Hestia's Larder

Hestia......reviews BBC1's Birdsong

2012-01-29T22:33:00.000Z

Final tally: 8 absolutely sodden paper tissues and a face that looks like it has been stung by a jar of bees.

Wonderful.

Now. Go and read the book. Buy tissues. LOTS of them.

Hestia and Sonshine and Robert Burns

2012-01-25T09:31:00.000Z

And so it came to pass that P7 decided to celebrate Robert Burns' birthday with a Burns Supper in the afternoon. According to Sonshine, it is taking place at Mount Stuart. Previous years have been at The Glenburn Hotel.

When you're 11, they probably look like the same building to be honest.

Sonshine has a part to play - he and a friend are reading out some autobiographical deets of the Bard and we have practised and practised, marking spaces where a pause will add meaning, scribbling down pronunciations of words like 'Souter' (sooter) and 'Kirkoswald' (erm, Kirk Oswald).

I ask him this morning if he would like to wear the tartan tie that bears his name. Yes, there is a Sonshine clan and it's rather a pretty tartan too. He opts to wear it. Sadly, it was bought when he was about six, so the tie tail dangles somewhere between his invisible pecs. He flexes them regardless of their non-existence.

He has been weighed at school. My son is, apparently, overweight.

I tell him that's the end of the Nobbly Bobblies* after dinner.

He is crestfallen and decides he'd rather be 'fat.'

He is 11.

He wobbles his man boobs at me as I tie his tie off for him. I ignore him. He grips his tummy with both hands and wobbles it at me. I ignore him.

I tell him he is 11 and he will shortly be making the journey into adolescence. He needs all the wobbly bits he can get, I tell him with early-morning bed-head candour.

He decides that if he is to stand up and speak in front of his entire class this afternoon at the Supper, he needs 'a mask'.

I tell him we are fresh out of Robert Burns masks and the teacher will not take too kindly to Darth Vader doing the reading.

'I want my dad's See You Jimmy Hat.' That will act as a disguise.' he decides.

Did this man EVER get a shag again?

Despite my assurances that Clean Amy will most definitely NOT fancy him in a ginger wig and tartan tammy that plays a tinny chorus of Auld Lang's Syne, he insists.

I grudgingly find the hat in the Hat Box and pack it into his school bag.

I find a poem. Tae a Pie. In the best of literary traditions, I give you the original hand-written notes and the final draft, presented to teacher:

I believe that the poem's subject matter may yield another little round reason why he's on the cusp of overweight.

Happy Burns Night! For those of you who have not seen this - a link to Robert Burns' famous tale - Tam O'Shanter. This is the first of his poem's studied at school - given that it's about getting drunk, getting lusty thoughts and witchcraft, it's a wonder it's still fit for the Curriculum for Excellence.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go out to buy some haggis, potatoes and turnips for tonight's traditional dinner. *grabs own tummy with both hands and wobbles it*

....oh yes, have just been reminded that if you REALLY want to frighten your granny and shock the minister, learn the words to Cock Up Your Beaver. Honest. Real Robert Burns poem ;-)

* Just in case you were AGOG wondering what a Nobbly Bobbly was ;-)

Hestia and The Differences Between Us - Part 2

2012-01-20T08:51:00.000Z

Here's a little quiz for you. Nothing too strenuous: Can you tell which two shelves belong to Tartarus and which two shelves belong to me? I'll rephrase that to give you a clue: Which two shelves belong to the anally-tidy man of the house and which two belong to me?

It's a tricky one.....

I must also put my hand on my heart and tell you that I have been interfering with that bottom shelf of Tartarus's since he went back to sea - technically it's Sonshine's shelf too. Hence the fairly untidy nature of it with cough bottles, manicure sets and Oprex :-)

Ignore the Anusol on my shelf. It's not mine.

Neither is the facial hair-bleaching kit.

Did you see The Differences Between us, part the first? See - and marvel - here.

Sometimes I think he goes to Mexico just to get away from the untidiness......

What about you? Got any places in your home that clearly show the differences between you and your other half?

Have a lovely weekend!

Hestia's Drawer of Shame

2012-01-17T10:08:00.001Z

So, my good friend Ania bought me a book on Glamorous Knits for my Christmas. You've got to love my friend's faith in me - she actually expects me to knit something from the book. She actually CHALLENGED me to knit something from it.

'I'm a bit shit at knitting.' I confessed on facebook.

'Do you want me to organise a knit-along with my daughter, to keep you company?' came back the reply.

Reader, her daughter is 9 years old. Not even *I* can take being bitch-slapped by a 9-year old at knitting.

'Find me some wool.' I asked - utterly clueless. One doesn't call it wool any more, it is YARN.

Viv, another crafting genius with more faith in me than is good for her, found a lovely ~~wool~~ yarn and with some clever recalculations from Ania regarding how many balls I would need, I ordered - right then and there - before I could change my mind.

The ~~wool~~ yarn arrived and it was gorgeous! I couldn't WAIT to get cracking - so off I trundled upstairs to find knitting needles in the correct size. It's funny that, isn't it? You don't knit, but you are fairly sure that somewhere in your home you WILL find the right-sized needles for your project.....

Anyway reader, I came across a TON OF SHAME. And because I am prepared to share EVERYTHING with you (other than the spartan details of my cob-web filled sex-life) here is My Drawer Of Shame......

This is a supermarket bag so old that the supermarket no longer exists. It is filled with jewellery made for a craft fair. Now, this must have been around 1993, just after Tartarus and I separated. I was looking for things to do and went to an art class. With my mother. There I met the most wonderful artist called Linda and at some point she persuaded me to take a stand at a local craft show. I made loads of jewellery from fimo plastic (you melt it in the oven or boiling water). I did it for charity. The earrings were £2.00 per pair.

Another plastic bag - this time filled with bits of material. I can tell from the patterns that this was the 1980s. Tartarus had bought me a sewing machine for my Christmas and I bought lots of material to experiment with. The following summer, we got engaged and went to Greece on holiday. I had made myself several pairs of shorts - long shorts, almost like skirts.

It was only a few months ago that he confessed that he had hated those shorts and wondered about the wisdom of getting engaged to someone that would not only MAKE such monstrosities, but actually WEAR them.

Threads for a long-forgotten embroidery project. I keep 'em neatly, don't I?

This is an Indian outfit. Purchased at a wee charity shop in Shawlands in Glasgow where there is a big Asian community. I think it's a very full skirt and a sort of veil. I thought it might be a good Tarot reading outfit for when I wanted to turn on the 'bling'. I washed it by hand and pretty much ruined it. But thought that I 'could do something with it'. Think this was about 2003. I 'haven't done anything with it.'

Cut up denim for a rag-rug. Which never made it out of the carrier bag. You cut/rip into strips and braid together. Then you wind into a cartwheel and stitch in place. Yeah, that's the THEORY. Again, this is a 1990s project, I'm sure.

Red ladybird fluffy stuff, purchased when Sonshine was in a pushchair and was SUPPOSED to recover a small granny-ish looking footstool. I thought I'd change it into a furry ladybird. I don't know WHAT I was thinking. But I clearly didn't do it and the footstool became my bum-rest for my intermittent bouts of meditation.

This is one of the projects I am most ashamed of - it was an embroidery kit. For a pram cover. Just for the record, he's going to be 12 this year. I was enjoying the sewing....until I started watching Gone With The Wind whilst sewing and instead of that balloon going UP the way, I started sewing it ALONG the way. The unpicking almost broke my heart. It certainly broke my spirit and the project was shelved. But it really is beautiful.

Knitting patterns. Are these yours, cos they're not mine. So Eighties. I did actually persuade someone to knit me that checkerboard style jumper. I wore it to death. It was blue and pink. I *know*. My taste is dubious. But it was the 80s and none of us had taste, right?

The Bag. This is the bag that, in the event of my death, one of you must immediately remove and destroy all the contents. It is full of bad poetry, love letters, break up letters, valentines, poems written to me in Elvish....yeah, can you Burn Without Reading please.

Tadaaaaah! A tapestry cushion cover. Of my own design. For a cushion. Clearly never made it any further than off the frame. But ALMOST finished. 1990s.

Another shameful project. A Disney picture that was supposed to be for Sonshine. It came with a Setifikit from Disney and EVERYTHING - Even the correct Disney colours for Pooh. I don't even know where this embroidery project is, but the threads and the pattern are in a Somerfield bag in The Drawer Of Shame.....

But putting all THAT aside - I did find the right-sized needles and began the Knitting Project:

Here's my knitting project on Day 1:

And here it is today..... Day 4:

I have GREAT hopes that this one will be completed. Great hopes.......

So, am I the only Bad Crafter In The Village - or do any of you have a similar Drawer of Shame?

Hestia and Chanel...and Mme Lenormand

2012-01-10T19:50:00.000Z

Forty one years ago today, the couturier and perfumier Coco Chanel died at the age of 88.

I've just finished reading Justine Picardie's biography of Chanel and found it a totally absorbing read. Well-studded with photographs and reading fluidly, almost like a novel, Picardie's investigation into Chanel and her tangled background has been extensive - exploring everything from the fishing records from the Duke of Westminster's Scottish estate to the diary entries for Cecil Beaton.

And it really is a tangled but sparkly net that Chanel left behind. Picardie doesn't set out to paint The Real Truth about Coco, because Chanel ruthlessly cut out and unpicked her past as mercilessly as she restitched her suits in the atelier at Rue Cambon. Instead she lays out the various tales that Coco told, especially about her past, like frocks on the bed, and shows us all the beautiful work - some of it completely fictional - that Chanel created.

Relax! I'm not about to launch into a fashion blog. Heck no! Given that I am sitting here dressed in a ripped black polo neck, thermal vest, stylishly 'worn' trousers (with thermal leggings underneath), I am SO not the person to write a fashion-based piece!

That said, I did try on a classic little Chanel suit once. It did absolutely nothing for me. I looked like your maiden aunt - the one who works as a librarian and lives alone with 14 cats and photos of her 40 year-old hacking pony next to her bed.

It was deeply unflattering across a fuller bust, transforming me into a short and stocky little brick. Albeit a little brick with a Chanel suit.

But I digress ( as usual).....

This biography is a great read and doesn't shy away from some of the less attractive stories about Chanel (namely taking up with a German officer during the war and invoking Nazi-inspired property law to help lever some of her perfume business out of the hands of the Jews who ran it) and many little nuggets of the detail for even the walk-on walk-off characters in Chanel's life will remain with you long after you have slipped the book back onto your shelves.

That's the extent of my review!

What *I* wanted to talk to you about was Chanel's interest in the esoteric. Did you know that her divination cards sit where she left them, on her dresser at the flat at Rue Cambon? And that she selected the name for her eponymous fragrance because 5 was her lucky number?

I say 'divination cards' although Picardie does refer to them as Tarot cards. However, they are not Tarot cards, but Lenormand cards - oh yes, there IS a difference.

And from what I can tell, her Lenormand cards were the set known as The Red Owl (on account of it having a stylised red owl on the card back).

The Lenormand deck comes in many forms, but all are named after the top-notch French diviner of the Napoleonic period, Madame Marie Lenormand.

The decks were extremely popular in mainland Europe as divination tools. However it proved less popular in the English-speaking world (it's still quite difficult to find books in English on the Lenormand). The Red Owl issue is still in production today (by German publishing house Konigsfort)

Coco was certainly aware of the power of symbolism because she had been brought up by nuns at the Aubazine convent. Indeed, Picardie painstakingly shows us how many aspects of the convent where Chanel spent most of her childhood undoubtedly influenced her style - in both symbolism and austerity.

This particular Lenormand was first published around 1920; Intriguingly, she created her iconic perfume Chanel No 5 within 12 months of the deck being published.

Now, of course, there is nothing to say that the numerology of the Lenormand influenced her choice of name; perhaps she was given these cards MANY years after their 1920 publication date.....but it's an interesting fact, nonetheless, don't you think?

Although information about Lenormand is quite sketchy (mine comes from the Lenormand Oracle book by Sylvie Steinbach) but from what I can glean there are several similarities between the life of Marie Lenormand and the life of Gabrielle Chanel.

Both girls born (I think!) reasonably close to each other (Lenormand - Alencon, Chanel - Saumur)
Both girls were brought up in convents but did have siblings and extended family
Both spent some time in London.
Both worked as experts in their fields with the upper echelons in Parisian society - Lenormand not only worked with Napoleon and Josephine, but also the Revolutionaries Robespierre and Marrat. Chanel not only dressed the great and good of Parisian society, she dressed the wives of German officers AND Jaqueline Kennedy.
Both women never married.
Both women were childless.
Both had nephews who greatly benefited from their wealthy, famous aunts.
Lenormand is considered France's greatest cartomancer of all time. And Chanel its greatest designer.

Was the little designer aware of any of the similarities between her own life and that of the card-reader? Probably not - or else JP would have sniffed them out for the book, without a doubt.

But Chanel WAS superstitious and the number five was her lucky number - the perfumier, Beaux, who created the scent recalled: ' I came to present my creations, two series No 1 - 5 and 20 - 24. She chose a few, one of which was No 5. "What should it be called?" I asked. Mademoiselle Chanel replied, 'I'm presenting my dress collection on the 5th of May, the fifth month of the year; let's leave the name No 5." This number would bring her luck.'

She had also been influenced by the Theosophic system, introduced to her by her lover, Boy Capel sometime after they met in 1909. Picardie wonders whether the numerical value of five 'as a representative of the fifth element, the legendary quinta essentia of the alchemists' could have had some bearing on her attachment to the number?

Too fanciful? Maybe :-)

And what does Chanel's beloved Lenormand deck have to say about the number five?

This is an image of the card used in Ms Picardie's book.

Translation of the card's text, from the German (taken from 'Coco Chanel' by Justine Picardie)

"Should you see a rooted tree

You will always look upon yourself as being healthy

And should there be many trees

Your goal shall soon be near"

Your goal shall soon be near - how fab would THAT be to receive as a message when you are just about to launch a new fragrance?!

Interestingly, the interpretation given on the site from whence I purloined the image says:

The Tree shows you your own roots

Keep your good health and the good circumstances in life!

This includes also maintain relationships with old friends.

Don´t be self-destructable!!

The tree of knowledge, or the tree of life - he shows you how and where you are rooted. Where your problems are or where have found your security in life.

Chanel was the consummate Fan Dancing expert as far as hiding her own roots was concerned - show a little here, hide a little there, fluff things up a bit, keep people guessing! Paradoxically, symbols of those hidden roots can be seen in her designs - everything from the interlocking double c of her logo can be traced back to images that she must have been aware of (at least subliminally) at Aubazine.

The tree shows you your own roots: the thing that grows - Chanel's empire - shows her own roots.

Chanel - Boris Lipnitzki (1936)

Coco Chanel - 19 August 1883 – 10 January 1971

Hestia's 2012 - so far a bit shit

2012-01-09T10:35:00.002Z

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! And welcome to Hurricane Bawbag II!!!

So here's how it's been so far, in numbers:

72 - hours without power. We were not so badly off because we have a gas hob and a gas fire, but many people who were all electric had nothing hot to eat or drink during that time unless kind neighbours took pity on them. Not everyone has kind neighbours though.

Tartarus fired up the generator, but with limited access to fuel (petrol pumps need power to pump!) it was still achingly demoralising to look out over the darkened streets. On the upside - there was no light pollution which was nice, up to a point.

......and I wonder why we don't have sex any more.....

See? Not even too brilliant from my pov either!

1 - soup kitchen set up in the Pavilion on Thursday evening - at last! - for the vulnerable and aged. But given that the power actually came back on to the island on Thursday evening, it was a case of a little too late. There better be some sort of public inquiry about how we handled last week's events.

3 - telephone calls from the office over weekend to ask Tartarus to return to work...NOW! He left at 8am this morning. I was still in my pjs when I drove him down to the ferry terminal. I have no pride. Also, I will have one unhappy little bunny living with me for the next few days.

1 - lost silver bangle. No idea when I lost it. Sometime over hte last week. I wear it all the time, but on the same wrist as my watch, so didn't realise that it was gone until I forgot to put my watch on last Wednesday. Been searching and searching. Feel sad about it, but also remember that Tartarus found the missing engagement ring, so maybe when he comes back in March, it might turn up. I hope it does.

**** news flash - it HAS turned up! It has been languishing at my friend's house since Boxing Day. Sadly, they thought that it was something from a Christmas Cracker and I am crossing my fingers that it has not been binned along with the other wee bits of tat that come from crackers. Also, that's a licence to buy a BETTER bangle, don't you think? If your pals think it's from a CRACKER, then SURELY I should buy a better one? ****

1 - LEGO Millennium Falcon purchased in Glasgow with Christmas money given to Sonshine. He was with his father when he bought it as I would have kicked up a huge fuss about spending that amount of money on a bit of lego.

1 - AC/DC Exhibition in Glasgow - actually LOADS better than I thought it would be. The Dr Who Exhibition was a fiasco and I expected this one to be 'fan's waistcoat, circa 1975' kind of thing, but there were lots of letters to read, interviews to listen to and, of course, lots of excellently noisy back catalogue blaring away.

Place was full of Gentlemen of a Certain Age, standing staring at the massive concert screen with a wistful expression and very old AC/DC tour t-shirts on...

Tartarus can't remember if he was at this gig. Which probably means he was ......

Check out the ticket prices - all the way up to £2.00!!!!!!

Bon Scott's leather jacket. Am SO getting one for Sonshine -
he'll look like one of the Ramones with his skinny black jeans too!

3 - nights in Glasgow. Oh the luxury of hitting a light switch and being bathed in electrical light! Hot radiators!! TV!!! Sadly, the internet connection in our rented accommodation wasn't working, so I could only log on if I went back into the main building and perched on the staircase with my laptop. Not very comfortable nor private.

Driving through the streets of Greenock as we headed to Glasgow on Thursday evening, there seemed to be quite a lot of evidence of storm damage. But in Greenock you can never be sure whether it's storm damage or just vandalism. We decided that it was probably storm damage as the weather had been too bad, even for the most determined antisocial sods.

0 - good night's sleep had. Tartarus had a rotten cough. So did Sonshine. On last night in Glasgow I gave up and tried to sleep on the sofa. Using two jackets as a blanket. It was a two-seater sofa. Not comfortable. Woke up with so many zip imprints and seam imprints on my face I made Keith Richards look good.

1 - 3D movie - Puss in Boots. It was ok. Tartarus fell asleep during it. That's your review, right there.

It's been a strange start to 2012. Mother Nature reminding us forcibly that she's REALLY in charge and that really, we are pretty puny in the face of 100 mile an hour winds.

Worst of all, one of Tartarus's friends has discovered my blog. Now, while I don't mind bearing my short-comings to you, dear reader, it's a bit different if people that know Tartarus start reading it. It is not my intention to embarrass him in front of his friends....and now I don't know what to do.

Tartarus hasn't asked me to delete it, but I think he'd prefer it. I never thought that 2012 might kick off with me having to give up m'blog.....but I might have to. What would you do if you were me?

Hestia and Hogmanay

2011-12-30T17:40:00.003Z

Please don't let them ever retire -
I won't know what to do at Hogmanay without them

I don't know about you, but the days between Christmas and New Year always leave me feeling a bit sad. First of all, the excitement of Christmas is over for another 12 months and secondly, I realise that I've hardly seen any of the TV shows/movies that I carefully circled with my black biro in the TV Times on 17th of December.....

I also realise that I have have eaten more than my body weight in turkey and mince pies.

Sometimes on the same PLATE.

On the bright side, Sonshine and I have written all our thank you cards. OK - so we might not actually have posted all of them, but I think getting them all written in December is a Good Thing.

We are the only family that we know that still writes thank you cards. Please tell me that I'm not the only person in the world who still does this?

Anyway...

Tomorrow night is the night where we turn to face the incoming year with as much courage as we can drink....our little minds bursting with Good Intentions and Great Expectations. Oh yes, along with Downton Abbey, Great Expectations was the only other thing I recall deliberately tuning in to see this Christmas....

I will be preparing a mince pie - with MINCE and ONIONS and ALLSPICE. Which is ALMOST lasagna. I am good at lasagna. Less good at mince pies.

I will be serving the mince pie with piping hot butter beans. I will be FORCING my guests to eat this traditional accompaniment, even though it means we will all be farting loudly and self-consciously on the sofa whilst waiting for The Bells. Not the whisky. The actual bells. At midnight.

There will be a great deal of alcohol because We Are Scottish and we cannot, apparently enjoy ourselves without a bottle in one hand and, well, a bottle in the other hand. Sadly, my powers of recovery are so much slower than they were when I was in my twenties.

In my twenties I could stay up all night dancing and drinking and snogging deeply inappropriate boys with leather jackets and old motorbikes and in my forties? In my forties I just want to have a quiet game of Scrabble and go to bed.

What I will be doing instead is serving up a mince pie dinner at around 11pm, ensuring that my guests have a constantly full glass until about 1am. We will watch TV, bemused by people in kilts playing tunes that we don't know on their accordions and fiddles and we will wonder who the hell chooses the dresses for Jackie Bird (BBC Scotland's answer to Tess Daly). We will get sad and weepy (part of the Scottish psyche).

I will slip away quietly, only to be found face down on the duvet in Sonshine's room an hour later. Probably fully-clothed and possibly with the bucket that we use to wash the cars secreted helpfully next to the bed. Just in case.

At around 3am I will waken, desperate for a cheese scone and wander around the darkened house wondering whether any of my facebook friends are awake in the US or Oz.......I will switch on the mac and I will tell them all that I love them. REALLY LOVE THEM. Then I will go upstairs to bed. Possibly on all fours. And I will lie in bed feeling unwell. And I will possibly get sad and weepy again. Because I am Scottish. Not because there is Anything Actually Wrong.

I will begin my New And Improved Life (NAIL) with my Healthy Eating Regime at approximately 10am on 1 January and fall off the NAIL wagon secretly in the kitchen at approximately 10.33am as I eat the bacon and egg scraps off Sonshine's plate as it comes through to get washed.

It's been another lovely year in which my loved ones and myself have made it through unscathed. And that's all I'm really hoping for for ALL of us in 2012 too.

.....see you back here at about 3am on 1 January, I suppose!

To your very good health!

Cheers! *clinks glass on mac screen*

Hestia's mystery Christmas present was.....

2011-12-26T12:48:00.001Z

An ipad!!!!!

I had dared to hope that it might be a Kindle reader, but never in my wildest dreams did I believe that Tartarus would spring for an ipad!

Christmas Day was largely spent humphed over the router trying to work out how to get the damned thing onto the home network....but perseverence does overcometh all difficulties and soon I was downloading free books, apps and Sonshine and Tartarus had a jolly big fight over Angry Birds.

Tartarus did ALL the cooking. And all the washing up. And he bought me an ipad - did I mention that?

And didn't Maggie Smith get all the best lines in Downton Abbey - I actually stifled a guffaw at one point, but then I had been drinking pink fizz all day and all sense of reason had pretty much left me by 9pm.

