Weevilstepmother

The Sun was pretty chuffed yesterday when I picked him up from school with the heady news that his chameleon joke had attracted fanmail. His eyes took on a faraway look which may have been an attempt to compose one even funnier, but which was more likely the first stages of planning for World Domination.

Distraction arrived in the elongated shape of Biscuit, a twenty week old half Lurcher half Whippet puppy. Very sweet and quite attractive in a weird emaciated kind of way. And a big chicken too, who hid behind her owner when Islay (the Brazil Nut's dog) said a rather over-friendly hello. Mind you, Islay did nearly ingest a small elderly Toy Poodle on Monday afternoon simply by greeting it enthusiastically. The Brazil Nut was deeply apologetic to its owner, who gave her a wordless cold stare that would have made Paddington's eyes water.

Musing later in the bath with Tallboy, I wondered how you would classify Biscuit's breed. We eventually agreed on Lippet, because Wurcher sounds way too Chas 'n' Dave.

A month or so ago, I added Methane Boy to my MSN Messenger. At first, it was a handy way of nagging him to revise while he was at Poppy's and out of normal nagging range. Now his exams are over, it's a nice way to stay in touch when he's not here.

Conversations mainly tend to centre around his fossicking around with his computer, the progress he has made in spring-cleaning Poppy's kitchen, how many Bedford Rascals are for sale on eBay, and his reactions to the latest weird link I have sent him.

When he is with us, he uses the Kids' PC downstairs, and I use the grownups' one in the office way upstairs. In this situation, Messenger is a great way of me asking for the kettle to be boiled or him offering to make me a coffee when he makes one for himself. Most handy. Well, it saves shouting down two sets of stairs.

We were chatting online today, and being considerate, he offered me a coffee. Then realised that I was 15 miles away...D'oh! I would have said yes, but it would have been a smidge on the cold side when it got here...

Yesterday I sent him a link to a site that contains examples of moronic, ironic, geeky, weird or just plain funny internet chat. He loved it. I could tell that he was in hysterics. He would cut and paste choice examples into Messenger to show me his favourites. Then he sent me his most favourite of all with the message *choking..... choking*, subsequently confirming that he was laughing so hard that he couldn't breathe. I demanded that if he were to expire, could he do it in text on Messenger so that I could submit the text of his expiration to the site which had caused it. Fortunately he survived...

A couple of food-related happenings tonight.

I made pasta with sauce for dinner. Apparently I somehow added extra gravity attractants and fork-repellent. I got three big sauce coloured splodges on my front :( I was so engrossed in the tennis I forgot all about it. Until the change-your-supplier-luv? electricity guy at the front door looked strangely at my chest. Meh.

Not normally tennis fans, Tallboy and I sat down to watch the Henman match and loved every minute of it. Between us was a packet of walnuts to sustain us. Not normally a vocal spectator, I was so on edge at times that I found myself shouting at the players, at one point encouraging Henman to "Finish him off!" Imagine my dismay when next I reached into the packet, finding only crumbs with my fingertips. Adopting a defensive stance, Tallboy alleged that I had ordered him to finish them off. Rotter.

So, I'm just about to load the car up with the fallout from Tallboy's shed reorganisation when the phone goes. It's the Ex, am I in, can he drop round the Sun's new video game in 5 minutes? Fine. Just as I am slamming the boot, he pulls up, thrusts the game at me and zooms off.

I find myself pulling up behind him at the lights, a slight smile playing at my lips. The route to the tip passes his house and he is going to be wondering why I am following him. After a minute or two I note that his boot isn't shut and debate whether to follow him home to tell him of this, but there is no need as he goes straight past his turning. Aha! We are both going to the same place, it seems.

Things are slightly backed up at the tip Civic Amenity Site, with a skip lorry waiting at the entrance and a little burgundy hatchback pulled up behind it. The lorry is obviously waiting for the site to be clear of punters before going in and retrieving the full skip. The Ex stops behind the lbh and I stop behind him. We're in for a little wait so I turn on the cassette and enjoy the sunshine. The following action is played out to the soundtrack of "Rock Lobster" by the B-52s.

