Beans

I have stumbled across a miracle for the modern age. It is not of biblical proportions granted, but fairly miraculous nonetheless. It is of the male variety and goes by the name of 'Bean'.

(Of course if I do smuggle him into a cage type enclosure to parade around for paying spectators, in a scenario reminiscent of the all but extinct 'freak shows' - a derogotory phrase if ever I heard one, one person's freak is another person's treasure after all- which I fully intend to do in order to boost the old finances, I would perhaps need to come up with something a little more catchy for marketing purposes.)

This 'Bean' (and yes, the quotation marks are obligatory) is so named due to the fact that the only thing on this bountiful planet that this medical phenomenon consumes is beans. As in those that are baked.

Oh, and bread. Beans, bread, beer, and cake. With the odd tin of tomato soup thrown in for the necessary portion of fruit (or is it a veg?). No exaggeration. It has been so since he was weaned and will continue to be so for the rest of his days no doubt, especially as he is about to embark on the student way of life, which will only serve to encourage this miraculous diet. For him it will be as cheap as chips. Or should I say as cheap as a tin of beans.

This is no contained case either. There was the infamous boy who graced a few newspaper pages a year or two ago who had only ever eaten white processed bread and strawberry jam, yet was as fit as a fiddle. In your face Jamie Oliver. And of course, there is my own dear father who positively thrives on a diet of only Tunnocks caramel wafers (for, as he reminds us almost daily, they only make 4 million a week. I think this is supposed to justify the sheer amount consumed somehow). Who needs those five fictitious food groups when there is evidence that far fewer will suffice. It's surely a media created, neuroses causing, marketing ploy.

Far be it for me to comment, I am no one to cast judgement on the eating habits of others - anyone who has watched me devouring a Tunnocks tea cake (evidently it is the Kirks who keep Tunnocks in business) in my own unique way will agree that it is a marvel to behold - but surely not ever deviating from such supermarket staples is bizarre, monotonous, and frankly boring. I blame the addictive additives and e numbers, slowly mutating our genes so that the human race will eventually become entirely dependant on only one food type. At least the methane gas resulting from this pure diet of beans would solve the fuel crisis. We could just run everything on this limitless natural gas, also putting an end to feuds and wars over oil. Beans therefore could lead to world peace. Now that really would be a miracle.

Update on the doooom situation

There is nothing like spending one's days in an enclosed space with a troop of nutcases and eccentrics (not of the mild persuasion) to lift one's spirits I always say. Therefore I am back on form, once again able to fight crime, rid the world of dastardly deeds, and eradicate evil. Though I'm less partial to the shirt ripping, kiss-curl, lycra fiasco that always seems to go hand in hand with superhero status. I am merely content with being referred to as the Sensational Saviour, using my perfectionist powers, ability to sense when cushions are not straight and radar for when glasses are not on coasters to right the world of its multitude of wrongs. Yes, Anna the Astonishing is well and truly returned.

Dooooooom!

What a dismal day. Reasons for feeling all warm and happy inside: 1, that am immersing myself in a new book which is actually good for the entire day. Reasons for wanting to disappear into aforementioned book for entire day: numerous.
Oh yuk. It is raining. Raining in August. Raining on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of the summer holidays. Sunday afternoon being before Monday morning. Monday mornings being yuk.
Weekend which should have been fun not being fun. S mucked about with by Stupid Male Specimen of no brain (or heart for that matter) and unceremoniously disposed of. P treated very badly by Another Stupid Male Specimen causing her (and her supporters) to be very angry then her being very merciful and succumbing to tears, anguish, and disturbingly reminiscent pain. Me being A Crap Person and not being very good at the helping thing and feeling entirely surplus to requirements. The one all girl band playing at event where these scenes tragically played out being cringeworthy and an embarrassment, therefore rather depressing for the Hexham feminist movement. Finding out that (despite me resisting all competitive elements of exam results and actively despising all that carry on) the one person I really wanted to 'beat' did better than me. Realising that somebody doing better than me in a silly academic gauging of knowledge made me feel so wretched.
Knowing that things are changing and can't be like they used to be, i.e always solved with mugs of tea, cookies, and episodes of Friends.
Not a big fan of late August.
And so back to my book. Ever the escapist.