What about you - did you have a lovely day?

Tell me all about it *pops open another bottle of pink fizz and waits*

Hestia...goes Christmas Crackers

2011-12-24T00:17:00.003Z

Could it be keys to a Ferrari?

We'd put it off for as long as possible, but with the weather threatening to put the ferry service off on Christmas Eve, we could be left staring at a Christmas lunch that consisted of the remains of a selection box and the partially decomposed body of an ancient pain au chocolate.....

So, today (Friday) we did the Christmas Food Shopping. On the mainland. In Tesco. Yeah, verily, bow down and worship at the feet of the Hestia The Indefatigable and the Blessed Wallet of Tartarus

I had a list, laid out with military precision - all the veggies together, all the meat and, of course, all the booze.

First of all, we dumped Sonshine at the ~~in store child care facilities~~ Toy Department and off we went, jaws set grimly, list in hand, trolley squeaking wildly and Don't F*ck With Us, We're On A Mission From God To Get Croissants expressions.

Actually, most of it passed off without incident. Although we did run into most of our island neighbours while we were there - which is only to be expected. It's ok running into someone at the beginning of the supermarket trek, but after bumping in to the same people in every subsequent aisle, conversation dries up. And everyone just looks pissed off to be there. You just eye-roll each other as another fifty quids worth of food gets added to the cart.

Anyway, picture the scene: we've just loaded up with umpteen bottles of Crabbies Ginger Beer and Tenants Lager when Tartarus announced that we needed more crackers.

'I've got crackers in the house,' I say breezily.

'But have we got enough?' he said, his brow creasing with concern. 'We've got friends coming on Boxing Day and I think we'll have none left after Christmas Day.'

My heart leapt - maybe ~~The Grinch~~ Tartarus WAS getting into the Christmas spirit right enough........'Maybe you're right....you look after the trolley, I'll go and get some more,' I say, offering him the chariot and shouldering my way through the crowds.

A short while later I arrive back at the trolley, cheeks aglow, a large box of crackers in my hand.

'What in the hell is that?' he asks.

'Crackers' I show him the box - gold and cream trimmed crackers, one dozen of the finest thereof.

He sighs. 'For CHEESE,' he says. 'Crackers for cheese.'

Well, it's a mistake that anyone could make, right? RIGHT?

-o0o-

For the first time in living memory, Tartarus has bought me a surprise Christmas present. I haven't had to buy it or wrap it (which is what has happened for the past 10 or so years).

My heart hopes that it is something crazy beautiful like an ipad or a kindle.....maybe jewellery? Oooooh - maybe theatre tickets for Warhorse or Wicked in London in the Spring?! My imagination has been working overtime.

Then friends reminded me of previous surprise presents that he'd bought me. And it reminded me of why he doesn't usually do this. I started to mither a bit about it......

'Alright, You can ask me ONE question about your present', he said magnanimously. 'But you can't ask me what it actually is outright, ok?'

'Ok. Here's my question: Is it from Halfords?'

There was a lot of huffing and puffing and bluster, but there was, dear reader, no outright yeah or nay.

I'll let you know on Christmas Day.

What's the betting it's wiper blades?

Hestia and....the Winter Solstice

2011-12-21T09:45:00.002Z

The Druids Bringing in The Mistletoe
This is the hardest jigsaw I've ever done.

Tomorrow morning, when birds are still sleeping with their heads under their wings and most teenagers are not even THINKING about going home, it will be the point that marks the Winter Solstice.

There are two Solstices in a year - one at midsummer and one at midwinter - both marking the turning points of the year. For tomorrow's Solstice, we mark the (albeit imperceptible) lengthening of the day until we reach the Summer Solstice in July where things sloooooowly start to tip the other way.....and the nights start to draw in.

There are another two festivals of note - the Spring Equinox and the Autumn Equinox. You might think that marking the two points in the year where the hours of light exactly balance the hours of darkness is an antediluvian practice that went out with the Ark, but actually, the Spring Equinox plays quite an important role: The date for Easter is decided by selecting the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equniox. I *know* what an utterly and delightfully pagan way to work out such a significant date in the Christian calendar!

In total there are 8 significant Festivals in the pagan year....but now's not their time - it's the day for the the Solstice to shine!

December 21 or 22 marks the time where the Sun is born again (or do I mean the Son is born again?!) and there was much in the way of celebratory eating and drinking as our ancestors battened down the hatches for the long, dark and dreary weeks of winter before Top of the Pops Christmas Special and Morcambe and Wise brightened things up.

Back in the days before Children Came Along, myself and a small band of cohorts would all be picked at around 4am by a girlfriend in her rattly old motor. We would each have brought something useful - incense, candles, heated mulled wine in a flask (guess who brought that?!) and the vital box of matches.

We would creep our way through the sleeping streets down to the south of the island, picking our way down the single track road until we reached the car park for St Blane's Chapel. I use the term 'car park' very loosely; 'bit of ground where we leave the car' might be more accurate.

There, in the pitch black, we would fumble around in the boot (or 'trunk' as my American reader might call it) for our supplies and then head off up the hill and through the fields to the ruined chapel.

More often or not we would meet the farmer out checking on his animals. God knows what he must have made of our little group, muffled to the tops of our heads, torch beams dancing over the rough ground and into the startled eyes of sheep, supermarket carrier bags rattling by our sides.

It wasn't a serious thing, by any manner of means; there was a lot of giggling and inadvertent swearing as we stumbled our way to the chapel in the dark.

Once there, we would get out all our bits and bobs and get ready. At the point of Solstice we would light our candles and incense amongst the trees and old stones and someone would say a little impromptu something or other.

And you would feel, in that heartbeat, a breath of kinship with all those for whom this moment had held ancient significance.

We would then each make some declaration about what we each chose to light our lives with in the coming year.....and then it was time to break out the mulled wine and try to stamp some feeling back into our frozen feet.

By the time we were all dropped off back at home, the kids were getting mobilised for school, cars defrosted and scraped down. Neighbours waved a hello, wondering where on earth I had been - to be coming HOME at 8am. Dirty trollop that I am :-)

Then children came along, Tartarus was working abroad and it became impossible for me to stand shivering in the dark for hours to bring in the Solstice as we had done.

Tomorrow at 5am, I'll maybe roll over in my warm bed and offer up a silent prayer of gratitude for the lengthening of the days, but then it will be back to the land of Nod and hopefully a memorable dream about Hugh Jackman.

What wonderful things do you choose to light-up YOUR coming year?

Go on - declare your intentions!

And don't forget, tomorrow you can start to say: 'The nights are starting to draw out!'

Hestia....#colossalmummyfailmoment

2011-12-19T22:44:00.000Z

'If you've never been hated by a child, you've never been a parent
- Bette Davis

So it's the BIGGEST night in an 11 year-old's social calendar - The School Christmas Party. We have sorted an outfit (fuchsia pink and black shirt, skinny black tie, skinny black jeans, black canvas slip-ons with skulls and whatnot on them for footwear).

When he appeared in the doorway doing his best Joey Trebiani ('hey, how YOU doin?') there was a little tug at my guts, not entirely due to the tsunami of Davidoff Cool Water that flooded in with him.

No. My little boy is growing up.

Not enough to make it up to school in the dark on his own though. I was duly dispatched with the car keys to run him up to the school.

'Who are you going to dance with?' I ask, glancing in the rear view mirror at the top of a furry 'fore and aft' cap. 'Will you dance with Clean Amy?' I ask hopefully.

He says nothing, but stares out of the car window.

I suspect that I am officially an Embarrassing Mother.

I drop him off outside the main building and call after him through the wound-down car window 'Remember and dance with a GIRL tonight.'

Some boys in sportswear lurking near the doorway giggle.

Yeah, I'm embarrassing, alright.

I park up back home in the driveway. Tartarus already has his jacket on - it's the Motorbike Club night. I have to laugh - there's only ever a couple of them meet up at any given time and the Club is loooooong gone - a victim of too many critics and not enough volunteers. Still, he enjoys a few beers with like-minded ~~addicts~~ friends.

'Now, you won't forget to pick him up at 9pm, will you?' he asks me. He pulls on his hat. This makes him look like a professional burglar.

I roll my eyes. 'What do you take me for?'

He says nothing.

Left alone in the house for a couple of hours, I do what most mummies would do - I put music on very loudly and go on to facebook where I end up joking with a friend about a possible Tarot of the Killer Bunnies and doing a couple of outstanding Tarot readings from the weekend.

I am vaguely aware of a noise. My thought process goes roughly like this:

'There's a noise. It must be Sonshine up for a wee. Hang on, I don't remember putting him to bed. *a momentary pause where I try to work out where the hell he is* my head suddenly clicks into gear and I realise that I Must Not Forget To Pick Him Up At 9pm......my eyes wheel around the room to find the clock. it is HALF PAST NINE!!!! No matter how long I stare at it, it's still half nine. IMPOSSIBLE!

I fly into the hallway, grabbing my boots and the car keys.

As I do so, the front door bell rings and I see a small figure in a furry hat peering at me through the glass panel.

A car sits outside my gate, its engine running, checking to make sure that there's someone to let him in. As he disappears inside, the car pulls off into the night.

I am mortified. I drop to my knees and clutch at him - apologies spilling out of my mouth like a BP oil leak. And yes, tears pricking at my eyes. How can I have forgotten to go and pick him up?!

He stands motionless, letting me hug him. But he doesn't hug back.

Eventually I sit back on my heels and look him in the eye to apologise.

His face is like stone

'THAT was the most embarassing moment of MY LIFE,' he says solemnly.

'I'm so sorry. I got caught up........Who was that that ran you home?' I ask, feeling wretched.

'Mrs Shaw. The Assistant Head. You didn't come. You FORGOT about me.'

He pulled off his hat and threw it down on the stairs. The very stairs where I had proudly photographed him a few hours previously, in all his disco finery.

Desperate to make amends, I started babbling about the dance. 'Was it good? Did you get to dance with Amy?'

He hung his jacket up and looked at me with that withering gaze that all children reserve for their completely Out Of Touch parents.

'Amy looked HOT. She deserved to dance with people who looked a lot better than me,' he said, pulling on his slippers, 'So no, I didn't dance with Amy.'

'Now listen to me,' I said,'grabbing both his freezing little hands.' You look fantastic. You're handsome, funny, smart and kind. Why on earth didn't you ask her to dance?'

I'm not that great, mum,' he said 'Even YOU forgot about me.'

THUD, THUD, THUD. That would be the knives in my breast.

UPDATE: 21 December - so Sonshine got his friend to ask her out and she knocked him back with some choice words, that - if true - are appalling from an 11 year-old girl. Well, when *I* was 11, I wouldn't have uttered them. Heck, I didn't even know what one of them meant. Just let me tell you that she has lost her 'Clean' epithet. And I suddenly feel very old.

Hestia and the high winds (does not refer to flatulence)

2011-12-14T19:11:00.005Z

No, this has got nothing to do with that other posting that I made about the flatulence reducing underwear.

Monday night I was supposed to be out and about with some girlfriends in Glasgow, hanging around the bohemian haunts of Glasgow University and quaffing oodles of chilled white wine and inhaling gorgeous food at The Left Bank.

But the weather put paid to all that.

I had been regularly woken during the night by the wind howling in the chimney and the rain lashing against our windows so hard that there was a drip SOMEWHERE on the window frame. I tossed and turned...worrying about whether the ferries would be running in the morning.

And, of course, they weren't.

They didn't run at all on Monday because the weather was so utterly foul.

I had a petted lip and a bad temper that was somewhat assuaged by the fact that the girls cancelled the dinner ANYWAY because they didn't fancy being out and about in it much either.

So, today, to make up for missing out, Tartarus took me to Loch Fyne Osyter Bar. A forty-five minute drive (and a miniscule ferry journey too).

That's the restaurant up there. And the car park is NEVER that empty - not even today when the wind and rain would have blown a hole through you.

And here's a link to find out more about the Nice People At Loch Fyne - if you're in the area and thinking of popping in for a spot of seafood malkarky. I can thoroughly recommend the smoked mussels from the shop *Homer Simpson drool*

We were the first customers through the doors (as ever) and were escorted to a neat little corner table where we watched the weak wintery sun trying to fight its way through the ever-darkening storm clouds over of rose. I pretended that I was in Spain and not Darkest Argyll.

Today's Specials!

Maybe too much of a slant on this arty photo but that's the bar. It's built like a viking longboat. Neat, eh?

Then we ordered two plates of these. One each. Obviously.

These were six plup grilled oysters served with creamy cheese and pancetta melted over the top.

Yeah, I pretty much inhaled these.

As you can see, I had snaffled two before I remembered to get my camera out of my handbag.

This was a poached smoked haddock fillet - and it was the softest, creamiest, saltiest thing EVER. With potatoes and grated cheese. It was divine.

This is the fairly mollocated remains of Tartarus's salmon risotto. It was damned tasty.

And then we came home and went to the Co-op for our weekly shop *sigh*

It's all high falutin' stuff with me.

Have YOU had any nice lunches out for Christmas yet? Tell me alllllllll about it!

Hestia finds the PERFECT pressie for Tartarus

2011-12-14T15:30:00.000Z

If the man (or woman) in your life can fell a grown bear at 10 paces after breaking wind, this is the ultimate way to say 'I love you.'

Medical standard flatulence-proof pants.

Tartarus's Christmas present.

Sorted.

Hestia makes a ....natural...mistake

2011-12-11T13:15:00.001Z

Life in the Hestia household is a bit devoid of interest at the moment. But just so that you know I've not been elbowed to death by a pensioner as we duel over the last bag of sprouts in the Co-op, here's how it's been with me:

One evening last week, Sonshine and I were ensconced on the sofa beneath our snuggle blanky, looking for something entertaining to watch that would suit us both.

Usually this limits us to The Gadget Show or The Simpsons.

So there I am flicking down through the channels and lo, we come to a scantily clad blonde lady who is whipping up a storm as she shimmies herself around a pole. I think it might have been BBC3 and probably only formed a few minutes of whatever show it might be from, but I scooted past it with unseemly haste nonetheless.

Sonshine: 'Mum, do you think you could go back a couple of channels please?'

Me: To which channel? The one with Duff icing-up a cake shaped like The Leaning Tower of Pisa? The one with Guy Fieri cooking half a side of a cow whilst simultaneously blinding his audience with his blingy rings and things?

Sonshine: 'No, one after that.'

Me (with increasing pangs of dread): The one with the lady in the white bikini?

Sonshine (with a small, wistful sigh) 'Yes please.'

Me: Not on your nelly. I don't know what it was about, but I'm NOT sitting watching some pole dancer with you! You're 11!!!

Sonshine: But it made me feel all.....(he struggles to find the right word).......natural.

I make sure that I can see both his hands above the snuggle blanky and find The Simpsons to watch instead.

-o0o-

Yesterday, Tartarus brought me a cup of tea in bed in the morning.

He can be quite nice sometimes.

'What are you going to do today?' he asked, proffering the steaming mug of lemon tea.

'Ironing, probably.' I sigh. I also make mental note to go to chemists later on to get some medicated cream that will help alleviate the 'issues' of being on the Dukan Diet.

Tartarus nods towards two carefully ironed shirts hanging over the bottom of the bed.

'Thanks for ironing my shirts.' he says, sipping on his tea.

'No problem.' I reply.

'How is your wee pile coming along?'

'I'm off to the chemist to get some cream for it today,' I say.

He fixes me with a blank stare.

'You were talking about the pile of clothing that's needing ironed, weren't you?' I ask, a blush stealing across my face.

'Yeah. What were YOU talking about?'

I ignore his question and vow to concentrate more when he's talking to me in the future.

-o0o-

How is your weekend coming along? Better than mine, I hope!

Hestia and...... The Gruffalo

2011-12-09T13:21:00.001Z

The second part of Julia Donaldson's travelling exhibition arrived at the library last week - and it was worth the wait!

Not only did it have some loooovely illustrations from kids' books that I hadn't seen before, but it had THE GRUFFALO!

First of all, let me lead you round this week's exhibits....

This is the original front page painting for Room On The Broom!

Loved this - hadn't seen the book before 'The Dinosaur's Day'

Loved these little pencil sketch snails!

We luff our Gruffalo - look at all the copies of the book we've got!

Couldn't get to see these as close as I would have liked as they were in the Librarian's area and I think they may have thought I was going to make off with all the Library Book Fine Money. Which I might, but given that most of it is generated from MY FINES, I think it would have been ok for me to do that.

And here is the star of the show.

With his terrible claws on his terrible toes and his nobbly knees and his green warty nose

THE GRUFFALO!!!!!

Which reminds me - Tartarus is back in the bosom of his family for Christmas - a great relief all round. Especially in light of yesterday's horrendous weather. A sample of which can be seen here at Largs, just across the water from us.

How are YOU all after the storms? Or did you escape them?! Tell all!

Hestia and .....Mercury Rx

2011-11-28T23:21:00.001Z

One of my lovely readers poo-pooed (or pooh-poohed?) the idea of Mercury retrograde having an effect on earthly goings on. Oh believe me, I didn't believe any of that old astrology toot either. But here is a list of stuff that has gone awry so far - firmly down to Mercury looking as though it has buggered off out of orbit and is fleeing backwards.

These are in no particular order:

1 Brushing my hair, my brush caught on a tug (I was working the full Gene Simmons look. Not to be confused with the Jean Simons look, which I would LUFF to work), flew out of my hand and straight down the toilet pan.

No, not that gorgeous one........

This one. This is my hair. This is also my make up.

It is clearly not this monochrome look that is fashionable this season, eh?

2 I reversed ever so slowly and gently into the garage door.

3 I opened the side gate on Friday night to drive to my SECOND power hooping class of the week (be impressed, mortals!), the roller wheel that helps our mahoooosive wooden gate open smoothly caught on a stone as I was pushing it back. The top half of the gate sprung back and smacked me squarely on that bit of bone just above my eye. By the time I got to powerhooping, I looked like Quasimodo. By the time I came out, I had the humph and the limp and everything. It is still sore *trembling lower lip*.

4 Optrex is NOT the same thing as Corsodyl.

5 I took a wire coat-hanger out of my wardrobe to hang something up and through some strange combination of gyrations (see: Zumba Dance DVD that my mother bought me whilst I was recovering from gall-bladder surgery) managed to get it caught around the lampshade, necessitating me to stand on the bed, in my jammies (with the curtains open and the lights on). In the process of doing the unhooking, the strap on my jammy top snapped leaving me looking somewhat Amazonian. You could NOT make it up. I should just have thrown my clothes on the floordrobe.

6 I tried to make myself a pancake and accidentally used Strong Flour. To be fair, I had only just discovered point 7. I still ate it.

7 Tartarus is NOT coming home on the 7th of December as I had thought, but the 1st of December. Which is Thursday. This leaves me 2 days to power wash the house, empty the poly-tunnel and greenhouse of Dead Things, make two designs for the stained glass windows, renew the car insurance (still not done) and write 10,000 words for nanowrimo. S'not going to happen is it?

8 Took a bottle of water up to bed with me and put it on my bedside table, moved the duvet somewhat enthusiastically at about half three in the morning and woke up to water EVERYWHERE.

Still think that Mercury Rx is just a figment of an overactive, esoteric imagination?

Hestia..... enjoys an evening out

2011-11-25T12:34:00.001Z

It wasn't really an EVENING out. You can't call going out at half past five 'The Evening', can you?

In fact, can you call any event at the local library A Evening Out?

Especially if it's on a Wednesday?

Well, *I* do.

I got myself gussied up (ie clean) with smart trousers, an unstained sweater, a full face of make-up and a squirt of perfume and headed to the library.

Sonshine was with me. Working his new black skinny jeans and t-shirt look (pre-EMO, I think we're calling it), he looked rather smart - if a little bummed out at having to leave behind his beloved Minecraft (see: men who live with their mothers playing computer games).

I dragged him along as a necessary evil because this exhibition was all about illustrations from children's books. Although, I wasn't sure whether a small boy as accessory was a Good Idea or not because it was the Cheese And Wine Opening of the exhibition. I don't normally drink when I've got the Disapproving Child with me, so I seriously thought about sneaking out for an hour and letting the internet babysit him.

But then, it was all about kids' books. What if I turned up and was the only adult not to have brought their rug rat with them?

I decided to take him.

We were welcomed at the door with glasses of wine (orange juice for him of course) and basically let loose on the exhibits.

The exhibition was curated by Julia Donaldson, the literary GENIUS behind The Gruffalo, Room on the Broom etc.

Working with the hugely talented Axel Scheffler, Donaldson gathered together some wonderful samples of contemporary childrens' book illustrations. The exhibition is touring around, I think, Scottish libraries (but possibly also libraries Darn Sarf too).

It is a work of two parts - this half includes a selection of divinely illustrated envelopes that Sheffler created for his letters to Donaldson. If I had been her postman, she would have seen NONE of them - they are all simply addressed to 'Julia Donaldson - Glasgow'!

Look at them in their joyful playfulness. I think I'd like to be friends with Axel Sheffler, just looking at his envelopes, wouldn't you?

And the artworks included in this section of the exhibition could be defined as non-Scheffler.

This disappointed Sonshine enormously. He was only there for the Gruffalo. But the Sheffler artworks form Part le Deux of the exhibition, coming in a fortnight.

Reader, I had a lovely time. Several glasses of wine and some unexpected loveliness with friends that I hadn't seen for a long time (one with her Brand Spanky New Son).

I was rather partial to these two - what do you think? Sorry about the strip lighting ;-(

Here are my two favourite images from this part of the exhibition. I would happily have bought these.

It is a pen and watercolour of three little pigs throwing knives at a terrified-looking wolf

This is also a pen and watercolour of two bluebirds having a swinging time.

At half past six (yeah, I am living the rock and roll dream) Sonshine and I buttoned up and set off into the cold wet night.

Back in the cosiness of the house, we began to unswathe ourselves from our wintery layers. 'Did you enjoy that?' I asked from deep inside my scarf.

'Eh, it was alright,' shrugged Sonshine, sinking back into his room to take up the Minecraft where he had left off.

For the second part of the exhibition, I shall leave him behind and take a really nice handbag instead.

Hestia has....an odd Friday

2011-11-22T09:14:00.001Z

Last Friday started off badly when I inadvertently inhaled my breakfast granola. A tragic interplay between a ridiculous yoootyoob video and my filled spoon. The mac's monitor was practically rough-cast by the time the coughing fit subsided.

The day further deteriorated when I spent at least 10 minutes trying to lick and stick an envelope whilst loudly berating myself for buying inexpensive stationery products.

Only to discover that I was licking the pull-off strip for a self-seal envelope.

No-one's perfect.

And yes, I do recall slagging off sonshine for doing something similar with a non-stick stamp.

