passing car.
‘Oh f**k off!’ I muttered under my breath.
At the bottom of the stairs I abandoned the stroller and shopping bags as I carried my daughter carefully up the concrete stairs. Turning the key with one hand and shoving the door with my shoulder I finally found myself stumbling upon the warm air of the flat. Without turning on any lights I lay my child down on the bed, she stirred as I removed her damp coat and her heavy shoes.
‘Stay with me Mummy.’
‘I’m just going to tuck you up and then I have to run downstairs to get the shopping. Is that OK?’
She nodded as her eyes began to droop once more.
Once I had retrieved the bags, I hung our coats in the airing cupboard to dry and stuck my head round the door. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily, so I kissed her on the forehead and whispered,
‘I love you.’
Her lips barely moved as she purred,
‘I love you too Mummy.’
Downstairs again I tuned on my new favourite lamp, (half price in the Argos sale) and lit some incense. Slung over the back of the chair I found my snug rainbow cardigan which I wrapped around my shoulders as I sunk into the creaky sofa. With my boots slung into a corner somewhere I tucked my feet under me and surveyed the room. The elephant throw, the threadbare carpet, the caving bookshelves, the scattering of toys I hadn’t had time to clear up this morning, and as I contentedly pulled an old purple blanket over my legs I smiled.
And you know that voice? That self same voice which earlier had been so cruel? At that moment it sang, and do you know what it said?
‘Home sweet home.’

Weekend Blog Roundup.

2005-02-20T09:17:00.000Z

Quick one today as I am running out of time....
1) There has been a Judith Warner explosion in the blogosphere. I linked to some in my post on the article but since then so many more bloggers have tackled the subject. Jody does a great job of rounding all the posts up here.
2) Are you an animal lover? Then you must read Lori’s appreciation of Ruby her daughter’s hamster.
3) This post at Living on Less is well worth a read.
4) Mir’s amusing account of an Oh-so-embarrassing yeast infection.

And so he dies again yawn

2005-02-19T09:16:00.000Z

I watched Eastenders semi religiously from the beginning until about 3 years ago. I remember the day well, I had a sudden epiphany where I stood up and thought ‘My God I waste two hours of my week watching this rubbish.’ and turned it off. To be fair I remember when it used to be good, I watched it because it dealt with recognisable people with real issues with just a little bit of poetic license thrown in for good measure. At some point however they got more concerned with the ‘ratings war’ (whatever that might be) and conjured up some far out storylines and tried (and failed) to turn it into Dallas in the East End.
For nostalgia’s sake, I attempted to start watching it again when Dirty Den returned from the dead and promptly turned it off once more when I realised that it wasn’t going anywhere. Since then I have managed to take in one or two episodes, enough to realise that Chrissie (Den’s second wife) could have been one of the most intriguing characters since err well Angie but as usual the writers screwed up big time and pushed her flat on her face.
So for some reason yesterday at 8pm I sat there with my finger on the remote thinking ‘Shall I? Shan’t I?’ and, dear Reader, I did. I can now add to my list of ‘All the exciting things Purple Elephant has done with her life’ ‘Watched Den Watts die’ not once, but TWICE!
Yep another hour of my life down the drain.
The juxtaposing of Andy and Den’s death just served to highlight my irritation. I would have liked to have seen fewer tears and a little more cold blood in Den’s murder. I mean why oh why do we (and yes I mean you too, oh directors of every single Harry Potter film so far) think that women have to scream like that whenever they are in distress?
‘What shall we do?’ screamed one of the girlies (I know not which) after establishing Den’s demise.
Well, I’m not exactly well versed in the art of murder but if you want my advice, don’t screech, ‘Oh my God he’s dead!’ just as most of the residents of Albert Square are walking past outside. It is bound to attract just a little attention and we all know how good soap characters are at keeping secrets.
But it’s OK of course because Walford seems to have the worst police force in the history of the United Kingdom, ever. No doubt the girlies will just throw him in a couple of bin bags shove him into a taxi cab (which will no doubt drive slowly round the Square a couple of times) and throw him back in the canal. Oh wait, no, he was just pretending to be in there in the first place. Oh hell now I’m confused.
How convenient, the man was bludgeoned to death with Pauline Fowler’s comedy dog door-stop (I admit that was a nice touch) and there was no blood. That’ll save me being bored to tears next episode whilst I watch them scrub the carpet with the Ajax. DNA testing has obviously not yet reached that remote corner of London.
Hang on a second. There will be no next episode, not for me anyway. You will not catch me bumping up their viewing figures ever again.
Repeat after me…..
‘You will not catch me bumping up their viewing figures ever again.’
‘You will not catch me bumping up their viewing figures ever again.’
‘You will not catch me bumping…..’
*snore*

Hunting with dogs…

2005-02-18T17:16:00.000Z

It seems that pathetic outdated so-called ‘sport’ is now finally illegal. This should have gone through years ago, but because of a few self-interested aristocrats in the Lords and a Prime Minister too scared to speak his mind lest he should upset them, this has taken up way too much parliamentary time over the past eight years.
Yet still these idiots are on my local news defending their right to kill another one of God’s creatures, with some of the most ridiculous arguments I have ever heard. So once and for all I shall present their pathetic excuses, knock them down and say no more…

1) But if we don’t kill foxes then the fox population will get dangerously high and take over the world; Come on, if you really believed this then you would stop your hunting, sit back and wait, and in a years time when all the zillions of foxes are breaking into our schools and attacking our children, you will rear your tweed capped little heads and say ‘I told you so.’ By which time we will all be begging you to hunt again.
2) Oh but it is tradition. We have done it for years. Well logically you can’t present points 1 and 2 at the same time. Either you are doing us all a favour OR you do it for fun. This was the same weak argument used against universal suffrage and the abolition of slavery. Have you never heard of PROGRESS? Most of us have evolved so that we don’t need to kill to have a good time.
3) *Sob* But what of all the jobs that will be lost? Oh that’s right I thought I recognised you from somewhere, you were out supporting the miners’ strike in the 1980s weren’t you? No? What was that? You only care about your own jobs?
4) Our social liberties are being taken from us. Oh so you stand for social justice now do you? In that case is it my social liberty to come round to your mansion and help myself to the silver? Thought not!
5) Oh but what about the cute little hounds? They will have to be put down. Why not just stop breeding them instead? Surely if you have looked after the hounds until now you can carry on until they die naturally? Oh I see, they are of no use to you now, so they have to go. I can see how much you care for your dogs.
6) Oh but what of my little old Granny and her little Jack Russell? They often go walking in the country? What if the Jack Russell were to accidentally kill a fox? My innocent Granny will be put in prison. (Yes they really have been spreading this utter drivel) Now I admit my faith in our legal justice system leaves a little to be desired but I think most policemen could tell the difference between a little old lady walking a dog and a large group of redcoats on horseback with a pack of hounds.
7) You city dweller. You don’t understand the country. Once I saw a group of youths rip a branch from a tree and I felt the physical pain as if they had amputated my own arm. Whenever I’m down by the river I lie down amongst the damp grass and listen to the wind blowing softly in the rushes and I feel as if it is speaking to me. Not once has it said, ‘What? You haven’t chased a fox to exhaustion and then let your dogs rip it to shreds? Well go away and don’t come back until you have’

Books glorious books.

2005-02-18T08:11:00.000Z

These past couple of days I’ve over excerted myself with this blogging lark, so today via Kate, I bring you something that doesn’t inolve me thinking too hard.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence. (Oh what? I have to count? I thought this was going to be easy!)
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.

By my side I have my Valentines pressie from Mr Purple Elephant. Women’s Voices; Their Lives and Loves through Two Thousand Years of Letters. Edited by Olga Kenyon.
Oh how topical! Page 123 brings me a couple of pages into a chapter entitled ‘Running a Household.’
It is 1535 and Jane Basset is writing to her stepmother Lady Lisle to complain about the local priest, who is stealing from the house and treating it as a brothel.
Ah now I have built up your excitement for no reason as actually the fifth sentence consists of only one word.

‘Amen’

Shall I give you the next one too?

‘Also, as I hear say, Sir John Bonde will be with you shortly for to excuse him and Bremelcum and give you a pig of your own sow.’

On Perfection (once more)

2005-02-17T09:18:00.003Z

Geeky Mom has linked to an interesting Newsweek article entitled, Mommy Madness which deals with the strive for parental perfection. While you are there you could also read the relatively shorter article, Slacker Mom (go on you’ll like it!)
The overall point of the article seems to be that we are not doing ourselves or our children any favours by nearly killing ourselves trying to be perfect. Naturally I couldn’t agree more, but don’t we also owe it to others too? Geeky Mom admits that the main culprit to her feelings of inadequacy is peer pressure. In that case then by being the first to lower our standards, we could be breaking that cycle of 'keeping up with the Jones’.
My main frustration with the article is that age-old problem of class. I couldn’t help but to feel a little irritated when I read,

‘Yet as mothers many women face "choices" on the order of: You can continue to pursue your professional dreams at the cost of abandoning your children to long hours of inadequate child care. Or: You can stay at home with your baby and live in a state of virtual, crazy-making isolation because you can't afford a nanny, because there is no such thing as part-time day care, and because your husband doesn't come home until 8:30 at night.’

Of course Judith Warner fails to address the issue of those who have no choice but to work. I’m not talking of mothers who ‘pursue their professional dreams’ but those who cannot pay the bills, cannot afford child care and are limited to some mind-numbing, soul-destroying, dead-end job that can be done when the kids are in bed and the husband gets home. Or worse what of the single mother I know who three nights a week leaves her fifteen year old daughter in charge of the roost while she works behind the bar in the pub a couple of doors down the street? I’m not really sure where she fits in to this extract.
As a result of this omission whilst I wholeheartedly agree with the solutions put forward by Warner, and would like nothing more than to see these policies applied both sides of the Atlantic, I feel they don’t go far enough. I personally would like to see more financial help for single parents, and working class families, so that they too have the choice mentioned in the above extract. I particularly liked Warner’s third suggestion;

‘We need flexible, affordable, locally available, high-quality part-time day care so that stay-at-home moms can get a life of their own. This shouldn't, these days, be such a pipe dream…’

But on top of this I would like to see more affordable drop-in day care, in local shopping centres, libraries etc. Places where parents do not have to commit themselves over a period of time, but can wake in the morning feeling isolated and highly strung, knowing there is somewhere safe where the kids can play whilst they gather themselves together.
Geeky Mom links to a couple of blogs who address the class issue somewhat by arguing that the descriptions of the mothers staying up all night painting paper plates, only applies to one side of the socio-economic divide. In my predominantly working class area of Cambridge, the paraphernalia may differ but the strive for perfection still exists. Here outside the school gates, I do not hear discussions of ‘the right ballet class’ but I do hear concerns about overcrowding, fresh air, healthy food and that old chestnut, ‘quality time’
As parents our basic underlying problems are surprisingly similar, whether we are male or female; stay at home or working; rich or poor; etc etc, and I would like to see policies and articles that address these issues in a more unifying manner.
Update; Just noticed that Elizabeth at Half Changed World has an interesting take on the Newsweek article. Also she links to some other aticles by the same woman/ Argh! More reading to do!

Drudgery thy Name is Woman; Part 2.

2005-02-15T16:02:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago I wondered if where housework is concerned, environmentalism and feminism could go hand in hand. In response both Jenn and Kate have written some excellent posts.
Kate linked to a review of a book called TechnoFeminism (which went straight in my Amazon wishlist) This brought up the interesting but very important point that,

'Assembly-line manufacturing of goods such as mobiles has moved offshore to exploit low-paid female workers in the developing world'

So to stick with our example of a dishwasher, we are wasting water, making those who can't afford a dishwasher feel inferior and now we are exploiting women in the third world. Oh it gets worse!
Another solution brushed upon in Jenn's response is the idea of paying someone else to do the job. Let us assume for one moment that both Jenn and I could afford to pay a cleaner and we placed a little advert in our local newsagent's. Would any of the applicants be male? I doubt it. And what about the small matter of pay, would we offer them anything more than the minimum wage? I doubt that too.
I've been thinking about what exactly makes those household chores so mind numbingly soul destroying. I'm sure that part of the reason is that they are thankless and go mostly un-noticed. For example when was the last time your man came home and said 'Wow! I can see my face in the sink! You are a genius!' or 'My socks are so clean. Thank you!' Can you even remember? How about parents' evening? Does the teacher ever say, 'Your child's intelligence and good behaviour is a testament to your excellent parenting skills.'?
However I have also been thinking about the more male orientated tasks. When Mr. Purple Elephant put up some shelves for me I distinctly remember saying 'Thank you for doing that. Now I can get my books off the floor.' When he fixes the camera I will say 'Thank you! Now I can finish posting pictures of my spotless home to my blog.' And it goes on, I'm sure you can all think of many more examples.
It's not that I am blaming the men for being ungrateful because it is not as if we women are all jumping at the chance to help each other out. Jenn makes an important point when she says

'perhaps my lack of confidence in my still-new job means I need someone to say it to me, or that home-working women should be saying it to eachother more.'