Hearing a sound like a badly asthmatic goose honking its last, I look around me and realise that the lbh is honking at the skip lorry to get out of the way. As I watch, amazed, a middle-aged woman leaps out of the car, makes a face at the Ex (well, who hasn't?) and strides over to the lorry. She walks up right behind it, out of sight of the driver and I tense up - she would be squished flat if it rolled back even a foot and a half. Gesticulating wildly in the direction of the lbh, she harangues a yellow-tabarded council employee whose expression I sadly cannot see.

She storms back to the head of the now lengthening queue, shouts a few words at the Ex (again, who hasn't?) and gets back in her car. The skip lorry is now on site and reversing up to its prey. The lbh moves forward all of two yards, stops, and disgorges middle-aged woman now clutching two bulging carriers which she shoves into the hands of bemused council employee. The skip lorry is just winning its arm wrestle with the skip and starts to pull away as m-aw gets back into the lbh and drives off all the way to the end of the (dead end) road to turn round. By the time she comes back past the site, the Ex and I have been waved in and are parked in our respective bays. As I turn off the engine the B-52s are still celebrating the stony crustacean - it's been all of three minutes of her life...

Even sadder, when I get home, I find that I have missed a call on my mobile. From the Ex. Who had called me from the car in front to laugh at the woman's antics.

This past weekend:

Good points

1. Waving off a little bucket of baby newts to start a new colony in Frampton Cotterell

2. Seeing dozens of rabbits on the verges on the Steps' drop-off trip

3. Seeing only five Silver Zafiras on the drop-off trip

4. Selling my rocking chair to the Brazil Nut

5. Tallboy finally sorting out the shed

6. Seeing a rainbow on the way home tonight

7. The noise the car makes when you get out without turning off the lights (a nee naw nee naw as if there is a teeny police car pulling up)

8. Spray-painting orange and black Y-fronts on the garage wall

9. Tallboy spotting a headline on Teletext which made it sound like a prophylactic point of sale had been erected next to the till in the Holy See gift shop ("EU slates Vatican's condom stand")

10. Mowing the lawn

11. Learning some HTML from StepS (hereafter referred to as Methane Boy) while fiddling with blog template (now with added mini-weevil)

12. Liberating a cardboard melon tray from Lidl, shaped like an ostrich egg-box base and having great potential for making an udder out of


Not so good points

1. The Ex suddenly changing his mind about looking after my rocking chair for which I no longer have space, necessitating 4 above.

2. The Ex suddenly changing his mind about changing his mind about looking after my rocking chair for which I no longer have space, after 4 above

3. Being duped by Methane Boy into carting a PC back to Poppy's, where there is No Space for it

4. Selfish teenage Attitude

5. The primordial sludge in the paddling pool

6. Exposing Pesky's toilet corner in the course of 10 above

7. Pesky piercing my bottom lip with her claw

I was catching up with Dr Prod yesterday and he told me a tale of courage, derring-do and damp ambushes.

First though, some background. Dr Prod (a big fan of all things Carry On) (which is where the name comes from) (and if you already knew that, you're a Carry On freak as well as him) is a big chap. 6'4" in his socks, and (as a former competitive swimmer) as wide at the shoulder as a terraced house in Burnley. His resemblance to Lurch has often been remarked upon, and he can have a rather pithy turn of phrase. Close up, though, he is a pussy-cat and about as menacing as Auntie Bessie. And he's a better cook.

OK, back to the story. Dr Prod is selling his house. The agents have poked, probed and made notes. They have printed particulars. And they stuck up a "For Sale" sign.

Overnight, the sign disappeared. The agents replaced it. Guess what happened, readers? That one disappeared too. The agents replaced it. Dr Prod is confused, curious, and somewhat cheesed off. He decides to take the only course of action open to him - he will lie in wait to find out who the perpetrator is.

