Weevilstepmother

Gosh it's been warm today. Temperatures have been nudging thirty degrees and the sun has been blazing. I have the central heating on.

There are changes afoot at Weevil Mansions. The extension was finished in April and Tallboy and I moved into our new bedroom then. Having decorated a new bathroom, bedroom and office, not to mention the entire hall, stairs and landing area, I seemed to develop a deep-seated reaction to having a paintbrush in my hand. Now we have cleared out our old room and it has had a lick of paint preparatory to habitation by StepD. We have insisted that she do some of the painting and preparation work, instead of adopting her usual position of spending all day sitting at the computer or watching DVDs and graciously allowing everyone else to work on her behalf. I think she has been surprised to learn that, unlike the TV house makeover shows, you can't just wave a magic wand and have it all beautiful in half an hour.

The colour scheme will be interesting, to say the least. Walls, ceiling and woodwork are all white. When all the painting is complete, we will cover windows, doors, radiator, floor etc in newspaper and stand well back. StepD will then enter room with paintbrush and tin of bright pink paint, load brush, and splatter away. I think it could look really effective, and I like the randomness of the outcome. I just hope it comes out as she envisages it...

Once StepD has moved into the new accommodation, it will be Methane Boy's turn to decorate the room she will vacate. He too plans for white all over though without contrasting splashes, and has requested our old double bed. He is welcome to it, though in the box room he will be pushed to fit any other furniture in there. Or even open the door, come to that.

With MB installed in his new pad, this will leave the Sun with his bedroom all to himself again, which he is looking forward to and dreading in equal amounts. We will then decorate his room in a colour scheme which he will not yet divulge for reasons of national security and/or not having decided on one yet. By this point, I will never want to see a paintbrush again in my life. Although the front room is looking a little tatty. And the kitchen needs a lick of paint really...

The heating is on because Tallboy and I just ingested a possibly hazardous amount of VOCs painted the radiator in StepD's room-to-be and according to the tin the heating needs to be on for four hours to set it. Nice.

Unfortunately the high levels of solar radiation in the garden and heat energy escaping from Weevil Mansions don't seem to have had any detrimental effect on the Brazil Nut's cucumbers. More tzatziki, anyone?

It's the Cartographer's wedding today, so it's an early post before we leave. I'm very excited and very nervous, too. It's exciting because he is a top bloke and his wife-to-be is just brilliant, and they make a great couple. The nervousness stems from two sources, firstly from Dad's presence there. The Cartographer has given him a warning about behaving and I hope he does, but I will be worried the whole time. This will be the first time he will be in the same room as Mum for about 13 years (I think) so it's not going to be an easy situation. Keep your fingers crossed on this one!

I'm getting good nerves about giving a reading during the service. It's a nice reading they have asked me to do, and I'm very proud that they have asked me to do it. I've been reciting it desperately all week as I want to be able to do it off pat rather than bent-headed, and will kick myself if I get it wrong because I want to make a good job of it. Although I have been winding the Cartographer up about it a little - as his big sis I feel it's my job. Amongst other things, I enquired whether there was to be a data projector in the room, as I could rustle up a funky little PowerPoint number to go with it... Tonight I sent him a text asking whether I could perform a humorous introduction. His response was fast and brutal. I won't reproduce it here. But it rhymes with the second half of Betty Swollocks.

I can't help but look back to my wedding day (15 years ago now - I was a child bride, you see) and remember that much of it didn't go smoothly...

The main happening was the bus - we chose to get married in the chapel of my Oxford college, it was a wonderful setting but unfortunately 80 miles away from even the nearest of our relatives. Solution - hire a double decker bus to take the hordes from Bristol to the wedding. Sorted! My chum from college, the Phantom Bagpiper, was on the bus, and would direct the driver once they arrived. Perfect. Mum decorated the bus, the Ex's family piled on with crates of lager and off they went. There was apparently plenty of quaffing and substantial amounts of singing before the dreaming spires were sighted.

The Phantom Bagpiper stood at the front and directed the driver off the Ring Road, through Botley and into Oxford. The driver was a bit concerned as they approached the railway bridge - was there enough clearance? His concerns were assuaged as a local bus made it easily under the arch, and he followed it through. Although to be fair he stopped pretty quickly when he heard the crunching coming from the top deck and felt a resistance to forward progress. Sheepishly he turned the bus round and found another route. Tallboy (a native Oxonian) tells me that the buses on the railway station route were a good few inches shorter than normal to allow them to get under that bridge...

Thursday again already - blimey days! And have I got a peach of a game for you this week, people.

Grow is a deceptively simple game. You have a ball surrounded by objects which you must drag onto the ball one after the other. As each new object arrives, it has an effect on other objects already there. When you get it right, there is a satisfying sequence of Level Ups. At the end of the game, you are scored on how many of your objects have attained their maximum level. The trick is that there is a particular sequence which will achieve this outcome, and the enjoyment comes from figuring this out.

This is a very clever and well-executed game. We had a lot of fun with it and were tantalisingly close to solving it many times before we finally completed it. If you get stuck, I can give you some hints about the order - just email me.

Here we go then, thinking caps on, leetle pocket brains at the ready, it's time for Grow

We've been most attentive to the Brazil Nut's garden in her absence. And it has been most generous to us in return. Every evening we come back laden with produce. Well, we wouldn't want to see it going to waste, obviously.

Unfortunately, the cucumbers are going mental in the greenhouse. We must have picked at least a dozen over the past week. And still they come. It's getting quite scary - we just don't know what to do with them. I have been eating cucumber each lunchtime like a crazed herbivore addicted to comedy shaped vegetables (which I do realise are really fruit, before anyone fires up the comments - you know who you are). Phil has no idea how close he came to getting one in the post for his birthday.

There were five that needed picking yesterday. Five! Even Delia Smith would have trouble with that many. I knocked at Nice Neighbour's front door, and craning over the top of the log cabin of cucumbers in my arms, asked her if she happened to like cucumbers, at all? "We love them!" she said, her face lighting up with a smile which suggested her deduction of the high probability of imminent cucumber ownership. I thrust three of the them at her and then beat a swift retreat to her front gate before she could refuse any of them.

Today there were three cucumbers. And a courgette. In my desperation I called over the fence to Shouty Neighbour, to whom I normally only talk to draw her attention to her son's involvement in theft from my garden or to request that the music be turned down to a level which allows the pictures in my living room to remain on the walls. She had two, which left me with one fresh one plus several skulking in the fridge. I took two of them out and grated them into oblivion (without grating myself, I'm happy to report) and we enjoyed tzatziki for tea.

I noticed, as I stood idly playing the hose over her vegetable patch the other day, that there is a bit of theme running through the BN's garden. She has cucumbers, courgettes, leeks, fine beans - is it me or is there a definite phallic motif going on here? Maybe I've just been handling more cucumbers than is strictly healthy...

So, today I had to go to the Job Centre for a jolly little interview.I have had the temerity to be without a job for over 13 weeks and was Called In. The fortnightly signing is bad enough, I really hate going in there. Meh.

I wandered in and plonked down on one of the institutional waiting chairs. Rule one of the JC is that you are never called on time. But if you dare to be late then they can throw the book at you. He called out my name five minutes after the interview was due to start and invited me to come over and sit down.

He explained what the interview was about and then said that since Tony Blair was worried that I can't read or add up properly, he was going to ask me to perform a test. Seriously, a paper test. He put it in front of me. "Are you sure I have to do this?" I asked in amazement. "Oh yes, everyone has to." So I spent five minutes this afternoon answering a series of questions based on a job advertisement. A series of questions which the Sun could have coped with without even breaking into a sweat. Being far too British to do something sensible like rant about it, I confined myself to the silent subversion of trying to use as many hugely polysyllabic words as I could in the responses. And chucking in a bit of philosophy. And pointing out the grammatical error in question 6. That made me feel better.

Once we had established that I could evidence at least kumquat level intelligence, we moved on to the interview proper. My friend across the table had to wait while I noted down his name and the date in my notebook. And, in large, well-formed, and above all easily-read-from-upside-down characters:"1. Pointless literacy test."

After an interesting and supportive discussion during which he highlighted several times his ability to make life very difficult for me, we drew to a conclusion. He said he would like to have been able to offer me a referral to an outside agency to assist me in my job search, but unfortunately he couldn't do this. Outraged, I demanded a reason.

I'm too young.

I practically skipped out...

Something happened recently which made me stop and reflect on the power of our names. It involved the Brazil Nut and a discovery I made about her. I can post safely about this at the moment because I waved the Nuts off last week on their holiday and they are currently sojourning in the Hebrides. She owes me twenty quid for the rocking chair she bought from me so I was fairly certain she'd be leaving the country at some point.

A few weeks ago there was a knock at the door and there stood the Brazil Nut with her "I'm going to ask you a favour" look on her face. She was due to take delivery of a French Student who was coming to England for a two week intensive language course. The organisers had called and said the students were going to arrive early, and Mr Nut had wandered off somewhere, so would I mind giving her a lift to pick up this girl. Of course not, particularly when I discovered that the BN doesn't speak any French. The mischiefometer needle in my brain was vibrating against the stop.

