Kitchens and bathrooms and bedrooms (oh my!)

I find myself in the market for a new kitchen. The purchase of New House is getting ever closer to completion, allowing me to fantasise about island units and ginormous fridges with ice makers. My first port of call is the magazine rack at Sainsbugs. I always have to conduct plenty of research at home before venturing out into the big world and face to face with 'experts'. This is why my bookshelf carries such tomes as 'Running a Bed and Breakfast in France', 'Starting a shop', 'Grow Your Own Fruit' and 'Goat Breeding for Beginners'.
I scanned the many home stylee magazines and picked up one promising to delight me with 'kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms'. I have all three of those, thinks I, and duly trot to the checkout. Of course the mag is sealed inside its own little plastic cover, so flicking through wasn't an option. I feel the need to say this as I would never purchased the item, had I but known the truth.
So, once home, the wrapper is torn off and all the little inserts shaken out. I gaze lovingly at the glossy pages and decide to reward myself with a Lush bath and the new untouched magazine. Perfumed bubbles gently steaming, I get myself comfortable in the bath and reverently open the magazine. First few pages are ads and contents. Fine. Move on. Then a 5 page spread on how Jocasta and Tarquin couldn't stand their brand new kitchen, so ripped it out and started again. Their new (yes alright stunning) kitchen dining extravaganza has doors out onto the terrace and a huge central island perfect for their cookery delights. My kitchen is 3m square. I don't think this will fit....
A few more pages in and I come to the (again) huge entertaining kitchen of Jocasta and Tarquin, who party hard in their delightful 62 bedroom mansion. Now this kitchen includes not one but two ambient wine storers and a champagne ice bucket in the (obviously standard) gigninormous central island. Coloured LEDs light the kitchen to create "dazzling" effects. Bear and I don't entertain much to be honest. And we don't drink much either. I think perhaps this kitchen is not suitable inspiration.
I flick through, feeling a little let down now. I find a rather lovely photograph of a pink kitchen. The blurb tells me that it comes "primed and ready to paint" and kitchens "start at £17,000". Seventeen grand? And it's NOT FINISHED! I think either my concept of what a kitchen should cost is vastly underestimated, or this magazine is definitely not for PLU.
I have to add that the bedrooms were no better: beds costing £20,000 and more and as for the bathrooms, well!
I have left the magazine, sad and lonely, in the smallest room, where it shall remain until it learns how to behave like a proper magazine. I, meanwhile, have returned to the relative safety of the web. To kuchen huus and beyond!

Crushing the crush embargo

I always seem to have a crush on someone. Sometime it will be a friend, a work colleague or someone I've just seen on the street. Suddenly they are aglow. My heart pounds a little faster in their presence, my brain turns to jelly and I become a giggling schoolgirl incapable of intelligent discourse. This can be rather embarrassing, especially if its someone with whom I have previously had a good relationship.
My ever loving bear is supportive of my little crushes. He knows he's the only one for me. And crushes go as suddenly as they arrive, leaving me wondering what on earth I was thinking! Because a really good crush isn't the famous and handsome actor from the blockbuster. Oh no. My crushes are strange and unusual people, often with a searing intellect and corresponding lack of social skills!
My first ever crush was my father's business partner. To this day the smell of pipe smoke makes me weak of the knee and giddy of the soul. Then in my early teens, the boy downstairs captured my heart. Albeit briefly for I was a fickle young thing. My papa used to announce "It's Lillekat and her men"!
Aged 18 and living in a hall of residence, our flat all were crushing on the upstairs flat, although I was the only one besotted with a third year student, A, who was a brilliant mathematician. This culminated in me getting very very drunk and calling up to A, shouting "I do love you!" I will always remember his patient "Yes, yes, I love you too." So kind, so dismissive! He broke my heart and he never even knew!
Later crushes were variations on the theme of brilliant intellectual. I was crushing on one lecturer so much, I couldn't concentrate when he was behind me and being the only girl in my class did not help! My classmates tormented me terribly about this and I spent much of my undergrad life pink with girlish embarrassment!
These days it's work colleagues who worm their way into my affections. And then get kicked out by their successor, never to return to my crushing bosom.
I read a fantastic word on Facebook, sapiosexual; defined as being sexually attracted to intellect. That's me. It really is brains not brawn that turn me on. And looking at the popularity of Prof Brian Cox, I'm not alone! PhDs are very sexy ;-) I refer you to Dr Sheldon Cooper
So don't be afraid of having a crush. There's nothing wrong with you, and you don't love your partner any the less. But it can make the day a little more fun and just a little exciting. After all you never know who you might meet...