Definitely! I'm not suggesting that we all go around admiring each others sinks that would be ludicrous, but I do think there should be a little more encouragement and community amongst women, particularly when they make choices beneficial to the environment. Mother Earth cannot thank Jenn personally because rather than chucking a disposable in the landfill she has chosen to sluice those nappies down the toilet, soak them in the bucket, drain them (ugh if I remember rightly that was the worst bit!) carry them to the washing machine, find somewhere to dry them before folding them and putting them back on the baby. So maybe we should thank her and encourage her instead.
This is where, in my case, the blogging revolution has helped. Before I got into blogging I didn't know one other mother who so much as considered using anything other than a disposable nappy. Also for most of them the answer to the self fulfillment debate was simply to go back to work. I now feel re-assured knowing that there are other mothers who realise that on top of all this there is so much more to fit in, (intelligent thought, reading, writing, friendship etc)
But more importantly above all this we must remind each other that we don't have to be perfect, either in our glassware, our parenting or our environmentalism . The last thing I wanted to do was to make those who have dishwashers, disposable nappies or cleaners feel inferior, I simply wanted to open up a debate about some hypothetical, ideal situation, and give us something to think about whilst we complete our chores.
Blogging? The answer to all our problems? Well it won't wash the dishes but it may help ease the drudgery and reassure us about our choices.

A new word for you Dr. Johnson…

2005-02-15T09:55:00.000Z

Our Valentine’s dinner was getting ruined as Littleone would not stay in bed. So as I abandoned my already cold pasta to cajole that daughter of ours up the stairs for the 100th time,that night she started crying. Not real crying you understand, that fake noise that indicates they are too tired to even protest properly.
‘Oh come on,’ I asserted as I tucked her up in bed, giving her a goodnight kiss and rearranging the teddies one last time, ‘You’re just pretending.’
Between fake sobs she answered,
‘No I’m not I’m realing.’

Happy St Valentines Day…

2005-02-14T16:54:00.000Z

My Valentine’s present here, and Mr PE got this (But from Galloway & Porter because we are skint) I’m cooking pasta with tomato sauce and veggie ‘meat’ balls tonight and for pudding we are having heart shaped chocolate chip cookies. *Blush*
So what are you all up to?

Weekend blog round up…

2005-02-13T09:33:00.000Z

1) This week congratulations are due to Rockstar Mummy and Daddy who have another little Rockstar on the way.
2) More congratulations for Kate who has a new job.
3) Talking of jobs, a great big boo to Spiral’s employers who laid him off after all the work he put in. To mark the change he has a new blog and a new name. Why not head over and say hello to Bubblehead.
4) Yay, I’ve found someone else who loves shopping almost as much as me.
5) Purple Pen on the pleasures of gardening.
6) Chasmyn the Purple Goddess, writes beautifully on soap bubbles in a world of jagged glass.
UPDATE; And a happy birthday to Kathy.

It is time for bed methinks....

2005-02-12T23:18:00.000Z

It has been a long day. Littleone had a late night and there I was tying to cram in some studying before I went to bed. When out of an OU textbook, following words leaped out and seriously messed with my head;

‘The confused Catherine, introduced to a new aesthetic language – that of the picturesque – learns 'that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day’. She applies common-sense criteria to an aesthetic that would much prefer a hurrying swirl of cloud – in a picture, that is.’

It gets worse,

‘But who is the laugh here really at? At Catherine? Or at the language of aesthetics that the Tilneys are so well versed in? The importance of knowing the conventions you’re operating in is repeated in the famous misunderstanding that next follows between Catherine, who is talking about the publication of the new Gothic novel in London, and Eleanor, who imagines her to be speaking of riots. Henry has in fact been speaking of politics, so Eleanor’s mistake is perfectly understandable.’

Oooh I think I’m OK with that last sentence.
Please not more….

‘But what is interesting is the way that Henry is enabled to resolve the misunderstanding because of his insistently masculine facility at moving between ‘languages’…’

Yes thank for clearing that up for me. Perhaps now you could explain the inconsistency in the fact that had I written those sentences I would have been marked down for my poor command of the English language.

A bitty post..

2005-02-11T21:02:00.000Z

I was sad to read that Arthur Miller died, he did make it to a ripe old age though. Obituary here.
Guess who has taken over the veggieblogs webring? So if you are vegetarian or vegan and you have a blog then head on over and sign yourself up.
Still no more photos but Mr PE has promised me that he is going to look at the camera tomorrow and try and make it work for me. (Traditional gender roles? Us?)

3. The place in the house you go to escape

2005-02-10T19:31:00.000Z

Straight out the front door.
Ok, I agree, that wasn't funny.

Sorry I'm messing up the order but I'm not getting on with the camera.
More later I hope.

A memory sparked by something I read....

2005-02-10T11:03:00.000Z

About 6 years ago I spent some time working as a home carer, I enjoyed the chance of getting out and meeting those who more often than not had an interesting story to tell. Most of the clients were elderly but there was one young woman in her early thirties who had Motor Neurone Disease. She was actually on someone else’s books so I only got to visit her occasionally when her main carer had a day off. We got on well, she was a chain smoker and I think that I was one of the few people who didn’t nag her to stop, and at the time I smoked too, so often we would light up together and chat about the interesting books on her bookshelf.
Her relationship had broken down shortly before she was diagnosed and she had a seven-year-old son who lived with his father. The little boy would come and visit her for about 10 minutes on the way home from school while his dad waited in the car outside. I remember the first time I met him, he came bounding though the door, a picture of innocence, baseball cap on his head, school bag in hand and sat down uncomfortably on the edge of a chair opposite his mother. Her face lit up with pride as much as the disease would allow, as she turned to me and said,
‘This is my boy!’
He nodded politely at me and when prompted gave a perfectly rehearsed speech about his day at school and then shifted awkwardly in his chair. As she produced his favourite sweets as a gift and he thanked her courteously, the atmosphere resembled a child that had been forced to visit some distant old aunt rather than his own mother.
We can’t blame the boy, he was young and most likely had no recollection of how she was before the debilitating disease gradually took over her once youthful body. He was probably sitting there wondering why he couldn’t have a mother who could walk and talk properly like all his friends; And more importantly why did he have to eat into his valuable playing time by coming here every evening after school?
Next up she asked him if he would like a drink. He shifted once more and shaking his head stood up before delivering a sentence that even today I can still hear word for word,
‘No thank you. I had best be off, because Dad’s waiting in the car. I can’t be long today because we have to go and pick Mum up from work.’
I swallowed hard as I sneaked a brief look at his real Mum, she who could no longer look after herself, who now had to sit back and watch the child she had given birth to grow up calling someone else ‘Mum.’ As the door slammed, her face betrayed no emotion as she gestured for me to light her another cigarette.

The most boring blog post you have ever read…

2005-02-09T21:55:00.000Z

Has anyone noticed how hard it is to buy a hoover bag these days?
No? Well shall I tell you?
I think it is Mr Dyson’s fault. I never really got into the Dyson craze, because bag or no bag you still have to empty the thing and my ‘full bag’ light seems to only come on when there is a hurricane blowing somewhere round the dustbins.
Now Mr Dyson, invent me a vacuum cleaner that creeps out and empties itself in the middle of the night, then I’ll be the first in that queue.
This week I obviously ignored the light for too long as during my weekly Fly Lady house blessing the bag exploded inside the hoover, and guess who forgot to replace the last bag in the packet?!
So I phoned up Mr PE and instructed him not to come home unless he was clutching at least one hoover bag but alas he retuned empty handed, insisting that he looked ‘everywhere’ in town.
It was OK because today I was making my weekly tip to the enormous Tesco’s. It’s amazing what you can get in Tesco’s these days, the most obscure fruit and veg, the biggest organic section, own brand soya milk, hell they even sell the vacuum cleaners themselves, but apparently not the bags to go in them.
So I decided to ask this guy who looked very important because he wasn’t wearing a uniform, only to find out that he had only started that day but he was very nice all the same and phoned the manager for me. The manager replied that they don’t sell the bags but did I know that I could buy a hoover in aisle 2?
Then I got to the checkout and realised that I had forgotten my purse and it wasn’t until I had attempted to explain to my sobbing child the reason why she couldn’t have the chocolate I had promised her seconds earlier AND then put everything back on the shelves that I realised that my purse was in the basket all along.
When he got home and I recounted the whole story to Mr. PE, his words of support were,
‘My God. I think that was the most boring conversation we have ever had.’
Good job it’s me who has got to make a special trip all the way over to Homebase in the morning then isn’t it?
Oh Joy!

Are you as nosey as me?

2005-02-08T13:50:00.000Z

When you look at other people’s photos, do you pay as much attention to the background as you do the subject? If so then this meme is for you.
Michelle says;

yup, we're all nosy. so, post a picture of:

1. the space you blog from
2. the comfiest spot in the house
3. the place in the house you go to escape
4. where you make the meals (microwaves count too! lol)
5. your favorite spot in the house
6. a view from a window
7. the spot that gathers the most clutter
8. (add one of your choosing.)

just cut and paste the directions and the pics in your blog.

I’m struggling with our dodgy digital camera without a flash, so it is going to take me a while to post the whole lot but to whet your appetite for now, here is that vilified corner of the living room, The Space I blog from.

Come on I’ve satisfied your curiosity, now satisfy mine!
(Don't forget to leave me a comment to let me know you are taking part)

Start as you mean to go on….

2005-02-07T11:27:00.000Z

As a part timer I am supposed to be fitting in at least 15 hours of study per week. It doesn’t seem much but when you consider that I only get 2 hours childfree time when Littleone is in school, which still leaves another 5 to find somewhere else in the week. I had more or less decided that I would squeeze in another hour on a weekday evening after Littleone’s bedtime, which would then leave weekends ‘free’ to either catch up or pursue my other interests.
BUT remembering that it is half term next week, I had planned to get ahead this weekend, it didn’t really happen.
Lili, I’m about to bring a sick child into the equation, you may want to look away now!
Next time my child is under the weather can someone please remind me that for some reason Calpol* makes her hyper. It sends every other child I know off into a deep, feverless, peaceful sleep. Oh no not mine. Let me just say that I gave her a dose just before bedtime, just as her eyes were closing and her temperature was rising. She was climbing the walls for another 2 ½ hours, resulting in a knackered mummy who passed out shortly after she did.
I thought about sending her into school this morning but I just couldn’t do it.
So;
Grand total of work done yesterday; 0 hours.
Grand total of work done today (so far); 0 hours.

Oh and to the mother of the child who coughed, spluttered and gunked all over my daughter on Friday. Yes you who justified yourself by saying ‘She’s got a bad cold, but I sent her to school, cos I aint missing my daytime TV for nothing.’
I’ve got two words especially for you, one of them begins with ‘F’ and the other ‘Y’

* Sorry I don’t know the equivalent in the USA, maybe someone can help me out here?

Weekend Blog round up.

2005-02-06T10:54:00.000Z

Sorry for the rushed round up. I’m a bit busy this weekend, notes to copy up, books to read and nose to wipe. (Sniffly child alert)
1) Thank God Amy’s youngest is out of hospital, she had us all concerned for a moment there. Amy just had her worst birthday ever, go over and wish her a belated happy birthday.
2) It is also Pewari’s birthday. Off you go!
3) If you are not falling on the floor laughing by the end of this post, then what is the matter with you?
4) If there is no tear in your eye by the end of this post, then what is the matter with you?
5) Yay! Jen is back and I want her to knit me a womb.
6) I’m not the only one who has been dreaming of a Room of my Own and balancing study and family life, this week.
7) Guest bloggers have taken over for a while at Feministe. I’ve just been directed towards this interesting article, which suggests that working mothers spend more quality time with their children than those who stay at home. I shall write a separate post on this subject once I have found the time to read the actual study. Which reminds me, I have had some more thoughts on the Drudgery Thy Name is Woman discussion. As the whole subject is a bit of a quagmire I will try and tackle one point a day over the next week and take it from there. I have a feeling that the fired up stay at home vs working mother debate will feature quite strongly, so be warned.
8) Staying with Feministe for a second, I’m coming a little late to the Desperate Housewives debate as we are quite behind in the UK but it is interesting all the same.
9) And finally thanks are due to Mir who inspired me to make some chocolate chip cookies. We used this vegan recipe instead, absolutely gorgeous!

We speak British, you know.

