Weevilstepmother

Unlucky for some eh? This week I've got two little games to keep you cursing at your screen and trying for 'just one last go'.

First up it's reverse. It starts off with a very simple little maze through which you must guide your pointer with your mouse. However, the directions are reversed, so that when you move your mouse down, the pointer goes up. Takes a while to get your head round it, and the noise of the buzzer when you inevitably crash into the maze wall gets very irritating. Also very amusing to go back to using the mouse normally afterwards, you question everything you do...

Our second game is another one you always need another go at. Welcome to squares. You start off with a little square pointer with red and black squares and circles coming at you from all directions. Dodge the red ones and touch the black ones. Your score will rise, your square will increase in size, and the speed of the attacking squares will accelerate. Touch a black circle and you get a power-up but avoid anything red. Great fun. I had a quick go this morning to give you a benchmark score (I know you're all deeply competitive) so who can better 70 squares and 5959 points?

Obviously the Brazil Nut is in and out of here like it's some refuge for harassed Brazilians. But we don't see much of the other neighbours at all.

We see 'Give the man a sponge' walking his Alsatian past quite often, when he's not washing his cars. And Irritable Welshman across the way having trouble fronting into his drive. The Boy Racers, too, on their L-plated mopeds, buzzing about the place like suicidal wasps. I did notice, with total lack of surprise, one of them limping quite badly recently.

But our actual next door neighbours, we don't see them much at all. On our left, in the blue corner, we have Mr and Mrs Nice Neighbour and their five children. I tend to see Mrs Nice Neighbour in passing as she comes in from taking a child somewhere or goes out to take another one somewhere else. Mr Nice Neighbour I see even less frequently, and he never has much to say to me anyway, I think he disapproves of my non-traditional breadwinner type role.

His mother and stepfather used to live there before they did, and I remember that soon after they moved in the stepfather came round and rang the bell. I answered it, and he said to me, "Hello, can I speak to your husband please?" Immediate hackles. I summoned husband without budging and listened to him as he explained that he and his wife were going to have a drive and he wanted to let us know about it. The Ex and I exchanged hunted looks - we'd heard that our new neighbours were serious fellowship type Christians and here he was already with a membership drive. How could we escape this? Turns out he just wanted somewhere to park his Skoda.

Anyway, Mr Nice Neighbour came round last evening with the plans for the extension he hopes to have built to accommodate them all. It all looks very nice, although I couldn't help noticing the two storey rear addition which would turn the bit of garden outside my kitchen window into a dead ringer for a prison exercise yard. When he mooted the extension last year, he asked me what I thought and I told him I wasn't keen on being overshadowed by two storeys out the back. But there it was on the plans. I showed him round our extension (which went more up than out) and he loved the office in the roofspace so much that he is considering doing the same. Fingers crossed. I don't want to be difficult about his proposals because I know he needs the space for his family and they have been very kind to us, letting our scaffolding sit on their side of the fence when our extension was being done last year and so on - but we do have to live in its shadow when it's done. Fingers crossed. Again.

On our right, in the red corner, are the Shouty Neighbours. We don't see them. We hear them. All day. From half six in the morning till midnight. Shout, slam, scream, swear, run up the stairs, run down the stairs, TV at top volume, music booming and making pictures rattle on our walls. They are incapable of talking to each other, they would much rather be in different rooms and shout instead. I often wonder what would happen if they started talking instead. Their brains might start working. It's a scary prospect. Just our luck that it's them and not Nice Neighbours in the joined-on house. Meh. The parents went away for a weekend once and the teenagers had a party and trashed the place. On their return they interrogated the Ex about whether we had heard anything untoward. No, we hadn't. It always bloody sounds like that.

Last night there was a football match on. I don't follow football myself, but I always know when there's a ManU match going on. Mr Shouty, being a born and bred Bristolian, is of course a firm Manchester United supporter. He never misses a game. And whenever they score a goal, he shouts his approval. The first few times, I thought someone was being beaten up, but I've got used to it since then. Whenever I hear that guttural baying, I know there's a match on and that, depressingly, the reds have scored again. Last night there must have been a rash of goals or possibly he had some kind of seizure.

I got so fed up one year that I actually sat down to watch the FA Cup Final (or some other such exciting and monumental sporting event) so that I could cheer on the opposition. I've a feeling it was Aston Villa. Every time ManU scored, he hollered. Every time the Villa slotted one into the net, we squealed as loud as we could. We heard felt the front door slam when Villa were a couple of goals ahead with only a few minutes to go. The Ex and I turned to each other and smiled, as we dusted the plaster fragments off our shoulders and replaced the pictures on the wall.

I've just been looking at the referral logs. Don't worry, I'm not going to regale you with comical search engine hits today. I only do that when I run out of material.

There's nothing 1984 about this, by the way. The logs tell me the hostname of the computer (most likely made up by your ISP), which is handy for spotting when any of Tallboy's colleagues are reading about his vasectomy, the visitor's country and general area, and whether or not the visitor has seen the light and is using Firefox as their browser.

Anyway, as I was looking at these stats, it occurred to me that here I am spouting on here nearly every day, and here you are coming to read the blog, and with a very few exceptions (Tallboy's colleagues reading about his vasectomy, for example) I have absolutely no idea who you are. This blog has been live for nearly six months (strangely, that's nearly as long as I've been jobless) and I've written over 55,000 words, which would fill over three swimming pools.

So I think it's time to hear from you. Leave a comment at the end of this post and tell me a startling and little-known fact about yourself, and then we'll be on a more even keel. If you don't have a Blogger account, you can still comment anonymously, though it would be nice if you included your nickname as part of the comment. I look forward to hearing from you :)

Oh, and mystery Welsh visitor, many thanks for the big wave from Swansea :)

It was my turn today to be manhandled by a medic. My dentist's appointment was at two in the afternoon, the comedy dental appointment slot of two thirty being sadly unavailable to me.

I've never been overly bothered about the dentist. Don't get me wrong, I don't enjoy it - but I don't get that pit of the stomach thing that many people seem to. Appointments at the hairdressers, for example, fill me with the kind of dread with which the dentist just can't compete. Given the fact that when I was a child Mum routinely refused anaesthesia for me during fillings, I ought to be a quivering wreck every time I smell that special dentist smell. But I'm not.

As an aside, when I took the Steps back to Poppy's last night, she showed me her youngest cat, which is spectacularly missing its left upper canine tooth. No dentistry required as she seemed perfectly happy, but a trip to the vet might be in the offing - for the tooth recipient, that is. "I hope it lodged in that bloody Siamese," was all that Poppy would say.

Fortunately today I was sporting all my teeth. Well, all those which remain after having my wisdom teeth hoicked out, and taking into account the gaps round the side where two adult teeth failed to grow. In fact the dentist was very pleased with the condition of my teeth and gums. So effusive was her praise of my durable dentition that I was most put out at the end not to have been awarded a nice shiny sticker. The Sun always gets one...

As I reclined in the chair ("I'm just going to tilt you back" No really? Whatever will they think of next? Tilting back? In the dentist's chair? Blimey days!) I did muse on why the dentist visit does feel different. I suppose it has a lot to do with interaction. At the hairdresser's, the doctor's, the opticians, there is a dialogue. At the dentist's there is "Urgh".

There's also the rather unwelcome intimacy of someone peering closely into your mouth, poking their fingers around, even raising the corner of your lip in a mock Elvis sneer so that they can probe you even more. That bit's not as bad as at the optician though, by a long way. You know when the guy shuts one eye, and puts the light thing up to the other one, and tells you to look straight ahead while he looms right in front of you peering deep into your retina? I hate that bit, and have to control my natural urge to pull away from the invasion. I also have to bite the insides of my cheeks, as it gives me an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh my head off.