So he takes up his position outside his garage, 100 yards or so away from the scene of the crime. It's a wet night, about midnight, as he lurks in the shadows. Within a few minutes, a car draws up. A man emerges from the driver's seat and makes his way towards the sign. He snips the cable ties securing it, takes it down and breaks it, so that it will fit inside his car. He is busy loading it in as Dr Prod launches himself, sharing his views on the current situation quite loudly and wielding a furled golf umbrella.

Now, although I know he is a pussy-cat, I must admit that the sight of him charging towards me with an umbrella in his hand on a wet and windy night would have necessitated (at the very least) a clean pair. What it did to this weaselly sign-stealer, I can only imagine. Dr Prod said that by the time he reached him, he looked "a bit worried" (well OK, that's a slight translation from the original).

It transpired at this point that the perp was Secretary of the residents' association. The board had been erected on a piece of communal ground near the main road, and this wasn't allowed, apparently. So, instead of simply informing Dr Prod of this and asking him to take down the sign, weasel decided to remove it in the dead of night. Repeatedly. Dr Prod was rather cross, and called him a "cowardly pencil-necked little thief". His suggestion that the sign remained up until he received an apology and a formal request for its removal seems to have carried some weight, as it's still up there now.

What gets me, though, is what did the weasel intend to do with it? I wonder what the inside of his house is like? I imagine it as an Aladdin's cave of prohibited booty, displayed on the walls, piled up the stairs and loitering menacingly on the top of the wardrobes. Punctured footballs, maybe. For Sale signs, of course. Golf clubs, oilcans, small dogs, radios, barbecues, roller skates, lolly sticks...

So be warned, all you residents' association secretaries and other weasels, if you are going to do the dirty, take a quick look round first. If you can't see anyone who looks like Lurch, you should be OK.

The Sun has a great sense of humour but an ability to make up the most appallingly awful jokes. Example (one of many):

Why did the dinosaur cross the road?

To squash a tree


He did, however, come up with a real funny some time ago. StepS reminded me of it today, so I am inflicting it on you all tonight:

What can hide but can't run?

A chameleon with no legs.

Last summer, the weather was sweltering, we had no paddling pool to wallow in. The Sun's little pool had given itself up to UV and was in any case too miniscule for anything other than a toe dip.

I tried the web, local shops, further afield shops, friends - nothing. You just couldn't buy one. We perspired and lolled, certain in the knowledge that our lives would be complete if we only had a paddling pool. How we resented all the other families in the country who had been sensible enough to make their purchases before us.

This year I bought one early in the season. It's sat out there now, growing mould on the base, containing a metric tonne of water, several dead insects and a few dozen leaves. Needless to say, it is entirely untouched by any member of the family.

This year's Big Thing seems to be trampolines. We got the Sun's out of the shed and found that he was now bigger than the recommended weight, so it followed his trike, sandpit and swing over the fence to the Nice Neighbours and their five kids. Where it immediately caused a huge and tearful fight over who had the first bounce. Rather mean really, they should have let the kids have a go.

Idly flicking through a garden games catalogue that appeared recently in the post, I was astounded at the variety of trampolines now on offer. Some of them are huge and come with a cool cage surround. I can just imagine sitting down with a cold drink and watching the kids bouncing manically beyond the mesh like a bunch of crazy gibbons.

Having noted the Sun's exceeding the maximum weight of his old trampoline (which word incidentally sounds to me like a polish for vagrants), I was checking the maxima of these uber trampolines. One had a maximum bounce weight of 160kg. Or 25 stone. The mind boggles (and I say this as someone who has eaten more pies than she should have done herself).