2005-02-05T17:13:00.000Z

Yes I spoke and I survived without killing anyone, although I think I might have made an enemy in the process but I made a friend too, so it all balances out.
So why is it that all through the week I can just about get the Littleone to school by 9:00 but on a Saturday I struggle to get out the door by 9:30? To cut a long story short let me just mention the words Pre-schooler, nail varnish, duvet, carpet, clothes, five minutes before I needed to be out the door. Oh and she spilt yoghurt on my copy of Germinal. An omen maybe?
So I arrived at the venue with ten minutes to spare, which is strangely surprising as I travelled by bus, and we all know about my history with the Cambridge bus services. The next task of my day was to find the correct room. Thankfully there were arrows pointing us to a room allocation list and standing by the list was a very helpful porter to point you in the right direction.
‘PS2?’ He said politely ‘That’s easy. Just round the corner there. Can’t miss it.’
Except I did. Three times.
In case you were wondering, PS2 is the room between PS1 and PS3 except unlike every other room in the building, it had no number on the door. To confuse all the Literature students, it has the word ‘PHILOSOPHY’ instead.
Yet I sat down and still had enough time to go and get myself a coffee and engage in a little conversation about our previous courses.
There’s always one, isn’t there? They’ve always got the loudest voice and can’t wait to tell everyone how brainy they are. So we were discussing amongst ourselves how long we had got until we have completed our degree, when this one woman declares;
‘Of course I have already completed my degree. I’m doing this course for fun.’
I do like to give people the benefit of the doubt, I wouldn’t say that it was hate at first sight, just that she had to work harder to make me like her. But she shouted on.
‘Ha. Ha. I guess you could call me a Literature Veteran!’
Well that wasn’t the first name that sprung to mind, but as she wished I shall from henceforth call her the Lit.Vet.
At this moment the tutor walked in, arranged her books in front of her and started by saying,
‘Now as this is the first tutorial for this course I thought we’d spend the time introducing ourselves…..’
At this point she really did take a sip of coffee whilst I was surveying the escape routes.
‘…to the texts we are about to study.’
If there was a sudden gust of wind reverberating around the environs of Cambridge at precisely 10:32 this morning, that was me, heaving a sigh of relief. But alas, it seems I relaxed a little too soon, for she went on…
‘But before we start. I think it’s a shame that we don’t really get to know each other until the end of the course.’
Uh oh!
‘And I know how nerve wracking it can be meeting people for the first time…’
No I don’t think you do…
‘So I thought we’d break the ice.’
Would you believe it? She used those actual words..
‘By going round the room, introducing ourselves…’
No!
‘I don’t want a couple of sentences or a list of previous courses. I want to know who you are, what brought you here and where you think you are going with this course.’
And there was me thinking that it couldn’t get any worse than my worst nightmare..
So she started with herself and managed to talk for about half an hour on her oh- so-interesting life, which made mine look so incredibly dull and embarrassing. After that it slithered around the room until it got to Lit.Vet who explained with exaggerated hand gestures that it took her nine years to do her degree and they were the most painful but exhilarating nine years of her life. Oh and did she mention that she had already passed her degree with flying colours and she is just taking this course for fun?
In the middle of this gushing speech a latecomer came stumbling through the door, asking if this was PS2 and apologising profusely for being late. Already she had my deepest sympathy because that is usually me. After concluding that she was in the right place the latecomer sat down in the only available seat, next to me. (Paranoid? Moi?)
Within minutes it was my turn to break that ice, and considering my fear, I did reasonably well. I can’t remember exactly what I said but I didn’t humiliate myself, and that is the main thing. Next was the latecomer, in the next two and a half minutes she won me over completely. It turns out that she did the same course as me last year and like me she loved the course but hated the exam and how it disheartened her so much that she had to recover with a stiff whiskey. Did you hear that? She said whiskey! Anyone who mentions whiskey in a literature tutorial, can be my friend for life.
I realise that this is getting long, so I will move on swiftly. Next up the tutor asked us how helpful we were finding the provided textbooks.
My whiskey friend compared them favourably to those provided on the last course.
‘Last year’s were so poorly written that even if you were an English speak….’
‘We say British thank you.’
The whole class fell silent and turned their heads towards the source of the rude interruption. Yes you’ve guessed it, it was the Lit.Vet.
‘I – I’m sorry?’
‘We say British.’
At this moment I’m afraid, I snorted.
‘Oh – I – err didn’t mean to offend.’ faltered, my whiskey friend, but encouraged by my friendly smile, she began to stand up for herself.
‘But I was talking about the English language. I was trying to say that even if you were an English speaker, you still have to translate those books.’
Do you know that during this sentence the Lit.Vet managed to tut and sigh three times?
How rude! My friend had stumbled through the door with little time to prepare and had still managed to speak coherently and that jumped up idiot had to pick her up on a pathetic point. I’m as PC as the next person but I don’t think I have ever heard anyone say that they speak the British language, I’m not overly fond of that word either because it drums up allsorts of disturbing connotations, such as empire. Ugh!
But that’s a discussion in itself and I am writing about my tutorial.
At some points it was like being back at school because the tutor made us take it in turns to read out paragraphs of Northanger Abbey but I actually think I might forgive her because she managed to explain everything well without patronising us, which is a skill in itself. Plus she obviously has such a passion for the subject that I really did feel that I came away with something.
I’ll suspend judgement however, until I get my first essay back.

Tell me why I don’t like tutorials.

2005-02-04T19:05:00.000Z

Did I mention that my course starts tomorrow? Well it does and I have just worked out that I’ll be getting into the swing of things just in time for the start of Littleone’s half term break. Also as luck would have it my final double length assignment is due in at the beginning of September. Don’t the words, 'kids' six week summer holiday' mean anything to these people?!
OK so I’m waffling and ranting because I’ve got my first tutorial tomorrow morning. You see I don’t like tutorials, mainly because I have a pathetically childish fear of speaking up in front of complete strangers. I always have done and now I am coming to the conclusion that I always will.
When I was at school I was told that I would grow out of it. Older friends told me that by the end of my first year at university, I would have had to do presentations so often that it would all come natural to me. Well I have done two first years at different institutions and I am now on my third year with the Open University and I can safely say that the fear is as debilitating as ever.
I thought childbirth would cure it. As I sit there quietly, at the back, preferably in a corner somewhere hoping and praying that I don’t get ‘picked on’ and asked a question, I try to remind myself that I have squatted and pushed in front of a room full of students; I have sat there with my legs up in stirrups while they stitch up the most intimate part of my anatomy. What can I say to a roomful of literature students that is more embarrassing than that? But I can’t help thinking that, as long as I didn’t have to talk them through it, I’d choose childbirth over speech any day.
What I hate the most is the fact that I look like the complete twat who can’t be arsed to even read the book, which isn’t true. Half the time I’ve got something to say and I want to contribute so badly but the words will not come out.
At least with the Open University the presentation does not count in any way towards your final mark. This was not the case at the two other institutions I went to which is ridiculous because I have ready many great works of literature but I don’t remember in any of them the small print which said ‘Only to be appreciated by the socially confident.’
Open University tutorials are not compulsory and I have to say that in the past I have chickened out quite frequently but this year I have vowed to make an effort to turn up at least. You never know I might actually speak, but let’s take one baby step at a time here.
So, wish me luck and if I don’t update this blog tomorrow, check your Sunday papers you’ll possibly read a story of a tutorial bloodbath caused by a seemingly quiet mother, whose silicon chip switched to overload. Trust me it will be because that tutor walked into the room and declared, ‘Now as we don’t know each other, I thought we’d go round the room introducing ourselves and saying why we chose this course.’
My worst nightmare.

Show and Tell

2005-02-03T14:27:00.000Z

To prevent myself from moaning some more, I thought I’d lighten things up a bit by remembering the summer. Littleone had her first Show and Tell today, she wanted to take some photos of the Glastonbury festival to show everyone but unfortunately we couldn’t find any for 2004 that didn’t show us knee deep in mud, (not very appealing to anyone else.) So we decided on some photos from the Beautiful Days festival instead. So what I thought I’d do is present each photo here and speculate on what she might have said.

This is me with my face painted as a panda. Do you like the magic wand I made in the craft tent?

This is me and my mummy outside the craft tent, we are holding a rocket I made from a plastic bottle.

This is me on the ‘round and round swings’ (this is what Littleone has christened them, I suppose it describes them quite fittingly, I actually have no idea what they are really called.) If you look behind me you can see the main stage. This is where I sat on my mummy’s shoulders to watch the Levellers and New Model Army.
I hope that at this moment she didn’t weird everyone out by bursting into her best Justin Sullivan impersonation. She can actually do the end of Stupid Questions (‘Don’t ask, Don’t ask.’) better than he can, but as much as it makes us laugh, I just don’t think that anyone else from round here would get it.

Mourning A Room of My Own

2005-02-02T18:11:00.000Z

Some of you are probably aware that our PC / makeshift office is stuck in the corner of the living room. I’m always whinging about the fact that whenever I want to write, be it for pleasure or for university, I have to contend with the TV, the kid, the husband, the cat and any other distractions associated with a thriving household. I’ve never stopped dreaming of a Room of My Own, a study where I can lock out the rest of the world and steal a moment’s peace. (Just by way of example as I write this the TV is on and I’m having to explain for the hundredth time that it is 5:15 and the Simpsons is not on until 6 o clock)
Do you remember that before Christmas I was at it again, (whinging that is) because Mr PE had borrowed a laptop to deal with that sudden onslaught of work and locked himself in the bedroom upstairs. Why oh why, I asked did I not have that luxury? So as luck would have it, it turned out that the laptop was a hand me down from a friend, who had moved on to a smaller and more efficient model.
For about a month I have been picturing myself writing my essays for The 19th Century Novel perched on the edge of the bed, in peace. I surmised that my grades might even improve this year because of that vital ingredient to a perfectly written essay. Yes you’ve guessed it. PEACE.
So let us hold that thought for a moment, a first class student, her books, her moon and stars duvet and PEACE. Oh humour me and let me linger here for a moment.
Can you believe it? For a second there we were going to be a two computer family. Those unavoidable times when we both have essays due in at the same time? No problem!
That Room of my Own, I held it in my hand; Now sit with me, hold my other hand and watch while it slips away. Oh there it went.
You see for the present moment that dream isn’t to be. I have learned today that Mr PE has ‘lent indefinitely’ that Room of my Own to someone else.
OK so the said person is ‘skint’ and doesn’t even own one computer, and desperately needs one to design some flyers for a forthcoming gig and I wouldn’t dream of being selfish and stamping my feet in protest, not in a million years, that’s just not me.
So I’ll keep quiet but sit here and moan to you instead, wishing that it was anything else, the TV, the DVD player, even this computer, I’d gladly take every last one of them over there right now, just so I could keep that precious, portable Room of My Own.
I’m actually feeling guilty that I have taken this so badly, when really I should be grateful that there is food on the table, that’s why I’m hoping that I can get this out of my system now, sleep on it and move on. After all I coped last year without a Room of My Own and I shall cope again.
*Sniff*

A new Little Britain script;

2005-02-01T13:58:00.000Z

Ah I get it! All this time I have been barking up the wrong tree, trying to write these short stories and novels. You see what I should really be doing is writing for Little Britain, well at least the Lou and Andy sketches, because then all I’d have to do is document my life.

Picture the scene; Primark kids department on a Saturday. A haggard mother and her child, whoops I mean LOU and ANDY appear at the top of the escalators.

LOU; Ah here we are then, the kid’s department. We had better choose you out some trousers. You grow so fast, I can hardly keep up with you.
ANDY; (Pointing to a ridiculously impractical pair of light pink flares with a hideously tacky, glittery, plastic belt) I want that one.
LOU; But they are pink.
ANDY; Yeh I know.
LOU; But you don’t wear pink, particularly not pastel pink. You are a bit of a Tomboy, you like nothing better than running about in the mud with the boys.
ANDY; Yeh I know.
LOU; Well how about these ones they are nice and stripy. I’d wear these if they did them in my size. (Aside) And they are about half the price.
ANDY; Yeh I know.
LOU; (Stripy pair in hand) Well come on then, off to the tills.
ANDY; (Pointing at pink pair) But I want that one.
LOU; But they’ll be ruined after one wear. OK how about these green combats, they have a pink flower on them. You can still be a Tomboy but with a little bit of pink, so people know you’re a girl. (Aside) And they are still half the price.
ANDY; (Pointing at pink pair) But I want that one.
LOU; OK so you want pink. How about a dark pink? Look at this pair, they are still pink but they are dark. The mud won’t show quite so much.
ANDY; Yeh I know.
LOU; So the dark pink it is then. Off to the tills!
ANDY; (Pointing at pastel pink pair) But I want that one.
LOU; OK your choice. Whatever. (Grabbing pastel pink pair and heading off to the tills.)

Skip to a couple of days later on the way home from nursery. Littleone, whoops I mean ANDY, returns after a particularly muddy chase with the boys, in a ruined pair of pastel pink trousers.
ANDY; Look at my trousers they’re all dirty. I don’t like pink, I want green like the boys.