The final indignity has to be the crappy vacuum cleaner sucky thing which is generally wielded by the insanely sadistic assistant. She knows just where to put it so that it's almost effective, but not quite. Just another millimetre and it would be sucking up the gunk, you think to yourself, and you try to move your head that imperceptible fraction to guide the nozzle to the sweet spot. But she sees what you're doing, and moves away just that little bit, and you're back where you started. Then, just to make sure you don't get any silly ideas about doing it again, she casually lets it travel to the inside of your cheek, where it sucks at your flesh like a gummy elderly piranha until she releases it with a little 'poc'.

I emerged, still smarting at the lack of a shiny sticker, and handed my file to the smiling receptionist. "Back in six months, then?" she trilled. Yup. I can't wait...

You can all breathe a sigh of relief. With my birthday just round the corner, I can confirm that the code red jellybean situation has been downgraded to code malachite.

On the morning of Tallboy's job interview last week, the postman rang the doorbell and handed over a cube-ish package for Tallboy and a letter for me. Tallboy's package was about the size and shape of the boxes of nuts and bolts he periodically buys for the bike he is rebuilding, and it made a kind of rattly sound so I put it on the bottom of the stairs and didn't give it a second thought. When I pointed it out to him later, he told me, "You haven't seen that package, OK?" Ah, right. I told him I had thought it was bike related stuff and his face fell a mile.

The other day I was putting some clothes away in my wardrobe. Guess what I found nestling under one of my skirts? But yes, the package. So not only does he let the cat out of the bag with regard to the contents, he then proceeds to hide it in my wardrobe. And let me just clear things up for those of you who may be thinking, well it's not such a bad hiding place - my wardrobe is next to another large wooden object. His wardrobe, in fact...

At least I know I can stop dropping hints, I suppose. And for my main present he has bought tickets to see the Philharmonia Orchestra playing some top Russian pieces, thus gaining several thousand bonus points. Particularly since McFly are playing the Colston Hall on my birthday, and he restrained himself from buying tickets for them.

A major contender for the title of the least enchanting birthday present ever has to go to the Ex. One year he decided to buy me an extendable washing line prop. He had even wrapped it, and dared me to guess what it was. Funnily enough, I was unable to guess the contents of the parcel and tore it open, to be confronted by one slightly bashed and bent prop. Ah yes, he said, he must explain what had happened.

On the way home from work one day, he had bought the prop. However, his mode of transport that day was his pushbike, and he had some difficultly in deciding how to carry his awkward parcel on the bike. Eventually he decided that the securest grip would be obtained if he lay the prop across the handlebars so that with each hand he could hold both the prop and the bike. This did make his profile rather wide and he had to be careful around parked cars and so on, but the roads were pretty quiet and he didn't have far to go. The arrangement worked like a dream until he was about two minutes from home.

His route took him across a small bridge which crosses a large stream. On each side are metal railings to prevent the unwary from falling into the water. By the time he reached the bridge, the Ex had forgotten all about his cargo, and was simply in 'get home' mode. Until he was shaken back to reality by the impact of the post with the railings as he tried to cross the bridge, that is. Largely unhurt and deeply embarrassed, he looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his stupidity, then retrieved the prop, which by now was looking rather sorry for itself. Forming himself into a modern, nay surreal resemblance of a jousting knight upon a rusty charger, he successfully negotiated the bridge and made it home safely. Every time I tried to extend or shrink that bothersome pole, the bend in the middle got in the way and made my life difficult, but it did make me smile as it reminded me of the Ex crashing into that bridge.

First, the good news - Tallboy has been offered a new job by a firm based just down the road. He has been looking to move from his current post for some time now, and I'm so pleased he will be able to move on from the stress he has been experiencing. The irony that I've been jobseeking unsuccessfully for six months now is not lost on me...

So today was V-Day in Bristol. This morning, Tallboy and I were sitting discussing the operation. I was a bit peckish so had grabbed a handful of fruit to eat. As I bit into a plum, I noticed his defensive body language with both his hands clasped squarely in front of the target area. Oops. We talked about the fact that the op required only a local anaesthetic. "Just a little prick," I said encouragingly, with a smile. His hurt expression puzzled me for a moment. "The injection, I meant the injection!"

When we arrived, we were first ushered into a consultation room for the required "counselling" session. The nurse went through the consequences of the operation, aftercare and so on. No lifting for a week, no contact sports for 2 weeks. "Contact sports?" repeated Tallboy. "That reminds me, Weevil wants to know when we can have sex again afterwards." I went pink, the nurse laughed hysterically. "Not for at least a week," she said, then noticing Tallboy's expression added, "If you can manage that."

She explained about the required number of 'pudding days' to flush out his system (30 in 12 weeks, not quite the abbreviated timescale we had been expecting) and we told her of the plans for a tally chart, although we felt it wasn't really time to go into long explanations about the Brazil Nut and pudding days. As she handed over the specimen pots she was in stitches. Much like Tallboy is now, really...

When we went through for the op, Tallboy had to change in a small cubicle then get onto the couch. Unfortunately, as he is substantially longer than the average patient, he rather overlapped it at each end. Having read on the paperwork that Tallboy's work involves cryogenics, the doctor asked him whether he wanted him to freeze the area or if Tallboy wanted to do it himself. Well, I laughed...

During the procedure, I found my view at the end of the bed was a little restricted, so I stood up. The doctor became aware of me looking over his shoulder and started to speak to me. I was expecting him to say something like "Get out of my light you dozy woman, I don't want to slice the wrong bit," so it took a little while for his words to permeate my brain. What he actually said was, "Come round to my left, you'll get a much better view." I didn't need asking twice. It was all over very quickly, and we were sent away with stern instructions for tight pants and lots of R&R.

Now, I may perhaps have come across as a little unsympathetic. Not at all. I appreciate Tallboy being brave enough to undergo all this. In fact, I have bought him a little present to show him how much I do appreciate it. He found it very comforting earlier when I went and fetched it for him, wrapped in a tea towel to prevent frostbite. I just need to make sure I remember which pack of frozen peas isn't for consumption any more...

This week's timewaster is the type of puzzle you can look at for a bit, then get on with something else and come back to. I think it has mass appeal too - you can play whether you're a Courier, Bookman, Comic, or Roman. You may think there's no point to it - I don't pretend to be the font of all wisdom by any means, but I think it's a fun way to spend a little time. OK I'll stop with the puns now. I ink I've probably milked it as much as I can...

The idea of this timewaster is simply to match up anonymous-looking lines (which are really close-up bits of letters) with the letters they come from. It sounds easy, and some of them are, but I found a lot of this very tricky indeed. You drag and drop the segments onto the letter you think they're from, and the game scores your correct matches. The snag is, the score is banded (1 - 3 right, for example) so it's hard to be sure if the one you just placed is right or not.

This took me quite a while to complete when I first tried it. I really enjoyed the challenge and they way it made me observe really closely. So get ready to choose the characters, look at the letters and fiddle with the fonts, it's time for Just My Type.

Just a quick one tonight as we have just had some fantastic news and are breathlessly celebrating. We only just noticed there was a message on the answerphone - it had been there for three hours :(

So for tonight's quick one, let me tell you about Lambda, another friend at University. He was in the third year when I went up, and took me under his wing a little, as he also hailed from the West Country. We became firm friends, and during that first year I learned all about him and his family and their decidedly eccentric household. He told me of the two lambs he had taken in and reared with a bottle in the spring, and how they gambolled towards him as he entered their field to see them.