Every Little Helps

Sipping green tea from mismatched mugs, perched on floral-cushioned wooden chairs of varying heights, this weeks post meditation session was being guided by the softly-spoken, chucklesome irishman Alan, intent on discovering our deepest fears and dreams over hobknobs.

As is customary, one by one we laid the burning issues and thoughts of the past week on the table (though being a Buddhist group this is played out with large, meaningful, significant pauses between each one, with nothing hurried, and endless thumb twiddling): still not being able to sell the house, increasingly uncomfortable backpain, a weekend trip to Scotland, waiting for the dreaded AS results (though that is another story, shudder), the usual day to day trivialities.

Then it came to Peter.

'Well, this week Bernadette and I have been mostly expressing our solidarity with the Archbishop of York in his fasting and praying for those involved in the conflict in the Middle East... We have been doing this by reducing our food intake* and chanting on the hour, every hour, every day. We chant the mantras 108 times, hoping to bring healing. I just can't imagine why more people aren't doing it.'

No Peter, me neither.

*Which seemed to comprise of Bernadette not having one of her usual two cups of tea a day. It is apparantly giving her a bit of a headache, poor love.

Eulogy for a slug

Today is a day of mourning.

I feel guilt-ridden and wretched, and more than a little repulsed. In what shall be known as a slug of war: man v beast, I have unwittingly emerged the victor. All that remains of my unknowing adversary is a pathetic, moistly flaccid, slime splatter, gently oozing silvery phlegm and orange insides. Any buddhist aspirations go to the grave along with the poor little soul lured in by the damp and cold that is our pantry. Let us hope it will be happy in it's place of rest. Though I don't know how happy the rest of us will be with it hardening accusingly, fusing to the floor, every time we go and get some potatoes.

The least I can do is document it's last moments, immortalised in blog form. I think it would have appreciated that.

As I once again embarked on my tireless quest of consuming late-night confectionary during the advert break of Poirot (thereby giving me 3mins 27 secs to successfully brew up a mug of tea, retrieve box of marshmallowy goodness, and make it back to anna-imprinted sofa comfort before the bulging Belgian revealed all) my blood ran cold. Wetness seeped through sock and my heart sunk. In my haste to return to discover which extravagantly dressed dastardly member of the bourgoisie had plunged the knife into the victim, I myself had committed a murder. Thank goodness I was not barefoot. After having squelched the limp thing enough to cause it trauma and severe pain yet not enough to quite finish it off, it was flung from the underside of my foot in revolted panic, soppily thwacking on the cold, hard floor where it would end it's days. Not hesitating to see if it was alive or dead, the heartless murderess that I am ashamed to be dubbed proceeded to cause a bit of a commotion, mostly comprising of such bewails as 'EEEUUUUWWW!!'
Having got rid of the incriminating evidence (the slimy sock which was ripped from my foot immediately and unceremoniously chucked in washing basket), N came running down to see what drama had played out to cause such uproar. I replied nonchalantly that it was merely that an unfortunate slug had departed this world for the next. Then, once N was rectified and back in bed, I once again advanced on the wailing. Well it was quite unpleasant after all.

After the trauma of this episode I was verging on feeling myself once more when I ventured into the pantry this morning and in the cold light of day the slug corpse looked even more forlorn. The horror of the previous night came flooding back. I foresee this occurring every time supplies are needed from that fateful room. And so it should, the guilt felt being all I can offer that poor little defenceless creature. Which now looks like a congealed snot.

And all because the lady loves Tunnocks teacakes.

All unpacked and ready to blog

To summarise...

