Weevilstepmother

The sofa in the front room at Weevil Mansions has been on its last legs for some time. Tallboy has mended it once or twice, and we wedged a huge length of 2 x 2 under it to stave off the threatened collapse. I suppose that's what you get with three large offspring who don't so much sit down as cease resisting gravity. The chair, which matched the sofa to the extent that it was a piece of furniture in the same room, wasn't as bad. With the castors off, it was well supported by the floor, though it was just a teeny little bit lower than one might expect - this has been evidenced by the surprised faces of several visitors.

When Mum said that she was getting a new suite, and would we like the old one at all, I got rather excited. The prospect of having a sofa and two whole chairs (so that we could all be seated simultaneously), and not only that but matching as well, was quite overwhelming. We accepted gratefully, and so it was that Tallboy and I liberated his work's van from the company compound early yesterday morning. As we approached the van, I started to have doubts that a sofa would fit, but opening the side door, I was reassured by the TARDIS-like nature of the vehicle. There was a box of straps on the floor, which Tallboy put in the boot of the car - all oily and manky they were, and most liable to stain any fabric they might have touched. There was a small pause for a bicker as Tallboy couldn't find the car keys to lock the car up again, but the discovery of the keys in the box of straps (how mysterious!) put an end to that and we were able to head off to Mum's.

Although Mum shared my initial concern about stuff fitting, we were able to jigsaw the pieces into the back of the van, adding blankets at strategic places to save the cream covers from the general oiliness of the van's interior. A quick thank you and we were off again (not that we were ungrateful, you understand, but we had to vacate the drive to allow the dogsitter in).

Back at Weevil Mansions, I put into effect the planning in which I had engaged on the journey back down the M5. First we had to get the old sofa and chair out of the room and onto the front lawn. Then (and this wasn't in the plan), aghast at the mess thus uncovered, I had to run for the Dyson. I thought it was a neat idea to have a see-through receptacle when I first bought it; it seems to turn my stomach now... Then we had to move the bureau (a huge, dark, nicotine-coated, gothic object which nearly reaches the ceiling - inherited from my grandparents) through ninety degrees. 'We'll have to empty it out and take it apart,' wailed Tallboy. Not if you know exactly where to push it - it glided balletically into place, though I did need Tallboy's help to pull it back out a little as I had forgotten that its new position obscures the lightswitch just a teensy weensy bit, so it has to sit just a little forward.

We managed to get the new stuff in with only the minimum bickering and knuckle grazing, which was nice. What wasn't quite so nice was the oil - somehow a streak of it had appeared on the front of the sofa cover. Since we were planning on washing the covers anyway (two energetic and mud-loving doggies don't tend to go very well with cream furniture covers), we whipped off the cover and took it into the kitchen, where I anointed the oil with washing liquid. I then tried to stuff the cover into the washing machine, but couldn't even cram half of it in. Eeek! What to do? There was only one option - the bath! This is how I found myself trampling up and down on two chair covers and a sofa cover in the bath yesterday afternoon. The cushion covers, washed in the washing machine in batches of three, and (very importantly) spun, dried quickly on the line. The big covers didn't so much dry as drip, so we left them out there overnight and prayed for dry weather.

Today, Tallboy decided to gut and joint the carcasses of the old furniture. I had already had an exploratory hand down the sides last evening (buggered if I was going to let Master ASBO-in-waiting next door get his hands on anything nice out of my old furniture) but all I retrieved was a pair of trainer socks (clean) and a pair of tights (not sure). This afternoon, Tallboy took a knife to the underside of the sofa, and I watched excitedly for the deluge of money and lost and forgotten goodies. There was nothing in it. Not one thing. The chair was a different proposition - we'd heard jingling from it as we moved it, so knew were onto a good thing. It yielded two two pence coins, one two pound coin, a battery, some wizened orange peel, an orange smartie, and various sweet wrappings. I swiped the two pound coin and grandly informed Tallboy that he was welcome to keep the rest of the stuff...

I watched in incredulity as Tallboy ripped the foam off the sofa. I couldn't believe that I had paid hundreds of pounds for a rickety-looking construction of hardboard and cardboard. Then I recalled that it had been the Ex who had paid for it, and brightened up rather. I managed to stop Tallboy as he was on the verge of trotting off to get a saw. 'Do you know,' I said musingly, 'what we could really do with is some kind of frame, ideally sofa-shaped, on which to stretch the wet sofa cover and thus accelerate the drying process.' Tallboy looked at me with a mixture of pity and disbelief, his mind on terminal destruction of crappy sofa carcasses. 'Possibly, yes, but I don't see how that actually helps us here and now.' 'I was just wondering whether there might be anything around which might just serve that purpose,' I continued, with a significant glance down at the overpriced skeleton sitting between us on the lawn. Realisation dawned in his eyes, and he went off to enlist Methane Boy's assistance.

As I write, it's nearly four o'clock, we haven't had an ounce of sunshine all day, the rainclouds are gathering, and the covers are still far from dry. Oh, and we can't get into the dining room because some idiot's stuck a stripped sofa draped with a wet cover in there...

The Ex's new job seems to be going well. It's quite a jump from factory worker to measurer-of-the-elderly, but he seems to be getting the hang of it.

Earlier this week he drove a minibus full of Occupational Therapists up to some trade show in Birmingham. Everyone else breezed in, but he hadn't been pre-registered so had to register at the desk. He filled in a little form and handed it to the lady, who tapped his details into a computer and printed out a badge for him. Peering upside-down at it, pinned on his chest, he noticed a barcode on it. As he made his way round the stands and got bipped by various barcode reader wielding herberts, its purpose became clear.

Having safely brought the herd of OTs back, and picked up the Sun in the minibus (he chose to travel in the back rather than next to his father, how grand) he went home to put his feet up. Taking off his name badge, he examined it idly. Hang on, he thought, the woman at reception missed a letter in her rush. The realisation dawned on him that he had been walking round in public all day wearing a badge proclaiming that he was a 'Tranee Care Consultant'. A niche market, but I bet it pays well...

It was Methane Boy's 18th on Easter Sunday. We got him a shedload of brewing and winemaking stuff (malt, hops, fermentation vessels, spoons, funnels, heating belts, fancy bottle stoppers, yeasts, chemicals for this, chemicals for that and so on - oh, and about a tonne of sodium metabisulphite). And a fancy electronics toolcase, all shiny aluminium, stuffed with loads of lovely new tools. Well, he's not bloody taking mine or Tallboy's away to Uni with him...

I think so far he's only looked lovingly at the tools, but he has a gallon of ale brewing already. It looks a bit sad in the 5 gallon vessel, but it was all my biggest pan could contain. He's been looking wistfully at 60 quid mash boilers (or whatever they're called) on the web. At least this time he's written down what he put into the brew. There's a first time for everything I suppose...

The past ten days or so have seen the saga of the thank you letters. I reminded him to do them but didn't actually got round to it while he was here. I promised to nag him and on the Monday night he emailed me from Poppy's for everyone's addresses. These I provided to him, along with a note of the amount of folding enclosed in each card (I had taken the precaution of noting the same in pen on the back of each card, just in case).

