tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63347021314882852862024-03-13T22:04:33.339+00:00MootthingsMOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-12680320744406103782015-04-06T22:31:00.001+01:002015-04-06T22:31:46.903+01:00What time is it, Mr Wolf?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
These days I don't seem to have time for anything which is confusing,
because I apparently do less of everything than I used to. I work
part-time not full-time, I no longer attend a couple choir rehearsals a
week, I don't sit on any committees, I don't go to any clubs or
societies, or spend long hours on the allotment or in the garden. I'm
not attempting to learn any foreign languages. I seldom watch tv, hardly
ever go to the cinema, practically never go out with friends or to the
pub. From producing one or two knitted items a month I have gone to one
or two a year. I don't sew, play my guitar, go to the gym, or do any of
the other things that used to fill my evenings six or seven years ago. I
hardly <i>ever</i> blog.<br />
<br />
In spite of this I no longer
have any time at all to do anything. My children have eaten it. They
seem to have the same sort of effect on time that blackholes have on
matter, sucking it all in and making it vanish without trace. Somehow
they enable me to spend my entire day running from pillar to post
without ever actually achieving anything: they get us out of bed at the
crack of dawn on Saturday morning, while simulaneously rendering it
impossible to leave the house before 11.<br />
<br />
Much of this
is just down to the fact that it takes far less effort to keep a
household of two adults - both of whom are quite capable of looking
after themselves - on the road, than it does a family of four.
Especially when two of the four essentially represent a fifth column
busily working away to undermine the best efforts of the rest. But at
least in part it seems to relate to the fact that small children (or at
least <i>my</i> small children) seem to find "time" as a concept extraordinarily difficult to grasp.<br />
<br />
I
don't mean telling the time, though that is also proving an uphill
struggle. But my kids seem to live almost entirely in the present, which
is perhaps hardly surprising, since they haven't really been around all
that long. A lot of my clothes are considerably older than either of
them.<br />
<br />
As regards historical time, the boys have two
main categories: "before I was born" (which is for anything you might
see a photo of, in which mummy and daddy look broadly recognisable), and
"the olden days" (which is for everything else - grandparents, Romans,
dinosaurs, the Big Bang...). Added to this is a sub-category of "when
you were little" which floats from one to the other of the main
divisions depending on what is being discussed. Telling them that I did
tap-dancing as a child makes them concerned that they would have
suffered from bouncing around inside my tummy (since in this instance
"before they were born" is understood as "immediately before").
Alternatively, saying that no one had mobile-phones when I was little is
as likely as not to result in them assuming we also didn't have
electricity, wheeled vehicles, or fire.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCcgp-W3Rs9n0t_zUaGDnVcUvYduhvGaxH_9p5msU8iLDBqw4NeMMxBhHZ-a8qAXxT9DNcYRsztVsTpJA6_wnMxv_1AJHa-Vfk0_N-6wc6TmTkdntH5gGaPo2lZnj6FCUD83PaX23e_hk/s1600/IMG_20150406_213946420.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCcgp-W3Rs9n0t_zUaGDnVcUvYduhvGaxH_9p5msU8iLDBqw4NeMMxBhHZ-a8qAXxT9DNcYRsztVsTpJA6_wnMxv_1AJHa-Vfk0_N-6wc6TmTkdntH5gGaPo2lZnj6FCUD83PaX23e_hk/s1600/IMG_20150406_213946420.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>Anyone over about
8 is ancient to them. Today R showed me a label he had peeled off
something or other bearing a serial number 41009 and said to me, "Is
that what number [i.e. age] you are?" Some days it does feel like it.<br />
<br />
In
an attempt to give P some historical perspective I recently got him to
help me make a time line with a ball of string. We carefully marked off
various events (the birth of members of the immediate family and a few
historical events/periods he has touched on a school - World War I, the
Great Fire of London, Viking invasions, etc.) using a scale of 1cm to
the year, as far back as birth of Christ and then spread it out down the
road to see how they related to one another. It was quite a fun
project, but on the whole I think P was less impressed by the scale of
historical time than he was by the fact that I let him use the
sellotape*.<br />
<br />
The other side of this coin is that
they have no grasp of the passing of time at a more immediate level
either. If they want to do/have something they want it now, and any
delay is unacceptable. And adults' priorities are a closed book. Whatever
you are doing, however essential, you must stop and do what they want.
Ask them to wait two minutes and you might as well have said a week. So
what if you're cooking? Leave it to burn and come and mend my lego.
Who cares if you're up a ladder trying to mend the light? Read me a
book. What's so urgent about going to the loo, anyway? Besides you're
just sitting there, surely you can peel my tangerine.<br />
<br />
But
if I say we need to get ready to go out in five minutes and then go to
collect the coats and shoes, I will invariably
come back to find they have got the marble run or the paints out,
because five minutes is <i>ages</i> and plenty of time to do something else, no need to rush. <br />
<br />
Time-words
have proven the most difficult vocabulary of all for the boys to grasp.
We spent the longest time patiently trying to explain to both of them
that "tomorrow" is a word meaning "the day after today", each time
thinking they had got it, and then waking up yet again to the same
question: "Is it tomorrow today, then?" "Yesterday" means "any time in
living memory": "Do you remember yesterday when we went to the beach?"
"That wasn't yesterday, it was last year." "No, the other yesterday".
The distinction between six weeks and six months is lost on them. Tell
them we are going on holiday in August and they start packing
immediately: tell them we are leaving to catch a train in ten minutes
and they launch into a complex game involving the construction of a den
made of all their bedding and most of the sofa.<br />
<br />
The net
result of all this is that living in our house at the moment often
feels like you've entered some sort of time warp. Jobs which ought to
take a few minutes - loading the washing machine, writing a couple of
birthday cards, a bit of washing up - can last anything up to two hours
by the time all the distractions and interuptions are accounted for, and
every attempt to leave the house is a battle which leaves me feeling
all of my 41009 years. I know I shouldn't complain. As a great many very
well meaning, and completely infuriating people have told me, time
flies by before you know it, and no doubt I should be relishing these
years.<br />
<br />
But I still find myself perpetually wondering,
"How can I find the time...to clean the bathroom; to vacuum the floor;
to make tomorrow's dinner because I'll be working all day; to get to the
shops for the birthday present, because the party's on Saturday
morning; to get to the allotment and plant the potatoes; to read that
book I borrowed six months ago, but haven't opened". The worst thing is
that a lot of the things that I don't have time for are the ones the
boys enjoy the most - the playdoh, the painting, the snuggling up on the
sofa with a book - but it is impossible to impress on them, "You need to let me get
on with cooking the dinner now, because when that's done I'll have time
to play, and it will take two hours to cook, and if I don't do it now, you will be hungry later". They don't
understand how time works, and they don't understand that the things that have to be done have to be done when they have to be done. So when I complain, "I don't know how I'll find the time", R says, "It's easy - just look at your watch".<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*
Sellotape is a closely controlled substance in our house, since left to
their own devices the boys sent to use it to mummify themselves, or
more often one another.</span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-67020810673700568542015-01-31T23:18:00.000+00:002015-01-31T23:18:33.428+00:00Knight time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last May, for his fifth birthday, P had a big Viking party, for which we hired a hall and made cardboard Viking ships as props, and made the boys shields and Viking costumes, and gave the guests Danegeld to go away at the end, and generally got into the spirit of the thing, which was all enormous fun for people who like making daft things out of cardboard and don't have much of a social life to encumber their evenings anyway.<br />
<br />
But then we realised we'd set a precedent. Ever since R has been saying, "For my birthday...this, for my birthday...that", and planning what he was going to have. However R's birthday falls immediately after Christmas and time, energy, and enthusiasm for throwing a big bash tend to be in shorter supply at that time of year. Nevertheless it seemed a bit unfair to say he couldn't have a big party just because his birthday is when it is (a fact which is, after all, more our fault than his), so we eventually pulled ourselves together and booked the hall for a belated birthday party at the end of the month, sent out the invitations, and set about making things for a "knights" party.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLXYtahvCTgtDhuCF2FGIlREisrGhIy_LpSzhKapuyTa730S0KNKxPPXobm_0sclymvhj4bBmgHiuIH-jw6SLhfcImvbZwTYpj4vMerxoJg2vdTvs4D3nVNnGMB0uHexvSNz0b0yJ9bI/s1600/IMG_20150130_143405007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLXYtahvCTgtDhuCF2FGIlREisrGhIy_LpSzhKapuyTa730S0KNKxPPXobm_0sclymvhj4bBmgHiuIH-jw6SLhfcImvbZwTYpj4vMerxoJg2vdTvs4D3nVNnGMB0uHexvSNz0b0yJ9bI/s1600/IMG_20150130_143405007.jpg" height="320" width="178" /></a>First there were the pipe-lagging horses, and their insulation-tape bridles. The ears were tricky, since changing the size and angle by only a few millimetres could make what was clearly a horse immediately change into a donkey or even worse a cow, but once we we got the general pattern sorted these were fairly straight-forward to construct.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUMvbx9Yg4tYwKvLnzWqWWmDHhOPUiefbYN_u5TiMP5dqFlZGdWM3GbEs56So80MC3CjYeyb1xP6K8B7QxVZqRmHxW22-6Fu7uEvTLyrHhqYWWXlC98IW4Y_ueAkz6QJyEOz7XEir3Js/s1600/IMG_20150128_105003208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUMvbx9Yg4tYwKvLnzWqWWmDHhOPUiefbYN_u5TiMP5dqFlZGdWM3GbEs56So80MC3CjYeyb1xP6K8B7QxVZqRmHxW22-6Fu7uEvTLyrHhqYWWXlC98IW4Y_ueAkz6QJyEOz7XEir3Js/s1600/IMG_20150128_105003208.jpg" height="178" width="320" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCDGDNJEEa0vvtM9ewYYd2bdfTsq2YLmkurugIxjiN5xDwWh_UvhyWil9XTiLOWgNDW_YE2JMonPmTFOQ-LHBsxvTfdvYA37fgGj9pKBuIzn5v_qzG3zKDcVMYRE7JIJC7vwb2CLKXZs/s1600/IMG_20150130_234922665_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCDGDNJEEa0vvtM9ewYYd2bdfTsq2YLmkurugIxjiN5xDwWh_UvhyWil9XTiLOWgNDW_YE2JMonPmTFOQ-LHBsxvTfdvYA37fgGj9pKBuIzn5v_qzG3zKDcVMYRE7JIJC7vwb2CLKXZs/s1600/IMG_20150130_234922665_HDR.jpg" height="178" width="320" /></a>Then there were the party bags. I looked online and found some castle-shaped party bags but a glance at the price convinced us that paying that amount for a paper bag was a sure sign of idiocy, so we resolved to make them ourselves. <i>Little Dorrit </i>turned out to be pretty much exactly the right size to be half-wrapped in silver paper for the bags, but the doors and windows were fiddly to cut and we spent several nights after work in the week before the party cutting and sticking. They worked out fairly well in the end, though, and we found some pencils which gave them all a flag to fly from the crenellations in a pleasing sort of way.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOaqh2nm4TMdU00cA7poM3h96i3gDex-Z_1mqNL8yGlVcG4pELDvWUThlucqsBaqX-RYdU-9sLVtLVgW7h2-qRh9y7DvqFxhGfxsw-InMVT1mt45hZzX8DE8tALKcqu8nKVavZ8FaKE0/s1600/IMG_20150131_083217862.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOaqh2nm4TMdU00cA7poM3h96i3gDex-Z_1mqNL8yGlVcG4pELDvWUThlucqsBaqX-RYdU-9sLVtLVgW7h2-qRh9y7DvqFxhGfxsw-InMVT1mt45hZzX8DE8tALKcqu8nKVavZ8FaKE0/s1600/IMG_20150131_083217862.jpg" height="178" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
