... look at the BBC news website when I've got a lot of things to do. It's asking for trouble, frankly, because I invariably find something to rant about; ranting leads to blogging; and blogging leads to more cups of tea and then a frantic rush around as I try to catch up on all the things I should have been doing during the time I've spent at the keyboard...
BUT... I never learn, and this morning found me innocently logging on whilst downing my second pint of tea with the thought 'I'll just see what's been going on in the world before I load the dishwasher again'. BIG MISTAKE - because the following caught my eye
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/8015981.stm
For those who can't access this link, it's about a 50 year old, Janet, who has spent over £12,000 on cosmetic surgery so she can look like her 29 year old daughter, Jane. Now, people who are familiar with my thoughts on this sort of thing can just imagine the mounting rage as I read the article and watched the video of this inane pair. It is just so WRONG on so many levels... and is really an extension of my rant about Susan Boyle earlier on this month. My observations can be summed up briefly as:
1. Compare the way Janet look now with the photograph in the clip of her on the blue sofa. Does she really think she looks better now? If she does, she is delusional - I think most people would agree picture of the happy, smiling, GENUINE woman on the sofa is a lot more attractive than the strutting, plastic Barbie of a creature she is now.
2. Who does she think she is fooling? She does NOT look one day under her real age of 50, despite what the people in the street say on camera - and the embarrassed squirming of the latter should indicate to Janet they are trying to be kind to her rather than be honest. She does NOT look like her daughter's sister. What she actually looks like is a 50 year old with an inability to face up to the fact she IS 50. Oh, and who possesses an unfortunate love affair with the peroxide bottle.
3. Why on earth does she feel the need to go partying with her DAUGHTER? Why on earth does her daughter tolerate this? Are the pair of them really so devoid of friends that they have cling together in this rather parasitic manner? Before anybody starts, I'm not suggesting I think people should only have friends from their own age group - I think it's healthy to have friends of all ages from a variety of different backgrounds - nor do I think it's wrong parents should spend time with their grown up children. However, and perhaps this is just me and my old-fashioned attitude, I think the spectacle of a 50 year old going clubbing is inherently undignified and indicates a complete lack of maturity on Janet's part. What is so wrong with facing facts and acknowledging you are going to cut a vaguely ridiculous figure if you continue to do the things you did 20 years earlier? 'Let go, accept you've moved on to another phase in life and take on the new and exciting challenges that come with it, rather than desperately try to cling on to the past' would, I suggest be a far more productive attitude for Janet to adopt.
4. It's notable that when Janet went through a bad patch and 'lost confidence' as she puts it (I suspect through a messy divorce for which she has my understanding and consummate sympathy) she didn't pick herself up by improving herself mentally through, for example, going back to college or learning something new. No, she headed for the plastic surgeon. Speaks volumes about her values, doesn't it?
5. It's also notable that her daughter Jane's reaction was 'It's dangerous' rather than 'Stop copying me and go out and get your own style which suits YOU'. Which speaks volumes about the mental capacity of Jane.
I am not only angry about this article I am saddened by it. To me, it's yet another episode which proves what thoroughly shallow attitudes are now prevalent: this is a 50 year old woman mutilating herself to try to fulfil what we have as a society come to expect from women. These days it's NOT OK to reach 50 with a few extra pounds, a few wrinkles around the eyes and an acknowledgement that gravity is doing its worst on the rest of your body; oh no, we all have to look half-starved, pumped up and (literally) botoxed up to the eyeballs to get any sort of respect.
Or, looking more closely, DO women in fact get this respect following this path? I'm not sure. Janet and Jane acknowledge they get 'stared at' when they go out, which doesn't seem very respectful to me. A discussion of how well a woman has aged usually includes some speculation regarding how much 'work' she's had done on herself; which again, doesn't ring of esteem for that woman somehow. Now, I'm not against any woman trying to make the best of herself; in fact I think it's a mark of respect to those with whom you have to interact to look presentable and as if you've 'made an effort'. But again, it's necessary to do things in moderation - thinking it's OK to spend £12,000 to make yourself look like Barbie goes well beyond that line and I'd put money on Janet deep down still feeling the same insecurity she did pre-surgery and returning to the operating table in the future to have a few more things done to herself which she will tell herself will 'boost her self confidence'.
I think it's also an interesting point that these are two WOMEN... I don't see any articles about 50 year old blokes spending thousands to make them look more like their sons. Which speaks volumes about how society still places more importance on how a woman looks than it does on anything else about her; whilst it's Ok for a bloke to age gracefully a woman seemingly has to do anything possible to remain looking like a 30 year old. It's pathetic, it's unfair, it's a thorough waste and it's just WRONG.
In my opinion it's a shame Janet didn't, as I said earlier, take the opportunity to learn some new skills or try taking on a challenge which involved using her brain. Ultimately, all the work she's had done on her body will either need to be re-done, or jigged around if she still wants to look like Barbie when she's 60, whereas any knowledge she could have gained would have been hers forever. Perhaps that would have been in the long run make more of an impact on her self confidence? OH, silly me, I forget - this is England where any attempt to get yourself a decent education as regarded as way down the list of desireable activities when compared with issues such as looking like Jordan, or going out at the weekend and getting so plastered you can't stand up.
I'll say it before and I'll say it again.. if we want to have a nation which isn't forcing its womenfolk to shuttle between the plastic surgeon to try to vainly turn the clock back and the shrink when their attempts fail and they don't have the mental resources to deal with that failure, we need to change our attitude with regard to what we think is important. Susan Boyle eventually got some respect, despite her looks, because she spent her time developing a talent which had nothing to do with her appearance; I don't see Janet getting anything like that respect any time soon because all she's concentrated on is her appearance. The day the English stop using the word 'clever' as an insult will be the day the country has started to correct the imbalance between the attention it pays to rubbish and the consideration it gives to the things which really matter. Unfortunately, the pigs are cleared and ready for take off on that one...
Friday, 24 April 2009
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Troll and quilting #2...
...A somewhat shorter expression of puzzlement and frustration than was the epic #1!
I long ago came to the conclusion there are Some Things Which Troll Is Incapable Of Understanding about my various hobbies, and I suppose I should just accept that and leave the whole issue be. However, there's a little bit of me which has hope and still thinks EITHER he just doesn't WANT to understand (in which case I should just give up trying to explain things) OR he is truly baffled and if I just found the right way to put it, he would have a Road to Damascus experience and stop bugging me asking questions such as 'is it really necessary to get x..?' when x is an absolutely crucial part of a project and he should know this as I've already told him the same thing six times with regard to six previous projects.
