A load of old...

...rubbish.

Every two weeks on those Thursday nights when Troll is cosily holed up in the AAMC (where, naturally, Real Life does not intrude) a casual observer may be forgiven for thinking Chateau Angevin is the venue for a meeting of the Invent An Original Swear Word Convention. For once, this is not due to my having found something on the BBC News Website to offend my delicate sensibilities but because it is, horror of horrors, Bin Night.

I loathe taking the bins out. I loathe the fact I have to wheel the bins 100 yards down my drive because the idle binmen won't drive up into my yard to collect them (note, however, this does not stop various men in white vans using my yard as a turning circle several times a week - subject for another blog there sometime methinks). I loathe the necessity of removing the full bin bag from my kitchen bin into the large dark grey dumpster type bin the local council so thoughtfully provide. I loathe anything to do with bins in fact - their lack of aesthetic appeal, their smell and even those naff products you can buy which claim to get rid of the latter. BUT most of all I absolutely loathe, detest and revile the fact that the local council imposed a TWO WEEKLY cycle of collections on us.

Yes, gentle non-UK readers, you read that correctly. In this so-called First World civilised country in which I reside my rubbish is now only collected every two weeks, a fact which makes me virtually froth at the mouth. We are told this is because if we organise ourselves correctly, and separate out our rubbish into the correct receptacles helpfully provided by the council we should only NEED our rubbish collecting fortnightly - an outright lie which merely reinforces my belief that outside Chateau Angevin people live off ready meals and junkfood. For example, the little green bin we are given for food waste, which the council assure us will be composted once they collect it, is only about a cubic foot square. WHO ARE THEY KIDDING? I can almost fill that space with vegetable peelings from ONE MEAL, God alone knows what I'd do if I actually used the flipping thing for real rather than flinging my peelings on my own compost heap (oh no, you aren't getting any help from me, District Council in your cunning scheme to collect scraps free from people and then get them to pay you good money for it when it's been composted... I'm not that daft, thank you very much). I could go on about the inappropriate features of the various other receptacles we have been given for the various other forms of waste we produce but you get the picture...

I am angry and resentful NOW about this situation - I will leave you all to imagine just how incandescent I'm going to be if the Council carry out their threat of microchipping the bins to check we are all being good boys and girls and not putting anything we shouldn't in there - and merely make the point this is meant to be BRITAIN in 2009, not East Germany circa 1980 with the Stazi in control of rubbish collection.

I would also make the point that so far nobody at the Council has been able to adequately explain to me why Malta, one of the poorest countries in the EU with a population of half a million or so, manages to have DAILY rubbish collections whereas us Brits can only manage a piss-poor fortnightly one. Answers on a postcard please, readers....

Remind me not to read the BBC News Website!

Because, ONCE AGAIN, I've found something which makes me so cross only the blessed relief of putting fingers to keyboard is going to get it out of my system.

The article today is built around the results of a survey conducted by the Welsh Tourist Board:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/8349935.stm

The report starts off with the phrase "Wales is "slightly old-fashioned" and the Welsh are "not friendly" in the minds of some potential visitors to the country, research has found." Those who know me in real life will probably be able to accurately assess the explosion which that would have generated at Chateau Angevin; suffice it to say it was not a pretty sight. Reading a bit further into the report it seems that - surprise surprise - what's actually caused the problem here is the English characteristically objecting to the use of the Welsh language. (Note, the Irish didn't have a problem with it and actually thought it was a good thing).

To me, that says a whole lot more about English insecurity than it does supposed Welsh unfriendliness. I am sick to the back teeth of hearing tales of visiting a shop where the other shoppers 'spoke in Welsh so I didn't understand them' - what the hell makes these people think the Welsh were speaking English beforehand and changed to Welsh just to be nasty to them? Does it never cross their bigoted little minds the likelihood is, especially in the North or West Wales, the other shoppers were indeed speaking Welsh before the grand entrance of the English Tourist and merely carried on their conversations? Oh, silly me, of course it wouldn't; everybody should speak English, now, shouldn't they? After all, the English have done their best over the past 1,000 years or so to eradicate Welsh culture HOW DARE the naughty Welsh continue to have their own language and use it??

If I am quite honest, in some ways I can understand, if not condone a bit of linguistic exclusion versus the English, after all, it's only the Welsh getting a little of their own back. Welsh was banned as a teaching medium in schools from the C19th onwards and matters got quite humiliating and vicious as such things usually do. My grandfather used to often talk of the times he was hauled up in front of the whole school and a board put round his neck with 'Spoke Welsh' on it after a teacher had caught him speaking in Welsh to his peers; and of the times he was slippered for continuing to do so. His only comfort was that oft as not his brothers and sister were up there too, along with a fair few other children from his village - can you just imagine the outcry now if a teacher took part in institutional humiliation of this nature and made a child wear a board with 'Spoke Urdu' or similar scrawled on it? We are talking about the early years of the C20th here, a time still just about in living memory, and it was only comparatively recently that discrimination against Welsh speakers was halted when the 1993 Welsh Language Act repealed a law, dating back to Henry VIII, which disqualified Welsh speakers from holding administrative office.

As aforementioned, I don't think it's RIGHT the English should be made to feel uncomfortable when they go on holiday to Wales, but on some levels it's understandable. Perhaps we should make as big a fuss about all the Welsh-English back history as the descendants of the slaves have done about the wrongs done to their ancestors (which, note, was considerably further in the past than 1993) - ask Gordon Brown to say 'Sorry' to us, shall we? Oh dear, Gordon Brown's SCOTTISH - and there's a whole other can of worms I'm not about to dive into today ... Anyway the chances of the English apologising are zero because apart from only letting their version of events be told in the first place, the teaching of history in English schools is close to non-existent (see blogs passim) as regards anything meaningful: Wales to them is a backward little place to be exploited for cheap labour, cheap holidays and cheap gags about sheep. Oh, and to be cursed when our little nation of 3m manage to put together a rugby team which can beat the English on a surprisingly frequent basis....

Which brings me to my next point - the other comment in this report which got me spluttering my tea across the kitchen was one person having the cheek to say 'I think Wales is almost like Birmingham's playground in a way, you can go mountain biking, beaches, you've got the walking..'. The words 'patronising', 'arrogant' and 'demeaning' come to mind - HOW DARE that person regard my country as a 'playground'? (My thoughts about Birmingham are pretty unprintable, suffice it to say 'playground' would not feature largely, although 'cesspool' might make an appearance).

And, pray, what is so wrong with being 'old-fashioned'? If that means being Welsh means having greater family ties, showing some respect to society and people around you, and being generally more full of the attributes whose passing is lamented almost daily when the English press comment on 'modern society', then I am more proud than ever of being Welsh. As one American visitor put it "I think the fact that Wales is slightly old-fashioned is one of its most endearing charms. It's a throwback to a simpler life with strong family values. I've been going to Wales every year for 15 years and have always found the Welsh people to be wonderfully warm and welcoming." So stuff that up your oh-so-modern-socially-dysfunctional bottoms, and leave us alone, dissatisfied English contributors to this survey: bugger off to Ayia Napa with your modern values and patronise the indigenous population there. There are 1.5 Americans who claim Welsh ancestry and that's a nice big pool for us to go fishing in with our tourist attractions, and I doubt they'd make so much fuss if they heard somebody speaking Welsh. They probably don't get so bladdered and tolerate their teenage girls having sex with every available local male whilst on holiday either.

Jonathan Jones of Visit Wales is quoted in this report as saying "What we have got to make sure is when tourists come here they are treated properly." True... but it makes no recognition of the fact that tourists should BEHAVE properly when they're in somebody else's country: ie. not call it a 'playground', wander around the mountains in blizzard conditions wearing jeans and trainers (and expecting the Mountain Rescue personnel to endanger themselves to save them) and treat the local people like lesser-evolved beings put on the planet to cater to their needs whatever they may be. Like it or not, the English have got an justifiably appalling reputation around the world for their holiday antics and perhaps some public money should be spent on attempting to put this right rather than wasting it on asking them what they think of Wales?

Not quite sure where the end of October went

.. because, despite the date appearing on the top of this item, I'm actually putting fingers to keyboard on 3rd November and the last post I made on here was eons ago!. In truth, I did start to write a post on the specified date but for various reasons didn't get to finish it... so instead, I'll open November's batting with it - and hope my readership approve of my green attitude towards recycling hehe.

What I got worked up about this time was the fuss about the BBC's Question Time which included the leader of the BNP, Nick Griffin.

I'd like to state right now that I find this guy's (and his party's) political viewpoint absolutely abhorrent, and to give them credit, it came across loud and clear that everybody on the panel and most of the audience shares my opinion. What I found distressing was not his presence so much as it didn't seem to me that any of the representatives of the major political parties seemed able to see beyond their disgust for him and what he stands for and realise just what a dangerous person he is. I use that word very carefully, because I am very firmly of the opinion that he and his pals are a major threat and one which the more liberal political movements need to take very seriously indeed.