Finally there was the "dragon" pinata. R was determined that he was going to have a dragon to vanquish as P had had one the year before and clearly the idea of being invited to beat the **** out of something and getting showered with sweets as a reward is every little boy's dream. This time, though, we undertook to build one from scratch having attempted, with only moderate success, to convert a shop-bought donkey pinata last time. The donkey-dragon looked ok to begin with, but although its add-on wings and tail were dislodged after the first few blows, the donkey itself proved to be infinitely sturdier. Even with ten or more 5-year-old Vikings hacking at it with plastic swords and axes for a full fifteen minutes it refused so much as to dent. Even had they been fully grown Vikings with real axes I reckon it might have taken a while. Ultimately it had to be disembowelled by hand.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSd-ue0ZY9uRGB2kvHrQ1kBun3TcBqt6KTBlrZnCNbJrpZh96ncA14MmCkLvTsFGgMsbC4Hl2-OmSGgV4ihJ-16cfdUbDejRnldGFriRC0gJDKKQURrTmwT2ky0lSFqwD0Vg3IypvlhSU/s1600/IMG_20150131_083258760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSd-ue0ZY9uRGB2kvHrQ1kBun3TcBqt6KTBlrZnCNbJrpZh96ncA14MmCkLvTsFGgMsbC4Hl2-OmSGgV4ihJ-16cfdUbDejRnldGFriRC0gJDKKQURrTmwT2ky0lSFqwD0Vg3IypvlhSU/s1600/IMG_20150131_083258760.jpg" height="320" width="176" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLxfWgGdl_M5DB-v8x1PCC2LKRnCDOWPQFGRiy0s26o0nJ2E64tYcfmGP2jkZmi6RXkJAbLadEYmneQ7j75IEDVghK1aghNRTQT-xx6aZmNq8ZM95LvwMkiFuD0JWEJ2dPQV1J1nvAjs/s1600/IMG_20150131_142342478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLxfWgGdl_M5DB-v8x1PCC2LKRnCDOWPQFGRiy0s26o0nJ2E64tYcfmGP2jkZmi6RXkJAbLadEYmneQ7j75IEDVghK1aghNRTQT-xx6aZmNq8ZM95LvwMkiFuD0JWEJ2dPQV1J1nvAjs/s1600/IMG_20150131_142342478.jpg" height="320" width="178" /></a>For our version we used a water bottle cut in half and wedged back together in the hope that a good whack in the right place would cause it to spring apart. In this respect it worked fairly well, but building a dragon round a water-bottle is no mean feat. After four hours of faffing and fiddling with bits of foam, double-sided sticky tape and tissue paper, I managed to produce something which, while possibly a "wyrm", certainly wouldn't have given St George, Beowulf, or even Bilbo Baggins a sleepless night. Far from a fearsome fire-breathing serpent it looked like a cheerful, yappy little sausage-dragon. Over night its head fell off and had to be done again in a tearing rush on the morning of the party. The boys named it Errol Greengrass and took it off to watch Scooby-Doo. Didn't stop them hacking it to pieces with great glee in the end, though.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqcBrW-I5amHP1M22WGOqGDPtNYrtPLSiz_L2xlntDRLWbXCnJWI8kTMAUapz_1YL8SuhBgZmkBmWyW6L0olDN_Ixuzl4OJqG8OvwY6x5kyI7r4qu8p0Kvg5LptNPOGEpf-C3h8AlQ38/s1600/IMG_20150130_232742511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqcBrW-I5amHP1M22WGOqGDPtNYrtPLSiz_L2xlntDRLWbXCnJWI8kTMAUapz_1YL8SuhBgZmkBmWyW6L0olDN_Ixuzl4OJqG8OvwY6x5kyI7r4qu8p0Kvg5LptNPOGEpf-C3h8AlQ38/s1600/IMG_20150130_232742511.jpg" height="320" width="178" /></a><br />
Still, in spite of having had to stay up until 1am baking and icing cakes, stuffing party bags, and putting together cardboard shields and paper crowns for small people to decorate, the party went off well in the end. And now I get to spend my first non-cardboard infested evening in a week drinking wine and wondering what P is planning for his next birthday, and whether three and a half months is long enough to prepare.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxL4sBTgZpq4n9_N3tfNwloO0laWBt2LTDeaNaGmlygKccFDif-ZcQEBWVXz-LLuwU7m5lJnIa95kIQRNMt4EvDstnIXIM9AtTSS4Z1BKQmgxbmZChIOMLGlIFOlJBGmNl2YDLHWN3d9E/s1600/IMG_20150131_094137142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxL4sBTgZpq4n9_N3tfNwloO0laWBt2LTDeaNaGmlygKccFDif-ZcQEBWVXz-LLuwU7m5lJnIa95kIQRNMt4EvDstnIXIM9AtTSS4Z1BKQmgxbmZChIOMLGlIFOlJBGmNl2YDLHWN3d9E/s1600/IMG_20150131_094137142.jpg" height="172" width="320" /></a><br />
<br /></div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-QfFHmp3QbZw%2FVM1cVCuti3I%2FAAAAAAAABp8%2F56XvR31rhJs%2Fs1600%2FIMG_20150131_094137142.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxL4sBTgZpq4n9_N3tfNwloO0laWBt2LTDeaNaGmlygKccFDif-ZcQEBWVXz-LLuwU7m5lJnIa95kIQRNMt4EvDstnIXIM9AtTSS4Z1BKQmgxbmZChIOMLGlIFOlJBGmNl2YDLHWN3d9E/s1600/IMG_20150131_094137142.jpg" -->MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-70841328476097567902014-11-12T22:41:00.002+00:002014-11-12T22:41:40.435+00:00Boxed in<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyd1d3QyK14fI-u8M4skWzI0LBDKowxQFyBj0dtE6P9iBMuuCx4Ci86uk9-Ms8gXBKwjino95BFiNmC172TrO5VTEptgKRGqM5I8C14ieQOxxLpC9H482Ex0y88D_yI4ZsFnHTWRRqubk/s1600/image-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyd1d3QyK14fI-u8M4skWzI0LBDKowxQFyBj0dtE6P9iBMuuCx4Ci86uk9-Ms8gXBKwjino95BFiNmC172TrO5VTEptgKRGqM5I8C14ieQOxxLpC9H482Ex0y88D_yI4ZsFnHTWRRqubk/s320/image-3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Our house is full of toys and I'm sure the boys already have twice as many as my three siblings and I had throughout our whole combined childhoods. But despite this both children seem to adhere firmly to the belief that no toy, however expensive, can compare with a really good cardboard box. And the bigger the box, the better.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz6m7ZXL1XK2PHPmT7tGcNT7AFQ8fR9W0hGNUclNeiAP1O2LCokjGP8QmD33TwriO8VcP36V2J8ODsdoglh0e6hoR92JE-qoWGDw57En6trIjSCXeHp_6fbqSDuhXFuhQ8K10ZpniYD-0/s1600/2012-05-19+09.59.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz6m7ZXL1XK2PHPmT7tGcNT7AFQ8fR9W0hGNUclNeiAP1O2LCokjGP8QmD33TwriO8VcP36V2J8ODsdoglh0e6hoR92JE-qoWGDw57En6trIjSCXeHp_6fbqSDuhXFuhQ8K10ZpniYD-0/s320/2012-05-19+09.59.55.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Over the last five or so years we have seen quite a few cardboard boxes come and go. Some of them we have gone to some lengths to customise while others have been left as nature intended.<br />
<br />
All have given untold pleasure to the children (a fair amount to us too, if only by keeping them occupied).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We recently reached something of a box zenith with the arrival of a particularly large, complex, and robust example, designed in its original incarnation to transport a small tree.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxeTfjS7RReUk1klPLBynRZ3-2L7pW1wICeG0a5UDlQmN9z0yQIATOGMPck4bW1zxkTH4ha0nzDoeNvq2AowWdU6jKtnR6pwRG1Z78EFV5dM6RVhyphenhyphen0iWyyS3u5xDEB4p4BX1xECwwbBM/s1600/IMG_20140705_180038858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxeTfjS7RReUk1klPLBynRZ3-2L7pW1wICeG0a5UDlQmN9z0yQIATOGMPck4bW1zxkTH4ha0nzDoeNvq2AowWdU6jKtnR6pwRG1Z78EFV5dM6RVhyphenhyphen0iWyyS3u5xDEB4p4BX1xECwwbBM/s320/IMG_20140705_180038858.jpg" width="178" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxFvwmrOV7oN2Y8pokFGYaLG6Fzx2J7rOkKilljvu1bJRA9yRrb45YLj2uLlPsx3bt48LEYSAHCCeGVI-IiOeVJ33XK9AYKNND2ij4n602veVmvrElNiva0AspO5zc61OHyCdYvw3ELM/s1600/IMG_20140705_181234682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxFvwmrOV7oN2Y8pokFGYaLG6Fzx2J7rOkKilljvu1bJRA9yRrb45YLj2uLlPsx3bt48LEYSAHCCeGVI-IiOeVJ33XK9AYKNND2ij4n602veVmvrElNiva0AspO5zc61OHyCdYvw3ELM/s320/IMG_20140705_181234682.jpg" width="178" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1w91MYoA0d09NLiT77RTgVBvSowLS9OQ8WRpZkRTT8x4qSiW26_KEchr6I6M-bnnr8PgohWU4CcZKxHiVJGtn2wkR8pW85kjNgLTXxdlnyLPZxRZ6xqM09p7qMWebNQ9H8JNYSJp1Kk/s1600/IMG_20140705_180228820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1w91MYoA0d09NLiT77RTgVBvSowLS9OQ8WRpZkRTT8x4qSiW26_KEchr6I6M-bnnr8PgohWU4CcZKxHiVJGtn2wkR8pW85kjNgLTXxdlnyLPZxRZ6xqM09p7qMWebNQ9H8JNYSJp1Kk/s320/IMG_20140705_180228820.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Even while it still had the plant in it the boys had earmarked it as a rocket, and so it was duly transformed with a coat of silver paint and a few other bits and pieces. Admittedly, it was a somewhat unconventional rocket in that it apparently had the engine in the nose, but this allowed for a great many games in which one person was the stranded astronaut, and the other the interstellar equivalent of the RAC, so we let that pass.<br />
<br />
Eventually particularly difficult re-entry caused irreparable damage to the nose-cone which had to be relegated to its former occupation of plant pot. But in removing the offending object a remarkable feature of the box became apparent: namely that it was not one, but two boxes, one inside the other.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VBLcP-QypZ4Y4t8x6GGyUrYV2uJE1AGNUZGgWbsIQh5ItymXC5IHL_iXLizOGaftkb50onYTFCTlutIF_U_5KGIjD8jwRsJ3rE84zgnTSQDzPWv3q6c-1DI8d7P6YZHotHXJmLz4uSk/s1600/1660687_10152665622503223_7820344793230563319_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VBLcP-QypZ4Y4t8x6GGyUrYV2uJE1AGNUZGgWbsIQh5ItymXC5IHL_iXLizOGaftkb50onYTFCTlutIF_U_5KGIjD8jwRsJ3rE84zgnTSQDzPWv3q6c-1DI8d7P6YZHotHXJmLz4uSk/s320/1660687_10152665622503223_7820344793230563319_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
A short while later all space travel had been abandoned in favour of a brief jaunt to the Middle Ages. The box had become a castle and the boys were happily besieging one another in the corner of the living room while I rushed about removing anything breakable from the range of their rubber swords and cushion-flinging siege engines. And, for a while, a good time was had by all. Well, by them, at any rate.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8x6a00ZDL0oC18xLnD2CffFV2Mnd8-haB_rqlZSRZ006W97sbnLseWaxfBOk1R8QcryUmLhEw8zjO7SZq-rrhjycz-Z2GMCDc2k9W1taq_66C9XzVJdWTqEjjGJxYdPnqxFm3cF_GSGQ/s1600/IMG_20141019_081700249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8x6a00ZDL0oC18xLnD2CffFV2Mnd8-haB_rqlZSRZ006W97sbnLseWaxfBOk1R8QcryUmLhEw8zjO7SZq-rrhjycz-Z2GMCDc2k9W1taq_66C9XzVJdWTqEjjGJxYdPnqxFm3cF_GSGQ/s320/IMG_20141019_081700249.jpg" width="178" /></a>Then there was a hiatus. As with so many Norman castles the structure was abandoned and started to fall into disrepair. Parts of it were pillaged and carried off to make other things or became buried under the paraphernalia of day-to-day living and got forgotten.<br />
<br />
Until one day R, happening upon the one remaining tower, picked it up and put it on his head upside down, and so Boxbot was born. Owing to the unfortunate placing of an arched window from its previous incarnation, Boxbot originally appeared to be the only robot ever created with pubic hair, but the application of a bit of masking tape and some coloured foam took care of that. And so for a while the box once more assumed its rightful place as favourite toy.<br />
<br />
Now, however, I think its reign is well and truly over and come Friday Boxbot will be going to the great green recycling bin where so many have gone before. But we can't claim we haven't had our money's worth.<br />
<br />
And anyway, it's nearly Christmas. I expect there'll be a new box along any day.</div>
MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-46991758079734203252014-09-08T21:37:00.000+01:002014-09-08T21:37:58.260+01:00Pussy cat, pussy cat.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This year we decided we would bite the bullet and sacrifice our summer holiday in favour of a fully-functioning bathroom. However, we were not condemned to spend the whole of the summer holidays at home after all, because my brother handily suggested that we go and house-sit for them in August while he and his family were away visiting my sister in Australia.<br />
<br />
My brother's house is in a tiny and extremely picturesque Leicestershire village, and is all the things ours isn't. It must have started life as a fairly standard two-up/two-down Edwardian farm cottage, but an extensive refurb and extension-cum-loft-conversion shortly before he and his wife bought it has turned what was no doubt originally the second bedroom into a palatial en suite, while also providing two more good-size bedrooms and a box-room, and downstairs creating the sort of open-plan kitchen-dining room I generally only see while browsing longingly through expensive tile catalogues. All in all, going to stay there for a week is rather like booking a very expensive country holiday cottage, the main difference being that it isn't expensive, and that unlike the majority of the holiday cottages I've stayed in, it has a well equipped kitchen with useful things like stock-cubes and oil in the cupboards.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQaVXfT18A4UlRX46ImwzVPGM4TRJsgK8_RBth3EY4ERnblfTTRJ0SLWY26xvOjo5Vb1frBXDvg1GeyXb_Q0hz5nSryG-2oxjRr2WtPLVum4GLzEzRLC4yVcRgLSMwTEYaRCsvtsmKFc/s1600/IMG_20140829_094606579.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQaVXfT18A4UlRX46ImwzVPGM4TRJsgK8_RBth3EY4ERnblfTTRJ0SLWY26xvOjo5Vb1frBXDvg1GeyXb_Q0hz5nSryG-2oxjRr2WtPLVum4GLzEzRLC4yVcRgLSMwTEYaRCsvtsmKFc/s1600/IMG_20140829_094606579.jpg" height="222" width="400" /></a></div>
Unlike a holiday cottage, where you might find a chocolate on your pillow when you arrive, or a box of speciality tea in the kitchen, our welcome gift turned out to be a dead field-mouse, because the house also has a resident cat, that being the main reason we were asked to go and stay in the first place. Ada (whose name, I think, is in honour of Ada Lovelace, the computer pioneer, rather than being, as the boys insist, an abbreviated version of Darth Vader) is a Siberian Forest Cat. Apart from the mice* she is not particularly hard work and the boys loved her. Unlike my mum's cat Heidi (who lives up to her name), Ada is very affectionate, loves to be stroked, and is still young enough also to enjoy tearing about the place chasing bits of string.<br />
<br />
So we had a thoroughly enjoyable time going for day trips and keeping Ada company. But the trip has now left me with something of a dilemma, because the boys are now even more desperate than before to have a pet, and I am still really not sure I want one.<br />
<br />
Growing up we always had pets - cats in particular - and I know I loved them dearly and they were part of a very happy childhood. Childhood nostalgia reminds me of the times I and my siblings spent playing with our cat, and stroking him while he purred like a band-saw, and the feeling of waking up with him curled up on the end of the bed in the winter when it was cold (we didn't have central heating, so a warm furry hot-water bottle was always welcome). Or the fun we had bathing the guinea pigs and watching them run about in the garden. And I wonder whether it's fair to deprive the boys of that.<br />
<br />
Then I remember all the times that the cat brought in a rabbit or a bird or a mouse, disemboweled it in the back room and then regurgitated the semi-digested remains under the sofa. And the fleas, and the midnight fighting with other cats, and the endless cleaning out of litter-trays and guinea-pig cages. And the time the guinea pigs got scabies. And the fact that having started with two guinea-pigs who were both definitely female, we eventually ended up with twenty-seven...and I think, no, not just now. In a few years, when the boys are a bit older. But perhaps I <i>am</i> being mean...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*We did have one three-mouse evening. On that occasion all the "presents" were well and truly alive and we spent a good while shifting furniture trying to recapture them and throwing them out the front door, only to have Ada go straight round and bring them back in through the cat-flap.</span></div>
MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-62660689022120851252014-08-04T21:42:00.000+01:002014-08-04T21:42:33.855+01:00Seeing red.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Around the end of term I was chatting with the mums of some of P's school friends and two of them expressed a passing interest in perhaps having an allotment like ours. So, given that I was going to be passing by the council offices the following day, I offered to pop in and see whether there were any free. This I duly did, and discovered that there was indeed one up for grabs, and in fact it was in a prime location right next to the water trough. There are only two water troughs on our site, and no hosepipes allowed, so unless you really enjoy lugging watering cans about the place, this is a definite plus. However, I also discovered that neither of the ladies in question was entitled to rent it, since both live just the wrong side of the parish boundary.<br />
<br />
So, now we have <i>two</i> allotments... Well, it seemed a shame to pass up the chance of such a prime piece of real estate.<br />
<br />
The new one not only "benefits" (as the estate agents say) from a superior watering location (especially useful from the point of view of keeping an eye on small boys, since they inevitably gravitate straight to the water trough whenever we spend any time at the allotment and it's better if we can see what they're up to), it was also in cultivation until relatively recently, so the soil is pretty workable, and along with various ornamental plants it has a number of well-established fruit bushes. So far we have identified about 6 blackcurrant bushes, 3 or 4 raspberry canes, a gooseberry, a whitecurrant and a redcurrant.<br />
<br />
We were already too late for the majority of these since, being in a sunnier position than the bushes on our original allotment, they had ripened earlier and were mostly past their best by the time we took over. All except that is for the redcurrant which was in full flush. Redcurrants are a bit of a new one on me - I've never really had much to do with them before - but we could hardly just ignore them sitting there glowing in the sun, so we picked a kg or so and took them home. I never really have much use for redcurrant jelly, but a bit of googling turned up a recipe for Swedish <span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.swedishfood.com/swedish-drink-recipes/180-redcurrant-cordial" target="_blank">Vinbärssaft</a> </span>or redcurrant cordial, so we used some to make that and bunged the rest in the freezer. And very nice it is too - I've only tried it with water so far, but I can't help thinking that it might be even more palatable with something like Prosecco. And it is an absolutely stunning colour.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZfqDeL_zLpbnJsojSYZ2je-qbliWZqVUxtHzs4h0Pc-P0ZuJ2MM172pBGSpsGkKcSlgUd3Muoqc_XONThGP95r9vn4IfcLiJwbBupxNpHXEky-J-nrgMtnKZRUuF_JGbeNT37r6N2gbM/s1600/IMG_20140804_164026474.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZfqDeL_zLpbnJsojSYZ2je-qbliWZqVUxtHzs4h0Pc-P0ZuJ2MM172pBGSpsGkKcSlgUd3Muoqc_XONThGP95r9vn4IfcLiJwbBupxNpHXEky-J-nrgMtnKZRUuF_JGbeNT37r6N2gbM/s1600/IMG_20140804_164026474.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AWXHeSu4YFre_C3qqA3YCtfWgfzrMZuXfHWX8XlQRAF4np1V4nHvjnDw6NaKd8LlKHNvtxBNhlsMVTA9ALnh_KrH4csJSmDbSJ_pbUyjBURuzX2hheg_gnn0-eqzPCvyUrQI2lFNefM/s1600/IMG_20140730_171416209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AWXHeSu4YFre_C3qqA3YCtfWgfzrMZuXfHWX8XlQRAF4np1V4nHvjnDw6NaKd8LlKHNvtxBNhlsMVTA9ALnh_KrH4csJSmDbSJ_pbUyjBURuzX2hheg_gnn0-eqzPCvyUrQI2lFNefM/s1600/IMG_20140730_171416209.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA7yWV-5XdKXR4W8weTtLoa1TdDn-fgb4uvIV1N7jpujuVvl1Trn5Lz6atwl4bVOHyYQY1r7ToeYTgYWfbOIwTmkFt3HStAk1wYSJ9uq5cPfJvAxZXvWjzFCnFKi5KMj4KQCtUo7uufOA/s1600/IMG_20140804_163932631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA7yWV-5XdKXR4W8weTtLoa1TdDn-fgb4uvIV1N7jpujuVvl1Trn5Lz6atwl4bVOHyYQY1r7ToeYTgYWfbOIwTmkFt3HStAk1wYSJ9uq5cPfJvAxZXvWjzFCnFKi5KMj4KQCtUo7uufOA/s1600/IMG_20140804_163932631.jpg" height="320" width="183" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-79474452976764137382014-02-19T22:15:00.001+00:002014-02-19T22:17:17.681+00:00Misnomer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When my brother and sister-in-law announced they were expecting last year I decided to make them the <a href="http://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/97686866/crochet-pattern-owl-obsession-a-colorful" target="_blank">Owl Obsession</a> blanket, by Marken, but because they didn't plan to find out the sex of the baby, and didn't have any set nursery colour-scheme or anything, I planned to go for a fairly neutral theme. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">However, I drew a blank finding the sort of thing I had in mind in the local knitting shops. The original pattern uses a self-striping yarn for the owls, but I couldn't find anything suitable in the sort of colours I had in mind (soft browns and greys). Eventually I opted to go with Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Aran in a fairly neutral palette of brown, yellow, blue, and cream. I bought what I imagined would be enough yarn, and set to work, putting my new project up on Ravelry and, originally enough, calling it <i>It's a Hoot.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was wrong on all counts. There wasn't nearly enough yarn and it certainly wasn't a hoot. <i>Chapter of Disasters </i>would have been nearer the mark.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQG7GVKamyUYwzrDX23AvoxMOEcL5GKOW62XOoq8NOEd-n6-zrJjL7D6km5eOf5i1BzJBbeAJSvwO9sgFCtyuTxjsraxwsT4oLwmApLxByrcQeCFSKB0C6tU6ibfN3IqOgZS4Dfqk2bU/s1600/IMG_20140219_202823775.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQG7GVKamyUYwzrDX23AvoxMOEcL5GKOW62XOoq8NOEd-n6-zrJjL7D6km5eOf5i1BzJBbeAJSvwO9sgFCtyuTxjsraxwsT4oLwmApLxByrcQeCFSKB0C6tU6ibfN3IqOgZS4Dfqk2bU/s1600/IMG_20140219_202823775.jpg" height="247" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">It became apparent as soon as I swatched that I was going to have to use a smaller needle than stated. The 5.5mm in the pattern produced an unacceptably holey fabric, </span>but with a 5mm my gauge was way off so the motifs came out a lot smaller than expected. Other than starting again with a thicker yarn<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I had no choice but to introduce more motifs to get a decent size blanket, and that was going to mean I needed more yarn.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Having made the fatal mistake of buying it on a special day out I couldn’t easily get back to the shop I bought the original yarn from in order to match dyelots, so I ended up introducing more colours instead. My mother-in-law kindly allowed me to raid her stash for anything suitable, but though the navy blue she gave me harmonised well with the other colours, the result was less "subtle" than "drab". A deep brown (Dream in Colour rather than Debbie Bliss) worked a lot better, but then I started looking at reviews of the yarn on Ravelry and noticed how much everyone said it ran when washed. And since the main colour I was using was cream, I quickly chickened out, frogged a lot of it and went back to the drawing-board. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Next I introduced the "silver" pale blue colour, which was nice, but it started to look fairly masculine (which as it turns out would have been fine) but I didn't want to appear partizan, so finally I put in the brick red colour, which brightened the whole thing up quite nicely, but completely put an end to any idea of it's being subtle.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">The pattern itself is very well written with excellent illustrations, and I had no trouble at all following but, but my god there are a lot of ends to sew in! I tried and tried to find some way of joining as I went, but the tessellation made it difficult to do and anyway I needed to finish all the motifs and lay them out to be sure my colour-scheme worked (it didn't - I had to re-do the central octagon). To be fair, I had seen comments to this effect on Ravelry before I started, but the reality of the situation didn't really hit me until I started joining the motifs. I'd also made a rod for my own back in this respect by not using self-striping yarn, and having several colours in each motif. At a conservative estimate I reckon I sewed in 500 ends, and that's even bearing in mind I worked the partial octagons back and forth, contrary to the pattern, so as to avoid having even more!</span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 1em !important; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having finally joined all the motifs and sewed in all the ends, and done the edging (for which I had to order yet another ball of yarn - this thing eats it!) I then had to do the owl faces which involved guess what, 10 ends, per owl. I made a bit of a mess of the first one in that the stitching showed through in the back which looked a bit messy, but after that I devised a way of hiding the stitches in the fabric. By this time, however, the whole undertaking had become a race to the finish, despite my nephew obligingly contriving to be nearly two weeks late. And</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> ultimately, when I'd finished, I wasn’t sure that the addition of various boss-eyed avians really improved it. I think on the whole I would have liked it better with just the circles!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2M5GlqCyC0ZtMc_xFjQT4Bdp9Vcol3xGC1T-Os_EgWP_wrPjhHKUjnKPwbLLMT4lG-0Wk_GEBdans0WBKRKwT-jpe3Rm91pqTGHYSrux0Ot_lPR78bvF48eledd6Wgg-1uMY6cuzrf8Q/s1600/IMG_20140219_202709464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2M5GlqCyC0ZtMc_xFjQT4Bdp9Vcol3xGC1T-Os_EgWP_wrPjhHKUjnKPwbLLMT4lG-0Wk_GEBdans0WBKRKwT-jpe3Rm91pqTGHYSrux0Ot_lPR78bvF48eledd6Wgg-1uMY6cuzrf8Q/s1600/IMG_20140219_202709464.jpg" height="273" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Still, its done and I am not unhappy with it. I hope its recipients will like it and find it useful. It is certainly very warm and I will quite miss snuggling under it sewing away at my ends in the evenings. However, it does mean, at long last we will be able to catch up with all those subtitled dramas we've been missing out on in the evenings for the last 2 months. Try as I might I have to look what I'm doing with crochet, in a way I really don't when I'm knitting. So, the blanket is all set to head off to its new home in the morning, and I'm off for a bit of bog-standard stocking stitch and some "Scandi Noir".</span></div>
</div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F-nYfv2q2V3mg%2FUwUljd1h62I%2FAAAAAAAABBg%2F2wpyvzKu_yk%2Fs1600%2FIMG_20140219_202709464.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2M5GlqCyC0ZtMc_xFjQT4Bdp9Vcol3xGC1T-Os_EgWP_wrPjhHKUjnKPwbLLMT4lG-0Wk_GEBdans0WBKRKwT-jpe3Rm91pqTGHYSrux0Ot_lPR78bvF48eledd6Wgg-1uMY6cuzrf8Q/s1600/IMG_20140219_202709464.jpg" -->MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-20358149614077683802013-10-05T09:43:00.000+01:002013-10-05T09:43:43.915+01:00Dear DiaryAt various points in my life I decided it might be nice to keep a diary, but this never lasted very long. I never really liked the idea of recording every moment of teenage angst, and I'm far too lazy to spend time on a regular basis recording the dull minutiae of everyday life. Besides which I can't imagine that, in years to come either I or anyone else would be interested in reading that stuff. My mum has a diary that was kept by her grandfather while he was working as a "firewatcher" during the 2nd World War. As a child I remember being thrilled when I discovered the existence of this wonderful historical document, and then deeply disappointed to find that it contained mostly entries of the sort "Wet again. Spam and sprouts for dinner".<br />
<br />
For a while I kept what I suppose could be called a commonplace book, in which I noted down things I came across that appealed to me, or anything else I happened to want to remember. But goodness knows what happened to that - I haven't seen it in about 30 years.<br />
<br />
These days I have even less time and energy for diary-keeping than ever before, but in many ways this blog now serves the same purpose. Although it is gratifying if anyone reads it, at least in part I write it so that I have some sort of record of the things that happen to us. It is a cliché, but the kids are growing up very fast, and I think it'll be nice for us to have a few reminders in the future of how life was when they were little (though possibly they won't agree).<br />
<br />
And in the same way my "commonplace book" has effectively become Facebook. Recently someone asked me if I was keeping a record for posterity of things I post there, since they mostly consist of amusing things the boys have done or said which it might be fun to look back on in future, and it occurred to me that it might be an idea to include "selected highlights" in the blog, so as to keep everything together. So I've created another tab for this purpose. We'll see how it works.MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-10374012481572811732013-08-31T08:12:00.001+01:002013-08-31T08:12:29.746+01:00A bicycle made for two...or sometimes three.About four weeks ago P got his first pedal bike. He had had a balance bike for some time so we were fairly confident that he'd get the hang of it fairly quickly, and indeed, it took him precisely 30 minutes to learn to ride (compared to the several years I seem to remember it taking me). We bought it on the Saturday and went for a brief 15 minute wobble, then the following day set off to let him have a longer go by walking to the "big swings", just over a mile away. By the time we went under the railway bridge he was away and C was just running alongside watching. So that was that, up to a point: he still hasn't quite grasped that you can't just sit on the seat, take both feet off the floor, and then start pedalling, so starting off can be a little hit and miss.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5wD03q6XHTKrL0ISsqZWgoT5t3O1_WqSMFcWuIlnVb3dqwwjCK_h5_tqQd5x0iRvkdvW0ZPEZ6BP2M8zVfCht5DOts1YG0FRo4-BiArV9A9NU9AlscZWNByS_E9he9xno10XvQtXI_c/s1600/image-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5wD03q6XHTKrL0ISsqZWgoT5t3O1_WqSMFcWuIlnVb3dqwwjCK_h5_tqQd5x0iRvkdvW0ZPEZ6BP2M8zVfCht5DOts1YG0FRo4-BiArV9A9NU9AlscZWNByS_E9he9xno10XvQtXI_c/s320/image-2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
