Weevilstepmother

Tallboy has had a poorly arm all year. On January 6th, Poppy called round to pick up the kids, and tripped over the kerb, coming to a painful rest in our front hedge. Our pyrocantha hedge. For those of you who don't listen to Gardeners' Question Time, that's the posh name for Firethorn. Her hands were covered in thorns where she put them out to break her fall, and her knees were grazed nastily. She was very shaken too, we had to bring her in and administer hot sweet tea, and get a tweezer to pluck out the thorns.

We were both a bit shaken too, and glad she wasn't badly hurt. Later that night, I was in bed as Tallboy popped into the bathroom for a quick shower. As I lay there reading, I heard an almighty crash from across the landing, and sped over to see what was wrong. "Nothing," said Tallboy casually, from a scrunched up position on the floor. He had slipped as he stepped into the bath, fallen backwards, and landed awkwardly on his arm and his bottom. Rather comically, his legs were draped over the edge of the bath, his feet still on its bottom. If he hadn't been so tall and able to fold in just the right place, I have a feeling that it would have been much worse.

He jarred his arm badly in the fall and from then on he had terrible pain in it. A visit to the GP confirmed that it should clear up OK by itself in a few months, but as time went by his symptoms worsened, with numbness and pins and needles appearing too. A revisit to the GP diagnosed carpal tunnel syndrome, a referral for physiotherapy and an appointment with a consultant with a view to an operation. When Tallboy and I went for the operation, the surgeon refused to operate, saying the diagnosis was wrong. He did however put a rocket under the physio department, and an appointment came through quite quickly.

Tallboy attended the first session a few weeks ago in a rather uncertain state, as the arm had got a bit better by this time. The trainee Physio kept asking him "Is *this* your pain?" I feel that I might not have been as understanding as Tallboy, and could have lashed out. "Is *this* your pain?" *doof* "No, but this is yours mate!"

He asked Tallboy to stretch up, up, up with his arms and was busily peering in his armpit and muttering when he became aware of a light dust falling on him. His gaze travelled up Tallboy's arm to the ceiling. Tallboy is blessed with gibbon arms, you see, which is lovely in the hug department, but does make him about 9 feet tall when he stretches his arms right up in the air. He is always grazing his knuckles, not in a simian arm-trailing manner, but because he punches the ceiling when he's putting on his jumper. On this occasion, his fingers had met and dislodged the loose polystyrene tiles of a suspended ceiling.

Later, he was asked to lie on the massage couch, one of those with the face hole where you lie face down peeking at the floor below. Unfortunately the table was not designed with Tallboys in mind, and its inadequacies in the length department were further exacerbated by the fact that his face had to be positioned over the hole, meaning that his legs were sticking out a long way over the end of the table. Still, it gave the Physio somewhere to hang his towel...

Well, I've still not come up with a name for the boss. I may have to give it another week. I'll think of something.

I can't believe how exhausted I am this week - and that's with me not doing much because I'm new, and finishing at 4 because it's the school holidays, and working three days. I'm going to be a complete wreck next week...

As for what I've been doing, well, where to start? There was cleaning the mank off the mouse rollers in one of the computer suites on Wednesday. That was fun. And I tidied a cupboard to make room for the kettle and coffee-making paraphernalia. Then yesterday, I took all the keyboards away from another suite and replaced them with ones which actually worked. It was a good day on the whole, though, as I managed to locate a ladies' loo which actually had a water supply.

Today I wanted to print out the network documentation, so clicked to send it to a printer only for the boss to laugh as I looked expectantly at the printer next to me, which puzzlingly wasn't spewing forth the reams I anticipated. The only printer installed on my machine was one on the other side of the school, so I trooped off there with only the reassuring clunk of my pedometer to accompany me. When I got to the printer, it wasn't switched on, so hadn't printed my document anyway. While I was in the office that houses it, though, a nice TNT delivery man knocked on the window, making me jump nearly out of my skin. There was no one else to take the delivery so I let him in and signed for it, stashing the box in the school office.

Back in my office, I messed around with printers and hooked up to the nearby one. And mentioned to the boss that I had taken a delivery. What, I enquired, was the procedure? He laughed at me and said "Avoid taking them." "It was a printer," I mentioned, conversationally. "Ah!" he said, his face lighting up. "It's for us, back you go and fetch it!" Meh.

Later, I snuck into one of the Home Economics (I'm sure there's a posher name for that now) classrooms to fill up the kettle. A woman came in just after me, carrying a trayful of dirty mugs. Yes, I responded to her enquiry about my newness, I was, very. She turned out to be a Maths teacher, but had come in during the holidays because she had remembered the dirty mugs, left after a meeting on the last day of term. What finer example could you want of the dedication of my new colleagues?

Goodness only knows what it's going to be like when the kids are back on Monday. Though I suppose if I feel overwhelmed, I can always go and tidy the cupboard again. Shutting the door carefully behind me...

And now for something completely different. No game this week, but a timewaster all the same. I first discovered this site many years ago, and loved it straightaway. It's a great idea, humorously executed, though sadly not updated as much as I (selfishly) would like.

Your host is called Eric, and he hit upon the idea of taking pictures of himself conveying different emotions. Then he started getting suggestions for different things to convey. Then more suggestions arrived, and more. Soon the 'to do' list got as big as the 'done' list. If you don't look at any others, please have a quick squint at my favourites, '"Oops" as in an accident that Eric caused resulting in the death of millions of innocents' and 'Multiplicity'.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I do - settle down, get emotional, and warm to Eric's cheeky grin - it's time for Eric Conveys an Emotion.

First day at work today. Brain is frazzled with the strain of it, not that it was hard, just new. Tallboy was the same on Monday. Today he met a colleague who hails, like him, from Oxford and is happy as Larry.

Today is also the Brazil Nut's birthday. Mr Nut was due to go to London today for a few days, to visit friends. The BN's friend and I were aghast at his desertion of her, but she was unfazed. He ended up staying at home with a migraine anyway...

I couldn't see her till I got home from work, and then had to wait for Tallboy to get home so we could all go round together. The Sun had insisted on getting her a present and card himself, which he ceremonially handed over first. She was charmed. Although she detected (unfairly, I have to say) my hand in his choice of gift - a pack of Thornton's Brazil Nut toffee. Then I handed over my present, and a card (one of the humorous ones with a 50s picture and a subversive commentary) which I had doctored with our names on little stickers.

The present consisted of a certificate, printed on pink card, entitling the Brazil Nut to an evening of bathing bliss in our huge big bath. When she saw the bath for the first time, after the extension was finished, she did that cartoon eye-popping heart booming thing, and said, "One night I will be on your doorstep with my towel over my arm!" Along with the certificate was a sheet of tick boxes for the BN to indicate her preferences for number of candles, type of wine, chocolates, bath bubbles and so on. She seemed well chuffed.

There is one stipulation, though. The bathing night has to be booked two days in advance. I've got to clean the bloody thing first, after all...

The Sun and I walked to the shops today. Gotta get those 10,000 steps in somehow! I wanted to buy him a nice pen for school, to say well done for such a super report at the parents' evening last week. We chose two types, so he can experiment with which feels is best.