In the summer break, I went to visit him at home. His house was amazing, converted from a railway building, with an old coach in the back garden and notices in the downstairs loo advising you to adjust your dress. Standing in the kitchen chatting through the steam of our coffees, he asked me if I would like to see the lambs. Oh yes, I would, very much indeed. Wordlessly, he opened the freezer door, then turned to me with a grin. I still haven't forgiven him.

He tended to get odd notions from time to time at college. His room was a little attic eyrie and he would often go out and walk round the rooftop at night, four stories up. Then there was the time when he decided to learn to play the bagpipes and bought a ghastly plastic set to see how good he was. I've never heard anything like it. No skirl, just the sound of someone asphyxiating a sheep. And not making a very good job of it, either.

One time in the quad, I almost walked past without recognising him. His trademark bush of wavy hair sticking up on the top of his head was gone, and he was sporting a crewcut. I had to do at least a treble take. Why, I enquired, had he taken such a drastic step and had himself shorn. His response? "It was too bushy. There was a mouse living in it."

During a year living out of college he shared a house with a strange German student, who was even more eccentric than he was. Lambda introduced a friend of his to her once. "Liz," she said. "Liz? Is that short for lizard?" Quite.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to dash off downstairs and drink some more bubbly...

On the way to school this afternoon, I saw Biscuit the Lippet (or Wurcher, if you prefer). She saw me too, and recognising me as someone who normally makes a fuss of her, she charged towards me. This could have been quite nasty as, in her excitement, she failed to look both ways before crossing the road. She also managed to drag her surprised-looking owner (who had been looking the other way) across the road behind her.

I was interested in her reaction to seeing me as I wondered if she would duplicate her greeting the last time I saw her at the end of last week. Then, she saw me coming and wagged not so much her tail as her entire rear end. As I got closer she tried to jump up to say hello, then broke off to squat down and do a wee on the pavement. She just couldn't contain her excitement, clearly. Then, to add insult to injury, as I bent over her to pet her she leapt up with lightning speed and kissed me firmly on the mouth. I have a suspicion that there was a tongue involved too. Trying to retain my composure and avoid gagging and spitting in front of her owner, I smiled wanly and retreated into school where she couldn't follow me.

This afternoon, having nearly pulled out her owner's arm at the shoulder, she again couldn't contain herself and left a little puddle. I really don't know what to think. I was, however, quicker on the reaction time when it came to jumping up and kissing, so that was a bonus.

Islay also goes mental when she sees me. If the Brazil Nut is taking her for a walk and she sees me, she just drops the lead and Islay comes charging towards me at extreme velocity. I was quite alarmed the first time she did this, but have now learned that as she approaches at MACH 3, she will (at a point some three or so metres from my feet) flip in the air to land on her back and skid the remaining distance, coming to a neatly calculated halt just shy of my toes, and wearing an engaging 'tickle my tummy please' expression.

Mum's dogs are more stately but still as excited. The older one barks happily at new arrivals reversing into the drive. A measured bark, maybe one per second, and each time she barks her front paws leave the ground with the effort. Younger dog doesn't bark, she just trots around with a bemused look on her face. Then you reach the gate, and they go into overdrive for a few seconds but then they seem to have lost interest and trot back into the house, emerging a minute later from the front door, each grasping tightly in its jaws the cushion from its basket, wagging their tails furiously and bringing the present to you. It really is quite charming.

Kisses, wees, skids, presents... I wonder what it is about me?

Blimey days! This allotment business is a lark. I thought it was all about hard digging, muddy wellies and a kitchen full of fresh veg. But no, the basic requirements seem to be possession of deerstalker and a calabash pipe, allied with a terrier-like determination.

This morning I called the number the Brazil Nut gave me and spoke to a very helpful gentleman. It transpires that the plots in question are a) about five miles away and b) allocated to locals first. This means that there are no vacancies and a long waiting list.

Undaunted, I put our names down, and asked if he knew of any closer to home. The Local Authority, he told me, has many plots vacant in Kingswood, but this is much further away and would turn the whole thing into a bit of an expedition. He also thought there were some privately run allotments nearby but didn't have any details.

Next, I looked at the local authority website to find contact details for local Town and Parish Councils. First I phoned one Town Council Clerk but got no reply. Then I called the clerk for the neighbouring area. Ah, she said, we have no plots but I can give you the number for some allotments about five miles away which are allocated to locals first. No thanks, I said, I've already done them.

In desperation, and no closer to finding out about the mysterious close-by allotments, I looked again at the local authority website. I tracked down the number for those responsible for the allotments and rang them. Perhaps they would know.

*ring ring* *ring ring* *ring ri* "Hello, Cemeteries." "Erm," I said, not having expected such a googly. I know I was interested in doing some digging, but there are limits, you know. "Erm, allotments?" I managed to squeak. "Oh, yes," she said brightly, "we do both!" On a firmer footing, I zoomed through the preliminaries. "My-friend-and-I-are-after-an-allotment-Yes-we-know-you-have-vacancies-in-Kingswood-but-that's-too-far
-Yes-we-know-you-have-no-allotments-near-us-No-thank-you-I-don't-want-the-number-for-some-allotments
-about-five-miles-away-which-are-allocated-to-locals-first." *breath* "Do you have the contact number for the mysterious close-by allotments please?" No, she didn't. But she could give me the number for the Town council clerk. Not expecting any joy, I poised my pen over my notepaper and jotted it down. It was a different number to the one I had already called with no reply.

Resolutely I dialled the new number. It rang and rang, and just as I was about to disconnect, the phone at the other end was grabbed off the hook and a breathless voice announced that I had indeed got through to the Town Council. "Hello, My-friend-and-I-are-after-an-allotment-Yes-we-know-you-have-no-allotments-near-us-but
-do-you-have-the-contact-number-for-the-mysterious-close-by-allotments-please?" "Certainly," she obliged. I tingled with excitement. The quarry was almost in my grasp.

I dialled the mysterious number with fingers which were almost trembling. The phone at the other end rang and then was answered. "Hello, mysterious close-by allotments Corp, Inc. How may I help you?" Yes! Where, please, were the allotments, and were there any vacancies, and how much was the rent and what facilities were there... "I'm very sorry, I can't help you with this query. The person who knows about these things isn't here at the moment. If you leave your number I'll ask them to call you when they're in later in the week."

Nooooooo! So near and yet so far...

The Sun and I had an allotment adventure yesterday. While Tallboy and the Steps were primping themselves for the wedding, we escaped a few miles down the road for an allotment open day. The reason for us going is rather tortuous, so settle back, it's not going to be a quick read...

Why did we go? It's all down to the Brazil Nut being so gregarious. One morning on the way to school, she told me, she passed a house with the garage door open. Not being one to miss the opportunity for a nose, she had a good look as she passed, and noticed that the inside of the garage was festooned with onions. Spotting the gentleman of the house, she enquired as to where they had come from and was informed that he had an allotment. Cogs began to whirr in her brain.

Later that week the gentleman presented her with three of his finest onions, and her mind was made up; she must have an allotment. When she mentioned her decision to me, I made the mistake of agreeing what a great idea it was. "Good," she said. "You can help me."

So there we are - I'm a half-share partner in a putative allotment venture. Actually it's not such a bad idea, really. Although I'm useless at growing stuff, she is great, so she can be the horticultural brains behind the enterprise. And I really need to get some exercise, so a spot of digging and weeding and so can only do me good. And you just can't top the taste of fresh, home-grown veg.