The parents were mercilessly mocked (as ever, they are old and needed naps)
N was fashioned some dreadlocks (a new cause for obsession, but a cool one)
J received quite a shock (as he got his ear pierced, chavtastic)
The boys avoided sharks and crocs (as they surfed those narly waves)
I bought a super frock (with swishy skirt and everything, it's green)
Dad was close to going 'pop!' (due to awe inspiring amounts of cornish clotted cream and pasties)
Mum went all beach-blonde on top (complete with sun burnt parting)
N 'n' J were constantly in head locks (sibling rivalry in full flow)
Insults were thrown, including 'You c*ck!' (as well as things I couldn't possibly repeat)
Mum and I looked at rocks (sculpted by Barbara Hepworth dontcha know)
Ice cream was eaten quite a lot (of varying flavours and quality)
It became ridiculously hot (sunburn, sleep, and - being from the north east - surprise resulted)
A windbraker was bought, to my shock (words cannot express my hatred for them and all they represent)
Mum's face contorted into a knot (everytime the camera was pointed her way)
A multitude of views were shot ( for photos of varying success- some are real beauts though)
We all refused to join the flock (of southern yuppie sorts with their big cars and wholesome family healthiness)
I tried to resist all the shops (in favour of cool hippy-dippy stalls run by dudes)
We explored the legend of Arthur and Launcelot (at the breathtaking Tintagel castle and tacky souvenir shops)
The boys were left to run amock (on sand and sea, inexhaustibly)
All that I left there was a sock (pretty good going if you ask me, considering the amount we took)
Dad and I got stuck in a grid lock (on our return, whilst he explained the situation in Lebanon)

In short Cornwall positively rocked.

Missing: Presumed Dead Happy on Holiday

Right, I have a ten minute window amongst my busy schedule of packing, watching trash on telly (for medical reasons, compulsory relaxation time, naturally), getting N's blinking birthday stuff ready despite him not actually being 13 till the end of the month, and yet more packing. Oh, and also some panicking is pencilled in, some time about midnight I'd say, when I realise that have nothing packed. Therefore, think yourselves very lucky that I am choosing to dedicate these ten minutes to blogging.

The end of an era. Le grande finale. A day to end all days. The passing of an age. All of which I could use to describe the last day of term, and indeed the year. However, I have a preferred and arguably more appropriate expression that sums up the veritable feast of emotion and high-spirited commotion of the day; phew.

And so to summer and holidays. And early starts, and forgotten toothbrushes, and irritable travellers, and cramped cars, and hot sweaty grumbling. Still, the excitement remains. Getting up at the crack of dawn (a 4am start in this case) is rather exhilerating. The intrepid explorers will embark on their adventure as the town sleeps. Ooh, what a thrill. As long as ma is pumped full of caffeine, J doesn't whitter, N leaves the mandolin in the boot, and I am still in a pleasantly comatose state it will be a blast.

Two weeks away en famille (blessing or barking? Discuss) after a day of Kia Picanto style travel down to Charismatic Cornwall. Let's hope that it doesn't turn out to be calamitous or cataclismal. A blend of curiosities and culture would be far more contenting and congenial. Shutup.
Don't know if it has wireless though so may be out of action on the blogging front. So don't ring 999, or register me as a missing person or anything hasty like that. Will merely be sunning myself in the south, being a bodacious beach babe, and hanging with the yuppie set in Cornwall. Bear my absence as best you can.

Ignorance is bliss

After crawling out of an anna-sized hole, in which I have been licking my wounds (metaphorically speaking as doing so literally would be gross) and cooling my cheeks due to recent spelling shame, I have been mostly ignoring things.
You would think this was easy, but it actually requires a great deal of effort and skill. Amongst the growing list of 'Things I am Trying to Ignore' are:

