This house lark is really getting to me, especially as I'm not the greatest homeworker.
I love cooking and my ancient aga rarely lets me down. It slow cooks meat that just falls apart when you show it the cutlery and never overcooks the fish. Keeps everything moist, warms the plates; is rescue remedy for kittens, dries out trainers and is hugely comforting in the middle of a stormy night. Best of all, being a short arse, it warms my bum !
I quite like ironing too. It gives me a chance to hog the telly. Don't get me wrong. I'm really ,truly abysmally awful at ironing, putting more creases in than there were originally but i like the mindless turning and folding and smoothing and the hiss of the steam and the smell.
The rest of it.......especially bathrooms and we've got three is just utterly boring, endlessly tedious and quite frankly a waste of time. Well ok, perhaps not the bathrooms. I just hate doing them!
Tidying up, clearing away.......can't find a dam thing and to be honest with 7 kids in the house it,s pointless. Have you seen that advert...I think it's for a loan ...The woman has this perfectly clean tidy living room, a fixed smile of happiness and contentment. She is on the phone arranging a loan or insurance and her children ask her for something, try in the garage darling she interjects with her happy sing song voice and then her beloved falls over it....."I think he's found it"
It's so unreal!
People coming to view the house again today. Hoovering, dusting, polishing.......I'm not cleaning the bloody windows!
I wiped down the lamp shade...please note i only said one lampshade. That's because it's the only one we've got. Thank god.
I wiped down the lampshade and rediscovered it's colour so that should tell you something about my attitude to housework.
I have hoovered the whole house twice this week.....the carpets will be worn out, nevermind me. Hoovering, what sort of idiot invented that?
My friend Debbie is a compulsive hooverer, she has to do it twice a day, the whole house, and sometimes inbetween times.....her husband has put in laminate flooring but she still has to do it.
We were on a course together run by a psychologist who at lunch firmly told her she should seek help.....OOw no she couldn't possibly get someone else to do it. They might not do it well enough!
Don't think that was quite what he meant.
It was a great relief to me to read in New Scientist some 20 years ago a possible connection with the overuse of cleaning chemicals and leukemia and i have exploited this possibility ever since.
Have you ever looked at the ingredients of some polishes, air freshners, surface cleaners?
Bet you havn't and if you have you're probably a greenie.
As i Mr Sheened the surfaces I thought to look.....
aliphatic hydrocarbons.....can this be good?
non ionic surfactant......is it better than ionic ?
methylchloroisothiazolinone....... not going to name your son that are you?
Benzisothiazolinone.......say no more
What the hell is glutaral?
The most important question of all is..Why are we spreading all this gunk in our homes when we don't know what it is?
We know not to inhale cigarette smoke or if we do we are taking on the risks associated with it.
We tell our kids not to inject, smoke, snort drugs. They are chemicals too, probably half of them are in the products we use daily.....well not me!
Going to live in a yurt is starting to look very attractive.
Do people who live in yurts hoover?
I wonder if they use glutural to clean their surfaces.
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Rooms that mean something
When choosing a new house my wonderful father gave me some advice.
If you walk into a house and you look around and it feels happy then it's a good house....avoid all other houses.
I've always done that and it's served me well.
Lately I've been thinking about rooms, well actually.....spaces.
There are some very special places to me.
One of my first places was under a round tea table which sat on the landing presiding over the stairs. It was a very small space, draped with a crocheted table cloth. Katy and I squashed into it and hid when the coalmen came.....I don't know why but I was petrefied of the coalmen. Luckily they only came twice a year, unless it was an unusually cold winter or that my mother had less money than she would have liked and could only purchase small ammounts of coal. We only had best Welsh anthracite.
My dad made me a treehouse in the old cooking apple tree. It didn't have any walls or a roof. It was more of a look out platform, reached by the steps from our old boat, Sundowner. I played there for many summers...mummys and daddies, pirates and secret 7's. It was the enchanted tree, a way into many other worlds. Looking back, it was probably my area of safety where I could avoid everything else.