I then sat down to endure the process of organising insurance for the mini. I had kept a letter from mini that they'd sent me months ago in which they promised incredibly cheap insurance. I congratulated myself for being uber-organised and phoned them to see if the deal was still on and, amazingly, it was.

Reader, we went through almost the entire registration process before I realised that it was only TYRE insurance and not insurance for the whole car.

Cue some embarassed back-pedalling from me and an undignified hang-up.

Mid morning I decided to wash all the dishes that were leaning precariously in the sink. I don't know about you, but cleaning the inside of glasses has become fraught with danger. I stuck my cloth down the inside of a glass, created some kind of pump action and squirted warm soapy water all down the front of my trousers.

Which wouldn't have been so bad in itself except, about a nanosecond after I'd done it, the postman needed me to sign for a package and I greeted him at the front door looking as if I'd peed myself.

He said nothing, but I could tell by his furtively averted gaze that that's what he was thinking.

I changed my trews and wafted off to town to post some letters, bank some cheques and footer around generally.

I got to The Boss's office and threw myself through the door with my best impersonation of Slim Whitman and a rousing chorus of 'Darling Happy Anniversaaaareeeeee' and proffering an anniversary card for him and his wife.

Only to be told that I was a month early.

And if it HAD been in November, I would have been three days late.

By the time 3pm rolled around I was face down in the keyboard, unable to string two sentences together and horribly behind on my national novel writing project (nanowrimo).

Was Mercury retrograde, I wondered.

No. I didn't even have that excuse.

Sonshine came home from school, where it had been a Children in Need Day. He was supposed to go to school dressed in spots, but I don't have anything spotty - not even socks. Instead I'd sent him off with a small bag of stuff for the Bring And Buy sale with the strict instruction that, from HIS point of view, it was just a BRING sale.

'Well, what rubbish did you spend your money on this year?' I sighed, giving him a hug and simultaneously eyeing his bulging school bag.

'Something for you.' he said, raking around in his rucksack.

Proudly he produced a battered cardboard box....of Wall - E, my most favourite animated film EVER. Any time we think about buying it, it's not in stock or Tartarus grumbles that it's too expensive or something.

And now my Sonshine had bought me a copy. With his own money. Technically, my money, but let's not quibble.

Suddenly, Friday was the BEST day in the world.

And Mercury goes retrograde tomorrow: Stand by your beds for lost letters, forgetting to pay bills, misunderstandings by the cartload and the recording of football matches over your wedding video. And it won't even be the right football match either.

Hestia toots her trumpet for Kismet's Companion

2011-11-18T08:58:00.001Z

Click on image to visit Viv's shop!

It's nearly Christmas and if you are anything like me you've not given it much thought.....

Oh right.

Just me then.....

ANYWAY - I just wanted to draw your attention to my good friend Viv's Folksy shop where she sells the most lovely soap.

I've bought LOADS of this lady's soap and now Tartarus won't use anything else.

And he's a big butch Engineer with a motorbike and a beer belly.

What can I tell you about the soaps?

They are veritable slices of loveliness, that's what they are. They lather up beautifully, with small bubbles (a mark of quality ingredients, I believe) and the scent off them is divine.

Yes, she is my friend and yes, I'm biased, but I can assure you that if they were not good soaps, I would not be recommending them here.

They are perfect to buy in now as a wee reserve of surprise Christmas gifts - we all get that moment when someone tips up with a pressie for you and you've bought them NOTHING!!!! Instead of guddling around in a panic upstairs in the bedroom, you can elegantly hand them a beautifully packaged soap, made in the UK by a wonderful craftswoman. No sweat.

Take this one, for example: Rajah's Soap. It is scented with rose and sandalwood - DIVINE, yes?!

There are all sorts of scents available - some designed specially for the Christmas season (wouldn't they make fab pressies to give to a hostess instead of a tired old box of chocolates?!). You can have anything from warm exotics to florals and airy, beachy scents.

This one is Babuska - scented with Lilac and Violet *droooooools* Just had a thought, this would be PERFECT if you've got an EMO teen or Goth to buy for! I think it looks utterly decadent.

The packaging is simple, but effective. This means that you can happily hand over a soap as a gift to a man in your life too.

And you can always e-mail her if you needed some kind of special gift pack made up - she's very obliging.

Oh yeah, and she knits the most divine stuff (am owner of a gorgeous shawl that she knitted for me) - so again, if you wanted a really special, hand-knitted item - but you just can't manage it yourself *cough*, get in touch with her.

My shawl - gorgeous!

This is soooooo fine that you could pass it through a wedding ring. If I had one. And that's a story for another day......

So I'm not prepared for Christmas, it would help me out NO END if you could suggest friends of YOURS (or even yourself!!) who make gorgeous stuff that we could all take a look at and maybe support in these lean times!

Hestia....and the rolling stones

2011-11-16T18:57:00.001Z


In which I think I've tried to pass Charlie Watts. AND his drum kit

Some good news to start off with, the BT Engineer came TODAY a full 24 hours earlier than he was booked and told me that the issue was with the exchange, not me. I now have a fully ringing phone YAY!

Next thing is that we haz mice again. As soon as the temperature dips, everything that can force its tiny skull through the beautifully decorative air bricks in our basement comes in for a holiday.

I discovered our visitors when I opened a drawer to remove the kitchen roll and discovered it in a lacy state very muck like Nibbles left the sitting room curtains.

A quick peep in the cupboard beneath the boiler showed thousands of miniscule poops and umpteen empty peanut shells from our Hallowe'en bowl. Such is my household sluttery *shrug*. Ah well, better get the trap out, I spose. Hate catching them, as you know, but I reckon that everything furry that lived in the garden is now living underneath the kitchen floor. Got to be done.

The final thing is that I was at the docs again this morning. Weeks ago (before Hallowe'en) I took a spectacularly SORE pain in my side while my friend was visiting, discussing the hula hooping. The pain came on without warning and was so bad that I was hyperventilating and sweating and groaning on the sofa.

I took myself off to the loo to make myself sick so see if whatever it was might shift, but no. I crawled back downstairs, my face the colour of old Wensleydale cheese and begged my friend to get my car keys and drive me up to the hospital. Which you could hit from my house with a very long throw.

She suggested that I try to get my breathing under control before we left, which we did.

And then. Suddenly. The pain was gone.

Today was my appointment with my long-suffering docctor. I relayed the event in gory detail and he announced that he was 100% sure that it was a gallstone that wafted from the wound site, down this tube and that it had got stuck as it tried to enter my gut.

'But my gallbladder's gone...' I said.

'Yes, but there can be all sorts of stuff in that tube after the surgery. I'm pretty sure you've passed a gallstone. Next time it happens, take painkillers and if it doesn't ease off in 20 minutes, come back up and we'll give you something stronger.

'NEXT TIME?????'

'It's quite a spectacular pain, isn't it? One of the worst, apparently,' he said brightly. 'If it DOES happen again, we'll need to take a look and see what's going on in there.'

The pain certainly was spectacular, it bloody felt like Mick Jagger was trying to squeeze into my gut, never mind a piddly wee stone the size of a garden pea.

'Lovely.'

Pass the gin and tonic.

How has your day gone?

Hestia....is hanging on the telephone (again)

2011-11-15T18:52:00.001Z

At some point after I reluctantly signed up to give Childline money on a monthly basis in the doorway of Tesco in Greenock on Saturday, my landline telephones went all pre-menstrual on me.

'What's your bank account number?' asked the chugger as I desperately looked for a tin to drop a few coins into instead.

'Ah, is it not on my card?' says I peering sans spectacles at my bank card.

'No,' said the chugger brightly. 'It will be on your bank statement.'

'Strangely enough,' I replied (with sarcasm dripping so heavily that I thought I might need wellies) 'I don't have a bank statement on me SEEING AS HOW THIS IS TESCO' Actually, I didn't say that last bit at all. But I thought it very deeply and pointedly, so it's the same thing.

The chugger took my telephone number and promised to call later that day, some time after 4.30pm.

He still hadn't called by the time Russell and Flavia took to the floor in their weekly glitter and eye-liner fest. Which I thought was odd.

Anyway, no-one phoned me on Sunday. Apparently.

This morning, just after Sonshine had departed for school, ripstick in hand, the Meerkat's mother appeared at the door (again looking effortlessly glamorous in black jeans and the sort of luxuriously soft sweater that Customs and Excise won't let you bring into the country).

'Where have you BEEN?" she asked, thrusting a new packet of oatbran into my hands (Dukan Diet, don't ask - I have an arse like a ripped paper bag).

'Nowhere. I've not been anywhere.'

'I've been trying to phone you for DAYS.'

Thus I learned that my phone was not working.

So I phoned BT's automatic line test.

'Please tell us the telephone number of the line to be tested. Do not hang up the phone while the line is being tested', said the M&S advert lady voice. I type in the number. 'The line for this telephone number is currently in use. Please hang up. We will call you to let you know whether your line has a fault.'

So I hung up.

And of course my line DOES have a fault. The bloody phones don't ring. I stare at the phone and of course, the M&S advert lady voice does not ring back.

I recall that the lady said that in the event that she did not call back, to phone 151 and follow the process for Fault Progress.

Reader. I will not bore you with the endless looping voicemail but there is NO Fault Progress bloody process. I selected EVERY option (necessitating many calls to 151) I was approaching the weeping stage and Sonshine had learned some new words.

I call 151 AGAIN and zero out until a gentleman from a distant continent answers the phone. By this time I am more pissed-off than a Syrian Dictator.

'I've been told to follow the Fault Progress procedure and THERE'S NO SUCH THING,' I rattle down the phone to the poor fellow in my heavily accented English. There is a pause while he tries to digest my rant. He offers to phone my mother to give her the results of the line test. I agree.

I hang up and then remember how my mother was recently sucked in to an internet scam by an Indian Gentleman a couple of weeks back. I blanche at the thought of the tirade of abuse that Juno will vent upon his unfortunate head. I frantically try to call her on the mobile and I manage to get her before he calls her. Thank God.

I wait a few minutes and phone her back. My line doesn't appear to have a fault in it.

So, dear reader, this afternoon I have spent the hours that I should have devoted to the ongoing creation of the Great British Novel squatting down behind the hamster cage amongst the crumbs and crispy poops that Nibbles manages to fling from his/her cage on a regular basis, torch in one hand, screw-driver in the other, a vast quantity of borrowed telephones that would shame a BBC Telethon, a mobile phone, a print-out from the computer on how to unscrew your BT telephone point and test it......to discover that really, I have not got a bloody clue why the phones aren't ringing.

Apprehensively, I dial 151 again and this time get a very nice lady from the subcontinent this time. Within a few minutes she has organised a visit from a BT engineer (which will set me back about £170 for his first hour's visit if it turns out that Nibbles SOMEHOW a the bottom of all this, and about £80 per subsequent hour.

I wonder whether BT are aiming for all its customer base to be Russian oligarchs because only those with a yacht the size of a Balkan State will be able to afford someone to fix their phones at those rates.

The poor man from Childline will think that I've taken excessively DRASTIC evasive action to avoid giving him my account number for the monthly deduction......

Hestia remembers a foreign field

2011-11-13T11:52:00.001Z

There is a map, in a bible, where the black type-face, El Alamein, has been worn away to pale grey by years of family fingers pressing against the paper. As if touching the name could somehow take them to some foreign field.

There is a photograph. A serious-faced, good-looking young man smiles out, his army cap at a jaunty angle over his cropped hair. This is James. To me, now, he's only a child, barely out of his teens really. As were they all, I suppose.

My gran (his aunt) had the sepia-toned photo pinned up on her living-room wall, next to the TV when I was a child. The yellowing mount carefully held in place by strategically placed thumb-tacks. I was terrified of it. His gaze followed you all around the room. I couldn't even hide behind my doll's pram - every time I peeked out, there he was, watching and smiling.

When she was a young woman, my mum recalls buying her mother flowers from her wages every week. One day at the florists she saw something unusual and beautiful. She bought a spray and took it home to her mother. It was mimosa.

After a few days my gran sat my mother down and squeezed my mother's hand over the kitchen table. I hope that you'll not be offended, hen, said my gran, but I've had to throw those flowers out. Not offended, but curious, my mother asked why. Because they smell of death, said my gran.

We've always been a family prone to the overly-dramatic statement.

But my mother never bought mimosas again. For anyone.

And so the years passed. My gran died and the photograph was carefully unpinned from the wall and slipped into an album. No longer could James's gaze watch our lives unfold; he became confined to the pages of a book.

There is an envelope that contains a folded up handkerchief. It's a clean but rough handkerchief. No-one uses it, of course. It was James's handkerchief. It was one of the few things sent home to his utterly bereft mother. Whenever it is unfolded, as it sometimes is when the now-elderly cousins try to make their cousin live and breathe again for us, we can see and feel the grains of sand from the desert still amongst its fibres. We don't talk about how he died. Whether it was in vain. Whether the sacrifices were worth it. They talk about him as their Big Cousin with his cheeky chat and sense of humour.

They can look upon his photo and touch the sand as well as the name on the map. But it was never enough. Not for his family.

A few years ago, an elderly cousin of my mother's went a cruise to the Mediterranean and one of the day trips offered was a coach outing to the military graves at El Alamein. She and her husband decided to go and try to find James's grave.

There were over 70,000 men of many nationalities killed at the two battles of El Alamein and she despaired of finding anything that would help them find James. The coach rattled out from the blue harbour, through the bustling city and out into the flat, pale, almost featureless desert where the Desert Campaign had raged all those long years ago.

Of course, everyone on the tour was looking for someone's grave and they had to wait for access for the books that they needed to examine. The first book that was given to her to leaf through was one of the books for surnames beginning with M. There were several books for the Ms.

She randomly opened the book to laid it flat on the lectern. And there he was. On that randomly opened page. With his plot number.

Like I said, we're a family prone to the dramatic moment.

Out they went into the stifling heat and made their way to the plot, camera at the ready.

And so they found his unremarkable stone in the unremarkable lines of other stones. Line after line of brilliant white stones gleaming in the heat.

And there was a tree growing over his grave.

My aunt didn't know what the tree was, but she took a photograph of the grave and the tree, picking off a few of the distinctively serrated leaves for the other cousins to keep as mementos of the visit.

When she returned home, she presented my mother with her leaves and asked my mum if she knew what the tree was.

'Yes, said my mother.

'It's mimosa.'

Hestia...Four conversations with my son

2011-11-09T13:28:00.001Z

Conversation 1:

I am standing with the hamster securely locked in my cupped palms. Or so I think. I feel a tiny but determined skull forcing its way between my fingers. Sonshine has a plastic bag filled with hamster cage detritus that he is attempting to take out to the compost heap. I need him to do it quickly now as Nibbles needs to go back into his cage.

Currently it is locked.

Me: Just open the back door and put the bag on the step. I need to get Nibbles into his cage NOW!

Sonshine: I can't find the back door key....

Me: Look in my jacket pocket. QUICK!

Sonshine: It's not in your handbag....

Me: My jacket pocket. MY JACKET POCKET. Look in my jacket pocket!

Nibbles is now burrowing his way to freedom. Or should I say, burrowing HER* way to freedom, between my fingers.

Sonshine: Is this it?(shows me car keys)

Me: Did you look in my jacket pocket?

Sonshine: Do you want me to look in your jacket pocket?

Me: For Chrissakes LOOK IN MY JACKET POCKET. Can you not HEAR ME?

The key is duly found.

In my jacket pocket.

Nibbles has almost lost a foot as I struggled to keep her* from escaping.

Lesson learned: Always have the backdoor key in the lock OR Always ensure Nibbles' cage is unlocked OR Never ask an 11 year-old to help when things get to the wire.

* We got a leaflet from the petshop on how to sex your hamster. Nibbles is utterly smooth down there, therefore he is a girl. But Sonshine will not hear of this. Nibbles remains a boy. This may result in serious psychosexual problems for the hamster, but I'll just have to cope with the guilt on my own.

Conversation 2

We are lying comfortably on the sofa with a fleecy blanket over us. It is winter. This is a Victorian house. We snuggle. The British Airways advert comes on TV:We watch the pilots and passengers change through the decades until we get to present day BA pilots. I like this advert a lot for some reason, possibly because The Meerkat's impossibly organised mother is a First Class Cabin Crew person.

'They're going to put their slogan back on their planes' tail fins.' I tell Sonshine.

'Slogan?''Yes, you know - their motto. It's in the advert. Can you remember what it is?'

He considers this for a moment and says: 'No refunds?'

I ponder the wisdom of having this emblazoned worldwide on their BA tail fins and not 'To Fly. To Serve' as they are currently planning and decide to write to Ryanair with the idea in the morning.

Conversation 3

He is standing in his pjs at the sink. He has developed an interest in combing his hair. I suspect A Girl.

'Any sign of a girlfriend?' I ask nonchelantly as I sit on the toilet pan (lid down. Of course.)

'Nah'

'I just wondered, what with the interest in your hair and the daily squirting of your dad's good Gucci aftershave.....'

'Well, there's Amy, of course.'

I have heard of no Amu. This is news to me and I want to know EVERYTHING about her.

'Amy? Don't know that name. What's she like?'

'Like?'

'Yanno - is she tall, short. Does she have dark or fair hair? Does she have long or short hair? Good at sports?

He held up a small hand, still brandishing the toothbrush and considered how to describe this paragon of loveliness in his class.

'Well, she's CLEAN,' he said.

And there's your proof right there that he's Tartarus's issue.

Conversation 4

We're in the kitchen. I'm cooking. Yes, a rare moment. Sonshine has washed his hands and is sitting on his little stool at the table.

Sonshine: 'Mum......?'

Me (stirring) 'Hmmmmmm?'

Sonshine: 'What's an orgasm?'

Me coughing violently (to buy me a few moments of time) 'Why do you want to know that?' I stutter.

He is 11. When I was 11 the only questions that I asked my mother revolved around whether she reckoned I could be a Saint like Bernadette of Lourdes. I seem to remember that my questions brought about exactly the same sort of response from her too.

Sonshine: 'What IS an orgasm?'

Me: ' Well, what do YOU think it might be?'

Sonshine: 'Is it something to do with carrots?'

I am about to say 'no' when I wonder just what they might be talking about up in the playground these days? Perhaps it WAS something to do with carrots. And orgasms. There's a lot of strange DVDs going about these days, so, dear reader I said:'You can ask your dad about that when he comes home in a couple of weeks'

*mental note* must warn Tartarus before that moment arises so that we have an honest, but non-detailed response.

I wish he'd just asked whether he might become Bernadette of Lourdes.

Hestia....goes powerhooping

2011-11-05T15:49:00.000Z

This was us. Not.

My fit friend Irma had just signed up for a new exercise class. We talked about it and lo, it came to pass that I too thought that the new power hooping class would also be A Good Idea.

Not one to do things alone, I bribed my Day Carer to come along with me. We opted to go on the Thursday morning, with Irma going to the Friday evening session to fit in with her work. As the two of us climbed the stairs in the Pavilion before 10am last Thursday morning, we realised that we hadn't done an exercise class for at least a decade.

'It's a hula hoop,' I reminded us both.' How hard can it be?'

If your recollection of a hula hoop is a dayglo yellow affair that you could effortlessly spin for hours and hours whilst discussing the merits of David Cassidy over Donny Osmond, then you're about as deluded as us.

The POWER hoops resembled large steering wheels - albeit multi-coloured ones - but with those ridges that steering wheels have that stop your sweaty hands from sending you spinning your car into a ditch. It looked a bit like LEGO. Albeit masochistic LEGO.

'What weight of hoop would you like?' asked the impossibly tall, impossibly slender, impossibly fit, teacher.

'What difference does it make?' we replied warily.

'The heavier the hoop, the easier it is to spin...' said the teacher. We moved towards the heavy hoops.

'....but,' she added, 'they might give you bruising on your stomach. Some of the girls have reported bruising.'

We moved away from the heavy hoops and alighted on the 3lb hoops.

'And gloves,' said the teacher ,' You'll need these gloves.'

We pulled on weighted gloves - again the lightest ones we could find.

The music started and we all moved off to take our places.

'....and just do what you can with the Boxercise Exercises!' she called after us as The Black Eyed Peas boomed their way into life behind us.

BOXERCISE? Nobody had mentioned anything about Boxercise.....

Reader, as the exercises commenced, I became too afraid to meet the Day Carer's increasingly furious gaze, but believe me I could feel the daggers in my back.

'You never mentioned anything about bloody sit ups and press ups,' she hissed as we lay like a couple of bull seals on our mats, unable to haul ourselves onto our elbows and into the required Plank position.

'I didn't know,' I wailed pathetically as we roused ourselves to do more bloody star jumps.

'I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You, she panted as we jabbed and upper-cutted our way to a partial stroke.

'You. Can't. Kill. me. Before. I. Kill. Irma.' I panted back.

After a very, VERY long hour, with the Day Carer reduced to a puddle of sweat and me in not much better state, we decided that we would come every week, because, despite the agony, we HAD enjoyed it.

And we celebrated our new-found fitness regime with what else, a cup of restorative coffee and a cake?

Hestia says...meet the ancestors!

2011-11-03T13:52:00.002Z

Tartarus and I have been interested in the history of our house since the first moment we stepped through the front door as eager house-hunters and found ourselves standing in a mosaic-tiled hallway staring, slack-jawed at the Victorian splendour of it all.

Of course, it wasn't all fabulous. The kitchen was basically a sink on a base unit and the kitchen carpet made odd tacky sticky noises whenever we walked over it.

Still, we were not put off. The pair of us have vivid imaginations and while he could see his beloved car and bike in a yet-to-be-built garage...I was envisaging myself sweeping down the grand staircase in the manner of Scarlet O'Hara in Gone With The Wind.

In fact, if the previous owners had left us any curtains, I would have made a frock out of them for that exact purpose. But they did not even leave us any light-fittings when we arrived, so the frock/curtain was never made. Pity.

Over the years we've picked up bits and pieces from people who knew the house when they were children and once, people came from Cheshire to see it. Their great-greats used to come and stay at the house for their summer holidays. They kindly posted us up photos of their serious-faced relatives in loose tennis dresses standing in the garden.

I treasure them.

The other night, a man appeared at the door and introduced himself to me as the great, great, great grandson of the man who built our house. He had lots of photos of the house, might I be interested in seeing them? Does a bear shit in the woods?

Later that evening he appeared laden down with colour photocopies of sepia-toned photographs and scratchy 70s photocopies in a folder.

Reader, I was transfixed.

Meet Mr Hunter and his wee wife:

Bearded man - Mr Hunter, the housebuilder. Next to him stands Mrs Hunter and three of their children, plus a couple of dogs. He loved his dogs.

This photo was taken at the back of our house. Apart from the vast quantities of plants,
everything today is as it was back then.

Mr Hunter was a master-builder and owned large swathes of property around the town. He was also a VERY big fan of the temperance movement. He must be spinning in his grave every time Tartarus sways his way home from the bike club!