He emailed me back asking me for Tallboy's sister's address. I quoted the line in my first email when I provided exactly that; he admitted his goldfishian memory traits. Next he emailed asking for how much Tallboy's brother had sent him - I couldn't find a card from him, nor did I remember one coming, though Methane Boy seemed to think that there had been one. Feeling guilty about a card going astray in the chaos that is my front room, I fretted right up until the card in question arrived on the Wednesday morning.

The next email asked me if we had anything planned on Saturday, as he has been invited out. Having concluded my previous email, mere hours beforehand, with the words 'Remember, Saturday night is Cossack night!' I felt more than a little bemused.

Next, Methane Boy emailed me for Tallboy's brother's address, which was fair enough as I hadn't included it on the original list. Then he emailed me to ask how to spell his cousin's name. The final email hit my inbox tonight - how had Tallboy's Mum and Dad signed off in their card? With any luck the letters might be on their way before the end of the month...

Mind you, it's not just the young 'uns... Today I was busy wrestling with a recalcitrant network install when my mobile went off. I don't often get a call at work, and if I do, it's generally the Ex telling me he can't pick the Sun up, or the Sun's school telling me he's done a vomit fountain and is awaiting collection by me (never the Ex, funnily enough) at my earliest convenience, and so on. Sometimes it's Tallboy saying 'Hello, how's your day going, just wanted to hear your voice, etc', which is nice. Last week it was the Ex with the news that his mum was in hospital with a suspected (now confirmed)return of her colon cancer, which wasn't nice.

So it was with some trepidation that I saw the unexpected caller was Mum. 'Hello? Is everything all right?' 'Oh yes,' she said brightly, 'Just thought I'd give you a quick ring. Now, then, for these wills that we're doing, do I refer to you as Mrs Weevil [Ex's surname] or Mrs Weevil [Tallboy's surname]?' 'Er, well I'm mostly known as Mrs Weevil [Ex's surname] I guess.' 'Fine then, I'll put that. Byeeee!' 'Erp...'

I preferred the one where she called me one evening a couple of weeks ago. 'Just a quick question, Weev' 'OK, fire away' 'If I'm sending out a letter but it's not my name at the bottom, what do I do?' 'Ah, right, well you sign it in your name and then you write pp next to the name of the person it's from at the bottom.' 'I knew you'd know that, thanks! (Weevil starts to glow with pride at this point) I remember you poured scorn on someone who got it wrong years ago, so I knew you'd set me straight! (Weevil's glow fades rather) Byeee!' 'Erp...'

Although, as I keep explaining to both Tallboy and Baldrick, it's not pedantry, it's just being correct, and there's nothing wrong with that...

We entertained the Cossack last night. Eventually. As the late afternoon became evening, I became more and more worried at his non-appearance. There was no response from his home number, and as for a mobile - well, would you expect a chap who wears a cork helmet to possess such a thing? At last, he arrived, and all in one piece. 'Sorry I'm late!' he boomed. 'It's the funniest thing! I was looking for a pair of trousers to wear, and I found I fitted into an old pair that I haven't been able to squeeze into for ages! So I decided to try on all the stuff that didn't fit, and most of it did! I've lost weight!' And with a cheery beam he unloaded four bottles of wine and one of port from his saddlebags, and in he came.

This morning was slightly groggy, though cooking a breakfast for the houseful woke me up nicely. Afterwards we sat round, full and rather lethargic. I suggested a walk. Agreed, but where to? Well, I ventured, there was this seat I had always fancied sitting on...

The road out of Chipping Sodbury towards the A46 climbs an almighty hill half way up which it also develops a never-ending curve, by the end of which you almost feel you're coming back on yourself. At around the half way point of the bend, the pedestrian footpath runs out, and there is a bench set for weary walkers to gaze across the South Gloucestershire countryside. I've always wanted to sit on it, and gaze. I've also fantasised that it sits above the entrance to the Chipping Sodbury Tunnel (on the Bristol Parkway to London Paddington line; most often referred to in the context of 'and the Chipping Sodbury Tunnel is closed due to flooding')- I've been through it countless times in a train, but never seen the start of it from a static viewpoint, and would like to. For some strange reason.

This walk would be a 5 or 6 mile round trip, and I asked the Cossack if his leg could stand it. He had a nasty smash on the bike some years ago, in hospital for ages, much metal remaining in his leg. Oh no, that would be fine; he was as game as we were. I packed some water bottles and the binoculars into my backpack. Then I repacked it with my waterproof coat as well; I didn't like the look of the sky at all. The Cossack grabbed his stout stick, and we were all set.

We passed the centre of the Caravan universe on the way out of Chipping Sodbury, and the scenery got much greener. Hidden birds were twitting in the hedgerows, and a deep inhalation judiciously timed to avoid recently-passed traffic filled the lungs with some pretty decent lightly-fragranced springtime air. I saw a Goldtwit dart across the road. I imagine it wouldn't have hidden away quite so effectively if I hadn't been squealing about it ooh look ooh look to the chaps, but I couldn't help it. A little further on, there was a pile of feathers scattered and I felt sorry for the bird that didn't make it. On closer inspection it was a peaceful-looking pigeon, so I stopped feeling bad. Bloody things. The Cossack felt moved to render a chorus of Jerusalem, his strong Welsh tones ringing out across the green and pleasant land. He rather spoiled it by concluding with a sustained belch.

We climbed the long drag of the hill of doom, noting the crenellated tower atop the hill, built by Mr IK Brunel as a vent for the output of steam trains travelling through the tunnel. My excitement mounted as I heard a train rumbling - I'd soon be seeing the tunnel entrance! By dint of repeating a quiet mantra in my head ('it's doing you good, it's doing you good') I managed to keep going long enough to reach the bench of desire. We collapsed onto it and got our breath back, handing the binoculars from one to another and eagerly scanning the countryside. We could see hills, fields, sheep, fences, trees, cars, roads, sheep, churches, houses, farm buildings, sheep. And sky. Not one jot of a hint of a suspicion of a railway line or tunnel entrance. Poot.

We had noticed a signpost for a public footpath on the way up; on the way back down, we explored it. It was notable for two main reasons: firstly, the way the steep initial climb downwards was constituted mainly by moss and if not moss, then mud, and secondly by coming to an abrupt halt next to a horse, an electric fence and a sign that said 'Private. Danger Dog.' Not wishing to become entangled with some pooch with a cavalier attitude to risk and sufficient fortitude to have forged a career in the army, we turned tail and headed off back up the slippery slope.

At the next crossroads, we turned off to see what we could see down the side road. Nothing much, aside from the Kingfisher-emblazoned sign advertising the Frome Valley Walkway. Without a clue where it led, we leapt the stile with agility and grace and headed off for adventure. I still held out a feeble hope that I might see the tunnel entrance...

3 fields later, The Cossack spied the parapet of a bridge through a break in the hedge. 'That's a railway bridge! Look at the engineering bricks!' He was right as well. I trotted over, excited. Tallboy wasn't far behind me when I squealed my delight at spying the tunnel entrance some 200 metres up the track. I looked around for The Cossack, he needed to join the celebrations too, but found he was a little busy weeing in the hedge at that moment. I trotted to the other side of the bridge; the track parallelled its way off into the distance, ramrod straight. And empty. There were no trains to be seen, and my pleasure at gaining the tunnel was tinged with regret. I love seeing trains go by. I particularly like stationing myself somewhere with a good view of the cab, and waving as they pass. They always hoot, and this pleases me about a thousand percent more than it should. Today though, a Sunday, the chances of seeing one were slim to say the least.