We popped into Tesco, which stocks Tallboy's favourite lunchtime nibble - dried curry flavour noodles at the princely sum of 8 pence per pack. Sometimes he pushes the boat out and has two packs, the devil. Since the curry flavour ones are in fact the only ones approaching edible, there are rarely any on the shelf. Just an empty space flanked by Chicken to the left and Bacon to the right. But today, the shelf must have just been stocked, and there in front of me were pack upon pack of curry flavour. Throwing caution to the winds, I gathered up armfuls, whispering urgently for the Sun to scoot to the front door and pick up a basket please. They weren't heavy. Just awkward.

Once I had stowed the noodles safely, we wandered round the corner to the home baking section, where I wanted to buy a couple of bags of special flour. There were two bags left. At the back of the shelf. About three feet above my head. If Tallboy had been here, no problem. Unfixed, I took stock of what we had between us. A cuddly animal, two board games from Woolworths, a bag of toffee, a scary mask and houpla! a devilish trident which the Sun had insisted would complete his costume for the Halloween party at Mum's on Saturday.

Grabbing the foam head, I waggled the handle over the top of the shelf and managed to knock one bag of flour over. Stretching even more, I knocked over the second. Then I tried to hook the handle behind them to pull them forward. Unfortunately this wasn't such an easy task with a smooth plastic object. "Turn it round," said the Sun. "Poke it with the pointy end." I explained with a laugh that stabbing the flour bags wouldn't be the best idea in the world, and that it would mean we would leave a trail all the way home. I finally managed to pull them both to a point where I could pick them up, stuck them in the basket, and nonchalantly gave the trident back to the Sun, who looked strangely embarrassed.

queuing at the speedy checkout, we seemed rooted to the same spot for ages. The vocabulary of the lady on the till seemed to have missed out the rapidity section of the thesaurus. Bored, the Sun examined the notices dotted around the checkout area, before turning to me with a funny expression. "Have you got ten items or less?" I hadn't thought about it, but adding up the ten packs of noodles (yes, ten - if you see them, you have to grab them) and the two bags of flour, I came to an uncomfortable figure. I'm normally one who stands in line, critically counting the items in the baskets of those in front of me, and silent hating those who are getting extra items under the radar. How I wish on these occasions that the fancy computerised tills would be set to count the items in each basket, and if the magic ten were exceeded, a light would flash, a klaxon would sound, and the sneaky shopper would be escorted off to the end of the longest queue in the shop, there to make their purchases.

Today, however, I had been queuing for so long and was so weighed down with my other shopping that I couldn't bear the thought of going to the end of another, even slower-moving queue. "Shhhh!" I hissed with a warning look which would normally have stopped an elephant. "I can count them for you, if you like, to make sure," he continued helpfully, oblivious to my mad 'shut up now if you know what's good for you' face pulling. "No!" I hissed with another pointed look, realising that I had to stop this in its tracks. He twigged. Fortunately we only had to wait another 7 minutes to reach the head of the queue. Seven long minutes during which the gaze of every other queuer was boring into my basket, totting up the packs and reaching the inevitable conclusion. The tortoise-like woman at the checkout even rubbed salt into the wound. Counting up the packs of curry flavour noodles so that she could scan them once only, she turned to me and said in a voice about ten times louder than necessary, "So that's ten packs of noodles?" The shame, oh the shame...

I had a funny five minutes today. I was painting the Sun's bedroom (yellow, natch) when I suddenly felt a huge doubt well up inside me. I called to Methane Boy in his bedroom and asked him what the time was. Had the clocks gone back at the weekend, I asked him. Ugh, he responded.

I got more and more het up as I realised that I had given Tallboy a lift to his new workplace today, his first day there. Had we forgotten to put back the clocks? Had I taken him there a whole hour early? How embarrassing!

Imprisoned in the painty room, I couldn't move. How to find out if the clocks had gone back or not? I asked MB to have a quick scout round - all the clocks agreed with his watch. Had his father gone round the day before setting them all back? Unlikely, given that a) he hadn't actually mentioned this and b) I am the only one in the house who can set the time on the cooker clock. And the microwave clock. And the central heating timer. But I digress...

I still wasn't convinced. Nor was I sure whether it was one o'clock, two o'clock or three o'clock. At this point I would probably have been unable to hazard more than a 50% guess at what year it was. Then, inspired, I asked MB to go and check the calendar in the kitchen. The one where we put up family outings, birthdays etc for the kids to ignore and deny all knowledge of. It would say on that whether the clocks were due to go back last weekend or not.

He trooped back upstairs slightly pink round the gills. Yes, they had been due to go back last weekend. So, had the clocks gone back or not? Had Tallboy been early or on time for his first day at work. He hadn't phoned to say how he was getting on - but maybe he was too embarrassed.

StepD and I went to fetch him at 5(?) o'clock. In the car on the way back he denied having reset any of the clocks in the house. Yet he had been on time that morning. How strange. My mind was racing feverishly, how could all the clocks be correct if no one had changed them?

Idly waiting for the kettle to boil for coffee when we got home, I mused over the calendar. There I read that the clocks are due to go back NEXT weekend, not this. MB had misread the calendar. The clocks hadn't been changed because they hadn't needed to be changed. I had spent half a day worrying about something which wasn't even an issue.

I blame those fermenting cider fumes...

1. Look longingly at Nice Neighbours' cooking apple tree which overhangs our garden.
2. Ponder the potential for turning the fruit into an alcoholic substance.
3. Realise that at some point on the apple <-----> cider continuum the solid apples need to turn into juice.
4. Look up apple presses on the internet.
5. Recoil in horror at the cost.
6. Resolve to improvise.
7. Email the Alchemist and bombard him with questions about fermentation, yeast levels, etc.
8. Declare that you are aiming to produce a low-alcohol brew - nothing above 10%.
9. Receive lecture on evils of drink and acceptable levels of alcohol from stepmother.
10. Blag some M16 threaded rods from father and an Ikea chopping board and pillowcase from stepmother, then assemble same into a Heath-Robinson apple press.
11. Sterilise equipment.
12. Rinse equipment.
13. Blag bag of apples from Brazil Nut, and use equipment to gather Nice Neighbours' apples in garden.
14. Realise that equipment is no longer sterile.
15. Discover that there is no more sterilising powder.
16. Shrug.
17. Attempt to use press to extract juice from first batch of apples.
18. Trap finger, causing minor bruising and much pain.
19. Wait for father and stepmother to stop laughing.
20. Tighten press as far as you dare.
21. Mournfully inspect teaspoonful of juice in the bottom of overoptimistically large juice receptacle.
22. Accept with alacrity stepmother's offer of the use of her juicer in the knowledge that the next half hour will probably kill it.
23. Chop apples into almost juicer-sized chunks while stepmother juices.
24. Let stepmother chop apples at ten times the speed while you juice like a maniac to produce about two gallons of a vile, dysentery looking liquid.
25. Ensure that the worktop and lino get splattered liberally with juice, pulp and skin.
26. Endure further lecture from stepmother who had mopped the kitchen floor not two hours ago.
27. Clean the juicer, worktop, floor and equipment.
28. The next morning, endure lecture from stepmother about what clean actually means.
29. Clean the juicer, worktop, and floor.
30. Ask stepmother how much sugar you should add to the juice.
31. Go and look it up in the Alchemist's book, as instructed.
32. Determine that you require 7 and a half kilos of sugar.
33. Walk to Lidl to buy the same.
34. Persuade the staff that you are neither a sugar addict nor a bomb-maker.
35. Realise at the checkout that you haven't brought any carrier bags and have to buy them in the store.
36. Carry the sugar home.
37. Look in the hall mirror as you pass and try to assess whether your arms really are two inches longer.
38. Try to decide the best place for the fermenting brew.
39. Then try to decide the best way to keep it at a constant optimum temperature.
40. Settle on using an old fish tank heater.
41. Argue with stepmother when she disapproves of using it in contact with brew.
42. Find a large plastic box, fill with water, sit the brew inside it, and heat the water with the fish tank heater.
43. Find a second fish tank heater, and disappear off to bedroom with a manic laugh and a gleam in your eye.
44. Add the sugar.
45. Come downstairs and ask for a 1m long wooden stirrer.
46. Put on crestfallen face.
47. Search the kitchen and garage for a suitable item.
48. Argue with stepmother about why using the handle of her broom isn't a good idea.
49. Accept her suggestion that you stir it with your hand.
50. Come downstairs T-shirtless and smelling your arm happily.

