A meme? Is that all about me me me me me?

I appear to have been tagged by Eurolush, and now I have to answer questions. Being a generally uninteresting person, the answers will be as dull as ditchwater and this will serve Eurolush right!

What are your current obsessions?
Sleep. I am obsessed by the fact that I hardly ever get any. Normal obsessions require energy and effort, and I don't get enough sleep to put any effort or energy into anything. Oh to be obsessed by something! It would mean I was fully awake for once!

What's for dinner?
I don't care so long as it's quick and someone else is cooking it. Preferably MrCat. I wouldn't want to risk cuisine a la Small Cat. Small Cat would give me a very badly constructed jam sandwich and a packet of monster munch. Every day. Forever.

What's your greatest fear at the moment?
Is my permanent state of bewilderment down to the fact that I don't get enough sleep (see question 1), or is it because I'm losing my marbles early?

What are you listening to?
I haven't bought a CD for ages. I download stuff (LEGALLY, Thank you!) per track. On the way in to work on Friday I listened to Tricky, Tim Deluxe, Rufus Wainwright, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Judie Tzuke, June Tabor and Lemon Jelly. On the way home I listened to Schubert. Categorise that if you must. Small Cat forces me to listen to the Sugababes and Scissor Sisters over and over and over and over again but you know this. I posted about this a few weeks ago. Didn't I? Sorry, what was the question (looks around for marbles).

If you were a goddess what would you be?
I would be the Goddess Somnambula-Mascara. I would bestow sleep on the downtrodden and accursed. And nice cups of tea. And I would have the ability to apply make up so it looks "sexy and alluring", as opposed to "that woman who looks like a cross between Robert Smith and a clown".

What are your favourite holiday spots?
What is a holiday?

What are you reading right now?
Oh my, it's dreadful. It's some godawful nonsense about the Princes in the Tower and it's making me want to gouge my own eyes out with a plastic spoon. I won't tell you what it is because you should be spared.

What is your guilty pleasure?
Pleasure shouldn't induce guilt, surely? Unless you enjoy putting eyeballs in peoples sandwiches, or something equally awful. Which I don't, I hasten to point out.

Who or what makes you laugh?
Small Cat. Every single day. He is hysterical.

What is your favourite spring thing to do?
Skipping through the fields singing "la de la de da, I aint gonna wear socks no more".

Where are you planning to travel next?
To work, and then back again. Until I die.

What is the best thing you ate or drank lately?
Er, whatever it is that Mr Cat cooked last, OBVIOUSLY (desperately tries to remember. fails. picks up marbles and shoves them back into ears). No, I recall now – he did a rather splendid new potato salad this evening with mozarella, spinach, wholegrain mustard and roasted red peppers and (get this), he ROASTED THE PEPPERS HIMSELF. Me? I would have put them in a) raw or b) got them out of a jar, pre-roasted by the slave from the red pepper dungeon.

When was the last time you were tipsy?
The more accurate question would be "when was the last time you were NOT tipsy?". Ha! That's taken you by surprise!

What is your favourite ever film?
The Lion in Winter. This will not please Coffee Lady as no one gets shot or blown up, and Bruce Willis is (fortunately) nowhere to be seen. I say fortunately because he has a face I could never tire of slapping and were I taken to see any film in which he appeared I'd have to be dragged from the local Odeon having been repeatedly pelted with popcorn by an angry horde for causing a general fracas. No, none of that. Lion in Winter is the best film ever, beautifully acted and shot, fantastic dialog, great music, stunning scenery. Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole – come ON people! Clearly I am a cut above. Oh yes.

What is the biggest lesson you've learned from your children?
Preserving ones dignity is not always possible. In some situations, it's best to just put the banana outfit on and quit complaining about the effect it is going to have on your hair.

What song can't you get out of your head?
There's nothing in my head at the moment. It's too full of stuffing and old bits of wool.

What book do you know you should read but refuse to?
Anything on my Literary Theory reading list. I didn’t read it 20+ years ago when I was actually supposed to, so I’m damned if I’m going to read it now.

What is your physical abnormality/abnormal physical ability?
The little fingers on both my hands are completely bent. This terrible affliction stopped me from stretching to more than an octave on the piano. I could have been a world class pianist, travelling far and wide, to public acclaim and large bouquets, breaking the hearts of handsome violinists the world over. As it is, I've had to make do with a tin whistle and a pair of bongos.