We went and lurked by the leisure centre, where the disorganiser eventually turned up, trying desperately to hang on to her sheaves of papers and envelopes whilst shaking hands with the students' hosts-to-be. Shuffling the large manilla envelopes and trying to make out the tiny spider scrawl on each, she finally dished them out to their recipients. I happened to see the front of the BN's as it was passed to her. I wasn't looking at it, I just noticed it, honest. What I noticed was that they had got her name wrong. I didn't see what it said, but I could tell that the shape of the word meant it wasn't what I thought it should be. I thought they had given her the wrong envelope, so craned my neck sideways to make out what it said. My lips formed the unfamiliar Portuguese word that I read there and the BN's head snapped round instantly.

She clearly felt vulnerable about this. My knowledge of her real name gave me some kind of power, it seemed. To be fair, I haven't exploited this in any way at all as it's clearly an issue. I would quite happily tease her about, say, the size of her arse, but the name thing is out of bounds. But this feeling of vulnerability explains her joyful cackle when she read my 100 Weevil Facts and discovered my two nicknames from school. She had somehow evened things up by acquiring this knowledge.

You may wonder why this blog is peppered with pseudonyms. Well, for a start I can assure you that they're a lot more funny than their real names. But the main reason is that I have a sensitivity about using their real names, about identifying them to others without their knowledge. It doesn't seem fair somehow. It's strange though how this blog has permeated into our everyday life here. Obviously, I'm constantly making reference to No. 76 (Weevil Facts). But what felt weird was getting a text from Methane Boy asking me if Tallboy was home yet. Not "dad", but "Tallboy". Really weird.

Back to real names - and this has caused some controversy in the family, I can tell you. For the past few years (since he was maybe five or six years old) the Sun has referred to the Ex and myself by our first names. He calls me "mummy" about once a year (and I faint theatrically when he does it). I don't mind that he calls me my first name - it is, after all, my name.

He has often unconsciously called me by the name of the adult who was last looking after him - the Ex, Grandma, Mrs Schoolteacher. His brain just seems locked in to the previous name. He tells me of (and I recall from my days at school) the jeers reserved for those children who do the same but in reverse and call "Mum" when they want to attract the teacher's attention. I remember clearly one dinner time being sat round the table with classmates in the dining room. There was one teacher to each table to keep order, and I turned to ours and said, "Pass the potatoes please Mum." The hoots of laughter from my contemporaries mortified me. I flushed red and felt the tears mounting, though I kept them under control. I must have been no more than six or seven years old. I turned to the teacher, pleading. "Tell them, Mum." She smiled and confirmed that yes, this nursery nurse student on a placement really was Weevil's Mum. I wonder if she remembers this?

We had the unusual experience of all sitting round the table this morning for breakfast at the same time. The normal getting up range in this house is from about 6.30 a.m. to 2.00 p.m. so we never actually all meet at breakfast time, unless like today we have made a date for a cooked breakfast.

Tallboy and the Steps have prodigious appetites and the ability almost to inhale the food on their plates. For a few minutes, the only sounds were those of rampant consumption. Then we reached the point where the urge to shovel diminished and conversation became possible. I say conversation, though it started off more as mocking.

I simply observed that tinned tomatoes and baked beans had no place being on the same plate together, a view shared by none of my companions. The arrangement of my food then became the subject of joshing, though I can't see what is unreasonable about constructing a Thames Barrier of hash browns to prevent my egg yolk coming into contact with my bean juice.

The conversation somehow moved on to weird things we had eaten over the years.

As a child, I sampled Go-Cat with no ill effects, and once ate a couple of mouthfuls of raw minced beef to see what it was like. No wonder I turned veggie. When I was in my late teens I once ate a contact lens. This was, I stress, unintentional. I had hard lenses, which if not sited correctly had a habit of pinging out of my eye when I blinked. I was muzzy that morning and didn't put it in properly. Nor did I notice when it came out. I simply continued to eat my bowl of crunchy corn flakes. Then I wondered why it was so difficult to focus...

Methane Boy admits to eating cat chocolates one Christmas. Like chocolate but different, apparently. He also reports that Beyblade Boy once asked him "Would you ever eat tinned cat food?" "Maybe," was the response. "Do it now, do it now," urged Beyblade Boy. He didn't, but says it remains on his list of things to do.

StepD used to eat all sorts of non-food items. Dolls' shoes mainly. And feet. Dolls' feet that is - only a very few of her dolls have un-gnawed feet. Once Methane Boy was taking apart a remote control car "to see how it worked". When the time came to put it back together, there was a screw missing. Yes, she had eaten it...

Tallboy at first would only admit to dog chocolate. But his cover was blown when someone wondered what a woodlouse would taste like. "Bitter, very bitter," was his unthinking response. He ate one deliberately aged about 5. "I almost ate an earwig once," he then volunteered. He had found a wooden pipe (of the smoking variety) in the garden and had stuck it in his mouth and sucked. Sensing a blockage, he sucked harder and harder until an alarmed earwig struck him in the back of the throat at high velocity. Fortunately he managed to encourage it back into the great outdoors.

The Sun was unimpressed. "That's nothing!" he said. "Once, I ate a Brussels Sprout!"

It has been a day of discovery for us all today.

Tallboy discovered the frustration of explaining a task to someone, showing them what to do, checking that they understood and then coming back five minutes later to find that they had got totally the wrong idea and done it all wrong. Welcome to my world, dear.

StepD discovered that exciting though acquiring a new bedroom might be, you can't just rush in and slap paint on the walls. Preparation is all, especially for the woodwork. She also discovered that sanding is a tedious and messy job. And that the only way to attack a skirting board is down at its level. She did very well, too.

Methane Boy discovered that tapping threads in aluminium blocks takes quite a lot of effort, actually.

The Sun discovered that he felt grown-up enough to go for a haircut all by himself. He made the appointment yesterday, and marched in this morning saying to the hairdresser "Can you tidy me up, I'm going to a wedding next week." And very nice he looks too.

While watering the garden last night, I discovered that that the ants' nest which was there the night before was still there. I became aware of this both times not by actually seeing the ants, but by an acute sensation of formication on my foot, which turned out to be true. With any luck I will remember that it's there tonight.

On the computer, I discovered that I'm now getting a lot of hits from people who are seeking walkthroughs for Chasm and OgOg. I also discovered that this site is third (or last, if you like) in the list if you Google for "blimey days". A third discovery came about when I looked at a referral from google.fr which led here. Next to the site name was a tantalising little hyperlink saying "traduire cette page". Oh go on then.

Obviously it gives you a very mechanical translation, can't cope with some words, and has problems with word order sometimes. You have to cut it a bit of slack. But I couldn't help hooting with laughter when I got to the bit which said: "Jours de Blimey".

You heard it here first - blimey days in French is Jours de Blimey. Official.

When Mulled Whines was reviewed by The Weblog Review, there was only one thing I could do - copy Phil and submit this one. Having done so, I began to wonder why I had... Of course, it would be nice to get a pat on the head, but quite another thing if they didn't like it. In the end, what motivated me was, I think, the desire to have some honest feedback from people who hadn't seen the site before. I don't have a clue when it comes to design or html or css so constructive feedback about the look of the site would be good, and as this is the first time I have written for an audience I wanted feedback about my writing.

The blog is reviewed here and I would like to thank the three reviewers who took the time and trouble to do this.

When it became clear from my referral log that there was a pattern of close examination of the site going on yesterday, I had kittens - a big from-the-heart thank you to Phil "Knight on a White Charger" Gardner would be appropriate at this point. I'm glad to say that they liked the site - it registered between mildly amusing and laugh out loud on the likeometer.

There were two points which the reviewers felt could do with improvement:

1. the site, one said, is drab

2. I use British terms and references which can be confusing to overseas readers

So then, people, let's get interactive :) Please help me and leave a comment here if you would like to give me:

1. feedback on the site - do you agree with the reviews or not?

2. ideas for jazzing up the design

3. examples of references which don't make sense to you (I could start a what's what to go with the who's who, maybe)

You can comment anonymously if you don't have a Blogger login. Or if you fear the wrath of Weevil. Not you, Phil.

It's all been a bit zoological around here recently. Apart from the frogs and newts (and dogs) in the pond, we seem to have had animals coming out of our ears.

This morning, for example. I'm trying my best to learn about WINS and DNS servers, and my attention is dragged away from this fascinating subject by a small spider (let's call him Fred) which is making its way up the right hand side of my monitor bezel. Up he goes, across the top, down the left hand side. Across the bottom, up the right hand side. I'm hypnotised. It's no good, I need to discourage him but I don't want to squish him, so I blow a rather surprised Fred off the monitor.

He's made of tough stuff, is Fred. After a few minutes, he's at it again. *Puff* again. Now he's gone. Ten minutes later, I'm aware of movement in my peripheral vision. I don't know how, but he has climbed up me and is now abseiling down my forehead. I think he wanted to remonstrate with me...

Then there's the pigeon. He is a large, plump, grey, ring-necked wood pigeon, and he spends his time lurking in the back garden. On the electricity supply cable, on the shed roof, wandering up and down the kids' climbing frame. He really gets my goat, sitting there all plump and self-satisfied and ready to poo in the paddling pool. He seems to mock me with his call. Yesterday I was in the front room and I heard him, in the same room as me. "cooo cooo coooooo cu cu" from right behind me. I jumped a mile but there was nothing there. He was too cunning for that. He was sat on the chimney, and projecting his voice downwards so that he was taunting me through the gas fire.