Packing the studio with people calculated to be on the opposing side to Mr Griffin, although understandable, was monumentally stupid and an act of cowardice on the part of the BBC, I would suggest, as all it did was play into the man's hands and hand him the opportunity to claim the exercise was a 'witchhunt' (which indeed he later, unsurprisingly, did). All we actually saw was everybody ganging up on Mr Griffin (rightly of course), but as a result I doubt whether anybody watching who might be tempted to support the man would have had their minds changed on the fundamentals - rather the opposite in fact. It would have been a substantially more interesting and valuable exercise if the Beeb had found a few more BNP members or general supporters to form some of the audience; then a reasonable and more even-handed debate might have ensued - which just might have exposed the BNP to be the repulsive organisation it in fact is. All we saw really, was evidence, as if any more were needed, that we DO NOT live in a country where free speech is tolerated - and if anybody is under any illusions about that just remember that if you make a statement which is judged to be inciting racial hatred you are liable for prosecution. In saying that I am not saying it is desireable that anybody DOES promote racial hatred, but rather that we cannot pretend we have free speech when we clearly do not and in some ways we might be a more healthy (and certainly less internationally hypocritical) society if we were more able to tolerate listening to views we find repugnant. See my comments further below on this one...

Part of my unease about the whole BNP/Nick Griffin shebang stems from the fact that if media representations are to be believed I know exactly what section of society Mr Griffin and his party colleagues are targeting, where their main support lies, and which buttons they are pressing to hit that target audience: I know, because I grew up amongst it. I am not talking about the skinhead, 'bovver boy' element traditionally associated with the BNP (or the National Front as it was known in those days), although admittedly there were a fair few of those around my neighbourhood when I was a child, but rather the largely honest, 'salt of the earth' working-class people who form the majority of the communities in which the BNP have had their successes lately.

Naturally, in discussing my youth, I am talking about the 1970s and 80s which, as anybody who has seen episodes of Life on Mars will know was culturally a rather different place: these days even 'ordinary people' - who from experience largely didn't (and still don't) raise an eyebrow at the casual racism and sexism back then - know there's a general feeling of unease if they start making too many unfavourable statements about coloured people, immigrants or 'stupid women'. However - and make no mistake about this - in private they still come out with viewpoints that would make Nick Griffin laugh all the way to Downing Street - AND HE KNOWS THIS which is probably why he was grinning like an ape at certain points this evening. I'm afraid the overwhelming impression I received from the rest of tonight's panel is that our mainstream politicians are delusional enough to believe that the majority of people in this country have swallowed the equality message wholesale and to be frank, this frightens the pants off me.

WHY they so obviously think this is beyond me; given that we now, to our shame, have two BNP MEPs and over a hundred councillors you think they would have twigged there is a problem and at least given some indication they mean to do something about it. Votes should after all, speak much louder than ever they or the repulsive Nick Griffin ever could. However, to me, they still seem hell bent on carrying on down the road which had created the environment where people feel so disillusioned with the mainstream political parties they feel there is no other choice than to vote BNP. To quote one of my favourite films - The American President - (which, by the way, isn't quite the lightweight chick-flik it might at first seem but does ask some fairly heavy questions amongst the Michael Douglas/Annette Bening generated froth) the way you get votes is to take people who are 'ordinary', who can perhaps remember with nostalgia better times, and then you scare the hell out of them so that they turn to whatever ideology you are peddling as an comforting alternative to the status quo. Nick Griffin and his foul party are past masters of this particular little ploy: they tell people that don't have a job or are on low wages, don't have adequate housing etc etc that the reason they are suffering is because the naughty government has let all the 'immigrants' in to take away the said jobs, money and houses from the honest hardworking British. Where have the BNP had the majority of their successes? - where there are large concentrations of minority groups and immigrant populations in working class areas.

The bottom line of all this is that I believe the political classes should wake up to the fact that the traditional 'working class' haven't changed their opinions very much in the last 40 or so years and they are still pretty bigoted when it comes down to issues of immigration and race. I would suggest the fact that for various reasons we've allowed the lentil-knitting mob to have their way and grab media attention with their over the top politically-correct initiatives has been the biggest factor ensuring the 'working classes' haven't been nudged into holding rather more tolerant views: because present your average blinkered working-class Brit with some of the off-the-scale garbage these people come out with almost guaranteed to result in blank incomprehension at best, and a stream of abusive invective at worst. Ultimately, and this is the uncomfortable fact a lot of people don't like facing, Brits, of whatever class, are generally inclined to be rather racist anyway; whether this is down to having been an imperial power in the not too distant past I wouldn't like to say, but in that sort of climate I'd argue shoving luvvie-generated material around willy-nilly in front of a largely pretty poorly-educated populace is calculated to merely generate ridicule rather than enlightenment and, more importantly, leave the door open for bigots such as Nick Griffin who are prepared to peddle a more superficially attractive ideology.

Whether Nick Griffin and his pals SHOULD be allowed to have their say is another matter which I touched on briefly above. I would argue that they indeed should - if only because by exposing their ideology to the light of open examination will it be shown up to be the nonsense it is. Make something secret, illicit or 'underground' and it initially becomes more attractive; that's human nature, unfortunately. Also, I'd like to believe we should be more inclined to free speech than we are; to again refer to The American President, the character Michael Douglas plays makes the point that we cannot just point to the flag, celebrate it, and say we are 'free' - we have to realise that real freedom is allowing people to revile and burn that flag if they so wish. Even if this means having to listen to views we find offensive or bigoted: such ideologies aren't going to just disappear if we merely deny people the right to voice them.

Unfortunately I don't have a suggestion as regards what we can DO about all this; again as in many of my rants, I would suggest the underlying problem is down to the lack of an enlightened, but realistic, educational philosophy in the UK. Solve that one, and we just might find a few other things are a lot easier to handle... in the meantime politicians in the mainstream parties need to get out on the streets in the BNP stronghold areas and confront the myths they are peddling; engage in open and honest debate. Not with more politically-correct, media-massaged information but with a bit of bald truth, however uncomfortable that might be. Alas, in the current climate I think the pigs are cleared and ready for take off on that one...

Peace, perfect peace

Aha playmates... it's late at night and I'm sitting here having a quick blog and swift glass of red before I slither off to bed. For once, words are failing me as I attempt to sum up what the past few days of solitude and total lack of responsibility have meant to me... suffice it to say I am now beginning to realise just how much I needed to Get Away from Chateau Angevin And Get Some Perspective. Which is a bit of a shame as I've only got two whole days left of this before I have to go back and face the grisly reality of what the collective Trolls have done to my kitchen between them. I have a lurking suspicion that it Ain't Gonna Be Pretty; but then, given my current feelings of indolence-induced love and bonhomie I could be doing them an injustice and be surprised. Only time will tell on that one...

Still, I'm intending to make the most of what time I have left... so far I've done pretty much precisely what I've wanted, which in this instance has meant read crappy chick-lit novels, watch crappy chick-flik movies and quilt - not crappily. Oh and stuff nice morsels of nibbly food and some bottles of vino I lifted from Troll's stash down my grateful neck. For those who aren't familiar with the back story on this little excursion, my quilter friend Jo had the good sense to marry a farmer and then persuade the dear man to convert one building into a quilt shop and some other buildings into self-catering holiday cottages; I am therefore staying in one of the latter and have been busily sniffing around the goodies in the former. On my own, without any pressures to Do Things For The Family and with boundless time to indulge in any craziness which takes my fancy (including, it has to be said, various forms of Haagen Daas with most meals and at any time of the day or night I chose). Sound good? Well, it's probably better than my poor writing skills can attempt to describe, so I will leave it to the fertile imaginations which I know my various readers possess... And it gets better because Jo has a truly massive tabby tomcat going by the name of Tiger, who has been the only person allowed in to share my solitude (and, admittedly, a tiny bowl of Haagen Daas from time to time for which he seems to have a particular passion). Pictures will follow as soon as I get access to the thingy Troll has which can move pictures from phone to PC.

AND, one of the best things about this whole thing is that I can feel entirely virtuous on two counts:
Firstly - that I cooked enough ready meals before my departure to keep a whole army of Trolls alive for considerably more than a week. I understand, that this, however, has not prevented semi-furtive visits to the curry-house in my absence, but I am Closing My Eyes.
Secondly - that I have made the top of Baby Troll's latest quilt whilst I've been here, which will doubtless cause much excitment on my return. And nagging to get the thing actually quilted and finished, but that's another story. (For those who want to know, it's in the 'Fresh Squeezed' range by Sandy Gervais for Moda - a particularly eye-watering collection of various citrus shades which Baby absolutely adores). Pictures will doubtless follow...

I wonder would they notice if I stowed away here....

Back in the land of the living...

... just about. Thanks all those who expressed concern about The Bug - I am up and about again now and have been busily engaged in pacifying Troll (now back from the AAMC), ensuring Mini doesn't cause a danger to himself and others, attempting to control the mayhem that is the run up to the choir Christmas events, domestica (unfortunately) and various other tasks too tedious to mention. Oh, and preparing for my week away which is now ONLY TWO DAYS AWAY!!

This, however, hasn't stopped me finding things about which to blog and for today's offering we have two issues. Get the kettle on now, chaps...