I have wrung out my brain and can tell you that I

1. Can do the Rubik's cube (record time under 2 minutes)
2. Find it easier to reverse into parking spaces than go in forwards
3. Have very messy handwriting but can do excellent calligraphy
4. Won a prize for "scholarly work" in the sixth form at school
5. Had my son 6 days after my birthday. Tallboy's son was born six days after his
6. Once bunked off school to go to the seaside for the day
7. Can't sing for toffee
8. Used to enjoy going to Teignmouth on holiday and waving at trains
9. Used to be a solicitor - but I'm all right now
10. Am a polyglot
11. Cannot walk past a misted up mirror or window without drawing a pair of Y fronts with my finger
12. Am a vegetarian but am prepared to accept the sacrifice of the creature that went into my bike leathers
13. Am really bad at remembering faces
14. Find toilet humour hysterical
15. Love the smell of two-stroke in the morning
16. Used to be scared of the dark
17. Owned a T reg green VW Golf as my first car
18. Enjoy going to classical concerts
19. Like being a mum and stepmum
20. Don't give in to whining
21. Have never failed an exam
22. Haven't kept in touch with a single person from school
23. Have never been able to belch on demand
24. Can knit fiendishly difficult designs and patterns
25. Can't sleep if there is any noise
26. Love to eat baby broad beans straight out of the pod
27. Cannot abide marmalade
28. Specified in my will that "Sitting on the Dock of a Bay" by Otis Redding is to be played at my funeral
29. Can't stand spelling mistakes
30. Love books by Terry Pratchett
31. Have had pets called: Sapphire, Mushroom, Blitzen and Dollop
32. Favourite colour is purple
33. Favourite vegetable is aubergine
34. Am an excellent cook
35. Took a motorbike apart to see how it worked
36. Couldn't stop laughing all the way through "Things my Girlfriend and I Argue About"
37. Based my decision to go to Oxford Uni on, amongst other things, the fact that the city looks pretty in the sun
38. Nearly hit a cat one of the first times I rode my motorbike
39. Feel at home in police stations
40. Do not sneeze in bright sunlight. Unlike the rest of the freaks at Weevil Mansions
41. Learned from a 5 year old that ... is called an ellipsis
42. Can remember my NI number by heart
43. Wish I had learned to play the piano
44. Can touch type very quickly
45. Was often mistaken for a boy when young
46. Got first job on the book department of WHSmith
47. Had my bottom pinched in the street in Biarritz
48. Cannot stand having my feet touched
49. Love playing board games
50. Learned to play backgammon on the internet
51. Can't stand misplaced or missing apostrophes
52. Am a herpetophile
53. Love etymology
54. Have killed every houseplant I have ever owned
55. Once made fudge in the microwave when a student
56. Have had a crush on Clint Eastwood for decades
57. Was the captain of the women's cricket team at college
58. Have had mumps, chicken pox and glandular fever
59. Love Dr Zoidberg from Futurama
60. Never know how old I am (I have to subtract my birth year from today's date)
61. Once twisted my ankle by tripping over a leaf
62. Love the Broken Sword computer games
63. Learned how to say "I have a tummy ache" in Ugandan from my grandmother
64. Don't suit hats
65. Talk to cats in the street
66. Don't believe in astrology
67. Am the swingball champion
68. Once saw a badger in my back garden
69. Can't undertstand why people want to go on Trisha
70. Had two nicknames at school - "Spock" and "Frog"
71. Compose a mean limerick
72. Don't see the point to horses
73. Have never broken any bones (of my own)
74. Have a soft spot for the Youth Hostel at Wantage
75. Wish gelatine wasn't used to make so many sweets
76. Am NEVER wrong
77. Laughed so hard at video of Bottom Live when pregnant that my waters broke
78. Would have liked to have had a sister
79. Know the Silver Zafiras are out to get me
80. Don't like football
81. Think "Paranoid" would have been much better if Ozzy had sung in a Brummie accent
82. First computer I ever used was a Commodore Pet
83. Think it's funny when Tallboy gets wound up about Michael Schumacher every time the Grand Prix is on
84. Can't find a way to turn off the alarm on the digital watch on my bike keyring
85. Twigged the Father Christmas thing at an early age
86. Earliest memory is falling down the stairs aged 2 and a half
87. Have been forbidden to reveal anything naughty in this list by Tallboy
88. Will marry Tallboy if he can ever learn to wink with his left eye
89. Love thunder and lightening
90. Make sound effects when watching fireworks
91. Learned British Sign Language and particularly liked the swearing lesson
92. First record I ever bought was "Baggy Trousers" by Madness
93. Would rather be cold than hot
94. Love getting parcels and real letters
95. Always say thank you if someone holds open a door
96. Talked incessantly during childhood and now suffering the same from the Sun
97. Greek and French were my best subjects at school
98. Used to be able to do the Lotus position
99. Used to be able to recite the whole of "The Jumblies" off by heart
100. Am really scraping the bottom of the barrel now

