Weevilstepmother

So Baldrick announced to me one day last month that he had been busy working behind the scenes to arrange a week's swap with a techie from another school. Or, to put it another way, get me out of his hair for a few days. For one reason and another, the first arrangement fell through, but this week I've been seconded to the IT support department at the other school (and no swappage in sight).

Last Friday I logged off my machine, took a last look round the office, and took the long walk back across the car park to my bike for the last time in a little while. I said goodbye to Baldrick (or my work husband, as he has otherwise been dubbed, given the amount of time we spend in each other's company) as he got into his car, then zoomed home with a plume of blue smoke behind me. (It's OK, it's a two stroke.)

On Monday I turned up bright and early at my new place of work. A bit too early it turned out, as only one of my new work husbands was in yet. I settled myself down in a corner of the office, feeling strange in such unfamiliar surroundings. I presented WH No. 1 (Mr Claypole) with the tin of biscuits I had brought with me as a little giftie, then sat back and waited for something to do. WH No. 2 (the Cookie Monster) arrived and greeted me warmly though with a little panicked look in his eye. I thought it was just that I had beaten him in; turns out he was having a Type F reaction to the weight loss.

I've had a great week - seeing how things are set up in a similar but different environment, observing interactions, seeing other technologies at work, etc etc.

Highlights of the week include:

The presence of a TV (with a Sky feed) in the office.

The presence of an X-Box in the office.

The fact that their office is a converted cupboard too. Though it's about three times the size of ours...

The breaks for freedom in Cookie Monster's car at lunchtime down to the bakery, giving me ample practice at refusing naughty food.

The speed with which the tin of biscuits I took them disappeared.

The staff member who was so flustered when I answered the telephone (instead of either of the chaps who weren't there just then) that she couldn't speak to me and had to put the phone down.

The propinquity of the Ladies' loo to the office (as opposed to the cross-school trek I usually have).

Finding out that new school would be shut on Friday, and relishing for a second the thought of a sneaky day off as I was expected to be away the whole week. Don't worry, I'll be back at the old place tomorrow.

The excellent company of my new work husbands.

Joshing the staff member who will be attending a Garden Party at Buckingham Palace in the not too distant future but who is refusing to go for tails.

The sight of a car in the car park with slightly non-standard seat covers. 'Look,' sniggered Mr Claypole, 'she's got ladies' tops as seat covers.' Nonsense, I thought, she'll just have discarded her cardie over the seat or something. Peering in the direction of Mr Claypole's pointing finger, I couldn't contain an explosive laugh. Both front seats had been deliberately dressed in pink vest tops pulled down over the seat backs. It looked desperately bizarre. And hopelessly non-protective, if that was the intention...

And finally, the number one trumping-all-others experience has to be getting the high score in the intra-office Burnout challenge on the X-Box this afternoon. Over a million, I got - they didn't even come close...

Tallboy and I were driving home from Barnstaple yesterday afternoon after a jolly little stay with his sister and her husband. As we drove out of town, I spotted a graffito on a bridge above us: 'OLD PEOPLE SHOULD BE SHOT AT BIRTH'.

This triggered an interesting little philosophical debate in my head. My first reaction had of course been amazement - not one spelling mistake. My second reaction was puzzlement - how had they managed to write it just there on the side of the bridge without falling off or getting the letter size wonky? Finally I got on to the philosophy.

I felt the unknown author was raising some provocative points here. Was he suggesting a belief in reincarnation? He wasn't suggesting that old people should have been shot at birth, but that they should be shot at birth; maybe his meaning was that this fate should befall them if born again?

Perhaps though he was just trying to write quickly to avoid falling to an early and strawberry jam-like death, and missed out the should have been bit. Is he therefore telling us that he himself does not expect to become old? If he will be old, he should have been shot at birth and therefore wouldn't be around to write what he did. But if he knows he will not become old, then he didn't need to have been shot at birth, so he was around and able to write on the bridge. I think I go with the second one here - someone who monkeys around on bridges without holding on with both hands is probably unlikely to see that many more birthdays...

Is he possibly suggesting a solution to our overcrowded planet and the problem of out of control consumption of scant irreplaceable resources? By shooting at birth all those likely to become old, would we be sparing the planet from the ravages of depletion?

Or could he be approaching the overcrowding issue in a Soylent Green kind of way? Old people should be shot at the birth of a descendant, thus making way for them?