Firstly, whilst wandering around Waitrose doing the usual supermarket sweep otherwise known as Getting Enough Food In The House To Feed Various Trolls For More Than Half A Day, I noticed the wording on the butter wrapping (above). Now... call me either daft or ignorant as you will, but I would have thought butter is by definition DAIRY... and therefore the adjectival addition of the word is completely unnecessary? Turning to that beloved organ of online research, Wikipedia, for some reassurance that I am not completely crazy I found the following...

Butter is a dairy product made by churning fresh or fermented cream or milk.
and
A dairy is a facility for the extraction and processing of animal milk—mostly from cows or goats, but also from buffalo, sheep, horses or camels —for human consumption.

Aha... as I thought. I would suggest this is a shameless attempt on the part of Waitrose to conjure up images in the shoppers' subconscious of rolling pastures and plump docile hay-munching cows. Buxom wenches plonking themselves on rustic stools with their buckets to milk the latter. Cool, dim, stone-floored buildings where the said buxom wenches sit churning and patting the butter into shape... etc etc...

GET REAL, WAITROSE.. thanks to the likes of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall, Jamie Oliver et al, we all KNOW the grisly reality of a modern dairy owes far more to the floodlit industrial unit than the rural past of a Hovis commercial. Have the honesty to be as matter-of-fact and utilitarian as your 'Essential' range would like to make us think it is and bin the soothing adjectives PLEASE. We aren't all as daft as your suit-clad, Ferragamo-tie-wearing marketing muppets would have us believe. And, just for your information, I get Rachel's butter anyway - doing my bit for Wales' ecomony is a lot more important to me than the pennies difference in price between the two products. Oh, and note - Rachel's manages to get by with just the tag 'butter' without any daft adjectival massaging (and menyn as well just in case there was any bi-lingual doubt).

My second topic concerns Bob Marley's Christmas CD. Speaking as a musician, I have to take my hat off to the guy... anybody who can make as much dosh as he can from doing something quite so badly deserves only admiration and praise. I had tears of laughter rolling down my face listening to the clip of him growling out Here Comes Santa Claus - which is more than I suspect I'll be able to say for what is doubtless going to be foisted upon us as the 'real' Christmas offerings from other stars this year. Every penny of the cash rolling in from Bob's latest release is going to charity too... 'Bravo, old boy' is my only further comment.....

Aaaargh

The last couple of days I have been feeling less than 100%. Today was undoubtedly the worst, and I accepted defeat, got Dave the Slave to do the chickens when he came round, threw some food at Baby Troll and went back to bed for most of the day. Only emerging to put the kettle on for tea at intermittent intervals, change the book of choice, and sling more sustenance Baby's way.

The latter was delighted... for once he was permitted to watch as much TV and play as many PC games as he wished, depredate on his bike (on the strict understanding he stayed in the yard and did NOT go down the drive) and generally slob out without the omnipresent guiding hand of Mummy making sure he did his quota of chores and work. The Kittens and the other cats were also pretty chuffed that they had a nice warm body in the big bed to snuggle up to and a captive hand giving them a stroke from time to time. Troll was patently somewhat relieved that he is still ensconced in the Algerian Autistic Man Camp and therefore was not expected to supervise Mini/be asked to make edible food (unlikely, but in extremis the attempt has to be made)/look after me or otherwise Do Useful Things. The only person suffering, therefore, is ME.

Naturally I am NOT happy. Don't worry, guys, this isn't swine flu - it's just a minor bug - but normal transmission will be suspended until I'm back on my feet again. In the meantime doubtless the world at large will continue to throw events in my path calculated to make my blood boil to blogging temperature so watch this space...

It costs nothing!

Some of you will know even an old techophobe like me hasn't managed to avoid the gargantuan pit of prurience otherwise known as Facebook. What FEW of you know is, in an attempt to avoid Troll's wrath over the increasing size of my Amazon account, I've taken to tinkering with a couple of applications on Facebook rather than reading whilst the morning bucket of tea is quaffed.... namely Farmville and Farmtown.

Now, these are seemingly innocent little pasttimes - you go in, create your own farm and gradually work your way up the various scales until you reach the giddy heights of level 34 where there is no more left to learn. All very cute and totally pointless you might think... until you realise that on Farmtown you have to engage with other players to get them to come and harvest and plough for you - both sides obtain benefits that way. And THIS, gentle readers, is where the problem lies; because once again we come up against the repulsive brick wall formed of the lack of manners instilled in the general public. It's bad enough when the time comes, your crops are ripe and you need to go to the marketplace to find bods to do the work for you - there are usually plenty of people in there giving ample evidence that the Government's literacy programmes are doing nothing to make the country more able to express itself in print in a coherent fashion, believe me. 'Hire me plzzzzzzzzz' is the standard request - which in my case earns the pleader an instant click of the 'ignore' button. You get the picture: I suppose I should be grateful there is at least a 'plzz' in there. However, the situation just gets even more appalling when the little critters are actually hired and supposedly doing the 'jobs' on your farm ...

If you employ somebody to harvest, they get paid in the currency of the game. This means they have more to spend on geegaws to tart up their own farms or merely to buy seeds to grow their own crops. If you employ somebody to PLOUGH (not 'plow' as the game unfortunately insists you spell it) they get paid a smaller amount but also get 'experience' (XP) points which help them progress up the levels. Because of the way in which the game is weighted, you tend to end up being a multimillionnaire once you've reached a certain level, but you still need XPs... so ploughing jobs are more sought after by the higher graded players.

Why I am I boring you all with this? Principally because this morning, I employed a taciturn little soul to come and harvest various things which had ripened overnight. Normally I automatically give the subsequent ploughing to the person I employ - viewing it as a sort of reward in some ways I suppose. Anyway, this little madam pottered around with some of the crops (the higher value ones of course) but then claimed she couldn't see that some of them were indeed ready for her desultory attention. Not once was a 'please' or a 'thank you' used. She then, without missing a beat said 'I want to plow'. Red rag to bull time, here we come....

I went to a buddy's farm to request they come and finish off the harvesting and gave THEM the ploughing. Instant 'I want to plow' repetition from Muppet, who went ballistic when I pointed out that she'd not shown any evidence of having any manners, hadn't finished the harvesting and therefore her services were no longer required. In the course of the ensuring cyber-spat, it turned out it was all MY fault she hadn't said 'please' or 'thank you' and that she couldn't 'see' that there were other things waiting to be harvested. Work that one out if you will... add 'omnipotent' to my list of accomplishments, shall I?

God give me strength. The manners issue is one I've come to understand is completely ubiquitous: ie. it's extremely unusual these days to come across somebody who behaves with any degree of politeness. But I admit I have a problem coming to terms with the complete inability of the general population to accept responsibility for their own actions: either in a piddly little nothing-game like Farmtown or in a wider sense in the world at large. This general failure to understand that just sometimes it's better to put your hands up and say 'yes, I cocked up', or 'yes it was me' and actually follow this with 'SORRY' without first saying 'but it was really because of x and therefore I am really completely blameless' I would suggest is causing far more problems than anything the Government are doing.

I have to go and do something vaguely useful now, so I haven't got the time - or, I admit, the energy - to soapbox about this any more but I will close by saying that I believe the only way we're going to actually get out of the mess in which we've got ourselves is by teaching children from the earliest age possible that if they make a mistake they MUST accept it is THEIR mistake, and, more crucially, LEARN FROM IT. Trying to muddy the waters by passing the blame onto somebody else isn't going to do them or the rest of us any good in the long term (although admittedly in the short term it might mean they aren't punished, and therefore the option's tempting, it's true). It's a superficially small, very basic, but truly profound change which would, I believe, alter for the better so much about the world around us.

Oh, and walloping some notion of when to say 'please' and 'thank you' into the little dears wouldn't be bad either... one step at a time...

Grrrrr

Well, it's well past midnight again and ONCE AGAIN today I have had zero time to do any sewing.... this is driving me nuts.

I have projects which are sitting there crying 'do me, do me' every time I walk past with my arms crammed full of laundry/on the way to the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Cupboard to get more ingredients for the latest meal/towards the back door to go and do chicken-related stuff. And each time I have to reply 'Maybe later'... in the full and certain knowledge that the chances of me getting any clear space in the schedule for a bit of stress-reducing Me Time are pretty close to zero. Either that, or just as I get to a point where I can think 'Oh I could sit and do some sewing now', without guilt, Baby Troll or The Kittens do something potentially life-threatening which demands my immediate attention. Or one of my friends rings up with the latest crisis. Or Troll rings up with some problem or other he can't solve from the Autistic Man Camp and which I therefore have to Drop Everything And Deal With As A Matter Of Cosmic Importance. You get the picture...

It's got to stop soon... I don't know about everybody else, but in situations like this I find myself mentally squatting, Krakatoa-like, (the bodily me meanwhile is scampering around like a cockroach on a hot rock) until the critical point is reached and in a frenzy of consummate disgust I throw every deeply boring task which I Know Should Be Done For The Benefit Of The Household onto the backburner and spend a lovely time Being Completely Selfish And Doing My Own Thing. And WOE BETIDE ANYBODY OR ANYTHING which might even have a nanosecond of dreaming it can disturb me once I get into that state.... the house can go shipwreck itself for all I care when I'm in my East of Java moda (and yes, I do know Krakatoa was WEST of Java before anybody starts trying to be smart).