The whole incomprehension thing really kicks in with regard to the issue of which materials I need to do a quilt from start to finish... this is a very vexed question which causes endless debate at Chateau Angevin. To the extent at times I'm actually tempted to put together a laminated 'We've been here before and because I can't be bothered repeating myself this is the information you need to know before you start pestering me and asking dumb questions AGAIN' sheet I can just pull out of the drawer and hand over when the time comes... Which it will.... sigh. From my perspective none of this is rocket science, but it seems beyond Troll.
For the ininitiated, and just to check with my readership I'm not going completely mad here and it IS indeed as simple as I think it is, these are the components of a quilt:
1. The 'quilt top'. What most people would recognise as and call 'a patchwork quilt'. This is the bit for which you cut up big pieces of fabric into smaller pieces in various shapes and sew them back together to make patterns. Or if you are an 'art quilter' put together something more random which you can give a pretentious title to give yourself a bit more credibility with your trendy arty mates.
2. The 'wadding' or 'batting'. This is a layer of soft cuddly material, which sits under the quilt top. It can be cotton, wool, silk, even cashmere, but at Chateau Angevin, it is NEVER, ever polyester. This is what makes the finished quilt warm and gives it a padded look.
3. The 'backing'. This is a big piece of fabric you put behind the batting so the batting is entirely covered by the quilt top on one side and the backing on the other. This is the biggest problem element for me, because in the UK there are a pathetically small number of places which do extra wide pieces of material you can use for this.. I usually have to order the things from the States and ask the vendors to think up inventive ways of describing the item in order to fox the muppets at Customs and Excise.
What gives a quilt a 'quilted' look is the fact you stitch through all three layers partly to hold them together securely and partly to give a bit more texture. How you stitch through it is also an interesting problem - you can either do the whole lot on the machine, or layer the three elements in a quilting frame of some sort, which holds them tight so you can hand stitch the quilting stitches. A lot of quilters use the opportunity to stitch in pretty patterns which give the whole project another dimension. When all the quilting stitches have been put in, most people get a big long piece of fabric and sew it all around the raw edges of the three layers to make a nice, finished binding. (In Wales the tradition is just to turn the edges of the top and backing under so you butt them together and stitch them closed, but then, you knew us Welsh HAD to be different, didn't you?).
Now none of that is hard to understand is it? Yet, when faced with these simple facts every time I attempt to clear the expenditure with Troll before I go to the shop or order one of the components online, you would swear I was either talking Vulcan or trying to extract the Meaning of Life from the man. A man, moreover, who managed to blag his way into Cambridge for his first degree and Durham for his masters, so such piddly little things as quilting materials should be a matter of a nanosecond's perusal before comprehension is established. Ohhhh nooooo....
Which leaves me thinking is it just me? Is it just Troll? Do other people have difficulty getting the essentials of their pasttimes over to others, or have trouble making that information stick in the brains of the said others for more than about 5 minutes???
I long ago came to the conclusion there are Some Things Which Troll Is Incapable Of Understanding about my various hobbies, and I suppose I should just accept that and leave the whole issue be. However, there's a little bit of me which has hope and still thinks EITHER he just doesn't WANT to understand (in which case I should just give up trying to explain things) OR he is truly baffled and if I just found the right way to put it, he would have a Road to Damascus experience and stop bugging me asking questions such as 'is it really necessary to get x..?' when x is an absolutely crucial part of a project and he should know this as I've already told him the same thing six times with regard to six previous projects.
The whole incomprehension thing really kicks in with regard to the issue of which materials I need to do a quilt from start to finish... this is a very vexed question which causes endless debate at Chateau Angevin. To the extent at times I'm actually tempted to put together a laminated 'We've been here before and because I can't be bothered repeating myself this is the information you need to know before you start pestering me and asking dumb questions AGAIN' sheet I can just pull out of the drawer and hand over when the time comes... Which it will.... sigh. From my perspective none of this is rocket science, but it seems beyond Troll.
For the ininitiated, and just to check with my readership I'm not going completely mad here and it IS indeed as simple as I think it is, these are the components of a quilt:
1. The 'quilt top'. What most people would recognise as and call 'a patchwork quilt'. This is the bit for which you cut up big pieces of fabric into smaller pieces in various shapes and sew them back together to make patterns. Or if you are an 'art quilter' put together something more random which you can give a pretentious title to give yourself a bit more credibility with your trendy arty mates.
2. The 'wadding' or 'batting'. This is a layer of soft cuddly material, which sits under the quilt top. It can be cotton, wool, silk, even cashmere, but at Chateau Angevin, it is NEVER, ever polyester. This is what makes the finished quilt warm and gives it a padded look.
3. The 'backing'. This is a big piece of fabric you put behind the batting so the batting is entirely covered by the quilt top on one side and the backing on the other. This is the biggest problem element for me, because in the UK there are a pathetically small number of places which do extra wide pieces of material you can use for this.. I usually have to order the things from the States and ask the vendors to think up inventive ways of describing the item in order to fox the muppets at Customs and Excise.
What gives a quilt a 'quilted' look is the fact you stitch through all three layers partly to hold them together securely and partly to give a bit more texture. How you stitch through it is also an interesting problem - you can either do the whole lot on the machine, or layer the three elements in a quilting frame of some sort, which holds them tight so you can hand stitch the quilting stitches. A lot of quilters use the opportunity to stitch in pretty patterns which give the whole project another dimension. When all the quilting stitches have been put in, most people get a big long piece of fabric and sew it all around the raw edges of the three layers to make a nice, finished binding. (In Wales the tradition is just to turn the edges of the top and backing under so you butt them together and stitch them closed, but then, you knew us Welsh HAD to be different, didn't you?).
Now none of that is hard to understand is it? Yet, when faced with these simple facts every time I attempt to clear the expenditure with Troll before I go to the shop or order one of the components online, you would swear I was either talking Vulcan or trying to extract the Meaning of Life from the man. A man, moreover, who managed to blag his way into Cambridge for his first degree and Durham for his masters, so such piddly little things as quilting materials should be a matter of a nanosecond's perusal before comprehension is established. Ohhhh nooooo....
Which leaves me thinking is it just me? Is it just Troll? Do other people have difficulty getting the essentials of their pasttimes over to others, or have trouble making that information stick in the brains of the said others for more than about 5 minutes???
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Men (well, Ok, TROLL) and quilting #1
(This is the first instalment of my experiences when mixing Troll and sewing, believe me there is more to come...)