And there are LOADS of fantastic photos of their huge family and BEST of all there are photos of the inside of my house. Richard, the man who owned the photos, and I walked around the house and were astonished to realise that we have put much of our furniture in the same position as the Hunters.

I am now in the process of scanning many of the images so that we have good records for the house so that if we ever sell up, the next owners will be able to meet the house's ancestors too.

And finally, my favourite image - the classic Wean And Dog pose that has graced many a chocolate box:

I went to bed that night feeling incredibly peaceful now that I know my house's family. And now I've got names to call out when I think I see a fleeting shadow in the hall.

Here's another one for you - four sons and five daughters! No wonder Mrs Hunter looks tired :-D

Hestia and Hallowe'en

2011-11-01T15:30:00.002Z

Please note that apostrophe, in Hallowe'en. Don't forget that apostrophes and semi colons are all that separate us from the Outer Rings of Hell.

Anyway, my Grammar Nazi has been temporarily subdued and I've tidied away my shiny jackboots and Springtime for Hitler song sheet. Today it's all about Hallowe'en.

It's just about my favourite time of the year and when Tartarus is away, Sonshine and I go the Full Nine Yards for Hallowe'en spookiness. This year we had a skull with flashing eyes to add to our collection of pumpkin bowls and 'ghoul' lights (thank you Wendy!) and the house was looking suitably scary.

However, we had a lot to get through before our Hallowe'en was done: Sonshine was going out for his Hallowe'en with the Meerkat - dressed as The Honey Monster and the Cookie Monster. The Meerkat's mother is a dab hand with the sewing machine and she just ran up a couple of fabulous costumes.

She makes me feel about as domesticated as a field mouse.

Just one of those people who are effortlessly good at everything they do.

I am surprised that we are still friends. Maybe she pities me :-)

Anyway I had some Tarot readings booked in the local bookshop and the lovely Karen had suggested that I dress up. Now, as Chairman of The Tarot Association of The British Isles, I spend a lot of my time defending Tarot as a skill and persuading people that we are not all gypsy fortune tellers.

And this was me preparing for my Tarot reading gig:

stereotypical? Not moi!

There were seven reading slots available and they were all sold out.

Although each reading was scheduled to last around 15 minutes, it takes a lot out of you (especially when you've not done face to face readings for quite a long time). By the time 8.30pm came, I was pooped, but happy. Karen and I might do something similar again soon :-)

Once we were back home and Sonshine was showered (it's a very sweaty being a cookie monster) and in his bed, I could turn my attention to the real focus of the night - my Samhain ritual.

This time of year is when I remember all my dead relatives - the ancestors - who stretch far back into time, each of them paving the way for ME. From unknown faces in old sepia-toned photographs who once laughed and loved and were vibrantly alive to those further back, utterly forgotten to memory, they are all important to me.

To you too.

Their choices enabled US to be who we are today. So what harm does it do to pour them a little sherry and then tell them that you appreciate them once a year?

A little prayer is offered up for the spirits of those who have gone before, and I toast them. Then the sherry is poured on the earth outside.

Mad? Maybe. But then, I have got a pain au chocolat called Kevin in the bread bin. And no, I didn't dress him up for Hallowe'en.

But enough of me, what did YOU do for Hallowe'en?! Spill!

Hestia....the grammar Nazi

2011-10-26T10:44:00.002+01:00

We all make mistakes when we're typing or writing - and some folks really struggle with their writing skills because of dyslexia and other issues. This post is in NO way aimed at you.

Sonshine brought home his latest 'Curriculum For Excellence' project for his homework. Please note that word 'Excellence'.

Aside from the fact that one is supposed to be creating an innovative lantern on an island where it's sometimes impossible to buy a jar of capers, I magically fumed my way to fully-fledged grammar Nazi as I read it in much the same way as Mild-Mannered Clark Kent ends up with his knickers on outside his trousers.....

I'll let the missing apostrophe on Hallowe'en go....but check out that first 'paragraph':

'Give of some light' GIVE OF SOME LIGHT???????

Give OFF some light!!!!

'Was this written by a Class Assistant.....or a pupil?' I asked hopefully.

'Nah - it was written by a teacher.'

I was assured that it wasn't HIS teacher that wrote it. Which is good, seeing as how she's Acting Assistant Head at the Primary at the moment and VERY lovely and Sonshine ADORES her.

Perhaps I should give the teacher in question the benefit of the doubt - perhaps it was just overly quick fingers on the keyboard....followed by a bit of duff proof-reading.

Am I being too pedantic? Do I need to take a chill pill and worry not about the Western World's slow descent into grammar chaos? Does text-speak herald the END of civilisation as we know it? Should I drink weaker coffee in the morning before blogging? :-)

Hestia likes....fancy tea

2011-10-24T18:55:00.002+01:00

My lovely friend was given a box of Japanese tea:

Here's a little box - one of 8 in the beautiful decorative main box

You take out the contents - a prickly thing that resembles a tiny sleeping hedgehog, and put it in a tea glass and add recently boiled water.

And then you wait a few minutes and then.....

Culminating in THIS......

This is jasmine flowers in tea-needles and nasturtium blossom and it makes tea-drinking a beautiful thing to be savoured and enjoyed like a fine painting.

TEA DRINKING IN THE UK

BUT - you can provide your builder with endless cups of the above.

He's not getting jasmine flowers!

Do you like to make something ordinary into something special?

Hestia's role....as domestic servant

2011-10-23T13:16:00.005+01:00

Sonshine has been out playing on his riptsick with a friend. Who's a girl. Under strict instructions not to abandon her if any of his usual pals turn up.

I assume that she's gone for her lunch now too, because he has demanded something to eat.

Phone rang

A girlfriend, on for a chat. We chat. We talk about lots of inconsequential things. For about 20 minutes.

I hang up the phone and realise that I can smell the sandwich-maker in the kitchen.

I go in and am greeted by this:

I'll just clarify the photo for you - it's the sandwich-maker (on and gently wafting smoke) a half-spread piece of bread (spread with mayonnaise. using a fork). A sad looking bit of gammon.

And a tiny note.

Here's the note:

Happy Sunday people :-)

Hestia in London AGAIN

2011-10-17T15:36:00.001+01:00

No, I haven't taken a tumble into the Thames and taken a snap on
the way down. It's ART.

I've been looking forward to this, like a dog looks forward to a dropped sausage on the floor. Positively SALIVATING to get to Lahndahn and immerse myself in the cultural delights that it has to offer.

But where to stay?

After a lengthy trawl through the city's accommodation providers we came across SACO and I tenatively asked them whether they had anything our budget in the self-catering sector.

They came up trumps with Think Earls Court.

And here is. It was never this tidy again.

Tiny dining/kitchen/sofa area with telly on the wall. Perfectly serviceable!

Our bedroom - Sonshine had one exactly the same, only with an ensuite - he got the ensuite because it was further away from the living area. Not that we had any wild and raucous moments while he was in bed or anything....

Nice little ensuite - and there was another bathroom just like this. Sonshine had one to himself. Actually we had one for Tartarus and his Unmentionable Bowel Habits.

Will and I in front of some of his paintings. I'm his biggest fan.
Trying not to sound like Kathy Bates in Misery when I say that.

Tartarus and Sonshine were dragged kicking and screaming to lunch with my friends Will and Wendy. Wendy, brought a skull with flashing eyes and a big bag of sweeties - so that was them BOTH won over in nanoseconds.

This is Will's artwork, he had an exhibition on at Atlantis Bookshop in London. I am looking dishevelled because it was RAINING and my hair was reverting to its natural Mr Hyde state. I did start off the day with make-up on. Evidently not enough. Yes, I am wearing jeans.

I have some images of the lovely Wendy - but none of them do her justice!

We did a lot of wandering around over our few days there - we went and LOOKED at this, but Tartarus wouldn't spring for the fares. Also did the Aquarium next door. Took lots of photos of penguins swimming. Bad, BAD photos of mainly empty stretches of pool, maybe the odd flipper....

On the Saturday I went to the UK Tarot Conference ON MY OWN. Yes, the route was engraved upon my very soul - Earls Court to Kings Cross, Northern Line from KC to Old Street.....but I didn't realise that the usually reliable underground becomes schizo at the weekends and is a farking NIGHTMARE of closures.

This culminated in me realising that the Northern Line was no longer accessible from King's Cross as I pawed frantically at the barrier wondering if there was a Secret Way to get to the platform. It was early on Saturday morning; I had heels on; I got a taxi. By the time I arrived at the conference, I had MASSIVE sweat rings on my cotton jersey. I now realise that there is a difference between an anti-persperant and a deoderant. Too late, too late.

And now we are back home. London, our romance flickers on. I love your restaurants (Byron in Kensington, a fab Lebanese place off the Earl's Court Road) and your museums (I made it to the British Museum where Sonshine declared it 'Not his sort of place' because there were no dinosaurs in it. But me? I loved it.

Differences between London and Glasgow

1 Londoners wearing flip flops, bare feet and shorts. Glasgow - boots, thick tights and hats
2 London underground man - jeans and no knickers. Repulsive. Glasgow - more likely to be several pairs of knickers. It's cold here.
3 London - people drive like they are possessed - speeding, tooting, mounting the pavement.. Glasgow - people drive like, well, people.
4 London - people are friendly if you talk to them. Glasgow - people talk to you whether you're being friendly or not.

Hope to get back to see the Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman by Grayson Perry before it closes in 2012!

And now I have returned, Cinderella-like and absolutely knackered, to the island. Tartarus leaves to go back to sea tomorrow. I iz comfort eating aleady. Who will heat up my side of the bed?!

Hestia...stands up for herself in a small, significant way

2011-10-11T15:23:00.003+01:00

The Transvaginal Railway

Men - look away now.

I think that you know I like to have a bit of a laugh in life. I'd rather laugh than be miserable. But I'm also the sort of person who errs on the side of caution rather than gay abandon - and this is especially the case where my health is concerned.

A while back I got some scans done - nothing too drastic - just ultrasound (like when you are having a baby) except they're looking at your cute little fibroids. And the less pleasant transvaginal scan. It sounds like a rail journey across a desolate part of Russia, but in actual fact - it's perfectly fine - don't worry about it if you need to have one.

Anyway, the results came back - a normal uterus thickness is 4mm. Mine was 14mm.

In anyone's book This Wasn't Good. Especially my mother's. Who sent me news clippings about women who had been diagnosed with womb cancer....and the first sign had been a thickened womb lining. Talk about scaring the living shit out of me!

She was just worried, I know. So I went back to see my Well Woman Doctor and we talked about the results. My period had come later on that day of the scans, so she said that my womb lining was probably perfectly normal.

'Probably'. It's not a reassuring word.

She suggested that we organise a new set of scans to put my mind at rest.

So the letter arrived and today was the appointment day.

Up I went to the hospital, my bladder full as instructed. And I waited and waited and waited.

The nurse materialised and apologised for the delay. I informed her that I would really REALLY have to go for a pee in the next 10 minutes.....she brought me along to the little cubicle and I pulled my jeans down around my hips. We spent 10 minutes chatting about the weather, kids, holidays etc.

The ultrasound lady duly arrived with her coffee.

I've had her before and she's not chatty. But I am. Especially when I'm nervous. And I was nervous.

'What are you here for?' she asked, pushing her spectacles up, scanning the screen.

I explained - the womb lining thickness....the womb cancer fear..... silence hung between us. She sighed. 'Your womb was perfectly normal. When was your last period?'

I told her.

'Well, your womb lining is going to be thick again. It's only thin directly after your period.' *sigh*

I said nothing. The blue gel was duly dolloped onto my abdomen with little ceremony and off she went - measuring and clicking. I stared at the ceiling tiles. I said nothing. It was over in about 10 minutes.

'Right. If you want me to check your uterus, you'll need an internal scan. Go and empty your bladder.' Another sigh. The dismissive tone was unmistakable.

The nurse apologetically ushered me out of the cubicle and to the toilet. 'Are you alright?' she asked me. 'Your colleague has got an attitude problem,' I said through gritted teeth.

'Other people have said the same,' said the nurse.

I stood in the toilet for a few moments, wondering whether I should bother going ahead with the scan. Who wants an irritated woman sticking a wand up your chuff?

I returned to the room and silently removed my jeans and knickers. Whether the nurse had said anything to her or not was neither here nor there. I wasn't inclined to talk. Neither was she.

Up went the wand and off she went, directing it around like a sort of fanny-orientated gear stick, clicking and measuring, clicking and measuring. At one point she wordlessly nudged my tense knee out of the way. I could feel angry tears pricking at the back of my eyes.

This was the third time I'd seen this woman and she had been very detached and 'untalktoable' every single time. I always give people the benefit of the doubt - maybe she had stuff going on in her own life. But there was no doubt about this attitude today, this was the worst: She was angry with me for taking up this appointment. Angry with me for what else? Being scared I might have womb cancer? I felt black ire roll off her in sullen waves.

It didn't last long and it wasn't painful. I decided that I Was Going To Say Something....but not until I had my clothes on. It's hard to look impressive as you're wobbling on one leg trying to get your knickers on.

Even when I was fully dressed, she sat with her back to me at her desk.

The nice nurse opened the door for me.

'By the way,' I said - nice and quietly and firmly,' My Well Woman Doctor OFFERED me this appointment. I didn't REQUEST it. It was to put my mind at ease. Thank you for your time and skills.'

The woman turned and nodded. I turned and left before any further conversation could be entered into.

Whatever might be wrong with me, it could only be better than whatever might be wrong with her.

Hestia and...... trouser unpleasantness

2011-10-10T16:51:00.000+01:00

I decided to buy a new pair of trousers (still working the denim detox, I am proud to say) and headed off to the only place in town that sells anything remotely On Trend.

I don't count The Factory Shop. For obvious reasons.

Anyway, the girl who runs it is lovely and does her best to buy in lots of 'larger' sizes (ie 14 and 16). I flicked through the rails, mentally noting that the majority of the tops that would fit me were 'one size' type efforts. Which hang off my bust like I'm displaying the Turin Shroud. Only less sexy.

So I say that I'm looking for a pair of strides.

"What about these legging things? More substantial than leggings, but stretchier than trews. They are called Treggings." I take two pairs of Large into the changing room along with a pair of trousers.

I haul them on and fondly imagine this:

But when I turn around and look in the mirror, I am appalled to see something that not only has a bit of a camel toe thing going on in the crotch area, but my appendix scar can clearly be seen through the cling of the fabric. Something is drooping down the back of my legs - it is my arse. Let me tell you, it's not a good look.

It wouldn't have mattered how much material was in these treggings, my body just doesn't suit them. Are there special knickers that you can wear that can keep your fanny nice and flat and not give you this horrible groin? Can you have a fat fudd? #fashionisamysterytome

Infuriated, I hauled them off and flung them out of the changing room.

I drag on a pair of trousers that are stretchy, but the design of them has little rips and holes in them. They have a very high waist - so no escaping muffin top (which is a Good Thing). A nice look when you're a studenty type, but a bit unsuitable for someone approaching 50 and desperately trying to smarten herself up a bit.

But this was it. The only trousers in the shop that at least FITTED. I bought them.

I wore them.

Tartarus couldn't believe that I'd spent money on trousers that look, new, more tired than my £9.99 jeans out of The Factory Shop.

I kinda like them, but they're not very smart.....

-o0o-

Tartarus excels himself by asking whether the Knights in Merlin are the Knights of the Holy Braille.
I excel myself by saying out loud that I covet Nigel Slater's pepper and morstal.
We had not even been at the sauce.

I have baked a sponge, using Paul Hollingworth's recipe from UK Good Food. I recommend them to the house for nice recipes that work like a charm. Isn't The Great British Bake-off the most fantastic food porn?

And this week, the second and final week of the October holidays, I am off Darn Sarf to Lahndahn. Laptop coming with me. Hopefully cable for camera so that I can upload snaps. Are you coming? It should be worth it just to hear me mouth-breathing with fear when I have to use the underground on my own on Saturday to get to the Tarot Conference. I predict Sweat Rings, possibly a Shart or two of fear.

What have you been up to? Entertain me, reader.

Hestia's wet weekend

2011-10-01T16:40:00.001+01:00

The rest of you Darn Sarf may be basking in record-breaking October temperatures, but we up here in the land of the Pict and deep-fried Mars Bar are positively trench-footed from the wet stuff falling from the skies.

So, what does your Domestic Goddess do when it's wet?

First of all, she Facebooks until she is quite fractious from the constant clicking. Then she stands and looks out of the window for a bit. Then she gets out her camera and does this:

Nuit D'ete

Do you remember that I blew an exorbitant sum on bulbs and tubers earlier this year? Well, this is the dahlia. It's not exactly black, but it is dark purple, so it's A Stayer in the border.

I'm thinking that a dahlia is actually very beautiful really, when you strip away the stuffiness of Horticultural Show benches. Time for the dahlia to make a come back in YOUR garden next year?

Anyhoo, I also bought some African Lilies, or Agapanthus - of which nary a sign yet - but they've got another 12 months to come good. Plus Tartarus has forgotten all about them, so I'm not yet getting the rolling eyes and sniggering when I settle down to watch Monty Don of a Friday evening. But if they don't show up next year, I've a feeling that my seed catalogues will be confiscated.

I also bought some crocosmia, Lucifer, which is supposed to be a fiery red. It has flowered looking like this:

Which is not really a red inspired by the horrors of hell, is it? Sort of orange? Just my eyesight? Anyway, it's got another year to show me what it can do.

After I have snapped at the flowers, I return inside and watch the rain continue to fall. Any second now, an Ark is going to drift down the street....

Instead of waiting for the End of The World, I decide to make muffins. Gingerbread muffins from the Good Food Channel recipe box. This is the second time that I've made them. Except this time I put new batteries in the scales and as a result, I don't have half a hundredweight of butter icing looking for a good home.

These are as tasty as Hugh Jackman just wearing a pair of socks.

Sadly, my icing bag set could not cope with the pressure of my icing technique and promptly ripped up the back, covering me in butter icing. Which my son obligingly scraped off my apron with a sharp knife and ate off the blade. I'm anticipating an 'I Feel Sick' moment very shortly.

I then managed to complete this:

It's called the Birds of the Druid Tradition - 1000 pieces and that owl is tricky character, BUT the frequent repeating pattern on the border was enough to send a woman mad enough to sit in the downstairs toilet rocking back and forth with the mp3 player locked onto Move Like Jagger for 30 minutes straight.

One wonders whether they had seen the dancing skills of Mr J before they immortalised him in the song. He dances like he's having a seizure. Or am I missing something? Love the track though. And yes, love Jagger too ;-)

Tomorrow I am going out and possibly OFF the island.

What are you doing this weekend?

Hestia's....new family member

2011-09-28T16:37:00.000+01:00

L-R - Kevin, The Bears
(just in case you couldn't work out who was who)

Last year, a whole load of fund-raising bikers from Help For Heroes came to the island and the local bikers put on a wee night for them in the Shinty Club (think: Stringfellows with splinters and the unforgettable tang of sports kits in the air).

Anyway, during the course of the evening a small teddy-bear came up for raffle. Everyone was piddling around bidding a fiver at a time.....and Tartarus, somewhat the worse for wear and feeling expansive, bid quite a lot and won the bear.

Some days later (when the fug of the evening had cleared and he was panicking about the emptiness of his wallet) he remembered about the bear, but could find no sign of it. 'Ah, said the bikers, the bear doesn't come home with you - he goes around the world. With the Army.'

Apparently he was supposed to send us postcards, but like all kids on their gap year, he didn't bother his behind.

'Well,' thought I,' we'll never see THAT bear again.' But I was wrong.

He materialised next to my computer when I sat down to work on Tuesday morning - apparently he had made his way to the Bike Club meeting in the town on the Monday evening and had decided to come home with Tartarus. He brought his postcards with him. Again, just like most teenagers.

Here he is, pictured with that other member of my extended family, Kevin the pain au chocolat who lives in the bread bin. I know. That experiment has gone TOO far. We SHOULD chuck him out. But, honestly, it will be like murdering the hamster. So he stays.

From the pix on the postcards, he's been to Cyprus, Afghanistan and that hell-hole of bad behaviour, Australia. There are a couple of suspicious looking photos involving undressed bears, so there might have been a bearothal involved at some point. Well, when you're travelling with the troops, these things are to be expected. He has also come home with a little friend. It may have been a gay bearothal by the looks of things. Well, plenty of room for bears chez Hestia - especially bears that fund-raise for troops!

He's home with a tiny boomerang and rather a lot of hair elastics (indicating to me that the little blighter was equipped with more than a boomerang to show for his travels around the world) but that those items have perhaps been, shall we say, appropriated by the various Customs and Excise officers around the world?

We're happy that he's home for good now and that in some small way, we've supported our lovely troops. Even if it was only in a bearothal in Brisbane.

Hestia's Denim Detox

2011-09-24T18:20:00.003+01:00

I could never wear those frilly knickers with
conviction, #i might END UP with a conviction
if I wore them in Scotland though.

So, when we were up in Glasgow a couple of weeks ago, I was idly lying on the sofa, perusing Red magazine and my gaze alighted on a feature where a very glam blonde opted to forgo her usual diet of denim for a week. 'My God,' thought I, working my way through a Kitkat,' I'd DIE if I had to give up my jeans for a whole week.'

Right then and there, of course, I resolved to do 7 days without a shred of denim.

Day 1 started off badly, I'm afraid. By this time, of course, we were back home and recovering from a few seriously nice restaurant meals and umpteen crates of wine. It was Sunday morning, I had spent a couple of hours giving my poor old wardrobe a pep talk and hanging everything up properly and checking for lost buttons and all that sort of thing.

I had opted for a nice pair of tweed trews with tiny colourful flecks of fuchsia, orange and pink (ancient, from M&S sale about 5 years ago) teamed with a fuchsia pink sweater, straightened my hair, had my make-up on...channelling a fashionable person for once, when, DISASTER struck.

Standing with my cup of tea in hand, answering a question from my son, I let out what I thought was a small unobtrusive fart. Dear Reader, I don't know how to tell you this, but there was.....more than just air. Shocked at my own body's lack of warning for such a terrible event, I John Wayned it up stairs and got myself sorted out. I can only put it down to rich food, no gallbladder and a fairly spicy jalapeno thing the previous night.

I was back in the jeans while my trousers did a light-load cycle to relieve them of their, erm, own light load.

Reader, I won't bore you with all the detail of what I wore for the rest of the week, but not only did I manage a week without a thread of denim passing my hips, I'm on to week two! I feel that I'm making much better use of my clothes now, rather than just lazily reaching for the first pair of blue strides at the bottom of the bed of a morning....I can recommend it to The House.

I did, of course, take photos of my gear on a daily basis, but SOMETHING mysterious happened to the camera and all the pix are gone. No-one is confessing to deleting my runway looks, but I'm thinking that Tartarus has been quite pleasant yesterday and today, so he's the most likely culprit. Of course, I could just run upstairs and do the 10 changes of clothes again, but Strictly will be on soon and well, if you think I'm missing Nancy Del Olive Oil's opening dance for the sake of a photo of me in a badly fitting black leather pencil skirt, you are mistaken.