Unfortunately, as Troll is due back from the AAMC next week, and will expect the house to be more Mary Poppins than Mary Rose, I know it's going to be best for all concerned if I can manage to contain myself for another few days. Anybody who has a spare troupe of cleaners/a house chef with a taste for producing gourmet freezer food/a nanny to make Jo Frost resemble an experiment in chaos theory knows where to find me....

Well that's me told then..

Mini Troll to me, today, when picking up a letter addressed to me: 'That's not your name - you're MUM'

Nice to know my identity's been totally subsumed in the monster ego that is Mini, isn't it?

A salutory lesson

Yesterday I nipped into the tearoom in the village; to satisfy Mini-Troll's demands for sight of his babysitter Charlene (who is manageress there), pay her what I owe her brother (James the Chicken Boy) for various chicken-related chores he's done recently, catch up on the local gossip and, of course, slurp down my nth cup of tea for the day. I was a little surprised to see the place packed out - it's normally busy but not THAT busy! - but realised a coach party of older tourists had descended on the village and the tea room was their natural centre of gravity. So I settled down in a pokey corner and prepared to indulge in another of my favourite activities... people watching and eavesdropping.

And I can honestly say I wish I hadn't.

I don't think I heard ONE positive comment during my entire half hour stay ... perhaps it's a sign of our credit-crunch-depressed times, or perhaps it's just the particular band of aging Midlanders who were in there, but, trust me, that lot were moaning for Britain. Now, I know us Brits love a good old gripe - along with endless discussions of the weather, whinging is a National Sport - but this really was A Whinge Too Far. During my half an hour, I heard:

1. Dicussions centring around money - the most personal details of two old ladies' stashes were brought out for public view, picked over and dissected to the last farthing. None of the findings were positive, a fact mostly blamed on;
a) evil banks picking on old ladies generally and these two in particular
b) evil stockbrokers ditto
c) evil building societies who had converted to banks and therefore copped the same opprobrium as said institutions
d) The Government - also evil
e) Young people - who evilly want too much
2. Discussion centring around their families, none of whom seemed to attract any praise or pride. Chief amongst the perceived evildoers were, surprise surprise, In Laws; who were blamed for anything negative ranging from burnt food to juvenile delinquency.
3. A more extended discussion of Young People than that in 1(e) above which centred around the perceived pointlessness of any of them going to university. General discussion of
a) 'we don't need all these graduates - *I* didn't go to universtity and I don't see why they need to'
b) 'they don't learn anything worth knowing at university *I* have worked with graduates and *I* knew more than them' (although a grudging admission of the said graduates having more self confidence owing to their university experience was made)
c) 'they acquire a huge amount of debt at university which they just accept - I never owed anybody anything etc etc etc'
d) 'she never USED her university degree; she just got married and had children'

You get the picture?

Now, this was a bit of a lesson for me.. because at some point I have had a good old whinge myself about ALL of the above. So it was a bit of food for thought about how, perhaps, I should try to find a bit more positive to say about everything... down the road of time I DO NOT want to turn into a hideous facsimile of what I saw yesterday!

However, in my defence, I would point out in response to the whinges above:
1 a) and b) The said two old ladies by the sound of it had quite a large stash in stocks and shares, which MUST have been raking in a goodish bit when times were good. I somehow don't think they were calling banks and stockbrokers evil when that was going on... ladies, you have to take the bad with the good, I'm afraid, and at your age you should know you don't get anything for free: if the banks and brokers were greedy and irresponsible, were you less so? Because it was YOU who doubtless demanded your profits and dividends from them and would threaten to move your stash away from them if they didn't 'perform'...
1 c) Again, somehow, dear ladies, I don't think you complained when the lovely fat wodge of dosh you got when the building societies converted to banks landed in your account. And I suspect you didn't use the word 'evil' when you voted that they should convert either...
1 d) Judging by the majorities the present Government attracted in the last couple of elections, SOMEBODY must have voted for them. I suspect, from the comments made, this particular pair of old dears were up there like a shot crossing their ballot papers in the red box - ah, but - silly me - then Labour were offering them lots of deals... nuff said really...
1 e) Young people don't actually have that much money - especially not in comparison to the blue rinse brigade. Sort out your own house first, mesdames.

2. I can't honestly say I don't have a good old grunt about IN LAWS, especially as the Grande Troll would be No1 on my hit list were such things legal. But I can say that, if the English had any notion of family, perhaps society as a whole would be better off? And before anybody says it - I HAVE tried to integrate the Grande Troll a lot more into our lives - it's HER who has the problem with this, not ME. She's still Troll's mother and Mini's grandmother and I'd swallow 99% of her daftness for their sake if she'd show any interest in acting like a family member rather than a self-centred, self-obsessed, insular blonde prima donna. So there. My point to these ladies would be that THEY are family members too and if things are going wrong within the families THEY also have a responsibility both for the problem itself and its solution. I'm pretty sure if anything good happened they'd be in there like ferrets up a drainpipe, after all...

3. And on to university education.. now, here, don't worry, I'm not going to go off on an hour long rant. Because I do agree to a limited extent that we don't need as many graduates as the government think we do and I don't think that doing a course in Leisure and Tourism at the University of Nether Wallop (formerly a FE College)is actually doing much good for anybody: the people doing such courses would probably be better off doing a vocational qualification with a practical component rather than a 'degree', which should be an elite symbol. I don't have a problem with elitism - if something is elite it is to be striven for - an attitude which should raise standards more effectively than fiddling with exam structure. However I DO have a problem with the, very English, assumption that 'you don't need to bother with university because the School of Life will teach you more'; if somebody has put the work in to go to university, has the intellectual capacity for it to be appropriate for them to go to university, and there is a place for them at a decent university then they SHOULD go to university. And in those circumstances it it monstrous that as a society we should expect them to carry a crippling debt for years afterwards.

I also have a big problem with anybody saying that a degree wasn't 'used' because somebody did a job which wasn't immediately linked to that degree, or because they got married and had children. Something which a lot of people have lost sight of (in England I question whether many held the view in the first place) is that intellectual development is not something which should end when you graduate, but rather something which should continue throughout life. I believe you SHOULDN'T just stop learning when you get a job, but unfortunately that is very much the attitude in this country. Ideally, in the Angevin ethos anyway, universities should be a nursery bed where you are given the tools to enable your lifelong intellectual growth - and graduation is therefore just an indication that you've mastered these tools; not that you know everything you should and can now give up. Just because your job isn't directly using the knowledge you gained at university doesn't stop you developing that knowledge further outside of work. Also, in terms of confidence, problem-solving and just self-knowledge, university can give you so much that it's very hard to acquire in the School of Life. As a society if we all continued to embrace learning after our formal education had finished, don't you think we as individuals, and society as a whole would be better for it? All these are things which you can also pass to your children, funnily enough; my (Welsh) great-grandmother used to say 'educate a woman and you educate a family'. Something which obviously didn't occur to yesterday's pair. By the way, I had to get up and leave when they really started going to town on this issue because I would NOT have been able to keep quiet and I didn't want to create a scene to embarrass Charlene - which I doubtless would have done. I stomped off in a high old mood back to Chateau Angevin to take my temper out on the ironing...

So... what have *I* learnt from this experience?

Firstly, I think, as I said above, to try to be more positive about the world around me - yes a good moan is cathartic from time to time, but do it too much and it just means you lose the energy and will to try to change anything.

Secondly, to try to be more positive about the PEOPLE around me - it's easy to just whinge about the Grande Troll, for example, but she IS Mini's grandmother and I, perforce, have to rub along with her for a good few years yet, God willing.

And lastly?

Not to go into the flipping tea room when a coach load of Midlands OAPs have descended ...

Something to show my non-Facebook fans we really DO sing!

I thought I'd prove we really DO do serious stuff on tour and not just eat, drink and take the mickey out of sat-navs...

This is a shot of us singing in Autun Cathedral.. I think before the bats came out to fly over our heads!

OK OK I know I know ...

... but it's taken me some time to get over everything and get back from an even keel! I don't talk about it much, but I DO have M.E. and doing something like a tour means I have to lie quite low for some time afterwards before normal service is resumed. In this instance I'm quite grateful Troll toddled back off to the Algerian Autistic Man Camp pretty soon after I got back, because he, unlike Mini, is not content if there is too much slinging together of varying forms of pasta... Mini would happily eat pasta for breakfast if I let him, so suffice it to say he's been a happy bunny for the last two weeks!

Anyway, enough excuses...

The tour. As you may have gathered this was a great success both artistically and socially. We had a hat-trick of standing ovations, got onto French TV and had a rave write up in the press, so everybody is happy. We also had an absolutely fab time reverting to teenager-dom when we weren't being terribly serious artistes; everybody said they didn't want the tour to end and real life to begin again so we must be doing something right. Enough cremant was imbibed and snails eaten to maintain our honour and nobody was arrested... not quite anyway...