Not quite PLU darling

I've been reading a book called "Whiter Shades of Pale" by Christian Lander. It's the sequel to "Stuff White People Like" and lists items beloved by middle class white Americans. Prime examples are World Music, Starbucks and the film Juno. A lot of the listings can apply to the English middle classes too, whole food co-operatives, tea and pretending to know about wine to name three.
It got me thinking about the equivalent of "White People" in this green and pleasant land. I would call them PLU - People Like Us.
PLU isn't affected by money, although education whether formalised or not definitely plays a part. It's not even truly about the class structure as it exists in the UK. And don't ever try and believe it doesn't exist. Class is affected by your job level, your family salary and your parentage. As a child of immigrants I am immediately excluded from certain classes, no matter what my parents did for a living! But the chances are the people who live near you are educated to a similar level to you, earn roughly the same as you and go on similar holidays. That's class.

I guess PLU is about taste, it's about appreciating the finer things in life, looking for quality. For the benefit of you, dear reader, here is my list of what is and isn't PLU.

PLU
White lights on your Christmas tree
Loving the theatre, especially the Royal Exchange and the Lowry as opposed to The Palace
Game (I'm talking venison here, pigeon, quail)
White metal jewellery: silver and platinum.
Wholefood co-operatives
Delicatessens
Whisky
France
The Landmark Trust
Radio 4
Radio Times
BBC4
Cufflinks
Prosecco
Leather Chesterfields (in brown, ox blood and green only!)

Not PLU, darling
Leggings as an alternative to trousers as opposed to an alternative to tights
Lots of gold jewellery
Frozen meat. It's plumped with so much water you're not really getting the bargain you think you are
Drinking jagerbombs once you are over the age of 21 (I'm being generous here. Lets be honest, once you're out of your teens, it's time to move on to something else)
Pontins
Caravans
Shiny suits
Toilet paper dollies
Toilet seat covers
Antimacassars
Stiletto heels

Now, hopefully you've been nodding your head along with this, because otherwise you're just not PLU, darling! Feel free to add your own PLU and non-PLU in the comments...

Lost in the matrix

Nothing irritates me more than posts on Facebook which start "I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/useless". Passive-aggressive attempts to get flattery and comfort from others leave me cold. Feeling low? Have the balls to say so and the mental snuggling will roll in. Similarly the phrase "I have low self esteem" drives me up the wall. You don't. If you did, you wouldn't think you had low self esteem, you'd just think that's how the world was.
My line manager hates me saying that I am clever, or smart or a genius. She thinks it's highly inappropriate for people to say such things about themselves. But if it's true,why should we be ashamed to say that we are good at something?
We seem to live in a culture where success is vilified and failure trumpeted. We prefer people who are modest about their skills and keep quiet about talent. Well I can't. Because here's the thing. Whilst I am highly intelligent and extremely talented in my field, I have lost my edge.
Prior to my formal diagnosis, my mind was, as it were, running free. When programming, I could get lost in the program and come out having achieved my goal but without a clue how it worked. Bear called it "becoming one with the matrix". It was wonderful and frightening. I produced some amazing pieces of work, but if I looked at the code, I could tell you it was mine (like many programmers, I have a distinctive style) but I could not remember writing it.
Now that's gone. The medications that have stabilised me have also dulled that part of the brain that would take over. Don't get me wrong, it was worth it. My life is a million times better now. In fact I have a life! But I refuse to stop acknowledging the part I lost by ignoring my talent as a programmer and all round smartipants. My pants are extraordinary. And smart.