Tallboy rudely interrupted my ontological musings. 'I know! I'll have this one at my funeral!' We'd been singing along to our ELO tape, and the jaunty strains of Mr Blue Sky were currently pumping out of the stereo. His little face was all lit up at the image of a coffin, a congregation and a CD player. Actually, it would be quite neat to watch people trying not to tap their feet and sing along... 'Sure thing, matey,' I responded. 'If I'm there, I'll play it.'

A few miles further down the road, enlightenment struck me. What the unknown author of the Barnstaple comment had been trying to communicate to me. Of course! It was as clear as anything now. I'm pretty sure it was something along the lines of 'I AM A MORON'.

Well, I'm 6 and a half stone down the weight loss road. My body has changed shape, my face has changed shape, my posture has changed, my self-image has changed, my self-confidence has er, well, let's just say I've got some now - I'm (from the outside at least) a different person. The reactions have been fascinating:

Type A:
'Yeah, you're not as fat as you used to be.' The brutally honest approach, as typified by Baldrick. A former fatty himself, he's been an incredible support and a mine of honest feedback. Recently I've been relying on him for fashion advice, secure in the knowledge that if it looks ridiculous, he'll tell me. I've had to coach him a little though - he hadn't even heard of muffin tops and whale tails (not, I hasten to add, that I have committed either of these fashion faux pas).

Type B
'OH MY GOD! Look at you! Amazing!' They've only just noticed the incremental change and act like it happened last night. They'll talk loudly and repeatedly about the weight loss, often summoning third parties to come and marvel too. Gratifying but ultimately wearing, entailing cheek-paining rictus smiling and so on.

Type C
'How did you do it? It's not fair, diets never work for me...' Usually a woman, on the sturdy side herself, and desperate for the magic bullet fat-melting pills that I must have been taking. 'I've been consuming less calories than I've burned' is my stock response. You should see their faces fall. 'So you mean I need to eat less and exercise more?' 'Uh-huh.' 'Oh...'

Type D
'Er, I really hope you don't mind me mentioning this, but, er, have you, er, lost weight at all?' They can see I have, but they feel delicate about asking. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe they think I'm ill and that's why I've lost the weight. Or maybe they're just utterly polite and think that by inference their noticing that I've lost weight is the equivalent of shouting 'Oh my god you used to be so fat!' I reassure that yes I have lost weight, deliberately, and then they turn into either b or c above.

Type E
'How much have you lost? How much do you weigh now? What's your BMI? What size clothes are you wearing?' Do you want my inside leg measurement as well? I don't mind a spot of polite interest but this is really taking things too far. A lady just doesn't divulge this kind of thing...

Type F
'Hi, how are you? Good, yes fine thanks. So, busy at all? Yeah, me too...' They fix you with their eye and you can see that going on in their head is a whirl of thoughts - 'Eek, what do I say? Do I mention the weight? No, I'll not say anything, see if she says something. Or should I? Help, I wish I'd never spoken to her...' I'm afraid I'm a bit mean with these - I just keep the idle chatter going.

Type G
'-' Many of the responses aren't even responses. I get ignored, because people just don't recognise me. At work, outside school, passing friends at the shop, callers to the door, visiting relatives... At the monthly bike meeting a couple of weeks ago, a section member took me to one side to congratulate me on my weight loss. 'As I got off the bike, I thought to myself, that woman over there is acting like she knows me. It took a moment or two to work out it was you.' Once I've attracted their attention and convinced them it really is me, these are my favourites.

A favourite question of any of the above groups is 'So I bet you've had a lot of fun buying new clothes?' to which the answer is no, I can't afford it. I've been dropping a dress size every six weeks and there's no way I can fund a new wardrobe at such short intervals. I've partially been wearing a selection of my huger stuff which is baggy but not unwearable. The other part of my wardrobe consists of a couple of Red Cross type Clothes Parcels from mum, who has donated a bunch of stuff which used to fit her but is now too big. The joy of buying a shedload of new stuff will have to wait until I reach my goal weight. But boy, am I looking forward to that day...

Bonjour mes petits cochons d'Inde. Welcome indeed to another Timewaster, joining us today from the brilliant stable of Messrs. Anode and Cathode (home of the office, the house, the museum and the casino).