The problem was, neither of us knew where any allotments were round here. She asked me to have a squint on the web. I tried the local authority first, but they don't have any nearby. Then a quick Google revealed an allotment open day nearby, so we planned to go and have a look at how it's done. I dropped by at the allotted time but she was nowhere to be seen and there was no answer to her doorbell. I wasn't going to hang around because I wasn't sure when/if she would be back, so the Sun and I went off anyway.

We parked at one end of town and walked to the allotments. See, I am serious about getting some exercise. Shame about the torrential rain and gusty winds, then. The Sun squealed as rain dripped down his neck. And again as he trod on a juicy slug. We arrived, dripping, to find that (unsurprisingly, with hindsight) the allotment site was basically a quagmire intersecting cultivated oases.

As a bonus, though, I did bump into an old friend, who encouraged me to buy some beetroot and a butternut squash (hence the risotto), and further down the path was accosted by two old chums, both of whom are Deaf. It wasn't easy, standing in the pouring rain, wind blowing a gale, trying to hang on to umbrella and sign casually but with style. The Sun enjoyed the trip for as long as it took him to eat two fruit scones, complaining of water ingress above and below; I noticed that his jeans were showing an interesting capillary-type effect, with the water level only just below his knees.

We battled back through the wind and rain, he skipping around puddles and squealing at extra-wet gusts, me mentally ticking off the Zafiras in my head. There were millions. It was like the opposite of an elephant graveyard. It was the spawning ground of the Zafira - every other car which passed seemed to be one. Back in the car, I didn't dare use the clicker - it was still showing 1001 and resetting it would have spoiled all of Tallboy's manic clicking. By the time we got home, I had spotted 20, and we had travelled no more than 10 miles. Frightening.

Later, when everyone had gone and I was just about to leave for the shops, the Brazil Nut appeared at the door, ticking me off for not waiting for her, and bearing a cake fresh from the oven. The junior Nuts have the baking bug at the moment. The other night they brought round Pumpkin Pie, and tonight it was the turn of a cake made from coconut, cornmeal and Parmesan. Yes, you read it right. It was gorgeous as well. And she gave me the contact number for the local allotments. She's too chicken to call them herself...

My evening of bliss was wonderful. The walk was lovely. The risotto was perfect, the wine divine. The doorbell didn't end my solitude until after midnight.

This afternoon we attended the chaos that is a four year old's birthday party. Thomas Fiend had a great time, had tons of Thomas pressies, a fantastic huge chocolate cakey and, amazingly for a little one so excited, absolutely no paddies of any sort at all. Instead, Beyblade Boy and StepD decided that they would take on the pre-school tantrum mantle. Tallboy had too much cakey and on our return home at 8 pm retired to bed with a hurty tummy. Bless.

The Ex has taken the Sun to see Bristol Rovers. Tallboy and the Steps have gone with Poppy and Beyblade Boy to a wedding in Swindon. I have the entire huge peaceful empty house to myself and will do until late tonight. I have no one to look after, pick up, worry about, help with homework, nag about tidying their rooms or feed. 'Paint Your Wagon' is on the telly.

I'm just about to walk to the shops in the glorious sunshine to buy the ingredients for Butternut Squash Risotto. And a nice bottle of wine.

I may even have a soak in the monster-sized bath later, possibly with a spot of Mussorgsky on the stereo.

See you tomorrow :)

This morning I walked into Yate in the pouring rain. Browsing round the Shopping Centre (which advertises itself proudly with a banner strung up on the railings which announces 'Over 100 shops!'. Woo.) I felt strangely drawn to enter the Oxfam shop. On occasion I do put my nose round the door, mainly to check if some moron has chucked away a Pratchett first edition. Not that I've ever found one, but I live in hope...

I did once buy one on eBay for the give-away price of £4.99 (Interesting Times, if you're interested) and it turned out the seller lived in Winterbourne, a few miles away. Declining to pay 3 quid postage, I asked if I could collect. The seller was understandably nervous about a potential stalker visiting him at his home address, so we arranged an exchange-of-hostages type meeting in the BP garage car park. It was quite exciting, really.

I did have a good nose through the bookshelves in the shop, and found a few little gems. As I browsed, I heard an almighty screech of feedback and looked round to see the behind-the-till biddy grappling with a black object at arm's length. Fearing that she may have been trying to switch on her uber hearing-aid and wouldn't want attention, I turned away and left her in peace.

A minute later I heard a tremulous voice "Central Control, this is shop one five. Just opened." There was then a prolonged period of silence concluded by a frenzied whispered consultation with shelf-tidying biddy. She decided to give it another go, a bit more forcefully. "Central Control, this is shop one five. Just opened. OVER." No more than three minutes later, an eerie crackly voice issued from her radio. "Uh, Central Control to shop one five, I read you loud and clear. Good morning ladies!" At that, both dissolved into girlish giggles and ceremonially put the radio away.

Taking my haul to the check out, I smiled and asked if I could pay using my bank card as I didn't have any cash. "Certainly," she said, after a pause. "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" said her crestfallen face. She rang up the books and I proffered my card apologetically. Hovering uncertainly over the card reader, she turned to me and asked, "Is it a Switch or a Maestro?" Aware that both those words feature on the face of my card, I helpfully responded "Erm, yes." She poked it into the machine a few times and pressed a few buttons but nothing happened, so she gave it a swipe or three. I could see that she had it the wrong way up, so that the magnetic strip wasn't being read, but was pretty confident that an intervention on my part would simply confuse the issue even more so let her get on with it. She got there in the end.

With a glazed expression and a head full of imagined radio conversations between Central Control and the Oxfam bids, I made my way to the toyshop to get a present for Thomas Fiend's birthday. I bought him a Thomas hoop-la set. And a Thomas 'I am 4' card. And some Thomas wrapping paper. The guy at the checkout said, "I'm detecting a theme here..." I also saw a strange but endearing poster which attracted me almost as much as it spooked me.

I popped in to see the Brazil Nut on my way back, showed her my booty (as in treasure, obviously, not the other meaning) and told her I had seen something I would like for my birthday which I would mention to the Ex if the Sun was stuck for ideas. No, she insisted, I must tell her and she would get it for me. I didn't want to, she would laugh. She insisted. I told her. "I'm not laughing," she said, almost deadpan, through clenched teeth. There has been a distinct lack of ordering from A Quarter Of by Tallboy. I told him I wanted the huge vat of Jelly Beans and you're all my witnesses. He'll probably get me a pair of wellies or something...

Do you have a fresh cup of coffee?
Have you been to the loo?
Have you consumed something sugary to get those alertness levels up?
(not necessarily in that order)

Excellent. I think you're ready to start playing.

This is a game which I found infuriatingly puzzlesome and eventually, I have to admit, completed by wimping out and looking at the walkthrough. It presents several tough puzzles for you to work through until you finally escape, but unfortunately you don't have the opportunity to save where you are so you must complete the game in one sitting, and going back over stuff I had already done ended up being a bit boring.

I love the graphics, although the point of view can be disorientating at first. The watery sounds as you swim from islet to islet was at first charming, later distracting, and finally annoying.

Don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed it - and I hope you do too. If you get stuck or fed up, there are links to hints and walkthroughs which can smooth your passage somewhat.

Limber up those synapses, it's time to play Archipelago.

Well, you bunch of warm-hearted individuals, it looks like you have taken pity on the sulking Tallboy. I saw the Brazil Nut in her workplace this afternoon, and casually mentioned that the score was now BN 2 - TB 3. She looked aghast and treated the stock she was handling rather roughly. I said that I'd mentioned in the blog that poor Tallboy hadn't had any emails and her face lit up. "Ah, it was only pity emails. They don't count."

Tallboy's first correspondent was Snapper, who wrote:

Hello Tallboy......
I can stand it no longer, I will be the first.
How many Zafira's did you register on the counter the other day?