Methane Boy is a decidedly helpful chap. If the dishwasher needs emptying, he will a) notice this and b) empty it. He will make sure mugs of coffee are out of reach of curious toddlers. He will, mostly with a good nature, romp and pummel with the Sun, who is still in overdrive when it comes to having a big brother to play with after so long as an only child.

MB, the Sun and I had a fun session at the tip, sorry, Recycling Centre, this morning. We took two and a half black bin bags of crumpled up plastic bottles to the plastic bottle recycling skip, and raced each other to post the bottles through the little holes, points being awarded for style, distance, sound effects, and artistic impression. We then went on a pilgrimage to Ikea, where our first step was to head to the loos so that we could wash our manky hands. I picked up an extra catalogue there, to replace the one I nicked from the Brazil Nut. Annoyingly, she never noticed. I handed it over with an explanation, and she went ballistic, particularly given the puzzle incident. Tallboy staunchly backed me up with the words, "I don't know how she has the cheek to look you in the face, BN." Thanks.

Later, I left the children to their own devices while I went into Bristol to pick up a jolly tiddly Tallboy after his leaving do at work. After two and a half pints of Guinness and a glass of red wine, he was ruddy-cheeked and merry. It was quite sweet really. He was presented with some nice cards, some people said some nice things about him, and was given an envelope containing £140 and urged to buy a better motorbike with it.

When I got home, Methane Boy related a strange happening which had occurred during my absence. Eating the last plum in the punnet, he had scrunched it up and put it in the kitchen bin. The punnet, that is, not the plum. Scouting round for more rubbish, he had filled the bin, then headed over to the dishwasher to empty it. He was aware of a clicking kind of sound, but couldn't locate it, so went back to unloading. The noise became louder and increased in frequency. He looked up again, and realised that it was coming from the bin. As he watched, the lid lifted slowly, then popped off, followed by the contents of the bin fountaining after it and plopping enthusiastically to the floor.

He went over to investigate, and saw the plum punnet sitting perkily in the base of the bin, back to its original shape, looking very pleased with itself for having launched a bincano.

This one's a real treat. I only discovered it last night, so I've spent ages playing it over the last twelve hours in order to test drive it for you. It's a perfect little game with beautiful graphics, lovely ideas and the level of challenge develops nicely. First off you need to get your head round the controls, which are simple but take a little while to master. Then you need to explore the environment and work out where everything is, while making sure that your time doesn't run out. Finally, you will race round at breakneck speed, trying to shave another second off your best time.

You may be familiar with the Honda advert in the UK - "Hate something, change something, make something better." This game is based on that concept. You control a small white rabbit with red ear defenders and a large mallet secreted about his person. He hops around various environments, gobbling up any carrots he comes across, and bashing with his mallet any nasties (barbed wire, parking meters, and so on).

You control his movement by using the up, down, left and right buttons on your keyboard, and when he is in the right place in front of a nasty, he automatically bashes it. There are 22 nasties to get - and for each one bashed, you get an extra 10 seconds on your time, which is rather vital. You only have a minute on the clock to start with, and this time does rather evaporate when you're finding your way around.

There are also 70 carrots to munch on your travels. Getting them slows you down, but you must have them all to get 100%. Can you make it to the barbecue within the time having bashed all the nasties and munched all the carrots? It might take a little bit of practice - it did for me, at least. My score - I did 100% with 98 seconds to spare. Who can beat that?

A note of warning for dial-up users - this game might take a little while to load, but I promise you it's absolutely worth it. Finally, I have no idea whether anyone actually reads the guff I write about the games, or whether they just click on the link at the bottom straight away. Gonzales wibble elephant ironwork.

Enough of that blathering, I can see you're all practically salivating at the thought of being a wee bunny for a while, so ear defenders on, it's time for the Honda Grrr Game.

So, the start date of doom approaches. And as it does, I'm feeling more and more nervous. My boss-to-be has emailed me from his sickbed (bet he's got a laptop and a wireless network) to let me know I'm to start a week today. Meh. I just realised I'm going to have to make up a name for him, too. At least the start date is during the holidays, though. Hopefully in my first three quiet days I will absorb enough of the topography of the place to prevent me looking a complete moron when the kids are back.

I've just been looking at the documents they've given me so far - a staff handbook and a schedule book, in which the entire timetable is shown on three pages, in tiny tiny writing. It looks as if a bunch of drug-crazed spiders charged through an ink well then held a disco on the paper. Seems like they played a lot of Kraftwerk.

There seem to be millions of teachers at the school, all identified by their initials. How am I ever going to remember them? And I'm not even daring to contemplate learning the names of hundreds of pupils... Fortunately, the staff handbook is mostly aimed at teaching staff, so much of it doesn't apply to me. The part which, in particular, I am very pleased does not apply to me, is the 'supervising lunchtimes' and 'before school supervison' duties which apply only to teachers. Phew.

I may have to practise a few phrases before the start of term though. Stuff like "Look at me like that once more and it's detention for you, my lad!" And "Are you chewing boy? Spit it out, spit it out!" Actually on second thoughts, most of the teachers I saw when I was there for interview looked horrendously young. I don't want to find myself dressing down a sixth-former only to discover that it is in fact Mr Figgis, the French Teacher.

I don't know how much time I will be spending in the staff room, once I start. I had to spend a little time in there before my interview, and it felt really strange. I couldn't banish a nagging feeling that I shouldn't be in there, and that someone was going to come up and ask me what I had done wrong to merit being sent there... According to nameless boss-to-be, the office we will inhabit has a kettle and a secret microwave for when the canteen is shut during the holidays. Why would I want to stir from there?

Last month, my Beardy Doctor referred me to a local programme called Exercise on Prescription. For health reasons. Obviously. The deal is that you go in, get questioned exhaustively by a trim be-tracksuited young lady who smells strongly of cigarette smoke, and agree an exercise programme with her, which you can undertake at the Leisure Centre at a substantial discount. She then makes you stand in front of her desk with a petulant expression while she takes a webcam snapshot of you, which is encoded onto a membership card, which you must produce to obtain your discount. With me so far? Good. She tried to persuade me to visit the gym, but I had to draw the line somewhere. So I'm down for 10,000 steps daily and three swims a week.

I started going swimming last week. Making the most of my dwindling non-working days, I went during the morning session, when school parties are sometimes in the pool. A notice at reception advises that this may be the case, and that a verbal check might be in order before purchasing a ticket. Fair enough, I thought, and asked the nice lady whether there was public swimming at the moment. Oh yes, she said, three lanes. Great. I pushed my card across and said "A swim then, please." Swipe. Stifled giggle at petulant photo. Extended hand. "Two pounds sixty please." "Erm, I think it's supposed to be 85p." That was all the money I had, if you ignored the 50p for the locker. "You know, Exercise on Prescription." "Oh," she said , crestfallen. "I thought you wanted the gym." Obviously. That's why I asked if there was public swimming. And asked for a swimming ticket.