Methane Boy had a rather distressing encounter with resident wildlife last weekend as he mowed the lawn. On the final patch of grass, as he withdrew the mower from under the peonies, a toad flopped out from underneath, and was still. MB raced upstairs to give me the bad news. Red and breathless, he skidded to a halt by the desk. "I mowed a toad!" he wailed. I was concerned that it was in pain and felt we should dispatch it with all haste to prevent its suffering. MB agreed and was prepared to get a shovel and do the decent thing. A further wail brought me downstairs, to find a miraculously recovered toad with all limbs attached making its quiet way into the corner of the garden. He must have just stunned it, poor thing.

One day last week I looked out of a front bedroom window at 11 in the morning to see a big old dog fox trotting along the pavement opposite as if it belonged to him. Urban foxes, eh. I won't go into the urban slugs that used to live in Tallboy's front room though. Well OK then, if I must. Silver trails on the carpet every morning, and if you were particularly unlucky, a nasty cold squishy sensation between your toes. Desperately trying to minimise the problem when the property was on the market, he would secrete little mounds of salt around the room, and one time I came down to see the most incongruous sight - bright green slug pellets on a living room carpet.

Mind you, we're not the only ones. Mum has her fair share of wildlife too, though as she lives in the middle of the countryside, you might really expect that. Once she even claimed she had squirrels in the loft. If you ask me, it's much more likely to be bats in the belfry...

Blimey days. It's that time again, people. This week I am again offering you a selection of games for your delectation and delight. I have played all the games on this site at one time or another (I think) and can give you pointers to my personal favourites as follows:

Rocket Mania Connect up the fuses to launch the fireworks against the clock. More points for multiple launches. I really like this game, not just for the gameplay, but also for the sound effects of the launches. And the applause of the crowd does wonders for the ego too. Time is really tight in Hard mode but it's a great feeling when you finally beat the game.

Insaniquarium Feed the fish, watch them get bigger, protect them from aliens. They show their gratitude to you by dropping coins and gems for you to collect. Once you have enough money you can buy new inhabitants for your tank, laser guns, better fish food, even a carnivore which you have to keep supplied with baby guppies. Again, great sound effects, particularly the farty sound that signals a baby guppy being born, and the jarring crunch as the carnivore devours one. A great favourite of mine and the Sun's, even Methane Boy loves this. When he discovered it, he was heard to say, "Sod GTA, I could play this game for the rest of my life!"

Bejeweled Swap neighbouring gems to form rows of at least three. A game you can never win against the clock, the time always slips away somehow... More satisfying sound effects, with a plangent noise signifying the imminent expiration of time on the game. A great little time-waster.

Mummy Maze will get your brain going. For every step your explorer takes towards the tomb exit, the mummy takes two. Can you beat it to the door? A huge favourite of the Sun's.

Dynomite and Zuma are fun target games where you have to ping eggs/balls to make clumps of three or more. Satisfying "thunks" as they hit home, and the thrill of beating the clock add to the enjoyment. Although after a while with Dynomite, you do find yourself wanting to strangle whoever says "Whirly's coming!"

Others worth a look are Alchemy, Atomica, Big Money, Bookworm and TipTop. The Sun's tip for a game for the kiddies is Noah's Ark.

Here we go then, chaps, loosen up those index fingers and head for PopCap games.

The Sun came back tired, grubby and happy from Cub Camp last night. By the look of the leaders, I'd say that several of the cakes had already gone west, and I didn't rate the chances of those left behind with the Scouts. I couldn't get much out of the boy other than that his verruca had mostly fallen off and that he had bought me a keyring with a badger on it, and decided to delay interrogation until the morning. The Ex was working Lates but wanted to see him, so on the way home we stopped by the factory so that he could pop out and say hello. With an extravagant gesture, the Sun withdrew from his bag a small sweet, which was his present for his father. "It only cost 5p!" he said, cheerily.

Although he had had a good time, it was clear on arrival home that he had missed something. Mum, hugs, home cooking - none of these figured in the list. But you should have seen him make a beeline for that Playstation.

This morning I got a bit more sense out of him. Eventually. Spotted first at 08.39 as he plodded, still half asleep, to the toilet, he grunted, "I'm going back to bed." At half nine he was slightly more coherent as he came downstairs and demanded a cooked breakfast like they had at camp. After he had finished his cereal, we looked over his spoils.

Prime amongst these was the three foot long marshmallow skewer arrangement all beautifully wrapped in cellophane, which had been his prize for tidiest tent. I think it's possible that Akela has shares in several dental practices. Then there was the Spitfire keyring, the camouflage notebook and pen, and let's not forget the moany groany turn-it-over-and-over tube thing which he had bought specially because I had forbidden the purchase of similar on three separate occasions last year.

Apparently Tesco's home delivery is as ropey in Somerset as it is in Shotley Gate. The very organised Scout leaders had ordered the food for the week and it was to be delivered to the campsite on the afternoon of arrival. The delivery was duly made, although sadly to another campsite, and there was an unscheduled outing to the nearest chippy to make sure the boys were fed. If you ask me, they should have gone for Somerfield home delivery. At least they could have checked out the hubcaps for me.

He got up to all sorts over the five days he was away - adventure playground, hiking, backwoods cooking, going on Concorde - all your basic scout camp kind of stuff, really. He liked shooting with air rifles, reporting with a bit of a grin that he had been the only one to remember to release the safety catch before firing. "The trigger's a bit stiff," complained one of the others.

They also had fun in the Wide Game, where you have to gain an objective in the dark without being discovered by the other side. The objective in this case was a well in the woods, guarded by a torch-toting cake-guzzler Scout Leader. Most of the boys made it to the well without being picked out by the torch beam. There was only one left to come in. You've already guessed who, haven't you? The Leader heralded the end of the game by counting down from thirty. "Three, two, one, OK come out Sunshine the game's over." "Here I am," piped up a little voice from right behind him. He had touched base as the Leader said "Two". I'm just the same with deadlines, mate.

The lowest point of the camp came the morning of the last day. They were indulging in a spot of cyclocross round a special course. One of the Leaders was filming the boys as they zoomed past, catching a spectacular overtake as one of the Scouts flashed past the Sun who was making his way rather more gently. As the leader followed the sprinting Scout in his viewfinder, the Sun's front wheel struck a root and he was catapulted over the handlebars. Ouch. Rushing to his aid, the Leader knelt down by his side and tended to him. "Son," he said gently, "next time, do it on camera OK?"

OK that was a rubbish Lloyd Grossman impression but it will make sense in a minute. What I was going to tell you about last night, before I wandered off talking about bombs and farting, was my friend Amanda from University. This is all kind of word-related too, which is probably how I got sidetracked into the other stuff.

Now, this was in the days before everyone had a mobile phone, so the way you communicated with your friends was to write them a note and either pin it to their door or stick it up on the notice board in the lodge where they would see it when they came back into college. This is relevant background, I promise you. As is the fact that she was a physicist.

She took umbrage once because someone had left her a note but had spelled her name "Amanada". (Incidentally, this word is so imprinted on my brain that I have to think carefully when communicating with the other Amanda that I know.) We ribbed her about it rather a lot and suggested that her spelling wasn't much better, being a scientist. She left an outraged note in which she claimed "I am NOT illioterate!" Quite. Then there was the time she said she was going to write up her assignment on the food processor...

Another phrase permanently etched into my vocabulary derives from the dear bumbling German lecturer who took them for maths classes. When the time came for them to work out some fiendish equation, he would say to them in a gentle German accent, "Now, take out your leetle pocket brains." Perfect!

This same Amanda was looking to buy a house in Oxford. The first one they looked at turned out to be owned by a man who murdered his wife with an axe, so funnily enough they weren't so keen on that one. Then they were shown round one in Crotch Crescent. I kid you not. They kind of liked the idea of that one, but only if they could remove the numbers and call it a name. The particularly liked "Sweaty", "Hairy" and "Smelly". Fortunately for their potential postman's sanity, they chose a house elsewhere. The poor man never knew what a lucky escape he had...

I love using language and listening to or reading language used well. I really like finding out where words and phrases come from, and what meanings words can have. Sometimes it really strikes me as strange that we can use words and phrases in our everyday life yet be totally unaware of their true meaning.

I was half watching the Breakfast news on the BBC a few weeks ago, and they were saying that we Brits don't care about spelling any more. They lurked outside an erudite looking place (British Museum?) and asked people to spell things. Many of them got words wrong. Mind you, with a camera shoved in your face and the chance of showing yourself up in front of millions of people, there's going to be just a little spot of pressure, isn't there? The thing that all but one of them got wrong interested me. Most victims spelled "toe the line" as "tow the line". It's definitely the first - and I've seen its origin ascribed to three different situations: bare knuckle boxers starting the fight each stood behind their respective lines drawn in the sand, military men lining up for inspection, or athletes starting a race. In all the cases though there is a common theme - that of a boundary behind which one is expected to stand along with the others. Towing a line has a completely different connotation.

Another phrase which gets used a lot without much understanding is "hoist by your own petard". This one puzzled me so much that I looked it up many years ago. I had always thought that it meant something like being strung up on a crane-like contrivance of your own making. It doesn't. A petard is a small bomb beloved of revolutionaries and invaders, often used for blowing doors, gates and walls open. If it happened to go off before you had run away after lighting it, it would blow you up, or hoist you into the air. But interestingly in this case, the misunderstanding about the meaning of the words doesn't affect the sense so much.