High maintenance - That's me....

2005-02-01T08:24:00.000Z

You are a Persian! You are quiet, gentle, and
loving, though sometimes you need extra
attention and care. Some might call you high
maintenance, but you just need to be pampered.

What breed of cat are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Nicked from Feministe

And talking of Virginia Woolf…..

2005-01-31T20:27:00.000Z

(Oi! I saw you rolling your eyes at me!)
If any of you are in London before 10 April, I strongly recommend that you get yourself over to The British Library for their latest exhibition The Writer in the Garden, I took my Mum yesterday and what with her being a gardener and me being a… well I flatter myself if I use the word writer but it would fit into this sentence so well… oh you know what I mean…. well we had a thrilling time anyway. I’m also tempted by some of the lectures they are putting on of an evening, so I might try and get down there again at some point.
In the shop I splashed out on a Virginia Woolf postcard, don’t ever say I don’t spoil myself.
I hope you didn’t miss that seamless link from yesterday’s post?…

The Hours

2005-01-30T20:33:00.000Z

Despite having fallen in love with the book ages ago, I delayed watching the film of The Hours mainly because I was uncomfortable with anyone playing Virginia Woolf, particularly a Hollywood actress wearing a prosthetic nose.
However I have just spent the weekend with my parents and my mum made the suggestion and so I took the plunge and watched it with her.
I was pleasantly surprised actually. OK so she ever so slightly over used the Princess Di, I’m-so-sad-and-I’m-not-going-to-look-at-the-camera-flutter-flutter look. Plus I always imagine Virginia Woolf speaking and carrying herself with a little more authority, just because she was monumentally depressed it doesn’t mean she had to cower quite so much. All in all however, for the first time I’ll take my hat off to Nicole Kidman who tackled the mammoth task reasonably well.
To be fair my criticism was probably with the researchers who had probably heard one of the few available recordings of her voice, without taking into account Leonard Woolf’s lament that sadly this wasn’t representative as it lacked her usual spirit. (Sorry I can’t find the Leonard Woolf quote to reference it properly)
Elsewhere in the film, Meryl Streep was superb but soaring above them all was the profound portrayal of Laura Brown by Julianne Moore. Perfect.
My only other criticism of the film involves a spoiler, so shall we just say that I wasn’t impressed with the naff hint at the final twist, that was in the film but nowhere to be seen in the book It was cringe worthy and unnecessary. If you have seen it I think you know what I’m talking about.

Weekend blog round up,

2005-01-29T08:02:00.000Z

Christine thinks that this was my idea but I’m convinced she thought of it first but whatever, it’s a brilliant way in which we can pick out the outstanding posts of the week and maybe introduce each other to some new bloggers. Many people asked if it is Ok to ‘steal’ the idea, go right ahead, the more the merrier!
1) I can smell some changes going on in the blogosphere. Suzanne at Mimilou has chosen to give up her job and work from home. At This Woman’s Work there are some major decisions going on as to who should stop working. Also Geeky Mom has written a post close to my heart about some of the sacrifices she has made in the past, whilst trying to balance her and her partner’s academic careers. I know how difficult the choices and sacrifices can be, so anyone who is facing such decisions deserves our love and support.
2) If you are a regular reader at y a gotta believe, you will be aware of how much Michelle has been looking forward to her holiday of a lifetime. She even kept her kids off school for a few days beforehand because she was concerned about a stomach virus that was spreading like wildfire. Sadly what Michelle ended up with sounded so much worse than a 24 hour bug. Despite her bitter disappointment she tells her story with her usual wit and clarity.
3) As I have posted twice this week about crap parenting, I can’t help but link to a brilliantly written post on the same subject, it will make you laugh. Thanks to Kathy for pointing me in the right direction.

Non-uniform day…

2005-01-28T09:56:00.000Z

Sometimes the letters sent home from school have extreme comic value. Today for example, is non-uniform day to raise money for the Tsunami. If you cast your eyes down to the bottom of the letter you will receive some very helpful advice;

‘The children can wear their own clothes but these must be appropriate for wearing to school – so they need to be warm and sensible for indoor/outdoor wear.’

Once I had finished laughing at this statement of the bleeding obvious, it occurred to me that this sentence had probably been included as a result of some idiotic choice of clothing on non-uniform day in the past. I dread to think, I really do.
I can’t say I’m surprised, there’s this poor little girl in Littleone’s class (aged 3 or 4) who stumbles around the playground every morning in a pair of three inch heels, which also happen to be about 3 sizes too big for her. Does it not occur to her mother that they don’t make the boots in toddler size for a reason?

Drudgery thy name is Woman.

2005-01-27T10:52:00.000Z

I am trying to get my house in order so I thought I’d give FLYlady a go. I signed up at the weekend and I have to say that I’m pleased with the way it’s going so far. I’ll keep you posted.
All this talk of housework has got me pondering and I have got some disturbing thoughts in my head that I’d like to open up for discussion.
It all started with my mother’s spotless shiny glassware.
I have tried in vain to un -smear my glasses, recently however I have come to the conclusion that my mum’s kitchen contents are always going to sparkle more than mine because she owns a DISHWASHER. So last night, standing there at the kitchen sink scrubbing away at the plates I began thinking about those magical appliances that were supposed to make our lives easier, dragging us women from the kitchen and into more fulfilling roles.
Now there are many reasons why there is no dishwasher in our house.
1) Can’t afford to buy one
2) Can’t afford to run one
3) Can’t afford a big enough kitchen to house one.
Even if our situation was different, I’m still not so sure I’d rush right out and buy one for environmental reasons. It seems a hell of a lot of hot water to waste, just because I’d rather not put in a bit of elbow grease.
Then I did some laundry.
A while back I purchased some T Wave Laundry discs, again for environmental and financial reasons. I promised you a review, well let’s just say that it is included in the next paragraphs.
They work reasonably well, but if there is a stain on any item of clothing then the stain remover (provided with the discs) has to be applied to each mark. So as I’m crouching there last night going over each item, checking for stains (for we are a messy family) and applying the unfortunately named Tsunami Wave, I begin to wonder, wouldn’t it be much easier and less time consuming to just chuck some washing powder into the drawer and be done with the whole tedious task? Sod our dwindling (Earth and financial) resources.
First of all let me address the class issues. Have these appliances helped ALL women or have they widened the socio-economic divide? So those who are better off can stick their glasses in the dishwasher and while it’s running head off to enlighten themselves in some other way. However because that dishwasher produces a better result, those of us on the breadline have to spend longer at the sink polishing away and trying to keep up with the higher standards set by the dishwasher.
Next up are the environmental issues. In general these devices that are supposed to free us from our household tasks, tend to have a reverse effect on the environment. In the end I didn’t go out and buy some washing powder, because I couldn’t help but think of the marine life. I have also found that Ecover toilet cleaner does not get rid of the lime scale quite so well as chucking half a bottle of bleach down the loo every morning, but I dread to think what else it might obliterate in the process.
Over the past couple of days I have raised more questions in my mind than I have answered. I’m disturbed by the way that in my head environmentalism and feminism don’t seem to work alongside each other anymore. Does this mean that if we care about the planet we are leaving for our daughters, we have to encourage them to get back into the kitchen and scrub a little harder? Or does it mean that we have to be prepared to lower our standards a little and accept that smeary glasses and lime scale are not going to kill us after all?
I’m aware that I have not addressed the issue of the gender divide, maybe the answer is to get our males to help out a little more. Of course I can see how far we have come in this respect, my husband takes far more responsibility than my father, and my father is much more open than my grandfathers ever were. Yet it is obvious that we have still got many generations to go before those chores are split right down the middle.
I’m not sure that Mother Earth can wait that long.
A depressing thought.

Desperate Housewives

2005-01-26T21:20:00.000Z

(Apologies to any American readers for whom this is old news.)
I wasn’t going to watch Desperate Housewives but I got sucked into the back to back first three episodes at the weekend and now I’m hooked. So just don’t talk to me between 10 and 11pm tonight. OK?
Damn, there went another hour out of my week for the next God knows how long.
Oh and in case you were wondering… oh come on I know you were…

Congratulations! You are Lynette Scavo, the
ex-career woman who traded the boardroom for
boredom, mixed with moments of sheer panic as
the mother of four unmanageable kids.

Which Desperate Housewife are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

29 down, 55 more to go....

2005-01-25T17:03:00.000Z

Thanks to Amy at Psychobabble, who is going to die first, so neh!

Tribe

2005-01-25T14:04:00.000Z

Did anyone see this on BBC2 last night? I’m interested what you think?
For those who have no idea what I’m talking about here is write up for the episode from the Radio Times website.

4/6 - Babongo.
This week Bruce Parry goes on a long trip in more ways than one. He visits Gabon in Africa, where he meets the Babongo people and samples their sacred psychedelic plant, iboga. As a rule, the BBC discourages its presenters from taking drugs, but here that's the idea as Parry agrees to put himself through the Babongo's tough initiation ceremony. Parry is ill, is running a fever, and hasn't slept properly for weeks, and his gutsy, try-anything-once attitude starts to look positively foolhardy. But he lives to tell the tale and builds a friendship with his hosts. In the end, it's not the most action-packed programme in the series, but the lessons of iboga, a drug that lets users see their past misdemeanours through the eyes of those they hurt, are fascinating.

I can’t work out if I really admire Bruce Parry for giving it a go and pushing those boundaries, or if it was a sensationalist, idiotic attempt to prove his manhood.
Either way he wasn’t the only one who learned something about himself during that ceremony, I discovered that I am more squeamish than I originally thought; I had nightmares about those mosquito bites and that literal gut wrenching pukefest is still replaying in my head. I think the word ‘Ewwww’ escaped my mouth more times during that hour than the rest of my life put together.
I’m enjoying the series but I felt all that pre-ceremonial navel gazing could have been cut by half, to allow a little more time for the exploration of gender issues. I’m intrigued as to what part females play in the male initiation, it was a woman for instance, who was washing him down beforehand. Also during his stay there was a birth in the village, this could have been interesting material but was completely passed over.
Even more disturbing is the fact that the tree felling is ruining these villages and yet once their home has gone, the only means of survival open to members of the tribe is to get a job with those who destroyed their way of life in the first place.
I’m still trying to get my head round the irony.

Queue Etiquette Parts 2 & 3

2005-01-24T17:10:00.000Z

The big supermarket store version.
Part one can be found here.
2. Basket users; When you have finished loading your provisions onto the conveyor belt please stack your basket with the handles either side. If you leave them haphazardly about the middle then the next person has to do your dirty work before they can stack their basket.
3. When you have paid for your purchases and still need time to put away your change/ cards/ whatever , why not move along to the end of the aisle to do so? This way you will not hold anyone up. See the next person can start packing their bags straight away. There is room for everyone after all.
4. In short LEAVE YOUR POSITION IN THE QUEUE HOW YOU WOULD LIKE TO FIND IT! With a little common courtesy we could make life so much easier for everyone else.

The contrasts of parenting.

2005-01-23T09:28:00.000Z

Yesterday the playground was swarming with some brats from hell. I don’t normally take it upon myself to criticise other parents but I will make an exception on this occasion.
Her kids were running riot, throwing sand everywhere and instead of telling them NOT to throw sand, she suggested that they throw it against the wall instead. Which wouldn’t have been too bad but the said wall was only about 6 inches high and guess who was sitting on a bench the other side?
‘Do try and mind the lady darlings.’
OK I’ll give her about 0.5 out of ten for considering me at least.
So here we have parenting dilemma no.1673. How does one deal in public with another parent’s boundaries, which just happen to be wildly different from one’s own? Or in other words what do I say when my daughter, grin on her face, starts grabbing a huge handful of sand to copy the other kids? As I say I don’t like to be impolite but at the same time, I don’t want my daughter throwing sand, AT ALL.
So I took a deep breath;
‘Don’t throw sand please Littleone.’
I ducked, waiting for the verbal pelt of sand, the inevitable statement destined to make me look incredibly rude,
‘But THEY are allowed to throw sand.’
But instead my darling daughter thought about it for only a second, then carefully put down the sand and walked away from the situation. I could have hugged her.
It doesn’t end there, after that the brats hogged the slide and wouldn’t let my daughter within a mile radius. There was an occasional halfhearted protest from the mother,
‘Oh do let the little girl on the slide. Darlings.’
DARLINGS?
My daughter however didn’t say a word just looked down her nose at them (as much as one can when one is at the bottom of the ladder and the recipient is at the top) and walked away.
On the way home I made sure I told her several times how proud I was and that she had behaved impeccably.
Less than an hour later I was sitting here browsing a few blogs, when I realised it had gone awfully quiet upstairs. As my daughter doesn’t sleep (ever) silence ALWAYS means trouble.
So I paused half way up the stairs and could hear clunking in the bathroom. Clunking in the bathroom, when my daughter is involved is NEVER good.
‘Littlleone’ I called apprehensively ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just making kangaroos on the mirror.’
I should add that the said kangaroos were ‘made’ from a birthday present I had been saving for a special occasion, a set of Body Shop bath foam and body lotion.
All gone, every last drop, and yes my bathroom mirror smells lovely, thank you.
That’ll teach me for being so goddamn smug.