For those of you who don't know about what keeps me busy (other than singing, keeping Mini fed (and Troll when he decides to turn up), brahma breeding and avoiding housework) I sew. Not your everyday making clothes, mending clothes or fiddling-around-with-curtains-and-cushions sort of sewing (although I can do that sort of thing it bores me beyond description), but rather more your embroidery and quilting side of things. Although a fair number of people seem to find it baffling, and wonder what on earth I could get out of it, my sewing is something I couldn't be without - aside from the sheer relaxation of doing it, badly needed when Mini's depredations have left me in a particularly acute state of teeth-gritting rage, it's something I've always done. As soon as I was old enough not to endanger myself and others by being given access to scissors and needle (in truth probably a bit before that, but my Nanna liked to live dangerously) my grandmother thrust a needle into my pudgy paw and I was hooked. Childe Angevin's baby feet were on the path well trodden by previous generations of Angevin womenfolk and examples of my work were soon littering the house and those of my friends. Various charities who were the usual recipients of Angevin Family donations received items as my skills developed under the Stalinist tutelage of Nanna And The Great-Aunts.... you get the picture.
Now, Troll cannot understand this and despite the Grande-Troll doing a bit of dressmaking and knitting herself, has zero empathy with it. Note: Troll doesn't have any equivalent hobbies of his own and doesn't apparently feel the need for any so this might just be 'him' - the jury is still out on that one. The Troll lack of hobby-empathy MIGHT also be partially because the Grande-Troll, despite not actually being very good at said dressmaking and having less colour sense than your average woodlouse, used nevertheless to attempt to make clothes for Childe Troll. Even now the mention of a particularly strident homemade pair of purple dogtooth tweed trousers (this was the 70's) the nine-year-old Troll was forced to sport in the throbbing metropolis of style that is Sutton Coldfield is enough to give him the shudders. A few years ago I lived in dread of having battered parcels turning up at Chateau Angevin when the Afghans rejected the stream of repulsive jumpers we'd donated to them following attempts on the Grande-Troll's part to dress Mini for me. You can sort of understand Troll might be a bit suspicious of home-sewing given this background BUT after 22 years of living with me you'd think he'd also realise I'm not about to follow the Grande-Troll's lead and insist he wears something like, say, a mauve Wallace and Gromit jumper I've kindly made him (believe me, I am not overestimating what the woman is capable of - she'd make him something like that tomorrow were she asked). Everybody who comes to the house appreciates my embroideries... but somehow these bypass what serves as Troll's sense of aesthetics and he usually mutters something uncomplimentary about the place looking like something from Little House on the Prairie. I long ago gave up and just got on with doing my own thing. Cosy tales one hears of couples 'doing hobbies together' is just never going to happen at Chateau Angevin unless Troll finds something I can sew which he can also eat...
Anyway, to get back to the point, I'm in truth a better embroiderer than quilter, largely owing to more time spent on it - but following a major clear up of UFOs (Unfinished Fabric Objects for the uninitiated) on the embroidery front, and the resulting rather-larger-than-expected bill from Graham (not Graham-the-Veg-Man but Graham the lovely framer who lets me play with all the mounts etc. so I get exactly what I want) Troll threw an unprecedented Troll Stomp and I deemed it a diplomatic move to divert my attention to my quilting for a bit and hide my stash of embroidery materials where Troll can't see them. Above-average raids on the Troll Wallet are events which tend to loom large in the Troll memory banks, so keeping a low profile vis a vis embroidery for a long old while is the only option.
It has to be said my decision was also aided by the fact that the English side of Chateau Angevin is almost fully recovered from the effects of the July 2007 floods, when most of my ground floor was a foot-and-a-half underwater. For those who don't know (or to whom indeed the thought wouldn't have occurred in a million years) even with my extensive collection of embroidery materials, quilting takes up a lot more space than embroidery; space which just wasn't available when we were trying to live in half the house whilst SuperNige and Jay-the-Pikey (our superb and cuddly builders who are almost part of the family now) dealt with repairing the flood damage in the other half. Aside from my kitchen, music room, study and utility room, also damaged were a lot of things in the old milking parlour which had been stored there whilst we slowly renovate the farmhouse from the near-derelict mess it was when we bought it in August 1998; unfortunately the casualties on this occasion included my grandmother's quilting frame. Now, putting aside the purely sentimental value of having something my grandmother used, this wasn't an entirely bad thing - the frame had been home-made by my grandfather, mended and amended on many occasions, and even when fully operational could most charitably be described as Heath-Robinson in conception and design. Thankfully my insurers were both overworked and deeply ignorant as regards quilting so I managed to blag enough wonga out of them to replace the old frame with an all-singing, all-dancing brand-new frame all the way from Salt Lake City. Whey hey.. you can imagine the excitement and girly squealing when that little baby turned up... only to be replaced by rather more of a choked gurgle when I realised the thing was flatpacked for home assembly.
Don't get me wrong... I'm not a total incompetent when it comes to flatpacks; I've been known to assemble the odd item of furniture unaided, out of necessity seeing as I am on my own most of the time. I've got the assembly time down to about 15 minutes as regards the flatpacked chicken houses I get from Simon's woodyard, with the secret aid of Troll's new electric drill which I am strictly-forbidden-to-touch. (What the Troll doesn't see the Troll doesn't stomp about). But to compare the assembly of this quilting frame to a Simon chicken house is a bit like comparing making the toy from a Kinder egg to assembling a lifesize operational Starship Enterprise - it takes the issue of flatpack to a whole new dimension. Perhaps this is some sort of Mormon joke, but the instruction booklet alone was about half an inch thick AND, to add the final touch of gibber-inducing panic IT CAME WITH AN INSTRUCTION CD.
I was in a dilemma... I probably COULD, given time, Mini out of the house for the afternoon, a glass of decent red and a couple of hours when my friends and family decide to leave me alone vis a vis the telephone, have done it myself. With the addition of a lot of swearing, no doubt. BUT... as you can imagine, this frame is not cheap and if I, in the worst case scenario, cocked up badly and broke the thing, I would be more likely to be up for the Nobel Chemistry Prize than I would for getting the dosh for a replacement out of Troll - who would doubtless regard the event as God's judgement (albeit emanating from the Mormons) on my naughty, lotus-eating sewing activities. Even a casual flick through the instruction booklet indicated you needed a First in Mechanical Engineering with a bit of experience at the NASA Space Centre to stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting it right... what was a girl to do??
Inspiration struck. I might not have a space scientist on hand, but I do have a mildly autistic geophysicist who has an interest in keeping his stomach full and an inability to fulfil that task by himself. Hehe... TROLL could do it on his return from his Algerian Camp for Autistic Men (aka his workplace): it would give him the opportunity to be mildly patronising as he dons his I-Am-The-Great-Handyman persona (a role he adores) and, more importantly, mean if HE broke the frame he'd have the moral obligation to replace it. That, and the threat of no meals until he did. Thus, as I waved Troll and Mini-Troll off to France I had the satisfaction of knowing that, buried under the mountain of food, in the back of the Aquatic Passat II were the components of my new frame (WELL - HE NEEDED SOMETHING TO DO IN THE EVENINGS WHEN MINI'S IN BED DIDN'T HE?).