I had a den on a building site across the road, where I stashed all my secret possessions , and also my home made rose petal perfume (which stank horribly) and my lemon cordial....which left for a fortnight turned into fizzy lemonade. Jimmy Brown and Paul Allen were my buddies (mostly I suspect because of the lemonade) and Lynda Webley, a sworn enemy. My father found us one day hidden in a nest at the top of a shed and was very cross. The nest turned out to be asbestos. He made us promise we wouldn't go there again.......sucker!
The local cinema was my next favoured space. It had not been renovated for years and told a story of bygone times. I loved the colors and the rich swags, the smell of oranges and toffee popcorn, the thirtees staircase. Very art deco!
When I was a little older, the summers were glorious and I was often in love with one dirt bag or another.....as you are when your a teenager!
Theres a special field.....probably got houses on now, above the 100 fairy steps at Porthkerry where we sunbathed naked and the earth first moved for me......still can smell the grass and hear the bees buzzing from one wild flower to another, the scanty white clouds crossing an endlessly blue backdrop and the seagulls calling to each other.
I'm older now , much older and oh so responsible, so boringly responsible.
The next very special place was my flat. It represented my freedom, independance,
standing alone, just me......trouble was I'm human and although I'm not that keen on people...well I'm not that good at being on my own either. Most of all I loved my fouton but he didn't.
I'm a little out of time and probably more than a little out of order but I went on holiday to Brittany. Actually I was supposed to be working there. I was astounded by it's beauty, it's friendliness. The smells, coffee, cheese and tarte aux fraise, good cider , crepes and simple food.
So much had been happening in my life, mostly very unfavourable things. I'd been stupid and confused and made my situation at home so much more complicated, as you do.
Brittany represented a haven, a safe place, a quietude where I could recenter and the people around me I think understood that need and aided and encouraged that, consciously or not.
I fell deeply in love and still am with one of them .
The house we live in now had a bedroom that had once been used as an art studio. It had lots of light from the many draughty windows and an en suite bathroom, pine clad. In the winter it was so very cold there. We had 3 duvets with a combined tog of abot 33 and still clung to each other all night to keep warm.......well Couldn't tell him I loved him , too much! The bathroom was wonderful if not a bit disconserting. In the wind and believe me we get wind up here on the mountain the pitched pine ceiling would move up and down and rattle ominously. It was wild and scary and comforting and I loved it.
Strange posting I know but something today triggered it.
The upstairs bathroom door is frequently closed and the tap tap of phone keys can be heared and the toilet unused.........think I'm going to need the quietude of Brittany once more after all.
If you walk into a house and you look around and it feels happy then it's a good house....avoid all other houses.
I've always done that and it's served me well.
Lately I've been thinking about rooms, well actually.....spaces.
There are some very special places to me.
One of my first places was under a round tea table which sat on the landing presiding over the stairs. It was a very small space, draped with a crocheted table cloth. Katy and I squashed into it and hid when the coalmen came.....I don't know why but I was petrefied of the coalmen. Luckily they only came twice a year, unless it was an unusually cold winter or that my mother had less money than she would have liked and could only purchase small ammounts of coal. We only had best Welsh anthracite.
My dad made me a treehouse in the old cooking apple tree. It didn't have any walls or a roof. It was more of a look out platform, reached by the steps from our old boat, Sundowner. I played there for many summers...mummys and daddies, pirates and secret 7's. It was the enchanted tree, a way into many other worlds. Looking back, it was probably my area of safety where I could avoid everything else.
I had a den on a building site across the road, where I stashed all my secret possessions , and also my home made rose petal perfume (which stank horribly) and my lemon cordial....which left for a fortnight turned into fizzy lemonade. Jimmy Brown and Paul Allen were my buddies (mostly I suspect because of the lemonade) and Lynda Webley, a sworn enemy. My father found us one day hidden in a nest at the top of a shed and was very cross. The nest turned out to be asbestos. He made us promise we wouldn't go there again.......sucker!
The local cinema was my next favoured space. It had not been renovated for years and told a story of bygone times. I loved the colors and the rich swags, the smell of oranges and toffee popcorn, the thirtees staircase. Very art deco!