Strictly - hoping Lulu is fabulous, putting a small bet on the chappie from McFly as he's the right sort of shape. Hoping Nancy is in it for weeks and weeks and weeks!!!

So, do you dare rise to the Denim Detox challenge?

Hestia...attempts a shoe blog

2011-09-16T12:49:00.000+01:00

I think I love you....

So Greece may default on its debt, leading to widespread turmoil in the fiscal markets of the Eurozone. One in four of the London rioters had 10 previous run-ins with the law prior to the riots. The Japanese nuclear plant is still in crisis....but LOOK!!!!! New SHOES!!!!!!!

These are from Mary Portas's shoe collection, entitled 'Mary at Clarks', where she has worked with the eponymous footwear company to create a range of very spiffing shoes!

I mean, honestly, CLARKS!!! Of the sensible T-bar and mid heel. CLARKS!!!! Who knew they could make such divine shoes when one's hazy recollections of their shoes were either a sensible black patent T-bar for a Sunday School Christmas party or a smart flat leather Mary Jane for school?

This style is called Magdalene - after Jesus's favourite hooker, rather than the Oxford College, I'm hoping - and comes in teal suede (these ones!), black satin (perfect for Christmas parties!) and the most glorious lipstick pink and purple which are a colour-blocker's wet dream.

I was first entranced by the shoes on Mrs TNMA's blog where she readily admits to having a Bit Of A Thing for the flame-haired business guru. Mrs TNMA confirmed that these were Clarks and I hurried myself over to their website where then I visited DAILY to see when the shoes would be in stock. As soon as they were available, I pounced. And lo! Here they are!

ignore the sock marks! And my ankles aren't quite so
cankley in real life. It's just the camera angle. Honest.

They are really beautiful shoes, available in several width fittings and only from the Clarks' website (unless you are lucky enough to live near the House of Fraser store where the actual 'Mary and House of Fraser' collection resides).

I've never bought shoes over the internet before and I would recommend that you really do your homework on what the various shoe sizes and widths really equate to in inches (or cm if you're one of these new-fangled decimalised people).

These beauties are in the standard D width fitting and with hindsight, I might have been better with an E.

The other thing is that if you have a high instep, you are going to struggle just as much to squash your tiny toes into these shoes as you would a pair of boots - a high instep just doesn't want to go around the inside of that narrow 'neck' on the shoe.

Nonetheless, I struggled onwards - like one of Cinderella's less attractive siblings and am pleased to say that once my foot had managed the 'neck' the shoe fitted beautifully!

Portas's collection at House of Fraser already has many frocks and separates on-line and I'm hoping that she will bring in more things with a v or scooped neckline for those of us with ampler frontage.

As Faux Fuchisa would say, run - don't walk people!

Hestia.....remembers September 11th

2011-09-12T14:34:00.003+01:00

Everyone over the age of puberty will remember where they were 10 years ago yesterday.

Watching the horror unfold on the TV like an unbelievably horrible Hollywood film, we really did expect Bruce Willis to appear and make Everything Alright again. We WILLED him to appear. But real life is not like the movies and our world tilted on its axis that day and never really tilted back.

What did I do? I tuned in to QVC. For hours.

I wasn't wanting to buy anything. I just wanted to see people behaving normally. The ashen-faced presenters kept doing what they were paid to do - selling digital cameras and lap tops and I found solace amongst the scrolling phone numbers and 'limited stock' announcements. It gave me an anchor into the normalcy of the day before, the 10th of September, when everything was ok. When the worst of my problems was how I was going to lose all this post-baby weight.

From time to time, Tartarus flicked on the news and the horror piled in on us again - endless, endless replays of the planes hitting the buildings, people jumping holding hands, dust-covered zombies staggering through the streets.

We went to bed that night holding hands and with our baby son between us. With no idea what the following days might bring; apocalyptic thoughts that we dared not voice out loud haunted us.

And yet here we are, ten years later, just bumbling along like we were on the 10th of September, yet entirely different. I still watch QVC and am grateful for what they did for me that day. Hell, I even buy stuff!

I never really lost the post-baby fat though.

There was SOME good came out of that day: We got to see the very best that people can be in the very worst of circumstances. And if we can choose to focus on that instead of the utter devastation that was visited on the US that day, we can make ourselves better people - and that's the best memorial we can build for those that died.

What were you doing, 10 years ago yesterday?

Hestia does Glasgow, in pictures

2011-09-09T15:33:00.001+01:00

So - you came with me. But I couldn't show you where we were cos I forgot to take the lead for the camera. Anyway, let's rectify that right now. Here is our 5 day break in Glasgow, in pix.

Wur accommodation - before it got untidy

It had a window seat - upon which I fondly imagined myself reading and being artistically inspired. I wasn't.

There was a kitchen, complete with complimentary bottle of wine. Result.

A lovely contemporary bathroom - that is a DOUBLE sink

And it had a SPA bath - which I also fondly pictured myself being all arty and relaxing with a glass of wine. I didn't. I did relax in it with a mug of tea. Which is not the same thing.

Next day - rain of biblical splendour and I am dragged like a truculent teenager to The Transport Museum - now in its new home. It was pretty good. But a Transport Museum is not the place for someone who really wants to be sequestered in front of a black and white movie with a hot chocolate.

Tartarus, as you can see, was like a pig in the proverbial.

Standing in front of a case of ships, he was happy.

fire engines, bicycles and lots of other assorted shit to do with motors

The glass hearse, complete with stuffed horses. I'm having me one of THESE when the time comes. You can bugger your ecological wicker baskets - give me horses with plumes and a glass carriage.

Stuffed horses

In the evening we went out with my lovely friends B and C. We went to Bobar so that we could watch Scotland v Lithuania. However, several bottles of gorgeous red put paid to any interest we had in the game. They came back to ours for a nightcap (ie another bottle of wine). This is them with their jackets still on and checking their mobile phones for Important Messages.

The next day there was a bit of a break in the weather and we went to Kelvingrove Art Gallery. This is a photo of my old Alma Mater - Glasgow University. See that tower? I've been up that tower.

My other spiritual home, Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum

I sat for ages in The Glasgow Boys room and then headed out into the open area with many sculpted busts. This is my favourite - a harpy, whose name escapes me.

Not the sort of woman you would go home to with a burst pay packet, eh?

Then today it was back home. Is Nibbles still in his cage. Check. Yep, the half brick is still in place. No escapee hamster this time.

And then, it was 2pm and time to go to the school to uplift our filthy, dirty little children after 5 joyous days at Castle Toward

And here he is. All pants worn. All socks worn. Soap untroubled by water though.

Truthfully? We were all delighted to see each other for nearly a full 60 minutes.

I hope that you have had a marvellous 5 days while you were all stuck in my pocket. Incidentally, choosing a thin linen jacket to wear for the full 5 days to Glasgow was foolhardy in the extreme as the whip-end of Hurricane Irene blustered her way through Scotland. I was so wet and miserable, I had to be led AWAY from the duffle coat section in Debenhams, weeping.

As Billy Connolly says, there's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.

Whatcha been up to this week? Do share!

Hestia and Sonshine...separated by 5 days of fun

2011-09-05T09:19:00.000+01:00

And so it came to pass that Tartarus and Hestia did drive their only begotten son up to school with his suitcase all packed ready to go to Castle Toward outdoor centre for FIVE whole days.

Five whole days during which his pile of clean pants and socks will remain undisturbed. As will his bar of soap and facecloth, I'd imagine. I've already been warned that their clothes come back so filthy that they are simply consigned to the bin and under no circumstances should you try to put them through the washing machine without hosing them down on the lawn first.

This is the longest that Sonshine and I have been apart and, while we are both looking forward to this next step on the journey towards being a Teenager, I can't help but feel a little sad.

We posed for a photo (taken by Tartarus)

You can feel Sonshine's shame lol!

And now I am off once again to Glasgow for some retail therapy and large glasses of wine with friends.

But am taking my laptop, so you're all coming with me.

Hestia.... spectacular goddess fail

2011-09-03T16:14:00.002+01:00

So, I've been working on a 90 day plan with a couple of friends. How it works is this: You decide what you want to have achieved in a year's time and then set yourself 90 day path-markers to make sure that you're on track and what not.

I've been doing it for a month and I think I'm making pretty good headway - updating my goals, keeping an eye on what I'm running off-track with....and I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Until today.

Tartarus was only home for 20 minutes before he was asking all those questions that I only had a 'no' for.

'Have you taxed the cars and the bike?'

'Erm, no. Was I supposed to?'

'Yes, I e-mailed you about it specially.' Tartarus is sounding pained - and for once I don't blame him. I have a vague remembrance of the instruction and wonder why I didn't do anything about it.

He switches to money: 'Did you bank my refund?'

I rack my brain. I remember detaching the cheque from the letter. Surely I banked it? SURELY? I remember INTENDING to bank it.

I open a drawer. There lies the cheque. Along with some other cheques. Decidedly unbanked.

Tartarus is sighing at me now. I feel terrible.

'What's up with the freezer?' he asks.

'What do you mean?'

'The freezer - it's not working.'

I dimly recall seeing the red light on when I was getting the fish fingers out for Sonshine the day before.

'I saw that light yesterday. I think it must have stopped working last night,' I offer lamely.

'Did you not think to do something about it then?' he asks patiently, rubbing his tired eyes.

'No.' I look down at my slippers and can feel myself starting to well up and get weepy with irritation at myself. All this goal-setting and trying to get myself to somewhere where I'm happy to be in my life. It's just so much window-dressing, isn't it? I can sort out websites for people without any trouble. I can write articles and blog posts and facebook until I'm the same colour as Zuckerman's logo.

I am failing to show up in my real life and I don't really know why.

Or maybe I do.

Hestia ...and The Zeus 1.0

2011-09-02T09:17:00.001+01:00

So, I'm just relaxing with my friends after dinner, small post-prandial glass in my hand (non-alcoholic) and we're being all convivial and I'm thinking 'It's not a bad life,' when the kitchen door bursts open and Sonshine stands in the doorway looking fairly mutinous.

Well, as mutinous as you can with chocolate ice-cream smears on your nose and cheeks.

'What time is it, mum?' he scowled.

'It's nearly half past eight. We'll be heading back down the road soon - because you've got to cycle because you insisted on coming here on your bike.'

'HALF EIGHT???? What about my space-ship?'

I regarded the flailing arms and thought how much he reminded me of his father sometimes.

'Space ship?'

'YES. THE ONE THAT I HAVE TO MAKE. FOR SCHOOL. TOMORROW!'

This was news to me.

Yes, he had spent a happy hour the previous evening drawing a complicated space ship with oxygen tanks, rockets, crew quarters etc, but there had been no mention made of actually BUILDING it.

So without further ado, I drained my glass, made my excuses to my bemused hosts and tootled back down the road.

Incidentally, Sonshine actually got home more quickly than me on his bike. I was driving the mini. I am not a fast driver and Sonshine was pedalling so hard to beat me that he practically vomited as he skidded to a standstill in the driveway.

As I said. Reminds me SO much of his father sometimes.

And so it came to pass that I found myself rifling the recycling bags for empty milk cartons (whiffy), juice bottles (well, to be honest - tonic bottles), egg boxes and toilet roll innards.

A big thank you to Nibbles whose cage was raided for further toilet roll innards.

I produced the sellotape and set everything down on the kitchen table.

'There you go,' I said breezily. 'If you need any cutting of plastic or tricky stuff, I'll be in Facebook land.'

Sonshine's gaze followed my retreating form. Well, I could feel daggers hurtling into my back as I legged it anyway. This was not my problem. It was HIS problem. And he would have to sort it out on his own.

I had just turned the mac on when he appeared at my elbow with scissors and a milk carton to cut. I did so. He vanished.

I logged into Facebook. He materialised again with scissors and a plastic bottle to cut. I cut it. He vanished.

I typed in a status update. He materialised again and handed over the scissors. 'Tell you what,' I sighed. 'How about I just abandon this and come into the kitchen.'

The scowl brightened and off we went.

Reader. I cannot tell you how impressed I was with what he's built. My sole contribution was doing the sort of cutting that rips your finger tips to shreds and hurts your knuckles. We ran out of sellotape, but here it is.....

Ladies and Gen'lemen - I give you The Zeus Mark 1.0

Taken with the wrong setting on my camera, but you get the idea. And sorry about the mess of the house behind him in the photos. It will be tidy. One day.....

****update**** came home from school, threw himself down on the stairs and sighed deeply. Apparently his was the most 'shit' Crew Exploration Vehicle there. Apart from coughing and spluttering a bit at the 'shit' thing, I did explain that the others didn't leave theirs until half eight the night before it was due to be handed in.

Too early for a gin and tonic?

Hestia hates...Tartarus's job

2011-08-30T15:07:00.003+01:00

Yeah - but you're all divorced drunks

It was around my birthday earlier this month when I got the telephone call from Tartarus: 'They need me to work another week out here. Is that a problem? BTW - happy birthday.'

At the time, it wasn't a problem. Indeed, I need a lead in of about a fortnight to get the house suitably tidy for him coming him coming home from sea and with all the work flooding in for websites, I was secretly glad to have a bonus seven days at my disposal to get the hoover out to suck up the dust wildebeest from the darkest corners of my home.

But working an extra week has its complications: Sonshine has another seven days without his dad.

I broke the news and he was not a happy camper. Cue much stomping of feet and 'preenage' sighing (that's what I'm calling him - a preenager). But it was just disappointment that was making him feel like that. He'll get over it, I found myself thinking.

Just disappointment. He'll get over it

That brought me up short; I have spent my whole life coping with similar 'just disappointments' due to Tartarus's working life.

Want to get married in December? With the Watchnight Service as a precursor to your actual wedding ceremony? Want to get married in a white cloak? With a fake fur muffler? Suuuuuure you can. As long as you don't want to marry Tartarus, because he's already married to the merchant navy.

My Christmas wedding had to become a February wedding. Who the hell wants to get married in February? Still, the hotel was happy as there isn't much in the way of good celebrations in the middle of winter.

After we got married, the deal was that he would change company - at least change the type contract that he was on so that he was no longer away for six months at a time. But as the youngest Chief Engineer in his company, he found it very hard to let go of his new power.

And so the six month trips continued.

I suddenly found myself in a twilight world, without sexy vampires, but equally invisible - a married woman with no husband. How did that work out at parties? Badly. How did it work out when out on the town with my single girlfriends? Badly. What happened if I met a nice bloke when I was out with my girlfriends? I was, as Juno (my mother) memorably called it, neither fish nor fowl. Not part of a couple, but not single either. It was grim. So I sat in for months on end and waited.....

And when he came home?

All he wanted to do was go out and party with his friends.

And so our relationship spun apart.

Years later, when we had restarted dating, I promised him that I would NEVER sit around waiting for him to come home again. We only have one life and I was not going to waste mine.

And yet, here I am, telling our son to get over exactly the same sort of disappointment with his father.

I realise that I am waiting around again. Back down the list of priorities. Only this time it affects our son.

I am not a happy camper either.

2011-08-26T14:47:00.002+01:00

Swifts, being, erm, swift

I went out for a joggy walk the other day (not quite a jog, not quite a walk) and took myself off up to the local park.

I puffed my way down Lovers' Walk, keeping my eyes peeled for dog poop as the path wended its way along the side of the little stream. I reached the end of the Walk and gratefully hung over the wooden hand-rail, as is my wont, to get my breath back.

How beautiful and still it is over the cricket and shinty pitches, I thought. Early morning dew gleamed like abandoned diamonds in the shivering grass.

I listened for the familiar 'sweeee' of the swifts as they swooped in to pick up insects from the grass

Nothing. Not a sweee to be heard, there was nothing darting over the pitches, only whistling young seagulls flapping past - on their ungainly way to rip open bin bags, no doubt.

I walked to the bottom of the steps and stood on the path, the early morning sun casting long cool shadows; I stood for ages: looking, listening (getting my breath back).

The swifts were gone.

I picked up the pace and ran all the way home, my lungs burning and my side aching.

Summer was officially over.

And you know what that means.

AW11 is officially here.

And I haven't got a thing to wear.

Hestia's Harvest

2011-08-19T15:39:00.002+01:00

....yeah, it's pretty meagre, isn't it? For someone with a polytunnel the size of HMS Belfast AND a greenhouse.

Today I harvested this:

That's a bowl of strawberries to you non-gardening types....

And this.....

Them's kerrits... two thereof.

I cannot tell a lie. What you see above is their ACTUAL size.

No, it's not a lemon the size of a child's head. My carrots are PATHETIC

Still, as every gardener says, there's always next year.....

Hestia and Sonshine - back to school

2011-08-18T10:26:00.001+01:00

Forgive me while I air-punch and run around the house naked but for a pair of rubber gloves and a party hat....THE SCHOOL HOLIDAYS ARE OVER!!!!!

It's not that I don't love Sonshine with every fibre of my being, it's just that, well, they do get a bit irritating sometimes. Like sand in an oyster. Like a wasp in your lager. Like thrush.

Every day for the past six, long, long weeks, every sentence uttered by Sonshine is prefixed by 'Mum.....you know' and then insert randomly 'that Lego set/transformers/ minecraft/warhammer/song/cartoon'

Of course, I will have no IDEA what he's talking about and have to feign interest in the latest fad until a respectable amount of child-burbling has taken place (with appropriate noddings and smilings from me) and I think that I can turn back to what I was doing.

As from yesterday, the house is my own again!

Happy, frabjous day!

That said, I did mooch around the house in a lonely fashion for a bit after lunch, wondering whether he was having a good time.....

Anyway, here is the traditionally crap 'Back to School' photo:

Yes, he has a head like a burst couch, but he wants to grow his hair and I decided a long time ago that hair was not something I was going to do battle for.

Are yours back at school or still hanging round the house like the smell of last week's kippers?

Hestia's birthday cake

2011-08-14T11:45:00.003+01:00

My 48th birthday cake, as marzipanned and iced by Sonshine's own fair hand.

Shhhhhhhh don't tell him.

Hestia...is another year older

2011-08-13T09:31:00.001+01:00

Woke up this morning to yet more rain....

And these:

Card from Sonshine - not as squat as this, edited it in Blogger software
And this small fat card is the result

Can you click on it to see what he wrote?
Mad me get all teary-eyed, lemme tell you.

And from my Evil Twins.....

A GORGEOUS Tarot Bag from Ania M and a diet-sabotage duo
of Chocolate and Cake books from Viv

Thank you!!!!!!

So far, despite the rain, it's my best birthday EVER :-D

Hestia and the Dog Show, Part II

2011-08-11T17:18:00.005+01:00

And the heavens cracked and it did raineth for 40 days and 40 nights and God said: 'Yeah, verily, I will show these long-suffering farmers that they canst suffer a little more. And lo, He decreed it Agricultural Show Day.

Our footwear of choice

Rotten weather utterly ruined attendance :-(
Show did not take place on a slope. It's an ARTY camera angle.

All together now 'My lovely horse....'

How I actually viewed the horses

Drookit judges and admin staff in the Flying Gazebo

The water is literally running out of my Aigle jacket. Waterproof? Waterproof, My Arse.

Look closely - that is actual water in my hood (and the handloop for the camera. And my wellies)

Weather was so bad that I had to send sonshine home before the dog show judging went ahead. He's 11 - so hopefully Social Services will have more things to do with rioters than they have with stressed out judges in Dog Show Competitions.

How did it go? I can tell you that Endless Rain + Paper + a biro = a lacy mess of illegible scribbling that was SO bad, all we can submit as results to the local paper are the Dog Show Trophy Winners (ie four of the 16 categories).

Still, it was marvellous fun. Even if my jeans dyed my knickers blue. And my knees were so cold that they were orange and purple.

I wonder if they'll ask me back next year.......

Hestia and the Dog Show - Part I

2011-08-09T23:16:00.004+01:00

When I volunteered to help my Day Carer with the admin of the local Agricultural Show I envisaged nothing more taxing than sticking on stamps or folding up letters....or maybe braiding flowers into the mane of a big shire horse. But instead I found myself signed up to admin The Dog Show.

Anyone who has ever seen All Creatures Great And Small know the hell that is the Dog Show. Hotly contested and prone to violence on a London Riot scale.

'Are you ok with that?' asked my carer, peering over her glasses as my face fell into my plate of lasagna as she announced her news.

'Oh yes, I'm fine with that,' I smiled faintly and none too convincingly.

'What do I have to do?' I asked.

'I have no idea, to be honest. An neither has the judge. She's never judged before. Someone else has always done it. But how hard can it be?'

Indeed, how hard can it be.......and I had another glass or two of wine and promptly forgot all about it.

The other day I got a phone call from my Day Carer:

DC: 'You still up for this on Wednesday?'

Wednesday? What was happening on Wednesday?

Me: 'Oh, erm, yes. *pause* What are we doing on Wednesday again?

DC *rising panic* ' THE DOG SHOW!!!'

me: 'Oh yes, THAT. I thought you meant something else' *unconvincing laughter*

DC: 'How are you on gun dogs and working dogs?'

Me: 'How do you think?'

DC: 'Hmmm, that's what I thought. Can you tell the difference between a gun dog and a working dog?'

Me: 'No. But I'm hoping that the owners can?'

DC: 'Fair point. I've done some forms and some tags and I've got a bag with the rosettes and the schedule of trophies'

Trophies?

Me: 'So it's not just the Waggiest Tail and Best Six Legs then?'

DC: *snorts with laughter* 'Oh no! There are a dozen classes. You'll need to know which class is eligible for which trophy...and to make sure the correct class is announced in the ring'.

Me: 'Right, so who's making the announcements?'

DC: 'Well YOU are.'

Me: 'Right.' *now recumbent on sofa with arms over eyes and making a slight whining noise*

DC: 'Have you seen the weather forecast for Wednesday?'

Me: 'No. Is it set to be fine' *hopeful face*

DC: 'Are you kidding? Just make sure you wear your wellies'

....and Wednesday is TOMORROW, dear reader *gulp* Put up a prayer for me or sacrifice a

virgin :-)

Hestia and the tyranny of passwords

2011-08-07T23:27:00.003+01:00

This is me at my actual pc. So old it works in runes.

I'm sure I'm not alone by admitting this - but I have to write down all my passwords and login details because every sodding thing that you like on the intertubes needs them. And being a bear of little brain (well, a bear who refuses to devote much of her little brain to remembering them) I write them down. Don't tell my bank manager.

Every month I pay my credit card bill and the event goes like this: Find credit card bill (hopefully within a few days of it needing to be paid) log in. Pray to God that my computer remembers all the log in details, otherwise I need to go upstairs to my office and rootle through all my credit card statements until I find the ONE with the cryptically inscribed password/login details.