What a result: -
1. I get my lovely new frame, and already have the necessary all ready to start hand quilting a project when I get to France at the weekend;
2. Troll gets the satisfaction of feeling he is a Wonderful Understanding Provider for His Feckless Wife's Silly Pasttimes;
3. I get the satisfaction of knowing Troll is gainfully employed and Doing Something Useful rather than reading the ghastly science-fiction novels in which he would otherwise be indulging (or shooting aliens/monsters in whatever foul PC game he's currently enthralled by on his laptop)
4. Troll knows I know he has Done Something Useful and thus Feckless Wife has no excuses not to make him his favourite meals.
5. I have a guarantee that if the thing gets broken in the construction I don't have to 'do without'. The Troll ego will simply not allow him to be defeated by it, a replacement will be bought and there'll be no build up of quilting UFOs.
Everybody a winner... somebody should make me head of the United Nations.
(Although this would be Troll's nightmare as I'd have the world quilting in no time, with the exception of the Grande-Troll - there are only so many offensive colour combinations a body can stand in a lifetime).
[All this having been said... it occurs to me WHAT IF Troll doesn't pull his finger out and get the frame assembled before I get to France?? Perhaps as an insurance policy I should get the mauve wool and Wallace and Gromit pattern now?]
For those of you who don't know about what keeps me busy (other than singing, keeping Mini fed (and Troll when he decides to turn up), brahma breeding and avoiding housework) I sew. Not your everyday making clothes, mending clothes or fiddling-around-with-curtains-and-cushions sort of sewing (although I can do that sort of thing it bores me beyond description), but rather more your embroidery and quilting side of things. Although a fair number of people seem to find it baffling, and wonder what on earth I could get out of it, my sewing is something I couldn't be without - aside from the sheer relaxation of doing it, badly needed when Mini's depredations have left me in a particularly acute state of teeth-gritting rage, it's something I've always done. As soon as I was old enough not to endanger myself and others by being given access to scissors and needle (in truth probably a bit before that, but my Nanna liked to live dangerously) my grandmother thrust a needle into my pudgy paw and I was hooked. Childe Angevin's baby feet were on the path well trodden by previous generations of Angevin womenfolk and examples of my work were soon littering the house and those of my friends. Various charities who were the usual recipients of Angevin Family donations received items as my skills developed under the Stalinist tutelage of Nanna And The Great-Aunts.... you get the picture.
Now, Troll cannot understand this and despite the Grande-Troll doing a bit of dressmaking and knitting herself, has zero empathy with it. Note: Troll doesn't have any equivalent hobbies of his own and doesn't apparently feel the need for any so this might just be 'him' - the jury is still out on that one. The Troll lack of hobby-empathy MIGHT also be partially because the Grande-Troll, despite not actually being very good at said dressmaking and having less colour sense than your average woodlouse, used nevertheless to attempt to make clothes for Childe Troll. Even now the mention of a particularly strident homemade pair of purple dogtooth tweed trousers (this was the 70's) the nine-year-old Troll was forced to sport in the throbbing metropolis of style that is Sutton Coldfield is enough to give him the shudders. A few years ago I lived in dread of having battered parcels turning up at Chateau Angevin when the Afghans rejected the stream of repulsive jumpers we'd donated to them following attempts on the Grande-Troll's part to dress Mini for me. You can sort of understand Troll might be a bit suspicious of home-sewing given this background BUT after 22 years of living with me you'd think he'd also realise I'm not about to follow the Grande-Troll's lead and insist he wears something like, say, a mauve Wallace and Gromit jumper I've kindly made him (believe me, I am not overestimating what the woman is capable of - she'd make him something like that tomorrow were she asked). Everybody who comes to the house appreciates my embroideries... but somehow these bypass what serves as Troll's sense of aesthetics and he usually mutters something uncomplimentary about the place looking like something from Little House on the Prairie. I long ago gave up and just got on with doing my own thing. Cosy tales one hears of couples 'doing hobbies together' is just never going to happen at Chateau Angevin unless Troll finds something I can sew which he can also eat...
Anyway, to get back to the point, I'm in truth a better embroiderer than quilter, largely owing to more time spent on it - but following a major clear up of UFOs (Unfinished Fabric Objects for the uninitiated) on the embroidery front, and the resulting rather-larger-than-expected bill from Graham (not Graham-the-Veg-Man but Graham the lovely framer who lets me play with all the mounts etc. so I get exactly what I want) Troll threw an unprecedented Troll Stomp and I deemed it a diplomatic move to divert my attention to my quilting for a bit and hide my stash of embroidery materials where Troll can't see them. Above-average raids on the Troll Wallet are events which tend to loom large in the Troll memory banks, so keeping a low profile vis a vis embroidery for a long old while is the only option.
It has to be said my decision was also aided by the fact that the English side of Chateau Angevin is almost fully recovered from the effects of the July 2007 floods, when most of my ground floor was a foot-and-a-half underwater. For those who don't know (or to whom indeed the thought wouldn't have occurred in a million years) even with my extensive collection of embroidery materials, quilting takes up a lot more space than embroidery; space which just wasn't available when we were trying to live in half the house whilst SuperNige and Jay-the-Pikey (our superb and cuddly builders who are almost part of the family now) dealt with repairing the flood damage in the other half. Aside from my kitchen, music room, study and utility room, also damaged were a lot of things in the old milking parlour which had been stored there whilst we slowly renovate the farmhouse from the near-derelict mess it was when we bought it in August 1998; unfortunately the casualties on this occasion included my grandmother's quilting frame. Now, putting aside the purely sentimental value of having something my grandmother used, this wasn't an entirely bad thing - the frame had been home-made by my grandfather, mended and amended on many occasions, and even when fully operational could most charitably be described as Heath-Robinson in conception and design. Thankfully my insurers were both overworked and deeply ignorant as regards quilting so I managed to blag enough wonga out of them to replace the old frame with an all-singing, all-dancing brand-new frame all the way from Salt Lake City. Whey hey.. you can imagine the excitement and girly squealing when that little baby turned up... only to be replaced by rather more of a choked gurgle when I realised the thing was flatpacked for home assembly.