I had come across the verb "peter" in French during a desultory session of looking up words in the dictionary when doing A Level. It means "to fart". Yes, Methane Boy, that will do. Thank you. There is even a phrase in French which goes something like "Il pete plus haut que son cul" (roughly - he farts from higher up than his arse) which is the equivalent of "he's too big for his boots". It's also the root of the word "petillant" which you may have seen on the label of a bottle of sparkling wine. Sadly, I don't think military technology during the time petards were en vogue had extended to the demolition of doors and walls by the power of methane, but it's a nice thought...

Well, I seem to have wandered off on a different trajectory than I had intended tonight, but I hope it's been interesting. I haven't seen the Brazil Nut for several days, you see. Maybe I had better go and call for her tomorrow.

I read Donna's post last week with a smile on my face, imagining them both getting so wound up that sleep escaped them. I can sympathise. Not that we get wound up about our Exes - Tallboy and Poppy are friends, and so are the Ex and I. And Tallboy gets on fine with the Ex, and Poppy and I get on very well as no doubt our respective phone bills show. It's just that Tallboy and I don't just like to waste good daylight hours on such trivia - bedtime is the perfect time to continue an argument, spat, debate, contretemps, discussion, squabble or other difference of opinion. Or even start a fresh one.

Take last Wednesday night, for example. I maintained that the little bottles of French lager in the fridge contained 250ml, he said less. After a good five minutes' reasoned debate (!) he caved in and marched downstairs to fetch one and prove me wrong. And crept back upstairs again with a rueful look on his face a minute later. Ha! No. 76.

A further source of niggle is the duvet. When we kitted out our new bedroom a few months ago, we chose a huuuge super king size bed. Now Tallboy's legs don't stick out the end of the bed any more, which means that I don't scratch my shins on his toenails as I pass in the night, but I have lost a couple of handy towel-holders. The duvet is commensurately large - I'm only exaggerating slightly when I say that the Sun's entire pack could quite comfortably camp underneath it. Notwithstanding that this duvet is easily big enough for both of us, I have a habit (when asleep, of course) of rolling myself up in it. Seriously, some mornings I find myself in a total cocoon. Tallboy then wakes, cold, in the middle of the night, tries to reclaim his half, fails, succeeds in pulling out a small corner somewhere to serve as a loincloth, then shivers the rest of the night away. Well I'm sorry but I can't help it. I even put a blanket on the floor by his side of the bed, what more can I do?

Then there's the blinds. Tallboy tends to close them, as they're on his side. You can either shut them with the slats pointing up or down. If pointing down, they channel the sun right into our eyes at about six in the morning. Guess which way Tallboy shuts them more often than not? Uh-huh.

Another debate, which occurs upon Methane Boy's retiring to bed, centres on who can predict the number of flushes which will follow his nightly bowel movement. Sometimes two, often three, world record-breakingly four - it's like a domestic version of Banzai.

The final major quibble spot is Pesky. A contrary creature, she waits until you have locked up for the night before demanding egress. Then demands ingress at dawn, loudly and repeatedly. I have had twelve years to get used to her and can filter out the yowls until a more forgiving hour, but Tallboy has yet to acquire this knack. I will often wake to a tetchy comment about my bloody cat, when he could have nipped downstairs, let her in and returned to bed in less than a minute, enabling him to drop off back to sleep again for a couple of hours. It's not my fault he chooses to lie there awake, alternately fuming at Pesky's wails and my innocent sleeping.

Tallboy did manage to chalk one up earlier tonight, though. To be fair, this was at tea-time not bedtime, but he will moan if I don't include it. We were enjoying a bottle of South African lager that a colleague had given him, and were even being posh enough to drink out of glasses. It wasn't that strong, I thought, but then Tallboy raised his glass almost to his lips and poured a good mouthful down his chin. I have to admit that I may have laughed at this a little. Still sniggering, I took up my glass and spilt half of it down my cleavage. What a waste of good beer...

We waved the Sun off to Cub camp this morning. It was wonderful the way the Scout Leaders' eyes lit up at the sight of their little charges - the way they ushered them gently into the van had to be seen to be believed. But enough about the cakes, they seemed quite pleased to see the little chaps all in uniform too.

The Sun has been very enthusiastic about the camp from the start. His little chum CW, however, has not. He was persuaded to go on the camp because the Sun was going, and because they would be sleeping in a lodge. Last minute change of plan - the female members of the pack are coming too and there is suddenly a need for segregation. Solution - boys are now sleeping in a tent, and CW is becoming less and less inclined to go. A veteran of one whole night in a tent, the Sun attempted to bolster his confidence.

"It's OK in a tent," he told him. "You might hear some noises in the night when it's dark, but it will be probably just be an owl flying overhead. Or a fox or other wild animal nosing around the tent." Wise words of comfort indeed.

So we piled into the pub car park at ten this morning, the chaps boarded the minibus, the cakes were carefully stowed in the van, and off they went. As I waved my little chap off on his adventure, I had a good look at the hubcaps of the minibus which, sadly, were quite unremarkable. I have become rather struck with hubcaps recently. I blame Tallboy.

I found myself scanning hubcaps while I was fruitlessly waiting for him yesterday. I saw one vehicle, a Nissan Micra I believe, which was stopped at red traffic lights. My brain had trouble reconciling the conflicting visuals, though. The car wasn't moving. Its hubcaps were. The front ones were spinning slowly round, which made it look as if the car were pulling away. But it wasn't. This messed with my brain hugely - I hope it was intentional as it was a great effect.

Tallboy got a bee in his bonnet about hubcaps a few weeks ago. Had I seen any Somerfield home delivery vans? No, I hadn't. Well keep a lookout for them. Why? The hubcaps, emblazoned with the Somerfield logo, are free-spinning and weighted at the bottom. Riiiight. Meaning that when the wheels are turning, the hubcap stays still, broadcasting proudly the company name.

I examined his face closely for any evidence of mickey taking but he appeared serious enough. It seemed a bit far-fetched though (this was before I had seen the spinning ones on the Micra). Was he sure he hadn't dreamt it? Heated denials - he had seen the van in question on Muller Road. Oh well that clinches it then.

I'm still not entirely sure I'm not being wound up here. I had a sneaky peek on Somerfield's website when Tallboy wasn't looking. I don't know what I thought I might find there - trumpeting banners proclaiming the stationary nature of the company's hubcaps maybe? I'm afraid there was nothing.

So please, please put me out of my misery. Has anyone out there seen them? Is Tallboy having incredibly sad hallucinations or should I trust a man who can't wink with his left eye?

While we're on the subject of hubcaps, let me point you towards a website I have loved for ages. His creations are amazing and I would love to be able to afford one. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Hubcap Creatures.

Pratchett, that is.

You see, today he received an honorary degree from the University of Bristol. And I was there! If you're wondering what the big deal is, can I refer you back to Fact 30. And if you're wondering at the previous post, I was so excited at 7 o'clock this morning that I wanted to share it with you...

So this morning, barely able to contain my excitement, I caught a lift into town with Tallboy and mooched around for a few hours while he was at work. Having exhausted the possibilities of looking at stuff without buying it, and having consumed two large coffees, I made my way to the centre, near to where I had arranged to meet Tallboy. Unfortunately I was over an hour early.

My old place of work wasn't far away so I wandered in there for a chat. "You're looking well, Weevil," said one of the inmates. "Yep," I said. "I'm not working here anymore..." That killed twenty minutes, by which time I thought I had caused enough zero productivity and wandered off back to the centre.

I don't know how well you know Bristol, but the central area had a major revamp some years ago and now sports several watery areas full of fountains which spurt at a 45 degree angle in synchronised fashion. Students find it jolly humorous to add washing up liquid to the water, but no frantic foaming was apparent today. Instead all there was to see were manky pigeons bathing beneath a fountain, and a little girl sat on her potty. The sound of running water has the same effect on me, dear.

Thinking more and more about cotton wool balls I whiled away my time until the appointed hour for meeting Tallboy approached. Then a Really Good Idea hit me. Why didn't I wait for Tallboy on what would be his only route down to the centre? After fifteen minutes of lookout duty, it occurred to me that there was in fact another route he could have taken. Curses! I tried to keep lookout both ways at once but this made me feel ill, so I decided the best course would be to head off to the rendezvous point. Where of course Tallboy had been waiting for some time, having taken the second and, now I come to think about it, more obvious route.

After a quick lunch, we headed up towards the University, stopping off at the Museum to use the facilities, which are situated in a block in the middle of the museum. The entrance of the Ladies is to the east of the block, and the entrance to the Gents to the west. Tallboy and I managed to emerge simultaneously, then walk round clockwise to wait outside the other toilets for the other to come out. It took us a little while to realise what had happened...

Moving swiftly on to the ceremony, Terry Pratchett received his Doctor of Letters degree and smartly turned the tables by awarding the Bristol Uni Orator a Batchelor of Fluency degree (BoF) from the Unseen University. He also described what had happened to him during a recent heart operation, when he had partially come to at a point where things were going quite badly and had yelled out "There's a man with sandwiches!" So you have it on authority from a man who had a brush with the Other Side - whether good or bad, you can be sure that the catering has been taken care of.

