Seabirds of the Sulidae family (or Boobies)

Speaking of food and weight loss (see previous blogs), is it just me or is the telly full of programmes about cooking, fat people and fishing?

I've offered to model at my lads' school's fund-raising fashion show and couldn't resist a further opportunity to embarrass my ten-year-old.  You may recall my previous blog regarding my 'helpful' comments on the football sidelines.

Well, I was only too happy to help and strut my stuff on the cat walk.  However, I still have nightmares about the last fashion show I went to as an audience member.  Clearly conscious of wearing dark underwear under light-coloured clothing, the models (fellow school mums) decided to, well look, I won't beat around the bush (?), take it off, all of it.

Under the school hall's bright lights and closed proximity of the catwalk to the front row, the men in the audience suddenly stopped playing Temple Run on their iPhones I can tell you.
The ladies in the audience didn't know where to look (that's when they'd finished clipping their gawping husbands round the ear) and the children had what I can only describe as a biology lesson and rare taste of x-ray vision and a glimpse into the future all rolled into one.

(STOP PRESS: A quick and topical update to blog: it seems these unwitting ladies were in the company of Hollywood's finest as withdewrespect-favourite Ms Anne Hathaway had her own Oscar wardrobe malfunction last night with no less than Prada letting her down in the chest area discretion department)

All this banter reminds me.

My five-year-old drew a picture for me this week (see below).  Which also reminds me, I must remember to lock the bathroom door.

(He actually assures me it's the markings from a Red Arrows plane!!)

When heaven is keeping a cream cracker down

To follow on from the last blog, I nearly re-abandoned my carnivorous ways years later when I ate a bad rissole and proceeded to explode from every possible orifice, made even more fun by the fact that I was sharing a room, and single en suite facility, with three others in student digs in Portugal.

After a few days of severe S&D, it dawned on my room mates that maybe they should call a doctor.  I was in no state to make rational judgements.  I had all on working out from which end the next onslaught of food elimination would occur (are you enjoying your lunch?!).
In broken English, the Portuguese doctor told me, drum roll please, I had salmonella!!!!  Finally, a tale to tell the grandchildren.  So far, I only had breaking my wrist at a rave (see previous blog).  Now it would be grandma, 'the salmonella survivor', rather than grandma 'the drunken prat'.

It's funny isn't it, well, OK, ironic?  When heaven is keeping down a cream cracker, you swear you'll never take good health for granted again, never, ever, ever.  However, our prayers of gratitude, and Girl Guide-style pledges of eternal appreciation for our well being, are soon forgotten and even those darn yummy rissoles get you in the end, whether their mushed up contents once whinnied, oinked or moo'd.

In fact, I've even been complaining about S&D's toilet-roll-saving flip-side this week after overdoing the eggs in last Tuesday's pancakes!  Must have been a 'senior moment' (yikes, did I just say that, shoot me now!!).  NB: Please don't confuse S&D with S&M which is an entirely different kettle of fish.

To put a stop to this uncharacteristic and infantile toilet humour, I'll end with a quick Barry Norman moment.  We went to see rom-com I'll Give It a Year this week.  Do you want my opinion?  Well, here it is anyway.  It's sort of like Four Weddings..... and Love Actually but trying too hard.  End of.
Well, the only other comment I could possibly make is that Rose Byrne should get some rissoles down her.

Horses for courses

Is it me, or has it been a slow news week?

Horse meat-gate has gone on a bit, hasn't it?  And cyberspace joke-writers (who ARE they?) must have given up day jobs to tackle the weight of comedic opportunity (see pic below).

It reminds me, I was vegetarian once, a long time ago.

For almost three years my fridge was devoid of dead flesh of any variety, equine, bovine or porkupine or poultrine (are they words? If not, they should be and I should receive worldwide renown for inventing them).
I stopped eating meat for all the right reasons in my early 20s.  Let's face it, squashing, prodding and killing animals isn't exactly nice is it?

All went well through three Christmases; not a single turkey got it in the neck on my account.
But, like a quitter having a sneaky fag, my resolve started to slip and fish gradually wormed, or should I say swam, their way back on to my plate (yes, I'm aware dead fish can't swim, but I liked the worming / swimming sentence).