The second time I went, it was a different woman, and I was clearly on firmer ground. I asked if there was public swimming, she confirmed, I pushed my card across, asked for a swim, and clinked, very deliberately, my 85p down on the counter. There was a small pause while she sniggered at the photo of me that appeared on her screen. Then she turned her attention to my offering. "That's not enough," she said, eyeing the little pile of silver. "It is," I huffed. "85p. Exercise on Prescription. Swim." "Oh, do you not want the gym?" Arggggggghhhhhhhhh!

The third visit was on Saturday morning. A different woman again. I had been careful this morning. I had checked my clothing and forehead very carefully in the mirror before I left. Nowhere did it say 'No matter what I ask for, I really mean I want a gym ticket.' I asked, very slowly and carefully, for a swimming ticket on Exercise on Prescription. I passed my card over, waited for the sniggering to finish, then clinked down my little pile of silver. She looked at the money, back at her screen, turned back to me and opened her mouth. "No, I don't want the gym," I interjected.

Today, it was a different story. I went with the Brazil Nut's friend who is staying with her for a while while she looks for work. I let her go first, then approached the window. "I'm about to hand you a card. Whatever you might think, I'm not after a gym ticket. I want to go swimming. Here is my swimming bag. Could you please swipe the card, snigger if you must, then issue me with an Exercise on Prescription swimming ticket for the princely sum of 85 of your Earth pence." It worked! Obviously this is where I've been going wrong in the past.

It was a tough session in the pool. The Brazil Nut's friend (for whom I cannot yet think of a name) is a swimming instructor who very kindly told me where I was going wrong with my breaststroke (apparently I just need to get the pull, breathe, kick and glide phases right). Trying to co-ordinate was difficult, and trying to forget the bastardised breaststroke which has stood me in good stead for the past two and a half decades was nearly impossible. I ended up doing ten lengths less this time. She did fifty.

I was also slightly hampered by bumping into two Deaf friends in the medium lane. That's the lane for swimmers who go medium fast, not for those communing with The Departed. I can't see a bloody thing without my glasses and am therefore at a distinct disadvantage in the pool, so it was a bit of a shock to be minding my own business and have a hand waved frantically under my nose. We had a little chat, but to be honest I'd never tried to use British Sign Language while swimming before. I tried to tread water with just my legs, but ended up sinking at the end of any long sentences. They didn't seem too alarmed. They just hung on to the side with one hand and signed casually with the other. Rotters.

Thank you Ally, you saved the day! There I was half way through a piece about Lobster, when she leaves a comment giving the winning vote for Bath. Until then, with three stories in a tie, I couldn't decide which to do, so chose a totally new one. Now, I've nearly worn my Delete key out...

This post concerns our favourite mental Brazilian. Who else? One morning as we walked to school, she mentioned that she had a dental check up that morning. Thinking no more of it, I waved goodbye at the school gate and returned home for a nice spot of studying. At elevenish, there was a phone call - a bedraggled Brazil Nut who was still at the bus stop in the rain, having missed her appointment because the bus was over two hours late. She wasn't best pleased. Fortunately, a bus arrived before my sympathy gland fired up fully and she was whisked away to the dental surgery, there to discover that not only did her false teeth need work, but that she couldn't have them back for a few days.

She parted with them reluctantly and returned home tight-lipped. I didn't see her all afternoon or evening. The next morning the Sun and I called at her door for the walk to school. We were sure there were people in there, but no one answered. Puzzled, we set off alone for school, to be caught up a few minutes later by the Nutette. "Mummy's best friend visited yesterday," she related, excited as anything. "Mummy wasn't too happy because she didn't want to be seen without her teeth." Ah, that explained things.

When I got back from school, I decided not to go round and visit, as my presence would clearly not be welcome. So I phoned her instead. "Hello," she said in a slightly indistinct manner. I asked if she was OK, and she explained about the teeth. She hadn't gone to school because the other mums would have thought her miserable. Embarrassed to be seen without several teeth, she would have avoided smiling, you see. "And now the bloody dog won't get in the bath," she concluded. Mr Nut had taken Islay for her evening constitutional the night before, and she had rolled in something unidentifiable, but probably dead, and decidedly smelly. The BN had run the bath for her, but she had refused to go up the stairs, and the BN didn't want to force it in case the dog turned on her. The ideal strategy was to get the dog's lead on then pull her upstairs. But Islay was having none of it. The BN rattled the lead by the front door and yelled "Walkies!" But Islay stayed on her bed in the garage, ears flat. No dice.

"How about I come round and ring the bell? You know she always comes to say hello." There was a pause as the Brazil Nut considered, weighing the pros of getting the dog in the bath, with the cons of being seen toothless. The pros won. "I'll be round in two minutes!"

It worked like a charm. Islay horsed out from the kitchen, rear legs skidding as they slipped on the flags as she made the turn. She wagged and nuzzled, then threw herself onto her back for a tummy tickle. The Brazil Nut pounced, lead in hand, and the deed was done. I followed them upstairs, careful to avoid looking the Brazil Nut in the mouth. Islay stood meekly in the bath while the BN soaped her. She knew when she was beaten. I watched transfixed, waiting for her suddenly to make a break for freedom, skidding even more and spraying suds around the house, slickly avoiding our attempts to capture her. But she didn't. She submitted. And throughout her ordeal, her eyes bored into mine. Her body language might have said 'OK you got me'. But her eyes said to me 'This is all YOUR fault'.

I thought she had forgiven me, but over the past week I have come to a different conclusion. She has a new tactic when she sees me now. Instead of adopting the 'tickle my tummy now ohgoshpleaseireallywantyouto goongoongoongoon' position, she leaps into my arms in a manner not unlike Scooby-Do seeking sanctuary with Shaggy. She's not a lightweight (she's about the size of a Collie)but it's not a problem. If I'm expecting it. If I'm not, and particularly if I'm crouching down and not expecting it, she gets some very satisfactory results. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go and change my poultice.

It's been a strange weekend, on the whole. On Saturday, I ended up consuming a vast amount of wine at the Brazil Nut's and staggering home at half past midnight. I've been feeling the effects for much of today. And then, this evening, Methane Boy and I have been baking, stacking, measuring and testing fairy cakes of various types, including ones made with no egg and ones made with no flour. It's just gone 11 on Sunday night and I feel totally clueless.

So, I'm hoping you will take pity on me and help me decide on the next post. Leave a comment to register your vote. Unlike other bloggers (you know who you are) who give a fake description and never publish the post I vote for, the descriptions are all true. Honest :)

The contenders are:

'Bath' - cunning, subterfuge, missing dentition

'Unwelcome guests' - starring visitors from Bristol and Brazil

'Udder' - a fruity tale with pictures

'Contact' - life through a lens

By popular request (of at least one reader) - a picture of my poor pants mug :(

At ten past seven this morning there was an apologetic knock on the bedroom door. Methane Boy's head appeared. "Dad's dropped a contact lens." Donning my disguise as Super Lens Finder Woman (OK, pulling on my dressing gown) I came to the rescue. I've had contact lenses since I was 18, and I know that a dropped lens is bad news. Particularly with hard lenses, which will bounce and roll, so even if you know where it fell, the chances are that it's nowhere near there now.