What is your favourite candy?
I love a ripple with a nice glass of cava.

What is your favourite body part?
Please. This is a family site.

I now have to tag someone else. So I’ll tag my lovely friend Kevin over on HotRunes because he never updates his website so this might focus his mind. And I shall also tag Roman Sock as she spends far too much time slaving over a hot crochet hook and this might give her a break.

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This week I have been off work a fair bit due to feeling like poo, and also reading a very bad book which is making me want to remove my own eyeballs (see above post).

Please Close the Gate

Apologies for the lack of blogging. I have had a variety of distractions and irritations keeping me otherwise occupied.

So, MrCat and I went for a walk last weekend. It was around the environs of Blenheim Palace, ending up with a splendid view over the Capability Brown landscaped gardens and lake. With lovely vistas. And cute wee newborn lambs. And electrified fences which were so low you could just walk over them and barely break your stride (not that we did this, I hasten to point out). And gates with no purpose. Gates which just sat there looking slightly embarassed. Embarassed gates, and shamefaced stiles.

Let me give you an example.

move along, nothing to see…

Is this some kind of joke?

The park keeper is behind that tree and he is going to laugh at you, yes YOU, if you climb over this thing. Do not fall prey to this outrageous piece of trickery. WALK AROUND THE STILE, people. AROUND. That’ll show ‘em.

And what in the name of holy haddock is going on here…

I’m not embarassed. Not even a little bit.

Please close the gate? WHY?!!! Is there something I should know? Is there an invisible forcefield on either side of the wooden frame which will twang me backwards across the path and into the other field, where I and all other transgressors will be savaged by nursing ewes?

Best not risk it, then. I’ll go through the gate and close it behind me.

Blenheim Palace looked rather lovely. We didn’t have time to go in, but it looked splendid from the other side of the lake. All I know about Marlborough is that he fought at Blenheim, Oudenarde and Malplaquet but I neither know nor care what he was doing there. Or what particular year it was.

I know very little about the 18th Century. My interest in history stops dead at midnight, 31st December, 1699. However, having pondered it for a while, I managed to come up with ten things I do know about one of the least interesting periods of history on the syllabus. Oh, quit moaning at the back, you bewigged fop. You know it's true. Everyone wanted to do the Wars of the Roses and Henry VIII at school, and who can blame them.

Mind you, one or two of these items do redeem the period a tiny bit.

1. The Aristocracy wore wigs with powder and looked ridiculous
2. Mozart. For this, the century gets mega brownie points.
3. The French cut Louis XVI’s head off.
4. People drank a lot of gin
5. Culloden. For this the century gets a MASSIVE deduction in points and a severe telling off.
6. The South Sea Bubble. Don’t ask me, I have no idea.
7. Nasty, nasty George I locking his wife up in a dungeon in Celle. Points deduction and two missed turns. Oh, and a slap.
8. William Blake, Thomas Paine and Mary Wollstonecraft born.
9. Nelson at Cape St Vincent and the Nile
10. Poldark set in 18th Century. Casting of Robin Ellis in leading role – 1000 points.

I think that just about covers it.

This week I have been mainly feeling poorly and reading “view from the foothills” by Chris Mullin.

STOP! Hammer Time!

No, nothing to do with 1980's baggy trousers and bad dancing. I only wish it was. The truth is far more terrifying. A craft nightmare, in fact.

A few weeks ago, MrCat's mother lent me a 1970's craft magazine. Just looking at the pictures was a joy. There was all manner of fabulous, beautiful stuff, and also some lunacy, like a crochet bra and pants set. Itch-tastic!

Anyway, there were a few crochet patterns in there so I decided to try one out. I usually opt to downsize things slightly – a smaller hook or thinner wool usually does the trick - and it's just as well I did in this case otherwise the ensuing catastrophe would have been EVEN WORSE THAN IT WAS!

It was an alligator. Here he is, in the magazine, looking quite cute.

(cute-o-rama)

Halfway through making his body I began to feel slightly uneasy. By the time I'd sewn the head on and attached the eyes, I realised that I was actually in the process of creating a monster capable of destroying civilization. Small Cat was less dramatic, and far more succinct.

"It is a hammer. With eyes"

(sigh) "It's an alligator. Without limbs"

"Don't put legs on. I want to use him as a hammer".