Don't get me wrong... I'm not a total incompetent when it comes to flatpacks; I've been known to assemble the odd item of furniture unaided, out of necessity seeing as I am on my own most of the time. I've got the assembly time down to about 15 minutes as regards the flatpacked chicken houses I get from Simon's woodyard, with the secret aid of Troll's new electric drill which I am strictly-forbidden-to-touch. (What the Troll doesn't see the Troll doesn't stomp about). But to compare the assembly of this quilting frame to a Simon chicken house is a bit like comparing making the toy from a Kinder egg to assembling a lifesize operational Starship Enterprise - it takes the issue of flatpack to a whole new dimension. Perhaps this is some sort of Mormon joke, but the instruction booklet alone was about half an inch thick AND, to add the final touch of gibber-inducing panic IT CAME WITH AN INSTRUCTION CD.
I was in a dilemma... I probably COULD, given time, Mini out of the house for the afternoon, a glass of decent red and a couple of hours when my friends and family decide to leave me alone vis a vis the telephone, have done it myself. With the addition of a lot of swearing, no doubt. BUT... as you can imagine, this frame is not cheap and if I, in the worst case scenario, cocked up badly and broke the thing, I would be more likely to be up for the Nobel Chemistry Prize than I would for getting the dosh for a replacement out of Troll - who would doubtless regard the event as God's judgement (albeit emanating from the Mormons) on my naughty, lotus-eating sewing activities. Even a casual flick through the instruction booklet indicated you needed a First in Mechanical Engineering with a bit of experience at the NASA Space Centre to stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting it right... what was a girl to do??
Inspiration struck. I might not have a space scientist on hand, but I do have a mildly autistic geophysicist who has an interest in keeping his stomach full and an inability to fulfil that task by himself. Hehe... TROLL could do it on his return from his Algerian Camp for Autistic Men (aka his workplace): it would give him the opportunity to be mildly patronising as he dons his I-Am-The-Great-Handyman persona (a role he adores) and, more importantly, mean if HE broke the frame he'd have the moral obligation to replace it. That, and the threat of no meals until he did. Thus, as I waved Troll and Mini-Troll off to France I had the satisfaction of knowing that, buried under the mountain of food, in the back of the Aquatic Passat II were the components of my new frame (WELL - HE NEEDED SOMETHING TO DO IN THE EVENINGS WHEN MINI'S IN BED DIDN'T HE?).
What a result: -
1. I get my lovely new frame, and already have the necessary all ready to start hand quilting a project when I get to France at the weekend;
2. Troll gets the satisfaction of feeling he is a Wonderful Understanding Provider for His Feckless Wife's Silly Pasttimes;
3. I get the satisfaction of knowing Troll is gainfully employed and Doing Something Useful rather than reading the ghastly science-fiction novels in which he would otherwise be indulging (or shooting aliens/monsters in whatever foul PC game he's currently enthralled by on his laptop)
4. Troll knows I know he has Done Something Useful and thus Feckless Wife has no excuses not to make him his favourite meals.
5. I have a guarantee that if the thing gets broken in the construction I don't have to 'do without'. The Troll ego will simply not allow him to be defeated by it, a replacement will be bought and there'll be no build up of quilting UFOs.
Everybody a winner... somebody should make me head of the United Nations.
(Although this would be Troll's nightmare as I'd have the world quilting in no time, with the exception of the Grande-Troll - there are only so many offensive colour combinations a body can stand in a lifetime).
[All this having been said... it occurs to me WHAT IF Troll doesn't pull his finger out and get the frame assembled before I get to France?? Perhaps as an insurance policy I should get the mauve wool and Wallace and Gromit pattern now?]
Monday, 20 April 2009
R.I.P. Sebastian
Unfortunately this week saw the demise of my beautiful blue-columbian boy, Sebastian. We aren't sure what happened to him, but we suspect either heart attack or stroke, because we found him just curled up in the front garden, looking as if he'd just gone to sleep. Normally, although this is obviously sad, I wouldn't make a huge fuss about it because, to quote my father, "If you've got livestock, you've got deadstock" and the passing of various chooks (whether naturally or whether en route to the Aga) is viewed as very much part of the whole cycle of life, or in more accurately in this case, death.
However, Sebastian was special. Weighing in at around 5kg he was one of my heavier birds and in style everything a brahma should be. He'd hurt his leg last autumn and over the winter I'd been babying him more than a little (the look on my vet's face when I brought a 5kg cockerel into his surgery isn't something I'm going to forget for a long while) and he was slowly getting better. Just lately he'd been showing more of an interest in his 'girls', his limp was almost gone, and we were living in hope we'd have some little Sebastians by the end of the season. All hopes now destroyed... his girls are now assimilated into Gordon's harem and Barry (White - because of his deep crow), my huge black brahma, and his ladies are now in the front garden being spoilt with first refusal on the kitchen scraps. I'm going to miss Sebastian, though - his gentleness, slightly lopsided stroll up whenever I was outside, and his lovely confederate grey cresting brightening up the space outside my kitchen. He is now residing under a new rosebush and lavender bed and I'll think of him everytime I look at it...
On a brighter note, chicks from the latest hatch started popping out today. Although however many times it happens it's quite exciting, this batch is especially so because these are from unlabelled eggs - Mini thought he'd 'help out' a few weeks ago and came back clutching a bowl with lots of eggs he'd collected from various pens but had forgotten to label them. [Note, when Mini 'helps' it's usually a prelude to either some act of lunacy or disaster so I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't worse]. The result of his labours today is a bit like 'chick pot luck'. Although some types are immediately obvious, other brahma colours are not hugely different when in chick form so I'm having some fun trying to guess what is what.
Aside from chick-tombola, planting roses on the chicken grave, and little bits of general daily domestica not even I can avoid doing, so far my 'down time' is absolute heaven. I've been able to sit around reading and quilting without the continual interruptions necessary to bail Mini out of whatever new mess he's got himself into (usually chicken, goose and/or poo related and therefore requiring immediate bathtime) or to satisfy Troll's seemingly continual requests for sustenance. Much as I love my child, it IS nice sometimes to have time to be 'me' again rather than 'Mummy'!
The news from France is also good, thank heavens. Troll has so far managed to heat up selections from the food-stack without either blowing up the cooker or killing himself and others, Mini has managed not to skim the upper layers of skin off his legs as he indulges in his favourite game of lying on top of his plastic truck and tobogganing down the road outside our house, and the house is, apparently, still standing. Perhaps I'll kick the pair of them over the Channel more frequently!
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Hahaha bleddy ha ....
... at the looks on the faces of the 'judges' of Britain's Got Talent when Susan Boyle opened her gob and belted out I Have a Dream on the show last week.
I absolutely LOATHE reality shows and things like Britain's Got Talent as a rule as I think everybody's time would be better spent getting off their butts and DOING SOMETHING more positive (either for themselves or for the community, I don't care which) as opposed to necking back cans of lager and packets of crisps and watching a bunch of usually third-rate bods lining up for potential future exploitation on TV. In short, most of the time all the show proves is that Britain HASN'T got talent, well, at least if we have it hasn't been prepared to turn up for the auditions. The show as I whole I would suggest is brazenly narcissistic, adds absolutely nothing to our lives and is a symptom of the generally pointless and navel-gazing attitude which seems to have infected just about everything over the past couple of decades in my humble opinion.