They've only gone and done it again, though this time with a little twist. Instead of waking up in an unknown place with a thick head and evidence of dodgy wrongdoing all around you along with muffled memories of a glamorous lady in a red dress, you are cast this time as a couple of schoolkids seeking to solve both the mystery of the theft of several of the artworks from a local museum and the non-fatal poisoning of your schoolteacher by some nefarious individual who likes to introduce narcotics into espressos. Er, there's another twist too. This one isn't actually translated at all, and some of the clues and dialogue are in French. Ah, don't be like that; it's not that hard, really.

A few pointers:

The dog you meet early on is telling you he might be able to help you, but only if you find him a battery. For the lamp on his hat.

You need to collect together all the bits of the artworks and replace them on their pedestals. You get an item you need each time you do this (you need five of these items to make up the requested potion to clean the painting).

No, I don't know where all the ghosts come from either.

Yes, the fish game was annoying and it took me several attempts to complete.

A 'sechoir' might look like the kind of thing a space alien might wear in his holster, but in actual fact it's a hairdryer. Probably cordless.

Click everything.

You need to get a potion before you can jump in the lake.

Yes, I enjoyed bashing the moles, too.

You need to dress the mannequin in what he was wearing before the theft: a helmet, some lights, a watch, and weird overall thingies.

As before, I'm far too mean to post a walkthrough, but if you're stuck, you're welcome to email me for hints or helps.

I wish you the very best of British as you attempt to solve the mystery of L'expresso empoisonne

Poor old Baldrick hasn't been in to work today. Nor yesterday. Nor are we likely to see him tomorrow. He hurt his back moving a server and the quack has ordered him to rest. I've really been missing him - his chair is next to the door so he often gets zapped by the incoming and I generally avoid it. Er, I mean, I miss his ready wit and cheerful company. Obviously.

I decided to pop a little get well giftie round to him tonight. Surveying the unusually well-stocked fruit bowl, I realised that there was no choice to make. Often, when narked, one or the other of us may make reference to inserting something into the cause of the nark. Baldrick will often terminate this idle daydreaming with a suggestion as to what to insert: 'A pineapple. The wrong way.'

I raided the remains of my figgy costume and decorated the pineapple with curly ribbon fronds. I gathered it up and Tallboy and I left for our evening walk in the direction of Baldrick's house, pineapple proudly carried for all to see. Tucking it awkwardly behind my back, I made my way down his garden path and knocked on the open front door. Baldrick accepted the gift with a bemused smile, Mrs Baldrick appeared and looked over his shoulder with an expression that suggested that receipt of ribbon-bedecked pineapples wasn't a daily occurrence round their way. I thought she looked a little apprehensive, too, so I reassured her that we weren't there to burn her garden furniture. Not like last time.

Retreating down the garden path, I turned imploring to Baldrick, clasped my hands, and pleaded 'Please come back!' It's been tough on my own, and I don't want him to get used to being at home now. 'Don't worry,' said Mrs Baldrick, 'He'll be back on Monday. I'm not working, and there's no way I'm having him under my feet round the house. I'll drive him in if I have to!'

On the way back home, we passed a house with a wooden name-plate next to the front door. On my third take, I could see that I had originally misread it quite dramatically - I thought it had said 'FIG-IT'. Given my recent choice of costume, I thought this wasn't an unreasonable reading. Tallboy thought it said 'FIGHT'. It was number 8 with some bits missing...

We cut through the park and went to peer in the pond. I spied a nice vantage point on the bank and teetered down to peek in. As I bent forward, the water heaved and splashed and something reared out at me. I may have a squealed just a little. And I didn't half jump back. Tallboy said it was a fish, but from the size of the splash I was thinking at least large marine mammal. As our eyes adjusted, we made out one, two, three huge carp. At one point, a red one leaped out of the water after a fly - it looked like a massive red rugby ball. Leaving the park, we saw a grey squirrel, apparently untroubled by our propinquity. As I watched it, it hunched its back over and dragged its bottom along the ground, like a dog with worms. I have to admit, I stood there and laughed at it, which seemed to spur on its manic bottom scraping to even greater heights (yes, I know I'm mean). For some reason it amuses me greatly to see a dog doing it; it had never occurred to me that a squirrel might, and the sight was truly bizarre.

Poor old Pesky had to go the vet the other day, nothing serious - just a check up, although you wouldn't have thought it from the fuss she made. First we had to coax her in from the garden by rustling the plastic wrapping of her favourite snack (a fishstick). A bit of quick work was then required, one of us distracting her with the fishstick while the other zoomed behind her and shut the door on her retreat just in time, as her response to seeing the Wicker Basket of Doom was to turn tail and attempt to escape at MACH 3.