Tallboy grabbed the binoculars and pointed them skywards, training them on a passing Microlight. He waved at the occupant. I scorned his feeble waving attempt - how pitiful an object to wave at. For a start, there was no hooter to reward the wave with... His attention was then caught by a small aeroplane, but mine wandered. To the tunnel entrance. Where, in the deadly inky blackness, there were two little glows. Which got bigger and bigger and closer and closer. 'Atrainatrainatrainatrainatrainatrainatrain!' I whooped, and waved for all I was worth with both my arms over my head in Famous Five mode. The driver hooted and hooted, and, just before the train disappeared under my feet, waved back. I was elated. If you happen to have been on an InterCity 125 which left the Sodbury tunnel at 1.00 and were alarmed by the major hootage, I'm sorry; it was my fault.

I was so elated, in fact, that I managed to get us comprehensively lost in the fields although we managed at last to make our way back to Chipping Sodbury, where The Cossack treated us to a pint of jolly nice beer in the Beaufort Hunt, which gave us just enough energy to trot home and collapse on the sofa.

I've been smiling while writing this post. Finding the tunnel was fantastic. Seeing a train come out of it was the icing on the cake. Being in a position to wave at it was a dream come true. The hooting and the wave back were the best thing ever. Tallboy's response? 'I bet he thought you were going to chuck a brick at the cab...'

Java Boy wandered into the office earlier in the week, and inquired whether anyone might like a second hand dining room table - they were having a new one delivered the next day and the old one had to go. Neither Baldrick nor I needed a new table, and declined. 'Only, if I can't get rid of it, we haven't got a towbar for the trailer anymore so I'll have to chop it up to get it to the tip...' That ignited a little spark in my brain. 'Is it a solid wood table at all?' 'Yup' 'Well, if you can't find anyone who wants it, I'll have it when you've chopped it up. It'll go up a treat!' Methane Boy, our resident pyromaniac, would be well chuffed. A couple of days later, a happy Java Boy told me he had spent a pleasant hour with his dad's circular saw, and the former table was awaiting collection at my convenience.

Thus it was that Tallboy and I set off for chez Java Boy this morning. I'd arranged to pick the table up at 10 o'clock, so at 9.30 I was in the car, starting the engine. Tallboy was on the front step trying to make one of the kids hear the doorbell so that he could go back in and fetch the mp3 player. And his house keys. We managed to get going a little later than planned, but it was a lovely morning and the bickering didn't last too long.

We passed the last house and were out between fields, surrounded by greens (and the odd brown from the faded daffodil clumps by the side of the road). I caught sight of a pair of ears, and another. 'BUNNY!!!!!!!!' I am unable to quell my response to rabbits by the side of the road. I adore them. Driving mum back from Bristol once, I saw a rabbit, and exclaimed in my usual fashion. Except she's not used to it. Her heart started beating again eventually.

Further down the road, there were two more. 'BUNNY!!!!!' He was expecting that one... On the way to Poppy's house, there is a field which used to be full of scampering bunnies but is now bereft of them. Tallboy always looks to see if there are any, most of the time turning to me to say 'NB*' in a sad tone of voice.

As time went on I became aware of a smell in the car. *snff snff* Ah, yes. We're expecting the Cossack for dinner tonight, you see. I mean, we're expecting him to come here to have dinner, we're not going to eat him for dinner. That would be most un-hostlike. Mind you, there'd be good eating on him... Anyway, I'd decided to do some of the cooking first thing, to cut down on the eeek-where-has-the-time-gone rush at the end. One of the dishes is Delia's Thick Onion Tart, which requires the cooking of a pound and a half of onions for half an hour. That's what I could smell. I was all oniony.

I asked Tallboy if I smelled of onions. 'No,' he responded quickly, in his let's-not-be-controversial-here tone of voice. 'No, really,' I asked, 'do I smell of onions?' He leaned over and sniffed my shoulder. 'Well, yes, you do.' He then made a noise which at first caused me to think he was suffering a stroke but which turned out to be the noise Homer Simpson makes when he thinks of food and salivates (and which I am absolutely unable to render in this medium). Fair enough, it was quite a pleasant smell, I was just uncomfortable about it. For the rest of the trip I became more and more aware of my caramelised onion odour, and fretted. It didn't seem a very polite thing to smell of when you go to someone else's house.

Tallboy's faffing around before we left ensured that we arrived outside Java Boy's house on the stroke of 10, which was nice. I like to be prompt. Tallboy and Java Boy loaded up the car with the chopped up woody goodness, and I chatted to Java Boy's mum who came out to say hello. I suddenly felt a bit mean, taking her lovely old table away in bits to burn, but she didn't seem too bothered.

Methane Boy has already unloaded it all next to the fire place in the garden. We'll burn it later. The last time we had a bonfire, we didn't have any firelighters and it was a swine trying to get it going. Eventually, Tallboy pinched a disposable BBQ out of the garage and used that to get it going. This time, we have firelighters and a whole bin full of kindling courtesy of the shredder. We bought the firelighters in Lidl, and when we got them home, Tallboy took them out of the bag and read out the name on the pack. Instead of firelighters, it said 'firestarters'. 'Twisted firestarters' was my immediate, unthinking response. Tallboy failed completely to get the Prodigy reference, and started inspecting the packaging closely, to see how curly wurly they were. Bless.

---

* NB = No Bunnies

Baldrick is getting suspicious about the blog. He's aware of its existence, though he has never visited. His interest was piqued earlier this week when I told him that a reader thought him 'uppity'. There was a spot of gentle joshing from the Lanky Herberts and Horace. 'I'd better start reading this blog,' he muttered darkly. 'With my legal advisor.'

One thing about Baldrick, (and I'm advised this statement isn't actionable at all, oh no) is that he cannot leave a cake unconsumed. Or a biscuit. The man is a human cake radar. If there is something sweet and yumptious available anywhere in the school, he will locate it, lock on to the target, home in, and destroy it. By eating it, I mean, not by sitting on it or hitting it with a cricket bat or something.

I had to pop into one of the admin offices this morning, and as I passed through, I spotted a mountain of cakes and biscuits on the table in the middle. Not tempted myself (my willpower remains strong, honest), I logged the fact on Baldrick's behalf.

Later in the day, I actually remembered to tell him, and he was up out of his seat before I had finished speaking. Heading off to the office, he popped in casually to take down the MAC address (long hexadecimal number) of the print server in the room. He used a little square of yellow post-it to record the number, then looked up and noticed the table groaning with cake. 'Whose birthday is it?' he enquired. 'Weavil's' was the answer. 'Nah, really, whose is it?' 'Weavil's!' Ah, the light dawned - not mine, the other member of staff with the same name as me...

'Have a piece.' He didn't need asking twice. Casting around for something to cart his booty off in, he realised that he needed both hands. Sticking the post-it onto his bald forehead with a flourish, he bent down to the recycling bin and retrieved a piece of clean waste paper which he used as a plate substitute for a stonking piece of moist, rich chocolate cake. Thanking the birthday girl and wishing her many happy returns, he turned to leave. 'Er, Baldrick,' came a hesitant voice from near his elbow. 'Yes?' 'Er, you seem to have a post-it note stuck to your forehead.' 'Yes, I put it there.' 'Oh, I thought it must have got there when you bent down...'