The other problem with trying to find a lens is that, by definition, you can only have a maximum of one lens in. You therefore can't actually see to find it. In fact the having-one-eye-in-focus-and-the-other-all-blurry thing does weird things to your brain. So ideally, you need someone else to help. Preferably someone who knows how to look for a dropped lens - there is definitely a right way and a wrong way to do it. Of course, Tallboy spent ten minutes trying to find it himself before he called for help. This is a huge no-no, because if it dropped onto your clothes and you then start moving about, it could drop anywhere. If you freeze where you are and holler, the area of possible location is much smaller.

According to accepted best practice, these are the steps I took to locate the lost lens:

1. Spend three minutes trying to find the damn torch.
2. On my knees, carefully approach Tallboy, who is perched on the edge of the sofa.
3. Establish what happened, berate Tallboy for not noticing when the lens pinged out of his eye.
4. Establish that he has already looked and moved around. Berate for a substantially longer period.
5. Shine torch over the immediate area, looking for tell-tale glint of lens.
6. Fingertip search of carpet in immediate vicinity - you don't want to charge in and tread on it.
7. Carefully search the fleece he had on his knees at the time of the droppage.
8. Torch and fingertip search of Tallboy's clothing including soles of feet, trouser turnups etc.
9. Check that lens isn't still in his eye (I would have put money on this one).
10. Torch and fingertip search of sofa cushions.
11. Sit back with a sigh, knowing that the lens, as it's not in the obvious close-by places, is going to be difficult to spot.
12. Notice that as the torch beam played randomly over an as-yet unsearched area of floor as you sat back, there was a glint.
13. Investigate eagerly, raise hair- and crumb-encrusted contact lens triumphantly.
14. Accept praise and thanks modestly.
15. Have breakfast since there's no bloody point going back to bed.
16. Sit at PC and hammer out an early post while you still remember what happened.

I have several tales of contact lens mishaps of my own (including the time I ate one), but will save them for another day as I am off for a swim in a minute.

This one seems rather appropriate given the job I will be starting soon. Incidentally, it has just occurred to me that of the two jobs, the one I chose should provide me with much better blogging material - did this subconsciously affect my decision? Though I have no idea when I'm going to get the time to post after I start work, but that's another story. I suppose I ought to change the blurb up there under the title too...

Have you ever had a morning's work lost when your PC froze or crashed? Has it ever done exactly the opposite of what you wanted and left you up a gum tree five minutes before an important meeting? Have you ever had a hard drive die the day before you intended to get round to that full back up? Well now it's time for REVENGE.

You will see a short animation (don't be put off by the fact that it's all in Spanish), then you will be faced with an image of a computer which has just lost your work. This is the final straw. You crack. Click on the tower unit, the monitor, the keyboard, the mouse. Have your speakers on at a decent volume for maximum effect. Keep clicking. Doesn't that feel better?

Ready for it? Then off you go - Metele al Ordenata

In my effort to achieve 10,000 steps today, I walked to the shops. Twice. In the rain. In fact I had to call the school to confirm my acceptance of the job offer while crossing a field, steaming slightly with the exacting pace. I'm not sure what the head thought as I breathed heavily down the phone at him, but he seemed pleased enough that I had accepted the job.

After lunch I sat at my desk in the office and filled in a Passport application form. A funny noise emanated from the back roof window. I looked up, but the blind was fully drawn and I couldn't see anything. A regular noise, almost like a tap on the window. Aha! I thought to myself, I know what that is.

Many years ago, I was in my bedroom on a sunny afternoon. The curtains were closed and all was peaceful. Until someone, or something, tapped at the window. Now this wasn't a bungalow, I'm talking about a first floor window here, and it made me jump out of my skin. Who could it be? I dared myself to get closer and closer to the tapping, till I was within reach of the curtain. I whipped it away to one side, coming face to beak with an extremely surprised looking magpie, which had been sat on the windowsill, pecking at a shiny silver ornament which was sparkling nicely in the sunshine just inside the window.

I put two and two together as I sat in the office. The blind has an aluminium backing, which makes it very good at insulating. I imagined that there was another acquisitive magpie on the roof, trying its best to get at the big shiny thing. It was possibly a descendant of the previous one. Soundlessly padding across the floor, I positioned myself under the window and with one swift movement retracted the blind, peering out of the window as I did so in an attempt to spot the startled perpetrator. Instead, I found my eyeballs frazzled by the strong sunshine, and recoiled with my hands over my eyes. The retinal image is still with me now.

The blind, as I have said, does a very good job of insulating. And blacking out. It's a blackout blind. So I was unaware that the decidedly inclement weather which had basted me on my two trips to the shops this morning had turned into bright sunshine this afternoon. And that the sun was shining directly through the south-facing window at the moment when I released the blind. The noise had been the sound of the window and its surround undergoing thermal expansion in the warm sunlight.

Tallboy was telling me earlier about a brush with birds in his younger days. Hmmm. That reads a little strangely, but I'm sure you know what I mean. It's a good job he told me earlier, actually, as he is in the doghouse now, having broken my special pants mug with the hand-painted Y-fronts on it. Now I appreciate that accidents happen, and would have been sad but not cross - except that having broken it, he stuck it towards the back of the worktop behind the Nixie tube counter and then failed to tell me that he had done it. Rather amusingly, I discovered the terrible truth as I was setting up the clippers to cut his hair. I can't wait for the squeal of anguish when he next goes into the bathroom and stands in front of the mirror...

Anyway, back to the brush with birds. A decade or two ago, Tallboy and a group of friends decided to ride from Oxford to Brighton for a day out. He had just bought a spanking new Moto Guzzi and was rather proud of it, though reluctant to thrash the engine while it was so new. He therefore rode tail-end Charlie, and managed to fall a little way behind the others. At one point as they approached their destination, their route took them underneath the railway. This wasn't a standard railway bridge, but a deeper one, almost a tunnel.

As his mates got near to it, they dropped a gear or three to enhance the echo potential, and howled through the tunnel making one hell of a noise. Tallboy followed more quietly and sedately, but discovered at the other end of the tunnel that it was the chosen roosting site of a large flock of seagulls, which had taken fright when the noisy bikes came through and had collectively taken to the air to escape. As they all fluttered above him, he saw a white splat land at the top of his visor. Damn.

When he arrived at the destination, his mates were already off their bikes. He pulled up and pointed to the splat on his helmet. "One of those seagulls crapped on me," he told them. "One?" came the reply, followed by sustained hysterics. He slowly looked down at himself, and the realisation dawned that the whole flock had been seriously spooked by the noise, and that they had all emptied their bowels at the same time. On him. He was covered. I felt sorry for him when he told me this story. But we are now post mug discovery and I am a) feeling that he deserved it and b) wondering how I might engineer something similar to happen to him on the way to work tomorrow...

So I've spent six months with jobs evading my grasp, and now two come along at once...

I had a really fun interview today, for an IT network job at a school. They got all five shortlisted candidates to come in at nine o'clock, when we had a pep talk from the head, followed by a tour of the school. Then we had to do a test, which involved answering some tough networking questions, crimping a network cable (never done it before), get two broken PCs working (I didn't shine at this, though I got there in the end), identify bits of computer and network infrastructure, and finally create a web page to strict requirements. Now, my expertise with html extends to the basic formatting and tweaking with the template you see before you now (with a bit of input from Methane Boy on the mystery of html tables), so this was a toughie, but we were allowed to look stuff up so I managed it.