For Susan Boyle, however, I am prepared to make an exception. Here is a lady who through no fault of her own has had to deal with the ridicule of her community for the entirety of her 47 years on the planet; reading between the lines it seems she's had an extremely tough time of it. And yes, she is not the most aesthetically pleasing bundle of humanity to have crossed the Angevin TV screen it has to be said. However, and unlike the vast majority of participants in this sort of show, she DOES have talent, and, speaking with my singing-teacher hat on, could be even better if she got some decent training. A fact which even the mostly ignorant, jeering and prejudiced studio audience managed to recognise within 10 seconds of Susan singing as they did a consummate volte face and changed from resembling the crowd at the Roman Colisseum waiting with keen anticipation for the 'thumbs down' humiliation of a protagonist, to giving Susan a standing ovation which was richly deserved. The look on that ghastly ape Simon Cowell's face was worth a thousand words, although I note only Piers Morgan had the grace to actually look ashamed of himself and it took Amanda Holden to vocalise the guilt they all SHOULD have felt for the oh-so-obvious prejudice they'd seen when they'd just looked at Susan rather than listening to her first.
And this, in my opinion, is Susan's greatest achievement; whilst not taking away anything from her singing, the naked courage and composure she showed in dealing with the overt, crude jeering of both judges and audience deserves every award which can be thrown at her. In being 'different' it's obvious she's had to endure a level of abuse which would probably make our more tender younger people these days head off to find the pills, gin and razors after about 10 minutes. She's experienced it all her life and has obviously managed to retain both a sense of humour and develop a level of quiet dignity which even I find awe-inspiring.
Is it too much to ask that this could not just be an individual flash in the pan and that it could be the start of us, as a society, having a 'wake-up call', to quote Amanda Holden. Because there's no doubt we need it - just how many people, like Susan, have been nursing an exception talent of some sort which has been completely overlooked because they don't fit the bill with regard to what we've been brainwashed into believing is 'beauty', 'camera-presence' or whatever label you want to put on it? Does everybody really have to have the perfect nose/teeth/skin/figure before any talents they might possess can be considered? What a pathetic waste if we continue down the road of saying 'Yes, they DO'. I'll use the usual example given whenever this is discussed and point out Roosevelt, wheelchair bound, would undoubtedly not even been considered as a candidate for the lowermost rung of government had he been born later, into the media-obsessed 'modern' world. And he is by far from being the only example.
Ultimately, it's all about 'respect'; a commodity sadly lacking most of the time. Had Susan Boyle been shown more respect during her life, despite her conventionally unattractive appearance, she could have developed her talent and been given a chance to fulfil her dream well before her current 47 years. Had Susan Boyle been given more respect she might not have had to admit she's 'never been kissed' (although what that has to do with her singing is beyond me) and somebody out there would have seen her qualities and loved her for them. Had Susan Boyle been given more respect she would not have had to expose herself to crude humiliation on national TV to get her voice heard. Respect is the most fundamental and precious gift we can give to another human being.
How many more Susan Boyles are out there? I guess we will never know unless we all give ourselves a mental kick in the pants and start looking around us with fresh eyes. A profound thought indeed for Low Sunday.
I absolutely LOATHE reality shows and things like Britain's Got Talent as a rule as I think everybody's time would be better spent getting off their butts and DOING SOMETHING more positive (either for themselves or for the community, I don't care which) as opposed to necking back cans of lager and packets of crisps and watching a bunch of usually third-rate bods lining up for potential future exploitation on TV. In short, most of the time all the show proves is that Britain HASN'T got talent, well, at least if we have it hasn't been prepared to turn up for the auditions. The show as I whole I would suggest is brazenly narcissistic, adds absolutely nothing to our lives and is a symptom of the generally pointless and navel-gazing attitude which seems to have infected just about everything over the past couple of decades in my humble opinion.
For Susan Boyle, however, I am prepared to make an exception. Here is a lady who through no fault of her own has had to deal with the ridicule of her community for the entirety of her 47 years on the planet; reading between the lines it seems she's had an extremely tough time of it. And yes, she is not the most aesthetically pleasing bundle of humanity to have crossed the Angevin TV screen it has to be said. However, and unlike the vast majority of participants in this sort of show, she DOES have talent, and, speaking with my singing-teacher hat on, could be even better if she got some decent training. A fact which even the mostly ignorant, jeering and prejudiced studio audience managed to recognise within 10 seconds of Susan singing as they did a consummate volte face and changed from resembling the crowd at the Roman Colisseum waiting with keen anticipation for the 'thumbs down' humiliation of a protagonist, to giving Susan a standing ovation which was richly deserved. The look on that ghastly ape Simon Cowell's face was worth a thousand words, although I note only Piers Morgan had the grace to actually look ashamed of himself and it took Amanda Holden to vocalise the guilt they all SHOULD have felt for the oh-so-obvious prejudice they'd seen when they'd just looked at Susan rather than listening to her first.
And this, in my opinion, is Susan's greatest achievement; whilst not taking away anything from her singing, the naked courage and composure she showed in dealing with the overt, crude jeering of both judges and audience deserves every award which can be thrown at her. In being 'different' it's obvious she's had to endure a level of abuse which would probably make our more tender younger people these days head off to find the pills, gin and razors after about 10 minutes. She's experienced it all her life and has obviously managed to retain both a sense of humour and develop a level of quiet dignity which even I find awe-inspiring.
Is it too much to ask that this could not just be an individual flash in the pan and that it could be the start of us, as a society, having a 'wake-up call', to quote Amanda Holden. Because there's no doubt we need it - just how many people, like Susan, have been nursing an exception talent of some sort which has been completely overlooked because they don't fit the bill with regard to what we've been brainwashed into believing is 'beauty', 'camera-presence' or whatever label you want to put on it? Does everybody really have to have the perfect nose/teeth/skin/figure before any talents they might possess can be considered? What a pathetic waste if we continue down the road of saying 'Yes, they DO'. I'll use the usual example given whenever this is discussed and point out Roosevelt, wheelchair bound, would undoubtedly not even been considered as a candidate for the lowermost rung of government had he been born later, into the media-obsessed 'modern' world. And he is by far from being the only example.