Baldrick returned to the office and re-enacted the proceedings, capturing the flourish of the forehead sticking, and the uncertain cadences of the post-it queryist. I laughed until I cried, then I carried on laughing and crying until I had to stop so that I could breathe. He does that sometimes, comes out with something that has me almost on the point of rupture.

The worst was the time when a member of the Senior Team was striding past our windows. Peering at him, I enquired of Baldrick what was with the little square dressing high up on the guy's forehead? 'Oh, he got a tooth in his head,' Baldrick informed me casually. I don't know why, but I found this hilarious. Once I could breathe again, he explained more; the tooth-head guy had been playing football, had been involved in a tackle/collision, had finished the game with one more tooth than he started, embedded like. Every time I saw this guy walk past the window with his little dressing, I couldn't suppress the giggles. Yes, I felt bad about it, obviously he had been injured and deserved sympathy. I just couldn't help it. Once I was on the phone, looked up and caught sight of him, and had to end the call in hysterics, blurting out my apologies and a promise to call back in a minute.

The dressing went after a little while, and my reaction abated somewhat. Till I met him in the corridor and he wanted to speak to me. Focusing anywhere but on the injury site, I kept my self control without too much difficulty, until he voluntarily mentioned his injury. Biting my cheeks to prevent my hilarity becoming evident in my expression, I nodded sympathetically. I nearly lost it when he told me that it had left a hole which might not ever fill in again, but retained my composure enough to trot back to the office before I let the hysterics out. Baldrick looked on wordlessly until I could stutter out what the matter was. This set me off again and it was ages until my ribs stopping hurting and I could breathe sensibly.

Oh dear, I feel awfully mean now...

Today was the first day with all the herberts back. On my way in, amid the noise and bustle, shoving and shouting, running and shrieking, I smiled. It was good to have them back.

As I opened the door of the classroom next to the office, I heard a piercing beep. Walking slowly along the room, I tried to work out where the noise was coming from. Every time I heard it, it seemed to come from behind me. I just couldn't pin it down. I dumped my stuff in the office, intending to go back out unencumbered and locate the poor crying machine which hadn't completed its POST properly.

Ominously, the next thing to happen was the phone starting to ring. Always a bad sign, the early phone call. There was a printing problem somewhere. Baldrick came in as I put down the phone; he'd heard the beep too and we marched out together to nail the poorly machine. Ears on stalks, we paced the aisles. As I homed in on one, Baldrick pointed at it too. 'That one!' He tugged the power lead from the back. The beep continued. We looked at each other, puzzled, then realisation dawned. There wasn't just the one machine complaining, there were several. They just happened to be perfectly synchronised... In total there were six poorly machines; the relief when the beeping stopped was wonderful.

Back in the office, Baldrick exclaimed as he sat at his workstation. 'Bother! My machine's restarted. We've had a power cut.' Ah! That would explain it.

Whenever we have a power cut, and blimey days, we do seem to have a few you know, anyway, whenever we have one, it generally trips out some of the kit somewhere on the network. Sometimes switches (which are fed with one network lead carrying the main signal and which in turn feed all the machines in a room and any switches downstream by sending the right bit of the signal to the right place), but mainly media converters (which take a signal from a fibre optic cable and translate it into a signal that will pass down a copper wire) are the victims of the crash.

The realisation of there having been a power cut was the signal for me to trot around the school with a set of stepladders slung jauntily over my shoulder. My first stop was the main cabinet on the admin side of the school. I stretched into the cab to reset the switch. I could reach just far enough to tug the lead out of the back; I couldn't reach far enough to get the angle right to stick it back in. Curses!

Then off to History, to reset things there. And the sixth form. Returning to the office, I found Baldrick heading back from the classroom over the way, where a switch had crashed too. A minute or two later, the teacher was in our office, telling us that things still weren't working. Cunningly designed furniture in the classroom next to our office houses a switch underneath the central aisle, at the end. Unscrew the end piece and you have full access to the switch. In the classroom over the way, the cunning is not so strong - the removable end piece was omitted. As I mused on the advantages to the network management team of acquiring a car mechanic type creeper, Baldrick crawled under the desking on his back, money spilling out of his pockets. Despite taking a support call while stuck under the desk, he was able quickly to identify the problem - the switch hadn't crashed, it was off. The half-arsed PAT testers hadn't switched it back on when they had finished. Magic.

Later, I realised that the switch in Music must also have crashed. I scooped up the steps again (lovely light aluminium ones they are, I always insist on carrying them when Baldrick and I go on a joint fixing run - they weigh hardly anything so I don't mind carrying them, and it makes him look ungentlemanly...) and headed off, past one of the caretakers. He looked at the steps and said 'Ours?' with desire in his heart. 'Mine!' I shouted, and trotted off before he could arm wrestle me for them.

The cabinet in Music is a swine. A real pig. I hate having to work in it. For a start, it's really high up, so you have to stand on the very top step of the stepladders, which I hate. I feel very wobbly up there. Secondly, the ceiling above the cabinet is slanty, so you can only open the door so far before the top corner grounds on the ceiling. Or you can just do what I do every time, forget about it, open it with gay abandon and wobble comically as the opening of the door is arrested by the lowering ceiling and throws you off balance. There's quite a gouge mark in the ceiling now; I'd reckon at least 50% of that is down to me. I gathered myself, regained my equilibrium, and reached into the cab to reset the switch. As I did so, I spotted something peeking out from the top of the cab - black, dry and pointy it was. Yuk. I finally worked out that it was a banana skin. Manky little herberts...

Thankfully that was my last up high mission for the day. Apart from sorting out the RE projector. That wasn't so bad though, not very high at all and it was only a mild electric shock really...

So, it was back to school today after a week and a bit off. All was peaceful as I walked across the car park; first day of term, yes - INSET day, even bigger yes! And to think I had the 'I hope I've remembered correctly that there are no kids in today' qualms as I turned the last corner before school, and feared I would be cringing in my jeans all day, surrounded by smartness.

Baldrick was looking unusually chipper and polished for a first day back. By the time I'd got in, he had set up his newly-built machine and was away, fixing the problems that the upgrade to the school's management information system had inevitably caused. He even dived for the phone when it rang, answering chirpily. The chirp levels plummeted as he had to talk the staff member on the other end through restarting their machine without using their failed mouse. 'Parcel for you out front,' he muttered as he put the phone down. Not all bad news, then.

I skipped across the sunny quad to fetch my parcel. I had an inkling what it might contain; one sniff confirmed it. As I raised my head from my happy inhalations, I noticed Beryl looking askance. I explained what was in the parcel. She looked askancer...

Back in the office, I hunted desperately for scissors. When we cleared the desking for the alterations, we found hundreds of the little blighters (mostly small pairs, with centimetres marked on the blade, rounded tips and primary-coloured handles). This morning, I found precisely none. I was forced to rip the tape off with my bare hands, accompanying this with the obligatory ripping and grunting noises. Baldrick looked on in bewilderment. 'I bet you can't guess what's in here,' I challenged. He watched me bring out a replacement petrol tank for my scuffed bike - a bargain on eBay! - a far cry from the item of techie gadgetry he had thought it might be. His expression changed as he sniffed. 'That's going outside the door. No, (as I gestured outside the office door) outside that door (pointing to the outside door). Thank you.' Well OK I have to admit, it did smell a little, er, petrolesque.