1. The fact I have to complete a French presentation for early next week, despite NOT KNOWING ANY FRENCH and hating it with all my heart and being one of only three in a class and the only reason I attend these lessons being that I feel sorry for Mr R and I thought I might actually learn something such as the actual French language but this is just a big lie as all we do is pretend to write presentations whilst actually screaming inwardly 'I hate French and could be doing something far more useful and constructive like sunbathing right now' and leaving early to do some 'research' in the library or chatting to Mr R about anything other than verbs. And why in God's name did I decide to do a presentation on Montmartre? Random. I think I was hoping that the thrills, excitement, interesting culture, raunchiness etc of the region would inject the same into French lessons. It hasn't.
2. Having to write a comparative essay on two literary texts for Tuesday. Whilst wild horses couldn't stop me from devouring this task and gorging myself on themes, motifs, language, structure and so on, it is unfortunate that I have lost the will to live.
3. The pressure from adults of the teaching profession in regards to higher education.
4. Miss M's psychotic rolling eyes, wild, russet mane, ruddy, ageing skin, fidgety, manic limbs, acid tongue, and spine chilling penetrative lilt. All made terrifying to the extreme when directed at mild, meek, 'rabbit caught in headlights' me.
5. N's alarmingly good mood. It makes me suspicious and uneasy. Something must be about to go awry, I can feel it.
6. My stupid, stupid hair. Because it is being stupid.
7. Vast pile of books that I really should read.
8. The fact that I haven't seen the crew for weeks. But I have been very busy recruiting new crew. No excuse however.
9. The gradual disintegration of my most recent attempt at a filing system.

So all in all, I am blissfully content in my state of ignorance.

Anyway, what do I care as I am off to Ecclefechan (say it aloud, give yourself a chuckle) where rural life will be experienced, the boredom of cousins will be briefly quelled, and the 'fechan bus may even be taken. Dear me, that'll never get old.

The ladel? Surely some sort of tracking device...

Be not alarmed, but we have been Pammed.

I noticed it as soon as I walked through the door. Things were not where they had been left only a few hours before. Shoes all on the shoe rack (the clue is in the title, yet still the concept is not grasped), floors clear of fluff-monsters, sinks swiped of bacterial colonies, cushions plumped and in order (a like-minded soul in that respect, and one to whom I am eternally, though to many incomprehensibly, grateful), and the air heavy with the nostril-stripping scent of disinfectant and chemicals. Cleanliness truly is next to godliness. It must be said that Pam does have a certain celestial air to her, resonating halo-like as she sprays and scrubs. Though that could just be the layers of dust being dislodged and sparkling in the sunlight, creating a transcendental aura about her person.

However...

Why, why, why would you put the whistling lid of the kettle in a ladel? And why keep the soap on top of the nail scrubbing brush? And why store all the biscuit tins in a toppling tower formation? And what, may I ask you, is with the endless plastic boxes on every surface to store things in, multiplying in number on every visit?

It is our house, but not as we know it. A parallel Kirk household where everything is very slightly different. A house that is slowly being infiltrated with Pamisms. Soon, no doubt, she will control us all, without us even realising it has happened. As innocent and amiable as Pam and her quiche eating ways may seem, I am sure some foul plot is afoot.
But fear not. I'm on to her. Just as she uses her cunning and subtle ways, so do I in returning things to how they were. It is a battle to be played out over time, the ball shifting from court to court as mind games and manipulations are scuppered. Ingleside will not be Pammified as long as I defend it.

Tradition vs Twits

"Mags! How extraordinary!"
"Oh, Juuulia! I had no idea you would be here!"
"Yah, yah, I'm just up here with Daddy. Knows one of the dons, thought I'd tag along, you know the thing."
"Absolutely. Well, best be off. Do you know where the philosophy seminar's happening? Thought I'd fit it in before Mummy shows me her old digs at Kat's."

...

"I was wondering if it would be worth stating on applying for English Literature that one has a published poetry anthology in 'Faber & Faber'?"

...

"If my daughter was wishing to pursue, say, mathematics, is there a particular college that excels in the subject that you would suggest?"

...

"Would it make a difference to one's acceptance if one had performed works of Shakespeare for one's work experience?"

...

"Will there be opportunities to explore the intricacies of more recent theorists' texts such as Sartre also?"

And all I want to do is play at being Harry Potter for a bit.

A very British outlook

'The heat! The heat! Oh, how it burns! Oh, how the sun's rays rage like a thousand fires of hell, setting my very soul alight!'