One thing which struck me in particular was the way in which group mentality can be a positive force. Without mentioning names there was one of our number who, let us say, does lack a few social graces (mostly I suspect, because his daft wife hasn't walloped some notion of respect and manners into him over the years, but that's mere speculation on my part) and initially this was a bit of an issue. However, by the end of the week, he'd almost grasped the notion that saying 'please' and 'thank you', even to people he considered friends, was actually a good idea. Let's hope his progress continues - but this is not the main point I'm trying to make. Rather, it is that if any change in his attitude has been achieved it's been done through good humour, a bit of gentle (and not-so-gentle it has to be said!) ribbing, and, most importantly, everybody else setting a good example. In short, amongst ourselves it was the culture to be polite and so it became harder NOT to follow suit. I don't expect the guy to change overnight, but I am hopeful he'll get the idea that if he wants to be treated with respect he has to show some to the rest of us too. Watch this space!

Now, here's a thought... what if the Dodecantus ethos could be extended to the world at large? WHAT IF - perish the thought - people by and large WERE actually polite to each other and showed some respect and love for those around them? Would we actually see the rude, self-centred, crew shaping up as they realised it made sense to play nicely? Or would they just make little ill-mannered ghettos for themselves and their like-minded pals and stay there?? There's a thought to ponder whilst I go and make some more pasta....

Pass the Alka Selzer please...

.. because I arrived home from the 2009 choir tour of Burgundy at about 4am this morning. It is with some horror I note I haven't actually posted during August, and will uncharacteristically beg forgiveness from my fans - pleading the necessities of actually setting up the tour really did take up all my available time.

Naturally, when the hangover's subsided a bit, I've caught up with the zeds and discovered where Troll has hidden everything during my ten-day absence I'll be back terrorising the blog boards.

Watch this space....

Celtic chortling...

... over the fact the BBC have apparently only guaranteed the rugby matches featuring WALES will be given live coverage. Apparently this is in recognition of the fact that Wales, as a nation, are a lot more into their rugby than any other of the home nations.

Cheers BBC... now let's all sit back and laugh as the Twickenham mob start mouthing off about it hehehe....

End of an era

Some of you will know I'm a bit obsessive about history, in particular military history, which is considered a bit of an odd thing for a woman to get into. Do I care?? Not really - it fascinates me and that's that.. since when did subjects for study come with a gender-tag anyway? To be honest it was a toss up when I was considering university whether I'd read music, history or politics - naturally for ME there was no contest (if you are a musician there's just no fighting it) but I remember my history and politics tutors both being a bit sad I wasn't going to take THEIR subjects further. As, unusually again, I kept in touch with both of them when I left school and they could see I didn't just drop either topic (as my groaning bookshelves will testify I still read tons of books about both!) I hope they became a bit happier over time that I wasn't just rampaging around on stage and letting what brain I had atrophy in the general atmosphere of musical hedonism. Both of these ladies were superb scholars, wonderful people generally, and I am lucky to have had them in my life - they enriched it immeasurably as only the best teachers really can.

Getting back to the point, people who know me will understand the last couple of weeks have been tinged with a bit of sadness as they have seen the passing of both Henry Allingham and Harry Patch - the last veterans of WWI still living in the UK. It really IS the end of an era, as the only first hand memories we now have of that conflict will be recordings of those involved. In common with a lot of military historians I find the whole period fascinating and, although I am extremely grateful to anybody involved with getting as much on record as possible from both of these veterans it's naturally a sad day when we can no longer refer to the primary source in person. I've been digging out a few books, scanning through the pictures and generally giving myself an excuse to sit with a cup of tea and ignore domestica whilst I answer the siren call from the bookshelves.

The thing which has most struck me about the whole thing really is the motivation for both old soldiers to talk about their experiences. Neither Harry Patch nor Henry Allingham WANTED to remember WWI and their part in it - they felt they HAD A DUTY to talk about what happened to them and try to get people to understand that it should never be allowed to happen again. To my knowledge neither of them gained any benefit from doing so and often it looked as if they put themselves through a lot of mental torture in their attempts to educate us all. Compare that with the 'modern soldier' accounts from the likes of Andy McNab whose sole motivation for talking about his experiences during the first Gulf War, as far as I can see, was purely self-aggrandisement. Oh, and, silly me, the quick buck thereof. What an encapsulation of the change that's happened in our society over the lifetime of Henry Allingham, huh?

Now, for various reasons I am not likely to reach Henry Allingham's tally of 113 years; nor am I sure I'd really WANT to. But it's interesting to see his recipe for doing so is 'cigarettes and whisky and wild, wild women'.... no macrobiotic diets, pilates and clean living there, then. The singing sort of cancels out the cigarettes for me; wild women aren't really my bag even if they were interested in ME so that leaves the whisky...

Henry, God bless you, I'll be raising my glass of Laphroaig to you every time I dip into my collection of WWI books... and if you can see your way to sending some wild, wild MEN my way we'll conduct a little experiment with regard to whether they're an adequate substitute ingredient in your recipe for longevity...

Swings and roundabouts...

...or more accurately today, roller-coaster. Because today has been splendidly good on some fronts and woefully bad on others.

I suppose it all really began last night, when, without going into details, I found out somebody I consider one of my best friends has done something which I find quite sneaky and underhand. On the face of it, it's relatively insignificant, and my head is saying 'just leave it'; my heart, however, is quite wounded by the issue, not because it's a 'big thing' - as I said, it's not especially important - but because I can't help but feel my trust has been stamped on a bit, and it's going to take a while for my absolute confidence in that person to be regained, if it ever will be. I started off being angry about it all, but now I'm just sad. More to the point I'm rather confused because I don't really know how best to address the problem without it escalating - which is my principal worry. I have a lot of acquaintances but, being quite choosy about my friends, I don't make good ones lightly and it pains me when anything like this happens: not just for my sake but because I feel the person concerned has let themself down too and seeing anybody I care about do that is neither pleasant or the stuff joy is made from. Anyway, until I can get some perspective on this whole thing and feel confident about which path to tread with regard to sorting it out satisfactorily, I'm keeping my head down and my gob shut... neither of which activities comes naturally...

On a happier note, today was also the time for my six-weekly appointment with Robert, my hairdresser. I always look forward to these days, even though they mean at least two hours driving to get to him and two hours back again; just occasionally it's great to get away from my local patch and have a good gawp at what's going on in London. Perhaps I should do it more often! Anyway, aside from being a true artist in the hairdressing department, Robert is one of my pals and we always have a good laugh putting the world to rights as he snips away. He's not had an easy time of it lately, so it was good to see him laughing and joking again and almost back to his normal self - I walked out of there feeling life was good (and it has to be said the mane was looking fab too, she says vainly). The sight of Robert clutching two jars of my homemade jam to his bosom was a picture I'm not likely to forget in a hurry either - the old boy LOVES jam and gets in quite a strop if I forget to take him some (as I did on my last visit.. oops). It's nice to be appreciated, even if it is for something as pokey as my ability to make good jam!

Another good thing was that on my return I found out the cheque I'd received for doing some cooking for a friend had finally cleared which meant I could at last order the quilting fabric I've had my eye on for what seems like years (but which in truth is probably only a few weeks) without running the risk of having to encounter The Wrath of Troll When Faced With Quilting Expenses. Whey hey... I shall be checking the mail box EVERY DAY now (even though I know my fabric can't reasonably arrive from the States for at least a week). Child in a Toy Shop? Moi??
The range, in case anybody is interested is 'Neptune' by Tula Pink for Moda (quelle surprise!) - I've ordered the whole range in fat quarters and got some yardage too so I should be able to get at least two quilts and probably some smaller projects out of it too... can't wait!

Unfortunately, the nice things didn't last the day out and I was extremely upset this evening when I found out that Mr Fox had visited in my absence and eaten both Mr Bantam (my lovely dark brahma bantam cockerel) and Samuel (my gorgeous and extremely large gold brahma cock). Apart from the financial angle - both these boys were worth a substantial amount of shekels - I AM attached to my birds and naturally it upsets me to think of the distress they must have endured before the blasted fox actually put an end to them. Just don't any animal rights people come anywhere near me for a day or two otherwise I might just have to throttle them... ANYBODY who has seen just how nasty foxes can be to poultry can have absolutely no objection to exterminating the flipping things. Anyway, James the Chicken Boy - who is equally upset about today's events - is arranging for somebody (either himself or a pal) to patrol the place with a shotgun over the next couple of days so hopefully it's curtains for the four-legged pests. It won't come soon enough to save Mr Bantam or Samuel, but at least it might ensure some of my other babies won't be fox-supper.

More Faffery...

... although this borders on the nightmarish it has to be said.

Does anybody else have days when they wonder why they get up? I knew I was in for trouble this morning when I got out of bed without realising my foot was more tangled in the bedclothes than usual and thus went sprawling when said foot failed to disengage as normal. In light of what was to come I should really have got back in, pulled up the duvet and forgotten about everything THEN ...

We will not talk about the chick crumb going everywhere (including INSIDE my wellies) when I opened a new bag to feed my chirping babies and it tipped over. We will not talk about the coffee granules going all over the kitchen when I decided I couldn't be bothered making a pot of filter coffee and decided to open a new, and therefore almost impregnable, jar of instant instead. We WILL, however, talk about the latest mess The Kittens have got themselves into, the Mess Which Has Taken Me An Hour To Clean Up. And I am not finished yet... sigh.