When I was a little older, the summers were glorious and I was often in love with one dirt bag or another.....as you are when your a teenager!
Theres a special field.....probably got houses on now, above the 100 fairy steps at Porthkerry where we sunbathed naked and the earth first moved for me......still can smell the grass and hear the bees buzzing from one wild flower to another, the scanty white clouds crossing an endlessly blue backdrop and the seagulls calling to each other.
I'm older now , much older and oh so responsible, so boringly responsible.
The next very special place was my flat. It represented my freedom, independance,
standing alone, just me......trouble was I'm human and although I'm not that keen on people...well I'm not that good at being on my own either. Most of all I loved my fouton but he didn't.
I'm a little out of time and probably more than a little out of order but I went on holiday to Brittany. Actually I was supposed to be working there. I was astounded by it's beauty, it's friendliness. The smells, coffee, cheese and tarte aux fraise, good cider , crepes and simple food.
So much had been happening in my life, mostly very unfavourable things. I'd been stupid and confused and made my situation at home so much more complicated, as you do.
Brittany represented a haven, a safe place, a quietude where I could recenter and the people around me I think understood that need and aided and encouraged that, consciously or not.
I fell deeply in love and still am with one of them .
The house we live in now had a bedroom that had once been used as an art studio. It had lots of light from the many draughty windows and an en suite bathroom, pine clad. In the winter it was so very cold there. We had 3 duvets with a combined tog of abot 33 and still clung to each other all night to keep warm.......well Couldn't tell him I loved him , too much! The bathroom was wonderful if not a bit disconserting. In the wind and believe me we get wind up here on the mountain the pitched pine ceiling would move up and down and rattle ominously. It was wild and scary and comforting and I loved it.
Strange posting I know but something today triggered it.
The upstairs bathroom door is frequently closed and the tap tap of phone keys can be heared and the toilet unused.........think I'm going to need the quietude of Brittany once more after all.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
telesales
My friends son has just got himself a job in telesales.
He's been out of work for a few months so it was cause for celebration and she invited me out to lunch and a bottle of champagne.
"What we partying for, anything specific or just because we can?"
She whispered something unintelligable behind her hand whilst fervently looking around.
Good grief, surely she couldn't be pregnant! New lover, perhaps a toyboy? A mega win on the lottery?.....no. It couldn't be that or we'd be in a much more salubrious establishment and the bubbly would be kosha!
I looked quizically at her and waited.
Rabbit in the headlights moment. She looked around once more, leaned forward so we were almost nose to nose, fixed me with one of those don't you dare comment stares. You probably recognise the one.... that one, usually reserved by the darling teenage daughter when she asks "Do you think this is ok to wear to the party"
You think ****** wheres my little girl gone. Her father needs a shotgun , and some poor guy is going to end up in the nick.......but you swallow and say lovely!
"Jez has got a job in .......( looks around again) T.e.l.e.s.a.l.e.s
Now my mind is full of possibilities, and by this time I'm on the second glass...so spelling things out is not high on my ability levels.
By this time she's making movements with her left hand, like a quacking duck whilst holding a pretend telephone to her ear with her right.
Looks like lunch is going to be a really long one, possibly moving through afternoon tea and into dinner.......I'm crap at charades!
"TELESALES" she desperately blurts out rather too loudly for my liking.
I order another bottle of the fizzy stuff.....she's definately going to need it.
That has got to be the most loathed and detested of all jobs. No one likes telesales people.
Well what I mean is the people are probably very nice...it's the bothering that's the problem.
Usually the tax man only bothers you once a year, but telesales, lets face it are a dam nuisance!
Accountants are dull but you can always send the old man.
I did know a surveyor once who designed carparks and insisted on telling you about every aspect of his job........bored everyone to bed.
I digress, back to the subject ...telesales.
I don't know what a look of horror and sympathy looks like .......she does!
Since I work from home I am regularly interupted and hounded by persistant telesales staff and consequently they have become a target of my anger, jocularity and drama.
He's been out of work for a few months so it was cause for celebration and she invited me out to lunch and a bottle of champagne.
"What we partying for, anything specific or just because we can?"