Well, Snapper, I can understand your being agog to know the answer to this one. Tallboy answers:

28. Sadly that counter is no longer with us, as within a few days of feverish clicking, it broke. Fortunately, I had a back up clicker. And while I've got the chance, can I point out that Weevil's the saddo not me. This afternoon I picked up Clicker II and noticed it read 354. I asked Weevil how this could be and she admitted that she had been trying to click it round to 1000 but had become bored in the mid-300s. Ever the gentleman, I risked RSI (I've got a bad wrist you know) and clicked it up to 999,presenting it to her for her to do the honours with the final click.

The next email was from I. P. Sittingdown (Mrs), who had some kind words:

Dear Tallboy,

Fret not about the lack of e-mails. I see you as the Andrew Ridgeley to Weevil's George Michael, the Little to her Large, the Saint to her Greavsie. She may get all the attention, but we all know where the real talent lies.

The cheek! If only I knew the real identity of the correspondent... Anyway, Tallboy (rather smugly) replies:

At last! Someone has seen through Weevil's fog of words!

Finally, Tallboy heard from J, with an interesting question to which, frankly, I too would like to know the answer:

Hi there!

A combination of feeling bad about you being ignored and a genuine intrigue
over this post:

http://weevilstepmother.blogspot.com/2004/07/hedging-my-bets.html

prompted this email! The World Must Know....why put the purple vacuum nozzle
in the wheelie bin? Miracle enough that Weevil found the thing, but what
prompted the interesting, not to say risky choice of storage locale?

And is it now called a Weevily Bin...

Yours, with thanks for contributions to a wonderful blog,
J.

Needless to say J gets top points from me for being nice about the blog :). Tallboy had to think hard about the answer to this one:

Because the Dyson must die.

Well, I think that clears that up.

Would you believe that Tallboy, the Brazil Nut and I are all sat here in the office, drinking beer and listening to a decidedly dodgy CD concerning Yogi Bear and his various proclivities and attributes. She stood on the doorstep ten minutes ago practically wetting herself with laughter and begging us to let her go and fetch it so we could listen. We had to say yes, bless her.

I don't know what it is about mornings, but as soon as I get through the doorway into the kitchen, I assume a mantle of irritability which renders me ultra-sensitive to the little niggles which invade all our lives from time to time.

Argh! Look at the crumbs all over the worktop. Is it too much to ask for them to use a plate for their toast? Apparently, yes. Pan right slightly. Look at the discarded knives still laden with margarine and peanut butter. Are their slices of toast so heaped that it's impossible fully to divest the knife of its load? Also, apparently, yes.

Meh. Open the cereal cupboard door, will you? Carefully, mind... Ah. Don't worry, it was nearly finished anyway. I'll just get the dustpan and brush. I think I'll have bran flakes this morning. No I won't, some moron didn't fold the bag back down and now they're all limp.

OK then, toast. Our evil toaster of doom lurks in the corner, glinting invitingly. In goes the bread, down goes the bread, up comes the bread. Down goes the bread, a little firmer this time and with the handle held down. OK, that should do it. I'll just go and boil the kettle. *chang* Funny how it always waits for me to turn my back before prematurely popping up again. Hang on, I'll just hold the handle down myself for two minutes.

Great, so now it's doing a carbon impression. At least it'll be crunchy. Gah! There are crumbs in the margarine tub. I hate that! I excise them carefully then butter my toast. Ack, there is a huge glob of margarine in the Marmite. How is this possible? It's like finding a chunk of steak in a salt pot. IT SHOULDN'T BE THERE! *breathes*

The kettle's boiled now, so the first caffeine intake of the day isn't far away. *splish* Why is there milk spilled all over this surface? And why did I put my mug straight into the middle of it? Hmm empty coffee jar. Thank you, whoever used the last of the old one and didn't get a new one down. The only other two who drink coffee in this house are both hugely taller than me and can reach the coffee reserve on top of the larder. I can't. Swine.

*Sssssh* of hot water in the cup. *plink* of milk, from high up, with style. *dink* of teaspoon lobbed casually but accurately over shoulder into sink, and aaaaaahhhhhhhh that first cup of coffee. Human again :)

The Brazil Nut has received another email. Tallboy remains in the shed, sulking. No one wants to email him...

This time, Crash writes

Hi Brazil
Send us a picture of Weev and co. and one of you in the cucumber patch!

Most unfortunately, the Brazil Nut was unable to comply with this request, as she has neither. However, I did manage to have a word with my talented StepD, who came up with two wonderful sketches which capture the essence of the Weevil gang and the Brazil Nut. In the cucumber patch. With a cucumber.



In response to Crash's further question "Is StepD really that scary?", the answer has to be "Yes, but only sometimes." I've no idea why Methane Boy is sporting a slight frown, I wonder if it has maybe something to do with him concentrating on sphincter management. The Sun is in typical pose in front of the playstation, and for some reason I appear to be critically examining his scalp for nasties. It's a super picture which I really love, and it will be gracing the office wall as soon as I can lay my hands on a suitable frame for it. We gave the cucumber one to the Brazil Nut who looked slightly bemused and very pleased. I'm sure you'll agree that StepD is a very artistic young lady.



The pictures themselves are too big to show directly on this page, so I have linked tantalisingly to thumbnails, which you can click to reveal the whole pictures.

This is my entry in this month's Blogging for Books contest. The entry is supposed to have 'entertainment value' but when I sat down to write it I found that my funny had deserted me, so here is a rare serious post from me :)

How do you learn to be a parent? That fact that so many people have written books about how to do it suggests that it might not be such an easy task. Yet you are given some amazing leg-ups* by nature - the unconditional love you feel for your little bundle of joy, the conviction that you would suffer every affliction there is to spare them one minute of pain, the instinct that is always lurking there inside you. My first, panicked, thought when the Sun was first placed in my arms was "Where's the manual?" closely followed by "I've never held a new-born baby before; I hope I don't break him..."

As a new parent I needed contact with others in the same situation - ideas, encouragement, comradeship. I grew in confidence as the Sun grew and grew and grew, and I learned to trust those instincts in there. I learned to be consistent, to set loving boundaries, to always have a reason, how to chase away night-time monsters and how to encourage vegetable consumption. Sometimes I have found situations so comical that I have given him a ticking off** whilst biting the insides of my cheeks to stop me laughing. But all along I have known that he is my son, that I love him to the core of my being, that I'm heart-burstingly proud of him and that it's my job to keep him safe and happy, to guide him down the right paths, to be there for him. This always has been the link between us.

What, then, if the link between me and a child is that I am in love with their father? What is my role? What are my responsibilities? How must I be? What lines are there that I mustn't overstep? I didn't know.

In May last year, Tallboy moved in with me and the Sun. And suddenly, I was a stepmother. Methane Boy and StepD spend Thursday - Sunday with their dad, so every week, for almost half a week, here they were, in our house - where "our" now meant 150% more. The dynamic was so different from my dealings with them at their dad's house. And there were lots of emotions involved too - they had to move 15 miles away from their old house, which was just round the corner from their mum's, and which they had lived in all their lives, in which, in fact, StepD had been born.

So many situations, so many questions... How to make sure they felt welcome. How to make sure the Sun didn't feel put out at new children getting attention too. How to make sure the new children didn't feel that they were second-class. How to make sure the Sun still felt special to me. How to live with five in the house when we were used to two. Was I allowed to make rules? To get cross? To give them hugs? To have them help out round the house? Should I grow to love them? Would I? Did it matter? No books. No friends who had been in the same situation. No naturally-occurring step-parenting instincts. It seemed so daunting, so unmanageable. What if they said, "You're not my mum!" What if they said, "I hate you!" What if they said, "I don't want to be here any more!"