The flammable liquid theme continued later. Glugging from my brand spanking new water bottle, I became aware of a face watching me, and looked round to see Baldrick. I thought he was maybe disapproving at my consumption of a liquid other than coffee - I raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. 'I was just thinking,' he replied, 'when you first came in with it and put it down on the side there all full up, it looked like a bottle of meths.' I sprayed a mini fountain of indignation and slammed my bottle down on the desktop. Actually, looking at it, all purple and all, I can see what he meant...

After lunch the caretakers started their cleaning up rounds outside. Aardvark the afternoon caretaker wandered past and hung around the outside door uncertainly. Eventually he came in and put his head round the office door. 'Is rubbish, yes?' We couldn't think what he meant for a minute, until it dawned on me that he was referring to the box containing my new petrol tank, which was sat quietly outside against the wall, on Baldrick's instructions. My incensed shriek was enough to suggest to him that no, it wasn't rubbish thank you very much, and he sped off elsewhere.

Without the kids in today, the quad lacked its usual bustle. We did see a few people crossing, including one member of staff who was wearing a bizarre pair of cropped trousers. 'Blimey, they do nothing for her!' I couldn't stop myself saying. Baldrick looked up. 'Yes they do!' he responded hotly. I looked at him, surprised. He's normally got a good eye for style. He shrugged: 'They make her look ridiculous...'

The rear brakes are squeaking on the Zafira again. It's a bit annoying, but I can live with it. Tallboy, on the other hand, takes it as a personal insult and quails with each piercing wail. In busy areas, he actually recedes into the seat, all embarrassment and shame.

I have to agree that they were a little noisy on our return from our adventures in Bournemouth on Thursday (of which more, later), which explains why Tallboy dived out of the front door this morning, leapt into the car, drove it out of the drive, then backed it in again at a different angle. Puzzled, I paused only to boil the kettle and make myself a coffee before heading out the front to see what was up. I took in the wooden chocks behind the front wheels, the trolley jack, the wheel spanner and the side cutters. Ah, right, he's taking the wheels off to tinker with the brakes.

I stood on the drive and watched him raise the jack. He'd already loosened the wheel nuts, so once the wheel was off the ground he could get them out with only the power of his fingers. I watched him take them out, one after the other, although I was distracted during the removal of no. 3 by the emergence of Pesky from the front door, which I had left ajar. Not one to be left inside when there was something happening outside, she trotted out to investigate, stopping for a little sit down just outside the door so she could get her bearings.

Tallboy was now struggling with no.s 4 and 5, which were still done up a little firmly. He reached casually behind him for the spanner to give them a little encouragement. He was jolly surprised when he grabbed a handful of cat (she was sitting almost on top of the spanner) rather than the tool he was after. I cried with laughter - I could see what was going to happen, and happen it did, perfectly. A real Victor Meldrew moment. I'm not entirely sure which of them had the more surprised expression. Tallboy resumed his composure first, scooped up the cat and offered her up to the recalcitrant nuts. 'Did you want to help?' he asked her.

When I told the Sun about this, he laughed at this point, and said, 'Did she grip the wheel nut with her teeth?' 'Er, no, he was actually pointing her other end at the wheel...' He thought that even funnier; I think it's probably quite disturbing. Didn't stop me laughing till I wept though...

Once, ages ago, we arrived for a concert at the Colston Hall with five minutes to spare. Traffic into Bristol had been awful, and there were no spaces in the car park, so we had to crawl round congested roads seeking a parking place. I may have become ever so slightly het up during this process. Now Tallboy insists that we arrive with aeons to spare; we parked up in the almost deserted carpark an hour early on Monday night. Luckily it was a beautiful evening, perfect for a stroll, so we pottered and looked in windows and exclaimed at the gaps where buildings used to be and so on.

As we joined the hordes at the front steps of the Colston Hall, I started to get excited. We hadn't been to a concert for ages, a year or more since the last. Hemmed in by grey heads, we waited for the doors to open. Tallboy's hand picked nervously at his birthday '50' badge. 'Maybe I shouldn't have worn this,' he agonised, surveying the throng of concert-goers. 'I feel so terribly young!'

We settled in our seats, and soon various members of the orchestra drifted onto stage, fettling their instruments and sorting themselves. 'I bet he plays something hefty,' I whispered to Tallboy, indicating a large gentleman climbing the steps at the back of the stage. 'You never know, he could be the triangle guy,' smiled Tallboy. We watched him grapple with a huge bass and sit down embracing it. Slowly the hall filled with snippets and snatches and notes, suddenly dropping to silence. The hush spread into the auditorium, the attention almost tangible. I could feel my heart start to beat faster; the massed anticipation was highly contagious.

During the first piece, my eyes roved round the faces of the musicians. Up there to left was posh looking horn player in a sparkly top. Delicately she removed part of her horn and flicked it once or twice to remove the accumulated spit. Up there at the back are the bass players, motionless for a large part of the time. 'What do you think about in the bits when you're not playing?' I wonder.

I watched the violinists, fascinated. The attitude, speed, inclination, direction of the bows so amazingly, hypnotically synchronised. An amazing sight in itself, but when allied with the sound, truly stunning. I marvelled too at the way the sound was reaching me. I'd guess we were no more than 15' from the stage, yet try as I might, I couldn't hear the noise produced by the individual musicians nearest to me. All I could hear was the whole.

During the interval we remained seated while everyone else went and queued for ice cream. Why do we feel that an event is only an event if we are stuffing our faces? Idly scanning the crowd in the choir seats behind the stage (for want of something better to do while we waited for the performance to begin again), I noticed a very large lady, standing. She was wearing a huge poncho which comprised a substantial yardage of red fabric. 'Blimey Days!' I said to Tallboy without thinking. 'She's wearing a tent!' 'Who? Where?' said Tallboy, squinting. 'Umm, her, up there, the one in the red marquee.' 'Ah, yes, got you. Heh, we should call her the Scarlet Tent-acle.' 'They seek her here, they seek her there. Those campers seek her everywhere. Is she in heaven, or is she in hell? That damned, elusive Tent-acle.' 'Er, yeah, if you like.'

The performance resumed with a piano concerto. As the pianist settled himself at the piano, I lamented his lack of floppy hair. It does so add to the performance, I feel... Floppy hair or not, from the moment his fingers touched the keys, I was entranced. The music flowed out from his fingers as they danced up and down the keys with no apparent effort (or hair flopping) on his part. Tallboy and I were rapt, mesmerised. Once in a while I became aware that I was in a large hall with hundreds of other people; for the most part, my only focus was on the stage, my only awareness the gorgeous music coming in my ears. The whole stunning performance was like ear velvet.

The clapping went on for a long time at the end. Tallboy has the easy, practised concert-goer clap that he can sustain for quite a while before the numb aches set in. Though it does look a bit weird to me - I imagine that's the lefthandedness. His, not mine. I'm not. He is. I tried to pace myself but had to wimp out early because my ickle handies were hurting. We walked back to the car buzzing, on such a high. It was a perfect end to a great day

Weevil's note - the events recounted below happened last year, not just recently. Sorry to have worried you, Lanky Herbert -01.