Ultimately, it's all about 'respect'; a commodity sadly lacking most of the time. Had Susan Boyle been shown more respect during her life, despite her conventionally unattractive appearance, she could have developed her talent and been given a chance to fulfil her dream well before her current 47 years. Had Susan Boyle been given more respect she might not have had to admit she's 'never been kissed' (although what that has to do with her singing is beyond me) and somebody out there would have seen her qualities and loved her for them. Had Susan Boyle been given more respect she would not have had to expose herself to crude humiliation on national TV to get her voice heard. Respect is the most fundamental and precious gift we can give to another human being.
How many more Susan Boyles are out there? I guess we will never know unless we all give ourselves a mental kick in the pants and start looking around us with fresh eyes. A profound thought indeed for Low Sunday.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Old people... again
Yes, it's back to familiar territory again I'm afraid folks....
Troll is taking Baby Troll to the French manifestation of Chateau Angevin tomorrow to give me a much-needed break from the latter's general stroppiness and attitude. (Freedom, at least for five days, beckons heheh.) Naturally, being Troll, he can't be expected to feed himself adequately, much less serve up something which isn't stuffed to the gunwales with ingredients writ large on the Baby Troll Banned Substances List, so this afternoon found us taking on Waitrose in all it's Saturday glory. I'd already cooked some home-made ready meals for the pair of them, so this was really just stocking up on a few can't-do-withouts for the journey etc.
Unsurprisingly, given the demographic of the town and surrounding area, there were a fair number of older citizens trundling around, who, judging by their dress and general demeanour, were of the more well-heeled variety. None of your council-home inhabitants here, oh no... Most of them seemed to be behaving themselves for once, and I thought my blood pressure had escaped unscathed; BUT...
Baby Troll, as is his wont, demanded to go to the coffee shop and indulge in his favourite pasttime of sitting on a barstool scoffing a sandwich and pretending he isn't anything to do with the deeply uncool pair sitting on the table close by. As he hadn't been particularly appalling for the previous half an hour I didn't feel I could deny him on this occasion, so there we were, in the queue, clutching our paninis and Bottle Green fizzies WHEN...
... a reasonably well dressed and stylish old lady interrogated the serving-muppet regarding the hot cross buns she and her invertebrate husband had on their trays:
Old lady Would you be able to toast our hot cross buns for us?
Serving Muppet No, I'm afraid we don't do that
Old Lady (in a doubtful, disappointed tone) Mmmmm
All of which is fairly innocuous... until you realise during this seemingly innocent exchange the creature had been SQUEEZING THE SAID HOT CROSS BUN with gay abandon. Muttering to itself, it then shamelessly removed said buns from said tray and replaced them, without even an apology or seeming SHRED of embarrassment, on the display. For once, gentle readers, I was absolutely gobsmacked - but regained my stride in a few seconds to mutter loudly 'Who will want those now they've been pawed over by you two?' Sadly, I was ignored, and the pair of them slithered off to a table adjacent to that at which Troll had been patiently ensconced with The Times.
Scampering over, I shrieked to Troll 'You'll never guess what I've just seen' and recounted every graphic detail of the the bun-molesting incident in my best I-Want-People-Nearby-To-Eavesdrop-On-This-Conversation tones. Which those sitting at the tables round about did... and these of course included the guilty bun-molesters themselves.
Now, had I been a guilty bun-molester, I would have been absolutely mortified to be treated in this manner. However, you have to remember these were OLD PEOPLE and did they thus show any sign of being embarrassed their filthy, selfish little actions had been spotted and were the subject of now-public discussion? Don't be daft - being OLD PEOPLE they obviously were holding firm to the belief their bus-pass gives them permanent membership of the Infallible Club and instead, they made it plain they felt *I* was the one at fault in exposing their nasty habits. Slurping down their tea, and making ready to slither off to continue their bun-molesting elsewhere they gave me a look which would have turned me to stone, had I not been innoculated by many years of educational torture at the hands of various Anglican nuns. I merrily wiggled my fingers at them with a coy 'tut tut'. Suffice it to say I don't think I'll be on their Christmas card list...
If that wasn't enough, Aquatic Passat II needed some juice for the Troll Twins epic journey to Dover tomorrow so therefore, an hour after the Waitrose Bun Incident, La Famille Angevin could be found at the local Shell garage; Troll doing what he is for and operating the diesel pump, and Baby Troll attempting to climb over the central console, gain the steering wheel and enact his current fantasy of being Lewis Hamilton, whilst I practised my thousand yard stare and clung on to the thought 'tomorrow they will be in France and I'll have some peace'. The fact there were a posse of bikers at the adjacent pump had sort of penetrated my cerebral cortex, but I wsan't really paying attention as they were of the middle-aged-serious-well-behaved-biker-out-for-a-sunny-afternoon's-ride sort of biker as opposed to the I'm-going-to-splat-myself-on-your-bonnet-after-trying-an-exhilerating-but-stupid-move-on-my-overpowered-wheels variety.
The peace was shattered when a shiny, leather-seat-ridden 'executive-mobile' pulled up behind the bikers and beeped them without apparent cause or reason. They weren't blocking the pumps, causing an obstruction or generally doing anything to warrant this behaviour so unsurprisingly the bikers gave their verdict to the driver in the time-honoured one-finger ritual and drove off, having just got back on their bikes from paying anyway. The shiny car stopped IN THE MIDDLE of the two pumps, effectively rendering one of them useless as far as other customers were concerned, and out got a creature which can only have been the result of some bizarre experiment in combining human and lizard DNA. Another old, well-heeled lady, in VERY EXPENSIVE drapey casuals, immobile bob, and immaculate maquillage, who had the air of greyhound-thin, I've-been-starving-myself-and-living-off-fags-and-hot-water-with-a-slice-of-lemon only a fashion model of 1960's vintage could hope to attain.
Again, was this vision at all embarrassed it had upset a group of people who were doing absolutely nothing wrong, and was selfishly taking up double the amount of amenities it required? Again, I regret to say, all it was capable of was staring down its aquline nose at me, slumped in the Aquatic Passat II next to it. I treated it to my best impression of my grandmother's famous 'I know you have dirty knickers on' look... with a flare of its nostrils Mrs Lizard then perused Troll. Who, not realising I'd already put the Angevin evil eye on it from the front seat, just stared back with his usual insouciance...
I've said it before and I'll say it again... how on EARTH can I be expected to wallop any semblance of manners and the notion you should treat your fellow human beings with respect and decency into Baby Troll when we have such glaring examples of the opposite behaviour - from those very people who have been infesting the world long enough to have become so good at the respect thing they can do it standing on their heads. For pity's sake OLD PEOPLE, sharpen up your act. You cannot sit on your skinny butts whinging about what a state the country is in and then go and do exactly what selfish, crappy thing you like, without thought to anybody else. Have some shame.