It's been sixteen months now. So much seems to have happened. We had months of disruptive building work, but now everyone has their own bedroom. I made all the children help with chores, awarding them points towards decorating budgets, and now their rooms are wonderful expressions of their individuality, achieved through their hard work. I have learned so much. Often to bite my tongue. To wait, to listen, to understand. Not to assume. To be honest. To be fair. But I haven't got it sussed by any means. There's no one-size-fits-all here. You never know what's going to crop up next. Squabbles and fighting, inappropriate web use, "I don't want you to get married", "It's not fair!", "Why won't you let me..." If they were all my own, I would know them better, I would have a surer footing. But I think I'm getting there.

The Sun has been challenged but has discovered the fun (and annoyance value) of siblings. StepD has taken time to adjust, and has given us heart-stopping cause for concern at times, but is growing up fast. Methane Boy took his GCSEs*** this year and got brilliant grades in all of them. I swelled with pride when I found out what he got. Mum and Brummie Stepdad came to stay a while ago. She called me when she got home to say she had made it back safely. And she told me how much she had enjoyed staying. "You're a family," she said, "I really felt that." That's it. We're not in some all-too-perfect pink-tinged landscape with hearts and fluffy clouds floating around us. We're not in some nightmare, bleak, hate-fuelled dungeon of doom. We have smiles and hugs, congratulations and celebrations, laughter and happiness. We have crises and squabbles, tears and raised voices, disagreements and slammed doors. But amongst it all, sometimes spotlit and sometimes kicked to the shadows, but always there, is that connection. We're a family.

________________________________________________________________________
Transatlantic Translation:
* helping hand, boost
** low-level admonition
*** General Certificate of Secondary Education; exams taken aged 16

On Friday night we picked Methane Boy and StepD up from Poppy's. We sat down for a chat and Thomas Fiend (who will be 4 next week) clambered onto Methane Boy, treating him as an organic climbing frame. Coming to a rest on the sofa next to him, he reached over and pulled up his T-shirt. "You have boobies!" he squealed, then earnestly enquired, "Why you have boobies?" Now Methane Boy is a big lad, well over 6' and chunky with it. "Because I'm fat," he replied. Thomas Fiend is as skinny as anything, and after a moment's thought, he decided, "I want them," and made a grab for them. The rest of us were too busy laughing to come to his aid.

On our way home we went shopping, just a quick one so we left the kids in the car. Tallboy and I walked across car park. His jeans were descending earthwards. "Pull 'em up," I said. "They keep falling down," he complained. "It's because I have no..." "Arse!" I interjected. "Belt," he admonished. There's nothing I like better than a childish rally. "Arse!" "Belt!" "Arse!" "Belt!" "ARSE!!!" As the echoes reverberated and heads turned, I realised I might have gone a smidge too far. Abashed, I looked at Tallboy out of the corner of my eye. "arse," I whispered sideways.

It was in the same car park that Methane Boy and I had waited in the car for Tallboy to do a quick shop. Bored and mischievous, I had suggested moving the car while TB was inside. Methane Boy agreed readily and I jumped out and trotted round to the driver's seat, started up and drove to quite another part of the car park, choosing a spot with a good view of the route Tallboy would take towards the old spot.

Out he came, as I giggled like a juvenile lunatic, striding towards where he expected the car to be. His pace faltered as he registered its absence. He slowed to a stop, shopping clutched protectively to him as he slowly scanned the car park for the car. Eventually he spotted us and marched over. Funnily enough, he didn't share our breathless hilarity. One might almost suggest he was a little miffed. I reminded him of it today, and he refused even with the charitable light of the passage of time to admit that it was amusing. Mind you, if he ever does it to me, I'll swing for him.

Blimey Days! Someone emailed the Brazil Nut. Yes, that's right, they used the new email address down there to the right. No one bothered to email Tallboy though, and he's in the shed, sulking.

From 'A concerned onlooker', the email reads:

Dear Mrs Nut,

Have you ever considered moving house? I hear the property market is very buoyant at the moment. Perhaps you should get out now while you still can.

The Brazil Nut's response, as dictated on the way to school this morning:

I have been thinking of moving for quite some time. I like the idea
of being near the sea. I understand Shotley Gate is a very nice part
of the world and will be investigating properties for sale there as
soon as possible.

In other news, she has been calling Tallboy 'glitterboy' all week. We had a bath on Sunday night with one of Lush's most sparkle-containing bath bombs, and have both been rather fetchingly catching the light ever since. The Brazil Nut was amazed at the shimmering visions in front of her and delightedly adopted a new nickname for him. Tallboy foolishly leaves the choice of bath bubblies to me, even though I caught him out with the sparkles once before. They never learn, do they?

On Tuesday morning he scrubbed under the shower to try to remove the sparkles. He probably got rid of 10% of them or so - they are tenacious little beggars. He was upstairs when the BN rang the front door bell at school run time, so she shouted up the stairs "Hello glitterboy!" "Hello," he shouted invisibly from upstairs, tangible relief in his voice that he hadn't been downstairs when the bell rang. "He's wearing his skimpy dressing gown," I divulged to the BN, who made a suitably raucous comment. "I'm not coming down," quavered Tallboy from upstairs. As we walked up the drive, the Brazil Nut smiled and confided "I love teasing him. He's such an easy target."

I'm afraid that exciting news about the Brazil Nut receiving an email from a dedicated Weevil Stepmother reader will have to wait till tomorrow, because today is timewaster day. I hope you all had fish for dinner, because I've chosen some brain stuff this time. I've raided the BBC's science site to hand pick the best tests with which I was most impressed. OK I'll stop now. But have a go, they're fun. And interesting.

First up, let me offer you the opportunity to answer the question which has no doubt been bothering you for years - What sex is your brain? Mine, unfortunately, seems to show no clear leaning either way, so either it's neuter or not even present...

Then, why not give this difficult test a go? Spot the fake smile. I found this hard though in the end I only got 5 wrong. Watch out, you can only view each clip once.

If you're good at remembering things, have a bash at Memory Test. I had a go at remembering twenty things and annoyingly got the first and last pairs the wrong way round.

We all had a go at this after the TV show as we were keen to find out our Personality Types. I'm a boring Realist, while Tallboy is a Nurturer.

Maybe you're killing time in a dead end job. Lucky you. Do you know what kinds of jobs you would be good at? Check it out with the Career Test. Ironically I'd make a good lawyer, apparently.

Finally, you must do this one. You have to rate different pictures by how much they disgust you. The last question asks whether you think it would be disgusting to share your toothbrush with a weather girl. Did you have a hand in this quiz, Phil?

Just a quick post while we're in between hospital appointments. We got to Southmead Hospital at half seven this morning, and Tallboy saw the surgeon who had a play with his arm and said "You don't have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome at all, I'm not going to operate on you." Great.

So we have to go back this afternoon to his clinic for Xrays and nerve tests and so on. It's going to be a surprise to Tallboy's colleagues when he turns up at work tomorrow - they're expecting him to be off for weeks...

Anyway, I thought I would alert you to a new feature on Weevil Stepmother - I'm nothing if not forward looking, innovative and so on. Or just bored... If you look to the right, you might spot a couple of new email addresses. You can now email questions and comments directly to Tallboy and the Brazil Nut, but beware - I will see all the messages and reserve the right to post them (and responses to them) as I see fit *manic laughter*. I've a suspicion that those Gmail accounts might remain empty, dusty and cobwebbed - but what the hell. If there is anyone out there who still hasn't got a Gmail account and would like one, I still have some invites left, so let me know.