Blog Roundup

2005-01-22T08:17:00.000Z

It’s not that I’m feeling uninspired. I have loads of blog ideas in my head but the second I sit down to type, they all dissolve into thin air. This is not helped by the fact that the computer has come out in sympathy for my brain and is being painstakingly slow. I’ve already mentioned that the keyboard (in particular the ‘V’ and ‘R’ keys) is packing in and now the mouse has gone all temperamental on me. Crap equipment does not help the creative process
Thankfully Christine has saved the day. As a continuation of her community post, this week she is challenging us to link to our favourite posts on other blogs. This is such a good idea that I might make it a regular occurrence, maybe as some sort of weekly blog roundup. Oh and I’m greedy so I’m linking to several….
1) I must start with Christine herself who wrote a lovely poem for her children, entitled ‘Slow Down.’ If you are a parent I send you over there for a peep right now. Are you back? Well I bet you relate don’t you?!
2) Next up is Kate who wrote articulately on Harry’s Nazi outfit. She links to some interesting Holocaust articles. When you have read her post, come back and read my pathetic attempt at the same subject and tell me you can’t see what I was referring to at the beginning of this post.
3) I only discovered The Color Purple this week (thanks to Michelle) but Megan is swiftly becoming one of my favourite reads. I direct you to her inspirational post on how the birth of her disabled son changed her life.
4) Last but not least. I’m interested in Purple Pen’s suggestion that the average person visits their doctor five times a year. Since we moved here just over two years ago, I have been to the doctors for the registration check up (compulsory) and one more time the other day to get the dog bites checked out. (Even then I saw the nurse, does that count?) Apart from her two year check up, even Littleone has only seen the GP one other time. Mr PE on the other hand hasn’t even registered yet (tut tut). Does this mean we are particularly healthy or that we are satisfied that there are some things (ie the common cold) that a doctor cannot cure? So I throw this back at you… How many times have you seen a GP in the past year?

The Yorkshire Ripper

2005-01-20T21:05:00.000Z

I’m not comfortable with this huge uproar at the news that Peter Sutcliffe has been allowed to visit the site of his father’s ashes.I’m aware of all the pain and suffering he has caused to his victims and their families but I don’t like the concept of revenge, that idea somehow we should make him suffer too.
I’m not suggesting for one minute that he should be released, nor that we forgive and forget. I’m just not sure how all this bitterness is going to help anyone, the dead, the survivors or Sutcliffe himself.
So let us concentrate on the things we can change and allow Peter Sutcliffe to mourn in peace.

OUCH!

2005-01-19T19:14:00.000Z

So there we were minding our own business on our way to Tumble Tots, when these two dogs came bounding down one of the driveways.
‘Awww look!’ I said to Littleone ‘Cute little Doggies!’
Famous last words.
So I was pushing her along and there they were still yapping round my ankles and I was beginning to think,
‘Yeah OK. You can go now!’
So I walked a little faster.
Then one of them started that evil growling common in those little dogs and so I thought
‘I’m not sure I like you very much.’
So I walked a little faster.
Then they started tugging at my trousers with their teeth and I thought
‘SHIT! That could have been my leg!’
And then it was.
Despite the pain and the fact that I had a dog hanging off each leg I managed to run as fast as I could because the panic was setting in,
‘SHIT! That could have been my daughter.’
Thankfully, half a street later I managed to lose them but I wasn’t going to make it to Tumble Tots, I had to change my trousers, at least. However as no one had come to claim the vermin there was absolutely NO WAY I was going back the way I came, so I ended up limping the long way home.
So here I am, one ruined pair of trousers*, a trip to the doctors, two iodine dressings, and one tetanus jab later; a little shaken but very, very thankful that I bore the brunt and Littleone remained physically unscathed.
Poor kid never made it to Tumble Tots though.
*Not the aforementioned ugly ones, but a perfectly attractive pair of cords I got for Christmas. Of course I did change into the fleecy trousers afterwards and they are so nice and soft on those wounds.

What would we do without them?

2005-01-18T17:12:00.000Z

It was Mr. Purple Elephant’s last exam yesterday and he said he might be celebrating with a few friends for the evening so not to expect him back too early.
So there I was at 9pm staring into the dark empty abyss that is our kitchen cupboard, really wishing that I had bothered to go shopping while Littleone was awake.
I was just about to half-heartedly throw a lone veggie burger under the grill when I heard a key in the lock.
Not only was he home early, but he had come via the Chinese Takeaway!
It wasn’t until we had demolished several platefuls that I began to feel a little guilty.
Really I should have surprised him.

Has the Tarot got it in for me?

2005-01-17T07:32:00.000Z

I had this post planned where I was going to ask your opinion on computer tarot readings. I was suspicious but have been playing around with this site and found it surprisingly rather accurate. That was until a few weeks ago. Twice in the space of two weeks I have drawn, The Hanged Man, Death and The Devil in a six card spread. OK so I know enough about the Tarot to conclude that this doesn’t (necessarily) mean that I am going to pass my last moments on the gallows before being sent down to hell. But even so, I think I’d rather have The Sun or The Empress or something.
So I’m sitting there contemplating booting the PC when the phone rings. It’s my mum, and the conversation begins in that typical mother/daughter fashion;
‘Are you taking your vitamins?’
‘Yes Mum, every day!’ (Meaning; ‘I ran out months ago and never got round to replacing them’)
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Makes a change…’
‘I went to a Psychic Fayre and I had my Tarot read you see, and she said you’ve got to be careful about your health.’
‘Me?’ (My ears prick up)
‘Yes. She said it was nothing serious, you are just very very run down and need to take your vitamins.’
‘Advice taken’ (Meaning; ‘Did she also have shares in a health food shop by any chance?’)
‘Well she just worried me, because she was so accurate about everything else.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘Oh lots of stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like (your) Nan and Grandad are watching over us…’
‘How observant…’
‘Oh and there is going to be a pregnancy in the family.’
‘Really???’ (Tying to hide my delight)
‘I may be the other end of the phone but I can see that grin. You can stop right now. She didn’t mean you.’
‘How do you know.’
‘She said.’
‘She likes me then…’
‘And it’s not me either…’
‘You needed the Tarot to tell you that?’
‘No’
‘Well that only leaves one other person’
‘Your brother and sister in law.’
‘Well I suppose they did get married last year.’
‘Make sense’
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’
And so the conversation ended, with me promising once more to take my vitamins.
So my next question is thus; Do we think that the Tarot can be that precise, especially when it wasn't even supposed to be my reading?

You are as old as you act...

2005-01-16T20:30:00.000Z

Via Wildwriter

You Are 34 Years Old

34

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Oh how they taunt me.

2005-01-16T10:22:00.000Z

As you know I have made my course choice for this year and it begins on the 5th Feb. I know it is probably tempting fate but I have been ploughing my way though the Open University website, looking to see what is available to me next February for my final course choice.
Can you imagine my excitement when I saw that in Feb 2006 they are starting a brand new 60 point course, with the title ‘Creative Writing’? It is so new that they haven’t got much information up about it right now. Who needs information? The title alone is music to the ears of someone who next February will only need 60 points to complete her degree. To someone in my position this could be almost as good as being paid for writing.
I say ‘could’ because despite the fact that there is very little information on this page, what is there is enough to tell me that the course is not within my grasp. Do you see that small but important figure after the word ‘level’? Yes it says ‘2’ Well thank you Open University but I HAVE JUST COMPLETED LEVEL TWO! To complete my degree I need level 3 courses.
So I ask two questions,
1) Why couldn’t this course be level 3?
2) If not then why could you not have started it three years earlier?

Two appeals

2005-01-15T10:11:00.000Z

And only one of them asks for your money…
1. - Indonesia, Sri Lanka and the Maldives export clothes and shoes to the EU and are facing unfair trade taxes. In the following year they face paying back almost a third of the amount of aid pledged by the European Commission. Oxfam have designed an e-mail that you can forward to Peter Mandelson asking him to take immediate action to end these taxes.

2. If you are a Blog Explosion fan. Then you will most probably have already stumbled across this site. Motoki was born at 25 weeks gestation, (15 weeks early) with little chance of survival. Yet seven months later against all odds, his parents have been allowed to bring him home. Obviously he needs a lot of medical attention, and insurance will only cover so much. In the past few days his parents have received yet another blow. They have been told that for him to ever have a ‘normal’ sex life, or be able to reproduce he will need extensive surgery on his genitalia before he is one year old. As this work is considered cosmetic and is not covered by insurance, his parents are going to have to cough up $35,000 for the operation. So they are appealing for donations through the blog.
Recently an anonymous commenter suggested that this could be a scam and therefore nobody would part with any hard earned cash.
This distrust is usually fuelled by the tabloids who constantly print stories of those who park at the train station in their £50,000 Rolls Royce (or something) and then go and beg on the streets of London.
I would write a whole paragraph here about how I’d rather donate and risk it being a scam, than not donate and risk it being a genuine case, missing out as a result of a few immoral beings. However the whole situation brought to mind a story I heard on the radio the other day, which said it all more eloquently than I ever could.
Grandchild is walking along the streets of London with his Grandfather. Whenever they pass someone asking for money, the Grandfather slips some small change into their hand. At the end of the walk the little boy suggests that he shouldn’t have acted in this way.
‘Don’t you know that they could all be fake?’ he asks.
To which the Grandfather replies,
‘Well that’s got nothing to do with me. Let it be between them and their God’

Oh Harry, Harry, Harry!

2005-01-14T17:51:00.000Z

You'd have to be pretty damn stupid to think you could get away with turning up at a fancy dress party in a Nazi uniform.He proves he's an idiot and a thug time and time again. Now someone lock him up....
Please?

Frumping along

2005-01-13T13:40:00.000Z

You know you are getting old when you choose clothes for comfort rather than aesthetic value.
Quite some time ago when visiting my parents there was an accident involving the ketchup bottle and my trousers. As I had no change of clothes on my person my mother let me borrow a pair of her Primark tracksuit bottoms.
Now let me explain, these trousers are hideous, and to be fair to my mum I think even she only wore them in the car on the way to the gym. They are a rather fetching maroon colour, which is their only redeeming feature. They pretend to be a rather trendy bootcut shape but as they are about two sizes too big for me, and about four inches too long, this benefit is lost when I wear them. As you can imagine they are the least flattering pair of trousers I have ever worn. Far from making me look fat they hang off my hips, my backside and my legs as if I am tying to disguise the fact that I am wasting away from some terrible disease.
Despite all this however, words cannot describe how comfortable they are. If only you could feel the soft fleece on your skin, that drawstring waist, adjustable to the perfect fit, so that when you get up from the sofa, they have left none of those red marks on your skin, caused by the fashionable, tighter fit.
So I started wearing them around the house, you know when I had an early evening bath and it was not yet time for my pyjamas. The perfect slouch pants, indeed.
At first I genuinely kept forgetting to return them to my mum, but on my birthday she mentioned something about the gym and I leapt up to go and fetch the unsightly item from my wardrobe, but I couldn’t do it, I found I couldn’t part with them. I mean it wasn’t like she was actually missing them. My mum has taste you see.
And then it happened, I fancied a late night snack and we had run out of bread, so I rushed out of the door to catch the Tesco’s Express before it closed. It wasn’t until I was half way there that I realised I was wearing these atrocious clothes. Oh well it was dark, no one would notice….
Of course, this experience opened the floodgates, and this morning I found myself, without any care, wearing them in broad daylight. I am after all, only a lazy, frumpy mother who after dropping her daughter off at school, has nothing better to do with her morning than improve her mind with study. One of the mothers has just given birth again, even she dons well fitting jeans and a pair of heels. What excuse do I have?!

There is romance in the old girl yet…

2005-01-12T20:15:00.000Z

I love reading familiar novels especially when that novel happens to be in my personal ‘best five books in the world… ever.’
Over the past couple of days I have had the pleasure of reacquainting myself with Jane Eyre. One of the many reasons I adore this book is because she continually addresses me personally. When I read the famous line ‘Reader, I married him.’
I feel like we are sitting in some quiet corner of a pub, and Jane Eyre has bought me a pint, nudged me in the side and said ‘Guess what Purple Elephant….’
I am told that the other day when reading the scene where Mr Rochester first appears, I spoke the following words out loud,
‘Ah! Here he comes!’
It must be because every single bloody time I read that book. I fall in love with him too.
Even so I still look forward to reading the words,
‘My dear master…I’m Jane Eyre: I have found you out – I am come back to you’
*Sigh*
I should not have indulged myself though as I still have books on my ‘Must read before my course starts on 5th Feb’ pile that I have never read before. I promised myself that I have to get through Dombey and Son before I start on the Book Group choice, Middlesex. That was before I realised that Dombey and Son only just falls short of 1,000 pages.