At lunch time we elbowed our way through poor hungry pupils into the queue for dinners, and sat round the table shovelling food and chatting to the staff and students who had drawn the short straw. After lunch we were packed off to the staff room to sit round making awkward conversation while the students and staff members fed back their impressions to the interview panel, and the network manager totted up the test results. The head appeared after a while, asked us if any of us felt that we no longer wanted the job, then whisked two members of the group away. They never returned, having been asked to leave.

That left three of us for interviews. I was scheduled last, and had to sit in the staff room for an hour, half heartedly listening to other peoples' conversations and trying to work out what questions they might ask me. Finally I could bear it no longer and escaped to the loo. Predictably, when I came out, one of the interview panel was loitering outside, waiting to ferry me off to my doom. The actual interview went really well, everyone was very relaxed, although I did kick myself when I came out as I realised that I hadn't said what I had planned to say about why I wanted the job - I was going to say that I applied because I was a big fan of Teachers.

The head called shortly after I got home, and offered me the job. I was over the moon. The money is much less than the job I was offered last week, but it ties in brilliantly with my IT studies and I really warmed to the people there. I have been mulling it over tonight (with the help of a glass or two of bubbly) and have decided to go with the IT job. I will have to phone first thing tomorrow to accept, then I'll have to call the guy who offered me the job last week to tell him no. That won't be much fun, he was desperate for me to accept. Still, I'd much rather be in the position of choosing between two jobs than being told once again(as has happened the last four times I've had an interview) that I was great, and would have got the job if it weren't for the more experienced candidate. Oh, and they didn't even ask me for any proof of ID at all...

A victory for common sense! Nice Neighbours, having sneakily sounded out the Brazil Nut at her place of work about my resolve to oppose their rear addition (bet that gets search engine hits for buttock enhancement), have decided to build up into the loft rather than out into the back garden. I'm very relieved.

The Brazil Nut continues on top form. We heard her and her guests having fun on Sunday evening, running round the garden and making spooky noises. Later, someone knocked on our front door and I opened it to see two people with freaky old men masks standing there gesturing wordlessly. My first thought was "It's too early for Trick or Treating, surely?" and my second thought, which I voiced, was "Hello Brazil Nut and unidentified friend." She removed the mask with a giggle, while her companion, disgusted with the lack of response, wandered off. Another, maskless, companion sidled up to the door with a grin on his face. I heard Methane Boy in the kitchen, and told the BN to put her mask back on to scare him. I called him to the front door, where the BN jumped out to zero reaction.

When they had gone, he confided, "The BN's mask was freaky. The other bloke's one wasn't too bad, though." Through tears of laughter, I informed him that the other bloke wasn't wearing one. Composing myself with difficultly, I made it to the phone and dialled the Brazil Nut's number, with Methane Boy desperately gesturing 'no' at me from the front room. The Brazil Nut dissolved into hysterics when I told her, but apparently the man with no mask was a good sport, as he failed to come round and beat Methane Boy up.

I have a job interview tomorrow - all candidates are invited to spend the morning on site, then during lunch they decide who they wish to interview in the afternoon. Eek! At least I'm going in there knowing that whatever happens, I do have a job, as the guy from last week's interview has been kind enough to hold the job offer open for a week. The more I think about it, the more I like the sound of last week's job, which is very well paid, offers flexitime working (so I can still pick the Sun up from school), uses my Sign Language skills, and is a socially useful undertaking. The one tomorrow is just over half the money, I doubt it will be flexible given the setting, but would give me lost of valuable techie experience.

So, if offered the job tomorrow, I have to make a choice which will affect not just the short term but a lot further into the future. Argh! And to top it all, I have to take proof of identity with me tomorrow and I can't find my bloody passport! It expired earlier this year, and I casually cast it aside somewhere, forgetting that I would need it for renewal purposes. I've spent the whole evening looking for it with no joy, and am now feeling tense and snippy. I do however hear Tallboy running a nice bath so I think I'd better go...

Today is the Sun's tenth birthday. Rather neat that - 10 on 10/10. When I was expecting him, I had hoped he might be born on my birthday, and spent that day jigging around like a maniac in the hopes of enticing him out, but he clung on and emerged bang on his due date, just I had some decades before. I'm rather glad that he did wait, it's nice that he has his very own day.

The Ex and I took the Sun and four of his friends out for lunch. Various parents thrust their offspring towards us, watched them safely into the car, muttered "Rather you than me" or "You must be mad" and retreated with a happy wave back into their homes. Over time now they've stopped looking at the Ex and me quizzically, unable to understand how we can be in each other's vicinity without quarrelling, let alone be laughing and joking and happy.

And what of these five youngsters, going out to a busy restaurant, all excited and hyped up? A parent's nightmare with squabbling and noise and bad manners and embarrassment and other people turning to look at you like you're conducting a chimp's tea party? Far from it - they were amazingly well behaved, had a great time, didn't fall out, didn't muck around, and just had fun. It was a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. They ate till they couldn't move, then waddled out with me to the car, each clinging for dear life to the two helium balloons they had each liberated.

The kids piled into the car, and I shoved the balloons in after them. You couldn't see the children, just balls of red and blue and yellow plastic around where their heads should be. I explained that although it looked fantastic, they would get in the way while I was driving, so they very solemnly grabbed their balloons and kept tight hold all the way home. When we got back, they released with relief and Tallboy opened the door to be met with the sight of a car full of balloons and not a child in sight.

What a brilliant day. What a lovely boy he is. Happy Birthday Sun.

Under canvas in October isn't usually my idea of a good time but Tallboy and I spent a very pleasant night last night in a tent in the back garden of a pub near Tewkesbury. I have to admit that we went in the Zafira, rather than on the bikes, as this meant we could take two duvets with us, which kept us nice and snug. Not so pleasant was dinner in the pub. We started with Breaded Mushrooms, five each, at £3.95. That's nearly 80p a mushroom! To add insult to injury, as I masticated the second one, I realised that its taste and texture weren't so much mushroomy as scampiesque. I blanched and spat it out. Getting scampi when you ordered mushrooms may not seem a big deal - but it is if you're a vegetarian. I felt quite ill. The landlord's response? "Blimey! That happened last week as well!"

On our way up to Tewkesbury, we clicked a record 68 Zafiras. With a 45 mile trip, that's over one and a half Zafiras per mile. The clicker was almost smoking, Tallboy was clicking so fast. Disappointingly, we saw only 28 this morning on the way back.

Tallboy, Methane Boy and the Sun are out in the garden, preparing for the Birthday Bonfire I promised the Sun. Should be a lovely night for it. As Tallboy and I left this afternoon to pick Methane Boy up, we noticed a branch that had been blown down by the wind. It was lying in the road just down the way from our house. That'll go up a treat, I mused, and made a mental note to retrieve it later. Methane Boy just nipped out and got it for me, embarrassed to have had to drag it back past the Brazil Nut's house. I don't think she saw him...

We saw her and the Nutette as she returned from the shops earlier. They had been in the toyshop, which today, for some reason, was guarded by a chap in a Star Wars Imperial Stormtrooper outfit. As they entered the shop, he leaned forward and menaced them. "You're not invited in," he hissed. The Brazil Nut stopped dead, and gave him a look which would have impressed Paddington Bear. "Er, you're invited in," he offered, weakly. As they left, his back was to her, so she gave him a shove. He responded by turning and chasing them out of the shop. As they both shrieked and giggled, everyone turned to stare. I'd better watch out. She still hasn't forgiven me for accusing her of hiding my nail puzzle.