However, given that he will be tired, and the weather is likely to be increasingly miserable, and the evenings increasingly dark, and he has the road-sense of a suicidal pheasant at the best of times, he's probably still not quite ready to cycle home from school when he starts in a couple of weeks. So we thought that some sort of device to enable him to cycle safely, attached to my bike, was in order.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwAwIos-2dwWbt631tCBCpvc0IVrBMnX15M8FviYGC8l6krVsU9o0dXohW1YDDL4RvOqPXJn95z6YPNTzq2_jT2wv0o5MJLVz_xBl6Y8PPD0s4xURvuF3ZXpVQzec1iL0dyArQtsxEZU/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwAwIos-2dwWbt631tCBCpvc0IVrBMnX15M8FviYGC8l6krVsU9o0dXohW1YDDL4RvOqPXJn95z6YPNTzq2_jT2wv0o5MJLVz_xBl6Y8PPD0s4xURvuF3ZXpVQzec1iL0dyArQtsxEZU/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a>The majority of tag-along bikes seem to attach to the seat-post, which is a problem for me, as I am not really tall enough to <i>have </i>any seat-post to speak of, but then we came across something called a Follow-me Tandem, and that seemed to fit the bill quite nicely. It attaches to the rear wheel of an adult bike and allows you to connect and tow an ordinary child's bike. This means that when the child grows, you just replace their bike as you would anyway. Since it is easily detachable, it also has the advantage that you can tow them along the road, and then when you get somewhere safe, detach their bike, clip the "Follow-me" up out of the way, and all ride independently. What's more, if you're brave (and strong) enough, you can even have a childseat on the adult bike too, and transport two kids at the same time. We placed the order.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGOu-jfATU-mtUdirmXW2qzEhcUSJwoqFf9ewszhKpuqNlEAfMmsWkLlYgFdqRZaKmnIPCygfp0BAE0c1D7IiSIjqMBUhFmW8t8CW7ADp91KAXXko_aF-pAm0iZIozrvUuRpYhxfQWPw/s1600/2013-08-18+12.30.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGOu-jfATU-mtUdirmXW2qzEhcUSJwoqFf9ewszhKpuqNlEAfMmsWkLlYgFdqRZaKmnIPCygfp0BAE0c1D7IiSIjqMBUhFmW8t8CW7ADp91KAXXko_aF-pAm0iZIozrvUuRpYhxfQWPw/s320/2013-08-18+12.30.45.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The contraption when it arrived took a little bit of setting up, but now it's on and we're having fun getting the hang of using it. Or at least, I am, since it is me that will be riding it most often. Although for many years I cycled several times a day, that came to an end when we moved out of Oxford and I started commuting in by train, and since I became pregnant with P, 5 years ago, I haven't really cycled at all.<br />
<br />
After such a gap, getting the hang of riding my bike again with P's on the back is proving something of a challenge (especially when P unexpectedly wobbles because he's craning round to look at something). Hills are particularly interesting as I am so out of practice and there's quite a lot of extra weight on the back, but on the plus side, when P pedals, it definitely helps. To be honest, the main difficulty is wheeling the thing, rather than riding it. It really is quite a long vehicle, and rather heavy, with a very large turning circle. Trying to push it out of the garden, negotiating the garden table and chairs, and all the plants is a bit of a tricky manoeuvre, and trying to stand it up against a wall or something is nigh on impossible, unless there are two of you. However, we're gradually getting the hang of it, and practice, as they say makes perfect, so time for some more nice bike rides <i>en famille</i> while the good weather lasts.MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-49828916433095405432013-08-14T21:52:00.003+01:002014-02-21T20:36:40.025+00:00Never the Twain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some time ago I essentially gave up knitting for the boys. Handknits being what they are (not improved by frequent washing, prone to snags and pulls...), and small boys being what they are (perpetually covered in mud and/or food, prone to wrestling and running into bushes...) anything I made tended to get ruined depressingly quickly, or else the great cry went up "it itches", and it was never worn at all.<br />
<br />
About Christmas, however, seeing me parcel up things I'd knitted for his new cousin in Australia, P came and asked me if I would knit <i>him</i> something for a change, so I asked him what he would like and he said a jumper with a train on it, and I relented and agreed.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpPFTicCXRNmWquoKpG62M9n-gS_3Ikkioy2KAq48eNIJYUsDoxCdntFT4wCMMUv_asoI7ER1YMnCNGwbUZo14NHKQWFrCDGtp2SSnvFJxxc0Fy39odOXe5AApOfAhLee6i3EtQOga78/s1600/2013-08-12+19.23.09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpPFTicCXRNmWquoKpG62M9n-gS_3Ikkioy2KAq48eNIJYUsDoxCdntFT4wCMMUv_asoI7ER1YMnCNGwbUZo14NHKQWFrCDGtp2SSnvFJxxc0Fy39odOXe5AApOfAhLee6i3EtQOga78/s320/2013-08-12+19.23.09.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>My original plan was quite straightforward (so I thought). Two tank tops - one each - in the same colours, reversed, with a colourwork train around the bottom. I planned to knit them in something machine washable and not too warm, like bamboo, so that they could be worn over a t-shirt in the late spring when the weather was likely to be cool enough to need something, but perhaps not an actual jumper. I bought some yarn and set to work.<br />
<br />
First I sketched out a train design on squared paper, then I worked out my gauge and did the maths and worked out the train design again to make it fit the size I needed. Then I swatched the train, and decided some of the coaches etc. were too long, and redesigned it again. Then I swatched again. Then I decided the fabric was too loose, changed needles, recalculated the number of stitches again, redesigned the train, and swatched again. Then P asked me if one of the carriages could be a crane, so I changed it again. Then I finally started knitting properly, but when I got to the train I found knitting in the round the carried thread showed through a lot where the yarn was carried round between the front of the engine and the end of the guard's van, so I spent some time experimenting with different ways of carrying and catching in the yarn, and swatched in the round about three times.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbvIrwLt1bgC57DOkm8mVHGpwLCU73T0o4yrmJgug6Trhy8Y_sY0wMtNAERPCkY7ABBQVRk4GDX-xEXPkVyGYo1YZrJAPT_dO06-kAqKvSUYentDYCRZmm_lXTLeGnQHF8mH-nQjL-fQ/s1600/2013-08-14+09.03.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbvIrwLt1bgC57DOkm8mVHGpwLCU73T0o4yrmJgug6Trhy8Y_sY0wMtNAERPCkY7ABBQVRk4GDX-xEXPkVyGYo1YZrJAPT_dO06-kAqKvSUYentDYCRZmm_lXTLeGnQHF8mH-nQjL-fQ/s320/2013-08-14+09.03.33.jpg" height="255" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOO2KVts-txgeuWIKiRjEv6Fgj5oA3oZT6DOeKnx0O52yeo95GxzWe_-eu9WHyU_V9UCIpfR8BfUAINV8c0Tj4iXJ2nhXHSMwSeF1fvXMRsPXqxLB6PaRMy2aKM9piimVEgwoUIUIf1o/s1600/2013-08-14+08.40.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOO2KVts-txgeuWIKiRjEv6Fgj5oA3oZT6DOeKnx0O52yeo95GxzWe_-eu9WHyU_V9UCIpfR8BfUAINV8c0Tj4iXJ2nhXHSMwSeF1fvXMRsPXqxLB6PaRMy2aKM9piimVEgwoUIUIf1o/s320/2013-08-14+08.40.13.jpg" height="320" width="174" /></a>At this point I did what I should have done in the first place and did some reading about colourwork (and asked about a bit among the knitting cognoscenti) and realised that bamboo was a silly thing to chose and I really needed something that would stick together more, like wool. So I considered chucking the whole thing in the bin, but P kept asking "is my jumper finished yet", so I didn't. Then I considered just doing the whole thing in duplicate stitch, which would probably have been better on the whole, but I refused to be beaten. So I replanned everything yet again to leave the smallest possible number of stitches between the two ends of the train, and set myself to learn to hold the two colours one in each hand, and that seemed to work better. And I finally got going in earnest. For about 15 minutes three times a week, because that's about how much time I get to knit these days.<br />
<br />
And now at long last, after more delays while I worked out how to shape the arm holes, and the neck, and how to do the ribbing on the neck, and how to unpick it and do it again differently because P couldn't get his head through, and whether or not I should sew buttons on for the wheels* - finally, they're finished. Just in time for the coolish <i>autumn</i> weather. And they must have, ooh, all of three weeks' wear left in them before they'll be too small. Still, gives them less time to rip, stain, and generally ruin them I suppose.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Consensus of opinion on Facebook was <i>not</i>.</span><br />
<br /></div>
MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-39394559388067534362013-07-15T23:03:00.000+01:002013-07-16T23:03:01.424+01:00And here's one I prepared earlier.In May, while we were on holiday, P turned 4. He was desperate to have a party, and so, as his best friend also had a birthday exactly a week later, we agreed to have a joint one after we got back.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflT-pzhmb7v_B2xrphGulmYdpx34ck-63dn3KNCSgN-cRku_pGD_dFIVLRWIraBsY40A8okCrPXmc9-ikHpKhsq1BUcHSvfOwMswqfjRWchizL35G1Dx8IjywdxvuA8K7Myu-G7fjAYs/s1600/IMG_0766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflT-pzhmb7v_B2xrphGulmYdpx34ck-63dn3KNCSgN-cRku_pGD_dFIVLRWIraBsY40A8okCrPXmc9-ikHpKhsq1BUcHSvfOwMswqfjRWchizL35G1Dx8IjywdxvuA8K7Myu-G7fjAYs/s320/IMG_0766.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spiderman 'a la Grec'.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This, it was finally decided was to be a Safari Dinosaur Hunt party. The theme was agreed only after much wrangling. P was adamant that he wanted a Spiderman party, although he felt that really it would need to be a Spiderman and Princesses party, to cater for the girls.* D wasn't that keen on Spiderman, and to be honest, neither were D's mum and I, so in the end we settled on dinosaurs as being something acceptable and broadly gender-neutral, and promised P that he could have a Spiderman birthday in Greece (covered by Yiayia and Papou buying him a conveniently light and easy-to-pack cheap nylon Spiderman suit as a present for his actual birthday) and a dinosaur birthday once we came home.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Since D and family have a bigger house, with a much bigger garden, and we were only coming back from holiday two days before the designated date, it seemed sensible for them to provide the venue and food, and my contribution was to be doing party bags, providing a picture for "pin the tail on the dinosaur", and making the cake.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Thanks to the huge variety of cheap dinosaur-themed rubbish available on Amazon, and to the fact that my youngest brother is generally happy to rustle up a picture of whatever you like to mention at short notice and free of charge, the first two of these proved no problem at all. The cake, however, was more of a challenge.<br />
<br />
I am not the world's greatest baker. I can usually just about manage to make an edible sponge-cake, but when it comes to decorating I am definitely of the "less is more" school, not least because I don't actually <i>like </i>icing very much. Given that I needed to be able to produce an acceptable dinosaur the day after getting back from holiday I thought I'd better have a trial run. Accordingly I googled "dinosaur cake" and found an online video tutorial explaining how to cut up and re-arrange a rectangular cake to make a 2D dinosaur shape and then cover it with royal icing. It looked like a doddle. I made my bog-standard sponge, left it to cool, and waited to decorate it after the boys were in bed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Four hours and a lot of stickiness later I had learned a lot about the properties of ready-rolled icing as an artistic medium. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It does <i>not</i>, as I had assumed, behave like pastry. If you try to roll it really thin (thinner than it comes in the pack), it just sticks to the work surface and won't come off at all unless you scrape at it with a knife. If you try to lift it draped over a rolling pin (as you would with pastry) it immediately rips, sags, and falls apart. You cannot piece it back together like you can with pastry, at least not without the joins being very visible. Once you have got it onto a jam-covered cake, if it hasn't landed exactly right, you can't move it or adjust its position in any way, without it ripping and becoming riddled with cake crumbs. Most significantly <i>it is virtually waterproof:</i> painting white icing with green food colouring causes the colour to pool on the surface in sticky motley blotches in a manner which, while perhaps convincingly reptilian, is not especially appetising.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5IEAL7VPi6Tc_mGHPl9UlZnTsJwdufeNvIL-dPOJR2nTFW3KwDp320fUElsxwFH02i73rzPnqJgCGEne3aqLdwk5UTV3hyphenhyphenMqpzWfLnupte1CkFJpB0OLi6lHWvMhTjdgvJa4ZShNDu8/s1600/20130429_093820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5IEAL7VPi6Tc_mGHPl9UlZnTsJwdufeNvIL-dPOJR2nTFW3KwDp320fUElsxwFH02i73rzPnqJgCGEne3aqLdwk5UTV3hyphenhyphenMqpzWfLnupte1CkFJpB0OLi6lHWvMhTjdgvJa4ZShNDu8/s320/20130429_093820.