Tsunami reading matter…

2005-01-12T08:12:00.000Z

A thoughtful article by Terry Jones comparing our reaction to the Tsunami death rate, to the similar death ate in Iraq. Similar to what was said here.
I can only hope that the fervour that has been raised over the earthquake can continue and that in future we will be more tuned in and willing to help with other tragedies, the war, famine, AIDS etc
And because I can’t resist, here is a Tsunami survival story involving an elephant.

Queue Etiquette

2005-01-11T08:13:00.000Z

Do you have something that really niggles you, despite the fact that you know it’s petty and what with everything going on in the world* it shouldn’t bother you as much as it does?
I don’t mind queuing for a short time, when I’m about to be rewarded with something pleasurable, I’m thinking of being just the wrong side of the gates at the Glastonbury festival. That I can tolerate.
If we must watch our life tick away as we queue at the Tesco’s Express, then I think it is our duty to make the experience as endurable as possible for each other. So if the queue gets so long that they decide to open another till, and you are at the BACK of the first queue, don’t rush over to form the front of the second queue. Why don’t you tap the person in front of you on the shoulder and let them go first. After all, she was there BEFORE YOU in the first place. There you go, now that didn’t hurt now did it?!
Then that person will not have experience envy, as fuming she watches you head off out the door, to freedom, to the rest of your life. Whilst she is STILL THERE with her loaf of bread and her orange juice in her arms, dreaming of all the exciting things she could be doing with her life.
(* Speaking of which...After reaching the 500 mark comments to Michelles post are now closed. However I'm still willing to accept comments here.)

Tsunami: Make us donate….

2005-01-09T16:27:00.000Z

Michelle is doing a different version of the Comments Game today. $1 will be donated to Oxfam, for every comment received to this post.
So what I want you to do is go on over to her blog, make yourself known and then come back here and let me know that you have visited. Then I will donate £1.00 for every comment received here.
So anyone heading over via Purple Elephant’s Corner gets to give twice without being out of pocket! Sounds like a great idea!
Don’t fancy it? This morning I cried during the news because there was this little Indonesian kid drawing a picture of his Mummy being washed away.
Why are you still reading? Go!

There but for the grace of God..

2005-01-09T08:59:00.000Z

As we live in Cambridge I feel that I could not let the murder of Sally Geeson pass without a mention.
Although she was a student at the same university as Mr. PE, neither of us knew her. So I am not about to insult her family by declaring that the whole of Cambridge should have a day of mourning. This is their grief and theirs alone. For the fear of sounding like I’m regurgitating Tony Blair’s standard response, it is from the heart when I say that my thoughts are with them.
There is an eerie fog over Cambridge right now. We all go about our daily business uneasy at the thought of thee having been a murderer passing through, or worse still in our midst. There is also the added unrest that it happened on a night when many, many people (or at least those without kids) were out on the town. Indeed only a couple of hours before Mr PE himself was in the vicinity, now I’m even more thankful that he wanted to be home by midnight to welcome the new year with me. I can’t help but think of those dark nights in November when I ventured out on foot to meet the Cambridge NaNoers. I think of those short cuts I took, those dark alleys. I think of that night when it was snowing and I just *had* to walk home along the river just because I wanted to see what it looked like by moonlight in the snow.
This is why a murder hits the locals particularly hard. For the next few weeks, months, years we will all chain and bolt our doors with a little more fervour, be fearful if we (or our loved ones) venture out after dark, every one of us thinking ‘there but for the grace of God go I’

The Feministe Anti Awards,

2005-01-08T09:39:00.000Z

Feministe is tired of being passed up for awards so she has designed The Feministe Anti Awards, they have been dubbed; ‘a game of speed and wit, and preferably a boatload of pictures.’
Go on over and grab your award, before they run out!

I’m nominating myself for the “Bad (In the Good Way) Mother” Award mainly because of a stroke of pure genius that occurred to me this week.
Regulars will know of my struggle to get those of us in the Purple Elephant house to drink more water. Littleone will not touch the stuff, unless it is blended with at least half a cup of orange squash and even then I have to add the water in secret.
I have since discovered that at Nursery she drinks the stuff like it’s going out of fashion. By the sink they have a collection of cups where they can just go and help themselves, plus at recess they are all forced to drink a cupful with their fruit.
So I asked her why she drinks water at Nursery but not at home,
‘Nursery water is nice, home water is horrible!’
OF COURSE! I mean how could I be so ignorant, there was me thinking that we shared the same water board but the school taps must have a direct link to ‘Obedient Kid Springs,’ somewhere in the Highlands.
PER-DING! It was at this moment that the light bulb appeared (albeit briefly) above my head. If she was to turn up to Nursery thirsty, then she would help herself to a cup as soon as she arrived, thus at least one more on the road towards the incredibly dull ‘6-8 glass’ recommended daily dosage.
So I deprive my child of any drink at breakfast, that’s what I do. Do you know it actually works! 9am directly after hanging her coat up, she is there with all the others, desperate to get her share of the elixir.
First one to report me to social Services gets a prize!

Conversation between father and daughter…

2005-01-07T08:02:00.000Z

If Littleone doesn’t agree with something we say then she usually says ‘I don’t like you!’ or ‘Go away!’ This sounds really bad but it is usually said with a smile on her face and a comedy voice. It’s all calculated to make us laugh so that we don’t tell her off; she is clever like that. Even so we are trying to steer her away from such language, as other people may not see the funny side.
Yesterday I overheard the following;
L; I want to watch The Lion King.
D; No. You have already watched one DVD today. Why don’t you do some painting?
L; Because I want to watch The Lion King.
D; No
L; Please can I watch The Lion King.
D. Why don’t you play with your toys?
L; Lion King. Lion King. Lion King.
D; No. No. No!
At this point she storms off towards her toy box in a mock huff, turning round to deliver the following cutting remark.
L; I love you Daddy. I just don’t like it when you talk.

Kids can be so cruel

2005-01-06T19:24:00.000Z

Yesterday when we were feeling the love, there was a discussion over at Mommy Matters wondering why as adults we couldn’t be as friendly as children. In my comment I agreed, questioning how it is OK to say to a child ‘that’s a pretty dress’ but the same comment made to an adult would possibly send them running in the opposite direction. In the cold light of day I was reminded this morning that this envied directness can also have a nasty side.
Littleone has a friend at nursery. Let us call him J. We walk the same route and often catch up with each other on the way to and from school. Usually J and Littleone get on well, they seem to share a penchant for sticks, whoops I mean ‘magic wands’.
Today in the park on the way home Littleone called after J and ran towards him but over the Christmas holidays it seems he has made a new friend because this morning he responded with the words,
‘Go away Littleone. I’m playing with R and we don’t want to play with YOU!’
Now my daughter has this face she pulls just before she is going to cry. Her doe eyes get wider and wider, her cheeks flush with red and her mouth, oh it’s the mouth that kills me.
Did any of you read Mr. Happy when you were small? Do you remember the bit where Mr. Happy goes to meet Mr. Sad and gradually makes him laugh? First Mr Sad’s mouth is just a straight line and then picture by picture it begins to turn up at the ends? Well when Littleone is about to cry, it’s the same but in reverse. So she stares right at me with her straight line mouth and it’s up to me to make it all better. It’s a race against time as I have to dance on the spot, pull a funny face, get my tickling finger out, something, anything, before the corners of her mouth hit the bottom of her chin, by which time it is to late and she is in floods of tears.
Today I won the battle and she was laughing again before long, by the end of the journey she was even trying to muscle in on the boys’ game again.
The whole situation reminded me of the answer to the above question. It is the memory of insensitive comments just like this that makes us aloof as adults. Each snub having chiselled away bit by bit at our confidence until we can bear it no more and begin to build that brick wall of silence that protects us.

Feeling the love and the inspiration

2005-01-05T18:02:00.000Z

I’m feeling the love today and it could be for any of the following reasons.
1. Pewari directed me to a great little writing community called Inspirations. The aim is that you write regularly, every day if you can. Over at the site you will find all sorts of ideas for little exercises to get the creative juices flowing. For instance I have just written a 55 word story. If this is your thing then they (or should I say ‘we’?) are looking for new members, so make a start by getting on over there and introducing yourself.
2. Along the same lines Michelle at y a gotta believe is organising the next round of the book club. The scheduled books sound exciting, so get yourself over there too and let her know you are interested.
3. It is International De-lurking day.
.
As far as I can tell Mir, Amy and Christine have also caught the love in their blogs. So if you visit someone today, don’t be shy, leave them a comment and tell them how much you love them. You could even go somewhere you haven't been before, I'm sure any of the above bloggers will be pleased to see you.
4. It could be just because I saw the sunrise this morning.
5. Or maybe it is those two cups of coffee.
Oh and if you are reading this.
I LOVE YOU XXXX

Beauty when you least expect...

2005-01-05T09:35:00.000Z

Last night, just before my daughter turned the computer off at the plug, I had a whole rant almost written bemoaning the fact that I had passed the afternoon doing the inevitable post Christmas decoration spring clean. I had paid particular attention to Littleone’s bedroom, making a nice haven for her, ready for when I become miserable essay writing bore. Only an hour later it was in a state worse than it was when I started.
Yesterday I needed reminding of why I bother.
This morning however I rose early so I could catch up on some serious reading. In doing so I witnessed the sky turn from pitch black to a fiery red in the space of an hour. I had to take pictures on a disposable as the batteries were dead in the digital camera, so I hope they come out.
Unfortunately, so that I can stay awake for the rest of the day, I have had two cups of very strong coffee.
Oh sod it! I am sure that on my deathbed I will not be lamenting the fact that my house was always a tip or that I consumed too much caffiene.

Women and Writing

2005-01-04T11:05:00.000Z

Discovered via Feministe and Scribbling woman.
Clancy at Culture Cat is compiling a link portal to all discussions on gender in the blogosphere. This is a great central point to keep up with a fascinating debate.
While I am on the subject of gender and writing, I found The Gender Genie via the BoB Awards.You can paste any text into the box and it calculates the gender of the author based on the language used. I ‘tested’ a chapter of my novel and a blog entry, it predicted correctly on both.
I’m now in the middle of reading this article. If there is a distinct female style then it could explain why I am more attracted to female writers.
If you are interested in this sort of thing, go and have a play and let me know what you come up with.
How about you? What is the male/ female ratio on your bookshelf?

Moorhens Rule

2005-01-03T09:48:00.000Z

Here is something you probably don’t know about me. I have always had a bit of a thing about Moorhens. I adore them. I think it has something to do with the cheeky way they nod their heads as they are swimming along. It gets me every time.

Yesterday we went out for our Sunday walk towards Granchester and it was Littleone who spotted him first. Look Mummy! It’s your friend’ (as she calls them)
Anyway I’m convinced he heard because he came right up to us and started performing, dipping his head under water and wiggling his tail.
Anyway the funny part of the story is that we passed the same stretch of water on the way back and I decided to see if I could tease him a bit closer with our left over sandwiches. Naturally though, this only resulted in the swans heading towards us at full pelt. So there I was throwing great chunks of bread into the distance hoping to get rid of the swans. Anyway my friend, about one twentieth the size of the swan I hasten to add, just sat there at the swan’s feet waiting until the swan had an itchy backside dropping his bread to ahem, see to the problem. The moorhen took this opportunity to steal the bread from under the swan’s beak and disappear off into the horizon.
You should have seen the swan's face as he turned round and wondered where his dinner had got to.
OK so maybe you had to be there.

THUD

2005-01-03T09:13:00.000Z

Did you hear that?
That was the sound of my faith in human nature hitting rock bottom.
Man held over hoax quake e-mails.
What gets me is that according to the article;
‘The hoax e-mailer could face charges of malicious communication or causing a public nuisance.’
The charges don’t really match up to the gravity of his actions now do they? I mean ‘public nuisance’ doesn’t really cover it.
I think they should invent a new charge especially for him. How about;
‘The hoax e-mailer could face charges of being a complete evil fuckwit’
That’s better.