While I'm tying up loose ends, I notice that Anode & Cathode (who provided last week's timewaster) kindly waited until five days after I had posted a link to the Office before they unveiled their new game, the House. If you liked the Office, you will love the House, though it's much harder than the Office. As usual, email me if you need any nudges.

Finally, I have my thinking cap on for Jay Allen's Blogging for Books for which the topic this month is Change. It's a really fun thing to participate in and I encourage all you bloggers and non-bloggers out there to get tapping and produce an entry. Closing date is 13th September.

Tallboy has finally flipped. I mean, he was reasonably eccentric already (it's one of the things I love about him) but this time words fail me. Actually, they don't, otherwise this would be my shortest post in history ever. But almost...

We went out today to buy a mattress for Methane Boy and to get a 'How to paint using watercolours' book for after the operation when Tallboy will be, well, attempting to paint using watercolours. He locked the front door and leapt into the seat beside me clutching a mystery grey metal object and grinning like a loon. I urged him to enlighten me and he showed it me - a mechanical counter where the numbers are on little wheels which increment by one each time you click the button on the top. "It's for counting Zafiras," he beamed. Given the hordes of Zafiras which swarm around us on every trip, we were finding that we lost count sometimes. So he liberated the clicker from a skip-bound machine at work.

It was an interesting journey, with conversation broken with shouts of "There's one!" *click*. We magnanimously decided that the half dozen in the lot at the Vauxhall Garage we passed didn't count. On the return leg, my concentration was diverted from the road by an argument with Tallboy about whether the car which had just passed us was a Sintra or a Zafira and I nearly rear-ended the car which had turned out in front of us and was streaking along the road at all of 12 miles an hour.

We had to dash back home as I needed to be at the Job Centre appointment of Doom for 4.00. Diving out of the car, I zoomed in for a quick visit to the facilities while Tallboy unloaded our purchases. As I entered the bathroom I was struck by many strong consecutive emotions. Horror at the uniformly dark brown contents of the pan, concern for Tallboy's obviously dangerous state of health, urgent need to use the facilities myself, and almost tangible relief as I saw the bottle of coke next to the toilet.

We had watched one of these "We're going to embarrass you about the state of your house, because it's clearly your sole responsibility and nothing at all to do with your lazy husband or idle children who all live here and contribute to the mess but cannot possibly be expected to pitch in with the cleaning" programmes, and we were stunned when the cleaning guru suggested a household substance apart from vinegar for cleaning purposes. She said that a good slug of coke emptied down the pan every night will clear limescale. Given that Lidl fizzy pop is of the order of 14p per bottle, we decided to give this a go. Tallboy had, however, decided to coke the bog just before we went out mattress hunting, but hadn't mentioned it to me. It was a bit of a shock, that's all...

Recovering my composure enough to call him a moron as I rushed out of the door, we leaped back in the car and zoomed over to Lidl, stopping only briefly to scoop the Brazil Nut from the pavement and give her a lift to work. Tallboy did a shop (goodness only knows how many bottles of coke he bought) while I went for MofD.

Arriving five minutes early, as usual, I had a play with the touchscreen Jobs system and was stunned to see a listing for an Escort job. No, I thought to myself, surely not. I clicked for details and there it was - over 18s only, dinner, theatre and "meetings in a relaxed atmosphere". Blimey days, how liberal, I thought. I mentioned it to the bloke who was giving me the weekly grilling. Probably taking elderly people to hospital, he thought. Not at £80 - £100 per hour, surely? He was most insistent that it couldn't possibly be dodgy, else it wouldn't have got through the checks. Sure. As I stood to leave when the interview was over, he asked me quietly had I been looking at the boards or on the system? "I erm thought I might just erm have a quick look..."

While we were round at the Brazil Nut's, conversation got around to Tallboy's impending operations. On Wednesday, he is going in for a Carpal Tunnel operation to remedy some damage done when he fell in the bath and injured his wrist. It's just a day thing, but we may be sat round for some time waiting, so we will have to go prepared to play I-Spy or something. "I spy with my little eye something beginning with C." "Corridor." "Yes." "I spy with my little eye something beginning with WR." "Waiting Room." "Yes." "I spy with my little eye something beginning with C." *sigh*

He will be off work for several weeks and won't be able to use his right hand for a while. Which suits him fine, as he is left handed - though he will get withdrawal symptoms from not being able to ride the bike, poor thing. I suggested that he use the time to do some painting. It's been years since he has had time for it, and will help pass the time. The Brazil Nut was aghast when I told her this, she thought I meant house painting. As if! I'm making the children do that...

While he is recovering from the first op, I have persuaded him to undergo a second. Although we have had some enquiries on the subject and a fair bit of encouragement to have a baby, we have no inclination to do so. We have three children between us, and that's enough, thanks. So we decided on a permanent surgical option, and had a lively debate between us as to who should go under the knife. I stopped squeezing when he agreed, in a rather high-pitched voice, that it should be him.

When, during a girly confiding session, I mentioned the snip to the Brazil Nut, she perked up and said that she was nagging Mr Nut to undergo the same. She brought the subject up again when we were talking about the Carpal Tunnel op. Mr Nut looked horrified and tried to blend into the background, but she was relentless. I told them that the literature says I'm allowed in the room to watch the snip, and I intend to savour every minute. I told her that I could take in my camera to take a few snaps to give Mr Nut a flavour, then got a little carried away and started speculating about the potential for a live webcast...

I made the mistake of telling the BN about after the op. Tallboy will need to provide a sample a month afterwards, for testing to ensure that all is clear. Apparently, so Tallboy was told by a friend in Reproductive Medicine, it just used to say 'come in for a test after a month'. It now says 'come in for a test after a month during which the patient must have (I'm groping for a word here, I don't want to use anything too graphic or the dodgy searches will go sky high) *ahem* done a geyser impression at least thirty times'. Apparently some chaps were turning up without even once having done an Old Faithful and consequently producing a sample chock full of little swimmies.

I joked to the BN that we would need to have a tally chart on the bedroom wall. Through tears of laughter, she said that no, we should just mark it on the calendar in the kitchen. And when the children asked us what it meant, we should say that that meant it was 'pudding day'. I asked what 'pudding day' meant but she was unable to answer,as by this point, she was laughing too much to speak, and Tallboy and I looked at each other in amazement as she hooted and cackled and rocked in hysterics. It's not a bad idea, though given the children's capacity for consumption, it could prove to be quite costly in pudding terms. I do have a feeling, though, that 'pudding day' could become a handy euphemism chez Weevil...

The Ex made up a killer euphemism once, though we could never quite determine what it was a euphemism for. He was cooking his dinner one night when the Cartographer was round. Joining us in the front room, he became engrossed in chatting and forgot about his dinner until he detected a burning smell emanating from under the grill. He leaped up with the words "Excuse me, I must go and turn my burger!" 'Turning one's burger' immediately became a part of the family vocabulary, though we have never successfully ascribed a sensible meaning to it...

So yesterday, we're just driving home and we see the Brazil Nut so we stop and chat. She was pleased to see us, well Tallboy in particular, because she needed someone who was au fait with things electric. The lawnmower wasn't working properly, the handles should come up as soon as it switches on and is pulled backwards. Tallboy isn't one to refuse a mending challenge, so once the shopping has been unloaded and put away, we wander over.