A year ago yesterday, amazingly, it was also Tallboy's birthday. He and Methane Boy got up early and went off to Windsor to race robots round mazes.

I squeezed into my leathers, stuck my mobile and my house keys in my pocket, wheeled the bike outside, locked up, stuffed the meeting paperwork down my front and did up my jacket, stuck on my helmet and gloves, fired up the bike and headed off to the bike meeting on my own. I hadn't gone far before I realised something was amiss. Not the emptiness in my rear-view mirror where Tallboy should have been, a plume of blue haze issuing from his exhaust. No, it was my phone. It was on the move. As I rode down Chipping Sodbury High Street, it was half way down my thigh. My pocket lining must have a hole in it. I turned off and pulled in by the graveyard. Hopping off the bike, I could feel the phone at knee level, too far down to retrieve without removing my trousers by the side of the road. It was uncomfortable and distracting where it was, so my only option was to check the integrity of the lining stitching at the bottom of the leg, and jiggle the phone down as far as it would go.

I hopped back on the bike, and headed off again, the ride passing without incident until I got to a busy T junction with the A38. I'm always wary of this junction as it has a strange layout and turning right onto the main road you have priority over drivers turning right off the main road, though apparently many of them are unaware of this. I sat in the turning right lane, waiting for a gap to get across to the middle. There was a car to my left in the turning left lane. When there was a gap in the traffic, we both went. However, instead of turning left as he should have done, the driver in the left-turning lane came out to the right, next to me. This manoeuvre was unexpected and freaked me hugely - had he even seen me, what could have possessed him to do it, even if he had seen me it was a moronic thing to do and what would he do next? These and other thoughts ran through my head as I waited in the middle of the road.

My instinct was to get the hell away from him before he did me any damage. There was a beige car coming up the road, so I let that pass then went as quick as I could to get away from the idiot to my left. As I straightened up from the turn, I became aware of a large green thing to my left*, then an impact on my foot, the shock of which dislodged my hands from the handlebars. Balancing the bike with my body, I struggled to reach forward and regain the handlebars, but could only manage to touch my fingertips to them before realising that I was inevitably going to come off the bike.

I'd never had a touch on the bike before. I'd dropped it trying to get on it once, but I'd never come off it when riding it. The fear of it happening was something that lurked in my brain like a grumpy toad with indigestion. Knowing that it was happening, my reaction amazed me. It's going to take a while to write down what happened, but it went through my brain in a flash. I knew I was going to come off, so I decided to manage the fall as best I could to minimise the danger. The clarity of my thinking in this tiny space of time amazes me even now. I knew I had to come off onto the nearside so I didn't get squished by stuff coming towards me and I had to roll to the kerb so that I didn't get squished by stuff behind me. I knew I shouldn't put my hands down as I would probably break my wrist. I knew I had to come off the bike cleanly and not bring it on top of me, as that could really mess up my leg.

I threw my arms up in the air, lifted my legs off the pegs and twisted to my left. I don't remember hitting the ground, though I do remember rolling over and over and over and over, trying to keep the momentum going until I could feel the pavement under me. I ended up on my back on the pavement, staring up at the sky, breathless but (after a quick test of all limbs etc) whole. A worried face appeared above me. 'Are you all right mate?' 'Meh,' I said. 'He's all right,' said the face to someone I couldn't see. Enraged, I struggled to get up, a bit shaky. 'Someone get my bike!' I wailed as I saw it on its side in the middle of the road, the throttle jammed open.

When I could stand up without shaking too much I took my helmet off. 'Where's that idiot who came out with me?' I asked. 'That was my husband!' said a woman who had been fussing over me. I growled and when I looked again she had got back in the car and they had gone.

The next person I saw was someone from the bike club. At least I'd chosen to come off on a busy route to the meeting. Within the next five minutes another three club members had stopped. Never have I been so grateful to see friendly faces. Mr and Mrs Silver were amongst them - I noticed Mr Silver first, as he walked across the verge towards the hedge. In my fuddled state it took a while to realise that he was going for a wee.

I realised that there was something wrong with my arm, although it didn't hurt too much; it was swelling up quite a lot. Hospital seemed a good option, and the Silvers very kindly offered to take me. I made them and everyone else promise not to call Tallboy - I wasn't in mortal danger, and I didn't want him haring back from Windsor in a panic. A&E diagnosed a radial head fracture, most commonly caused by shock transmitted when you put out your hand to save yourself; I think my subconscious reflex side hadn't paid attention to my determination to avoid this. They strapped me up, and as I waited for the police to turn up and breathalyse me (routine, you understand, I absolutely do not drink and drive) I called Poppy and in between wails and sobs told her what had happened and please please could she come and get me.

Poppy drove me home gently and, when we were nearly home, I had a shock as I saw the Cossack striding along the road. He knew about the accident because the Silvers had gone on to the meeting after seeing me safely to A&E. 'I was worried about you being alone at home after the ambulance brought you back, so I came to sit with you till Tallboy gets home.' What a lovely, lovely man. Poppy went to fetch the Brazil Nut, who came trotting round with a worried face and tried to hug me without it hurting, and failed.

So it was that Tallboy got home after a lovely day out with Methane Boy, to see vehicles belonging to family and friends outside. 'Oooh!' he thought to himself happily. 'It's a surprise party for my birthday!'


____________________________________________________________________

* It was a Range Rover. A large green one. I just didn't see it, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was in my blindspot when I was watching the beige car approach. Maybe it blended in with the hedgerow. Maybe I was just so rattled that I forgot how to look properly...

I'm a very lucky Weevil - the arm healed up OK, no one else was hurt, and I'm older and wiser. I'm also very glad that Tallboy wasn't riding behind me, it would have been an awful thing for him to see.

Today is Tallboy's birthday. Staggeringly, it's his 50th - hard to believe, as he's wearing so well. I had a weird moment of insight this morning, as I realised that we no longer inhabit different but contiguous decades - there's now a whole decade in between us. Eek! Today is also the anniversary of something horrid, but I'll tell you about that next time...

I got up early and made homemade waffles with cream and chocolate sprinkles and strawberries and fresh pineapple and maple syrup and strawberry syrup. I spoiled the effect slightly by running round the upper floor screaming at everyone to bloody well get up before it all went cold, but they all enjoyed it once they struggled out of their pits.

I got Tallboy all the Inspector Morse books, and I'm taking him out tonight to the Philharmonia Orchestra at the Colston Hall. The Sun got him a pretzel puzzle and a video of old motorbikes. StepD got him a silver lizard and Methane Boy got him a large green pottery frog with a serious expression. He's had millions of cards and is quietly chuffed, I think.

Several of the cards had badges on, proclaiming his age in loud red figures. We insisted that he wear them, then took him out to the cinema to see Ice Age II. Well, we thought it looked funny, anyway...

We stopped off on the way home so that I could buy a new food processor. The new one has a liquidiser and everything; I've always hankered after one but never owned one. I condemned the last one (which is fifteen years old, to be fair, and lacking several bits of plastic here and there) because I caught Tallboy filling it with peanuts from the bird feeder in the garden, whizzing them up and putting out the ground nuts for the ground feeders.