That is what I would be saying if I had the energy. The heat has made my brain melt however, draining every last vestige of common sense and logical thought from my clammy being. Urgh.

And I am heading further south. With a menopausal mother.

Good God, I wish I was a penguin.

Read it and weep

Why can't a Personal Statement be just that: a statement of the personal persuasion? i.e, 'I am mint, pick me.'

But oh no, that great British institution that is the education system can never be that simple. Instead we are encouraged to wax lyrical for a page or so about how going on that geography field trip put my 'team work' and 'numerical formation skills' to good use, and how that I.T course enhanced and utilised my 'ability to develop organisational talents' and 'improve my evaluating credentials'. What does it all actually mean? Basically, I am mint. But in a depressingly fast spreading language that I presume university type people must speak.

An extract from Anna's Personal Statement: Draft 1
Since being but a mere sparkle in my mother's eye, it has been English Literature that has been the beating of my heart, the passion that drives me, the life force that moves me, the very essence of my soul. On completing 'Shakespeare: Complete Works' (at the age of six, in the gifted and talented extra-curricular group) I experienced an epiphany. Literature is my true calling. Therefore , I am chair of the 'Austen Discussion Club', head of 'The Classics Committee', enthusiastic contributer of our 'Budding Young Poets' publication as well as of course partaking in all sporting, choral, theatre, and chess activities in school. These enable me to develop extensive people skills, cultural appreciation, organisational, analytical, and motivational credentials, provides challenging stimulation and the chance to learn substantially about teamwork and communication... gush, gush, gush, I am amazing, yada yada, look how rightous I am, bla bla, I have virtues coming out my ears, etc etc ...

They will snap me up for sure.

And if not, then there is always plan B. 'I am mint, pick me'

Just when it looked like a whole class were going to be wiped out in one fell swoop due to unexpected energy-sapping heat, eye-poppingly painful Pompey trivia boredom (and I'll passus on Crassus too thankyou. It can't be said that I rate-o Cato either, and as for Cissero? I'll give him a missero. Sorry. I'm stopping now) and having to look upon Matthew 'sociopath, sneezy, psychotic' Henderson's new pudding basin hair-do, an absolute gem saved us, one and all.

'Sorry I'm a little more hesitant than usual. I'm just having to translate from the latin'

Oh Strict Keith, your intellect knows no bounds.

Having been reading from a little, age-yellowed paperback for the past half hour in his stuttery, stammering manner, studded with deviation and diversion as normal, it had passed me by that this font of knowledge was fluently deciphering the ancient language of the Romans and making it intelligible to us. Although I shouldn't be surprised he speaks latin so naturally (aside from being a latin teacher of course) as I keep forgetting that he was actually there at the time of Caesar the Roman geezer. He may even be the great man himself, though using the pseudonym Strict Keith in order to lie low obviously. I don't think the publicity would agree with him if he was to be found out- he doesn't strike me as the kinda guy to revel in giving exclusives to 'Hello' and the like. A duddery old Ancient History teacher is the perfect disguise, as well as him being able to pass on his first hand knowlege too. Genious.




Neighbours withdrawel symptoms in full flow. It's been four days cold turkey now, and I'm feeling the effects. All the 'G'day's, 'Spiggin' hufters' and 'No worries' are working their way out of my system. Henman and Beckham can stuff it, taking their balls with them. 'Bring back Breeeeeeee!' I say. I am Anna, and I'm a Neighboursaholic. And not ashamed to say it no less.

Questions

Why are some people more susceptible to midge bites than others?

Who gets the money when people buy plots of land on the moon? Where does that odd sock go everytime a wash cycle finishes? What is Doctor Who's first name?

What function do earlobes have? Why do you always most want to do what you're expressly told not to? How come those with the most money are the ones given things for free, when it is them who could most afford it?

Why is it bad manners to eat with your fingers and not cut things up except in the case of asparagus? Why do the top of tights always rest under your armpits, yet the crotch rest somewhere about your knees?