Disturbing Dreams

2005-01-02T09:24:00.000Z

I have always been fascinated by dreams, partly because I think they must be a window to the subconscious. Our very own thoughts without any inhibitions setting to in saying ‘Oooh you shouldn’t be thinking THAT!’ They must be telling us something right?
In addition, I have at various times been prone to prophetic dreams. This may sound cool and weird but trust me; it has rarely been a pleasurable experience. You want an example?
It is December 1993, just before Christmas, I am 17 years old tucked up warm in bed and should be having sweet dreams. Oh no not I! I still remember it vividly. I am transported to what looks like a busy London street, right on top of some crossroads, queuing outside what looks like a club. While I am waiting a coach pulls up at the traffic lights in front of me, the windows are steamed up but I can just make out some kids banging on the windows wanting to get out. I think about helping them but when I look closely I notice that their faces have no eyes and no noses, they are basically just screaming mouths. So I falter because I am scared of them, I wonder what I am going to do with a class load of kids who have no eyes and no noses and while I ponder the lights change and the coach moves on. The kids disappear without being set free. Perhaps I should mention that this dream has a soundtrack (please don’t tell me I’m the only person whose dreams play to music) the song is Cherub Rock by The Smashing Pumpkins. Even to this day I have to skip that track on the CD. Go check out the lyrics.
When I wake up I am so disturbed by this dream that I feel the urge to get it off my chest, so I blurt it all out to the first poor unsuspecting human being I find, who just happens to be my brother. When I have finished I notice he has gone a little pale and he directs me to the TV and the top news story. The previous night on the way home from a concert in London, a class load of kids had perished when their coach had burst into flames. When the paper came the next day they printed their school photos and I had even dreamed the right school uniform.
This cut me up for quite a while, I couldn’t help thinking that if I had saved them in my dream, that somehow, they would have lived in real life.
So now you know why nightmares scare me more than your average person, I now bring you forward 11 years to the night before last. What worries me more than anything about this recent dream is that it was recurring. I had the same dream three times in just one night. That has never happened to me before, so I cannot help but think that my subconscious is desperately trying to get some sort of message across.
I am shopping on Cambridge market with Littleone when I find a stall selling guns, and it seems like such a good idea at the time, so I buy one. (I shouldn’t have to add here that I abhor violence, I don’t agree with guns for self-defence, murder, hunting of animals or decorative purposes. Just get rid of them.) So we are walking home with all our shopping bags and we come up to the alleyway at the end of our street and Littleone is getting tired and walking very slowly. Suddenly I remember that the parents in law are coming to visit and I have to get home to wait for them.
So what do I do? I hand Littleone some bags and tell her to catch me up.
It is not until I get home that I have a moment of clarity. Firstly what the hell was I doing buying a gun? Secondly what the hell was I doing leaving my three year old to walk home alone down a dark alley? And thirdly, oh shit, what was I thinking in giving her the gun to carry?
So I retrace my steps looking for her, and the closer I get to where I left her the worse my fears become and then I reach the alleyway and there she is, strolling round the corner gaily swinging only her schoolbag. Well at least she had lost the gun I suppose.
I have been particularly clingy over the past day, obviously I’m not about to leave my daughter with a gun but is it trying to warn me of some other danger? Going upstairs to the loo with a saucepan on the cooker? Leaving a window open?
Or should I be concentrating on the finale, that she was OK, despite my fears. In this case is my dream presenting the opposite point of view, that in wanting to cling on to her childhood a little longer I am withholding the independence she needs and deserves. Perhaps I should be a little more willing to let her do things for herself?
Are there any experts in this field out there?

Our New Year

2005-01-01T11:03:00.000Z

It happens every year.
Mr PE gets back from the pub at about 10:30 declaring that he couldn’t possibly drink another drop. I get excited because that means I can drink the other half bottle of wine I had been saving for him.
Then about ten minutes after Jools Holland has started. One or other of us declares that they can never decide if Jools is quite quirky and cool or a just a pretentious git. For a while we decide that not only is he quite cool but he is an extremely talented musician. Ten minutes later when all that self-satisfied buddy buddy musician stuff starts getting on our nerves, we decide that he is too smug for our liking and Mr PE starts irritating me by flicking channels (one of my pet hates) Last night it was a strange mixture of Jools Holland on BBC2 Natasha Kaplinski on BBC1 and The Wicker Man on ITV. After most of a bottle of wine it all blurs into one and suddenly it is to an Eric Clapton soundtrack that Natasha Kaplinski comes up over that hill shouting ‘Oh Jesus Christ No!’ (Purple Elephant lingers on that thought for a moment)
Now where was I? Oh yes I then I ask if it’s time for bed yet. Mr PE insists that there’s only 10 minutes left of 2004 because the clock behind Jools Holland says so. I roll my eyes and remind him that we fall for this every year, for that is a cardboard clock set permanently at 11.50. He proves that it does work by flicking over to Ceefax and showing me that it is in fact 11:50, I insist that it’s just coincidence and do not win the argument until 11:55 when the fake clock has not yet budged.
I then pour us both some Kumala, and Mr PE refuses point blank to even touch his glass so at midnight I hold one in each hand and clunk them together by myself. Whilst the fireworks are banging and the drunks are singing Auld Lang Syne Mr PE whinges about New Years celebrations being fake and overrated. I reply that quite the contrary I actually prefer New Years over Christmas. To which he gives his standard reply,
‘What on earth for?’
And so today I broke with tradition and instead of saying ‘I just do!’ I descended into the following monologue;
‘I think it’s because on New Years Eve a little fountain of optimism springs out from all that bitter cynicism that builds up throughout the year and however hard I try I cannot put it too rest. I cannot help but to hope that this year I will be a better mother, wife, daughter, friend or whatever and that maybe I might just realise my dreams despite the fact that half the time I’m not even sure what those dreams are.
For this one night of the year I want to believe that everything is going to be different just because we can change that last digit of the date in our chequebooks. I want Big Ben to chime and for the air to change and for me to spring up from my seat with the motivation to do everything I’ve ever wanted. I want pollution to lift, the ozone to mend and for trees to be planted. I want all those loved ones in Asia to come floating back on the sea, wiping their brows and saying ‘Wow! What an adventure that was!’ I want all this to happen because it’s 2005 now.
Just for this one night I don’t want to think about the fact that in exactly one year’s time I’m going to be sitting on the same rickety sofa, in the same flat, watching the same crap on the same TV and even having the same arguments about clocks, Jools Holland and Natasha freakin’ Kaplinski.’
At which point I nudge my snoring husband and declare,
‘Oi! I was talking to you.’
To which he turns over and mumbles
‘Yes, yes I know. You ‘Just do!’ Right?’
‘Yes. ‘I just do!’ Shall we go to bed then?’
‘Mmm bed. Sounds good! I'll be up in a minute.'
To which I leave him snoring on the sofa.

Christmas is Over - It's Official!

2004-12-31T14:02:00.000Z

Just been over to Tesco's and you'll be pleased to know that EASTER BUNNIES ARE NOW IN STOCK!
Well go on then! Quickly before they sell out!

Resolutions.

2004-12-31T10:19:00.000Z

This New Years Eve we shall be pushing the boat out as usual. We will park ourselves in front of Jools Holland’s Annual Hootenanny, occasionally poking each other in the sides to keep awake, before clinking our glasses at midnight and going to bed.
Traditionally today is also the day for compiling endless resolution lists and because I am nice like that, I have saved the whole family the bother, and made them myself.
In keeping with our environmental awareness, I have recycled most of them from last year. No filling up those landfills with unwanted resolutions. Oh no not us.
Here goes;
Mummy’s Resolutions
1. Unless a special occasion (eg. NaNoWriMo 2005 etc) I will cut down to only ONE cup of coffee per day. This may seem a little hard on myself but you haven’t seen how much coffee I can cram into one mug. Last year I tried the ‘Coffee not so strong’ resolution. Now I’ll try it this way round.
2. Linked to the above, I will drink more WATER. I am terribly bad at this, I find it so boring but when I make the effort I do feel much better.
3. I will edit that novel. I had a flick though it yesterday and re-wrote one of the chapters. It felt good to be working on it, without the pressure of churning the words out. I just played around with a couple of thousand words until they sounded right. I’m not making any promises about seeing my name in print this year; it’s more about gathering confidence and finding my voice.
4. Every Sunday the whole family will go out for a walk somewhere nice. This isn’t a fitness resolution, we don’t have a car so we walk to school, into town a couple of times a week and to
to Tumble Tots, but these are all incredibly dull and urban walks. This resolution is about getting out and appreciating the world without making that ‘I’ve got too much to do’ excuse.
5. Improve my exam / revision technique. The OU may do extra classes, if not I will find some books. (If anyone has any tips on this, they will be much appreciated)
6. After forgetting to nominate, I will at least vote in the BOB Awards.

Littleone’s Resolutions.

1. I will be in bed by 8pm. If I am not yet tired I will sit and read by myself until I am.
2. I will stay there all night.
3. When I have finished playing with a toy I will put it away before I start on something else.
4. Mummy’s resolutions look good. I will drink (more) water too, yum! And I will always eat every scrap of my dinner.
5. When Mummy is writing / studying/ reading, I will play quietly by myself in a corner. No need to bribe me with a DVD anymore.
6. When I am asked not to do something, I will not retort with ‘Go away!’ or ‘I don’t like you!’ however much the above might be said in a comedy fashion.
7. I will no longer insist on wearing my clothes on back to front. That fashion was so 2004.

Mr Purple Elephant’s Resolutions.
I am being easy on him because (delete as appropriate) I know how difficult he finds it / He is almost Goddamn perfect anyway.
1. I will give up smoking. He actually tried this on 23rd Dec, by Christmas night he was scaling the streets of Cambridge looking for somewhere, anywhere selling cigarettes.
2. See Littleone’s resolutions. No. 5.

Control freak? Moi?

New design

2004-12-30T13:37:00.000Z

What do we think? It may need some tweaking. Let me know if it is not working on your screen. Don’t be too hard on me it is my first technophobic attempt to fiddle with a basic blogger template.
I decided yesterday that really, considering the name, I should have a purple blog. So I messed around with the colours before deciding that I much prefer to read black on white. Purple is great but it has its place. So I scrapped that one.
Today we have a cute little Elephant (altogether now ah!) with a soft background and some purpley titles.
Anyone who did manage to see it yesterday I hope you agree that this is more pleasing on the eye, whilst still managing to keep with the themes.

Doing whatever we can.

2004-12-29T08:49:00.000Z

We aimed to have a very low key Christmas (and birthday) this year, and having heard the stories of other family and friends, it seems we did very well. I’m hoping that we can continue in this fashion as Littleone gets older and the pressures to conform and buy, buy buy become more difficult to avoid.
Even so it just seems wrong to go into any detail about our humble celebration after what happened in Asia this Christmas. I woke up this morning to the news that the death toll has reached 68,000. I don’t know about anyone else but I find this figure awfully difficult to comprehend. All those mothers, fathers, daughters and sons, wiped out just like that.
I saw this British couple on the local news who had managed to get one of the first planes out of there. They were sobbing and crying and telling of how awful it was to watch their ‘possessions’ (ie their suitcase) be washed away. I know it was incredibly awful of me but I couldn’t help thinking that they got of lightly, they still had each other and a fully intact home to which they could return.
Geeky Mom has already written a pefectly good post with some comprehensive links regarding the pittance the west is offering in aid. So I direct you there rather than attempting to do the subject justice myself.
Google has set up a links page with information and sites accepting donations. I suggest we put our governments to shame and reach into our own pockets.
If not then I am sure Oxfam will be doing all they can, they have a shop in nearly every town in the UK. Have that clear out you intended to have before Christmas, gather together any unwanted Christmas presents, take them down to be resold. It will all help, I promise.

The cat ate my twenties

2004-12-28T09:01:00.000Z

It is my birthday today and it has just occurred to me that one year from today I will no longer be able to say that I am in my twenties. Where did it go? I’ve watched the cat suck up a whole piece of string as if it was a piece of spaghetti, did he do the same with the past decade I wonder, because I have no idea where it went. I didn’t have nearly enough time to do all the things I was supposed to do.
As for today, I am hoping that this morning I will get the chance to prize my child away from the TV long enough to listen to the Seize the Day CD I got for Christmas. You never know I might also get some reading in before the family descends upon us at lunchtime.

There’s no place like home.

2004-12-27T08:40:00.000Z

Forget the presents, the food etc
Christmas is sitting down with your nearest and dearest to watch The Wizard of Oz.
And while I’m on the subject of Christmas TV, if I ever to get the opportunity to extend my family just don’t take me to Holby City Hospital to give birth. Their infant/ parent mortality rate is akin to the dark ages. Why is nobody investigating this?
(Note to Purple Elephant: Because it is only a story, please drag yourself away from that box in the corner before you do yourself some serious damage)

Thought for the Day; Radio 4

2004-12-26T08:58:00.000Z

I didn't hear this but have been directed to the transcript of Thought for the Day, on Monday. I was going to edit it here but because I wish that Chistians would cover these issues more often, I am going to reproduce the whole thing.