In a concerted effort, Tallboy and I maximised our advantage of four forelimbs and opposable thumbs. Despite Pesky clinging on to the edges of the basket with all four sets of claws, we managed incrementally to unhook her and encourage her deeper into the wickery prison. I did up the leather straps on the door of the basket with a flourish, only to have my bubble burst when I noticed one end of the top carrying strap dangling uselessly inside the basket. I managed to squeeze my hand in and retrieve it without letting Pesky out, burrow madly though she might...

It's only 7 or 8 minutes to the vets, but with a persistent 'wrrrrrooooooaaaaaaawwwwww' soundtrack it felt somehow longer. Talking gently to her, we negotiated the rampy entrance and checked her in. 'Ah, yes, Pesk?' 'Er no, Pesky.' 'Yes, that's what I've got here.' Since when has a terminal 'y' been silent?

We kept talking gently to Pesky to drown out the alarming vet noises around us. We did quite well too, until a perky Jack Russell came out of the consulting room and bounced around the surgery. She didn't like that much. 'She's really not going to like this,' I said to Tallboy, nudging his attention to what was crossing the car park. Pulling his slight owner towards the entrance was a vast, double-decker bus sized Boxer. As it dragged her into the reception area, the Jack Russell went ballistic. The Boxer was restrained somehow from eating the Jack Russell, which was going beserk on the end of its lead. Pesky was vocally unhappy with the goings on which she could hear but not see, and things generally got a bit noisy.

'Oi! Boxer!' shouted one of the receptionists. 'You're supposed to be ill!' Looked on good form from where I was sitting, I can tell you. 'And you,' she turned her attention to the Jack Russell, 'you'd better shut up. You need to walk past him on the way out...' Once the Jack Russell had nipped out smartish, the receptionist asked Boxer's owner whether she had ever, er, you know, considered him having some training. 'Oh yes,' replied the owner. 'We tried that. They asked us to come back when he'd calmed down a bit...'

We stifled our sniggering, then were totally silenced as we noticed an enormously massive dog making its way towards the entry ramp. It was a Great Dane. It was Boxer's turn to a) be dwarfed and b) go ballistic. Great Dane's owners tried to distract him by getting him to go on the scales, just next to us. Great Dane wasn't having any of it, and reared up on his hind legs, forelegs on his owner's shoulders. It was scary how he towered. His owner managed to bring him back down and drag him over to sit down in Boxer's now vacated space, but in doing so his face (Great Dane's, not the owner's) loomed at Pesky's portcullis as he passed and she spat hugely and wildly at him like a fatty sausage in a frying pan.

Wonderful silence reigned in the waiting room. Apart from the voices we could hear coming out of the consulting room containing Boxer and his owner. At one point there was a sustained rattle of claws against the door, followed by excited male and female talking. Finally, a despairing 'SIT!'

Soon it was our turn to go in. Funnily enough, once perched on the examining table, Pesky doesn't want to come out of the basket any more. I de-basketed her and plonked her on the scales. The vet read off the weight and recorded it, noting with surprise that she weighed exactly the same, to two decimal places, as she did six months ago. That, or those scales only ever read 3.76 kilos.

The Vet checked her over and reported that her poorly old heart hadn't deteriorated any. He asked about her general demeanour - any signs of lethargy? Well, she sleeps about 23 and three quarter hours a day, but that's nothing new. Appetite OK? Oh yes, she eats like a horse. Er, I mean a hungry cat...

As soon as the Vet Grip (TM) was released, Pesky zoomed back into her woven sanctuary, leaving four little paw print blooms on the tabletop.

All the way home Tallboy comforted her with his fingers through the portcullis, nursing her basket on his knees. I related to him the tale of the time I took her to the vets in that very basket, the Ex nursing it on his knees. She took fright and wee'd hugely, to cries of aaaahhhh it's wet and warm which quickly turned to aaaah it's wet and cold. He was walking like John Wayne when we crossed the car park at the vet's, his jeans all soaked with stinking cat pee. How I laughed...

Last weekend the Lush shop in Bristol had a party, with special offers if you spent a certain amount, and staff who were dressing up as products. If you could guess which they were, you got a prize. And if you came dressed as a product yourself, you also got a prize. The Sun and I were due a trip to Lush, so I racked my brains as to what we could go as.

My favourite Lush product is a soap, called Figs and Leaves. The Sun's favourite is Bunny I Washed the Kids. This seemed a good starting place for costume planning...