Heading off for the garden party afterwards, I was hoping against hope that I might have a chance to speak to him. Tallboy and I hung around for a bit but there was no sign of him, and we decided that he must have been whisked away by the Vice-Chancellor for a swish private do. But no, as we headed for the exit I saw him arrive. Feeling that the poor chap should at least get a cup of tea I hung back, but then couldn't contain myself and stepped up to say hello before he had a chance of a sip. Sorry, Terry. He was very nice and didn't once say "Go away and let me drink my tea in peace you strange woman." Which was nice. We had a quick chat and I said what I was dying to say to him, then I said goodbye and left him to his tea. Or the next rabid fan. Whichever was closest.

I don't tend to ascribe to the whole celebrity thing. I just love the guy's books and it was a real privilege to meet him. But it's fair to say I was quite overcome as we left. "I can die happy now" I said to Tallboy. "Good," he replied, possibly a little too quickly. I think he may have had enough by this point...

And counting...

Now then people, it's VFM week at Weevil Stepmother - what would you say if I threw in an extra game for you this week? Well, you're in luck! I'll give you one game, two games, three games, how about that? More, you say? Four games... five games, then. Are you never satisfied...?

Following this week's link will take you to an Australian site which presents five very different games. I have had a look at them all but have only played two of them to the end. The others are OK but just didn't do it for me like the first two. You'll need Flash or Shockwave players, but if you don't have the software you need to play the game, there will be an easy link for you to go and get it. The games are quick to load on a Broadband connection, I imagine they might take a little while on dial-up but the first two are definitely worth it!

Chasm is all about platypus Joe who has to fix the water supply for his village. You click your mouse to make him move around and do things, and you need to puzzle stuff out - sometimes it can be quite hard. (Weevil's top tip - take a screen shot when he looks through the telescope.) The graphics are great, the game has a very humorous and warm feel, and there is a great feeling of satisfaction to have got through it at the end. NOT a quick play like Goldminer.

Tork is about a chap trying to get his crashed spaceship fixed. He wanders round an alien world meeting the inhabitants and learning their language. You have to work out what the aliens mean when they talk to you, then make progress by talking back. (Weevil's other top tip - click the menu in the top left corner and go to game hints for a cheat that translates the Tork talk for you.) It takes a bit of effort at first but I found it well worth persevering with. I loved the depiction of the alien underground land and the creatures hanging from the ceiling. Again not a quick play, and sometimes a bit difficult.

OgOg is about a caveman trying to make ends meet back in prehistory. More of a game for the kids I think.

Baxter's Biotech Bargain Basement is about a mad scientist who creates mixed-up animals to order. I found the interface slightly tricky to get the hang of but the idea is good and there is plenty of humour.

Kelman to the rescue features a young man who comes to the aid of the insects. A scrolling 2D interface makes it simple but it failed to grab my attention for more than 30 seconds...

I hope there is something in there for everyone - let me know if you like them or not. If you get stuck on Chasm or Tork, email me and I will give you a hint. Or a walkthrough. Depending on how far up the walls you have climbed.

I give you Game On.

So how many of you answered the front door at 7.45 this morning to be greeted by a waggy dog with a cucumber stuffed in its collar? It was just me, then. I had a feeling it was...

It's not the first time that unexpected cucumbers have featured in my life. [oooOOOoooh no, titter ye not Mrs] I remember the first time I met an internet chum in real life. It was a lovely summer day, and the Ex, the Sun and I were in the garden of one of the many pubs in Chipping Sodbury, the agreed meeting point. My chum came up and introduced himself and his daughter, then rendered me speechless by presenting me, with a show of great ceremony, with a cucumber. Right. So do I emit some kind of "cucumber deficient" signal or something?

One of the reasons this internet chum and I got on so well was our mutual love of cricket. I have always loved watching cricket and enjoyed playing it at school and university. I managed to get picked for the Uni team once, I was proud as punch.

Mainly because I was the only one who wanted to be, I was the captain of the College Women's Cricket Team. Unfortunately I took it way more seriously than the other ten.

Examples:

I could never set the field by asking them to "go and stand at cover point". It would be more like "OK can you stand over there, yeah a bit further back, great, and a bit to your left, no, YOUR left, that's it, thanks".

I had a deputation come up to me before our first game of the season, requesting that they be deployed "where the ball won't go". *sigh*

A further deputation approached me during a match on a particularly sunny day. It was about halfway through our fielding stint, and they wanted to ask me to swap all the fielding positions over "so we can get an even suntan".



A further complication was my role as wicketkeeper. Best position to be in, you're in the thick of the action every delivery, and you get the chance of a few catches and assorted heroics. My main problem was that leggings weren't approved items of apparel, and you can imagine, I'm sure, how difficult it is to be ladylike when adopting the 'keeper's crouch in a teeny games skirt...

At the end of the season we had a friendly against the Men's Second XI. It was the most chaotic piece of sport I have ever been involved with. Ever. For a start, all the blokes were drunk as monkeys (something told me they weren't really taking it seriously). My lot weren't much better. To be honest, it was probably the most enjoyable match in my entire life. I had the pleasure of many wickets including catches, a stumping (always enjoyed those) and I even took a wicket or two during a couple of overs where I bowled with the slight hindrance of not having removed my 'keeper's pads. It still counts as a wicket, notwithstanding the fact that the lad was doubled over with laughter at the sight of my stiff-legged run up. *sniff*

So, this morning, I'm sat at the computer minding my own business when the phone rings. I can see that it's the Ex's mobile calling - it's dropping off time at school and I wonder what's wrong.

"Hello?"

"Hello, it's me!" *giggles*

It's not him, it's the Brazil Nut (she's on form at the moment). She explains that Islay has been crying all night because Mr Nut is away. BN has to work all day and she is worried that Islay will get lonely, bored and destructive. Will I go round and give her a cuddle? Of course. Fifteen minutes later the BN's keys are posted through my letterbox by some poor playground mother who was hijacked by the BN.

Now, I had some paperwork to get through this morning, and an appointment just before lunchtime. So I couldn't really go for a 5 mile hike with the poor pooch. In the end I decided to go and fetch her and let her curl up on the couch in the office while I did my stuff.

Opening the BN's front door, I was met by a wave of sound. I remembered that the BN had told me before that she left the radio on when she was at work, so Islay would have company. The radio was booming in the kitchen and, beyond that, a TV was blaring too. Islay was in her basket in the garage, and gave me the most easily-translated doggy look I have ever seen: "Please make it stop!"

We trotted the two doors back to my house and she made a beeline for the door, nose going mad. She has twice in the past chased Pesky from the front garden to the back right through the house, and I think she was hoping for similar sport. Fortunately I knew Pesky was out so there were going to be no kitty-chasing episodes, thank you very much.

She took a little while to settle in the unfamiliar surroundings of the office, but she eventually lay down, panting. I was worried that she was hot so to create a draught I opened the front velux window, which is set low down as it is the means of escape in case of fire. Islay perked up at this and rushed to the open window, but I anticipated her and managed to grab her before she could jump up. For a second I had a nightmare vision of her, legs flailing, describing an inexorable parabola towards the drive. I would not have relished explaining that one to the Brazil Nut. "You know you asked me to look after your dog? Well I'm afraid I let her jump out of the roof."

After the excitement, we both quietened down and I got on with my paperwork. For about half an hour. Then Islay decided she wanted to go outside, which she communicated to me by charging down the two flights of stairs and sitting with a pitiful look by the back door. I let her out and left her to it. This paperwork was taking far longer than it should...

The next thing I knew, Islay was haring up the stairs leaving a trail of muddy pawprints and water droplets. No, she couldn't have! Yes she had - she had been for a swim in the bloody pond. This worried me rather. There was mud all over the new carpet. There were no doubt hundreds of poor little newt babies clinging on to her underbelly fur, wondering where all the nice water went. And I didn't have time to dry her properly before my appointment. AND she might have put a claw through the liner - the prospect of returning to a drained pool was not a nice one. I rubbed her down quickly and took her back home. Her bed is in the garage and it felt really cold in there. Feeling guilty for leaving her damp, I tucked her in with a nice tartan blanket, and very sweet she looked too.

The thing is, the Brazil Nut has persuaded me to agree to look after Islay when they go on holiday next year. To Brazil. For a month. I'm going to need one of these.

Beyblade Boy (Poppy's second-youngest) was hit by a car today on his way to school. He is OK, he has been checked out by the hospital and is back home nursing a bruised shoulder, hopefully having learned a very salutary lesson.

He darted out across a crossing, thinking that the lights were on red, whereas the traffic on his side of the road had simply stopped because it was rush hour. He rushed across before Methane Boy could grab him, and collided with a car on the other side of the road. Fortunately the car was going slowly because traffic was busy and it was more a glancing blow than anything more serious. He will be licking his wounds for a few days, though I hope the memory of what happened will stay with him for longer...

The poor chap who was driving the car was breathalysed and given the third degree in the back of the Police Car, even though all the witnesses told them it was Beyblade Boy who had run out into traffic. Poppy's going to have him write a little note to say sorry. It must have been a terrible shock for him.

I know he's fine, that it could have been worse, and I'm so glad he got off as lightly as he did, but it was quite a shock. I think these things give you a bit of a jolt of reality and you can't help thinking "What if...?" and looking at your own kids. I'm a bit jangled by it, that's all. Normal service will be resumed later...

As we approached home on our way back from the bike meet yesterday, we spotted a bag lady slowly pushing all her goods and chattels along in a supermarket trolley. We drew closer, and realised that it was in fact the Brazil Nut coming home with the weekly shop. She had finished her shift and done her shopping but had forgotten that there was no one to give her a lift back. In desperation she hot-wired a trolley.

