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!