Psst! Wanna buy a house

So we're for sale. The house that is. After 4 very happy years here, we have finally come to terms with the fact that 4 bedrooms plus cellars really is a tad large for our needs.
And we have stuff. We have managed to accumulate stuff in every room. Where does it all come from? I know our bins are overflowing, we eBay and go to the Tip quite regularly and we're always trying to get chums to "take things home". And yet.... Each and every room is packed to the drawstrings with nick nacks, boxes of interesting paraphernalia, useful swathes of ribbon, assorted magical kit, a steam engine, a wizard's staff (with a knob on the end) and several cuddly toys.
We are attempting to sort, clarify and declutter. But what to do with these things? Too good to chuck, too bulky for eBay and too weird for Oxfam, we move our clutter from room to room, making tiny changes on the way.
Meanwhile the lovely chaps from Trading Places have been, photographed and measured us to within an inch and created the profile to wow the world across the media. In fact when I look at their work, I fall in love with our house all over again! Worth a glance on Rightmove doncherknow.
When I told chums we were in the market for being on the market, a couple of very supportive types responded with "Really? Us too. Been up for over a year now..." And like all sellers before me I smiled and silently said "Yeah but that's you. Not me."
We've had a couple of viewings but no bites yet. I know I shouldn't worry, it's only been a few weeks. And yet....
It's all those lovely chaps at Trading Places' fault. With their Twitter. And their sales and their agreeds and their viewings. Last week was the last straw. "@tradingplacesea: Just agreed an asking price offer on a property that's been on the Market under 24 hours!! #veryhappyclients"
S'not my house. Posts like these make me most petulant and miffy-moo. Why not my house? What's wrong with my house? We happen to have been very happy here!
Selling a house is very strange. On the one hand you really really want to sell. You want to leave. On the other you are fiercely protective of your choice of colour in the living room, the tiles in your kitchen. Surely everyone can see the potential and opportunity in your home. Surely they see the bargain they would be getting? Surely they are battering down the estate agents door as we speak... Surely?

Sorry? You want the link? Well of course you do...
http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-35990230.html?premiumA=true

All change!

The household has undergone some rather dramatic changes recently. After being my carer for 5 long years, the Bear is finally free to pursue a career. He has been my support, my comforter, my cook, my memory and my all. Because of him I am now able to function pretty much normally. Well most of the time!
Of course he sacrificed a great deal to do this, primarily his own professional life, so I am so pleased and proud that he is finally able to have a life of his own again.
His new beginning meant another change. This time for our babies. They are used to having someone there 24/7 and frankly they could be quite destructive when left to their own devices (see exhibit A).
After much googling, calling, emailing and heart searching, we stumbled across Wags, a dog day care facility. We went for a visit and saw a pack of happy hounds playing, along with several "teachers". A long chat with the owners revealed that they were as bonkers as us. Sold!
The deal was struck. A pet taxi would pick up the girls at 7:30, transport them to Wags. There, they would spend the day in 'structured play' with some training, playing with toys and ganes and running about with the other dogs. They would definitely learn to share, something Dana has never really come to terms with!
We're not sure what goes on at doggy day care as mummies and daddies are not allowed. We get pictures tweeted throughout the day and the occasional video. What I can say with certainty is that the munchkins are knackered! Come the weekend it's all they can do to get off the bed and they love a lazy Friday with their mummy.
I felt that I needed to make a change to keep up. So I have embarked on a healthy eating jaunt. So far so good and I've even given thought to doing sone exercise..... I've bought a sports bra... Best have a sit down!