It started raining at lunchtime and I donned my 'proofs in the grim realisation that things were going to get damp. I was slightly worried, as the Purple Peril boasts drum brakes front and rear, which don't so much stop the bike as apply a spot of gentle retardation to the forward momentum if they feel like it. I spotted a car preparing to leave, scanned the faces of the passengers for signs of navigation ability, and kitted up ready to follow them back. What wonderful people they were. Not one inch did they stray from the correct route.

By the time I got to Tetbury (familiar territory!) the rain was hammering down so hard that my arms were stinging even under my tough jacket. I couldn't see with the visor down, and my eyes were being speared by needle-sharp rainspikes with it up. I compromised by screwing up my face like Quasimodo and peering out of a tiny gap in the visor. In this way I made slow progress, retaining enough visibility to register that I was passing Highgrove, where I made sure to maintain my personal tradition of shouting out "We want a Republic!" as I went by. Slightly further down the road I saw a police biker who had dismounted and taken refuge from the deluge under a tree. Waving gaily I made my painful way past. I ignored the rest of the directions, parting company from my guide and taking the direct route home.

All was worth it when I arrived back in Chipping Sodbury and saw the Finish line in front of me. The Weevil posse was there by the clock tower waiting for me and cheered me through. They were the only occupants of the High Street, it being a full half hour before the first returners were due back - the rain wasn't conducive to spectating, either. I didn't mention to the organisers that I had taken a short cut back, but I think they may have been aware of this...

Tired, wet but very proud of myself and the bike, I arrived home to find that Tallboy had spent most of the day in a frenzy of restoration. It looks like he is hoping to have his project finished so that he can accompany me next year. I look forward to it :)

Well we did it! Neither the Purple Peril nor I broke down and even though it pelted down with rain on the way back we made it safe and sound.

I was the only girl on the business end of a bike, of which fact I am probably overly proud. I arrived in good time and went off to register. With a huge bike jacket, clumpy bike boots, and a full face helmet, I queued up to sign in and collect the directions for the run. "Car or motorbike?" enquired the sign-in lady. Momentarily thrown by the question, I looked down at my attire and back at her. "Bike," I squeaked, not entirely sure whether or not she was taking the mick.

I spent the next quarter of an hour trying to memorise the 5 pages of directions they gave me, before giving up in the face of a hopeless undertaking. Not having a photographic memory, a passenger to do the directing on the hoof, or even the ability myself to hold the sheets whilst riding, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and decided to tuck in behind a car (preferably one with a passenger who looked reasonably intelligent).

This plan worked admirably as I majestically left Chipping Sodbury to the echoing PA system, the announcer wrongly ascribing Czechoslovakian manufacture to my bike. As we climbed the hill towards Codrington, I found myself behind two classic cars, feeling comfortable and confident that all I had to do was keep up with them and I would arrive happily at the destination with minimal effort on my part. This feeling did rather evaporate when, at the next junction, one car went left and one carried straight on. With split-second timing and an uncanny instinct, I followed the car which went the wrong way.

After several adventures, many more u-turns, wrong turns and returns, I made it to the Science Museum at Wroughton for the lunchtime rendez-vous. I had a nasty experience on the way as I witnessed a chap on a rather nice Triumph inches away from being taken out by a moron in a Polo (that's the car kind, Phil, not the mint-with-the-hole type) on a roundabout, but apart from that (and a little gearbox problem) all was well and I pulled up happily at the airfield to eat my sandwiches.