I accept that I'm probably a bit too fastidious about food hygiene. I can't stand it if stuff is even a minute out of date. Methane Boy goes to the fridge and emerges triumphantly with a week-out-of-date yoghurt - my reaction is to retch, his is to ask if he can eat it. His father shares a similar cavalier attitude. He just couldn't understand my screaming heebiejeebies when I caught him using my (until then completely culinary) pyrex jug to clean out StepD's fish tank. Or my reaction when I found him using the other (until then completely culinary) pyrex jug to measure out some petrol for the bike.

That aside, I do think that employing a food preparation item to whizz up half-pecked, rain-soaked, sun-dried, semi-rancid peanuts is rather beyond the pale. Particularly as the current government advice regarding bird flu is that you shouldn't stop feeding garden birds, but that you shouldn't touch any that are sick and that you should wash your hands after handling feeders and so on. OK, so it doesn't anywhere say 'Don't use Weevil's trusty food processor to whizz up the manky nuts', but I feel that's covered by the general spirit of the thing. Whatever, I've got myself a shiny new one and Tallboy can have the old one in the garage and can whizz up whatever he bloody well wants in there...

After lunch we had birthday cake - I whipped one up yesterday and left StepD with some food colouring, a few paintbrushes and an extra piece of icing for practice while we went out to the bike meeting. Tallboy is usually the cake decorator - we've had cartoon characters, game characters, Monet's 'Waterlillies' and all sorts, he's very good you know. I couldn't ask him to decorate his own cake, so StepD stepped in. Armed with some amphibian pictures, she did a frog on the practice piece and tried to reproduce it on the cake. Sadly, food colouring is a swine to work with and the frog went wrong so she cleverly turned it into a Great Crested Newt instead:



Tallboy was very pleased indeed with his amphibian-decorated cake. StepD confided the last minute change to me, then said with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, 'I had to eat my practice frog to destroy the evidence...'

This time it's a timewaster with a difference. First difference is, I wasn't intending to post a timewaster, but I was writing today's post and found myself referring to the timewaster in question and decided that it deserved better than a passing mention, so it's timewaster time again.

The second difference is that it involves slightly more effort than normal; it's a piece of software that I'm recommending, so you'll need to download and install it before you can play. Trust me, it's worth it. It's freeware, which means that it doesn't cost anything and you can install it freely.

The program is simple to use and great fun. We have it at school and the kids all love it. We have it at home to, and it's a big hit with the Sun. You just need a bit of time and a spot of imagination. The program itself comes with some basic figures and an alphabet. You can create other figures to use and save them for next time too. I made a Dalek figure.

The figures all articulate at each joint - you just pose them, click to take a snapshot of that frame, adjust the poses a little, snapshot, adjust, snapshot and so on. You can create a simple animation very quickly, play it back, and amaze your family at your gibbering proudness as they stand by, puzzled.

More complex animations take a bit more planning and a smidge of trial and error, but are really worth it. I used my Dalek to chase a man to the edge of the frame and shoot at him, whereupon he disappeared in a spiky 'zap' shape, again custom created. I've noticed at school that if they're not making rude animations, they tend to create fighting ones, this seems to bring out the aggressive side in people...

I can't recommend it highly enough, especially if you have kids. The program you are about to download is Pivot Stickfigure Animator - go play!

Baldrick and I are finally back in our office. We've spent the week prowling the ICT suite next door, logging on to normal machines. I ask you! We often get users who come in to see us to tell us that 'their' machine is broken, so they can't work and they can't log a proper fault report because 'their' machine isn't working. With an expensive hand gesture, Baldrick or I will indicate the hundreds of other machines available for use throughout the school, and point out that the machine they are telling us about is isn't theirs, it's the school's.

It was nice to get back into our office and set our machines up. It's been impossible to work properly with our machines out of commission. Oh hang on, I see what you're thinking there. No, it doesn't apply to Baldrick and me. We're special. There is a whole bunch of specialised software installed on them; our ability to do our jobs is much curtailed without access to it. We live in dread of one of them failing, it would take absolutely ages to recover from that - much of the stuff is backed up elsewhere, but reassembling it and getting things back to how we like it would take forever...

The PAT testers are continuing their way round the school. One of them accosted me this morning as they stood scratching their heads at the entrance to one of the newer ICT suites. 'Any chance of opening the cupboards, love, else we can't test 'em.' I opened the cupboards (which, had they been built by the contractor as they were specified, would safely enclose the base units, network cabling and power leads) and left the PAT herberts muttering darkly about '****ing stupid design' and 'how the ****ing hell are we supposed to get the ****ing plugs out from under there?' and 'ah **** it, we won't bother with them then.'

I had to step over one to get to the door; he was bent over with his head in one of the cupboards, swearing indistinctly. Trying to avoid sight of his undies, it dawned on me that his half-arsed trouser-wearing was an accurate mirror for his attitude to his work...

Baldrick warned me that the PAT testing would be followed by a rash of computer failures. Some would be caused by them not being bothered to plug the power leads back in; others would be due to fried motherboards or zapped power supplies. The thought of them touching my poor servers leaves me cold... The first victim revealed itself this afternoon, a quarter of an hour before we were due to leave. Baldrick left the room for a minute and came back to his machine sporting a BSOD .

Baldrick and the assembled hordes (Horace, who popped in to do some coursework and managed to avoid putting another bloody spoon in my lunchbox, and Lanky Herbert 01 who emailed to say that he wouldn't be in today then turned up less than an hour later) tried to put Humpty together again but it looks like the partition table is jiggered - the machine is dead. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh!!

Do you know what? I think these herberts are competing to appear in the blog.

Yesterday, Horace the Happy Hacker turned up at school to 'do some coursework'. This involved him installing himself at his usual workstation, then trying out Easter Eggs in Macromedia products. Once he was bored with this, he spent a good while actively avoiding another set of coursework when one of his teachers came in to the room, caught sight of him, and gave him some grief. Shutting the door after the teacher had left, Horace might have thought he was safe from future nagging, but when the teacher returned, I let him in. Mwahahahaha.

This morning, I asked Baldrick 'Did you put a spoon in my lunchbox yesterday?' I had found one, not mine, when I got home. I knew I hadn't put it in there; for a start, it wasn't in the spoon pocket. 'Nope,' said Baldrick, looking strangely at me. Then I saw some light dawn in his eyes. 'Horace was wandering around with a spoon yesterday afternoon.' Right...

An erroneous spoon was not the only surprise gift I received yesterday. I also got one of these in the post. I'm a very lucky Weevil indeed - I won it in a competition. I'm dead chuffed, it's just the kind of storage/backup solution I was after for the home network. Now all I have to do is fork out for a couple of huuuge hard drives...

Today as Baldrick and I worked in the huge classroom next to our office (which continues in its impression of a building site), who should turn up but 'I won't be in on Wednesday' Lanky Herbert 01. 'Oh, I'm not in, I'm just passing.' Apparently he will really be in on Friday. Or Thursday. I may have suggested in a previous post that Lanky Herbert 02 is away with the fairies, which may have made it sound like he is on some kind of gay camping trip - I now have it on good authority that he is in Egypt. Or near Egypt. Or on a boat on the sea off Egypt. That's as precise as LH01 could get.

I think LH01 was just acting normally (for him, that is). But Horace? Why would he put a spoon in my lunchbox? I have a horrible feeling that it was an experiment to see if I would post about it. So I have. Ready to confess now Horace?