Revelling in the trivial

There's an alarming trend spreading across social media sites: that of the political or very serious and private statement. I'm forever seeing tweets or updates positing a fairly controversial statement combined with a horrific picture, presumable to shock or to gain support for this movement or that one. Now I have no problem with people having political views. But is social media the best place to platform your beliefs? Join a political party, campaign for a charity but leave my Facebook alone. I don't want to view mutilated pets whilst commuting across Manchester on the Metrolink. I want to see humorous updates about new shoes, pictures of puppies being cute and videos of Lego men re-enacting movies. It's 8 o'clock in the morning for chrissake.
Don't use Facebook or twitter to live out the dissolution of your relationship. I appreciate s/he done you wrong and that's fine but remember, posts on the
Internet are forever. Is this how you want to be remembered? If you have kids what will they think? Do you really think they won't see it? And what happens when you make up? Or when you realise that perhaps s/he did not do you as wrong as you thought and then what? If you're having a row, have a row. Your neighbours probably already know. Leave your online buddies out of it.
Although there is this awesome row going on on my FB at the moment and EVERYONE's getting involved. My nosiness is loving it. And at least the protagonist has made his standpoint quite clear. Which brings me to...
Please leave your enigmatic emotional pleas at home. Don't tell me a certain someone did a certain something that caused another someone to feel aggrieved. If you want someone to pet you, have the balls to say so.
I love social media. It is a wonderful way to entertain and keep in touch. S'like blogging. Only you don't have to write as much. I find writing difficult so I love having a character limit! I try and make my posts witty and poignant.
Oh and I would quite like someone to pet me now.

My thinking-brain dogs

Having a mental health disorder is not always the roller coaster of fun movies, books and telly lead you to believe. In fact sometimes it's frankly pants. Especially when you can't get dressed, you don't wash and that Lloyds advert with the baby makes you burst into tears. It is also excruciating for your loved ones who obviously want to help but feel completely powerless and can only watch you sit vacant eyed as life passes you by.
But I have found that a dog can really change this and two are even better! They seem to know when I am vulnerable and snuggle round me with a head on my chest to stroke (there is nothing like floppy ears when you are feeling blue).
And of course they need things from me. They need to be fed, exercised and loved. And without me they wouldn't get these things. So I get up, get some clothes on and this in itself starts the healing process.
Without them I would be an even bigger basket case than I am already. So lets hear it for Dana and Juno, the best assistance dogs a girl could ever have. I do love them so.

Dragons are for life, not just for Hogswatch

It began innocently enough. The Bear asked me to download an app for a game he was enjoying. All I had to do was go in once a day and send him a 'gem'. Easy.

So dutifully, whenever I remembered, I would do the necessary. After a couple of weeks I noticed changes: dragons had appeared where none had been. There were now little cash boxes floating around. I clicked on one. It made a lovely tinkly noise as of money clinking onto a hoard. I clicked on a dragon. It had a name. I name I could change if I wanted to. I found I did want to.

Bear admitted that he had also been playing on my game when I had been asleep and had set me up with said dragons and their 'habitats'.

Fast forward three weeks and I now had a whole host of dragons, all personally named by me (Asgard, Midgard, Utgard and my cold dragon Hel; d'you see what I did there?). They all needed feeding up, have habitats built and then..... Then I could breed them.

Those concerned with propriety can rest easy. Dragons breed by flying around a cave for a few hours and then produce an egg. The egg sits in a special hatchery until it is ready to hatch.

And here we are. The whoop of smug achievement when I realised I had bred a pearl dragon before Bear, could be heard at the end of the garden and I have been overheard saying "Hold on, just checking on my dragons". When did I become this person? And how do
I stop? Do I want to stop? Hmmm not until I've managed to breed a rainbow dragon at least. Now if you'll excuse me there are some tinkly cash boxes what need clicking on.

Foraging is a political issue

My sister and I have always wanted to find out more about foraging so when she emailed me about a walk on Hampstead Heath with a published foraging type, I jumped at the chance.
So Saturday morning we traipse up the hill in the unusually hot sun to The Gaia Foundation in the back streets of Hampstead village.

Feeling a tad shy we take a bench across the road and watch the rest if the group arrive. A strange mix of serious types with suitable footwear and leather knapsacks, hampstead mums with offspring, flowing skirts and an intimate knowledge of all the Eithiopian restaurants in a 5 mile radius, and youngish lasses in shorts and flip flops. And us. 2 middle aged slightly tubby women in jeans, trainers and plenty of sunscreen.

Our hosts were two far too attractive young ladies and the chief forager. He definitely looked the part: he had a hat and everything. We were introduced to the chief when he loudly declaimed the the Hampstead Heath Corporation were ridiculous monsters for preventing the group from gathering our foraged bounty. "What's next? Telling people to stop mowing their lawns!" Sis took my hand at this point and gave me the "don't respond" look - she knows me so well...