What was bothering her now, was getting the damn thing back to the shop. I suggested calling the trolley recovery line and saying that it had been abandoned in her front garden, but no dice. Apparently, as an employee, she has to retrieve and return any trolleys she happens to see herself. The beginnings of an idea germinated in my brain. A trolley up a tree outside her house? Padlocked to the road sign maybe? "What, even the ones that live in the river?" I asked in amazement. No, not those it seems. No superhero Trolley Recovery Woman antics required. Plan wilts and dies in brain...

She seemed quite taken with the idea of incorporating it into her back garden. A funky planter. A water feature. A barbeque. No, she realised it had to go back. Maybe Mr Nut could take it on his next walk with the dog... And maybe not. I just had a peek and it's still there now outside her front door. She did tell me that she was going to take it this morning but her walk to work included dropping the Junior Nuts at school and they weren't having any of it.

Bless. She is a lovely woman, a fantastic neighbour and a good friend. She also doesn't have much access to the internet. Fortunately. She does know about the blog and has seen a few of the posts which mention her. She also read the 100 Weevil Facts and has started calling me by one of my school nicknames if she feels I'm getting too evil. She looked at me meditatively the other day and asked me, "When will you stop blogging about me?". "When you start behaving normally," I replied. "Oh well, you better keep writing girl!"

Around one o'clock this morning, when the dozen or so teenagers in the road outside had stopped shrieking, swearing, dropping bottles and kicking cans, I finally managed to drop off to sleep. Only to be woken at three o'clock by the kinds of messages from my bladder that won't pay attention to cotton wool imagery. On my way back to bed I heard a noise and stuck my head around the office door. The PC hadn't shut down properly and as it was sat on a wooden floor above the bedroom, the noise of the fan was hugely amplified.

There was no way I was going to get to sleep now I was aware of the noise so I felt my way up the wooden stairs, trying my best not to disturb Tallboy. Curious as to the error which had prevented shutdown, I peered at the screen, then recoiled in pain as my dark-adjusted eyes melted in the glare of millions of glowing transistors. Seriously, it really hurt. Mincing carefully down the stairs and back to bed, I lay there now fully awake and with a headache. I wasn't going to get back to sleep now. I could see only one course of action for today's modern, liberated woman. I was going to have to go and make some cocoa.

Obviously I didn't want to wake up the entire household at half past three in the morning, so I took care to make as little noise as possible. The stairs creaked as I glided down them, and Pesky greeted me loudly at the bottom of the stairs, charmed to have some company in the middle of the night. Praying that I wouldn't trip over the black cat in the unlit hallway, I went into the kitchen and decided that I would have to put on a light. My eyes probably couldn't melt any more. My fingers felt for the switch for the little light in the cooker hood in the knowledge that the wrong choice would have set the fan going at Mach 3.

In the feeble glow of my success I could see that there were no clean mugs, but that the dishwasher was winking at me from the other end of the kitchen. Opening it up and ducking the billow of steam, I hauled out the biggest mug and tried to shut it again. It was stuck, and it was too dark to see the obstruction. I jiggled and cajoled the thing, and it finally went back into place with a rattle of crockery that set my teeth on edge.

Now for a saucepan - at Weevil Mansions, these are cunningly displayed by means of a metal grid attached to the ceiling, from which the pans are suspended on hooks. It's an ideal way to store your pans whilst ensuring they are to hand whenever you need them. If you're as tall as Tallboy, that is. Not being 6'5", I tend to struggle a bit. I reached up on tiptoe and managed to unhook one, but a glancing blow from it on the way down had its neighbour clattering into the next one and so on, in a devilish Newton's Cradle kind of way.

Milk next. The noise the fridge door makes when it opens is clearly not noticeable in daylight but during the wee small hours it quite alarmed me. As it did when I had to go back to the fridge to get another bottle which actually had some milk in it. And a third time when I put that bottle back. Not to be outdone, the cupboard door emitted a sustained creak as I retrieved the cocoa powder.

I did manage successfully to negotiate heating the milk but found it impossible to mix it in without chinking repeatedly against the side of the mug. I was frazzled by the time I took it through to the front room to drink it, and felt that I would have made less noise if I had announced loudly at the top of the stairs, "I am just going downstairs to make a cup of cocoa", and had then come down and done it normally.

It's just like walking on icy pavements - the more you try to take care, the more you achieve the outcome you're trying to avoid. I see people striding out confidently and I wish I was like them. I can't do it, though. I adopt a mincing, tentative gait, which pretty much guarantees me at least a skid if not a fall, a submission, or even a knockout.

The cocoa was very nice and decidedly soporific. Back in bed, Tallboy was awake as I snuggled in next to him. "What have you been doing down there?" he asked me. I'm not sure he believed me when I said I had tried my best to be quiet...

It was sports day at school yesterday. Bearing in mind that I got burned in the blazing sun at last year's it was of course no surprise this year to be stood on the touchlines in a scarf with my hoodie zipped up to my nose.

I was still feeling ropey with the lurgy as I left the house and hurried back in to get my scarf cos I felt chilly. I took care to lock the house up then went to call for the Brazil Nut on the way to school. Islay came out for a little play then as BN locked up I realised that my keys were no longer in my pocket. We searched but couldn't see where the dog had taken them. Rather cleverly as it turned out, she had invisibly made her way down the street, put them in my keyhole, and made her way back to the BN's unobserved.

So, we're standing next to the track, chatting away. I'm feeling more and more nauseous but managing to hold it all together. Then the BN reveals that the splodge on the front of her jumper is from her breakfast of bolognaise sauce sandwich. This set everyone off talking about manky sandwiches and weird food combinations. Onion sauce sandwiches? Seriously? And chocolate hobnobs with strong cheddar. Who are these people? By this point I am noticeably green and sagging slightly as I stand.

The children made their appearance and sat down on the opposite side of the track. A magnificent sight, all in their team colours. There were 3.1 teams for the sports day: Red, Yellow and Blue. And one child in an orange T-shirt. I had no idea he would stick out so much. "I haven't got a yellow one, mum," he said, "so I picked the nearest colour." It did however make it very easy to pick him out of the crowd.

You know that feeling when you can tell that someone behind you is looking at you? I turned around to see the Ex standing 4 feet away from me. He had been standing there for half an hour, apparently, yet hadn't thought to say hello. I think he must have been mesmerised by the sight of Dan's mum who had been leaning forward in her seat in front of him to see her boy competing. I wonder if she realised just how much of her thong she was revealing?

It was quite noticeable that several of us more curvaceous mums were choosing not to sit on the mini-chairs. Not that we needed two each (one for each buttock) or anything. It's just the awfulness of Sinking Chair Syndrome. It had been really wet the day before, and no one wanted to be the one who sat down and kept sitting down till they were at ground level. This happened to Methane Boy at his last Sports Day in Primary school. He said that he ended up with the plastic seat of the chair resting on the grass, the legs buried deep. The worst bit, he said, was the fact that the legs were splayed out, which made removal from the ground so much more difficult, as StepD found out too when it happened to her as well.

The Blues won, so the BN foghorn to my left went into overdrive. The Yellows (plus one Orange) came last, but they tried their best so all was well. At least there was no mums' race...

Obviously the intelligent, cultured and discerning amongst us are spending every spare minute playing Goldminer. Not the case, however, at Weevil Mansions, where the boys are addicted to another game - Jurassic Park on the PS2. They take turns being in charge, and then when it's not their turn to play any more, they watch the other one play.

To digress for a moment, those of you who are parents or who remember sibling squabbles may have winced at the idea of turn taking on the playstation. Not at all. Quite amazingly, there is very little dispute over whose turn it is on the playstation or the computer, and it's down to the Weevil Regime. I hate to think what the kids would say if you took them into a quiet room and asked them "so, what's she really like?", because the thing is, I rather like Rules.

Before Tallboy and the Steps moved in, the Rule for the Sun was that he put the cooker timer onto 1 hour before starting a computer or playstation session. This meant that he didn't spend all afternoon glued to a screen, but had to get up and go and do something else when his time was up. So when two more children arrived, it worked even better, because anyone wanting to go on anything can check how much longer they have to wait and they know they will get to have a fair go. You've no idea how many arguments and disputes this avoids. A second Rule had to be brought in, which was this - if the timer has not been set by the person currently on the computer/playstation, as a penalty they have to make way immediately for whoever wants to go on (so long as the new person has set the timer in accordance with Rule 1 (b) (iii) [as amended]).

I appreciate that this may seem rather over-regulated for some of you, but it works because it sets boundaries, gives certainty, and applies across the board. It also tends to avoid me having to give judgment in frequent "he said" "she did" "it's not fair" scenarios. It does, however, rather fall down when Tallboy and I are cooking, and therefore using the timer ourselves...

Anyway, back to the boys and their game. The idea is to build a Jurassic Park of your own, entice visitors in and avoid them being eaten, tend to your Dinos and carry out research so that you can hatch some more. It's a serious business, you know. Attempts at humour have been dealt with scathingly. When Methane Boy was playing, the suggestion that it would better be termed "Jurassic Parp" was ignored scornfully, as was the idea of having a version populated entirely with prehistoric pigs. You're ahead of me, aren't you? Yes, Jurassic Pork...