The Kittens have got to the stage now where they are playing virtually every minute they are awake. Cute in daylight hours - not so cute at 3am when they jump all over my face trying to get me, Surrogate Kitten Mum, to join in. I've tried shutting the doors to my room... all this means is I am woken by the sound of kittens doing a demolition job on the carpet outside the room as they try to dig their way in. So, because it won't do them any harm, and because I am Not A Nice Person when I've had a disturbed night's sleep, I have been putting them in the utility room with a massive tray of food, their bed and litter tray. They seem perfectly content with this and I get some quality snooze time: everybody happy.

Unfortunately for me, the Ray Mears Nuclear Survival Larder is an integral part of the utility room. Most things are shut away in cupboards, but there are some open shelves on which bulky items such as catering jars of various products, jumbo size cans of tomatoes etc and 5 litre cans of olive oil are stored. Not something three small kittens would be interested in, or capable of doing any damage to, you would think.

Dream on, gentle readers... these are The Kittens and it seems they were having an exceptionally active time of it last night, because on opening up the utility room this morning a sight which can only be decribed as carnage met my eyes. At some point the little darlings had knocked over the aforementioned 5 litre can of olive oil, which had obviously not been done up quite tightly enough, because most of it was lying on the floor. Then obviously they'd decided this was not quite good enough, so a plastic jar of tomato puree had somehow been induced to fall off a shelf, whereupon the lid had come off and the contents gradually induced to leak from the plastic casing. Not content with this, the three little darlings had decided an olive oil and tomato puree bath was precisely what was needed for their general health and wellbeing, and, judging by the smears all over the floor, walls and shelves, they'd had a high old time of it first rolling in the goo on the floor and then chasing each other over the entire room.

As if this wasn't bad enough, I'd stupidly not put away my clean-washing basket, which was full of stuff waiting to be ironed today. Putting this away is something I normally do as a matter of extreme importance when The Kittens are incarcerated for the night; unfortunately I was interrupted by a phone call last night and forgot all about it. Something tells me no ironing's going to get done today, because The Kittens had patently decided this object made a far more desireable and comfy bed than their shop-bought one and, indeed, that is where I found the three of them curled up asleep, once I'd waded, slipped and sworn my way past the mess to get to them. Suffice it to say I was NOT in my most sympathetic mood at this juncture, and the three gloopy, red little bodies have been put firmly in the front garden where they will stay until they have licked every vestige of Utility Room Mess off themselves.

If anybody feels like calling round with a magnum of Gevrey Chambertin, a large slab of bitter chocolate and a team of Fillipino cleaners I will marry you and have your babies.

Faffery...

Does anybody else have days where they wake up with the best of intentions of Getting Things Done only to be overtaken by the faffery virus? Such has been my day today - looking up at the clock I was horrified to discover it was half past two and I haven't done anything of particular use so far...

... which beggars the question why, instead of Getting On With Things, I am sitting here pondering the problem....

It's the summer so the choir must be...

... doing weddings.

Yes, gentle readers, I regret to have to shock you and admit that we aren't above sullying our artistic integrity and singing endless versions of I vow to Thee, my country, Love Divine, All Loves Excelling and Jerusalem in the interests of dipping our mitts in the bottomless till of wedding funding, thereby replenishing our perilously-empty choir coffers. As a Welshwoman I'll leave it to your imaginations to guess how fulfilling it is for me to chirp away about building Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land (sic), but suffice it to say I have contemplated doing considerably more uncomfortable things to keep the choral financial ship afloat.

Anyway, the sun dawned bright yesterday, and late morning saw Fleur and I heading off down the M4 to Castle Combe to participate in the latest display of conspicious consumption. And conspicious it was... down to the white-horse drawn carriage shipping bridesmaids and protagonists the whole 300yds from the manor to the church (I've never been able to fathom why putting on a wedding dress renders women incapable of walking more than the 20 yards or so up the aisle, thereby meaning their hapless families have to shell out for the cost of hiring whichever bizarre mode of transport takes their fancy/is the fashionable option; but there you go, perhaps I'm just unromantic).

Now, call me old fashioned (and you probably WILL) but to me, a wedding is a religious ceremony - a sacrament - not a college ball, and therefore it goes without saying you should dress appropriately, respectfully, and not as if you are about to take part in a Danny la Rue floorshow. (Unless, of course, it's a civil ceremony in which case as far as I am concerned you can turn up looking like Fifi the Wonder Dog). Certainly I can remember when I was a little chorister Father Snell insisting (to the great distress of the bride) any suggestion of a bare shoulder or plunging neckline be covered up with one of his housekeeper's lacy hankies. So you can imagine my horror when yesterday's bride (who otherwise looked and sounded like a nice enough person) turned up not only in a strapless number, but also one so tight as to make me fear for her respiratory capabilities. The bridesmaids too were revealing acres of fake-tanned flesh which I felt was a bit of a low blow for the one amongst them who had a figure which might politely be termed rather too ample for the amount of fabric allocated to comfortably contain. We will not mention the tattoo-ed arms.

Now I've probably got you all writhing in distress now, saying it's the bride's Big Day and she should be allowed to wear what she wants. Sorry guys, but I'm completely unrepentant - I repeat, my attitude is very much that this ceremony is taking place in the House of God and at least a nod should be made towards a bit of respect. I've nothing against strapless gowns (at least three of my performance gowns are strapless) but if you absolutely have to wear one for your wedding I would suggest it wouldn't kill anybody to make, say, a bolero jacket to be worn during the ceremony which could be taken off for the reception? I've seen absolutely beautiful versions of this sort of garment, with all manner of beading, lacework and general embellishment which would not detract from 'the Look' in the slightest (and in the case of tattoos would considerably enhance it). So feel free to disagree with me, but I'm with Father Snell on this one... just be grateful I don't have any suitable hankies, lacy or otherwise...

Whilst on the subject of weddings, WHY OH WHY do women fondly imagine fascinators are a good alternative to hats? Never in a million years will you catch me wearing one of those things off the stage... if I want to walk around looking like a giant bug has landed on my head I'll go to the Amazon thank you very much. There were some fab hats there yesterday... my hands were itching to make off with at least one particularly gorgeous large black feathered number... but an equal number of quite bizarre fascinators. Thank goodness I didn't have my fly swat on me or in my church-induced state of absentmindedness I would not have been able to help myself taking a swipe at the bleddy things. Another thing to add to the List Of Things I Will Ban When I'm Made Dictator methinks.

Apart from the above, it was a generally good wedding, not least because the female vicar bore a startling vocal resemblance to Dawn French in her Vicar of Dibley mode; even down to the truly awful jokes she was cracking throughout. Fleur held my hands down as I passed the horses and carriage - having overheard my stated wish to give one of the nags a slap on the rump, leap on board the resulting runaway carriage and start my legendary rendition of 'Oh the Deadwood Stage is a-coming on over the plain...'; the pub close by served an acceptable Chablis and the biker-rally had thankfully sorted itself out and had stopped blocking the traffic through Calne by the time we were travelling back. Tim is also a smiling bunny as he has the happy couple's cheque for our services in his hot little hand. Everybody happy then...

Yes, Yes, I know, I know

... I haven't been around much over the last month. This is not because I haven't WANTED to blog - and goodness knows, there's been enough evidence of stupidity around to raise my blood pressure to blogging speed = it's just a fair amount has been going on at Chateau Angevin to mitigate against me having the TIME to blog.

So normal service is now resumed... and as a quick update for everybody concerned, The Kittens are all still with us and unrecognisable from the mewling scraps who turned up here. Doubtless I shall update everybody a bit more fully in subsequent episodes of La Vie Angevin...

In the meantime, love to all and let me know what you are all doing in this lovely (sic) summer we're having!

Let loose...

Aha mes amis, I write from a beautiful, sunny, France - where I have been let loose for a couple of days in the company of my choir-cohort Tim in an attempt to sort out something sensible for the choir summer tour. And before anybody starts jumping up and down imagining I am actually leading a life of leisure here, I would point out that choir tours are immensely complicated things to organise and Tim most closely resembles Gengis Khan when he is in 'sort-out mode'. So all fun and games it is most certainly NOT.

That having been said, Tim's capacity for sampling the good things which Burgundy has to offer is pretty legendary... les escargots are already running for cover and several vignerons are probably rubbing their hands with glee as news of his arrival hits their credit-crunched French ears.

Me? I am just happy to be here in the sunshine, dipping into the odd bottle of Chablis and taking the mickey out of Tim (aka Shrek) when he gets into his whip cracking stride.

For those interested, some quick updates:
1. The Kittens are fine, growing madly and even Little Shane is skipping around and beginning to look less like a refugee. They have been left in the nagged-into-compliance Hands of Troll for the week I'm in France: he has been given copious instructions on their every need so he should be OK. My pal Tracey is going to keep an eye on him anyway, just in case! I do understand, however, that as soon as my back was turned he and Baby Troll hit the local curry house, where they are both regulars, and thus known and loved. I am pretending I Do Not Know About This...
2. The Henry, vile object that it is, was indeed put in the skip as no communication was forthcoming from Troll on the subject within the deadline. However, the naughty Skip Man didn't turn up in time to take the thing away so the Henry was duly rescued by Troll on his return. We are going to go to Comet when I get back from France so I think things are now on a fairly even keel... we can but hope.