She whispered something unintelligable behind her hand whilst fervently looking around.
Good grief, surely she couldn't be pregnant! New lover, perhaps a toyboy? A mega win on the lottery?.....no. It couldn't be that or we'd be in a much more salubrious establishment and the bubbly would be kosha!
I looked quizically at her and waited.
Rabbit in the headlights moment. She looked around once more, leaned forward so we were almost nose to nose, fixed me with one of those don't you dare comment stares. You probably recognise the one.... that one, usually reserved by the darling teenage daughter when she asks "Do you think this is ok to wear to the party"
You think ****** wheres my little girl gone. Her father needs a shotgun , and some poor guy is going to end up in the nick.......but you swallow and say lovely!
"Jez has got a job in .......( looks around again) T.e.l.e.s.a.l.e.s
Now my mind is full of possibilities, and by this time I'm on the second glass...so spelling things out is not high on my ability levels.
By this time she's making movements with her left hand, like a quacking duck whilst holding a pretend telephone to her ear with her right.
Looks like lunch is going to be a really long one, possibly moving through afternoon tea and into dinner.......I'm crap at charades!
"TELESALES" she desperately blurts out rather too loudly for my liking.
I order another bottle of the fizzy stuff.....she's definately going to need it.
That has got to be the most loathed and detested of all jobs. No one likes telesales people.
Well what I mean is the people are probably very nice...it's the bothering that's the problem.
Usually the tax man only bothers you once a year, but telesales, lets face it are a dam nuisance!
Accountants are dull but you can always send the old man.
I did know a surveyor once who designed carparks and insisted on telling you about every aspect of his job........bored everyone to bed.
I digress, back to the subject ...telesales.
I don't know what a look of horror and sympathy looks like .......she does!
Since I work from home I am regularly interupted and hounded by persistant telesales staff and consequently they have become a target of my anger, jocularity and drama.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Aliens
I was born in Wales.....I'm Welsh. I moved to Pembrokeshire in my mid 30's.
It's great living here on top of the mountain , fantastic views over the mountains, sea and valley.
In the spring we can be in brilliant sunshine and watch the sea mist creep into the harbour and wind it's way sinuously up the valley until everything is shrouded except the mountain tops.
It's like being in another world, mystical. Alien but supremely beautiful.
Sometimes it's very lonely and wild and it's easy to imagine your the only person in the world......thats usually when i start shouting at the sheep!
I did say in my profile I was a little on the edge!
We only moved 100miles and even though my partners parents come from this area and he and all the children are bi-lingual we are still regarded as aliens, incomers.
The bloke 2 farms away moved less than 20miles into this area and even he isn't thought of as a local.
Having said that we've been made very welcome and when our house caught fire a few years ago, the local people rallied round and offered great support.
The locals are a little odd. Well I guess we must be the odd ones really been as we're in the minority.
It's joked that all the brains moved out and everyone else interbred. It's certainly the case that practically everyone is related.
Theres evidence for this in the local pub which hasn't changed much since the first world war.
Well it's been redecorated, paint and wallpaper but all the furnitures the same and also the pictures, which have been occasionally added to.
On one wall is the picture of the Queen, a very young queen; on another is a picture of the Duke of Windsor (the one who abdicated) and a lovely picture of a soldier with his beloved that must date from the great war.
Through the hatch in the wall, an older lady of indeterminate age (somewhere between 65 and 80) will serve you beer from a jug, with hands in fingerless gloves. Her blue and white check nylon apron covering a dull skirt and jumper and her wrinkly brown woollen stockings end in a pair of sturdy shoes.
Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she barks at you " YES" This should be translated as what would you like to drink? or how can I help you?
She's a woman of few words you might think and you'd be wrong. For as soon as you have settled with your pint, she's in through the door and seated in her comfey armchair rattling off questions like a bren gun firing bullets.
Astute and knowledgable she will dish out advice on every conceivable subject whether you require it or not.
It's like someplace out of the film deliverance!
It's great living here on top of the mountain , fantastic views over the mountains, sea and valley.