Methane Boy lay on the sofa, controller in hand, sighing. "It's so unrealistic the way they lie down to sleep in the water." Right. You've created a virtual world based on a film based on a work of fiction, you have populated it with virtual creatures which were last present on this planet 65 million years ago, and you find the way they go to sleep unrealistic? The mind boggles...

Then there was the mystery of why two of his carnivores had devoured a jeep full of happy park visitors. A spot of detective work revealed that they were ravenous because he had turned off the cow feeder - an armoured lift arrangement which every so often pops a live cow up from underground, leaving it standing blinking in the sudden sunlight for all of five seconds until its head is bitten off by a savage meat-eater. "The blood effects are good, don't you think?" pipes up the Sun. As a vegetarian who has never witnessed a cow's head being ripped off in real life I feel unqualified to comment.

The biggest conundrum by a long way was why did the Brachiosaurs all slip into comas? Intensive investigation by the Sun showed that it happened because they couldn't see enough trees. Not that they were ill, not that they didn't have enough trees in their enclosure, not that they had the wrong kinds of trees to eat. Just that they couldn't see enough trees. Queer bunch, these vegetarians...

I love these silly bits of nonsense you find on the web - quizzes, games, puzzles - and I thought I would stick a link up every week to one of my current favourites. I had intended this to be Weevil's Wednesday Time-Waster but I got confused about what day it was today. Probably due to extreme thumb-grating trauma. Or the cold the Sun kindly gave me. Or possibly an addled brain from playing too many silly games on the web...

Today's featured game is called Goldminer and is a really simple idea. Your little guy is on the end of a winch and you have to help him get the gold and the diamonds. You only use two buttons (up arrow and down arrow) but you need good hand-eye co-ordination. It's one of those games where you find yourself saying "Dammit! I'll get it next time! One more go..." The bigger the hunk of gold (or rock - boo!), the longer it takes the poor guy to reel it in. In certain levels you will find some little minkies wandering around and getting in the way. I'm not sure what they are - do we think dogs or pigs? And just what are they doing underground? And why I am wittering on when you could be playing, already?

So, without further ado, I present to you Goldminer. Enjoy!

Courgette Cake

Donna - here it is! I can't remember where this recipe came from, but I do know it makes a lovely moist cake. You don't notice the courgettes if you don't know they're there...

Note that this recipe involves championship level grating. Please don't grate your thumb like I did last night :(

Ingredients

12 1/2 oz flour (I'm pretty sure this must be plain flour)
2 1/2 oz cocoa powder
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
6 oz butter
14 oz sugar
3 eggs
2 tsp vanilla essence
2 tsp grated orange peel
10 oz courgettes, finely grated
4 fl oz milk
6 oz chopped nuts

Method

Preheat oven to gas 4 / 180 C / 350 F


1. Sift together all dry ingredients from flour to cinnamon

2. In a large bowl beat together sugar and butter until light and fluffy

3. Beat in eggs thoroughly one at a time.

4. Stir in vanilla, orange peel and courgettes.

5. Stir in dry ingredients, alternating with a splash of the milk.

6. Fold in nuts.

7. Pour into greased cake tin.

8. Bake for 1 hour (I reckon it needs much longer than this, up to 1 1/2 hours, so keep testing whether it's done)and let stand in the tin for 15 minutes before turning out onto rack to cool.

"It's very nice, but it's not as good as Mum's", the Ex used to say when I made bread and butter pudding. It used to rankle, just a little. For a couple of years we shared a house with his parents, so one day I seized my opportunity and asked his mum to make a bread and butter pudding on the quiet. In one of my dishes.

"It's very nice, but it's not as good as Mum's." Ha!

Then there was the time when he stood, amazed, in the aisle at Safeway. I asked him what the matter was, and he pointed wordlessly to the little packs of milk. "How on earth do they milk them?" he finally managed. I just couldn't keep a straight face long enough to string him along, and was forced to explain that although the pack said "Cat Milk", it wasn't milk from cats, but milk specially adapted to be more digestible for cats.

The Sun is keen to get baking this weekend. Next week he will be going on Cub Camp. We had the Camp Meeting last week and I didn't mention the curtains once. Though the Scout leader did look rather taken aback when he had finished his half-hour spiel and asked "Any questions?" only to have me stick my hand up and enquire "Yes, who are you?" Well, I'd never met him before and he didn't introduce himself when he started...

Anyway, baking. The comprehensive kit list issued last week includes a requirement for cake. Each happy camper must bring with him a family-sized cake for all to share. This is a long-standing tradition, apparently, and cake is clearly close to the hearts of all the leaders. There was real pain in the Scout Leader's eyes as he described one year when there had been a special offer in Tesco's on marble cake just before camp with the obvious result. So the Sun has requested that we make one. It seems it's a toss up between Lemon Layer Cake and Spider Web Cake. With reference to the latter, I'm almost certain he is referring to the icing pattern on top, not the ingredients. Mind you, one of the best cakes I ever made was a chocolate cake which contained about 2 lbs of courgettes. Apart from the green bits everywhere, you'd never have known...

The front hedge has been looking rather ungroomed of late, so yesterday I decided to give it a trim. I had to hunt around a bit for the RCD, and eventually found it inside the grass collection box in the lawnmower (silly me, why didn't I check there first?). Although, since the box hadn't been emptied and had been sitting around in a hot shed for ten days, silage would be a more accurate description than grass.

Strange, unnatural forces are clearly at work in this house. Well OK, it's Tallboy. During the post-building-site phase when I was decorating like a dervish, I created rather a lot of dust everywhere. I fetched the vacuum cleaner but it was without its nozzle. I searched the house from top to bottom. I phoned Tallboy at work to see if he could throw any light on its whereabouts, as he had used it last. He definitely remembered putting it in the cupboard under the stairs. Well it wasn't there now.

I searched some more, muttering darkly and becoming more and more annoyed. Having fossicked [that one was for you hodmandod! :)]in each possible location at least three times, just to be sure, I had a break and sat down with a coffee. I allowed my mind gently to empty of all thoughts. I was trying to get into Tallboy's mindset, you see. If I was him, where would I have put it? Within seconds, inspiration hit me. I put down my drink and walked in an almost dream-like state to the front door, opened it, and made my way to the wheelie bin. Opening the lid, I peered in, and there, lying at the bottom, was the purple nozzle I had spent the entire morning looking for.

I wasn't sure whether to worry more about Tallboy's having put it in the bin, or my confident hunch as to its being there.

Anyway, back to the hedge. Holding my breath, I cleaned off the RCD as best I could, plugged it in and tested it (I'm nothing if not cautious) and went to plug in the hedge trimmer. As I picked up the plug my fingers screamed at me that something wasn't right. I looked and saw that the plug had been trodden on in the shed (Tallboy 5-1, Methane Boy Evens) and that the earth pin and half the casing were missing. Feeling that things were conspiring against me somewhat, I changed the plug.

Trimming the hedge was great fun, although I had to remember to keep the cable out of the way (two close shaves) and try to avoid the little deposits in forgotten corners of the lawn. The hedge looked much happier for a hair cut, and I retrieved a half brick and a beer can from it as a bonus.

The only problem remaining was what to do with the clippings. We have a green wheelie bin for cardboard and garden clippings but it was already full with boxes. Tallboy squished them as much as he could and made a bit more space so we stuffed some clippings in. I used a broom to gather clippings. Tallboy however performed a cycle of bend, gather, say "Ow", dump in bin, bend, gather, say "Ow", dump in bin... You get the picture. Did I mention the hedge is pyrocantha (firethorn)? The bin filled too quickly and tougher measures were needed. I got the stepladder from the garage and Tallboy climbed it and then leaped into the bin to compress the clippings. He did it twice more than was totally necessary, so he must have enjoyed it. Had I not been clinging on to the stepladder to prevent it toppling, I would have been stood a decent distance away, laughing and taking photographs.

The Sun was dead chuffed that the Greeks won the football. As a card-carrying underdog-supporting Brit (and a bit of a Hellenophile on the quiet), I was pleased too. Although I didn't watch the match, I did see the celebrations of the team and the crowd afterwards, and it was great to see such emotion. If England had won I doubt that we would have seen Tony Blair in tears of joy...

On holiday in Crete a few years ago, we bought the Sun a Greek national strip shirt. It featured the name of Nikos Machlas, once Europe's top scorer and an ex-Ajax player. I had spent a lot of time learning Greek in preparation for this holiday, and this effort was rewarded by a very positive response from people who appreciated my attempt to speak their language. In fact, I was often taken for a German - not, I hasten to add because I seem particularly Germanic, but simply and sadly because the Greeks I spoke to assumed that I couldn't be a Brit because I was making an effort to speak Greek.

One night we went out to eat in a friendly little restaurant, the Sun resplendent in his new shirt. The waiter, Dimitri, was very chatty and, having let me stumble through some Greek small talk, felt it was his turn to impress and spoke to us in English. Pointing to the Sun's shirt, he said "He comes from Iraklion. But he moved away and does not want to know his old friends any more. I do not like him, he has a big nose." I have always wondered whether Dimitri meant to say head instead of nose, or whether this was an example of Greek idiom...

I can't finish this post without remembering Costas, the gorgeous Cretan barman (Costas a fortune, he did) who one drunken evening taught me to swear like a trooper in Greek. Top man.