I can't believe I've waited so long to share my absolutely favourite games site with you. This guy is so talented, and his output so fantastic, words fail me. There are all sorts of games here so if you don't like one, try another. These are a few that have caught my eye:

These little pigs - ##extreme cuteness warning## I love this game. The graphics and the soundtrack are deliciously soothing, and the gameplay can be tough but not frenzied. You have to pop the bubbles to stack the pigs in the direction of the arrow. The seagull brings a clock which will give you more time if you drop it on the pig's head as it travels on the bubble. And that's it. If you can play this once without wanting another go then you have a heart of stone.

Milk the Cow - this is the complete opposite to the pig game, requiring a fast finger on the mouse. Don't play this one if you get motion sickness :)

Bubble Bees - a relaxing soundtrack but you have to be quick on the clicker. Encapsulate the bees and the clocks in bubbles - the more you get in a bubble, the better.

You will find many other games on the home page, do spend a little while having a click around. Ladies and gents, boys and girls, form an orderly queue please for Ferry Halim's Orisinal.

The Brazil Nut played a blinder on my birthday. We called at her house on the way to school in the normal way, and the Nutette answered the door, looking very excited when she saw me. She ducked into the house for her coat and came back out with all the excitement gone. Out came the BN, but no "Happy Birthday". I thought it was strange, because we had been talking birthdays not long ago - October is a birthday-rich month around here, with me, the Sun, the Cartographer, Mum, Nutette, and the Brazil Nut all celebrating within a fortnight or so. I wondered if this was a joke, that she was pretending to forget for effect.

When we got back from school, she invited me in to look at the painting she had done the night before. Aha! This was when she would break into a smile and hand me a present. Or not... Islay came bounding up to me with a toy in her mouth. "At least someone knows its my birthday," I muttered to her.

Later, as we picked the children up from school, the Sun asked me if I had had a nice birthday. The Brazil Nut turned to me, all incredulous. "It's your birthday?" I wasn't half miffed. I relented when we got back to my house and invited them in for a handful of jelly beans. I showed them the present the Sun got me - a bunch of tricky puzzles made from nails. They each grabbed one and puzzled away, the Nutette proving to be very gifted at getting them apart. The Brazil Nut was fascinated and announced her intention to buy a set to take to Brazil for her father. After half an hour's puzzling, the Brazil Nut realised that she was almost late for work, and they departed with alacrity and apologies.

Two minutes later the doorbell rang. There they were with a card and present - she had been pretending all along, the swine. A week or so ago, she had promised to buy me a jigsaw puzzle that I really wanted. It was a 1000 piece puzzle, showing front pages of the Dandy and the Beano over the years. The package she handed me didn't look as big as I remembered the box looking in the shop. And when it was unwrapped, out tumbled a 200 piece children's jigsaw - the only Beano one she could find in the shop!

Today as I wandered past the shelf by the front door, I noticed that one of the nail puzzles wasn't in the box. The Brazil Nut had fiddled with one of them yesterday when she called in the morning, and I had a sneaking suspicion that she hadn't replaced it. That kind of wind up would be just her style. She rang the doorbell on her way home from work this evening, to pick up some scones she had asked me to buy. I told her that I would only hand them over if she gave back the puzzle. Cue denials, incredulous expression, laughter. I just knew she had it. But she wouldn't crack even under tough interrogation.

I've just got back in from a little walk. Down two doors to the Brazil Nut's house. To apologise profusely. She didn't take it. Tallboy found it after she left, still protesting her innocence as she walked up the street. I had to go and say sorry, and boy did she enjoy it. Where had it been? she enquired loftily. I told her I'd rather not say. She insisted. It erm appeared that I had taken it up to the office. Tallboy found it lying on my desk. I'm not going to hear the last of this...

Thank you all for the birthday wishes - I had a lovely day. Today hasn't been so bad either, although I did omit to sign on. I will have to be penitent tomorrow. I did go for a job interview today, and they offered me the job. When I didn't accept it straight away, the guy was disappointed - but I have an interview next week for a techie job and I want to give that a go too.

Totting up the votes, No. 3 won, so here it is:

As a child, obviously you're inquisitive about your own body and what limits there are to what it can do. Over time, you grow out of this kind of thing. Unless you're me or Methane Boy, that is.

When I was a student, I wanted to see how much stuff I could get in my mouth. I'm afraid you're about to be disappointed, Scary. The material I chose for my test was the humble Creme Egg. One whole Creme Egg, no problem. Two whole Creme Eggs. Also, no problem. *drumroll* Three whole Creme Eggs, still no problem. Until I tried to breathe, chew or speak, that is. I ended up unable to do any of these three rather vital activities, and with chocolate and fondant drool running down my chin, I seriously thought that I was going to meet my maker, surrounded by friends who had been rendered helpless by hysterics. Thankfully I did survive, and have never been able to look a Creme Egg squarely in the face again.

I recounted this episode to the children, who sniggered sadly. StepD told me that she too had been overcome by the same urges and had managed to insert her entire fist into her mouth. Ouch.

Methane Boy said, "That's nothing!" Intrigued, I begged him to tell me more. Driven by the same spirit of enquiry, he had tried to push an apple into his mouth. He had to struggle a little to get it past his teeth, but eventually it was in, and there he was, stood with an apple in his mouth, like some crazy version of a roast boar. All well and good, until he tried to remove it. Lodged, it was. Behind his teeth. No amount of exertion or attempted jaw dislocation was going to budge it. He needed to act quickly before he was discovered red handed, or at least wide-mouthed. He reached for a knife (don't try this at home kids), and neatly, but gently, bisected the apple whilst it was still in situ, removing it easily a half at a time.

I checked with the Brazil Nut whether she had anything she could top this with, but she was unable to come up with anything. More a nibbler and a gnawer, she told me a couple of stories from her childhood in Brazil. One time, she had a link from a gold chain which had broken off, so she put it in her mouth and played with it with her tongue, turning it over and over. Until it stuck fast deep in the gum between two teeth. Running in tears for assistance, she was finally put out of her misery by her uncle who used some little electrician's pliers to remove it. It bled rather a lot, as she recalls.

Then, she told me, there was this time when their neighbours killed a pig. They cooked it, then removed the cooked flesh from the bones as best they could. The process left some shreds of meat still attached, and they handed a femur to the Brazil Nut for her to gnaw. This she did all evening, even taking it to bed with her to gnaw while dropping off to sleep. The first thing she saw on waking was the shiny white gnawed-clean bone, and it gave her a hell of a fright till she remembered. It was food when I went to bed, she said, and when I woke up, it was DEAD!

I'm not entirely sure I want to ask this question, but what's the biggest thing you've ever got in your mouth?

Never before in my life have I been presented with a huge tub of jelly beans at 6.45 in the morning, what a fantastic start to the day! The intial present-opening frenzy has stopped, the Sun and I will soon squelch our way to school in the rain, I will return for some coffee and a little play on my favourite Playstation game, then I will head off for a spot of retail therapy. And possibly a nice little something for lunch.

As I fully intend to be way too tiddly to write a post tonight, I will instead offer you a present - the choice of tomorrow's post. Leave a comment to vote for your choice.