How cryptic are they? Well, put it this way - I usually have to e-mail Tartarus to be assisted in what my cryptic clues might be - For example DOB 4 and 5. Obviously DOB is date of birth, but whose? And what in the hell is 4 and 5? Neither of us has a clue what I meant, so we had to go through the palaver of changing the whole set up. Now we can't remember what the new password is, but still have a clear record of DOB 4 and 5.....

Anyway, I eventually will find the login details for my credit card and dutifully fill in the boxes that ensure that it will be paid. Then you need to enter your bank card details. And then there is a login check on those. Dear reader, every month I write down what the login is and every month I enter it and it is refused for some perverse reason. So then I give up and request new log in details. It is only August and I've renewed the login details 13 times this year.

Trying to pay my credit card bill is like breaking in to the Bank of England. I was going to say 'Bank of America', but their coffers are empty of everything, except kirby grips and old broken polo mints.

The worst thing is trying to pay Tartarus's credit card bill. 'You may not proceed unless you are...Tartarus...It is an offence to proceed unless you are the card holder' dictates the robotic lady-voice on the end of the phone. WHY??? For GOD'S SAKE. I'm trying to PAY it, not EMPTY it!

*sigh*

I have spent a whole day and two hours trying to log in to Sonshine's Nintendo Club to register his new 3DS.

We sit at the computer together.

Me: 'Right - what e-mail address did your dad use when he signed you up?

Sonshine *shrug*

Me - opens all the e-mail accounts that belong to me. tries to find some reference to Club Nintendo. Eventually finds reference and seems to be linked to Tartarus's e-mail. Excellent. That's 30 minutes of my life I won't get back.

Me: OK - what is the password?

Sonshine *with confidence* Big Bunny

Type, type, type......

LOGIN FAIL

big bunny

LOGIN FAIL

bigbunny

LOGIN FAIL

BIGBUNNY

LOGIN FAIL

FUCKINGBIGBUNNY

LOGIN FAIL

Me: Are you sure? Go and find the password book *yeah, I know, I'll need to burn it or bury it by the time he is 14 or I'll be penniless and in the gutter*

Sonshine returns with the book.

I eventually find Club Nintendo. Filed under D. Of course. For DS, I assume. Tartarus's powers of filing are inventive and probably goes some way to explain the crypticness of our log in details.

me: Aha! I have found it! *cryptic clue: Daddy's favourite toy* Well, that's easy, it's either ME or the Ducati. Since I haven't been played with for about 8 years, I plump for the Ducati.

Sonshine looks shifty. 'I just requested a new password, mum. Sorry. Never mind - it will be e-mailed in a couple of minutes.

I sigh. 'It might be e-mailed in a couple of minutes, but it will be sent to your father's e-mail address. On the ship. We'll need to wait until he logs on and forwards it to us.'

Sonshine looks at me hopefully. 'Don't you have dad's e-mail log in details?'

I don't. Well, I can't be buggered looking to see what weird filing system he's used for hotmail and, frankly, I dread what I might uncover in the search for it.

We wait.

The e-mail arrives today. With the new password: It is a mixture of letters and numbers - two of which are 0 or a O and two of which are a 1 or a I. I spend almost an hour typing every permutation of zeros and capital Os, ones and capital Is until the fecking Nintendo Club account cracks under my relentless Enigma Code-breaking skills.

He logs in. Downloads a free game.

me: Is that it? Is that what we needed to get into the Club Nintendo for? A FREE GAME?'

Sonshine nodded and kissed me gently on the forehead: 'You're the BEST mum in the world,' he said - insincerely, even by my jaded standards.

I logged off and went to lie down with a Georgette Hayer novel.

Sometimes technology is a terrible, terrible thing.

Hestia and Sonshine's birthday

2011-08-04T17:55:00.001+01:00

Yes, a Transformer has walked all over it and has a handful
of icing - we love Bumblebee in this house!

Wow - a whole year has passed since the debacle of the break-in at the swimming pool and poor Sonshine not being able to have his 10th birthday party there!

Yesterday he became 11 and he decided that he only wanted a Nintendo 3DS for his pressie. A cool £200!! I told him that he could ask people to consider giving him money that he could put towards his new toy and that depending on how much he managed to collect, I'd pay the balance.

What luck! What with his doting granny and uncle he raised over the required amount. And so, dear reader, I found myself on the 10.15 am ferry yesterday morning with an overly excited child and a mother who can barely walk the length of herself without having to have a sit down.

And no car.

I opted for the environmentally friendly option of ferry and TRAIN to Glasgow. *polishes halo*

The down side of this is that Juno has to walk. Something like the queen, my mother usually is ferried around the place by car. I wasn't anticipating a great day out to be honest.

First of all we had to go to Game on Sauchiehall Street - where my son spent his entire birthday money on a bit of black plastic that will make his eyes water. Sure made my eyes water handing over the cash. It wasn't just Juno who had to have a wee seat outside in the dappled shade before heading off to the cinema. I've not spent that much on a present in my LIFE!

Then down to the cinema to see the film - Arriety - A Studio Ghilbli film based on The Borrowers. A bit girlie to be honest, and the reason why he opted to go see it without his friends, I suspect. But he adores his anime cartoons. Mercifully this one was light on strange, hideous characters and heavy on beautifully painted backdrops. The story was sweet and seemed to go down well with Sonshine and Juno alike.

Then home on the train and ferry. Back by 6pm.

A long, long day....

And then cake cutting and eating!

The cake was my first attempt at a victoria sponge in my super delux mixer. I made one and thought that I might half it and use as sandwich. But my cake tin was a bit bigger than the recommended size, so I ended up making two sponges and then gluing them together with my home-made redcurrant jam *can barely look at halo, it's so bright* On the downside - I had to run out to the co-op at 6pm at night to make the second cake. I iz not Nigella Lawson.

Then iced it with ready roll fondant stuff. And yes, this is where it all went a bit Heath Robinson. The icing was only really to cover the single cake, now I needed it to cover something a bit taller....and had to roll it to the thickness of a gnats wing to apply to cake. Oh yes, we had marzipan too. Well, why not have everything when you're 11?! And the Dr Oetker icing for doing his name? Please don't use it - I could barely flex my fingers by the time I'd written his name and two ones for his birthday. Nightmare stuff to use - doesn't stick to the damned fondant icing (also Dr Oetker!)

The cake tasted very nice indeed *halo gleams so bright everyone puts on sunglasses and warned not to look at it directly*

As I took him up to bed at half nine last night, he hugged us both and thanked us for a lovely day. As I sprayed his poor sunburned back with lavender and camomile, he buried his head into my shoulder and said 'It's quite scary growing up, isn't it?' What do you say? Yes - there is economic meltdown on the horizon, your friends start to get seriously ill with things other than spots or a broken heart and you can see your life spiralling down a plug-hole at a great rate of knots.....but instead you tell him that it's all brilliant. That he's got so much wonderful stuff ahead of him. And he has. I hope.

He still likes to hold my hand in the street and I wonder how long that will last. When will I become an out of touch relic - more of a hindrance than a help?

Hestia and the BAWG

2011-08-01T12:56:00.001+01:00

Sonshine and our bag of litter

Yesterday Sonshine and I struck a bargain - no telly or intertubes until after 6pm.

This lasted about 40 minutes for me as I had to go online to get an address. OK.....so I shot onto Facebook as soon as his back was turned (ie he went to the toilet). I'm a grown up. I lie. He needs to deal with it.

Anyway, we decided to go for a walk and just take in the view, have a chat....bond, that sort of stuff that has been neglected when I do the Tarot Conference. So off we went to Loch Fad clutching our empty carrier bag. For not only are we Hestia and Sonshine, we are secretly environmental activists and, when we go a walk, we pick up rubbish in a plastic bag and then tip the whole lot into the last bin on the walk home.

OK - so we use a plastic bag, but it\s better than leaving the rubbish around. Just overlook that irony and see the GOOD :-)

We call ourselves the BAWGs - the Bag a Week Gang and we do exactly that: try to pick up a bag of litter from off the beaten track (ie where the council won't pick it up) on a weekly basis.

It's free to join, dear reader. All you do is resolve to pick up other people's rubbish once a week (or a month - then you'd be a BAMG!) when you are out - walking home from work, taking the dog a walk, playing with the kids.....anytime. There's always litter. Sadly. Sometimes I think that there are dead bodies.... but that's another story.

And, as Blur might say, you enjoy a sense of enormous well-being, when you pick up litter. A sort of environmental smugness. Which I like.

We did come across a LOT of peach scented bags filled with dog poop. WTF is going on with that?!

Bag it and take it home, people, but don't wang it up into the branches of a tree or fling into a hedge. If there's one thing worse than encountering a big dog poop on your travels, it must be encountering an ancient one sequestered into a well-knotted peach nappy bag.....

Erm, hope you weren't eating or anything while you were reading that.

I'm SURE the computer keyboard will clean up fine. Honestly.

Do you do any mad things when you're out and about?

Hestia and the blue balls

2011-07-30T18:48:00.005+01:00

Ecozone website link

You may recall the story of the foamy gutters? Well that was around the time I started using Ecozone washballs.

Of course, the ecoballs weren't the cause of the foamy gutters at all, but I thought I'd tell you how I was getting on with these balls in case anyone was considering buying them.

I do try to be ecofriendly when I can, but sometimes it's just too much like bloody hard work and I have never been happy compromising with a replacement for my Fairy Non-Bio for my family's washing. Tartarus may have skin like an old leather handbag and not be affected by anything other than sexually transmitted diseases, but Sonshine and I are hugely sensitive to lots of chemicals in washing powders and can often be found rubbing our bodies to shreds blissfully against fence posts like cattle if I use a new powder.

This Ecoball pack cost £12.50 and contains two of these blue balls, filled with little pebbles of god knows what, a small tube of stain remover and a couple of sachets of refills. I've not ventured into the stain remover yet. But I might.

What you do is - load up your machine (yes, even a front loader with spin dryer option like mine) with washing and fling in one of the blue balls. Slam shut the door, select your washing programme like normal and off you go - no detergent, no conditioner!

Here's the blurby stuff:

They are 100% hypoallergenic, residue free (huzzah - no powdery black clothes!) and antibacterial - and ideal for sensitive skins (I can vouch for that - no scratching from Sonshine nor I with these!) And best of all - no animal testing.

Despite not using fabric softener either, my clothes feel fine and are not rock hard. No-one has complained about how they feel in the Olympian household. Perhaps towels feel a little rougher, but not uncomfortably so. Certainly not enough to warrant going back to harsh detergents. Yes, let's draw a veil over what actually DID cause the gutters to foam, shall we?.......

White school shirts are still clearly recognisable as white. But if you like your white's sparkling, perhaps wash the shirts in standard washing powder every third wash or so. I don't get het up about white getting slightly grey - Sonshine's 10 and not working in The City. He can get a bit grimy.

So, I have to say....I'm very happy with the blue balls. Haven't used soap powder nor conditioner since we got them!

I wash at low temperatures where possible and all seems to be going well - there's no powdery residue that you sometimes get if you use too low a temperature. Stains that need a high temperature (fatty stains) are still a bit visible - but I put that down to not using high enough water temperatures rather than any problem with the balls.

I'm still on my first ball and have not needed to bring out the second one at all yet. Refills are supplied and are also available on the intertubes.

All I would say is that you really can't overfill the washing machine when using them because if the ball can't circulate, then your washing is not going to feel the benefit of the wee pebbles. So if you like to see your frogs with skin on them and your rivers flowing without bubbles, I can honestly recommend changing to the Ecozone ecoballs.

Hestia and the TABI Tarot Conference - in numbers

2011-07-27T17:36:00.001+01:00

3- The number of days I spent indoors without feeling the sun on my skin. Akshully, I didn't miss it. I'm vampyric by nature and having your Chairman disappear in a puff of grey smoke isn't good for business.

2 - The number of Tarot decks I bought - both from Cilla Conway. To say that I BOUGHT both of them isn't strictly true. I pilfered one and left her a hastily scribbled IOU because I had run out of money because....

£3.50 - cost of a tiny bottle of beer at the venue. I thought I'd pace myself until happy hour at 5pm....and so I returned to the bar and requested another small bottle of beer. 'That will be £3.50,' smiled the bar lady. 'But it's happy hour,' I protested unhappily. 'Your beer isn't included in the Happy Hour,' came the reply.

5 - the number of workshops organised. At the risk of boring the non-Tarotists amongst you to sleep we had: Working with Tarot and Oracle decks together; Exploring Crowley's Thoth intuitively; Working as a Tarot Professional; Journey through the Wildwood Tarot and Bow spread; Counselling skills in Tarot.

14 - number of bottles of wine we bought to put on the table because it was our birthday. That reminds me, 4 of them are on my credit card!

10 - the number of our birthday that we were celebrating at this Conference

0 - the number of party games that we managed to play - we just ran out of time!

2 - the number of interviews I did on Saturday night. And I never burst into tears once.

0 - the number of drops of wine that were left for your parched interviewer after her final interview.

1 - the number of Tarot decks I was given as a gift. You know who you are, you lovely soul!

2 - pairs of shoes that I brought - a pair of trainers and a pair of smart grey suede shoe-boots that went with my snazzy interview outfit. I may load up a photo cos I'm quite proud of those shoes!

2 - the number of times I had to quietly slip away to the toilet to weep about Amy Winehouse and all those poor Norwegian youngsters that were shot by that BIGOT.

1 - gorgeous birthday cake made specially for us with a Tarot card on the front.

0 - phone calls home to see how Sonshine was faring without me at my brother's house.

0 - number of phone calls from Sonshine to see how I was faring.

1 - the number of paintings that I bought from Will Worthington. And yes I DID buy it.

110% - how much I love my Archer painting. Here she is hanging on my lounge wall. I will never be parted from her.

24 - lovely, lovely people at the Conference. Meeting Wendy and Will after all this time was just fantastic. I hope to drag Tartarus down to meet them when Will is playing a gig with his band. I hope some of Wendy's rock chick chic rubs off on me. Very soon.

2 - stone - the amount of weight I need to lose to be anywhere NEAR the weight I was before Sonshine was born. Sure, I accept that it will never all be in the same PLACES that it was back then, but it would be nice to see a photo of myself without feeling hideously BUMPY.

£6,000 - the amount I will have to spend on botox to ensure my face remains in position and doesn't look all 'Glaswegian' when I talk. In most photos I look absolutely hammered. But I was SOBER. Well, mostly sober.

2012 - the number when we'll do it alllllll again!

Hestia and The Great Escape, Part II

2011-07-25T18:13:00.000+01:00

Cute - but as cunning as a very cunning thing indeed

You may recall that we have a tiny family member who goes by the name of Nibbles. He's much easier to feed than most tiny people that visit this house, but he DOES tend to pee and poop in his bed and endlessly try to escape, so it's not all win: win with a hamster in your life.

Anyway, we've been away in Birmingham since Thursday and My Day Carer's hubby was press-ganged into popping in to feed and water him on a daily basis. We even leave the food out in short-glasses - weighed to the correct amount so that Ronnie doesn't accidentally turn the tiny hamster into a blimp.

So, we came home and I started unloading the car while Sonshine unlocked the back door. Fortunately, I called him to return to the car and uplift some of his stuff to take indoors, so *I* was the sadsack who entered the dining room first and found the hamster cage sitting on the floor.

It was all very odd - the hatch was wide open and the food bowl was sitting outside the cage on the floor. This could only mean one thing: Nibbles endless quest for freedom had paid off and he had legged it.

I could hear Sonshine dragging his case up the path and I quickly shut the hatch and put the cage back up on the table. That would buy me enough time to explain that his pet was rattling around the house somewhere. I wasn't looking forward to it.

Anyway, I am so brain-farted at the moment, I forgot all about it.

But the phone rang a short while ago and it was Ronnie - all concerned. Apparently he HAD shut and locked the hamster's cage, but not configured the locking mechanism (AKA the keyring) properly on Saturday night. On Sunday he had realised that the rodent was GORN and set out a trap for him. He laid a trail of food from a tiny hole through which the radiator pipe runs right up to the cage. Ronnie figured Nibble would need a drink.

I said that there was no food visible, so he HAD eaten it.

As we chatted, Sonshine was obviously ear-wigging and dashed through to the dining room.

Ah, thought I, here we go.....

We ended our telephone call and I padded anxiously into the dining room, expecting to find my son on his knees, weeping into the carpet and generally looking bereft. I had no idea what I was going to say, but my sleep-deprived mind would almost certainly think of something. Wouldn't it?

Unfortunately it did not.

Sonshine unlatched the front of the cage and opened up the Nibster's bed pod. And there, looking like a ginger tennis ball, lay a sleeping Nibbles.

'Prod him', I instructed Sunshine.

Reader, I am here to tell you that a hamster that has been prodded after being on a bender down the central heating system for two days looks looks just as violently murderous as Tartarus does if you prod him awake wickedly early in the morning after a holiday in Assen.

Hamster is fine (but tired).
Sonshine delighted.
Hestia relieved and going to lie down in a darkened room.

Possibly in beside the hamster -pissy and poopy straw notwithstanding.

Hestia's terrible realisation

2011-07-23T07:22:00.001+01:00

Yes love, you bloody well scream

There can only be one thing worse than wakening up at 4.26 am with the terrible realisation that you have still not written the introductions for your Conference speakers, and that's wakening up again at 7.30 am with the bedside light still on and the imprint of a biro pen embedded in your jaw and realising that you STILL haven't written them.

Well, maybe just one thing is worse.

Doing the above AND feeling like someone has cunningly placed a hand-knitted balaclava between your brain and your skull: Maybe a glass too much vino last night for me.

Oh no, there IS one thing worse than all of the above together....

...Realising that you decided to test Skype at midnight by contacting the handsome and talented Mark Ryan in Los Angeles without considering how horrific ypur hair looked after 2 days in the damply frizz-inducing hair-hell that is Birimingham 2011 (think: matted maned Afghan hound rescued by RSPCA) AND that you had NO MAKE-UP ON and were illuminated solely by the flickering grey light of the mac monitor....

Oh for sure, that is a fecking TERRIBLE realisation, mes amies.

Hestia's countdown to Conference

2011-07-20T11:48:00.003+01:00

Bugger off advertisers - it's NEVER as easy and mess free as this

The final week before Conference is usually fraught. Not because of anything in particular, but you waken up at 5am with an EXAM TODAY kind of feeling that cannot be quelled by any amount of jogging on the mental hamster wheel.

Tomorrow Sonshine and I depart in our little car for Darn Sarf and thus today is the day that I do all the packing and other lady things.

One of the lady things being Dye My Hair.

You may know that I have a hate/hate relationship with my curly unruly snakey head of hair and I have long left my colouring to my 'stylist' at the hairdressers because I end up with the bathroom looking like Charles Manson has been at the helm.

Before I say anything, may I draw your attention to THIS advert:

Where ANYWHERE in this advert does it say she should have done her patch test 48 hours ago. Fugging NOWHERE that's where. So when I read the instructions this morning and saw that I should have done a patch test 48 hours ago, I was faced with a dilemma - patch test and dye my hair AT the conference in the hotel loo (absolutely NO chance of me doing that) or just going for it. I just went for it.

So far. No itching.

Now, replay the advert again.

I mixed the colours and shook for all I was worth. I put the pump thing on and pumped. The foam was not white, but it was foam, so I whupped it onto my barnet. I puffed it all on to my hair, the whole thing and reader, there was NO FOAM like in the advert. I tried 'massaging it like shampoo' but there was nothing to massage. My dry thick hair had snorted all up like best Columbian white. I took the dregs of the bottle and massaged it around my hairline.

The advert has, you will notice, the girl dancing around her room while her pals wait downstairs. If my pals had to wait an unscheduled 45 minutes before going on a big night out, all that I would hear is the slamming of the door as they bugger off on ahead of me. Or - worse, they would be so bladdered by the time I had taken away the grey, no taxi service would be willing to transport us.

My hair did not sit on top of my head, allowing me to dance around my bedroom either. I had to put on a shower cap.

I certainly wouldn't be dying my hair with a white jumper on like in the advert. Something with brown splodges and smears would be more appropriate. In my case, Tartarus's dressing gown.

Sonshine took one look at me in his dad's dressing gown and a shower cap and announced that I looked like gran.

Fucking children, what do THEY know of the suffering of home hair dying?

I waited 45 minutes as instructed and then knelt down over the shower tray, bollock naked and started to rinse off.

The water suddenly went freezing cold and I struggled to my feet, dabbing at my stinging eyes with my hands, trying to find the towel. I knew what had happened. After DAYS of nagging Sonshine to clean out Nibbles The Hamster before we went away, the little bugger had chosen to wash out the cage while I was trying to rinse/shower.

After a dripping half-naked mother appeared in the kitchen (that WILL give his psychiatrist something to get his teeth into in later years) the situation was resolved and I returned to the shower. I rinsed until the water ran clear.

Eagerly, and as heart-fluttery as a Jane Austen heroine only inches away from a pond-spattered Mr Darcy, I squeaked away the steam from the mirror and looked at my new shiny brown locks.

But what was that, lurking in the shadows? Yes reader, you guessed it - my grey roots are UNTOUCHED.

Since I still have to pack, write all my introductions for the speakers, collate my questions for my two Tarot dignitaries AND get a bloody cable for my mac so that it will talk to their data projector (come on people, if you are offering a £100 per day data projector service - at least have a cable for a mac) I am not going to try to fix this.

Therefore, any of you reading this blog that are going to Conference are hereby instructed DO NOT LOOK AT MY HAIR or you will be turned, medusa-like into stone. Or at least the raffle will be rigged so that you win NOTHING, you hear me?

And Clairol - get your fecking act together.

Hestia and Sonshine - the generation gap

2011-07-19T14:22:00.000+01:00

So, I sent Sonshine to the post office this morning to buy a first class stamp to post off details of his father's speeding points*.

He was gone a long time. When he came back, doing the theatrical teenage sighing and stomping around thing that he has taken to doing EVERY time you ask him to help you, he said it had taken him AGES to get the stamp on the envelope.

Why?

Because he is so used to self-adhesive stamps, he had sat for an ice-age trying to pick, pick, pick off a non-existent backing sheet to stick the stamp on the envelope. The man behind the counter took pity on his frowning little countenance and explained that the stamp needed to be LICKED.

So - what do YOUR kids do differently that makes YOU feel like an exhibit in the Cairo Museum?

* On the way to motorbike racing in Assen - done for speeding by a van on a bridge, somewhere on the M8.
Oh how I laughed when I saw Tartarus's face as he opened THAT envelope!

Hestia's dire warning about jam

2011-07-16T16:16:00.000+01:00

Do not, under any circumstances, accidentally forsake the jam pan for a mindless hour-long ramble through the Twitterverse and Facebook or you will find 600g of redcurrants and 500g of sugar horrifically reduced to this:

The jam jar is close....the lip gloss is FAR AWAY, Dougal

I put the other, unused, jam jars back in the cupboard - ready for the bramble-making jam horror story next month.