Things really started to slip in America where vegetarian options were as rare as their steaks (bear in mind, this was the early 1990s - a fact I've clarified due to reader feedback about how veggie-friendly the Yanks are these days apparently).
I had been on my soap box (me, can you imagine that!?) for three years and I didn't want to lose face by slipping off the wagon (or soap box.....hey, don't judge me, it was very slippery up there!!).

So, the secret snacks started.  I'd nonchalantly wander into Tesco, buy a pound of loose ham, dash out (discard my balaclava), crouch behind the wheel of my Nova Flair and scoff the lot!
Then I would head home and knock up a lentil casserole.
I also became a regular at my local kebab shop where I would skulk behind over-sized shades, a la VB (did you see what I did with the topical French connection there, hey, no flies on me I can tell you), and adopt my usual position in the car.

Eventually I came clean, tired of the fruitless hunt for restaurants which offered other than vegetarian lasagne, served 20 minutes after everyone else had finished their well-done sirloin (all you vegetarians out there know exactly what I mean don't you!?). 

All this talk of horse meat and otherwise reminds me of the time I got salmonella......but that's for another day, another blog.....keep reading.......

Speak as you would be spoken to

Some random musings on communication.

My very experienced teacher friend was endorsing the values of correctly taught and utilised verbal communication and how the adage 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but calling names won't harm me', is actually a load of old cobblers.
I would agree with that and although I'm someone who talks a lot (A LOT!), most of what I say IS a load of old cobblers and readily discarded, despite my tongue-in-cheek blog name and its origins in my son's favourite phrase, 'I don't mean to be rude, but....'.

However, children don't have the cognitive means to filter out what is correct and what is cobblers and therefore take everything to heart.  How many of us mums and dads have heard our offspring whine: "But, YOU said......"
(I do, every day, hence my son taking up saying 'bloody this' and 'bloody that' on his texts (see previous blog)

But a lack of means to communicate verbally, through illnesses resulting in speech impediments of varying severity, can be surprisingly debilitating, more than we might imagine I suspect.

When I was ten, my dad, then 51, suffered a massive stroke.  He was never able to work again (he was a computer programmer) and his verbal communication abilities became like that of a child.  (I'm happy to report he is now 83 and going strong, although life without the power of speech to any useful level remains a daily struggle.)
Stroke at such an age is, thankfully, relatively rare.  It has been well-documented in the media that TV presenter Andrew Marr recently suffered a stroke aged 53 and it will remain to be seen how this affects his communication abilities which, as a journalist, are the tools to his trade.  I have great sympathy for Andrew and his family and  hope he makes a full recovery.

With my dad, I was too young to understand the severity of what was happening, and it was fun.  When I wanted to play teacher, I had a real life pupil!  For my dad, not so much fun, as he struggled to re-educate the part of his brain which forms words and sentences.
Over the years, as his family, we have filled in the gaps; decoding what he wants to say, ending sentences for him and utilised a hell of a lot of guess-work!
For my dad, daily life is frustrating, although a side-effect of stroke left him the gift / burden of child-like inhibitions which make him friendly, approachable and, dare I say, somewhat 'quirky'.
His memory and ability to vocalize what he is thinking / remembering are random, increasingly so with age and other factors becoming apparent.  He can tell you Rastrick is near Halifax in one breath, a memory from 30 years ago, but literally can't find the words to tell you he's had pie for dinner, a mere ten minutes ago.  (Mind you, I often empathise with my dad -  I can sing along word-perfect to every 80s chart hit but can't remember it's welly day at school unless I leave myself a HUGE note on the door, and even then I forget what I wanted by the time I get to the garage!)  Now, what was I saying.....?

I'm constantly intrigued by adult inhibitions and the minefields of social communication protocol and etiquette through which we negotiate our daily life.  Perhaps my dad's illness has inspired me to 'value the power of speech' (/ 'be a chatterbox') and made me more likely to 'speak as I find' or 'wear my heart on my sleeve' (see previous blog), 'call a spade a spade' etc.