Why is it that the people who describe themselves as 'totally mad, me' are in actuality the most dull? Ditto, 'bubbly'?

Why, when eaten, is pig called pork, cow called beef, sheep called lamb, yet chicken remains chicken? Why do you always spill things when wearing white? Why does it always rain the day you wear your hair loose?

Why do people talk in baby talk to their pets when they can't understand our language on any level? Why, as we come to it, do people speak in baby talk to babies?

How come parents are always wrong, especially when they are right? Why is watching somebody fall over and experience embarrassment and pain so funny? Why is the sidekick always the clever/funny/endearing one?

What do English people sound like to foreigners when speaking their language? Why are there often more irregular verbs than regular ones?

Why do bad things happen to good people? How did 'bad' come to mean 'good'? Why do people order the Hawaiian pizza then pick off the pineapple?

Why is it that the people who need the most help are the ones who find it most difficult to ask for it? Why do things that are bad for you taste so good and things that are good for you taste so bad? Why is medicine so unappetising when it is what is going to make you better?

How are you supposed to find any answers when all there seem to be are questions? There is an infinite number of questions; is there a finite number of answers?

And why on earth is the word 'bum' so endlessly and universally hilarious? Snigger.

Ting! Ommm....

'Oh, and bowing. Yes, yes, we do a lot of bowing'

Things I think about whilst meditating, when am supposed to be thinking of nothing at all:

1. What I am going to wear tomorrow
2. Why I have 'Wake Me Up' by Wham in my head
3. Whether the knot in that wood most resembles a tortoise or Ian Hislop
4. Possible lyrics and stage direction for the concept 'Midsummer Murders: The Musical!'
5. Pins and needles
6. Amusing tummy noises
7. Thinking about nothing at all. Therefore am thinking. It's a vicious circle
8. The latest plot development concerning Bree (all hail Bree Timmins! etc etc) in Neighbours
9. Blog entries

Note to self: meditation needs work

Anna Airhead

I have been living a lie.

I am having an identity crisis.

And I have cotton wool stuck to my head.

As you may have gathered things are serious. After being of the impression all my life that I Am A Reader, I fear I may be mistaken. I have lost my power. All that is left is dorky, bespectacled Clarke Kent. Yet it is Superman, pants and all, who is needed.
Perhaps an explanation is needed. On being asked to come up with an anthology of six pieces of text attatched to a mere modicum of 'literary merit', I am at a loss. Me. The pretentious spoon who dares to connect the illustrious term of Reader to her name. Shameful.
Admittedly it is more the theme of prementioned anthology that is the blighter, not the texts themselves (those, after all, can be searched for on Google or the like. Don't worry, don't worry, literary parents of mine, only joking).
Of course I have a whole pile of books just waiting for me to devour and mentally digest. It sits mournfully by my bed, Joseph Conrad willing me to scan his rich prose, Oscar Wilde yearning for his wit to be appreciated. All the while I am guiltily, yet resolutely, ignoring their pleas. I keep meaning to read them naturally, it's just that the more pressing issue of becoming an absolute philistine and airhead bimbo calls for almost constant attention. And I let people think I am a well-read tycoon of the classics and critic of contemporary works. All a fabrication of alarming proportions.

I shall have to go and console my mortification steeped being by flicking through 'Heat' (only looking at the pictures of course) followed by an episode of Big Brother whilst painting my nails.

By the way, the cotton wool is due to me scratching a spot. There are times when youth is a favourable factor and advantageous beyond comprehension. This is not one of those times.

The Corruption of Strict Keith

Just for the record I feel I need to document that it has now been confirmed that the boy known as David...David Who? does exist.

After months, perhaps years, of hearing about this elusive character, so much of a none-entity that his surname is a matter of perpetual mystery, a rear view glimpse was captured a few days ago. Furthermore, an actual phonecall from the enigma that is this thirteen year old was received today by ma, in reference to meeting N (at the life-affiming joy that is the middle school summer fair no less, at which a great deal of e-numbers and musty-smelling junk is always consumed and acquired).