Oh yes, it's THAT time of year again.

It has reduced so much I will have to hire a pneumatic drill to get it out. And the concept of 'spreading'? Forget it.

Hestia's favourite Jim story EVER

2011-07-16T09:21:00.004+01:00

There are so many excellent stories that we have that involve our recently departed friend, Jim - most of them ultimately resulting in a court appearance, but this one is my favourites......

Once upon a time, Tartarus decided to go through to Edinburgh to look at a new car. Well, new to him anyway.

This was no clapped out old Escort, but a sleek BMW with pimped-up hub caps and central locking (we are talking a VERY long time ago!). It was quite a big deal.

Because he didn't fancy wending his merry way alone through the dark streets of Edinburgh with bundles of cash in his jacket pocket, Tartarus decided that Jim would accompany him on the journey as a bit of moral support and company.

Anyway the day arrived and the two of them set off from busy Glasgow Queen Street station, heading towards Haymarket in Edinburgh.

It was around 5pm when they boarded the train and, to Tarturus's annoyance, there were no seats left - every conceivable horizontal surface was taken up by a commuting suit-wearing type. There was no quarter given for a couple of fairly scruffy looking chaps in denim jackets. Where to sit?

They wandered through the carriages, scanning for empty seats when their combined gaze alighted on a distant bank of seats - with only one person sitting in the corner. 'Sitting' was putting it a bit loosely - he was propped up in the corner and, as Tartarus says 'we should have known better when every other carriage was mobbed and this set of seats was vacant.' Plus, the smell of drink should have alerted them to something.....but the guy looked quite smart. What could possibly go wrong?

It's an hour-long journey from Glasgow to Edinburgh and our two likely lads didn't fancy standing all the way, so they sat down.

As the train chugged along through the less salubrious outskirts of Glasgow, the man in the corner was jiggled awake.

Tartarus recalls that his heart sank because the man was rip-roaring drunk.

The first thing that the man said as he shakily drew himself into the upright position was: 'What the fuck are YOU looking at.....speccy?' to the bespectacled Jim.

Jim, who is your original Mr Angry, simply dismissed the guy with a wave of his hand and continued looking out the window.

But the drunken suit-wearer would not be denied his answer. He wanted to know what Jim was looking at and addressed his 'speccy' comment to Jim again. Tartarus said it was at this point the cold hand of fear started tugging at his innards. This could not possibly end well.

Now, for those of you who are just new to all this talk of Jim, I shall just put a quick reminder in here. Tartarus had a very volatile friend called Jim, who died recently. Their friendship spanned back to the days of flared trousers, Tiger Feet and sneakily consumed bottles of Buckfast Tonic Wine. But whereas Tartarus and Lovely Dad went on to get jobs, good careers, families and mortgages....Jim was left behind in the land of Benefits, labouring jobs and endless Court appearances.

Yes, he sounds like a nightmare, but really, underneath it all, he was a kind person who would much rather do you a good turn than do you a bad turn.

Unless you are a drunk man on a train calling him a speccy bastard.

Let's return to that train carriage now. The comment has just been addressed to Jim for the second time and he is struggling to control his temper.

What happened next was VERY shocking.

The well-dressed businessman then SPAT at Jim.

That was the proverbial last straw and before Tartarus could place a restraining hand on his friend's arm, the friend was up out of his seat and hauling the guy up by his lapels. A bit of a man-fight then ensued in the long passageway of the carriage (think Hugh Grant and Colin Firth in Bridget Jones' Diary) with lots of scuffling, grunting and half-assed slapping.

Tartarus says that he was very embarrassed: Usually by the time Jim gets into a fight, everyone is drunk and it's quite a good spectacle. Pardon the pun. But it wasn't even 6pm yet. And they were on a TRAIN.

The ticket inspector entered the carriage, took one look at the scene in front of him and turned on his heel, straight back out again.

The two fighting men were now approaching a clearer space in the train, near the doors (everyone had unsurprisingly melted out of their way as they punched and pushed each other down the carriage) and Jim managed to get a little space between himself and the drunk man and landed a successful blow right on his jaw. The force of the punch sent the man reeling backwards.....against the double doors.

Which promptly opened and deposited the man (still holding his briefcase) onto the platform of the station they had just pulled into.

As the man staggered to his feet, the doors hissed closed and the train chugged off on its journey to Edinburgh, leaving him confused and disheveled on a deserted platform, somewhere near Falkirk.

At this point I always think of the poem 'Adelstrop' by Edward Thomas re-envisaged as this very train, this very journey, that very silent moment...but just after a fight.

A woman piped up from the corner 'That's a shame, he was only drunk!'

Jim picked up his specs from the floor of the carriage and shot her a threatening look.

Tartarus said the only sound in the carriage was of 200 newspapers being hastily flicked open.

The remainder of the journey passed uneventfully, but Tartarus was sure that when they reached Edinburgh, the Transport Police would be there to escort Jim off for a nice 'chat'.

As they skulked their way through the station, they heard a shout behind them and turned to see a man in his 50s running after them, waving his briefcase. They stopped. 'Here it comes,' thought Tartarus. 'The police will be here any second now.'

The man trundled to a standstill. 'I just wanted you to know,' he panted, 'that I've been travelling on that train every night for the past 10 years and THAT was the most entertaining journey I've ever had. Thank you so much!'

And after all that......they never bought the car!

Hestia's bad day....Tartarus's worse one

2011-07-14T22:56:00.001+01:00

Yes, I know that I have been woefully slow at getting the hilarity that was our Isle of Man holiday up here on the blog, but I haz an excuse.....

.....the first one being that Tartarus, whose brain cells are obviously being raddled by too much motorbike racing on the telly and mugs of strong tea, didn't realise that his seaman's ticket expires when he is out in Mexico working next month. This presents a MASSIVE headache for his company.

When did he notice this was a problem? The day before we left to go on holidays.

Oh my, he was a barrel of laughs for about four days!

Not.

Cue: Mad and frantic phone calls to his office, to the MCA and to his ship - where his long-suffering back to back colleague agreed to do another few days if the ticket failed to come through before his due departure date.

Departure date was supposed to be Tuesday, but no ticket had arrived and thus we were graced with his snappy and anxious presence for another few days.

Then yesterday it was suddenly ALL GO.

Yesterday afternoon his flight details came through and he left on the 8am ferry this morning.

Unfortunately, he phoned me at 8pm this evening from Amsterdam. Reader, let me assure you that he should have been winging his way over the Atlantic with his little knuckles wrapped around a lukewarm beer by that point.

His flight had arrived late and Amsterdam Airport had been in the grip of some torrential rain...and loads and loads of flights had failed to leave the tarmac. Reader, he queued for four and a half hours at the KLM desk to try to get onto the flight to JFK, but by the time he got to the front of the queue to try to get himself on it, the JFK plane had been airborne for 2 hours.

His mood was not good. There was absolutely no-one else at KLM to speak to about getting to work. No more flights to the US today. Where could he get a hotel?

The KLM lady pointed him to another queue in which he waited another 2 hours for hotel details. Eventually he gave up and went out and booked The Hilton. And from there he phoned me - sounding weary beyond his years. He doesn't even fancy going out and bringing a prostitute back to take his mind off things.

My day has not gone much better.

I am in the final stages of preparing for the annual Tarot Conference that TABI runs. And while it is a lot of work and a fair bit of worry, this year I have refused to get stressed about anything....and am determined just to enjoy it. And it was all going rather well.

Until today.

Late this afternoon, one of my keynote speakers frantically emailed me to say that they were double-booked and that the other event couldn't be changed! My guts literally turned to iced water.

Still, I have managed to juggle around the other speakers to ensure that this speaker CAN still provide their workshop. But I've also had to notify the attendees who were coming along for just the day. Will they still want to come with the shuffled itinerary? I don't know. I hope so *shrug*. It's still going to be EPIC. I'm still trying to hang on to not being stressed!

Part of the Saturday night's entertainment is me interviewing one of my Tarot artist heros live In The Building (after exchanging e-mails for a couple of years) plus interviewing another Tarot author live via skype from his home in San Fransisco. Not only will the technology and I be at loggerheads, but he's a well-known actor and I suspect I might do the 'Lauren Bacall Thing' again with both of artist and author.

The 'Lauren Bacall Thing' was when this supremely elegant actress was doing a book signing in Glasgow and I had stored up some probing questions to ask her about her career ......only to turn into a manically grinning arsehole when I got to stand in front of her. Instead of some cutting edge questions, I just managed to mumble 'I think you're great,' before shuffling off. Presumably to my padded cell.

Piers Morgan I am not.

I am now off to lie down in a darkened room. Things could be worse - I could be trying to get to Mexico.

Hestia and Tartarus say goodbye to Jim....

2011-07-11T13:29:00.002+01:00

Gooseneck - The Venue

And so we set off for our hols on the Isle of Man....with Jim carefully stashed in the boot of the car.

We were having an overnight at The Mill Inn at Condor Green, just outside Lancaster (very nice it was too - on the banks of a little canal with walks along the tow-path where bad-tempered swans could nip your calves and ducks could quack their distain at your rubbish bread-throwing skills).

On opening the boot on our arrival, I was perturbed to see that the box side featuring Jim's name was on prominent display. After much eye-rolling and animated hissing on my part, Tartarus twigged what the problem was and he turned Jim's name into the depths of the car so that Sonshine couldn't catch sight of it.

And there Jim remained for the entire holiday.

He came with us absolutely everywhere, albeit in the bowels of the car and eventually Thursday rolled around. It was deemed The Night to do The Thing With The Ashes.

The Manx accommodation was very nice, with a little square of decking affording us an evening perch on which to relax with a glass of *cough* ginger beer until the sun dipped beneath the treetops and the chill of evening drove us back indoors.

So, we're sitting on Thursday evening with a tin of cider and a ginger beer, talking about our favourite Jim stories as Sonshine played Minecraft on the laptop in the lounge, blissfully out of earshot.

There was much giggling from Tartarus and I as we recalled various memories of our slightly unhinged friend (our favourite one I shall retell for you here in full in a couple of days for your edification and delight).

Suddenly, the empty cider can started rattling on its base on the table. Tartarus and I looked at each other.
'Do you think that's him?' asked hubby, sipping his glass of Magners.

I nodded. 'Course it is - we've provided the light by talking about him and so he's here, having a listen. And probably a spliff. Or it might just be the wind. Probably the wind, eh?'

And so we chatted a bit more. Jim's name was mentioned and the cider can shivered again. We shot each other a slightly more unnerved glance.

'Right,' I announced,' Jim - we know you're here and we get the message - tonight's the night, my friend. Now, if it's REALLY you, can you stop piddling around by rattling the can and just make it bloody fall over?'

Tartarus tittered and headed off to the kitchen to bring me another Crabbies Ginger Beer.

The cider can rattled and fell tinnily onto the table.

'Taaaaartaruuuuuuus!' I called, the hairs starting to stand up on the back of my neck....

'Did that can just fall over?' he called from the kitchen.

'Yeeeeeeeeeees!!!'

I stood the can back up and spoke to the ether. 'How are you doing, old friend?'

In my mind's eye, I conjured Jim up at the end of the table, smoking a fag and nodding.

'It's ok,' I called back to Tartarus who was emerging with a new tray of drinks and nibbles,' he seems quite mellow.'

Now, let me assure you, reader, I am not in the habit of striking up conversation with the dead and you must believe me when I tell you that Tartarus is even less prone to chatting with the departed.

'OK' said Tartarus to the evening breeze, 'Let's go, Jim.'

Sonshine and I stayed behind (in the end we thought it might freak him out to think that Jim had been in the boot the whole holiday, so Tartarus went alone. I'd already been out to the Venue and taken some nice pix for a memento for his friends of the view).

An hour later, Tartarus returned.

'All OK?' I asked cryptically over the top of the laptop as I facebooked.

'Yep. Went for a lap of the TT circuit, then on for a pint and then did The Thing at the Venue.

We'd spotted a hawthorne tree at the Venue earlier in the week, with a wild honeysuckle growing through it. I had suggested it as a sprinkling spot. And lo, that was exactly what Tartarus did.

We settled down on the sofa to watch an episode of Blackadder Goes Forth with a still-totally-unawares Sonshine and as I breathed in the slightly sweaty scent of my son's head I thanked whatever powers that be that I was still here, still breathing and still throwing the winning dice that meant I woke up every morning.

And that, dear reader, is how we said goodbye to Jim.

Hestia is not dead....yet

2011-07-07T10:49:00.000+01:00

Dear reader, I have missed you!!!

I am not dead. I am on holiday on the Isle of Man. It is not the same thing.

Will tell you alllllllllll about it when I get back onto Bute soil and the monsoon conditions that increasingly come to represent The Great Scottish Summer.

Ali xxxx

Hestia ...and the Big 60th pressie

2011-06-22T10:50:00.000+01:00

UPS - Unhelpful Postal Service

'It seemed like a good idea at the time'. Oh, how many times have those words been uttered as the speaker sits in the still-smoking debris of their latest misadventure?

Let's spool back to the beginning of this year when my lovely Day Carer mentioned that it was her hubby's 60th birthday in a few weeks time. They are both incredibly kind to me and Sonshine when Tartarus is away - The hubby comes up and cuts my grass, waters my plants in my absence and has even been known to feed the Nibster and the fish if Sonshine and I are away overnight.

'Wouldn't it be a great idea for you and Ronnie to go and watch the MotoGP in Assen this year? As his 60th birthday present?' I mused idly as we read our respective magazines (me: Red; Tartarus: Evo <- we like a brief title) in bed one night. Think Eric and Ernie, but with less sexual frisson.

Tartarus has long wanted to go to Assen and my suggestion seemed....like a good idea at the time........

Time wore on and all that the two of them could talk about was Going To The MotoGP.

Eventually I decided to tune back into their conversations and was startled to realise that they were no longer thinking about Assen, but heading off to Italy. For 10 days. Flying.

I'm afraid, reader, that at this point my calm and placid nature went into a bit of a meltdown and I pointed out to Tartarus that he and I hadn't been on a holiday abroad for 10 years because he 'didn't like flying' and that our son had never been out the country. Basically, if he was thinking about pissing off to Italy for a holiday with his mate he could a) reconsider the whole option and revert to a weekend in Assen or b) fuck off and don't come back after the Italian sojourn.

And so the tickets for Assen were booked.

And the hotel.

And the ferry.

And the RAC international rescue whathaveyou.

And the shorts purchased.

And the excitement began to mount......

Until...

Tartarus checked to see when the MotoGP tickets would actually be posted out. 'Between 7 and 10 days before the event' proclaimed the ticket agency proudly on their website.

It was now less than 7 days to the event.

And no tix.

We phoned them. In Holland. Could the tickets be picked up at the event instead? Could we pick them up at a UPS Customer Service Centre in the UK?

'Too late. The tickets are in the post. But RELAX, it's UPS. And no, you can't uplift them from a UPS Customer Service Centre - there has to be one unsuccessful delivery before you can arrange to pick them up.'

No amount of wheedling, weeping, shouting or offers of cash would make them budge.

Reader, we checked the UPS website so frequently over the next couple of days that we wore the U and the P and the U off the keyboard.

Where were the tix?

By Saturday they were in Glasgow. Tartarus began to relax - he and Day Carer's hubby were leaving on Wednesday, that was PLENTY of time to deliver to the island.

Ah, you would think so, wouldn't you?

On Sunday I checked to see where the tickets were.

Still in Glasgow, but now there was an additional message ' Customer lives in remote area, no daily delivery.'

We do live on an island, that's true. But we're much less remote than many mainland areas of Scotland. You basically drive down the M8, past Glasgow, until the M8 tapers out to a dual carriageway called the A8 and pooter along the side of the river Clyde until you get to Wemyss Bay.

The fecking VIKINGS managed the journey on a regular basis, why couldn't UPS????

I phoned again, begging to be allowed to pick up the tickets as the whole anticipation of the MotoGP event was being ruined.

'Computer says no,' came back the reply.

Tuesday. The day before departure day. I am up at 6am to go to a Spa Day in Glasgow. I log on to UPS. 'Delivery date sheduled for....THURSDAY'

I relay this information to a clearly tense Tartarus lying recumbent in the early morning light and depart hastily to catch the 8am ferry to Civilisation.

The spa treatments come and go. I check my phone for messages for the 10th time. Nothing.

We go to lunch. I look at my phone. It rings.

The tickets have been delivered. The relief in Tartarus's voice is palpable.

It's now Wednesday morning and Tartarus and The Day Carer's hubby are off to Assen.

Here's my message to UPS - get yourselves SORTED OUT!!!!!!

And one final thing, no, Tartarus didn't notice ANY difference after my spa treatments.

Hestia and a bit of a weird week

2011-06-20T13:14:00.000+01:00

Weirdness 1:

When My Day Carer took on the role of Secretary to the local Agricultural Society, I did - of course - offer my services to help make her job a bit easier. I envisaged nothing more taxing than sending out a newsletter, perhaps some arduous stamp-licking...at worst a complicated spreadsheet.

But somehow I am now responsible for organising a Dog Show at the Agricultural Show. I don't know the first thing about how to do it, but she has confidence in my abilities. I mean, how hard can it be? Stand by your beds in mid August after the show and I'll tell you EXACTLY how hard it can be.

Weirdness 2

I am on the phone to The Meerkat's mother and I idly wander to the front window as I chat. I see that my lawn has a light smattering of snow. No, it's not snow, I realise - it's FOAM. FOAM!!! I hang up the phone and run outside. The high winds have whipped the foam into the roses and the clematis is looking absolutely pathetic.

This is roughly what my front lawn looked like. Sort of. I'm exaggerating. A lot.

What the fuck has happened? Could it be the new Ecoballs in the washing machine? If so, Tartarus will KILL me!

I hurtle myself out to the garage where Tartarus is visible only by his steel toe-capped boots sticking out from under the car. There is a lot of swearing and he is twatting something VERY hard with a hammer.

I tell him about the bubbles.

In a flash he is out from under the car and the invective is now directed at my Ecoballs. Worryingly, he still has the hammer in his hand. I try not to look at it. I also decide not to retrieve the camera to take a picture of the devastation for m'blog.

Together we run around to the front gate and survey the bubbly damage. But how on earth can the washing machine drain into this drain - it's at the other side of the house and, as a result, much higher than our rear drains. The ire of Tartarus is awesome to behold.

He looks angry, then puzzled and then lapses into silence. 'Ah!' he says, quietly.

He knows what the problem is: The roofer, called in the day before to fix some loose slates and get rid of moss has, apparently, let a gallon of bleach off over the roof.

'I didn't know about this!' I bridle (after all, I'm using the bloody Ecoballs to help save frogs' skins).

'No' stuttered Tartarus sheepishly, 'he told me not to tell you because he knew you'd go off your head. All the torrential rain must have made it go bubbly.'

I realise that I AM going off my head. In my slippers. In the street. In the blinding rain.

'Well, there is one way to see whether it's the bleach on the roof,' I huff. 'Let's go upstairs and look out the window at the gutters,' I stomp my way upstairs.

And yes, sure enough, there is a froth of foam all along our gutters.

I notice my neighbours walking past and looking up at the white foam-filled gutters strangely. We must seem like weird people to live next door to. Possibly because we ARE.

Weirdness 3

Picture the scene: Tartarus and I are sitting at lunch.

Tartarus: You know Jim?

(Jim died a few months ago. A childhood friend of Tartarus's, it was an unexpected death and even though Jim would pick a fight with his shadow, he had a good heart and he died much too young.)

Me: Yes, I know Jim. Knew Jim. What about him?

Tartarus: Well, you know how he was cremated?

Me: Yes, I know he was cremated. What about it?

Tartarus: Well, you know how we're going to the Isle of Man in July?

Me *with tight feeling in stomach* Yessssssss......

Tartarus says nothing but cuts up his bacon and egg, searching for the right words. Unfortunately for him, I find the right words before he does.

Me: Are you trying to tell me that we are going to take Jim's remains to the Isle of Man with us? On holiday? To scatter somewhere on the TT course????

Tartarus nods. He does not look up from carefully sawing his bacon rasher into ever smaller pieces.

I eat my toastie and consider taking another epic flaky fit, the likes of which have not been seen outside of an asylum or the preliminary rounds for The X Factor. I reconsider. I liked Jim.

Me: Shall we take him for a last pint first, before we scatter his ashes then?

Tartarus looks relieved: Yes please.

Me: My only stipulation is that Sonshine does not know that Jim is travelling in the boot of the car. That will make too weird an entry for What I Did On My Holidays for me to adequately explain away at Parents Night.

Tartarus agrees.

How weird is your week?

Hestia...begins to clean the kitchen

2011-06-15T12:28:00.005+01:00

http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/blog - image

The new heightened awareness of my own mortality after getting my gall bladder out has had some spectacular side effects: a) I weep at absolutely everything and b) I am compelled by some newly-awakened drive to clean out my cupboards.

This latter compunction is utterly alien to me - I have never wanted to tidy anything and am perfectly happy to wallow in my own filth for 6 weeks at a time, as you know.

So why do I want to clean? I have thought about this a lot, reader and it boils down to this: Since my gall bladder op, I am afraid of dying and experiencing some sort of hideous after-death shame when people go through my cupboards and my slatternly house-keeping is laid bare for all to see.

Seems stupid when I write it down like that in black on white, but yes, that's exactly what it is. I'm not proud of how slapdash I've been with my life so far - nearly 50 years and not an awful lot to show for it. Other than Sonshine. And my Kitchenaid, of course.

Anyhoo, I am currently to be found cleaning out my kitchen cupboards at the rate of one every two days. I didn't say that it was an URGENT urge.

Yes, I've been hoovering up the indeteriminate things that live in the cracks of the back of those cupboards, bleaching the shelves, wiping off the thick layer of dust that mercifully obscures the long redundant sell-by dates on jars and bottles......trying to put dishes that are hardly ever used at the BACK and commonly used dishes at the FRONT. No matter how pleasing it is to have the big stuff at the back and the little stuff at the front.

Here is a photo of my newly tidied under-hob cupboard. Yes. Truly, this is the tidy version. You should have seen what it was like before.

After Tidying Session

Oils and vinegars are now stood in regimented rows instead of milling around aimlessly with the chilli sauce bottles which pleases my OCD-challenged Tartarus greatly.

Yes, there IS rather a lot of porridge and stuff to help one's bowels move.....

Two bottles of tomato sauce have been quietly binned (the expiry dates being 2007 and 2009 - we are currently working our way through the one that expired in 2010)

And this cupboard here...this, I suspect, will be my Nemesis.

Reader, meet the Corner Cupboard - the one that gets crammed full with all the stuff that you get given that never see the light of day again..... the stuff you inherit that is 'too good to throw out' but too shite to be ever used ......the Hallowe'en bowls, the old mixer that smells of burning, some misellaneous sandwich trays and forty thousand cookie cutters.

But that's a job for another day.

What are you lot up to?