There are, of course, boundaries I would not cross, namely the ability to cause 'harm' through my words.  However, I suspect words ARE increasingly becoming akin to 'sticks and stones' as a result of the Facebook generation.  We have the constant urge to fire off short, sharp, often knee-jerk remarks and opinions in an instant, to a wide and often unknown audience, without much thought as to the consequences of our words.

Growing up pre-FB, I belong to a world where we would cut off our right arm rather than communicate with strangers on the tube but we will stop and exchange knitting patterns, the recipe for beef wellington and opinion on Europe with fellow hikers in the Dales.
Now, our written communication via text, e.mail, tweet and FB post allows us to say anything about anything to anyone and everyone wherever and whenever we want, often in character-limited, reactionary and easily-misinterpreted bursts.  And it's here where my friend's words hit home (no pun intended); the dangers with this faceless means of communication for our children is that it might not break bones but holds the same power to cause real harm.

To finish on a lighter note, my little boy's 'way with words' was spot on this week.
For show and tell he was telling his classmates about Charlie who he met in Lanzarote (see previous November blogs).  His Reception teacher asked him to explain more about the holiday.

"How did you get to Lanzarote Daniel?"
"In an aeroplane."
"And what did you fly over to get there?"
"Water".
Prompting him to say 'sea' or 'ocean', she asked: "What sort of water was it?"

Daniel replied: "Dirty."

Funnily enough, that's just the sort of thing my dad would say; the simple truth.

My dad; 'life and soul of the party'

My new BFF

I've made a new BFF (that's Best Friend Forever, for all readers over 43).

She's come into my life at just the right time and really opened my eyes I can tell you.
I've known about her for a while, (she's not as old as me, just turned 20) and always wanted to meet her but never had the opportunity.  (I've met plenty of her not-so-nice acquaintances)
I'm a bit cross with my other friends actually, because I'm positive they must have known her but have never introduced us (which is a bit mean)!
I wasn't sure we'd get along but it's going great so far, she's just blended into my day nicely.  Mind you, I wasn't best please about having to traipse to Debenhams to meet her, Boots would  have been more convenient, but her parents don't want  her to mix with the riff raff (she's French you know).  

OK, I'm going to shut up now for fear of losing my 'lads' and 'dads' audience as I'm sure they haven't got a  clue what I'm banging on about.  (I was going to say a 'bloody' clue, but I've discovered (and banned) my son using this word in cyberspace so I'd  better practice what I preach)


My three-month-old blog has just tipped 4,100 hits so I'm chuffed to bits once more, especially with my friend Jim (that IS his real name by the way, (see previous blog)), who said: "Dianne - your blog had me in fits of laughter.   Brilliant." 
(Thanks Jim)
My joy, however, was short-lived when my blood pressure rose again thanks to the arrival of the latest seasonal 'stock phrase', annually coined by none other than my own husband!

Golf shop customer: "Awful weather again today."
Husband: "Yes, but at least we're going the right way now."

What's that supposed to mean?  What's the bloody (sorry, old habits die hard) alternative?  Wasn't it Michael J Fox and that crazy-haired doc chappy who tried to go the other way?  Should we buy a DeLorian as our next car and hang some wires from the courthouse clock?  (I don't even think my town has a court house, certainly not one with a clock anyway)

I love writing and if I make anyone laugh, that's a huge bonus.  I've decided, besides my day job and my blog, to see if there's any mileage in getting paid a bob or two to string a few sentences together again (I am, don't you know, an NCTJ-trained journalist no less!).
The very first copywriting agency I contacted made me weep (with both sadness and laughter at the same time, if that's possible).
In response to my e.mail, an 'employee' at the agency replied that they would keep my CV on file but (and I quote), "We don't really get broefed on part time or job sahare roles to be honest."
I was rendered speechless (for once) but forwarded the full e.mail to my 'far more eloquent than me' friend, who summed it up nicely by replying: "Oh dear God!......Now I'm truly scared for the future of our nation....."
Amen to that.

(Think my CV might be filed under B for bin if the agency reads this blog so, dear friends, sshhhhh, like the YSL Touche Eclat, let's keep it between ourselves eh?!). 

Why did nobody tell me, with a little help from my new friend, I could look my age and not my shoe size - times ten!