I assembled my costume kit on Friday. At school, I asked if I could grab some leaves from the fig tree that lives in a sunny corner of the grounds, as I needed them for a costume. He looked faintly puzzled and asked me how many I was going to pick, was it three? Er, not that kind of costume. As I headed off figwards with my tupperware box and secateurs, he called out to me across the quad: 'Can I give you a hand?' 'No thanks,' I shouted back, 'I can manage!' 'I meant afterwards - do you need a hand fixing them on?' 'Er, no...'

That afternoon, Tallboy and I finished work early with to zoom off to Oxford to stay with his parents. I made sure to pack my leaves (and a couple of figs), a ball of yellow wool, some cardboard and the pencil crayon tin. When the four of us settled down on the sofas after tea, I whipped out my stuff. I made a huge necklace from ribbon, in which I entwined the figs and leaves, reserving the biggest one for a special purpose. I thrust the card at Tallboy with the request that he sketch out and colour in two rabbit ears, pink in the middle and brown round the outside. I got on with making a yellow tail pompom; I made the cardboard circle so huge that when I put it down to go to bed I hadn't even half-finished it.

In the morning we set off back for home, Tallboy driving, and me in the passenger seat pompomming like a lunatic. I did break my stride for a moment to call Poppy to give her an ETA for Tallboy picking up the Steps. I mentioned the Lush party, and wondered if she wanted to come too. There was just time to grab lunch when we got home, find a safety pin for the pompom, assemble the bunny ears, then pick up the Sun from the Ex's. Tallboy drove us into a busy and sweltering Bristol and dropped us behind Castle Green, five minutes or so away from the shop. The Sun and I donned our Lush costumery by the side of the road: he, a bunny ear headdress and a big yellow pompom tail, I a huge fig and figleaf necklace, set off by a large figleaf tied round my head at a jaunty angle, flopping slightly over one eye.

Taking a deep breath, we made our way through Castle Park, which was not only thronged with people, but thronged with people sitting down and watching the world go by. It's safe to say we felt slightly silly. The Sun mithered a bit when he saw a large dog (a Setter, I think it may have been). 'It will want to eat me!' he wailed. He had obviously got right into character... I reassured him, then the dog made a beeline for him, sniffing interestedly. He squealed and scampered away, the dog following him with a wagging tail. Its owner brought it to heel and took it off down the path, pausing only to look back over his shoulder and shake his head gently.

At the shop, we were well received, and spent a very pleasant half hour surrounded by all sorts of Lush lovelies and loveliness. The Sun was in seventh heaven, he adores Lush stuff and was desperately chuffed to get a prize for his dressing up. Poppy arrived eventually, and we stuffed our purchases away and left the fun to walk home.

'Er, I need to go into WHSmith,' Poppy mentioned quietly. I could see that something was bothering her about this course of action. 'You're not going to take that off, are you?' Well no, I had decided to keep the costume on. For a start, my backpack was full of Lush stuff, so I had nowhere to put it. Secondly, the funny looks I was getting were rather amusing. To me, at least...

We dived into Smith's and left the Sun perusing the Dr Who stuff while we searched for the Filofax pages she needed for her diary. We couldn't see them anywhere. Up and down the aisles we went, up high, down low, nothing. Meeting up at an intersection, we exchanged a despairing look. 'You know what this means?' I said. 'We're going to have to ask for help.' Poppy looked at me with a mildly panicky expression: 'But, but, you have a leaf on your head!' It was clearly a much bigger issue for her than for me. I marched up to a young shop assistant with an engaging grin on my face and said in tones loud enough for Poppy (at this point cowering behind a fitting) to hear 'I know I have a leaf on my head, but could you possibly tell me where the Filofax pages are, please?' He pointed them out. It was one of those  points; wordless, sustained, with the pointer's eyes not once leaving the face of the pointee.

We had to re-cross Castle Park to begin our walk back to Poppy's. I'm sure she was walking far enough away from us to suggest to the casual observer that she wasn't with the weird leafy woman and the huge bunny child. As we climbed the steps, a gust of wind flipped my headleaf back, and I whipped it off my head, annoyed. 'I don't be-leaf it!' piped up a little voice from behind. I flashed him a 'Grrrr' look over my shoulder, to be met with a plea: 'Help, help! Leaf me alone!' Little toad...

Eek, haven't been here for a week!

I've discovered a fantastic stop motion animation package called Monkey Jam and this is some of what I've been up to with it...