Right... I can hear the wriggling of the Tim as he starts to get his maps, pens, phone, and verbal whip into shape for our sortie into Darkest Nevers today in an attempt to get the Cathedral authorities to understand the thing they most want in the world is for our choir to sing there... more later...

Doing a Proper Job

Apologies to my regular readership for the lack of communication in recent days... blame it on sleep deprivation turning me into something closely resembling an opera-singing zombie. I have but a hazy recollection of the past week or so, and I suspect I may JUST have been somewhat irrational from time to time, but this will doubtless merely have added fuel to the villagers' perception of me as Being A Bit Strange - so nothing much lost there then. Despite some hairy moments (including once having to put Little Shane in one of the cooler Aga ovens to keep him alive) The Kittens are all fine, so I am putting a mental two fingers up at the Fat Vet's worst predictions. They are now quite tubby little blobs and are eating by themselves - a ghastly mess of kitten food squelched up with kitten milk into a disgusting stinky slop, but the stench is a small price to pay for getting a decent night's sleep IMHO. Job well done.

However, kitten related chatter is not the point of my blogging today. I am ANGRY... read on.

As regular readers of my ramblings will know (blogs passim) I absolutely, utterly, and completely detest housework. In my opinion I am not going to be on my deathbed wishing I'd done more cleaning, so for me that is excuse enough to spend as little time on it as possible and instead do things which give me, or others, joy. However, this regularly brings me into conflict with Troll, who, as I do not have a job as such, regards it as incumbent on me to spend my time ensuring the place is scrubbed to within an inch of its life. It doesn't matter how many times 'in your dreams, pal' hits his eardrums. It doesn't matter how miserable it makes me to spend what is, for me, valuable time awake cleaning things which are going to require the same doing tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that... it doesn't matter that deep down he knows he is as unremittingly untidy as me. No, it is My Job and I am a Slattern, Pikey, Dirty and a Bad Housewife if everything isn't gleaming. [At this point I think it is not a low blow to point out that at the Algerian Autistic Man Camp the only things Troll actually has to do for himself are get out of bed, wash himself and put his clothes on - they have magic things called cleaners, chefs and laundresses to deal with everything else. But of course, the fact these things are conspicuously lacking from my life is down to it being My Fault for being a Feckless Musician rather than an Upright and Responsible Scientist, isn't it??].

However, every so often, when the chaos gets more than even I can deal with, I do accept, albeit reluctantly, the necessity of doing the 'clean and tidy' routine. And, being brought up in the Stalinist regime established by my grandmother, I DO THINGS PROPERLY. In the case of cleaning, this means getting everything off the shelves, worktops etc and scrubbing the said shelves or worktops thoroughly. It means all the woodwork is washed down, including the tops of doors. It means wiping evidence of Mini's grubby fingers from paintwork and dusting on the top of cupboards and dressers. In short, once I've boxed up my distaste for the task sufficiently to actually get on with it, the said task is done to the degree where the Chief Medical Officer could happily perform open heart surgery in the space without the thought of MRSA even crossing his mind. Because, according to the Grandmother Code 'it is not worth doing a job at all if you don't do it properly'.

Now, given Troll's frequent ranting on the subject of cleanliness, you'd think he'd understand the concept of Doing Things Properly, wouldn't you? Not a bit of it - because, to put it simply, it follows that if he understood the philosophy he would have to do it too. And here is where we find the mismatch between what comes out of Troll's mouth regarding this issue and what the man actually DOES himself. Granted, if you walked into a room which had been 'Trolled', initially you'd think 'Oh this is nice'. However, spend more than 5 minutes in the same room and you start to notice things; viz. those items which have not been put away at all but merely piled, admittedly in a Very Neat Pile, in a corner; or, despite their often unaesthetic appearance, on a windowsill for everybody to see when the look in; or, as a last resort, against the wall. You notice the skirting board crevices are still harbouring the dust which you know was there a few days ago. You look up and see the spiders haven't been rendered homeless. Move something on a worktop, and you find the space underneath the item isn't quite as pristine as the open bit you could see before you moved it, nor is the bit of shelf underneath the book you've just taken out very nice either, however gleaming the rest of the shelf might be. There's a little grey ring at the extreme edge of the floor all around the room because the mop won't QUITE make it all the way to the skirting board. Get the picture? Good - because it DRIVES ME NUTS.

Frankly, were it not for the time spent lecturing me on my manifold sins and deficiencies, I'd be extremely grateful for him doing anything in the way of helping with the housework burden: unfortunately, having been forced to listen to the said litany of manifold sins etc., I am not in the mood to cut Troll any slack and to me, this half-doing of tasks is worse than not doing them at all because aside from being sloppy, and in a strange way dishonest, it just screams hypocrisy. Despite the many discussions on this issue over the years, Troll is no further towards understanding my point of view and I don't expect that to change any time soon; he firmly believes doing the minimum to give an illusion of cleanliness is quite sufficient thank you very much. Grrrrrr. And Aaaaargh.

A quite separate, but equally infuriating, issue is that of what has gradually come to be termed 'Tiddly Tiddly Poke Poke'. This, gentle readers, is not a quaint Victorian parlour game enjoyed at Chateau Angevin, but rather my term for the Troll demeanour whenever something manual is called for. In case people haven't twigged, Troll is Very Tall; were he to stop slouching he would be around 6'5"- 6'6" (we aren't quite sure because the ruler at the doctor's isn't tall enough to measure him properly - the nurse has to stand on a chair and use a ruler on top of it when he has medicals). I am around 5'8" - quite tall for a woman, but obviously dwarfed when standing next to Troll. If you were asked which of the two of us would use the smaller, fiddly, pokey motions if handed a manual task, given our respective sizes, you'd think it would be ME, wouldn't you? Think again - most of the things I do are are done in 'broad brush' motion - it is TROLL whose movements are small and delicate. Tiddly Tiddly Poke Poke.

Now, perhaps I should be more tolerant on this issue, but there is something in me which can't help but be irritated by the sight of such a large man fiddling around like a ditsy little girlie. I honestly couldn't tell you precisely WHAT annoys me so much - perhaps it is just the extreme mismatch, perhaps it is just the low-level scratching sounds it makes - but annoy me it does. I absolutely refuse to be in the same room when Troll Attempts Toast, as the sight of the butter being delicately jabbed onto the toast is enough to give me apoplexy - 'Tiddly Tiddly Poke Poke'. Similarly, the spectacle of Troll gently dabbing at worktops when he 'cleans' them is like nails down a blackboard to me; 'PUT SOME FLIPPING ELBOW GREASE INTO IT, MAN' is my usual bellow. Bewildered stares ensue - you have to feel sorry for the guy on some levels. Unsurprisingly, given this, our respective choice of appliances are poles apart - for example, on the rare occasions Troll tries ironing, he prefers a light, shaped, iron and diddles it around on the clothes - 'Tiddly Tiddly Poke Poke'. I take the view that the alternative name for ironing is 'pressing', get the heaviest iron I can lay my hands on and press the living daylights out of the garment. You get the picture...

Anyway, all the above came to a head this morning when, following my second decent night's sleep (as The Kittens can now be left overnight with a bowl of slop and will not starve) I decided I no longer had an excuse for just leaving everything to go to hell in a handcart and decided to attack the utility room for starters and the kitchen as the main course. Now, as I am sure you can all understand, ten days or so of Mini tramping in and out of the kitchen door from the farmyard, doing various craft activities and generally being the grubby little urchin he is, had left its mark on the floors and walls. The Kittens are not pristine little individuals either, nor are the rest of our cats. In my general tiredness I have tended to just shove things where there is space for them rather than put them where they should be. I have also, perforce, had to cook various meals to keep Mini and I alive. It all adds up to a Bit of a Mess Really. So, after a bit of thrashing around putting things away where they should be, scrubbing worktops and handbasins and bowls and shelves and anything else which didn't run away and wiping down walls and tiles it was the turn of the floor. And here we come to the stumbling point.

Some time ago, my Dyson vacuum cleaner finally gave up the ghost and died on me so my method of dealing with floor detritus has been to sweep up with a broom and dustpan-and-brush, and then get down on my hands and knees and give the whole lot a good old scrub with some soap and hot water. However, the notion of Being On The Floor And Using A Scrubbing Brush wasn't one which appealed to Troll so he, at some point, scampered off to the shops and came back with a particularly unappealing specimen of vacuum cleaner called 'The Henry'. Having tried to use it once, found it was uniquely adapted to Troll's 'Tiddly Tiddly Poke Poke' method of working - and therefore deeply unsuitable for me - I shrugged, and abandoned the thing, continuing to use my trusty old broom. Troll, however, loves the hideous item; so I've just let him get on with it and done my best to turn a blind eye to the aforementioned 'grey ring around the room' on the basis it keeps him happy. And a Happy Troll is a Quiet Troll - which can only be a good thing.