I really really hate the last day of term. Everyone (myself excepted) seems to be skipping around in a jolly state of anticipation and excitement. 'Have a good break' and other such cheerful slogans are hurled at me by herberts and teachers alike. 'Thanks, you too!' is what I generally chuck back, for the seem of the thing, but inside I'm all Mutley moans and snarls. Baldrick and I work all year round, you see. The last day of term simply reinforces the fact that everyone else has millions more holiday than us.

There is an upside, though. We can get an awful lot done during the holidays, particularly infrastructure work. The fact that most other members of staff and practically all the herberts assume that we break up when they do simply underlines to me the huge misconceptions they have about the job...

The school is a very different place once term is over. Much quieter, of course. Easier to get from A to B, too, without kids streaming through corridors or members of staff calling out to you about their poorly printer, generally while you're trying to carrying something awkward and heavy. It feels like the place is dormant. It looks the same, smells the same, but something is missing; a spark, an energy has gone. For the first day or two, it's a little unnerving; it's like you're being granted a peek at something private, like seeing a side to someone that they don't show to anyone else.

Today we were evicted from our cupboard office as the caretaker ripped out the shelving desk that had been condemned by Health and Safety. Seeking refuge in the computer suite next to us, we were denied even a quick logon - unknown to us, the PAT testers were upon us, and joy of joys, they were starting there.

Two of them, there were - one guy who was in charge and his inept-looking sidekick who chose to wear loose-fitting jeans coupled with high-waisted white underpants bearing some designer name on the waistband. Any time he leaned forward just a little bit, he revealed a static ticker tape announcing his choice of underwear purveyor. Crouching to reach under the desk, the effect was grim as a swathe of underpant was displayed, and what made it worse, this must have been a deliberate choice. Chaps, pay heed, don't do this. It looks truly awful. As the day wore on, the in charge guy was getting more and more frustrated with the underpant flaunter. 'For God's sake, not over there! Look at you! You're all over the place!' At least this added an element of entertainment to the proceedings...

The Sun was at work with me today - although working all year round means that there are childcare issues during the holidays, if I do have childcare issues, I can safely bring the Sun with me to work. He has hundreds of computers to choose from, a library full of great books, and a Big School to roam. He loves it. He trots around with me as I go off to do little maintenance jobs here and there. Re-mounting a data projector on a classroom ceiling this afternoon (a fiddly job at the best of times) I was very glad to have a second pair of hands on standby to pass me up the screwdriver, find me the remote control or fire up the PC when the time came. Top man!

We were joined too by Lanky Herbert 01, who managed cheerfully to get through the list of unimaginably dull things I had for him. No sign of Lanky Herbert 02 this week, apparently he's away (away with the fairies, in all likelihood). And Lanky Herbert 01 can only work two days this week. Today and which other day, we enquired, keen to be able to plan the workload sensibly. The best answer he could come up with (and this was after some hard thinking on his part) was 'It probably won't be Wednesday.'

Today is our first wedding anniversary. Seriously. For some reason we thought April Fools' Day an appropriate date for our marriage...

We decided to sneak off and get married rather than make a big thing of it. Because we thought that the Sun and StepD might find things difficult on the day, mainly. I know I found my parents' weddings tough, and I was a grown up at the time. If the kids didn't know anything about it, we thought it was unfair to have anyone else in on the secret, even though that meant I couldn't tell the Brazil Nut, and Tallboy couldn't mention it to his parents, much as we wanted to.

We asked the Cartographer and the Planner if they wouldn't mind terribly taking a day off work to come down and be our witnesses; fortunately they were dead keen. We tried to keep it ultra secret but failed in a couple of quarters. Mum guessed (damn that sixth sense!) and I may have mentioned it to Baldrick and a couple of colleagues. Tallboy wasn't going to say anything at work, but when he went to book the day off (in a crowded office) he was met with a bit of resistance. He'd had a few weeks off after a wrist op a month or so before, and they were reluctant to let him take time off. 'You can't take the day off unless you're getting married or something!' 'It's funny you should say that...'

The day arrived scarily quickly. We had arranged not to have the kids (we said we were going out for the day) so we had space to get sorted. The Brazil Nut popped round late in the morning, ready for a nice long chat. We sat in the front room and blethered on about this and that over coffee. She didn't seem to notice Tallboy running from the room every few minutes. I thought it was nerve-driven visits to the loo; in fact he was dashing upstairs to practise his lines because he was petrified he would fluff them. I was Ms Play-It-Cool and had learned them off by heart. As time dragged on, I was aware that we should be getting ready, but wasn't sure how to shoo the Brazil Nut away without revealing the reason. In the end I stood up purposefully and took away her empty coffee mug. She got the hint...

The Cartographer drove us to the Registry Office. As we walked in, I felt my knees start to give a little. I had been so cool up to this point, but now suddenly the emotion was starting to spill out. As I walked into the marriage room holding Tallboy's hand, the tears welled up and I controlled them with difficulty. The Planner smiled encouragingly as I caught her eye on my way to the front of the room.

Tallboy got through his lines fine, stumbling over some simple word but getting his arch-nemesis 'matrimony' out without difficulty. As the Registrar turned to face me, I could feel a lump in throat. I looked up into Tallboy's eyes and at sight of his emotion-filled expression I made my first response in the unnatural strangulated tones of someone trying to sound normal. It didn't sound like me to me at all. In the middle of my second response I gulped my way to a standstill then burst into waily tears. Tallboy hugged me and produced a tissue from his pocket; he'd stuck it in there because he had been worried about dissolving into tears himself. Pink and gasping, I managed to get through the rest of the words and collapsed into Tallboy's reassuring arms.

The Registrar took a photo of the four of us, then the Cartographer took some more snaps outside. In every one I appear flushed, happy, on the verge of tears, and in a deep state of relief.

Our witnesses grabbed a quick cup of tea with us, then headed home, job done. Tallboy and I dived into our leathers and zoomed off on our bikes to the pub in the car park of which we had met. The landlady was out mowing the lawn, puzzled to see punters well before opening time. We explained that we were freshly married and had wanted to come out on the bikes for a blast; she stood us an OJ and lemonade each in celebration.

Back home, reality hit. We had nothing in for tea, but didn't really want to eat out. We nipped off to M&S and grabbed lovely things from the shelves to stick in the oven. Dinner was nearly ready when the doorbell rang. I knew it would be the Brazil Nut, and wanted to avoid seeing her as I feared I would burst if I didn't tell her the news. I couldn't tell her though; it was important to us that the children be the first to know. She rang again and I had to answer. I grabbed a tea towel and tried to look flustered and busy. She was expecting me to ask her in; I didn't, without explanation. She left downcast, upset. I felt terrible.

The next day we picked the Steps up and gave them the news. They were surprised but OK about it, Poppy and Network Guy were delighted. The Sun, too, was OK and the Ex congratulated us warmly. All day we were on the phone to people giving them the news. Without exception people were delighted and not at all cross with us for sneaking off like we did. It was lovely. The Brazil Nut didn't know whether to laugh or cry when she came round later. She forgave me with a hug.

And now, here we are, a year later. I can't believe it's gone by so quickly. Having sworn (both of us) never to marry again, we did. And I'm very glad. As I keep telling Tallboy, he's my favourite husband...