In the spring we can be in brilliant sunshine and watch the sea mist creep into the harbour and wind it's way sinuously up the valley until everything is shrouded except the mountain tops.
It's like being in another world, mystical. Alien but supremely beautiful.
Sometimes it's very lonely and wild and it's easy to imagine your the only person in the world......thats usually when i start shouting at the sheep!
I did say in my profile I was a little on the edge!
We only moved 100miles and even though my partners parents come from this area and he and all the children are bi-lingual we are still regarded as aliens, incomers.
The bloke 2 farms away moved less than 20miles into this area and even he isn't thought of as a local.
Having said that we've been made very welcome and when our house caught fire a few years ago, the local people rallied round and offered great support.
The locals are a little odd. Well I guess we must be the odd ones really been as we're in the minority.
It's joked that all the brains moved out and everyone else interbred. It's certainly the case that practically everyone is related.
Theres evidence for this in the local pub which hasn't changed much since the first world war.
Well it's been redecorated, paint and wallpaper but all the furnitures the same and also the pictures, which have been occasionally added to.
On one wall is the picture of the Queen, a very young queen; on another is a picture of the Duke of Windsor (the one who abdicated) and a lovely picture of a soldier with his beloved that must date from the great war.
Through the hatch in the wall, an older lady of indeterminate age (somewhere between 65 and 80) will serve you beer from a jug, with hands in fingerless gloves. Her blue and white check nylon apron covering a dull skirt and jumper and her wrinkly brown woollen stockings end in a pair of sturdy shoes.
Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she barks at you " YES" This should be translated as what would you like to drink? or how can I help you?
She's a woman of few words you might think and you'd be wrong. For as soon as you have settled with your pint, she's in through the door and seated in her comfey armchair rattling off questions like a bren gun firing bullets.
Astute and knowledgable she will dish out advice on every conceivable subject whether you require it or not.
It's like someplace out of the film deliverance!
Selling a house
Here are the viewees.
They'll probably survive the viewing as long as they don't open any cupboards, wardrobes or look behind doors.
I wonder if I should get public liability insurance?
I can just see it now, the headlines in the local press
Man painted, assaulted by a jigsaw and feathered by odd socks.
Funny thing about socks, there are probably around three hundred pairs of socks in this household and none of them are real pairs.
When I buy new ones i depair them , mix the colours up and the sizes, roll them up in twos and distribute them to the kids.
This is a sort of reverse psychology....oops sorry reverse sockology......
Sadly socks, unlike humans are not that susceptable nor suggestable.
Having said that i wonder what would happen if i did a cohort study. What percentage of socks would suddenly find themselves correctly paired in the washing machine?
If it is taken that socks mysteriously disappear down a washing machine portal and that the under the bed monster is partial to a supper dish of sock ragu . Then surely the laws of physics and biology might suggest that socks could appear in the washing machine and that the bed monster might receive presents of socks on his birthday been as he's so fond of them.
This is getting silly.
Looks like rainy day syndrome, oh what can we do in the coutryside that will satisfy our curiosity?
Oh I know lets pretend we're house hunting. It's jolly good fun, and think of all the effort time and work they've put in to tidy up.!
Personally it might be fun if they opened the cupboard under the stairs.
They'll probably survive the viewing as long as they don't open any cupboards, wardrobes or look behind doors.
I wonder if I should get public liability insurance?
I can just see it now, the headlines in the local press
Man painted, assaulted by a jigsaw and feathered by odd socks.
Funny thing about socks, there are probably around three hundred pairs of socks in this household and none of them are real pairs.
When I buy new ones i depair them , mix the colours up and the sizes, roll them up in twos and distribute them to the kids.
This is a sort of reverse psychology....oops sorry reverse sockology......
Sadly socks, unlike humans are not that susceptable nor suggestable.
Having said that i wonder what would happen if i did a cohort study. What percentage of socks would suddenly find themselves correctly paired in the washing machine?
If it is taken that socks mysteriously disappear down a washing machine portal and that the under the bed monster is partial to a supper dish of sock ragu . Then surely the laws of physics and biology might suggest that socks could appear in the washing machine and that the bed monster might receive presents of socks on his birthday been as he's so fond of them.