To be continued...

Well I never. A glance at the referral logs for this site showed me something that I found rather disturbing. All you lovely people out there (yes, that means you, reader) come here from lovely, nice, normal sources.

But one day last week, someone came here from a search of Lycos UK. Having searched for "ladies weeing". Now, we all know this isn't that kind of site. Well, yes, I did discuss weeing. But it wasn't illustrated or anything, now was it?

Now I don't have anything against someone who gets off on what might seem strange to other people, so long as it's not damaging to others. Yes, yes, very liberal. So why did I find it disturbing?

Well for one, just the thought that someone thought that this site might supply them with that kind of content. But that's not what really bothered me. Being a curious sort of person, I went to Lycos UK. Can you guess what I searched for? This site was 71^st in the results. 71^st! Do you understand what that means? This eager person had been through 70 other sites before they got here. This is one dedicated (and presumably frustrated) perv we're talking about here...

The Sun is soon off to Cub camp. The big boys in the Scouts are going for a week, the chaps in the Cubs are going till the Tuesday. The Sun astounded me by coming home from a meeting some time ago, announcing the camp, and requesting to go. It's a first!

Anyway, last week he brought home a letter from Cubs, telling us that our presence is requested at a meeting to discuss arrangements and requirements for the camp. A Camp Meeting, in fact (this is how the letter was headed). I will be attending with the Ex. Who is fed up with my jokes about the meeting.

No, we cannot go in pink. No, we cannot criticise the curtains. No, we cannot do Marco entering the Big Brother House oooh look at that clappy clappy impressions. Spoilsport.

Cue for one of the worst jokes I have heard in recent times. What's a camp stove? An Aga with pink frills. Boom. Boom.

Watching Bill Oddie and assorted wildlife last night - in particular, the stoats fossicking around - I was reminded of a funny about the Ex.

Back when he was a rosy-cheeked lad in short trousers, he used to collect cards - cigarette cards, tea cards, whatever. There was one set of British Wildlife, which took spinning out the excitement to new levels by publishing pictures of animals in two or more parts. He ended up with one "St" card (including forelegs and front end), one "t" card (including back legs and rear end) and many, many "oa" cards (depicting long midriff section).

The net result, as he laid them all out in front of him, was an extra-long Stoaoaoaoaoaoaoaoat. Since he told me this, many years ago, I have never been able to read the word Stoat, or even see one, without automatically adding in all the extra syllables in the middle...

I was sat in traffic in the centre of Bristol this afternoon on the way home from my interview when I saw a bloke walking along the pavement with a bundle in his arms. As he approached I could make out a gorgeous Red Setter puppy, quite a little one. The guy had a big round bald head and a look of great serenity on his face as he cradled the puppy in his arms. He was holding it quite high and it was sat up in his arms so that its face was on a level with his cheek. As he walked, the dog's head bobbed up and down, and as it did so, its nose was touching his cheek. No wonder he looked so happy - he had a gorgeous puppy in his arms which was nuzzling him with every step. It was a magic sight.

Just before I pulled away I looked at his retreating figure in my rear view mirror. The puppy had stopped nuzzling his cheek and was now looking happily back over the man's shoulder towards me. I smiled all the way home...

I hope you will permit a complete vanity post. On Sunday, the Rotary Club of Chipping Sodbury will be holding its ninth annual Classic Run. And I will be in it, on the Purple Peril - a 30 year old 6 volt, 4-speed hunk of East German two-stroke loveliness.



Last year I stripped it down to the last nut and bolt, cleaned, polished, painted, replaced, wept, swore, wept a bit more, skinned my knuckles, greased, oiled, coaxed, screwed and fiddled, and finally got it through the MOT just three days before the deadline. The poor thing has been in the shed all winter but is out now with a vengeance. Although it has yet to do in total since the rebuild more than half the miles it will be doing on Sunday, I'm sure that won't be a problem.