Off we went into the undergrowth. Well up the pavement anyway. We had only gone a few yards when chief stopped and plucked a small weed from the edge of the road. This was chickweed. A delicious salad ingredient apparently. We all took pictures obediently. The earnest chap next to us piped up "It's delicious sautéed in olive oil" and I knew we were definitely in NW3.

As we strolled through the Heath, chief forager pointed out an abundance of edible flora and the occasional poisonous option for those planning a murder... Unfortunately his spiel was peppered with rants on how we all should return to being hunter gatherers and that the African grasses were providing grains across that continent and we could all benefit from that lifestyle. This would be discussed further over lunch...

We'd had an hour and a half of ranting by now under the hot sun and a follow up rant with foraged salad did not sound like fun so sis n I made excuses and skipped happily down the hill to forage for a frappucino.

Sis has since claimed that she did indeed learn something: she learned that foraging is Not For Her.

For those of you interested here is a list of the edible yummies available in your local park or pavement:
Chickweed, lesser celandine, linden, ground elder, dock, cleaver, elderflower, nettle, cow parsley, mustard garlic, alexander, herb bennett, sheep's sorrel, common sorrel, moor sorrel, grass, dandelion and cats ear dandelion.

Note from the author: Some of these plants look suspiciously like others which are poisonous. If you're not sure, Don't Put It In Your Mouth (surely good advice for any situation!)

Now if you'll excuse me I've got cleavers infusing in a jug of cold water.

Addendum: cleavers taste like grass. And cleaver infused water tastes like watery grass. S'quite nice actually.

Addendum 2: Out on Urmston meadows spotted cow parsley, mustard garlic, nettles of course, sorrel & elder. Hey! I learned something!

The kindness of strangers

Ah friends. Those wonderful people with whom you have history, with whom you share crisps at the pub and in some specialised cases, with whom you sneak off to see Twilight -Breaking Dawn. Friends are fabulous creatures and I have to say mine are particularly awesome.


But there has, of late, been a different group of friends in my life. I have no idea what some of them look like, or where they live. I don't even know their true names in some cases. But nevertheless they have been there for me in ways I could never have expected  nor even hoped. 


Online friendship is a strange beastie. Often broached through fora and then strengthened by social media sites, we find ourselves part of a worldwide support group with people who are prepared to just listen to our woes, rejoice in our small victories, coo over our photos and they never even get so much as a pint from us.


I adore my friends. Some of them are bonkers and so am I so that's all right. But I would like to send a special shout out (why yes, I did say 'shout out': I am quite down with the kids doncherknow) to my chums beyond the ether(net). You know who you are and you know what you did and what you have said. Come the zombie apocalypse, I'm running with you! SMOTE!

Minty fresh inside and out

Mint is everywhere. We like to suck it to freshen our mouths, we chew it to
appear cool; we drink it to help with upset tummies, mix it with chamomile
to make a sleepy time drink palatable. We use it on our bodies with
Original Source shower gel and in our mouths as toothpaste, powder and
mouthwash. We love mint, be it peppermint, spearmint, ginger mint, water
mint to name but a very few.

I take my daily mint quota in the form of a capsule of peppermint oil for
my IBS symptoms. So far it does seem to be doing a pretty good job,
although I do have some odd side effects. The most noticeable is that my
poo not only has a rather minty scent, it also has that archetypal fresh
feeling in my bot. Sometimes this can be positively menthol. I've tried to
delicately enquire of fellow IBS sufferers if they too are minty fresh
inside and out, but they tend to look at me blankly.

The upshot is that I'm a bit off mint at the mo - I'm even thinking of
branching out into non minty toothy paste. As long as I can find one that
tastes good and is for sensitive teeth and cleans well and does not cost
the earth. Luckily the Bear has finished his minty shower gel and is back
on the patchouli loveliness that is Tramp.

And that is why I shall say no thank you to the polo. Oh and Extra Strong
Mints make me sneeze.

You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy

Oh Pontins, what hast thou done.  This weekend was supposed to be a bit of a holiday for the Bear and me.  A little break with fellow sci-fi geeks at the SFX Weekender.  Alas t'was not to be.