Thought for the Day, 20 December 2004
The Rev. Dr Colin Morris
Apparently 10 million turkeys will be slaughtered this Christmas. But The Guardian reported the other day on the incredible luck of Bert, a 15lb turkey who was a prize in a church raffle, intended to be delivered, plucked and ready for the festive table of the winner. But Bert happened to be won by a couple who are strict vegetarians, so he is now a family pet.

Several weeks ago the House of Commons voted to ban fox-hunting. I was glad because I don't believe it's right for us to get pleasure from the violent death of any creature. But any self-righteousness I might have felt was wiped out when I saw the picture of Bert and contemplated the fate of those 10 million birds. Is it morally consistent to damn fox hunting and tuck into my Christmas menu?

Now, I don't think there is an exact parallel with foxhunting, but the principle is too close for comfort. It is the notion that the rest of God's creatures exist at our will and pleasure. And we are not just talking about foxes or turkeys. Sooner rather than later we shall have to face up to a whole raft of ethical dilemmas to do with fishing, shooting, vivisection, wild-life habitats being built on, and, of course, global warming. Resolving them will be very costly.

Religiously, my views on these issues were formed by that verse in the Book of Genesis about our having been given dominion over every living creature that moves upon the earth. I always recognised that having dominion implied a duty of care for God's creatures as well as domination of them, but nevertheless the assumption is that there's a God-ordained hierarchy, and we are at its crown. But do we deserve to be? - we homicidal predators, ravaging our own species through war, genocide and the sort of gratuitous cruelty no animal would commit, but we are also busy wiping out other living

The traditional message of Christmas is about the arrival of the Prince of Peace and we understandably think of human conflicts, but Christians also regard Christ as the Lord of Creation. His Spirit surely incites us to work for a truce in that other undeclared war against our fellow creatures. It's a war we might win by sheer weight of numbers an technological superiority, but we'll leave a very bleak planet for future generations.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without the mishaps.

2004-12-25T10:39:00.000Z

I have never been able to do the homemade swiss roll thing, so can you imagine my excitement a couple of months ago when I found this recipe which uses a loaf tin instead of all that tea towel kafuffle. So yesterday stomach rumbling with excitement I set about getting all the ingredients ready, but where is the loaf tin? I know we had two but for some reason BOTH have disappeared off the face of the earth. We have had the whole kitchen out and they are nowhere to be seen. Do they have legs I wonder?
Apart from that our tree lights failed us, I blame the cat, he was trying to eat them.
Oh and to top it all off during midnight mass Mr Purple Elephant set light to the TV! That may sound quite funny but we were actually very very lucky because seconds earlier he was upstairs bringing the presents down and I was in the kitchen making a drink. As it happened, because we were in the room at the time we managed to rescue the whole thing just in time, a couple of seconds later and it could have been a nasty inferno.
Thankfully we seem to have got our bad luck out of the way and today seems to be going smoothly. I have found a small square cake tin and I am gathering that if I bake the cake and cut it in half is may just resemble a loaf. We shall see!
So after all that I wish you all a disaster free Christmas!

The curse of the ‘pretend’ Sellotape

2004-12-24T10:06:00.000Z

I do it every year.
I exceed the Christmas present budget and a few days before Christmas I begin to panic about how I am going to make what we have got left last until next payday in January. About the same time I realise that we are short on sticky tape. So what do I do? I walk into the cheap shop and discover two rolls for 75p, and as I queue to pay for my treasured purchases I feel so happy with myself because if I had bought what my daughter would call ‘real’ Sellotape I would have paid a whole pound for just one roll. As I walk out of the shop, ‘pretend’ Sellotape in hand, I feel that this saving of £1.25 might just redeem our financial situation.
I have spent more time scratching around with my fingernail, trying to find the end of the stuff than I have choosing the present in the first place. The amount I’ve wasted while it pisses about splitting down the middle is beyond a joke. If by some huge mistake I get both ends of a cut piece in the same vicinity then they will act like magnets to each other and to anything else in the room that doesn’t wish to be encased in ‘pretend’ Sellotape. Except the actual wrapping paper of course, that would be too much to ask. I’ve got presents popping open and vagrant gift tags all over the place.
I’ve just placed the unused roll by the front door in the hope that its magnetic powers might attract some stray money though the cat flap.
It has got to have some use surely?

My daughter is a snob

2004-12-23T19:03:00.000Z

Don’t ask! You don’t want to know!
In fact I was kind of hoping that, as I have not missed a day blogging, I could write some throw away post about something half funny my daughter said and we could pretend that the last day or so didn’t just happen. I was here all the time, right?
Here goes...
So she is sitting there on the Mother in law’s sofa and the biscuit barrel gets handed round Littleone helps herself to one of her favourites (a Bourbon) has a nibble and even finishes her mouthful (yes it appears that I did something right) before turning to her Grandmother and saying;
‘I like coming here Nanny because you have REAL biscuits.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask while everyone else is laughing ‘I get your Bourbon biscuits!’
‘No Mummy you get PRETEND Bourbons, Nanny gets REAL ones.’
What she means is that I try and fob her off with the Value rubbish, whereas Nanny gets the Tesco’s own brand.
Until that moment I thought I’d got away with it.

This is it!

2004-12-22T08:53:00.000Z

It cannot be put off any longer, we really have to go and visit is family any second now. Would you believe it, I seemed to have picked up something nasty (from Kate or Amy maybe grrrr) I used to be one of those people who got ill once a year for about 24 hours and that was it. Since I wrote this post however I have been ill twice in a few months and both times have involved a visit to the parents in law. I’ve got a friend who is into Spiritual Healing and Reiki etc, she always says that sore throats are a manifestation of suppressed words, of not speaking what you think.
Deduce what you will.
I’m also going to have to think about my nominations for the Best of Blog Awards, as it closes on 24th. I would like to support this idea for giving recognition to the little, bloggers with only a few readers like you and I but I have been thinking about this for nearly a month and I just can’t come to any decision. I love dearly each and every person on my blogroll in her (or his but mainly her) own special and unique way. You all deserve something. I can’t cope with the categories either, many of my favourite reads are parents but I feel to define them as a ‘mommy’ or ‘daddy’ blog would be a bit of an insult as we are all so much more than this.
I might just vote for you all under 'inspirational' and be done with it!

Have a grand solstice everyone!

2004-12-21T09:28:00.000Z

I have good news and bad news, I’ll leave you to work out which is which.
1) Mr Purple Elephant couldn’t finish his work yesterday. (Due in Christmas Eve)
2) The plan was that he was going to hand it in this morning on the way down to spend the solstice with his family.
3) Family visit postponed until tomorrow.
4) I have a commitment Thursday afternoon, which means we cannot extend our visit the other end.
5) Mr PE announced late last night that he had only just remembered that his mum has given him £20.00 with which he was supposed to go into Borders and buy my Christmas present from them.
6) Of course he is far too busy to do it himself, so guess where I am going this afternoon?!
7) When I was in Borders yesterday I almost shed tears over the sheer volume of books I need to read but cannot afford. What to choose? What to choose?
8) Mr Purple Elephant thinks he will finish his work by teatime, which means we can spend the Solstice evening together as a nuclear family.
9) This means that he will suggest that we open the Christmas wine.
10) There are only two bottles left.
11) He thinks there are six.

Favourite Christmas Lyrics.

2004-12-20T10:19:00.000Z

I began thinking about this when I was a teenager (with too much time on my hands obviously) and the ‘first’ Gulf War was looming. It was then that I decided in all my youth and innocence that the award should go to John and Yoko for the awe inspiring ‘War is over. If you want it.’ It had never occurred to me before that all I had to do was ‘Want it’ and nobody would have to die. It all sounded so simple, so I started ‘wanting it’ right there and then. So the war began wrecking havoc all over the Middle East and still my naivety would not budge, I just wasn’t ‘wanting it’ enough. So it was then that I began ‘imagining’, yes I imagined that there was no heaven, no hell, no possesions and even no countries and John was right you know, it wasn’t hard at all. In fact it was quite nice where I was living for a while.
I’m not quite sure when it was that I came back down to earth with a painful thud, all I know is that while I was busy dreaming of a better world, it seems that over 100,000 civilians had died in Iraq. The war was not over at all. Thanks John.
Yet despite my bitter cynicism I cannot bring myself to throw my idealist tendencies down the rubbish chute, so for now they sit under the stairs, with all my John Lennon records while I work out what the hell else I can do to end these continuing atrocities.
My new favourite Christmas Lyrics? Straight in at number one is The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl with the very last lines of Fairytale of New York. A heart rendering love song that never fails to bring a tear to my eye. The pathos of failed hopes and dreams can only be understood in the context of the whole song. So here it is:

HIM; It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

HER; They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome

HIM: You were pretty
Queen of New York City

BOTH: When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

HER: You're a bum
You're a punk

HIM: You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed

HER: You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

BOTH: The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas day

HIM: I could have been someone

HER: Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you

HIM: I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you.

Shane MacGowan goes down in my book as one of the great poets of our time. Did I mention that I was going to see the Pogues on Wednesday?…

Some questions to which Purple Elephant needs the answers and is too embarrassed to ask

2004-12-19T08:46:00.000Z

1) What is ‘Trackback’ and what does one do with it?
2) How might one go about adding categories to one’s blog if one was using simple old blogger?
3) Its it normal for a 3 ½ year old child to have an aversion to wearing clothes the right way round?
4) Is there anyone else in the world who when faced with a particular over used and dull journey home, enters so far into their own thoughts that suddenly they find themselves on their own doorstep with no memories of having got there.
5) If answer to above question is ‘Yes’ then would the author be the only person who as she fumbles for her keys, panics that as she was walking home she had been speaking those thoughts out loud ?
6) What is the UK law regarding children and car seats? In short, would a child aged, ooh shall we say, 3 ½ be allowed to sit in the back of a car wearing just an adult seat belt (ie NO car seat and NO booster seat)
7) Irrespective to the above answer, if hypothetically speaking, there was this mother, who had this hypothetical child who was, ooh shall we say 3 ½ and the mother was reluctantly about to trust the child in the care of someone else for a few hours. If this mother was to then deduce that her pride and joy was going to be taken on an unnecessary (but with an altogether pleasant destination) journey for (ooh shall we say) 45 minutes, with just an adult seat belt for protection. If that mother, despite feeling a little hurt that she had not been consulted on the matter, very politely suggested that irrespective of the law, she was not happy with the situation and unless a car seat or booster could be procured then the child would not be going. If no seat was found and the child was kept home then would that mother be;
a) A killjoy intent on ruining everyone’s Christmas, including that of her own child.
b) An overanxious mother who just needs to lighten up and get a grip.
c) A bit weird but hey, it’s her prerogative and her child. Whatever she says goes.
d) Normal, (almost) any other mother would do the same in her situation.

Purple Elephant's Corner

PURPLE ELEPHANT'S CORNER HAS MOVED!!!

Pssssst....

Guess what we were doing yesterday..

The joys of Physical 'Education'

Ah! She Posts!

Another false conviction...

Whoops I missed a day!

Fur and the Fickle Fuckwits that Wear It:

A dream

Yay Mona!

When is Dairy Free not Vegan?

Some thoughts on Milly-Molly-Mandy

But I was a Quaker last time....

A Question for you today...

Weekend blog roundup...

The Fear..

A meteorologist in the making

Same title, different day..

I am the procrastination queen

Zolafest 2005

Weekend Blog Roundup.

Entertaining the intelligentsia…

I love this!

She didn’t kill them…

10 Books....

When Littleone grows up she wants to be….

Bleurgh…

How the other half lives..

Weekend Blog Roundup.

And so he dies again *yawn*

Hunting with dogs…

Books glorious books.

On Perfection (once more)

Drudgery thy Name is Woman; Part 2.

A new word for you Dr. Johnson…

Happy St Valentines Day…

Weekend blog round up…

It is time for bed methinks....

A bitty post..

3. The place in the house you go to escape

A memory sparked by something I read....

The most boring blog post you have ever read…

Are you as nosey as me?

Start as you mean to go on….

Weekend Blog round up.

We speak British, you know.

Tell me why I don’t like tutorials.

Show and Tell

Mourning A Room of My Own

A new Little Britain script;

High maintenance - That's me....

And talking of Virginia Woolf…..

The Hours

Weekend blog round up,

Non-uniform day…

Drudgery thy name is Woman.

Desperate Housewives

29 down, 55 more to go....

Tribe

Queue Etiquette Parts 2 & 3

The contrasts of parenting.

Blog Roundup

The Yorkshire Ripper

OUCH!

What would we do without them?

Has the Tarot got it in for me?

You are as old as you act...

Oh how they taunt me.

Two appeals

Oh Harry, Harry, Harry!

Frumping along

There is romance in the old girl yet…

Tsunami reading matter…

Queue Etiquette

Tsunami: Make us donate….

There but for the grace of God..

The Feministe Anti Awards,

Conversation between father and daughter…

Kids can be so cruel

And so he dies again yawn

THUD