Today, however, was different - Mini for some arcane reasons known only to himself had pinched my broom and I tracked it down to the orchard. (I suspect it had been used to torment our gander, Marcel, who hates Mini with a passion). It thus needed to be soaked in a bucket of soap-and-hot-water itself and could not be used for the job in hand - I was forced to contemplate The Henry. And contemplate it I did... despite having changed the bag (back to the Dark Ages after the lovely Dyson bagless system) - a job I HATE - and spent double the amount of time hoovering the utility room I used to take with the Dyson, when it came to the hands-and-knees-and-scrub routine I still discovered bits it had left - I did a better job with my broom and dustpan-and-brush, frankly. In addition, the pole-things you hold when you shove the brush bit around aren't adjustable. So, with the extra pole in place the length was perfect for a 6'5" Troll but far from perfect for a 5'8" ME. Take the spare pole out and I resembled one of Snow White's dwarves picking away at the coal face. Furthermore, it makes a truly horrid highpitched WHINE which offends my conservatoire-trained ears like little else. Hissy fits all round.

Unsurprisingly, at the end of this fiasco I was absolutely screaming with rage. If I am actually in the mood to DO a job I hate, I don't think it is unreasonable to expect the tools on hand to Do The Job Properly. And The Henry does not fall into that category. I have, therefore, emailed Troll with my ultimatum: he has until the close of play today to agree IN WRITING (ie. with no possibility of weaseling out of it by dint of saying 'I didn't say that') to take me to Comet the day after he returns next week, where we will purchase a lovely new Dyson for me. If he does NOT agree to this, I am flinging The Henry into the skip and ringing up the skip company to come and take it away, thus rendering Henry-salvage impossible. And then it will be back to the broom and dustpan-and-brush regime for poor old Troll. 'Tiddly Tiddly Poke Poke' that, my friend. As an added extra I have also made him aware I want him to undertake IN WRITING he is not EVER going to go out and buy appliances I have to use too without my being there also.

So guys... watch this space. The clock is ticking and I can hear the siren call of the skip wending its way towards The Henry. Will Troll save it? Will I have the satisfaction of hearing it crunch into the junk already in there when the Troll email doesn't arrive in time? Will I have to clamber in to rescue it if the email arrives late? Only time will tell....

Kitten saga - Day 3

Well, the kittens are all still with us! The little ginger boy (called Little Shane by Mini) is the most fragile and I still think he is likely to kark it at any moment, but the two little black girls (Stumpy and Genevieve) seem, touchwood, to be pulling along. Whether I will make it is another story... I am utterly knackered, having been feeding, toileting and generally acting as surrogate mum to the little dears every two hours round the clock. Thank GOD for Teapigs Morning Glory, McVities digestives and that emergency staple of every stressed out human - toast.

Unsurprisingly, given the fact they probably haven't had much to eat since they were born - and certainly nothing at all in the day before they came to me - the sudden upgrade in nutrition gave all the kittens the runs initially. Apart from being messy and smelly for me to deal with (bear in mind for those who aren't familiar with very young kittens, their mother has to stimulate them - ie. lick their bottoms - to make them pee and poo and therefore I am having to do my best to simulate this by means of a damp piece of kitchen roll applied to their rear ends), this is quite worrying as it is enough to kill very little, very weak, kittens. So off they went down the local vet. Now, I conduct a bit of a guerilla war with our vets because they annoy me. As we are in a rural location they make it quite obvious they regard sheep, cattle and pigs as the Higher Calling of the Vet, and they only condescend to admit domestic pets across their hallowed portals because they know these are the critters which pay for their bread and butter. One of the miserable so-and-sos I have semi-brought round (mostly because he is Welsh and we can therefore 'talk rugby') but the Other plainly regards me as a proto-Mad-Old-Cat-Woman and therefore a sub-species of the human race. Unfortunately it was The Other who was on duty yesterday.

He was plainly horrified by my new escapade, but graciously permitted himself to actually touch the kittens and decided to give Little Shane some antibiotics. To do this entailed a franctic scamper around the back office as he plainly doesn't have a clue where anything is - that's for the untermensch veterinary nurses to organise isn't it? - and eventually had to ask the said veterinary nurse where the antibiotic of choice was. She, good girl, questioned his use of it; to which he responded 'Oh it's just an orphan kitten, it will probably die anyway'. He must think I'm deaf, or the partition walls are somehow soundproofed, because there was absolutely no attempt to moderate his voice or be at all discreet about what he was saying... I will leave it to my readership to imagine just how flipping cross that made me. I contemplated giving him a piece of my mind, but common sense prevailed and I came to the rapid conclusion there wouldn't be any point. He's far too old and his head is far too far up his rectum for even one of my tongue-lashings to have any effect - I did, however make do with giving him a classic Angevin Death Stare when he re-emerged and then insisted he look at Little Shane's paws.

Little Shane only has two toes on both his front paws, and one of his back paws is turned in a very odd way. The vet was absolutely horrified and made no effort to stop himself recoiling - 'this kitten is INBRED' he intoned - I honestly don't think he could have been any more shocked if I'd announced I was a cannibalistic necrophiliac with a particular interest in fat middle-aged veterinary surgeons. 'Ah right, shall I put him in the gas chamber now, then?' I sweetly enquired, and for once had the satisfaction of seeing him lost for a response. Mumbling something about coming back in a couple of days if there had been no improvement, he scurried off... I suspect to give himself a full body detox following his encounter with me and my unclean, defective charges. Again, I'll leave it to my readerships' imaginations to guess at what I was thinking but, as a clue, the words 'tosser', and 'WHAT a' wouldn't be far off the mark.

All the above has made me very angry and even more determined to do the best I possibly can to keep these little scraps alive, if only to prove to the bigoted greaseball at the surgery down the road that he is not omniescent. Getting home, and going through the 'feed-toilet-clean-change hot water bottle' routine again, I then turned to the internet for assistance. And found a body of comment which suggested that mixing the formula milk up with Dioralyte or similar seemed to work for kitten with the trots. Two feeds of this later (ie. about 3am) and all three were looking a lot perkier and have continued to improve throughout today. God bless the internet, people who are caring enough to share their experience and expertise via it, and the makers of off-the-counter medicines. Sure, if they survive, the kittens might develop a taste for raspberry flavoured concoctions, but that in my view is a small price to pay.

St Gertrude of Nivelles, I have discovered, is the patroness of cats and cat lovers and therefore has been added to the Pester List. She must be well sick of me by now - let's hope the old girl pulls her finger out and gives these kittens a helping hand. She could, whilst she's at it, give Scumbag at the Surgery a dose of something unpleasant - as penance for his arrogance, of course ;-) ...

Three Little Kittens have lost their mittens...

Actually, I've never understood that nursery rhyme. There's doubtless some arcane reason it was created, and - knowing the vagaries of British history - that reason probably involves monarchical naughtiness, plague, or the persecution of religious minorities. What other reasons could you have for inventing a childrens' song???

Anyway, to get back to the point of today's slice of La Vie Angevin, we have acquired, at least for the moment, three little kittens. Chicken Boy James is currently looking after somebody's menagerie whilst they are on holiday and has some cautionary tales to tell about it too: we will not mention the 26 horses, or the 'anorexic pigs' but we will comment that people really SHOULD NOT acquire a substantial number of animals and then not look after them properly. More specifically given today's topic, it seems there are quite a few semi-feral cats down there who persist in popping out kittens, most of which either expire when their mothers find themselves too malnourished to produce milk for them, or when they form the basis of rat-supper. Now, there really is no excuse for this - the Blue Cross and various other charities are quite happy to offer discount or even free speying and neutering of cats and therefore it seems to me this person is either too lazy or too ignorant to do anything about the sad lives her cats are leading. And that makes me cross, but there is little *I* can do about this without landing James and his family in a great deal of trouble as they will undoubtedly be suspects as regards the source of any reports made to the authorities about this situation. So I am between a rock and hard place on this one.

James came round yesterday evening quite distressed about the whole kitten situation as it seems the latest new mother is bone-thin and has no milk... he thus had to deal with the other animals to the accompanying sound of hungry, mewling kittens, which is enough to upset anybody. Now perhaps I am a soft touch, but I did not like to think about this situation too much - there's a big difference in my moral code between knowing these things go on - in which case you can do very little about it other than make contributions to the relevant charities - and having a specific case in front of your nose - in which case I would never forgive myself if I didn't do SOMETHING. So, I suggested if the babies managed to survive the night and evade the rats, he should bring them to me and we'd see what whether we could save them.

Come the morning and a tub of pathetic scraps of life land in my kitchen; and make no mistake, these little creatures are in big trouble. They are tiny little things, skin and bone, one of them has a gungy eye and another has but a stump of a tail as the rest has obviously been a rat-snack. Having obtained a tub of cat-milk-replacement from the vet, I have been syringing 2-3ml down the babies' throats every two hours or so and making sure they are operating correctly at the other end as well. Their eyes have been cleaned up and they have been installed with a hot water bottle, fluffy towel and one of Mini's teddies in a basket next to the Aga and we can but hope they have the tenacity to pull through as I can do no more for them... my readership are politely requested to pester the daylights out of St Francis and St Antony or whatever household deities they possess in the interim... naturally I'll let everybody know how they get on.