The arrival was good - once we figured out that "near Rhyl" meant "nowhere near Rhyl" and we duly queued for our check in. Now we were early so did not have to suffer the bitter cold of the evening queuers - poor souls. Someone should have gone up and down that line with hot tea. Bit shocked to have to fork over £100 "deposit", especially given what we discovered on entering our "new refurbished chalet"....

Refurbished apparently means new lino and "we painted over the worst bits". There was damp down one wall with what looked like distemper. There was a great big hole in the bathroom under the sink, with what looked like some rather important connectors sat on the floor. There was a window stuck open in the kitchen area, which explains why it was always so blood cold. There was 1 plug socket in the kitchen. For the kettle, toaster and microwave. Which was on the other side of the cooker. Where there was a scary switch. Seems you could either cook, or have hot water. But not both.There was no table, no chairs, hell no glasses and no cereal bowls. Which was odd as they definitely sold cereal in the 'shop'. Perhaps you were meant to eat them out of the packet...

On returning to reception with our list of complaints, we found that the entire sci-fi community had turned up and were shivering right down the length of the building. So we went for dinner.

How can an event which has SOLD OUT not have a full catering facility? Half the canteen was in use and you could have either chicken, scampi or pork. Vegetarian? Well it's chips, broccoli and carrots for you, you lucky thing. On any kind of diet? Begone foul beastie back to the Nisa market of doom!

Special mention at this point to Waddy and Rob Lupine, raconteurs especiale who entertained us throughout dinner and the evening with tales of Wadfest, Clarecraft and how a bruiser of a chap managed to get chatted up whilst in a primrose frock. Utterly charming, if you get the chance, find them on twitter...

Alas our joy was too soon ended as we returned to the ice bucket of 'home'. We figured our how the fridge worked (You need to pull it right out and plug it in) and put on all our clothes to go to sleep.

I believe it was the next morning when Bear started to lose his rag. He awoke and attempted to have breakfast. No cereal bowls and only teeny tiny cups for a brew. OK. We hot footed it to reception. Queued again and then handed over our list of complaints. Not even a "sorry". Just "they are building your table and chairs now" and "teething troubles". Not a happy bear now. We had a VERY disappointing breakfast ("Whaddya mean there's no beans???") and a wander around the dealers room before settling down to watch A Princess Bride. (Inconceivable! No really we did)

And then the news started on twitter. Guests not coming, events cancelled, then the preview was cancelled and I think at that point I'd lost Bear completely. We approached the canteen for lunch. Again people it was SOLD OUT. One person on a till does not suffice! 

Shortly after this having returned to our chalet to find that no-one had even been to check on our problems and we packed our bags. There was nothing we wanted to see or do badly enough to put up with either the accommodation or the food. We pulled ourselves up to our full middle class heights, demanded sushi, sparkling water and a world where you could have both an oven AND hot water and left.

Sibling rivalry

I know people hate it when dog owners anthropomorphise their pets, but I don't care. My girls are my babies and this is my blog so nyah!
This morning started out like most Fridays: after extended family snuggles, I take the munchkins out for their run. Usually this involves throwing the ball for the enthusiastic Juno, whilst Dana potters about looking moody.
Today was different. Suddenly Dana had intercepted the ball and was making a determined sprint for the shed. Ju was hot on her heels and the two raced joyously up and down the garden a few times. Then Dana stopped. She didn't really want the ball anyway. She dropped it but stood very close. Because even though Dana definitely did not want the ball, she didn't want her sister to have it. Whenever Ju made a attempt on the ball, Dana would grab it and run off a little way. Cue much barking and howling on both sides. And if I could speak doggy I'm pretty sure the words "mu-um it's not fair!" would be included.
Eventually, mummy intervened and order was restored.
Later on they tag teamed me. The munchkins have a penchant for my knickers (I know!) Dana made a grab for a lone pair sat ready for the wash. On my command she dropped them only for Juno to snatch up the knicks and make a break for it. I lunged for Ju and grabbed her behind. Quick as a flash, Dana raced past and took the baton right out of Juno's mouth and off down the stairs.
Unfortunately the pants didn't make it. But the munchkins are both snoring on my lap. I don't even know if I can reach my tea....