Tallboy looks at the patient and scratches his head - the handles look like they have been bent over where they are fixed to the mower body. "Oh no, they're meant to be like that," says the BN. Ever practical, I wonder if she has the manual for the mower, as this will show a picture of what it should look like. She doesn't, so I decide to trot back to Weevil Mansions to download one. On my way out of house I see the BN's Ikea catalogue on the side next to the phone. We had one for all of five minutes until Poppy begged it from us. It had only been put through the letterbox the day before but we were on our way to Ikea that evening so planned to pick another one up there. Except they didn't have any, meaning we were minus a catalogue. So noticing a fresh one in the Brazil Nut's hallway, ripe for the plucking, what else could I do except casually snaffle it on my way past?

I'm sat at the computer, cursing an intransigent printer when Tallboy lets himself in, wondering what has happened to me. He has reached the conclusion that the handles have definitely been bent and need unbending, so has come home seeking an implement to achieve this. Almost instantly he zooms back out again at speed, muttering something about having heard hammer blows while he was out in the garden trying to find a bending tool, and wanting to get back before she knocks the bloody machine into submission.

When I return to the Brazil Nut's with a printout from the manual, all is done. Mr Nut has a sore back from all the mowing in a squatting position but is happier now the problem is sorted. We stand around and chat in sunshine, hassling Mr Nut to play us some Greig. We must come round one night for a recital - result!

Just as we were planning to leave, the phone rang inside the house. The Brazil Nut told Mr Nut to answer it, counting each ring out loud. The answerphone, she explained between rings, would pick up the call after the fifth ring. One. Two. Three. Mr Nut walked in unhurriedly although he answered it before the Five so my theory is that he must have run like a loon once he was out of sight.


The Brazil Nut popped round this afternoon to invite us over for a barbie in the evening. She also picked up a couple of prints that StepD had insisted last year she needed desperately, and this year left on the floor saying casually that we might like to take them to a charity shop. Did I want anything for them, asked the BN. No. I pointed out that she has owed me £20 for nearly three months now. She originally promised to give it to me when she gets paid on Friday, but has now become so amused by my references to the debt that she plans to maintain it for a little longer.

Having raided us of our stocks of charcoal and insisting we bring our own veggie burgers to the barbie, she made as if to leave but then sidetracked herself and started to tell us about her plans for the Nutlet's bedroom. "I've seen a duvet cover I love in Ikea," she said. "I'm going to do the room to match. Do you have a catalogue?" "Certainly, it's over there, can you pass it please Tallboy?" At this point I'm winking like a lunatic, afraid he will giggle, splutter or otherwise give the game away. She leafed through it, pointed out the cover, and put down the catalogue. I didn't say anything. The time is not right. She hasn't noticed it's missing yet...

Visitors to this site are demonstrating an intriguing range of interests of late, if the referral logs are anything to go by.

Of course we have the usual range of urinophiles (morning, lads) and the weevil seekers and stepmother questers, but here are a few of the others:

nuns' farts
blame hodmandod for this one :)
stepmother downer
after the week I've had, I can't deny that it can be...
camper vans chipping sodbury
more specific please - camper than what, exactly?
bedford rascals for sale
it's no use looking here, we want to buy one too
desperate for the loo wet myself
think cotton wool balls, dearie
tomato glut recipe
'fraid ours are far from producing one tomato, let alone a glut
courgette cake recipe
loads of people wanted this one - hope they liked it
horny stepmother
no comment
hints on killing aliens in insaniquarium
shoot 'em. Next!
phallic tomato
you should see a doctor, mate
sanguine tzatziki
if you weren't trying for a Googlewhack, I think you need help, and quickly

And a big hello to the person from Swansea who always Googles 'weevil stepmother' *waves*. I'm sorry, I'm not picking on you, it's just that I always seem to notice you...

Wednesday lunchtime, a ring on the door, a worried Brazil Nut, a favour requested. Of course I could look after the Nutlet for the afternoon. And yes, Islay could come too... We supervised her closely to prevent a repeat of the pond incident and all went swimmingly until the Sun let Pesky in the back door. Islay bounded for her, Pesky became a dark streak zooming up the stairs (I could swear I heard a little sonic boom), Islay horsed after her, cornering her in Methane Boy's half-decorated bedroom. There was only one way for Pesky to go - out of the open window. Following as quick as I could, I saw her clinging onto the Window frame with her front paws, one set of claws locked into the wooden frame outside, one set inside, just like a petrified black koala. As I ran to scoop her up, her claws lost their grip and she started to slide down the frame, ears back. She disappeared from sight and I turned and ran down the stairs and out of the front door, but she was nowhere to be seen. She returned, warily, several hours later, but is still not convinced that Islay isn't just round the corner, poor thing.

Yesterday the Sun went back to school, a new class, a new teacher. She told them that a ruler is for three things, Pupils use them to measure, and to draw straight lines. Teachers use them to admonish naughty pupils. Holding up the ruler in her hand, she said "But this one's too puny," cast it aside, and slowly lifted a metre rule in front of 60 wide-open eyes. I have a feeling she's a 'no nonsense' kind of woman...

The Ex and I had to pick him up early to take him to the orthodontist. His dentist was concerned that his adult teeth were slow in coming through, and that the reluctant baby teeth might prove hard to shift and cause his canines to grow tuskily. The orthodontist was unconcerned, so all was well. Our route there had taken us through the area I grew up in, and the memories came flooding back. The swimming pool where first I swam a mile, the church hall where my bottom was pinched while I was at a disco, dancing to the Can Can by Bad Manners, the church where I went to Guides, the road I used to live in, the things that were different, the things that were the same...

I hope the Sun manages to avoid orthodontic intervention. Aged sixteen, I foolishly congratulated myself on having survived to that age without having to wear a brace, as so many of my classmates had to. Then the hammer blow fell - I had partial anodontia, meaning two of my baby teeth were still in place with no adult teeth beneath them. They had to be removed, as they were past their sell-by date, and I had to have a fixed brace to move the other teeth round to fill the gaps. I was nervous meeting the orthodontist for the first time, but the anxiety lessened when I discovered that he was called Mr Topliss. I was disappointed to find that he was wearing a shirt when I was ushered in for my appointment. He cemented a train track to my teeth and gave me a springy torture contraption of doom to wear at night. "I don't want a gap between my front teeth," I quavered. "Don't worry!" he boomed. "I can fix it so you can drive a double decker bus through them!" Every day in my diary I marked off another day towards my liberation, a year away. When the day came, he had to use a hammer and chisel to get the bloody thing off.

This morning, Methane Boy and I had an early trip to B&Q, as he managed to use up five litres of paint applying one and a half coats of white emulsion to the box room walls. He must have done half-inch thick coats. I swear the walls are noticeably closer together as you stand in the room. Anyway, we toddled off to buy some more, and waiting in line at the single open checkout, I spotted a stack of garish orange buckets, 98p each. Bargain. I asked MB to fetch one. This boy got four A*s, and he can't pick up a bucket without destroying the display. The shame! As we left the store, he didn't have enough hands for paint and change and so on, and threw the coins into the bucket I was carrying. I jingled it hopefully as we walked past other people in the car park, but sadly no one else followed suit.

Let me take you to France this week, on a Euro expedition to find a nifty little timewasting game. This week we've got one of those mystery/puzzle type games, where you have to click around to discover objects and use them to help you escape.

You find yourself in the dark in Anode & Cathode's office. You switch on the light and click your way around the room, gathering and using items as you go. Your aim is to find four blocks which will unlock a secret escape route.

Leave no stone unturned, no cranny uninvestigated!

As a little taster of this genre, I really enjoyed this game. There are other, grander, examples out there, but this one is compact and completable in a quick session, unlike others (which I may inflict on you later) which have had me glued in front of the screen for hours on end.

Email me, as ever, if you are stuck and need a hint. Thinking caps on, let's visit The Office.