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doyouthinkesaurus (no. 1)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Suffice to say the first attempt looked more akin to taxidermy than confectionary. I spirited it away to work before P could see it, where my long suffering colleagues dispatched the poor creature, made encouraging comments about how nice it looked (in the face of all the evidence), and more importantly, gave me a lot of good advice about how to do it better next time.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Firstly, do not use ready-rolled icing. Get the stuff you have to roll yourself and allow at least twice as much as you think you'll need so you can roll it out plenty big enough to cover the whole thing and then just throw away the extra you cut off, which will inevitably be full of jam and cake crumbs and no use to man nor beast. Second, knead the food colour into it little by little, adding a few drops at a time and working it as if you were kneading dough. This takes hours, but it works. Third, don't attempt anything with fiddly corners. Pushing the icing into awkward places just causes it to rip - better to go for a big smooth shape as much as possible.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1gGR74j3hVNaIwzKHSQ-oTu7skUFt_A8UE_LK_FzqZeAx2eC1j4dBjy3wIAGkSt4S0TWMiqaR9yszBZ5FOc0c-R9A2z48mHSc-XDzv11F1r8cm88DrWK-lfuK_pPNEsyHOgvpBxOguU/s1600/2013-05-06+22.20.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1gGR74j3hVNaIwzKHSQ-oTu7skUFt_A8UE_LK_FzqZeAx2eC1j4dBjy3wIAGkSt4S0TWMiqaR9yszBZ5FOc0c-R9A2z48mHSc-XDzv11F1r8cm88DrWK-lfuK_pPNEsyHOgvpBxOguU/s320/2013-05-06+22.20.50.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doyouthinkesaurus (no.2)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Armed with this information the second attempt was much better. I abandoned the 2D shape and went for something along the lines of a stegosaurus. Making two round cakes, as if to make a victoria sandwich, I cut both in two slightly below halfway and stuck the larger halves together standing on their edge to form the back of the dinosaur. I then cut one of the smaller halves to form a curving tail and used the other to make a wedge-shaped head, sticking all the bits together with jam. This time I recruited C to help me get the icing onto the cake. I very carefully lifted the rolled out icing draped across the palms of both hands and he shoved the cake underneath as fast as he could. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I originally tried to make cake feet as well, but this turned out to be just too fiddly, so I eventually resorted to modelling them out of leftover icing. This worked pretty well, even if the mere idea of biting into one made my teeth ache and my stomach churn. Chocolate buttons broken in half make pretty good claws. Attempt number two was a great improvement, and also disposed of by the OED so that P wouldn't see it and spoil the surprise.**</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRKVcgBigw3nDNlfr-5NUDu7-PkY62d9qrnZMElWL312uGmiaXu-MPtu8y-UyVunatF-FFLj4PSO9khycNNCR3Uhd2kTE9u_6T2cDtBTJoz0kEoqSCOg9pdVsUla8juYralSxVYnf8er8/s1600/2013-05-27+09.00.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRKVcgBigw3nDNlfr-5NUDu7-PkY62d9qrnZMElWL312uGmiaXu-MPtu8y-UyVunatF-FFLj4PSO9khycNNCR3Uhd2kTE9u_6T2cDtBTJoz0kEoqSCOg9pdVsUla8juYralSxVYnf8er8/s320/2013-05-27+09.00.29.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Having worked out broadly speaking how to make the main cake, I then started to wonder how on earth I was going to chop the thing into reasonably equitable chunks for the kids to take home. Finally I decided the best thing would be to make some cupcakes to go in the party bags instead. <span style="text-align: right;">I originally intended to put plastic dinosaurs on these, but having bought a large quantity of brightly coloured fondant icing to decorate the final cake I discovered that a sort of icing "slug" for the body, four blobs for the legs, and a squashed sausage cut into peaks with a knife would produce a passable mini-dinosaur, so the guests each got one of those and we and D's family shared the main dinosaur. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: right;"><br /></span>
<div>
I must admit, I was rather pleased with the finished thing, and P was gratifyingly surprised and chuffed with it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<span style="text-align: right;"></span><br />
<div>
Don't care if I never see another piece of icing, though.</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAX7rQnp5oEmO2mfFb6Ufb9a1lNI9_xgXSpr8hNzyoH21SPen_JfiUxoOo-OQNmfTogM4c5AFHem3n8vquHsNK-xg6JlOZ1m9DvADeMQLaxaNzit6f2Rhu76FEQerUjteUj1pi36igVA/s1600/2013-05-27+11.13.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAX7rQnp5oEmO2mfFb6Ufb9a1lNI9_xgXSpr8hNzyoH21SPen_JfiUxoOo-OQNmfTogM4c5AFHem3n8vquHsNK-xg6JlOZ1m9DvADeMQLaxaNzit6f2Rhu76FEQerUjteUj1pi36igVA/s640/2013-05-27+11.13.15.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*P's attitude to gender roles leaves a little to be desired as far as I'm concerned. He recently informed me that I should wear "</span>clippy<span style="font-size: x-small;">-</span>cloppy<span style="font-size: x-small;"> shoes" and "that stuff like face paints" if I want to be a "proper grown-up mummy". On the other hand, he was right about the girls he invited to his party. None of them wanted to have their faces made up as dinosaurs: they all wanted to be princesses.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**It will be interesting to see in years to come whether the excess of green food colouring consumed by the dictionary staff will be identifiable as having an effect on the definitions produced during this period.</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-65344986175118489912013-07-12T23:04:00.000+01:002013-07-12T23:04:41.712+01:00Summertime, and the living is...well, hectic as ever, reallyJust over a month ago we went on a proper family holiday: two weeks at "<a href="http://mootthings.blogspot.co.uk/2009/11/place-in-sun.html" target="_blank">The House</a>". And it was fab, and just like holidays were when I was little (except rather shorter, since we don't get anything like as much leave as my parents - a teacher and an academic - did. And mercifully with less cement-making). And I went so far as to make notes, so as to be able to blog about it later. And then we came home, and there was a 4th birthday party to organise and dinosaur cakes to construct, and then it was back to work, and decorating, and potty training, and fixing the garage, and...well, you get the picture.<br />
<br />
And then I spoke to someone who asked me about the holiday and reminded me that I was going to blog about it. So here - somewhat retrospectively - goes:<br />
<br />
<b>Day 1</b>: Up at 4.30 to drive to Gatwick in plenty of time for the plane, having, on a previous occasion had to run the length of the airport and do without breakfast when the bus was late and we nearly missed our flight. The buggy has apparently been warned in advance of what awaits it on the rocky hillsides of Zakynthos, because it has sheered a bolt in the back of the car with the result that as soon as R sits in it it folds up on him and can only be steered by tipping it up so that the front wheels come off the floor. Arrive in plenty of time, but after nearly 2 hours of queueing, we miss breakfast and run the length of the airport again (this time with R sitting in a half-collapsed buggy doing a permanent wheelie) to make it to the gate just in time.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89ud_pz1NeF0sZNIG33vHdPim8AMS6TwzX7NwbBVeKVFWzlcyjCoyDMGgIdw4vIEuQkQSTMoqefr5OCtJUithFLMROIiNi9n9fLyIFg4kXm5diLNXwN8QGfYAMdSg2j7rub7WNROUKlU/s1600/DSC_3392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89ud_pz1NeF0sZNIG33vHdPim8AMS6TwzX7NwbBVeKVFWzlcyjCoyDMGgIdw4vIEuQkQSTMoqefr5OCtJUithFLMROIiNi9n9fLyIFg4kXm5diLNXwN8QGfYAMdSg2j7rub7WNROUKlU/s320/DSC_3392.jpg" width="214" /></a><br />
Within an hour of arriving at "The House" both boys have fallen down most of the stairs, identified how to get up onto the roof, and R has spotted where Papou stores all his tools, including the "Train-sword" [chainsaw]. Very glad my parents are here too and there are four pairs of eyes to spot what they're getting up to!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Day 2: </b>Everyone covered from head to foot in grazes, mosquito-bites, and Merenda chocolate-spread. Just how holidays used to be, though not quite as hot as it's May not Aug<span style="font-family: inherit;">ust. There are wildflowers, butterflies, and swallows everywhere and the lake is full of terrapins humping, and frogs exclaiming "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">Brekekekèx-koàx-koáx". </span>Lovely.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CCh11K5titWiSUsnP0PTD1GTtuPsaSnrCrbPyI3TZy6YXbzpaw_npKhWKCxo8Zf-PBT4pExutZeI315mo0QjFqo-nRuMTOmFcTj-J9lDcPEYXNbkTVAc6AVDKD2MHFO1l2EFk7F_fpI/s1600/DSC_3393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CCh11K5titWiSUsnP0PTD1GTtuPsaSnrCrbPyI3TZy6YXbzpaw_npKhWKCxo8Zf-PBT4pExutZeI315mo0QjFqo-nRuMTOmFcTj-J9lDcPEYXNbkTVAc6AVDKD2MHFO1l2EFk7F_fpI/s320/DSC_3393.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
R is very taken with "The House" but mystified by the fact that there is no washing-machine or oven, and that while there are lots of steps outside there are hardly any inside, which as he says, is the opposite of our house at home.<br />
<br />
<b></b><br />
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b>Day 3: </b>Sitting in our favourite taverna watching my own son putting tomato-ketchup on souvlakia. The shame! It's a bit cool for swimming, so we paddle instead and build a sandcastle, starting a trend for the rest of the holiday.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBWV4v_F21Ky8ZmWMXaMz2sqGxH-JRjf5Tr6YKLOSL3KviYv32wCm6QkP7D2Zx34C5lVIZq5ao5RIkYHYkOpfxfxpyl83hg-cD0FxsVImRlMbko5EUnJcAHLST7zDAG5OQuoGHfNxRtDg/s1600/2013-05-10+16.49.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBWV4v_F21Ky8ZmWMXaMz2sqGxH-JRjf5Tr6YKLOSL3KviYv32wCm6QkP7D2Zx34C5lVIZq5ao5RIkYHYkOpfxfxpyl83hg-cD0FxsVImRlMbko5EUnJcAHLST7zDAG5OQuoGHfNxRtDg/s320/2013-05-10+16.49.56.jpg" width="240" /></a><b style="text-align: center;">Day 4: </b><span style="text-align: center;">Pleasant though it is sitting in the sun watching the world go by, there are signs that times are hard for people here at the moment. Dad tells us he's been talking to an old friend - a taxi driver on the island. He was employed by the local government to take children to and from school, but has never been paid for his work. Having been fobbed off with governmental IOUs up to the value of 15000 Euro, he's now been informed, actually they won't ever be able to pay him more than 1000. His family have gone back to growing potatoes in the garden - just in case they need them this winter. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Day 5: </b>Up at 5.30 for the traditional bus trip into town and bougatsa custard-pastries for breakfast. First stop, find a hardwear shop and buy a bolt to fix the buggy. After four days of being expected to walk everywhere, R leaps back into his chariot with a cry of delight the minute it is mended and hardly moves from it all morning.<br />
<br />
Mum and I dismiss the men to take the kids to the park and go on a fruit and vegetable-fondling expedition, coming back with oranges, strawberries, and cherries, as well as all sorts of green vegetables you don't get in the heat of the summer when we are usually here.<br />
<br />
Having earlier in the morning walked past a shop I have stumbled across once or twice before, which sells beautiful jewel-coloured crochet thread, but which never seems to be where I remember it, we attempt to take this opportunity to return. But sadly when we go back, it has once again shuffled into its wormhole and vanished.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTavI7DX04VomusiR5InwbGReP5Mo6Op0rvqbq5_ZAnHZbnhl89vxKJOO3ZgdTbsFx-wqHHCEjVEIXONEm4pd83SJ-fQfryzJDsKPFXANAVI2RharRuIEUDGsPQeEtznsmZp11NNb1J4/s1600/DSC_3446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTavI7DX04VomusiR5InwbGReP5Mo6Op0rvqbq5_ZAnHZbnhl89vxKJOO3ZgdTbsFx-wqHHCEjVEIXONEm4pd83SJ-fQfryzJDsKPFXANAVI2RharRuIEUDGsPQeEtznsmZp11NNb1J4/s320/DSC_3446.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How many can I fit in my mouth at once?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Day 6:</b> Rain. Since it's cooler we embark on the statutory five-mile hike in search of a pile of stones of potential archaeological significance. As with so many of these sites in the past, it appears to have changed location since my dad last saw it. We spend a happy couple of hours stumbling about in an olive grove, falling down terraces, but don't find the "wall". We do, however, encounter a bright green, metre-long grass snake engaged in eating a goldfinch.<br />
<br />
<b>Day 7:</b> Wash day, this being the sort of holiday where you do all the same chores as usual, but by hand, and with only lukewarm water.<br />
<br />
To the beach in the afternoon and bored with bog-standard sandcastles, decide to make a sand-ogre instead.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0IVYJHj5n3Ep5siKfpEijHR46Ok2PuPjN3Fh8D-83gM29tG-Qa2-VK-SVg-g3dgdDqt7ZUJyBykMtgHZLXgFeVfhqnedIKFUA4P2J9zXSqRi2c4Fo9SSb_uoANvxxv1ILrSFPXjfA7I/s1600/IMG_0761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0IVYJHj5n3Ep5siKfpEijHR46Ok2PuPjN3Fh8D-83gM29tG-Qa2-VK-SVg-g3dgdDqt7ZUJyBykMtgHZLXgFeVfhqnedIKFUA4P2J9zXSqRi2c4Fo9SSb_uoANvxxv1ILrSFPXjfA7I/s320/IMG_0761.jpg" width="320" /></a><b></b><br />