"No. I can't stop now. It's already used up two balls of wool. I intend to see this project through".

"Huh!"

It is at this point that I have to 'fess up. I swore to the Coffee Lady that I would complete the monster COME WHAT MAY and then post up a picture. Well, I lied. I got as far as the back legs and couldn't take anymore. I sewed them on, rather gracelessly it has to be said as I just wanted the nightmare to end. No positioning, no alignment, no nothing. Stab, stab, stab with the needle. I wasn’t even looking at what I was doing, as is obvious from the evidence below.

Basically, I've let myself down, I've lied to another blogger and I've wasted two balls of wool.

if you grasp him around the bum, you can use his head to secure nails

At least the Small Cat was happy.

"It is a hammer. With legs. It's really horrible - I like it".

"It's disasterous".

"It's like the rubbish toys you used to make when you didn't know what you were doing. Can I have it?"

"Why? In God's name, WHY?"

"Because it's an alligator with hammer superpowers".

"Obviously. Here, take it. Take it from my sight, quickly".

"Cool!".

“Fear my DIY superpower! Rarrr!!!”

Sometimes, you make a cake and it's a soggy, sunken mess. A couple of weeks later, you make the same cake to the same recipe and somehow it’s wonderful. Following this catastrophe, I finished off a squid I'd promised to make for a friend. It turned out exactly as I'd hoped. I'm not sure what lesson I learned from all this, save that alligators might not be my forte.

Careful now…

There is something immensely endearing about the hazard signs used by Cadw on their ancient monuments. I spend more time delighting in these specimens than in actually examining the monument I’ve allegedly paid good groats to visit. Here are some of my favourites;

Hazard One – The Backward Lunge

aaaaaaaargh!

Really, I have no idea what this person was thinking. Anyone attempting to scramble on those walls deserves everything they’ve got coming, frankly.

Hazard Two – The Osteopath’s Delight

Oooooooooh!

People who attempt this kind of manouevre have only themselves to blame. I’ve got no sympathy for this kind of slapdash approach to historical tourism. It lets everyone down.

Hazard Three – The Diving Fool

eeeeeeeeeeeek!

Hurling yourself backwards into a moat is pure exhibitionism, detracts attention from the monument itself and is the kind of arrant tomfoolery one shouldn't have to witness in a public place. I wouldn’t even bother putting a sign up – it just gives these people the attention they crave.

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This week I have been mostly not getting any sleep.

The Irishwoman who went up a hill…and nearly got stuck

Hatterall Hill. We were on that bit where it goes all vertical and dangerous, the bit where no sane person would venture.

We’ve had another lovely, long weekend in Wales, which included a climb up Hatterall Hill (aka THE HILL OF DOOM!). After walking for some miles, the last one being almost entirely uphill, we were very nearly at the ridge. We were promised spectacular views of England on one side of the hill, and the dark, glowering Black mountains of Wales on the other. So when we finally got there (after a particularly exhausting and completely pointless detour which is where everything started to go wrong), I noticed that Wales and England had swapped places. I suggested this to MrCat, but he wasn’t having it, despite all argument to the contrary.

“No, really. England is in the wrong place. It should be on the right, not the left”.

“I don’t think so”.

“No. No really. Look – that is a patchwork of gentle, green fields. That is your stereotypical English landscape. See those whopping great mountains over there, the BLACK ones? That’s definitely Wales. That is not, most definitely NOT, Hereford or Worcester. Actually, I don’t even think this is the ridge path”.

(pause)

“Let’s carry on, shall we?”

So we carried on. And by now it was 5pm, and we’d been walking for hours. And all of a sudden, we were on the edge of what appeared to be a precipice, with no path, no shelter, and no clue where we were. The wind was so strong it was impossible to breathe. I insisted we go back, MrCat used logic and said all would be well. But it would have meant walking along this tiny little path, clinging on to the side of the hill, as the sun sank lower and lower, with no idea whether it would meet the main path again or not. And if it didn’t, and it was dark by then, it would have been horrible. So I got panicky (MrCat later said he was quite impressed, as my panic translated into walking very fast, and very vigorously, at speed away from the edge of the hill). I wasn’t walking. I was stomping.

Shangri-la at the end of a long walk

Half an hour later we were back on the wrong path we’d been on before, but at least it was sheltered. In MrCat’s rucksack we had all we needed to survive a night in the open.