Anyway, if you happen to be in Chipping Sodbury on Sunday morning, look out for me on bike no. 77. I am to leave at 09.08 but will be sitting around for a little while beforehand and will happily say hello to anyone who comes and says nice things about my bike.

Oh, and much to his chagrin, Tallboy can't go. His bike is only 27 and doesn't qualify.

Normal blog service will be resumed later this week once my interview is out of the way. Tomorrow I will mainly be rehearsing my presentation, and on Thursday I will be trying very hard to get an IT training job. Keep your fingers crossed for me :)

I had my hair cut yesterday. I treat a visit to the hairdresser's with the same kind of dread many people reserve for the dentist. I think this is attributable to bad experiences as a child, when I had to remove my glasses in order for the hairdresser to do her work. Due to my appallingly bad eyesight, I would then have no idea what was being done, and the putting-glasses-back-on moment would inevitably be one of deep horror at what they had done while I couldn't see them.

This time, however, there was some light relief while I was having my hair washed by the young trainee, who wittered on about this that and the other before suddenly thrusting the shower head at one of the stylists with the words "You finish off, I'm going to wet myself!" before running off behind the scenes. As the loo door slammed shut with almost tangible relief, the stylist took over without missing a beat, telling me about her exercise class last week when, faced with squat thrusts, she ran cross-legged from the room. What is it with these hairdressers? I blame the constant sound of running water, myself.

Some observations on weeing

1.) My god, men really do have huge bladders, don't they? I once stayed in a hotel in London which had a (locked) connecting door through to the next room which let sounds travel really rather well, as I found out at some unmentionable hour of the morning as the occupant of the next room, with his bathroom door open, engaged in the most tremendous session of micturation it has been my misfortune to overhear.

2.) If you need to go while you are out, the desire to wee is inversely proportional to the distance you are from home and W.C. The closer you get, the more desperate you become. I have many times burst in through the door, dumped bags of shopping on the mat and raced thunderously up the stairs, just making it.

3.) Women wake up in the morning and think "I need a wee" and go to the loo. Men wake up in the morning and think "I need a wee, but it doesn't hurt enough yet so I'm not getting out of bed."

4.) If you know someone really needs a wee (maybe they are on their way to the loo), this is a great time to tell them a really funny joke. I have thus far failed to push StepS over the edge, but it's been very close several times. I see it as my evil duty as stepmother.

5.) Camping is a lot easier if you are a bloke. You probably won't need a wee in the night, and if you feel like one, it probably won't hurt enough yet. Girls on the other hand are much more likely to want to go - Weevil's top tip here is to acquire a "wee pot" (you can say it in a Scottish accent to avoid embarrassment if you want) which is really an empty rectangular plastic container such as the kind that had frozen raspberries in. You will then have access to a non-tippable receptacle of generous volume that can be utilised in-tent and emptied discreetly.

6.) All but the most pressing desire to go when there are no conveniences nearby can be alleviated by thinking hard about cotton wool balls. On no account admit to your partner that you are practising this technique, as they will then find themselves unable to converse about any subjects other than dripping taps, fountains and Niagara Falls.

StepS tells me (in between revising for and taking GCSEs) that a new order has been established at the Poppy household. Beyblade Boy has been known to utter the odd Anglo-Saxon word, not surprising as his teacher (year 3 - or for fogies like me, first year Juniors) is apparently often to be heard yelling choice four letter words. However, with 3 year old Thomas Fiend becoming daily more articulate, he has started echoing the language he hears the adults and older sibs use.

In an effort to stem the tide, Poppy has requested an innocent substitution. In the form of the words "fairy cake". Just try it in your head. Though you won't get the full comedic effect until you hear someone say "Oh, for fairy cake's sake!" through gritted teeth.

In other language news, the Sun and I watched from the kitchen window in trepidation as a large bird balanced on the electricity cable directly over the freshly-filled paddling pool, and breathed a joint sigh of relief as it flew off without christening the new facility. I had alerted the Sun to the danger with the longest and most (initially at least) unintentional alliteration of my life: "Look, there's a pigeon perched precariously on the power cable perpendicular to the paddling pool potentially preparing to poo!"