Well, it's been pretty quiet around here. The Sun is spending the weekend with the Ex, the Steps went off with Poppy this morning on a great grandparental visit and Pesky spent most of the day in the garden. It's a funny feeling when there are no children around at all - there is normally at least one of them here at any given time. The peace, stillness and silence that descended after we waved the Steps off was luxurious for a couple of hours, then unnerving, then decidedly weird. I love it when the house is full, when we're all here together. Particularly at night, I like to drift off to sleep knowing that they are all safely tucked up in their beds. Help! My blog is turning into an episode of The Waltons! "G'night Methane Boy" "G'night Weevil" "G'night Tallboy" Arrrggghhhh

We went food shopping during the peaceful lacuna afforded by the Wimbledon Mens' final and the absence of children, and on our return Tallboy grandly tossed me the spookily posy-shaped broccoli to put away in the fridge. It was just as if he was a bride tossing her bouquet. He saw the glint in my eye and told me no dice, he hadn't learned to wink left-eyed yet...

Later on we had a visit from Ducati Dave, a fellow East German bike nut. Who also rather likes nifty Italian models as well. It was good to see him as we had heard nothing from him since he came to dinner about five weeks ago. The meal had been rather rich and Tallboy and I had both suffered that night. DD had been due to go on holiday the next morning, canoeing across Scotland to be precise, and we had forebodings of doom about him sinking like a stone. I'm glad to report that he was happy and perky and completely undrowned by my cuisine.

Talk somehow got around to cats and dogs leaving unwanted deposits on the lawn, a subject close to my heart as there is a phantom crapper which is dedicating its life to covering my front lawn. I don't want to examine the evidence too closely, nor am I an expert on the correlation of diameter of offering with species and/or breed of originator, but I am reasonably convinced that the offender is a small dog. Which suggests rather horribly that some owner is allowing their pooch to come into my garden to do its business. Ick.

DD had been suffering the same from his neighbours' cats and has decided on a two-pronged defence strategy. For the back lawn, he has installed an ultrasonic deterrent which is activated by a PIR. It has been effective, but since it costs 50 quid it's not really an option for us at the moment. For his front lawn, his mum gave him a bottle of gel for sprinkling on the grass. It smells strongly of toilet cleaner, and combined with the removal of any existing deposits, it claims to prevent reoffending. DD confirms that this is true. No excrement at all on the lawn. Apparently one cat did vomit due to the overpowering smell, but this has to be a step forward...

Poppy's sister was due to fly down to Bristol yesterday from Manchester with her partner and Jelly Baby - she hadn't been able to get train tickets and the coach was a bad option with the little one in tow, so the cheap flights seemed just the ticket. Except that the flight was cancelled. As was the next one, and no more flights till Sunday. Not to worry though, the carrier would hire a coach that would take them to Bristol - for a price... This was all too much for P's sister who got very upset at the prospect in front of them that evening. Then a man who was also booked onto the flight came up and said, "I have to be in Bristol quickly tonight. I'm going to hire a car. I have six children and I understand how it is... Will you have a lift from me?"

He went and hired the car, made sure that it had a child seat for Jelly Baby, came and got them, drove them a couple of hundred miles to a meeting point where Poppy would be picking them up, refused to drop them off but made them wait in the car until Poppy arrived (in case it rained), and would take no contribution towards his costs. What an absolute star that man was. You hear so many stories of people passing by, turning a blind eye, not caring about other people that you forget that such kind and decent people exist.

Hearing about this from Poppy started me musing about my own travel experiences, particularly on the train. In my past few jobs I have been based in the West Country but have had to make journeys to Head Offices in London on a regular basis. I don't travel well as a passenger, as a rule, and didn't particularly enjoy these journeys. As a child I was terribly car sick, and can still feel queasy even now. To avoid this, my body goes into standby and I tend to sleep on most journeys (unless I'm driving, that is).

Over the years of trips to and from Paddington, I have:

Nearly always fallen asleep on the outward journey, in the secure knowledge that the train terminates at my destination station.

Often fallen asleep on the return journey in the fearful knowledge that if I don't wake up in time I will find myself in West Wales.

(After imbibing a little at a colleague's goodbye do) telephoned the Cartographer as I boarded the train, with instructions for him to call me back in an hour and twenty minutes to ensure that I was aware it was time for me to get off the train.

Woken myself from standby mode by snoring (*goes pink at the recollection of this one*)

Once been unable to shake the dreadful conviction that I had broken wind while dozing (*even pinker*)

Been woken from standby mode three times in a row by a mobile phone which rang unanswered, exchanged venomous looks with possible suspects seated near me in the carriage, then realised that it was my new phone with an unfamiliar ringtone.

Learned Modern Greek from a textbook.

Had some ace conversations with some very nice strangers.

Had a very funny conversation with a Deaf man and an interpreter friend, which was most disconcerting for the other occupants of the carriage, as they could see frantic, silent sign language taking place, then would jump as three people started laughing like maniacs for no audible reason.

Acted as interpreter between the ticket collector (I'm sorry, I think that may be Train Manager nowadays) and a French passenger who had boarded completely the wrong train and was heading East when he needed to be going North.

Only used the loo when I absolutely had to.

(In the event of cancellations and delays at Paddington, which were a reasonably common occurrence) adopted a policy of leaping onto the most likely looking train as soon as I could in the belief that the benefits of getting a seat or even some standing space outweighed the fact that I might end up in Pewsey.

Written a letter of complaint to the train company after I had to stand for the entire journey from Bristol to London. I suggested in this letter that had the passengers been livestock, the train company would be looking at prosecution.

Hated having to say goodnight to the Sun over the telephone and not in person.

The Sun came out of school today clutching his report. I couldn't wait to get home to read it, and wasn't disappointed. The comments about his academic work were great, and he did really well in his SATs. I'm pleased he is bright and hardworking, but what pleased me most, and made me most proud, were the comments of his teachers and head teacher about what a lovely chap he is, and how supportive he is of his peers. Yes, I knew this already, but reading it there made my heart feel like it was going to burst. We had special cakes for tea to celebrate :) He told me that he had said to his teacher (as a joke, I promise!) that dire parental justice would be served on him if he went home with a bad report. When it came to home time, she stood at the door saying goodbye to all the children, and when it was the Sun's turn, she shook hands with him gravely and said to him "Well, it's been nice knowing you..."

In other news, Tallboy had a letter confirming a date for the operation he needs on his wrist. After a fall in January his arm and shoulder have been playing him up dreadfully, and he needs both physio and an op. Poor chap. I think the worst thing is that it's his right wrist. He's lefthanded, so no problems with writing and so on. But which side is the throttle on a motorbike...? I've seen him go cold turkey once before and it's not a pretty sight. He will have to rest his wrist for at least two weeks after the op and it's going to be tough for him.

In fact, talking about motorbikes, we would never have met had it not been for our mutual love of MZs. I joined the MZ club because I had just passed my test and wanted to find a bike. I found the club members to be a great bunch of people, very welcoming and non-patronising, and an eclectic mix, to say the least. You just have to have a sense of humour when you ride a bike which is universally ridiculed by the rest of biking fraternity...

I started going to the monthly meetings and after a few months I acquired my first MZ. Proud isn't the word! I rode it to the meeting as pleased as punch and showed it off to all and sundry, receiving plenty of pats on the head and congratulations. People kept coming up to me and saying what a nice bike it was. Then I spotted someone I hadn't seen before wandering up to my bike and having a look at it. I crossed the car park casually and stood next to my bike, ready to receive his kind words. He looked up at me and could see from the look on my face that it was my bike. "You've left your petrol on," he said. Meh. I was really put out by this and took an instant dislike to him. How was I to know that within a short time I was going to be head over heels about him? I did soften slightly when he told me he used to have a similar one to mine but that it had been stolen, but I was still smarting when I got home. Funny how these things work out :)

We were just settling down for a game of Rummikub tonight - Tallboy, myself, the Sun and Methane Boy - when the doorbell rang. It was the Brazil Nut, who came to say thank you because I picked her daughter up from school this afternoon. The Brazil Nut herself was looking most glamorous, sporting straightened hair instead of her normal tight curls, and she came in for a little chat.

Methane Boy caused us huge merriment by modelling the udder-to-be (Point 12 of this post), although in the general hubbub it did get rather dented in one or two places. This somehow fixed the idea of cows and hairdressing in the BN's mind, and she went off at a tangent, wondering whether a good straightening effect could be obtained by a cow licking one's hair, and whether it would last all day. "If it would," she said, "I would go to the fields and stick my head in a cow's mouth every morning." Her eyes lit up. "No, I would keep a cow in the garden!" Uh-huh.

I don't know if you have seen the HSBC advert on the TV where a biker goes round South America on a BMW, signifying everywhere he goes how great everything is by giving the universal A OK sign (by forming an O with his thumb and forefinger with the other fingers fanned). Everything is great until he gets to Brazil, where he is chased off after giving this sign in approval of the meal he is eating. In Brazil, they say, it means something else. I was curious to know whether this was true, and if so, what it meant, so some time ago I did the obvious thing and made the sign to the BN.

Well, I survived with my life. Just. Yes, the advert is true. Yes, it does mean something very rude. Tonight, she showed me how to respond to it. I can't speak a word of Portuguese but if I ever go to Brazil I won't let that stand in the way of my communicating with everyone I meet...

At this point she realised that she had gifted me even more blogging material and, muttering about lawsuits, she left hurriedly.