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b>Day 8:</b> Strangely cool and windy: no swimming today. P and Papou make toy boats and sail them in the pond (including one P names the "Zebra Moon"), and construct a sign giving directions to Didcot, the airport, and Australia.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gfln0vZTutZcPYKrLvTCwxB4r9qKsiyqL1IbGn7g2d8od17XJgPlCf2seKQyNj2S70DnAog8MQVPXnP8_vScrvdjAKSwN8c_Zv3KXpueigFtYv_PcOrOtu9tFXU_5I6mo2IXod2lK-M/s1600/DSC_3558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gfln0vZTutZcPYKrLvTCwxB4r9qKsiyqL1IbGn7g2d8od17XJgPlCf2seKQyNj2S70DnAog8MQVPXnP8_vScrvdjAKSwN8c_Zv3KXpueigFtYv_PcOrOtu9tFXU_5I6mo2IXod2lK-M/s320/DSC_3558.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 9:</b> P's birthday. Still cool with strange pink skies and "Sirocco" wind covering everything in a fine layer of sand from the Libyan desert. Perfect weather for constructing and flying a leftover wrapping-paper kite.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKQxNc2jlKyD_nSogh3i6mo6IkGuBIOhoa7pPmPXh6ndfPorslyce2GUf65jshpCkF4K7ZsSOKvdy_I9IPAyd6yPiNz03XQxQHreB_7eIasN5edNGtQR9LgZNBIoVY7wxOT218Lz4G6w/s1600/DSC_3518.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKQxNc2jlKyD_nSogh3i6mo6IkGuBIOhoa7pPmPXh6ndfPorslyce2GUf65jshpCkF4K7ZsSOKvdy_I9IPAyd6yPiNz03XQxQHreB_7eIasN5edNGtQR9LgZNBIoVY7wxOT218Lz4G6w/s320/DSC_3518.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
P grudgingly agrees to make do with a massive ice-cream cake with sparklers for his birthday, instead of the crappy mass-produced Sainsbury's Spiderman one that he had his heart set on.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpN4axL_VQ4dZbI7qeyLq1_ubrS2Qi2mH7FAtXrWgvbghOrPXLVqzQ1ec1TwoK3ZKKkQvGL6UQVz67zyKkEFOtHOIfVMC80SgT5k34eE5sU8_vL_Tdg2ggb57F_qxq8ARd5C_ee3CrQPI/s1600/DSC_3547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpN4axL_VQ4dZbI7qeyLq1_ubrS2Qi2mH7FAtXrWgvbghOrPXLVqzQ1ec1TwoK3ZKKkQvGL6UQVz67zyKkEFOtHOIfVMC80SgT5k34eE5sU8_vL_Tdg2ggb57F_qxq8ARd5C_ee3CrQPI/s320/DSC_3547.jpg" width="320" /></a><b></b><br />
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b>Day 10:</b> Yiayia and Papou off to Athens to attend a christening. The rest of us take the huge inflatable crocodile they brought back from Australia down to the beach for the first time and have a great time squirting one another with the attached water-pistol.<br />
<br />
Walking back P remarks "It's not a bit like Didcot, is it". He's not wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIvEQVdwAZbdwghfx7VDB5BlkKOgt_iAo0GJXY6Qwl1ItVkikeEeTm9kmhspkkiWzqafGOnMDh1Uco_MB5XBVER9wH4Sj14QnzoUfDTu0UMXuZ60q75TSkL7BLtgri5ifgxbY0FE-uRg/s1600/IMG_0779.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIvEQVdwAZbdwghfx7VDB5BlkKOgt_iAo0GJXY6Qwl1ItVkikeEeTm9kmhspkkiWzqafGOnMDh1Uco_MB5XBVER9wH4Sj14QnzoUfDTu0UMXuZ60q75TSkL7BLtgri5ifgxbY0FE-uRg/s320/IMG_0779.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 11:</b> Spend morning with the boys painting pebbles with Yiayia's acrylic paints to embellish our daily sandcastle, and the afternoon on the beach constructing a sand-croc.<br />
<br />
Yiayia and Papou back at 11pm with lots of presents from the rellies and someone else's suitcase containing someone else's car keys!<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZBt7MwJ2A2T94Cff6mnicnyDhHpNqULsdwSpeE4JiDeM105TPVGohn1WDsx_t5m8JzFwxO4hO5x5euZmh9IyGvi9Bil0friEnnP8prVUamH_wKTR3Ov7UWZrIVsbKM-JHtH-hYmgLd4/s1600/DSC_3621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZBt7MwJ2A2T94Cff6mnicnyDhHpNqULsdwSpeE4JiDeM105TPVGohn1WDsx_t5m8JzFwxO4hO5x5euZmh9IyGvi9Bil0friEnnP8prVUamH_wKTR3Ov7UWZrIVsbKM-JHtH-hYmgLd4/s320/DSC_3621.jpg" width="320" /></a><b></b><br />
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b>Day 12: </b>Back to town with Papou to return the case to the poor man who had been left stranded at the bus station last night. He is very nice about it and insists on giving us a lift back into town afterwards.<br />
<br />
Rest of day spent on the beach making a "troll hole".<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdU0ty7n4t9TdStrOeLsj89YtaK3-g4szOjlrtodHMarLR3_UWDXcTraQjr-2vISe_asFSBvq0QQRQMP4A9JnlhsdAb9w3SRNYxD9HY_iMFJAY7bCxz-gkOYTf2adk7V0zEHqhf8Bb2KQ/s1600/DSC_3630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdU0ty7n4t9TdStrOeLsj89YtaK3-g4szOjlrtodHMarLR3_UWDXcTraQjr-2vISe_asFSBvq0QQRQMP4A9JnlhsdAb9w3SRNYxD9HY_iMFJAY7bCxz-gkOYTf2adk7V0zEHqhf8Bb2KQ/s320/DSC_3630.jpg" width="320" /></a><b></b><br />
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b><b><br /></b></b>
<b>Day 13:</b> Return to the beach to find someone has taken the troll's eyes. R. very concerned by this.<br />
<br />
Build a large fish instead, which takes most of the day.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PzH-_EJzD-6HGvC3l3jXqeaM_shA4MES6qfwzYKfrTxOH6BN-KmJQiFf4buKMXg2snLReylJLsKwES1-Wg1gWe8fN4FQPj7jP15YWp_8GgMt-C3b-oCKGhnV3mGNdRTMyuA-cRl24Ok/s1600/DSC_3682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PzH-_EJzD-6HGvC3l3jXqeaM_shA4MES6qfwzYKfrTxOH6BN-KmJQiFf4buKMXg2snLReylJLsKwES1-Wg1gWe8fN4FQPj7jP15YWp_8GgMt-C3b-oCKGhnV3mGNdRTMyuA-cRl24Ok/s320/DSC_3682.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 14:</b> Boat trip out to the island in the bay and the caves round the headland. C and I enjoy swimming in turquoise water off the back of the boat, only slightly marred by the fact that the owner forgets to point out that he has recently repainted the ladder, so we all end up with sticky blue feet and spend the rest of the trip dabbing at ourselves with industrial grade nail-varnish remover. The boys are more impressed by the fact that the island is served, not by an ice-cream van, but an ice-cream boat.<br />
<br />
<br />MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-8658490828992960822013-04-27T23:08:00.000+01:002013-04-27T23:14:19.299+01:00Timber.<br />
After the hedge, the next major item on my gardening to-do list was the ailing eucalyptus in the front garden. Slightly taller than the house, and not quite 3m away from it, the top third or so had been killed off by hard frosts over the last few years. Even aside from the fact that it kept most of the light out of the front of the house and provided a handy perch (right outside the bedroom window) for very loud birds at ungodly hours of the morning, it pretty definitely needed to come down. This, however, was definitely a job for the professionals* we decided, and resigned ourselves to having to part with a substantial amount of money to have it removed.<br />
<br />
Then, unexpectedly, a man knocked on the door and said he had had a cancellation round the corner, and, since he was in the area and at a loose end, would we like to employ him to take it down for us if he gave us a really good price and got rid of the resulting timber. Rather inconveniently he arrived at the front door at exactly the same time as P's friend D, his mum, and his two little sisters arrived at the back, but the price was good enough that it seemed worth going ahead in spite of having a house full of guests, so off he went to get his equipment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRfSrohZk_tb4ssYkvFlTCspQgfkBbQcqYdAnOr-4FtZSbYGL_mMNnfZ2panqL7xqEtgAAa4wk_x4XLk7lBoQsLcqnJbyR2wfe7To-aknjm71w79tzYxRUP2zPLI1EQWLvUYrD-RFwns/s1600/2013-04-25+11.35.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRfSrohZk_tb4ssYkvFlTCspQgfkBbQcqYdAnOr-4FtZSbYGL_mMNnfZ2panqL7xqEtgAAa4wk_x4XLk7lBoQsLcqnJbyR2wfe7To-aknjm71w79tzYxRUP2zPLI1EQWLvUYrD-RFwns/s320/2013-04-25+11.35.13.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">P and D gazing in wonderment at a man, halfway up a tree, chatting on the phone.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
His equipment, it turned out, consisted of a wobbly ladder, a bijou chainsaw-ette, a length of blue nylon rope, and a sullen, chain-smoking sidekick in sunglasses. It soon became apparent that this was very much the "Eddie Grundy" school of garden landscaping: no safety ropes, no eye protection, no chainsaw-proof trousers, not even any gloves (he pulled his jumper down over his hands when he needed to pull on the rope!).** With us all watching from an upstairs window, he propped the ladder against the tree and wobbling precariously at the top of it (pausing only to chat on his mobile from time to time), hacked lumps off the tree with the chainsaw while his friend tugged on the rope to make sure they landed more-or-less in the right place. Meanwhile, in the relative safety of R's bedroom, five small people oohed and aaahed and D's mum and I speculated on the likelihood of having to call an ambulance, or go searching for a severed limb or two, if the ladder slipped. I did briefly consider offering to hold the ladder for him, but then realised that if the ladder slipped it might well be me that lost a limb...<br />
<br />
However, terrifying though it was to watch, the tree came down (as did another smaller one in the back garden) and no limbs were forfeited (though a bit of the ladder did drop off as it toppled over when the tree fell). And there's nothing like a man up a tree with a chainsaw to keep five under-4s entertained all morning.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* A tree-surge</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">on, not Bodie and Doyle.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">** Though at least he didn't try to flog us a novelty concrete gnome.</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-53778944851284879172013-04-27T21:30:00.002+01:002013-04-27T21:30:56.231+01:00New Leaves: Part IIOne of the few regrets we had about moving from our old house, was leaving the garden behind. While not large, the old garden had been well looked after for a good few years before we got there and was, as the estate agents say "well-established". It had a variety of attractive shrubs and perennials, a greenhouse, a shed, and a nice little pond full of frogs which set up a soothing chirping on warm summer days and kept the slugs down.<br />
<br />
The garden at the new house is probably larger over all, but as with the rest of the house no one has looked after it in a <i>very</i> long time. When we arrived the whole thing (three sides of the house, since we're on the end) was dominated by one thing: a large, unkempt, badly-maintained conifer hedge.* The rest of the garden - apart from the paved area - was just grass, interspersed with the occasional dandelion, dock, and rather a large number of beer cans.<br />
<br />
I knew this hedge of old, since, when we lived round the corner and I walked this way to the shops, I was always forced to walk in the road because I couldn't get the double buggy between The Hedge and the parked cars, so I was pretty determined to get rid of as much of the wretched thing as possible as soon as possible. A quote to have it taken out left us reeling, so we decided to have a go ourselves - or rather C and my brother did - and fortunately it proved not to be all that hard (the hardest thing being keeping the boys away from the big shiny axe!).<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplgROJjyaFQG-mundLIh9bbz_8-GPsXfla7-YjjIcj6hgFMCUvaphsKAGeDaUgo0nyUP7bG6jXCogg71v-pwJ77XQn7CowpXYpvjyzQtSzFvz41xlckEBhYm7UPb6p2tobWjgzZfs_mQ/s1600/2012-06-17+16.56.03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplgROJjyaFQG-mundLIh9bbz_8-GPsXfla7-YjjIcj6hgFMCUvaphsKAGeDaUgo0nyUP7bG6jXCogg71v-pwJ77XQn7CowpXYpvjyzQtSzFvz41xlckEBhYm7UPb6p2tobWjgzZfs_mQ/s320/2012-06-17+16.56.03.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The demise of the horrible hedge: part I.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFexk156OQk2BPDBqFyN4QtNiP_prCPHx4Mcy_8KLyZB5HSTEm3xC9KoimPKscrs7tNduzssLA1HG8Sq1MQS6zwQCzvO3o6703EHSAd5dEkRH7aVGB-FsjP-sR5B-JO5tiRUDmgo-vwQ/s1600/2013-03-23+10.42.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFexk156OQk2BPDBqFyN4QtNiP_prCPHx4Mcy_8KLyZB5HSTEm3xC9KoimPKscrs7tNduzssLA1HG8Sq1MQS6zwQCzvO3o6703EHSAd5dEkRH7aVGB-FsjP-sR5B-JO5tiRUDmgo-vwQ/s320/2013-03-23+10.42.58.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(The result of) the demise of the horrible hedge: part II.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So, in the course of the last year we have removed something in the region of 30 conifers, cut down two large trees**, substantially reduced the trees that remain, scraped a huge amount of ivy off the side of the house (allowing us to open two windows which were previously welded shut with vegetation), dug a gravel-filled trench to keep the soil away from the damp-course, dug and planted two flowerbeds at the front and three at the back, and made a start on improving the grass : dandelion/thistle/rubbish ratio in the so-called "lawns". There's still a long way to go, but now spring has just about sprung and a few things are starting to grow, it's beginning to feel a bit more like a garden. All I have to do now is find some way of deterring the cats from using every patch of bare earth as a lavatory, and stop the wretched postman walking through my new flowerbeds because he can't be bothered to go up the path!<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5Ye0qXvcvzWrV6baYh4n5eOnmsjuNnWI1YGdDctpldOpIzXEIZfRd7r8iQ9VEQ9V8w-z-3XNGOlytk39TwMe6Zze5f_9KP2Z98WJv1et3vS302cc0CFWrW7IYvKPOWfGFqRd95Do2IA/s1600/2013-04-27+12.22.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 13px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5Ye0qXvcvzWrV6baYh4n5eOnmsjuNnWI1YGdDctpldOpIzXEIZfRd7r8iQ9VEQ9V8w-z-3XNGOlytk39TwMe6Zze5f_9KP2Z98WJv1et3vS302cc0CFWrW7IYvKPOWfGFqRd95Do2IA/s320/2013-04-27+12.22.33.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Just in case there wasn't enough of it, the previous owners had also left us a large pile of clippings outside the back gate.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">** Of which more anon.</span><br />
<br />MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-2083283135762192782013-04-20T22:31:00.001+01:002013-04-22T22:19:51.432+01:00Nymphs and LeopardsGiven that he is only two-and-a-bit, R is quite an articulate little beast, but he still often mis-analyses words or has trouble pronouncing them. For months, for instance, he has been demanding to put on his "dressing joan" over his pyjamas first thing in the morning. (A similar phenomenon led P to be convinced for some time that we had a "washing lion" in the garden for drying clothes).<br />
<br />