Of course I still have no actual proof that he is a living, breathing, real-life character (Despite N being adamant that 'he is one of my best friends, I've known him for aaaages!'), as the glimpse could have plausibly been anyone of xy chromosomes and the right side of puberty. And a voice on the end of a phoneline could hardly constitute as evidence that would hold in court. In fact, the more I think about it, N could well be constructing an elaborate con. He wasn't present at the time of the phonecall after all. Hmmm... Requires further investigation methinks.


I think I may have possibly encountered the poshest person alive. Known to all as Strict Keith, he is a vision in smoky-coloured tweed and impressionist painting ties, and is the type who can derive endless chuckles from little anecdotes concerning Roman emperors and finds his subject infinitely fascinating. I hardly need add that he is of course a history teacher of the ancient variety (in terms of period and his own age). In fact I am sure we can cite him as our source material in exams as he was evidently present at the rise of the Roman Empire. Which is why his knowledge is so extensive no doubt.

Adorably stuttery and well-meaning, he stumbles through his clipped Oxbridge vowels and befuddling latin names nervously, never having been faced by such a large class of gormless, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, empty-vesselled troglodytes. Having originally come from teaching at a boys public school, then being a recluse in the toppermost tower of the Hydro building, teaching a mere handful of latin fluent prodigies, he has now been thrust into the throes of the state school in all its glory. I don't think the poor chap had even ventured out of his 4 foot square office on F floor, before having to contend with year 12 Ancient History.
All credit to him though. He handled the onslought of newly evolved charv (a new generation of them seem to have emerged, ruder than ever before, in the blink of an eye. I don't know where I've been, but this new elite charv army seems to be growing) barging into the poorly equipped, peeling classroom our humble class had been allocated to, demanding to 'lend' chairs whilst sporting multicoloured tramlines down the side of their heads as a kind of war paint.
However, when faced with the white board situation, he had not realised that teachers really ought to carry around their own pens as it is rare that there will ever be any actually at hand. An unfortunate incident with a permanent marker followed.
He has obviously never had to do anything practical in his life (that is all probably taken care of by Mrs Strict Keith, if there is such a woman) as, when another board in another classroom required wiping, he stood and stared at it for some time, scratching his head in puzzlement, before asking somebody to deal with it for him. He will learn soon enough I am sure. The innocence of the private system will duly be corrupted.
Am loving him though; once the awkward initiation phase is over I am sure the banter (of the intelectual kind naturally) will be in full flow.
That's if he hasn't had a shock induced stroke of course.

Shucks

Prepare yourselves for some sentimental soppy stuff guys. I usually steer clear of nauseating scenarios, not wishing to indulge in any stomach turning sap (with the obvious exception of such masochistic epic films as 'Love Story' or 'It's a Wonderful Life') yet this could not be shied away from. It is utterly adorable, in the least patronising way possible naturally, and tres tres sweet in a satisfyingly gooey way. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...drum roll please... N's song. Written for none other than moi no less. Plucks at the heart strings as well as the acoustic guitar strings.

I would like to thank you
For everything that you've given me,
You've helped me through the hardest times in my life
But you've had problems of your own
And I hope I've been some help to you
So I'd like to say, to say...
Thank you

It's been a journey to remember
I won't forget, don't you forget
So I'd like to say to say
Thank you


I would like to thank you
For everything that you've given me,
You've helped me throught the hardest times in my life
But you've had problems of your own
And I hope I've been some help to you
So I'd like to say,to say...
Thank you

Take a deserved bow Bob.
Well who'd have thunk it. It makes me go positively pink with embarrassment. When next winding him up or embarking on a fisticuffs with the young ragamuffin one must remember the sensitive poet within, prone to exploring his evident artistic temperament with flair and finesse. Yes, will have to remember this very frequently indeed. Anyhow, I figure that I am merely providing inspiration and fuelling his art when in the midst of passionate embroilment.