'Bath' - cunning, subterfuge, missing dentition

'Unwelcome guests' - starring visitors from Bristol and Brazil

'What a mouthful' - three? At once?

Energetic sounds of sawing, hammering and cursing have been heard in the back garden of Weevil Mansions over the weekend. Having previously constructed two very rustic-looking rabbit hutches benches, the pile of spare timber behind the shed appeared not to have decreased to any appreciable extent. Unimpressed with the performance of our Local Authority composting bin/frog sanctuary/fruit fly vivarium, we thought we might build one ourselves. The Ex built one long ago, in the corner of the garden. Sadly, it didn't work too brilliantly but TLB Shouty, the junior hooligan from next door, found it provided a very useful leg-up for getting over the fence when trespassing on our property.

Tallboy had been considering the design for some time, and got to work yesterday, sawing planks to form interlocking puzzle pieces with which we would construct the compost bin. I attacked the hugely overgrown hedge at the bottom of the garden, reclaiming a good three feet of land and making the acquaintance of a waggy little dog, a toad and several nasty brambles in the process. Tallboy built the first layer of the compost bin to show me how the pieces fitted together. I was impressed with the durable simplicity of his plan. However, the layer looked suspiciously self-contained, and I asked what would attach it to the next layer to built on top of it. Ah, he said, and wandered off back to the drawing board.

Today I levelled the site and started to build the bin proper, with Tallboy sawing like a maniac to supply further planks. I had wedged my little radio between branches in the plum tree, and managed to hear the Archers omnibus in its entirety for the first time in ages. This put me in such a good mood that I barely noticed the persistent rain.

After lunch we consulted my four virgin gardening books (not used before, rather than 'Gardening for Virgins') for advice about getting the potato peelings to break down. Interestingly, each book advocated a different method, and poured scorn on other approaches (which, strangely enough, were advocated by the other volumes). One of the pictures showed a bin quite similar to ours, and I asked Tallboy if this was the source of his inspiration. No it wasn't. How had he come up with the idea then? Was the design aimed at maximising insulation, aeration, minimising saturation, what? "Well," he said, "You remember that catalogue for the poncey conservatories that came through the door? They sold a compost bin for hundreds of pounds. When I stopped laughing, I decided that it looked quite nice so I thought I'd copy it." Right.

Once we'd sorted that out, it was back out into the rain to transfer the innards of the existing composting bin/frog sanctuary/fruit fly vivarium into the new one. I kicked it over and forked its malodorous contents into the wheelbarrow. I was doing really well until I hit a rich seam of rotting coleslaw and fled, retching, to the other side of the garden. This placed me right next to the Shouty's duck enclosure, which smells like, well, duck crap, although at this point the aroma was heaven-scent. I wimped out after that, and Tallboy with his nose of steel finished the job.

Later, I was making a cup of coffee when I heard Pesky demanding ingress at the back door. Opening it, I was confronted with a fluffy confection dredged in fine yellow powder. On closer inspection, I could see that she was covered in sawdust. Since we built the benches, she has adopted them as her little comfort zones, and loves to sit underneath them, particularly when it's raining. Sadly, she hasn't yet worked out that this is a remarkably ineffective shelter strategy, as there is a gap between the seat planks of at least 1 1/2". Tallboy had been using one of the benches to saw the compost bin planks on, and a load of sawdust must have dropped down this gap. When a damp Pesky took shelter underneath, her fur must have been as a magnet, the sawdust sticking fast. As I laughed uncontrollably at the sight, she retreated into the house, throwing an accusatory look over her shoulder as she went out of sight...

Tallboy is a big fan of doughnuts, and fortunately for him they seem to have been figuring in his life rather a lot recently. He had a cream doughnut for dessert a couple of weeks ago, gozzling it standing in the kitchen. He took a huge bite, causing the poor doughnut to squirt its contents out splat onto the floor. I suggested that he might not look such a moron next time if he would care to check where the hole was and align the doughnut sensibly before biting. He said he'd bear that in mind.

I was unsurprised when he came back from work one day last week sporting a jam bullet wound on the front of his white T-shirt. "I had a doughnut," he volunteered, as he saw me taking in the red splodge. As I raised an eyebrow he was quick to get his explanation in. "I checked where the hole was and turned it upwards before I bit. But I didn't realise this hole went all the way through. So it still squirted..."

He had one today without incident, you'll be relieved to hear.

I told the Brazil Nut about Tallboy's inability to ingest doughnuts without bathing in their contents. She snorted and told me not to mention doughnuts in her presence again. I probed further, although it was clearly a painful subject. I had to know, it could have been good blogging material. She cracked eventually, and told me that she had seen a pack of ten doughnuts reduced to 10p at the supermarket, and being very partial to them, she just had to buy them. When she got home Mr Nut and the junior Nuts each had one, although she wasn't hungry so she left the rest for later. The next morning those seven doughnuts were nowhere to be seen. But Islay had a very satisfied look on her face, and a suspicion of sugar about the muzzle. I think it's quite likely that the Brazil Nut will never forgive her...

And while I have your attention, Phil is feeling rather poorly, so why not pop over to Mulled Whines and leave him a Get Well Soon comment? Lurching zombie-like from his sickbed, he managed to spend just a brief moment on the internet, telling me that his cold '(which has been rediagnosed as a throat infection / catarrh / tropical disease) has mutated into an extreme nausea' which has confined him to bed and caused him to avoid the internet as much as possible, as he doesn't have the correct attachment for his vacuum cleaner for removing vomit from in between keys on his keyboard. Bless.

First off, it's Crash's birthday today, so Happy Birthday Crash! He told me he wanted a flash of my booty for his present, so that's what I sent him...

Yesterday evening I decided to show a bit of solidarity with Tallboy and underwent the snip myself. My hair has been bugging me for weeks and last night I couldn't stand it any more so I gathered it up into a ponytail and hacked about six inches off. Tallboy watched me, aghast. "I don't have a locket big enough," he wailed. I had to have him chop a couple of inches more off to tidy it up, and that was that. It feels much better now. I've promised myself that when I get a job I will go and have it dyed deep deep purple. I hope this happens before I'm a grey old woman...

I also made Tallboy a little present. It's not his birthday (his is, funnily enough, the inverse of mine, so it's six months away yet), but we had been joking about having a pudding day tally chart in the bedroom. So I made him one. It's based on the 'collecting funds for the roof' type things you sometimes see outside churches, in the shape of a thermometer, graduated up to the target amount and coloured in to show you how far they've got. 'Donations gratefully accepted' and so on. I don't intend to give daily updates, but we're off to a good start.

He, in turn, had a gift for me. He brought it home tonight, and put it out while I was upstairs in the office finishing off a test exam. Taking me by the hand he led me through the kitchen. "I've got you a present," he beamed. Flowers, I wondered, or a book maybe? No, it was a Racal Universal Counter 835. "I got it out of a skip," he continued. "I know how much you like Nixie tubes, so I fished it out. It didn't work when I plugged it in, but I replaced the mains cable and the fuses and it goes a treat." And there it was, blinking away at me on the worktop. It's fantastic! I'd love to make a clock out of it. Nixie tubes are little valves which have ten filaments inside them, each in the shape of a number from 0 to 9. When current is sent through the filament, it glows in the shape of the number. It really is hypnotic seeing them change. Very old tech, but great fun. I'm as chuffed as anything, what a wonderful present :)