Recently, however, I've started to think that maybe he's doing it on purpose. On Wednesday, for instance, he insisted that the seal we were looking at in a book had slippers rather than flippers, that I had presented him with a hot buttered trumpet to eat, and that his brother had attended the nursery nativity at Christmas dressed as a leopard.*<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicxuXykHjzykZDyuA0Nm9EWIxkxCudPFAQs2GrsW30LcSTvtmbFew1roBHxc8uPGVg29gIxu5RHO-1Hg0yN_4hatnZmd1aQt11Gvuu4Q3X1dvjWiLBnArHL5Ui7MgNEJFp-LVSmS5YDdo/s1600/2012-12-07+07.15.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicxuXykHjzykZDyuA0Nm9EWIxkxCudPFAQs2GrsW30LcSTvtmbFew1roBHxc8uPGVg29gIxu5RHO-1Hg0yN_4hatnZmd1aQt11Gvuu4Q3X1dvjWiLBnArHL5Ui7MgNEJFp-LVSmS5YDdo/s320/2012-12-07+07.15.58.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
I suspect that this sudden streak of word-play is related to what his older brother has been doing at nursery, as they have been learning about rhymes. P has taken to rhyming like a duck to water, though he is perfectly happy to invent words where he can't think of a real one. Sadly, many of the words he invents do really exist, even if he has probably never come across them, which can be the cause of some embarrassment when he gets one of his periodic fits of rhyming in a public place. 'I know what rhymes with "muck", mummy! ...'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Actually, there <i>was</i> a Gruffalo, but that's beside the point.</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-77806494207149227532013-04-13T08:38:00.001+01:002013-04-13T08:38:35.679+01:00New Leaves: part I.It has been some time since my last post.<br />
<br />
In the meantime lots of things have happened. For one thing, we've moved house. The new house is much larger, but decidedly dilapidated, and so between every day life with two small boys, and going back to work for the second time after maternity leave, and trying (largely unsuccessfully) to renovate the house in our spare (!) time, the old blog has become somewhat neglected.<br />
<br />
Now however, I am determined to make a concerted effort to get back to blogging, even if only now and then and in tiny bite-sized chunks.<br />
<br />
Given that in the time it has taken me to write this post I have had to break off three times to get more glasses of milk/cereal, once to clear up the resulting mess, again to change the tv programme (it is a measure of exactly how long it has taken me that that have been able to watch more than one television programme!), and finally to confiscate pens being used to draw on the sofa, this may be a forlorn hope. However, I can but try. Oh, there goes another cup of milk...must dash.<br />
<br />MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-61568127604335025622011-11-11T10:25:00.000+00:002011-11-11T23:27:15.619+00:00C'est chouette.*<span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6335185669/" title="DSC_3107 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 373px; height: 303px;" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6053/6335185669_65190b6a36.jpg" alt="DSC_3107" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6335184591/" title="DSC_3093 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 371px; height: 312px;" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6058/6335184591_49fac3f123.jpg" alt="DSC_3093" /></a><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6335184867/" title="DSC_3097 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 372px; height: 367px;" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6212/6335184867_7b2d933531.jpg" alt="DSC_3097" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6335183509/" title="DSC_3084 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6053/6335183509_7cddb23eca.jpg" alt="DSC_3084" height="500" width="371" /></a><br /><br />*When I was a kid and was learning French at school we were always led to believe that the usual Gallic exclamation of approval was "c'est chouette!" which apparently translates as "that's owl". I don't recall ever having heard an actual French person use this phrase. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Though I did once meet someone whose favourite way of expressing surprise was to exclaim "Oh la vache!". Whether P and R will these are "owl" remains to be seen, but they were fun to knit.<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-49482762643344282252011-10-14T10:37:00.011+01:002011-10-16T12:20:51.223+01:00Show home.C and I bought our house about 6 years ago just before we got married, and until recently it's suited us very well. However, now its two bedrooms and one "reception" room are beginning to creak at the seams. Every piece of furniture has something stored under and/or behind it, it is physically impossible to clear the kitchen drainer because we don't have enough cupboard space to put all the sippy cups etc. away, and with four people squeezed round our little folding dining table it is proving increasingly impossible to position hot dishes out of reach of two small children with arms like Mr Tickle and no apparent sense of self preservation.<br /><br />So, we're trying to sell. Which is fine, but showing the house to prospective buyers does require a certain degree of housekeeping. And these days that's easier said than done with a toddler intent on throwing every article in the house onto the floor and a mobile baby with a domestic appliance fetish and a fascination with filth. So, a morning which starts with a plan just to do the washing up, run the hoover round, and then go out and do something interesting, generally ends up going something like this:<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6247165201/" title="2011-10-15 10.01.14 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6051/6247165201_6435c85433.jpg" alt="2011-10-15 10.01.14" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br /><br />7am: Get up - shower and dress - make beds quickly while C takes kids downstairs and makes breakfast [make mental note to go to the loo before C leaves for work].<br />8am: breakfast. [So far so good].<br />8.30am: C leaves for work. [Damn, never went to the loo!].<br />Clear the table - wipe the table/baby - pick up bits of food from floor/walls/hair - attempt to sweep floor in spite of baby clinging to and trying to chew the end of the brush. Meanwhile toddler empties toybox into middle of floor. Consider going to the loo but think it's too much effort to drag everyone upstairs and then come down again and I daren't leave them alone downstairs.<br />9am: Replace brush in kitchen and close gate to keep baby out. Place baby at far end of living-room and attempt to beat him back to the kitchen, get washing out of machine and shut gate again before he can get at the damned brush.<br />Realise baby has gone quiet. Discover this is because he has puked milk all over the floor and is happily paddling about in it and smearing it around with his hands. Retrieve baby and wipe up worst of sick with baby-wipe adding "wash floor" to the list of things to do before viewing.<br />9.30am: Leave toddler engaged in posting things into the stereo cabinet (which, in spite of the child lock, will open just enough to allow entry to a toy car/wooden brick etc.) and baby sorting through remaining toys in search of something small enough to choke on. Go into garden to hang out washing keeping watchful eye on kids through the patio windows.<br />*Return to house after having pegged only one item to sort out baby who has been sick again/ pulled himself up on the toy kitchen and got stuck/ fallen down the side of the sofa and got wedged/ is being ridden like a horse by the toddler/ is eating shoes or electrical cables or chalk that he has been supplied with by his helpful brother who reached it down from the high shelf for him.* [delete as applicable and repeat from * for as many items of clothing as are in the washing basket.<br />Return to house where baby is now standing up leaning against the back door howling, smearing it with sick/snot and won't move. After several minutes trying to tempt him to move to one side by tapping on the glass and pulling faces, give up and open the door very slowly in order to catch him as he falls out onto the patio.<br />Add "wash windows" to list of things to do before viewing.<br />10.30am: Attempt to get both children upstairs in order to change nappies and dress them (and go to the loo). Leave toddler pulling cushions and throw* off sofa (apparently in order to construct a rocket) and carry baby up.<br />Shut stairgate and return to retrieve recalcitrant toddler who won't come up of his own accord but is wittering about having found "a funny thingy" down the back of the sofa. Establish that said thingy is a) a vital part of some treasured toy that one or other of them has somehow snapped off; b) an equally vital piece of some item of furniture; c) something expensive and electrical that C has left within reach; d) something completely unidentifiable but which looks suspiciously as though it might have a bit missing which may have been eaten/posted.<br />Musing over identity of "thingy" is interrupted by ominous crash and wailing from above. Return upstairs with toddler to find baby has pulled the clothes airer down on himself and is trapped underneath.<br />Free baby and start to collect clothes together. Meanwhile toddler has swept a pile of Mr Men books onto the floor and is engaged in throwing handfuls down the stairs. Engage in brief tussle to get remaining books off him and put out of reach.<br />11am: Notice baby has disappeared. Go into bathroom to discover he has pulled himself up on the changing box, acquired and unravelled the loo roll and is now engaged in eating it.<br />Put loo roll on high shelf out of reach and prize soggy bits from between protesting jaws.<br />Change baby's nappy (despite screaming and struggling) and take him to toddler's bedroom to find clothes where he promptly throws up milk and half chewed toilet paper all over the carpet.<br />Try and to clean worst of mess off carpet with another baby-wipe which promptly disintegrates and adds to mess. Fetch hoover in desperate (and vain) attempt to improve situation causing toddler to run screaming from the room and baby to launch himself at it and begin chewing the nozzle.<br />Add "shampoo carpet" to list of things to do before viewing.<br />Distracted by loud hooting from our bedroom. Go in to discover toddler has pulled all bedding off our bed and used it to construct a train, wiping snot across most of it in the process.<br />Add "change beds" to list of things to do before viewing.<br />Sudden loud crash. Discover baby has crawled back into the bathroom and upended nappy bucket all over himself and the floor. Before have time to do anything about this toddler enters dragging the covers from his bed which he has decided to use as a cloak.<br />12 o'clock: Trap baby in cot and take toddler back downstairs and park him in front of Postman Pat.<br />Return to bathroom and finally sit down on loo to survey damage.<br /><br />At 7am the beds were made, the washing up done, the floors swept and the toys tidy. It is now going on for lunchtime. The bedding is on the floor and liberally covered in snot. There are no cushions on the sofa. The floors are covered in books/toys/sick/crumbs and in the case of the bathroom unwashed nappies and soggy paper. I haven't even thought about the washing up which is piled in the sink. The toddler is still not even dressed, and what is more, I can't reach the bloody toilet roll!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">* </span>A throw which we have put on expressly in order to prevent him wiping his hands/nose on the sofa so that it still looks relatively respectable when we have viewings.</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-53271072707163136362011-09-07T22:03:00.005+01:002011-09-07T22:36:49.605+01:00Last of the Summer PantsThis summer, after literally years of not quite getting round to it, I finally bought and used the Big Butt Baby Pants pattern that so many of my friends have raved about. And (unsurprisingly) I love it. That said it has taken me the whole summer to succeed in making three pairs of light summer trousers for each of the boys.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6124654737/" title="2011-09-06 16.51.02 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6209/6124654737_efca369f2e.jpg" alt="2011-09-06 16.51.02" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6124654945/" title="2011-09-06 16.55.27 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6065/6124654945_e36a91b713.jpg" alt="2011-09-06 16.55.27" height="500" width="360" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/6125197380/" title="2011-09-06 16.57.57 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 415px; height: 312px;" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6186/6125197380_04460d2e1e.jpg" alt="2011-09-06 16.57.57" /></a><br /><br />However, in spite of increasing interference from a small boy with a fascination for electrical cables, especially that attached to my sewing machine foot control, I finally finished the last pair this week, just in time for the weather to go cold. Better start on some winter ones I guess.*<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />*My attempts at photography were not helped by the lousy weather and the aforementioned small boy!</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-88604504890340629712011-07-07T21:06:00.004+01:002011-07-07T21:39:42.474+01:00Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside.Recently we have been reading Mr Men books with P at bedtime, his particular favourite being Mr Bump.