Almost as good as scrabble

I have come up with a new game. It can be played by any small gathering, mixed in both age and gender, and is more than suitable for families. In fact this is preferable for the game to succeed to full effect. As a working title I am calling it 'It's All Relative', (subject to change when marketed)
The rules go a little like this:

1. Must be played around the dinner table (al fresco works just as well)

2. Whoever is talking must be interrupted, preferably with a completely unrelated topic, as soon as possible. Or just at the most crucial and poignant part of their vocal flow

3. If there is the merest suggestion or hint of hesitation then random guesses as to what is coming next must be shouted out clearly and unrelentingly, resulting in the frustration of original speaker and causing all threads to be lost

4. Wait until a particularly lengthy and intricate anecdote has been related to the group in it's entirity, then after five minutes, or a couple of conversations later, bring up the subject the anecdote touched on and demand to hear it again as you missed it. Act surprised and disgruntled when this is not met with enthusiasm

5. Choose a random couple of minutes, interspersed throughout the meal, to completely switch off, yet appear to still be listening. This enables you to then bring up topics that have already been covered in full. Even more effective when the switching off occurs during instructions being given, imperative to later events

6. Make at least one of your fellow players the object of your scorn and cause of immense irritation for the whole meal, (if especially skilled then could be applied to more than one other player) with this culminating in the odd shouted expletive or tearful squeal

7. Be accepting of jibes and winding up, laughing along amiably, willing to be a figure of fun, until suddenly turning this on its head and becoming a wounded victim, offended and very vocal of this

8. Always, always wait until everyone is finished their food (seconds and all), ready to move on to pudding, before refilling your plate so that the other players can sit and watch you eat

9. Repeat every story, instruction, or mere contribution to the conversation at least twice, saying it like it's the fist time it has ever been said in the history of man everytime you say it

10. Use physical irritants to unnerve other players also; don't merely rely on dialogue. Extreme slouching, lounging, stretching legs out under the table, elbows on table and in plates, kicking and placing feet on other players' chairs, inappropriate eye contact, and snorting whilst guzzling are all effective methods worth a try

The aim of the game is to still be at the table in fine spirits by the time all food is consumed, without having left in a blaze of anger, and to be able to retain even the most simplistic of social skills when mixing with the actual public.

This game is a favourite in our household and a regular fixture of an evening. A true ensemble activity, involving of everyone and the cause of hours of old-fashioned family fun. Give it a go.

Have just emerged from an extremely traumatising experience. One which it is questionable as to if I will ever recover.

Was completely abondoned by entire family for at least three whole (yes, WHOLE) minutes whilst trapped in the pantry, shouting myself hoarse. It may have even been five minutes; all time was lost track of as the horror of the situation was faced. Why, why, why would the light be on and the door wide open if there was not a person in the cavern of doom, as it shall henceforth be known, innocently unearthing a tub of icecream from icy depths of freezer? The ease at which I was plunged into darkness and imprisoned (the door only opens from the outside, somewhat of a design flaw) then promptly forgotten about was astounding.
Furious bashings at the door with the mop handle, not to break it down but to cause as much noise as humanly possible to notify someone, anyone, of my existence, ensued. Along with increasingly desperate bellows and, ashamedly, girlish shrieks.
My whole life flashed before my eyes as I realised I could well meet my doom within the gloomy home of biscuits, pulses and cleaning products, half decomposed on the floor, the terror of my final moments still evident on immobile, lifeless face, with the only chance of discovery being the cats mewing and whining at the crack in the door, alerted by the smell of rotting flesh.

Except, that wouldn't happen because as soon as we were out of tunnocks caramel wafers in the biscuit tin someone would have come searching for more in the pantry. Of course I realise this now. Now I am free and have a new appreciation for life and all that it encompasses. Now that I am once again within the world of mortals and no longer of cat food and ironing piles. But at the timeall I could think was 'WHERE THE #*@$ IS EVERYONE?!!'

You would have thought, on initiating the rescue of his only sister and giving her newfound hope in the human race, the saviour would have said a little more than 'God, what's all that shouting about?'