Hestia and..... some miscellany

2011-06-09T18:49:00.000+01:00

First up, I need to let you know - Tartarus made it home. On Saturday night. A full twenty four hours after I was expecting him to arrive home. I was not amused. As a result, I had a face like an Afghan hound chewing a wasp when I met him at the ferry.

<- illlustration of a face like an Afghan hound chewing a wasp

It transpired that on Wednesday (original pay off from the ship day) the Mexican Navy were having a Gay Pride Day or something of a celebratory nature and the port was closed for the day. This has happened before. These Mexicans will do ANYTHING for a day off.

Anyway, he paid off on Thursday. And when the tired and fed-up merchant navy officers hit Mexico City airport, they naturally hit The Friendly Man's Bar where the bar staff are on first name terms with our returning heroes. A couple of shandies *cough* later, they catch their flights to whatever parts of the world they live in. Only one of them is trying to return to Blighty and this would be, of course, the one that belongs to me.

For the second time in his life, he was refused access to the plane on the grounds that he had been drinking. There is no point in arguing with KLM over this matter - sailors travel on greatly reduced air tix, so it is better to keep a high-paying tourist (this is a Thursday flight to Europe, remember) happy and bounce the cheapie sailor to the Friday flight. Well, that's what Tartarus maintains anyway......

This 'drink' fact was relayed to me when he was in Amsterdam airport. So I hung up on him, as any sensible domestic goddess who had been scouring the internet for days for news of possible volcanic activity, ground crew strikes and possible muggings of drunk Scottish sailors for their mobile phones and ipods.

Reader, by the time he got home, I could barely look at him. I was furious. Not only had he been turned off the flight, but he had booked himself into an hotel at Mexico airport AND NOT EVEN PHONED TO LET US KNOW.

OK - so his phone doesn't work in Mexico, but I'm PRETTY confident that the hotel would have a phone that could, somewhere. I suspect that he didn't phone because he possibly didn't want me to hear his drink-slurred voice. Wifely radar can pick up an over-carefully enunciated word anywhere in the world.

We just KNOW guys, that's all you need to remember, we just KNOW.....

Anyway - long story short. He is home. And I am over the upset. Kind of.

Other more upbeat Miscellany now: Sonshine won an art competition at school on Monday. This is it:

Utterly thrilled to miss his orienteering expedition, as you can see

It apparently shows the Council where they should stick the Town Bell. I came up with a different suggestion entirely, which is not fit for publication here.

Passed his cycling proficiency on Wednesday. He got a certificate and a comment that said his trailbiking helmet was not suitable. Given that he is the only child in his class who actually WEARS his helmet outside of school cycling lessons, I don't really care whether they think he has restricted viewing under his chin. Frankly, if the car is under his chin, there's not a helmet in the world that will help.

Sonshine nonchalantly asked me for a cheque for £175.00 for the 5-day school trip to the outdoor centre (please God, don't let me get the call to be a parent helper at that! Tartarus and I are planning a Mid-Week Break that week). I was agog at his cheek. I would have been sucking up to my parents for MONTHS if I was looking for that sort of cash. I would at least have cleaned out my stinking wee hamster. Ah - and that brings me to the next bit of miscellany.....

Nibbles has utterly ruined a pair of curtains. Well, only one curtain to be fair. But if one curtain is ruined, the pair are pretty much ruined, don't you think? - lookee here to see for yourself the damage that a small rodent can work in a single night when a curtain is accidentally trapped in the front of his cage. Please note that each of these photos shows a different set of holes:

This soft-furnishing desecration has also resulted in me throwing myself on Tartarus's non-existent capacity for mercy with regard to the tiny destructo-rodent. *He* wanted to do something arty and fatal to him with a rolling pin. I, on the otherhand, am quite attached to the little varmint and begged for clemency.

Clemency won, only because Tartarus doesn't know what it means - plus there was the MotoGP to be watching on the Telly. And an escaloped hamster would also take quite a lot of cleaning up. Plus he is still trying to get into my good books viz a viz the Flight Debacle.

What else has happened? Not much - Tartarus has now spent two days, cleaning the house around me like Aggie and Kim re-incarnated into the one grumpy male body. I'm just ignoring him.

Never mind, it's only six weeks until he goes away again.....

Hestia....is tidy, but has mislaid Tartarus

2011-06-02T22:01:00.001+01:00

Just keep spinning, just keep spinning......

So, he was due to leave the ship in some Godforsaken port in Mexico yesterday morning and at around 2pm his time, there was still no new crew had arrived to change over with. He rattled off a typically Tartarus missive to me 'Delayed: will forward new travel plans when received.'

I typed back: 'Wilco. Over and Out.' And twirled my handlebar moustache.

Operation Tidy The House The Fuck Up Cos Your Dad's Coming Home had already swung into top gear. But given the fact that I still can't bend down or reach up high without developing a pain in my newly gallbladderless innnards, this means that 'top gear' is only at Jeremy Clarkson level, not Ayton Senna level.

It really needs to be at Ayton Senna level. Atyon Senna On Amphetamines.

You will be pleased to know that I remembered to put the bin-bag out in the bin this time. I even gave it a swirl round with a bit of Domestos.

I also remembered to remove all the cures for cancer that I had percolating at the back of the fridge.

Reader, I have even emptied the Compost Bin (which usually sits breeding tiny flies for the full six weeks Tartarus is out the country).

I have darned the hole in the pocket of his black jeans. OK, so I used bright orange tapestry wool (see: failing eyesight from sitting at this god-damned computer all day), but the job is done. And the orange wool means that he will always be seen by the helicopter rescue team if he gets lost climbing Ben Nevis.

It could happen.

I took the empty glasses from the side of my bed down to the kitchen and washed them out. One of them actually had a little cloud of something growing on the surface. On a glass of water that's quite something. I can assure you that I have not been spraying it on Spanish cucumbers and posting them off to Germany.

I have cleaned down the toilet, with Domestos and a brush. Not a toothbrush. Well, not HIS toothbrush. Not this time anyway.

All the washing and ironing is done. With the exception, of course, of the things that have lain at the bottom of the laundry basket since before Sonshine was born (they're dry clean only and it's a total palaver to get dry cleaning done here - time it wrong and you're trouserless for two weeks. I just go dirty. Besides that dress is now two sizes too small)

Reader, I have even managed to get my roots done and my hair trimmed - I can no longer be spotted from space by my bright grey streak. Huzzah!!

I have not managed to get waxed because, frankly, I've been through enough removals in the past month without someone trying to rip my fudd out by the roots. I'm working the 'natural' look......

This unnatural burst of housework is like having dozens of plates spinning: The tidiness can only go on as long as I manage to keep all the plates going round. If he's delayed by more than 24 hours, I will end up surrounded by broken crockery and the usual pile of house-hold detrius (old newspapers, mysterious sticky things down the sofa, herds of wildebeest dust bunnies on the stair carpet, knickers on the bathroom floor, soapscum in the sink...yanno, REAL life).

I have no idea where he is. Hopefully en route. Hopefully sober. Well, soberish would do. And hopefully not smelling like he's been in a bar in Mexico airport for a straight 24 hours. If anyone strikes a match near him the resulting conflagration will make the London Blitz look like a cocktail sparkler.

Sonshine took the news that his father was not enroute stoically. 'Has he gone to see his Mexican family then?' he asked. This stems from a joke alternative reality which I created years ago for Tartarus. In that reality, he does not go to Mexico to work, rather he goes to spend 6 weeks with a whole nother family - his Mexican wife is called Consuela and his Mexican son is called Jesus. I imagine Consuela to be a pleasant, hard-working lady and young Jesus looks like an extra from A Fistful of Dollars.

I have jokingly said that Tartarus can bring Jesus home any time he likes because Sonshine could do with a brother and let's be honest, that's so NOT going to happen. That cafe is now closed.

I explained to Sonshine AGAIN that his dad doesn't REALLY have a Mexican family. There is no Consuela. There is no Jesus. He looks mildly disappointed.

As do I. I could really do with Consuela moving in to help with the housework.

Hope you all have much more fabulous things planned for your weekends than housework!

Hestia ponders...the Amazon behemoth

2011-06-01T13:21:00.001+01:00

I love a book. I love books better than people; well, Jane Austen won't leave you loitering suspiciously outside a pub on a wet Saturday night in November....and you can slam her shut any time you feel like it. You could even use her under a wobbly table leg if the mood takes you. You can't do that with a real person, not without a court appearance on the following Monday morning.

I said in an earlier post, for me bookshops are places of worship. And if a bookshop is my Cathedral, then Amazon is my book equivalent of an on-line brothel.

You want your gratification now? Cheaply? Just search for what what turns you on, peruse the contents, the reviews at your leisure, then use one-click ordering. Within a day or so, the new shiny-battered book(s) will be behind your front door.

But when I do this anonymous on-line buying of books, I feel as if I'm betraying my ~~husband~~ local bookshop in the most underhand way - as if I've had a tussle with Boris Becker in a restaurant linen cupboard. I feel my urge is gratified, but also slightly soiled and ashamed of myself.

I try very hard to support our local bookshop and although I get my instant hit from the fleshpots of Amazon, I am often to be found repenting in my local bookshop, handing over lists of desirable books along with the Amazon price in the hope that the lovely Karen can get her prices somewhere around the Amazon tag. If she can, then I buy from her. If she can't, then I take my dirty urge to Amazon and shop till I drop.

Last week I really wanted a particular book. And I wanted it NOW. It was £9.50 on Amazon. I fought temptation and took myself off into town to see what kind of price Karen could do for me. She pulled it upon the computer screen - £18.50. Almost double the Amazon price!! And, because it was a US publication, it would take a week or so for it to arrive. A WEEK????? DOUBLE THE PRICE????

She looked at me sadly and so I did what any ~~errant wife~~ loyal customer would do: I told her to order it for me, despite the price, despite the wait. She'll sell me it for as good a price as she can - but it will still be dearer than Amazon.

But how can Amazon do this? How long can I afford to pay a tenner more for a book locally than I can get it somewhere else? How can Amazon keep its prices so low? How much longer can small independent bookshops keep their heads above water when the price differences can be so vast?

Some Tarot fans might notice that book/deck sets are often referred to simply as BOOKS on Amazon - and this is because books are zero rated, but cards are standard rated. So I'm wondering whether the book/deck sets are described as BOOKS to avoid paying duty? Just an idle thought?

UK Distributors of books have an RRP and zillions of overheads that need to be factored in, but what of goods that Amazon US supplies to Amazon UK? If the US price is cheap, can Amazon UK translate that into a cheap price on the British site too? Heck, can Amazon bypass British Customs and Excise charges by some creative bit of accountancy paperwork? I have no idea, but it's the sort of idle thought I have when trying to by a US book from a UK source other than Amazon.......

Maybe the rules need to change to bring around a more level playing field in the book world? What do you think? Do you feel guilty about buying an Amazon bargain on-line? Do you think local bookshops need to have something else in their armoury other than being bookshops?

And my final musing question for the day: Hardback novels: why? Why not go straight to the less expensive format of paperback and shift some copies? With the advance of the e-book, will there soon be no call for hardback novels at all?

Hestia...and it's all Greek

2011-05-30T13:51:00.000+01:00

Brace yourself Rodney.....

So we're hurrying down past the castle last night on our way to meet my friend The Day Carer and her hubby.

The wind is tugging at my hood like a vile playground bully threatening to make my already unruly hair less 70s Kate Bush more Psychotic Crystaltips; Sonshine has his woolly hat clamped down so far you cannot see his eyes. He looks like a character from the cartoon Southpark.

We are late. I am harassed.

I notice the swans gliding around on the moat (very grand name for a shallow donut of water that surrounds the castle)

Me (trying to make friendly conversation as I drag him along): Look - there's the swans! Can you see how many cygnets they've produced this year?

Sonshine pauses at the black railings: 'One......two ......three....no, wait - that was a crisp poke.......three, ah that was another crisp poke....' Poke is the Scottish word for packet, I hasten to add.

We hold hands to cross towards the restaurant and Sonshine stops dead again. I try to drag him forwards. WE ARE LATE!! He has noticed a tortoiseshell cat padding purposefully up the middle of the road towards the castle. Possible towards the cygnets. I can tell by the set of its bony narrow shoulders, it's that sort of a cat. Hell, they're all that sort of a cat.

Sonshine: Mum - look there's that cat AGAIN!!! Every time I come down here on my bike I see THAT CAT!

Me: hmmmm? Come on, honey - we're late!

Sonshine reluctantly pulls himself from his cat reverie and falls into step beside me again.

Sonshine: Do you think he could be a halloumination?

Me: Sorry? A what?

It is now my turn to stop dead in the middle of the street.

Sonshine: A halloumination? Could the cat be a fig of my imagination?

I struggle to remember what the correct word is. It's not anything to do with a firm Greek cheese, or figs but I'm damned if I can unearth from the morass of my mind what it is.

I am suddenly reminded of a holiday in Dublin with Tartarus 20 years ago and being called into an impressively formal state room at some Big House we were wandering around. Don't worry, there were other people there. We hadn't broken in or anything.

'Come in here,' he whispered, taking my mitten-clad hand and dragging me into a brightly lit ballroom. 'LOOK at those chandelabras - they're STUNNING!' Tartarus pointed to a massive crystal chandelier. Once I had stopped laughing like a demented hyena, I decided that henceforth, a chandelier would now be known as a chandelabra....and now none of us can remember what it's really called. Which causes some pitying titters from strangers.

Actually, now that I think on it, he had on a similar woolly hat to Sonshine that day too.

I am also reminded of the fact that Tartarus, for no reason whatsoever, always puts a 'd' onto the end of the word museum. So we visit museumds quite often. Weird.

Ah yes - the word I am looking for is HALLUCINATION, but what's the point in correcting him?

Like father like son: Like no language you've ever had to learn before.

Please tell me that it's not just my two chaps that do this?

Hestia....and what's buzzin with the bees?

2011-05-27T18:38:00.000+01:00

Bee afraid, very afraid.....

The week after the bees arrived, I had to inspect them with one of the other club members. Although I had remembered my wellies, matches (to light the smoker) and two black Gucci towels (to keep the bees quiet while we manipulated them) I completely forgot that I'd need to protect my nethers.

Unperturbed, we strode up to the hive and decided to light the smoker. Two million struck matches later, the smoker wasn't smoking and the rain was coming on. 'Oh let's just get a look at them anyway,' I breezed, lifting off the top of the hive and the supers beneath.

Holy effing God.

I've never SEEN so many bees. And they were very pissed off at someone taking their roof off. They buzzed around our heads angrily and then I realised that my my skinny-jean clad groin was totally VIBRATING with angry honey bees.

Then I started to get stung. On a place that you don't want stung. Giving new meaning to the expression 'bee stung lips'. I hopped back a suitable distance and started brushing them off.

'Holy suffering mother of God!' and other expletives of a more colourful nature were erupting from behind my veil.

'Hiya mum!' a bright little voice called over the wall.

Sonshine was now out of school and watching me hopping about with a humming fanny, swearing my head off as the little blighters registered their fury at our intrusion.

'Jesus SAKES Sonshine, get AWAY from here - the bees are furious!' I shouted angrily.

'There's nothing up here mum', he assured me from his higher vantage point on the nearby road. 'They do all seem to be on your, erm, on your jeans,' he pointed helpfully.

I called over to the intrepid Nyree, telling her that I would shout instructions from a safer distance. She nodded and gave me the thumbs up.

'Take out the first frame and make sure the queen isn't on it. If she is, knock her back into the hive' I called. Nyree lifted out the first frame and started to inspect it for signs of viability.

'Where will I put it?' she called.

We didn't have a fancy storage box for it like the Ayrshire keepers, 'lie it next to the hive. Carefully!'

She duly did so and continued on to the next frame.

'I can see the queen, called Nyree'

Brilliant, that meant we still had a viable hive. Then the unthinkable happened. Nyree DROPPED the frame and the bees rose up, en masse like a terrifying dark cloud from a Hitchcock film, or an episode of David Attenborough's Life on Earth.

Echoing the classic scene in Young Frankenstein I shouted, as calmly as I could 'Put the frames back! PUT THE FRAMES BACK!!! We'll come back another day when it's not so damp. And we can get the damned smoker to work.' The bees sank down again and I gingerly returned to the hive to help lift the supers on and replaced the lid. Which I thought was VERY brave of me.

We walked smartly to the edge of the clearing where the hive was, brushing irate bees off each other's backs and armpits.

I gingerly knocked them off my crotch. No more stings there, thank you very much.

We put the bee suits back in the storage cupboard and headed down to the car

'Well, that went very well,' said Nyree. I scanned her face for signs of irony, but there were none.

I had a fanny that was stung to bits, we had NO idea whether the queen had fallen on to the grass after the frame fell. The bees had shown us in no uncertain terms that THEY were the boss.

Actually, it HAD been really good fun.

......

This week the weather has been terrible. Winds so strong that they have blown over vans, demolished trees and sent slates crashing to the pavements like lethal weapons. Then we had hailstones that battered off the windows like spiteful fairy missiles; and rain. Endless bloody rain.

Monica phoned on Wednesday morning: 'The bees. There's been a disaster with the bees. The winds have knocked over the hive and there are dead bees everywhere.'

My heart twisted and sank. 'I've put everything back,' she continued. But there's not a lot of activity'.

........

Today is the first reasonably dry day since the bees were hit by the wind. Mike and I went up to the hivw, full of trepidation. Again we couldn't get the smoker to work. 'I don't think we'll need it,' he said solomnly. This time my nethers were protected by Tartarus's motorbike waterproofs. I roughly the size and shape of Belgium, but I didn't care. My heart was in my welly boots as we approached the utterly silent hive.

Dead bees lay on the threshold - bees usually carry their dead comrades away from the hive to protect the integrity of the hive. That wasn't a good sign.

'Are you ready?' asked Mike

I nodded.

He lifted off the lid and the supers....and there sat several hundred absolutely furious honey bees. I've never been so happy to be surrounded by angry, buzzing bodies.

'Right, let's put it back together, ' said Mike swiftly. 'We need the smoker to look at them more closely.'

As we walked away, a tiny bee tried to sting me through my leather glove. I carefully picked her off and checked that her sting was intact before flicking her off. 'You don't die today, sweetheart. Not today.'

Our hearts were buzzing as loudly as the bees as we returned to the car. A happy ending? No, not quite

Now the bad news. We've got to get them back off the island.......

Hestia...is indisposed

2011-05-26T23:12:00.002+01:00

I wonder if he can power-hose out the blockage?

Things have not gone quite according to plan since I got out the hospital a fortnight ago.

The first thing that ticked me off was that I still weighed much the same as I went in. I was hoping for a massive weight loss or at least a sympathetic secret tummy tuck while I was under the blade.

I would have settled for a gastric band.

Or even a strategically placed rubber band.

I was warned to take it easy in the first few days - keeping fat to a minimum. Which my mother did, scrutinising everything that I put on my plate like a benevolent nazi guard. Sometimes it was more like a full-on nazi (see Ralph Fiennes) as she eye-rolled at my attempts to craftily eat a Tunnocks Caramel Wafer when I pretended to go to the toilet. My drug of choice, man.

An alarming byproduct of getting gallbladdered is that my tummy makes many more gurgling noises than it used to. And they are very loud. Sonshine actually thought that I was talking to him this evening as we snuggled up on the sofa to plough our way through another episode of the Chelsea Flower Show (honestly they do talk some crap. Tonight's was fine, but I had to turn Laurence Lewellyn Bowen off). No offence to the Telly Dandy, but he is to gardening what Diarmud Gavin is to interior design.

Anyway, I have a tummy that could apparently get three yeses on Britain's Got Talent as a ventriloquist act.

In addition, I am still the colour of an old banana - which alarms me a bit, because I have a robust dermis which doesn't bruise easily. I dread to think what sort of manhandling went on during surgery.....

The very worst thing of all is that I am still getting sore tummies. Granted, not the hang-over-the-sink-panting-like-an-old-dog sort of pain, but still the sort of inflamed tenderness that causes me to sit bolt upright in manner of someone with mule bag of cocaine up bottom in Bankok airport departure lounge.

Ah, and this leads me on to the last complaint that I have. And please feel free to look away now if tales of No Visits To The Toilet upsets you. Seven days. My own personal best.

I have been inhaling Lactulose and Movicol to no avail; knocking back up to three fruit smoothies per day. Porridge for breakfast. A full 3 meals per day. Plus the odd Tunnocks Caramel Wafer (After all, Die Fuhere went home a week ago).

'What you need, announced my mother in the regular daily phone call to make sure I'm a) alive and b) sitting watching the correct restorative daytime telly (ie The Wright Stuff) 'is a laxative.'

She proceeded to instruct me in the very kind that I should purchase and off I toddled - in such dangerous gale-force wind (no pun intended, but smile anyway - there are precious few laughs in this posting) that I met not a single soul in the street on my visit).

I entered the Chemist with a happy step - the weather was so bad, no-one was out shopping.

My heart sank.

Reader, it was the same assistant whom I had to semaphore my need for Thrush medication a couple of months back. Dear God, my public humiliation was now complete - thrush and constipation. Oh what a charmed life I lead.....

I sighed and approached the counter.

'Hello, can I help you?' As she recognised me as the Woman Who Had to Whisper About Her Thrush, her voice again dropped sotto voce. As did mine. Oh dear, it was like Groundhog Day in Hell.

'I am a bit constipated.' I said, hoping that no further elaboration was required.

'Ah, erm, how long?' she asked, her professional smile securely plastered in place.

Oh God the shame. The SHAME. 'Seven days, tomorrow. That's not normal for me. I had my gallbladder removed,' I offered weakly, by way of explanation.

She produced Extra Strong laxatives and acquainted me with instructions 'Don't take more than one in 24 hours and you should see some....change.... about 12 hours after you've taken it.'

I stuffed the tablets into my bag and struggled out into the storm. It was absolutely brutal. This is an old town and everyone has innate fear of being hit by falling debris from the old (and poorly maintained) buildings, so I chose to walk on the other side of the road. At one point I just had to stand and hold on to the railings outside the castle and hope that I didn't take off like a kite. Would I shit myself if I was killed by a falling chimney stack? Seemed like a pretty extreme way to get over my constipation.

Back home, I took the tablet.

12 hours passed. And nothing else. I laughed in the face of constipation and laxatives and went out to have coffee with my friend the next day. Still nothing. Came home. It was now more than 24 hours since the first tablet. I took another one.

Reader, by the time Sonshine came home from school, nuclear war couldn't have got me out of that lavvie. He banged on the front door, rang on the bell and shouted through the letter box, but there was NO way I was able to get down those stairs to let him in.

How long did I sit there reading my Nigel Slater book? I have no idea, but I thought my behind was scarred for life, so deeply ingrained was my Ring of Confidence when I stood up.

Eagerly, I hopped on to the scales. How the heck can this be?! I weighed exactly the same as I had done in the morning.