1. A bottle of water
2. A big bag of satsumas
3. A box of fondant fancies which, as every fule no, is vital for outdoor survival.

Five mintues after this, we finally found the Offa’s Dyke ridge path. It was about 2 metres away from where MrCat had decided to take his random, and ill advised, detour through the gorse.

I didn’t say anything. I just gave him “the look”.

The path down Hatterall Hill drops into the grounds of Llanthony Priory, another one of those beautiful monastic ruins so beloved of your blog host. As luck would have it, part of the cellar of the priory has been converted into a teeny little bar, where cold beer can be acquired by shell shocked walkers. It would have been rude not to buy some. It’s what the monks would have wanted.

Llanthony Priory – you can see the entrance to the teeny bar just on the left

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This week I have been mostly making an enormo-alligator from a 1970’s pattern book, and reading Seance.

The Perils of Penelope

After a late meeting in Romsey on Friday night, I started the drive home at about 12.15am. There were pockets of mist on the dark, country lanes, it was cold and a wee bit spooky, and I was in the car on my own. As I reached the village of Hursley, a man appeared in the middle of the road. I slowed the car down a bit, but he still didn't move. I veered to the left. He moved to the left. I veered to the right, so did he. I couldn't drive on without potentially hitting him, or mounting the kerb.


I didn't have much choice but to slow down to a crawl, at which point he loomed over the bonnet and then tried to open the car door. It was at this point that fear turned to bloody minded anger. I could literally feel a wave of it surge up from the pit of my stomach which only seconds before had turned to pure jelly. I bawled "no you don't!" in what I hoped gave the impression of a redoubtable middle aged lady in possession of a very heavy and potentially lethal handbag. I shoved the car in reverse and pressed the pedal as hard as I could. I expect I zigzagged across the road, but at least I did it at speed!

Because he'd had to move over to the side of the road to get at my door, this left the rest of the road clear so I got the heck out of there.

Now, I think the young man in question was the worse for wear. But even so. You don't expect to stumble across something not unlike a scene out of "American Werewolf in London". You know, the bit when they're on the moor, near The Slaughtered Lamb pub.

You don't get werewolves near Winchester and I jolly well hope it remains that way.

I was shaken, but not stirred.

(This week, in between defending myself from lunatics at midnight, I have been mostly reading The Aviary Gate and trying to crochet an alpaca).

Tintern

A couple of weeks ago, myself and Mr Cat (who booked the weekend away in double quick time before I had time to display any signs of wavering) made the relatively short journey from Winchester to Tintern. On Friday, after work, it still only took a couple of hours. Why do I forget that it's possible to do these things, and still be back in time for when small cat is dropped off by his father on a Sunday? Tsk!

Lots of nice arches and stuff

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that I've decided NOT to give everyone a history lesson, as is my wont. I have to admit I'm struggling though. Tintern was one of the religious institutions dissolved by Henry VIII in the 1530's...

Phwoarr! Look at that view!

...and your useless blogging host took this here course called "Papists and Puritans in 16th Century England" as a wee history student. So you can understand why I'm fit to EXPLODE!

More nice arches

But since I bore even myself on this topic, I won't overdo it too much. Save to say that the Abbey is located in a beautiful spot, and we got there as it opened on Sunday morning, with the sun shining. And it looked glorious. Although it is difficult to escape a certain sense of sadness that such a thing came to pass, that a whole way of life - yes, sometimes corrupt, but no, not always - and such an intrinsic part of the social and cultural fabric of the country, could be destroyed in such a short time. It was nothing short of catastrophic and possibly one of the most significant historical events on these islands. STOP NOW, WOMAN!

If you want to go to Tintern, it's worth the visit. You also have Raglan and Chepstow castle within easy driving distance. We went there on St David's day, and entry was free, which was rather nice. We ate the night before in the Royal George, just opposite the Abbey (which is lit up at night and looks rather eerie). Our meal was very civilized and pleasant and Mr Cat was most impressed by his lamb shank. It did make him walk a bit funny though - kerboom tish!

If you want to read something palatable about this period of history, but don't want a big old stuffy history book with cobwebs all over it, and dust and wafer thin pages which fall to bits as soon as you look at them, then I have just the thing!

Murder, mystery, suspense, and the dissolution of the monasteries - what more could you need. And he's a very good historical novelist, so hopefully you won't be disappointed.