A 'living' swan

Don't you just love being British?  I do.

I'm not making a political comment here by the way, I'm just saying.

The etiquette of the Brit is, in my opinion, second-to-non on the planet.  (Says she with very little experience of anywhere much further afield than Brid).  However, as The Beautiful South sang so beautifully, I shall carry on regardless.....

I  know in my last blog, I was banging on about lack of etiquette when it comes to the Per Una lady taking a leak in M&S but today I'm putting a positive spin on the peculiarities of habitual behaviours in our green and pleasant land.

And, before I'm accused of making a religious comment, I refer to our green and pleasant land in the literal sense and countryside British etiquette in respect of the rules of the road.

NO, it's not another lecture about bad driving.  The road may be the same, but I'm referring to different users, those who choose to travel along them at speed, but on foot.

I'm a jogger, not exactly gaining any of the aforementioned speed as I pootle along the country lanes near my home, however I am technically jogging.

While out on the green lanes and roads, I exchange the customary nod and 'good morning' or 'good evening' (as the hour dictates) with anyone who crosses my path; fellow joggers, dog-walkers, ramblers, everyone except those pesky cyclists who just whizz past with an air of superiority and not so much of a glance in my direction.

However, the nearer I get to the built up areas the etiquette takes a stark change of direction.  What was a pleasant formality a few metres away would now appear just plain weird.  I mosey past people, sweating and panting, but my eyes are fixed firmly on the pavement and, in turn, the other people also do everything in their power (i.e. look at their watch or mobile phone intently) to avoid looking in my direction.

Why does the presence of homes and shops change this etiquette?  It's not that there are more people in the built up streets.  For example, if I met just four people on the country roads and also only four people in the town centre, the aforementioned pleasantries would only be exchanged with the four folk on the country lanes.

It's like being on the tube.  I've noticed as a mother travelling with children, it's OK to smile at other mothers travelling with children of a similar age; not weird at all.  However, outside the parameters of these exact specifications, no one EVER smiles at anyone else on the London Underground.

There are times when I ponder the unspoken laws of the road, the tube and indeed the time-honoured rules of what one is and is not expected to do at certain times in life and I just think, 'oh fuck it!'

For example, I took up ballet when I was 40 and now spend a couple of deliriously happy hours a week dancing with a bunch of ladies, and gents, of a certain age and we have a whale of a time (no pun intended).

In fact, I penned a little something, mainly for myself, but as I'm clearly in a 'fuck it' mood (must be the cheap white wine), I thought I'd share.

Why ballet?

Ballet at 40, who'd have thought?
A tutu she dashed out and bought.
She huffed and puffed as she pulled it on,
Picture a flaccid, bingo-winged swan.

Her piroettes got just half way round
And echappe jumps would shake the ground.
Grand plies; too much for the pelvic floor,
And saw her running for the door.

Back in class, she'd fondu with the rest
But chaines turns were a bit of a test.
Like cheap white wine, they'd spin her round
Until she'd land in a heap on the ground.

But for her, there is only one barre,
And within the year, she's come so far.
With strength and grace, her head held high,
She replies 'why not', when they ask her 'why'?

Ballet at 40, who'd have thought? 

The tutu? Best thing I've ever bought! 

Please note this is NOT me....it's some dancing bird called Darcy, never heard of her myself.

Too busy writing to do lists to write

Dear Blog,
I apologise profusely that your big brother, the writing career, has been getting all the attention lately.  As the younger and less lucrative sibling, the writing hobby, I'm sorry you've been neglected.

So with five minutes to spare, I thought I'd give you a little bit of my time for being so patient.

Thank you.

Speaking of me running around like a blue @*&$% fly setting up my own writing business, can somebody out there please find my husband a job!?

Our back garden has started to look like a village railway station eagerly awaiting the judges of Britain in Bloom.  Our local B&Q has sold out of hanging baskets and bedding plants and he keeps buying new lawn mowers to improve the stripe in the grass (all six sq ft of it).  He's really going to town on the whole 'garden leave' thing.  Well, no actually, he's not going to 'town', he never actually makes it past the garden centre.

Anyway, my new business DEadlines (PR, Journalism, Copy & Creative) is coming along nicely.  So far, I've been to Staples (Gary came with me because B&Q is next door) and bought 'supplies', raided my neighbour's garage for an old desk, set up shop in the corner of a friend's office and started designing a fancy website.  I'll get around to actually doing some work some day soon!

I'm also very busy networking (or as some might call it, 'drinking coffee') but not neglecting mum duties and even baked buns for my boys' football presentation day last week.  I was devastated, however, when out of the hundreds of goodies, lovingly baked and donated to the homemade cake stall, mine were the ones left at the end that they couldn't give away!

My little cherub, the one who's 11, came out with another corker as we baked never-to-be-eaten buns together.

"Mum, can I help with the misker?"

"Eh?"

"The misker, that machine thing you use for baking."

"Do you mean the whisk, or the mixer?"

"Yes, that's the one!"

I've also been busy ridding myself of a nasty chesty, upper respiratory, sinusy, allergy thing (the doctors hedged their bets) that has plagued me for months.

One day I developed a severe pain in my ribs so I dumped the kids with a neighbour and rushed off to A&E fearing the worst, such as appendicitis or an ectopic pregnancy (with hand of God intervention).  Some people (a very rude group of 'some people' consisting largely of my husband) alleges I'm a hypochondriac. Nonsense, I say.

I did however get the feeling, after waiting many, many, many hours and watching every other patient in the waiting room (and several shifts of staff) come and go, that perhaps the nurse in triage had also joined the group of 'some people'.  However, instead of being categorised with the triage code H for hypochondriac, I think I was a J (which stands for 'Just ignore her and she might go away').

I was eventually diagnosed with intercostal muscle strain from coughing and sent home with a flea in my ear for wasting NHS resources. (I even had to return the flea the next day)
(I once had an emergency appointment at the dentist only to discover that the source of my agonising pain was some food stuck between my teeth.)

Anyway, speaking of humiliation.  I would like to formally and unreservedly shame Per Una-wearing 60-something-year-old ladies who shop at M&S, well, just the ones with a bad aim (you know who you are)!!

Crime scene: Ladies toilets, first floor, Marks and Spencers, Trinity Centre, Leeds.

You've queued for ten minutes, propped the door open with your foot and it's now your turn.  Mrs Per Una comes out of a cubicle, you smile and politely side-step her, close the door and hang up your bag.  Then you spot it. Wee, ALL OVER THE SEAT.  You can't walk out and use another loo as there's a queue of hopping ladies outside and there's only so much Tena Lady can handle.

MY aiming prowess is second to none.  However, in this scenario, I'm duty-bound to wipe someone else's wee away, just so the lady who dashes into the cubicle after me doesn't glare and tut.

I have a friend who has a sign above her guest loo.

"If you sprinkle while you tinkle,
Please be sweet and wipe the seat."

Maybe I should print this out on my shiny new printer, on finest Staples paper, laminate it on my new laminator and fly post them in every cubicle in every M&S in the country.  Then, I'll get some work done.