Troll is taking Baby Troll to the French manifestation of Chateau Angevin tomorrow to give me a much-needed break from the latter's general stroppiness and attitude. (Freedom, at least for five days, beckons heheh.) Naturally, being Troll, he can't be expected to feed himself adequately, much less serve up something which isn't stuffed to the gunwales with ingredients writ large on the Baby Troll Banned Substances List, so this afternoon found us taking on Waitrose in all it's Saturday glory. I'd already cooked some home-made ready meals for the pair of them, so this was really just stocking up on a few can't-do-withouts for the journey etc.
Unsurprisingly, given the demographic of the town and surrounding area, there were a fair number of older citizens trundling around, who, judging by their dress and general demeanour, were of the more well-heeled variety. None of your council-home inhabitants here, oh no... Most of them seemed to be behaving themselves for once, and I thought my blood pressure had escaped unscathed; BUT...
Baby Troll, as is his wont, demanded to go to the coffee shop and indulge in his favourite pasttime of sitting on a barstool scoffing a sandwich and pretending he isn't anything to do with the deeply uncool pair sitting on the table close by. As he hadn't been particularly appalling for the previous half an hour I didn't feel I could deny him on this occasion, so there we were, in the queue, clutching our paninis and Bottle Green fizzies WHEN...
... a reasonably well dressed and stylish old lady interrogated the serving-muppet regarding the hot cross buns she and her invertebrate husband had on their trays:
Old lady Would you be able to toast our hot cross buns for us?
Serving Muppet No, I'm afraid we don't do that
Old Lady (in a doubtful, disappointed tone) Mmmmm
All of which is fairly innocuous... until you realise during this seemingly innocent exchange the creature had been SQUEEZING THE SAID HOT CROSS BUN with gay abandon. Muttering to itself, it then shamelessly removed said buns from said tray and replaced them, without even an apology or seeming SHRED of embarrassment, on the display. For once, gentle readers, I was absolutely gobsmacked - but regained my stride in a few seconds to mutter loudly 'Who will want those now they've been pawed over by you two?' Sadly, I was ignored, and the pair of them slithered off to a table adjacent to that at which Troll had been patiently ensconced with The Times.
Scampering over, I shrieked to Troll 'You'll never guess what I've just seen' and recounted every graphic detail of the the bun-molesting incident in my best I-Want-People-Nearby-To-Eavesdrop-On-This-Conversation tones. Which those sitting at the tables round about did... and these of course included the guilty bun-molesters themselves.
Now, had I been a guilty bun-molester, I would have been absolutely mortified to be treated in this manner. However, you have to remember these were OLD PEOPLE and did they thus show any sign of being embarrassed their filthy, selfish little actions had been spotted and were the subject of now-public discussion? Don't be daft - being OLD PEOPLE they obviously were holding firm to the belief their bus-pass gives them permanent membership of the Infallible Club and instead, they made it plain they felt *I* was the one at fault in exposing their nasty habits. Slurping down their tea, and making ready to slither off to continue their bun-molesting elsewhere they gave me a look which would have turned me to stone, had I not been innoculated by many years of educational torture at the hands of various Anglican nuns. I merrily wiggled my fingers at them with a coy 'tut tut'. Suffice it to say I don't think I'll be on their Christmas card list...
If that wasn't enough, Aquatic Passat II needed some juice for the Troll Twins epic journey to Dover tomorrow so therefore, an hour after the Waitrose Bun Incident, La Famille Angevin could be found at the local Shell garage; Troll doing what he is for and operating the diesel pump, and Baby Troll attempting to climb over the central console, gain the steering wheel and enact his current fantasy of being Lewis Hamilton, whilst I practised my thousand yard stare and clung on to the thought 'tomorrow they will be in France and I'll have some peace'. The fact there were a posse of bikers at the adjacent pump had sort of penetrated my cerebral cortex, but I wsan't really paying attention as they were of the middle-aged-serious-well-behaved-biker-out-for-a-sunny-afternoon's-ride sort of biker as opposed to the I'm-going-to-splat-myself-on-your-bonnet-after-trying-an-exhilerating-but-stupid-move-on-my-overpowered-wheels variety.
The peace was shattered when a shiny, leather-seat-ridden 'executive-mobile' pulled up behind the bikers and beeped them without apparent cause or reason. They weren't blocking the pumps, causing an obstruction or generally doing anything to warrant this behaviour so unsurprisingly the bikers gave their verdict to the driver in the time-honoured one-finger ritual and drove off, having just got back on their bikes from paying anyway. The shiny car stopped IN THE MIDDLE of the two pumps, effectively rendering one of them useless as far as other customers were concerned, and out got a creature which can only have been the result of some bizarre experiment in combining human and lizard DNA. Another old, well-heeled lady, in VERY EXPENSIVE drapey casuals, immobile bob, and immaculate maquillage, who had the air of greyhound-thin, I've-been-starving-myself-and-living-off-fags-and-hot-water-with-a-slice-of-lemon only a fashion model of 1960's vintage could hope to attain.
Again, was this vision at all embarrassed it had upset a group of people who were doing absolutely nothing wrong, and was selfishly taking up double the amount of amenities it required? Again, I regret to say, all it was capable of was staring down its aquline nose at me, slumped in the Aquatic Passat II next to it. I treated it to my best impression of my grandmother's famous 'I know you have dirty knickers on' look... with a flare of its nostrils Mrs Lizard then perused Troll. Who, not realising I'd already put the Angevin evil eye on it from the front seat, just stared back with his usual insouciance...
I've said it before and I'll say it again... how on EARTH can I be expected to wallop any semblance of manners and the notion you should treat your fellow human beings with respect and decency into Baby Troll when we have such glaring examples of the opposite behaviour - from those very people who have been infesting the world long enough to have become so good at the respect thing they can do it standing on their heads. For pity's sake OLD PEOPLE, sharpen up your act. You cannot sit on your skinny butts whinging about what a state the country is in and then go and do exactly what selfish, crappy thing you like, without thought to anybody else. Have some shame.
Friday, 10 April 2009
Blog break...
Regular readers of this considerably-younger-and-female homage a Victor Meldrew, such as they are, will note there hasn't been a new post for a few months. This is for a variety of reasons, some of them significant, some of them completely trivial, which I lack the inclination, time and energy to bore you with here. Doubtless some of the events will crop up in subsequent posts, but that depends on what surfaces for me to rant about in the future. Suffice it to say, I'm back, ready to have a strop about whatever the latest bit of asinine crap to cross my path turns out to be... and let's face it, there's an awful lot around on which I could base a tantrum just now....
However, it's Good Friday, I have some decent food and a bottle of vino waiting for me.... normal service will resume later....
However, it's Good Friday, I have some decent food and a bottle of vino waiting for me.... normal service will resume later....
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