I caught Call My Bluff the other day during my break for lunch. I was slightly taken aback by the fact that Robert Robinson has halved his age, changed gender and now calls himself Fiona Bruce, but was prepared to give it a go. I'm glad I did. I now know that the word natiform means "having the shape of buttocks". I will be peppering my conversation with this adjective for quite some time to come, I promise you.

Such exciting discoveries led to a discussion with Tallboy that evening about words and meanings. He shared my thrill of discovery (to be honest he is a great fan of all things natiform [see, I used it again!] in any case) and, almost intoxicated by etymology, we reached for the dictionary. The drill is, one person says a number, the other looks up the corresponding page and chooses a tough word of which the meaning has then to be guessed. Annoyingly, Tallboy knew the first one - groyne (a kind of breakwater, apparently).

Subsequently, we learned that archegonium means the female sex organs in mosses, ferns and some conifers. Well fancy.

My favourite, which I will be using in conversation just as soon as I can work out how to shoe-horn it in, is chalaza, which means the twisted threads of albumen which hold the yolk in place in an egg. Not to be confused with chalazion, which means a small cyst on the eyelid. There you go.

Tallboy has just confessed over my shoulder that he made sure to ask me words which were not derived from Greek or Latin as I studied both at school. Swine. I did once win Trivial Pursuit because I worked out that a vaccimulgence machine would be used for milking cows. So there are benefits to a classical education...

When they handed the Sun to me for the first time, amongst the many jumbled thoughts and emotions in my brain, there was a quiet but slightly panicky voice in there somewhere saying "Where's the manual?". Since then, I have learned to trust instinct, and of course have developed a veritable arsenal of skills, tactics, tones of voice and facial expressions. The Sun is often amazed at my near magical powers when I detect an untruth or a misdemeanour. In fact I sometimes find this amazement so comical that I am forced to bite the insides of my cheeks in order to maintain a straight face.

The Cartographer as a young boy was much better at sneakiness and would often get away with things - it was many years before his habit of smuggling biscuits up to bed in his socks was discovered. I do remember once, though, when he was in total awe of Mum and her occult powers of detection.

Picture the scene: a freshly-iced Christmas cake on the sideboard, drying gently. A circular hole in the top of the icing right down to the surface of the cake. A Cowboy Cartographer in the back garden, meditatively sucking the end of his toy pistol. He was genuinely stunned when, nanoseconds later, he found himself pinned to the wall by his neck, identified as the perpetrator.

He did have the last laugh though. Mum had the hassle of re-icing the cake, but once the furore had blown over, the Cartographer was left with a barrel half-filled with solid Royal Icing which took years of dedicated sucking to remove.

I can't remember not being able to, but Tallboy can't with his left eye, and Sun has only recently managed to add it to his repertoire. He now winks hugely at me with accompanying facial contortions pretty much everywhere.

Tallboy will try to wink with his left eye when my pleading for him to do it becomes insufferable - the result is always the same (amusing for me, agonising for him) as both his eyes blink in unison. There, he just did it then. In a fit of extreme tease, I told him that if he could wink with his left eye, I would marry him. When I told Sun of this, he looked alarmed, and said "But he could be practising right now!"

Earlier this week, the Sun and I wandered round the shops and ended up at the games exchange where the odd gem is sometimes to be found. Among mountains of tat. As I stood at the counter waiting to pay for an item of tat, the Sun rested his chin on the counter and turned his face towards me. Thrilled at the new game, he winked at me. I winked back. He raised the stakes and winked with a grimace. I returned the favour. And so on...

After a little while I became aware of the teenaged shop assistant behind the counter, who had risen up from finding the insert for the case and was now frozen in horror because the woman who was buying the game was winking extravagantly at him. Realising that this was one of the situations in which an attempted explanation serves only to make things worse, I took the proffered bag with a big smile and left with my dignity.

For some reason Tallboy was highly amused by this tale. Hmph. Well at least I'm ambiwinkstrous...