* In the course of the story Mr Bump takes the train and goes to the seaside, and P became determined that we should do the same. So, finding ourselves at a loose end on a suitably sunny Sunday, off we duly went to Weston-super-Mare where we had a lovely time building (and demolishing) sandcastles, splashing in tidal pools under the pier, having donkey rides, and going on the big wheel. And fortunately, unlike Mr Bump, no<span style="font-size:100%;"> one fell off a boat into the sea, got their foot stuck in a bucket, or had to spend the night in a hole in the sand.**</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5912823389/" title="2011-07-03 14.24.23 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6051/5912823389_21186900e2.jpg" alt="2011-07-03 14.24.23" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5913385642/" title="IMG_0172 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 374px; height: 280px;" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5111/5913385642_b67f8e54d4.jpg" alt="IMG_0172" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5913386412/" title="IMG_0173 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6029/5913386412_f0705029b2.jpg" alt="IMG_0173" height="500" width="374" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5913385260/" title="2011-07-03 15.41.21 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 374px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5039/5913385260_a9b821d1b6.jpg" alt="2011-07-03 15.41.21" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*Sadly, P's devotion to Mr Bump extends to emulating his behaviour in other ways too. We recently booked to have some family photos taken, something we've been meaning to do since P was tiny, but even as I was inside making the appointment, P was outside with daddy falling head-first into the wall of the shop and getting himself a nice shiny purple lump on his forehead. He subsequently fell off his scooter onto the same spot - twice - and added a variety of minor cuts and scrapes to other parts of his face in the remaining few days before the sitting itself. He and his brother then also contrived to contract a cough-til-you-vomit style cold, so we must have presented the photographer with something of a challenge, variously covered in cuts, bruises, snot, and dribble, and all with huge bags under our eyes from a sleepless night!</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />** </span><span style="font-size:85%;">On the other hand,</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> I suspect Mr Bump didn't have to travel with First Great Western, and that his train therefore wouldn't have been delayed owing to a problem with the track, causing him to miss his connection and spend lunchtime on Bristol station instead of by the sea. He probably also didn't have to stand in the corridor of an unairconditioned carriage just outside the disabled loo all the way back, or carry two buggies, plus children and assorted accoutrements over the footbridge at Weston station, where there is no lift. Still, you can't have everything.<br /></span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-68061622246915884402011-05-27T20:51:00.003+01:002011-05-27T21:14:54.580+01:00Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails.I don't know whether it is really true that little girls tend to be cleaner, tidier, and more fastidious than their male counterparts, but in many respects P does appear to be an archetypal little boy. Careering around the house in a seemingly perpetual fog of snot, dribble, and toast crumbs, he is never happier than when causing havoc of one sort or another. Every box must be emptied, anything that can be climbed on must be scaled, and anything squishable or smearable squished and smeared.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5766125108/" title="2011-05-27 10.10.12 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3587/5766125108_30e5b2b41c.jpg" alt="2011-05-27 10.10.12" height="337" width="500" /></a><br /><br />This week he brought his inevitable boyness to bear on what is usually considered to be a more feminine pastime - baking. Trying to keep him entertained my mum and I decided we would make some gingerbread men together and get him to decorate them with currants for the eyes, and buttons - or so we thought. P however had other ideas. Having ignored our explanation of what the currants were intended for he scoffed the vast majority of his and then set about very carefully placing the few remaining ones between each gingerbread man's legs. Why? They were all doing a poo, obviously. Appetizing, eh?MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-29603084832331160452011-05-26T22:29:00.002+01:002011-05-26T23:05:00.522+01:00Having your cake and not eating it.Last week P turned two. Since his birthday was on a weekday we had a shop-bought cake on the day itself, which went to nursery with him so he could celebrate with his friends, and a family party the following Saturday. For this second second birthday celebration my brother manfully took on the challenge of helping me make a cake in the shape of Postman Pat's van.<br /><br />Aiming for a fairly solid loaf cake to use as a base, we hit upon the idea of banana cake. Sadly, the resulting van was not perhaps as tall as it might have been since it took 20 minutes longer to cook than the recipe suggested, and once you have opened my oven door and established that a cake is not done, the only way to shut it again is to slam it hard. However, once it was jammed and marzipanned, and covered in brightly coloured royal icing and then repainted with yet more food colouring*, it began to be fairly recognizably a red van, even if it did look as though someone had slashed the tyres.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5762558271/" title="DSC_2993 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3171/5762558271_fafeaf2ea9.jpg" alt="DSC_2993" height="500" width="334" /></a><br /><br />Postman Pat himself presented more of a challenge. Unable to buy or create convincingly flesh-coloured royal icing my brother constructed his face and hands from marzipan. This left him looking rather as though he had had a nasty shock,** but we decided it would do. We had reckoned without the effect of holding the party outside on a sunny day, however.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5762558749/" title="DSC_3000 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5186/5762558749_a8f4e27896.jpg" alt="DSC_3000" height="331" width="500" /></a><br /><br />Shortly after being put in pride of place on the table in the sunshine, Pat's already pallid features acquired a sweaty sheen, as if he was suffering from the effects of a really bad hangover. An ill-advised attempt to draw on his glasses with black icing added to the effect by making him look as though he'd put his shades on. An hour or so later and Pat's condition was clearly terminal. Shortly after the lighting of the candle his head lolled to one side and his right hand dropped off.<br /><br />However P seemed to be pleased with his cake, even if by this time it did appear to be decorated with the decomposing corpse of Greendale's favourite postie. Mercifully he didn't ask to eat any of it.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />* Given the less-than-buoyant texture of the central cake, and the alarming number of E numbers in the icing, we established fairly early on that this was to be a cake for looking at and blowing out candles on, and commissioned my mum to make another one that was actually edible.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">** Coming out to find his tyres slashed, perhaps.</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-79014766905451016652011-05-13T21:04:00.002+01:002011-05-13T21:23:13.131+01:00Round and round the garden.This time of year always reminds me how much I love having a garden. A few days of sun and the odd shower and suddenly everywhere is full of colour and bees. At the moment the alliums are in full bloom, as are five of my six clematis, the flag iris is out in the pond, and the poppies are ready to pop any minute.<br /><br />And this year I had an extra surprise. The enormous number of straggly wallflowers my mum gave me a couple of years ago that never came to anything and I had pretty much forgotten about, turned out to be an enormous number of beautiful crimson sweet william, and they're now flowering merrily all over the garden. Just as well I never got round to pulling them out!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5716941246/" title="2011-05-07 17.32.41 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 378px; height: 338px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3555/5716941246_1c833e0570.jpg" alt="2011-05-07 17.32.41" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5716940552/" title="2011-05-07 17.29.47 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 377px; height: 274px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3386/5716940552_8ed9c4dfc3.jpg" alt="2011-05-07 17.29.47" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5716941488/" title="2011-05-07 17.34.02 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2042/5716941488_3c7e78baf0.jpg" alt="2011-05-07 17.34.02" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5716940740/" title="2011-05-07 17.30.11 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3639/5716940740_0c2e52cbfb.jpg" alt="2011-05-07 17.30.11" height="500" width="373" /></a>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-90758462904924041782011-05-02T10:15:00.003+01:002011-05-03T22:26:16.077+01:00Time for bed.Some time ago P decided he was too old to sleep in a baby sleeping bag any more so we splashed out and got him a cot duvet. However both of us baulked at paying £30+ for a cover with a design we didn't particularly like, so it was decided I would make some instead.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5684615207/" title="2011-04-29 18.28.01 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5067/5684615207_c60f4fb072.jpg" alt="2011-04-29 18.28.01" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5684615769/" title="2011-04-29 19.48.56 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img style="width: 376px; height: 283px;" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5150/5684615769_53c62b0604.jpg" alt="2011-04-29 19.48.56" /></a><br /><br />This week (thanks largely to the Royals and their extra bank holiday which meant C was at home and could take both boys out for a long walk) I finally finished the second one, so at last I can change the sheets on P's bed without having to make sure I get them all washed, dried, ironed and back on the bed in the same day.MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-26698602456187544762011-04-27T22:32:00.003+01:002011-04-28T17:31:59.956+01:00A bit of fluff.Our neighbours have a tree in their garden which at this time of year produces clouds of fluffy seeds which collect in great drifts in undisturbed corners of the garden and greenhouse, and indeed in the house if the weather is good enough to have the back door open. This year it has been more than usually productive. The greenhouse, in particular, looks like it's been filled with cotton wool and I have spent a lot more time than I'd have liked chasing fluff round the living-room with the hoover.<br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5665240640/" title="2011-04-27 11.20.32 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5069/5665240640_5889540220.jpg" alt="2011-04-27 11.20.32" height="500" width="350" /></a></span><br /><br />Add to this the remarkable number of dandelions that the warm weather has brought out and it's difficult to go anywhere at the moment without coming back covered in fluff.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5661949145/" title="2011-04-27 11.08.59 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5028/5661949145_1c5b511342.jpg" alt="2011-04-27 11.08.59" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br />It also takes an inordinately long time to get anywhere if you have a dedicated dandelion-clock aficionado in tow!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5661949327/" title="2011-04-27 11.09.52 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5221/5661949327_141e58e89d.jpg" alt="2011-04-27 11.09.52" height="500" width="375" /></a>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6334702131488285286.post-25688611813555591462011-04-27T22:13:00.002+01:002011-04-27T22:31:59.775+01:00Having a smashing time.This year Greek Easter was the same day as it was here, and unusually the temperature was five degrees higher than it was in Athens (as my dad gleefully told all our Greek relations who called to wish us happy Easter). So we had a lovely family Easter in my mum and dad's big new garden, with delicious food including lamb souvlakia and tzoureki* cooked by my mum and my youngest brother.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5662517354/" title="2011-04-22 15.26.46 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5023/5662517354_7cfa7904ca.jpg" alt="2011-04-22 15.26.46" height="500" width="416" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5661948477/" title="2011-04-24 14.11.53 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5027/5661948477_ffa393f8a5.jpg" alt="2011-04-24 14.11.53" height="370" width="500" /></a><br /><br />We also introduced P to the traditional hard-boiled egg-cracking contest, a practice he took to with great enthusiasm.**<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alikipantos/5661948967/" title="2011-04-24 17.24.26 by mootthing, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5070/5661948967_e14a85bff3.jpg" alt="2011-04-24 17.24.26" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* A sort of Easter bread/cake. My brother also made a marathopita ('fennel pie'), which was delicious but caused P much consternation since he was convinced there was grass in his bread!<br />**Strictly speaking the eggs should all be red, but the packet of dye I had included 5 colours and it seems churlish not to use them all.</span>MOOTTHINGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528750016742029708noreply@blogger.com1