This is getting silly.
Looks like rainy day syndrome, oh what can we do in the coutryside that will satisfy our curiosity?
Oh I know lets pretend we're house hunting. It's jolly good fun, and think of all the effort time and work they've put in to tidy up.!
Personally it might be fun if they opened the cupboard under the stairs.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
small roads and cachi
Living in the coutryside can be pretty wonderful. You certainly know what the weather is.
Driving on the otherhand can be a bit unpredictable. It rained last night, just a bit...and it was a tad breazy with the wind, so there was a fair ammount of fallen leaves.
Drive a bit slower you'd think.....not at all.
The locals especially the one with the green golf gti, fearlessly carreer around the narrow bendy roads as if they are competitors in a rally.
At the other end of the spectum theres Mr Jones....10miles per hour up to 15 if he's speeding.
Driven an old Fergi all his life (no not an ex royal) thinks he's dangerous at 20 mph.
I'm sure you can imagine the potential for car carnage at every trip. Then to top it all theres the tourists. Usually lived in cities or large towns. Oh yes they've mastered lane dicipline and the middle finger salute, brilliant at traffic lights, speed calming measures and duel carriageways but the last time they used reverse was on the driving test. I think they must believe the R on the gear shift is for Rest.
Rest and stare....rest and stare....wildly gesticulate.......rest and stare...... shout....rest and stare and panic.
All of this can be endlessly entertaining, the school run an instant adrenaline hit. The shopping trip a veritable rollercoaster screamer.......but this pales into insignificance compared to a small stretch of road alongside a dairy farm I came across today.
A small square sign said MUD ....I slowed, not a lot, not nearly enough because I'm a local....
Feet off everything... well it wasn't going to matter what i did.
MUD , liquid mud and cachi (cow shit for the unwelsh of you).
I wasn't actually aquaplaning...more like skidding in the skiddies.....brown trouser moment as i manouvered round the bend. I got round it but the shit was in control. It slew me first one way then another, precariously close to the bridge, over the bridge and into the next bend.
Closing your eyes does nothing to alleviate the fear. The shit did nothing except delude me into thinking I had traction, and then it coallesed and hurtled me towards the bank.
I live to tell the tale and so did the other bloke coming the other way.
Driving on the otherhand can be a bit unpredictable. It rained last night, just a bit...and it was a tad breazy with the wind, so there was a fair ammount of fallen leaves.
Drive a bit slower you'd think.....not at all.
The locals especially the one with the green golf gti, fearlessly carreer around the narrow bendy roads as if they are competitors in a rally.
At the other end of the spectum theres Mr Jones....10miles per hour up to 15 if he's speeding.
Driven an old Fergi all his life (no not an ex royal) thinks he's dangerous at 20 mph.
I'm sure you can imagine the potential for car carnage at every trip. Then to top it all theres the tourists. Usually lived in cities or large towns. Oh yes they've mastered lane dicipline and the middle finger salute, brilliant at traffic lights, speed calming measures and duel carriageways but the last time they used reverse was on the driving test. I think they must believe the R on the gear shift is for Rest.
Rest and stare....rest and stare....wildly gesticulate.......rest and stare...... shout....rest and stare and panic.
All of this can be endlessly entertaining, the school run an instant adrenaline hit. The shopping trip a veritable rollercoaster screamer.......but this pales into insignificance compared to a small stretch of road alongside a dairy farm I came across today.
A small square sign said MUD ....I slowed, not a lot, not nearly enough because I'm a local....
Feet off everything... well it wasn't going to matter what i did.
MUD , liquid mud and cachi (cow shit for the unwelsh of you).
I wasn't actually aquaplaning...more like skidding in the skiddies.....brown trouser moment as i manouvered round the bend. I got round it but the shit was in control. It slew me first one way then another, precariously close to the bridge, over the bridge and into the next bend.
Closing your eyes does nothing to alleviate the fear. The shit did nothing except delude me into thinking I had traction, and then it coallesed and hurtled me towards the bank.
I live to tell the tale and so did the other bloke coming the other way.
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