Transferable smiles (possibly)

I like taking photographs of things that make me smile. I like being able to look through them at times when dragging a smile requires a bit of help, or when the world has gone a bit bonkers or just because I can. In case they are transferable and are needed, here are some recent ones:

One of the labels Dad wrote on his and Mum’s homemade chutney:

Turning this:

Into this homemade elderflower cordial (and it actually tastes quite good, too!):

Sharing the sun….and my comfy spot with a four legged friend:

Realising that my petunias weren’t petunia-ing because….well, because I was removing the new buds, rather than the dead ones. Correcting this and finally getting some colour:

Watching himself fold his work shirts in the only way possible that doesn’t result in liberal spreading of Norman fur (and never once moaning about my enthusiastically moulting fur ball):

Seeing this man feeding seagulls:

Himself offering to go and buy ‘a couple of steaks for the barbecue’ and coming back with enough food for the entire weekend. Literally:

Norman trying his luck:

Himself suggesting that ‘perhaps installing the train app on my phone’ would make more sense than writing down numerous connections and options on post it notes and sticking them to my phone….

Auntie Pog over excitement at having Little Pea and Little Wisp together in the same place at the same time (because Little Wisp is so blimin’ amazing that rather than 8 weeks in the hospital as expected, she came out after 2 weeks and 6 days!)

And Himself remembering me saying that sunflowers are my favourite, because you can’t help smiling when you see one:


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Makingness for Little Wisp

It’s been ages since I actually finished any makingness, but in honour of my second visit to see my beautiful new niece, I managed to finish two things:

As Little Wisp seems to like pulling tubes (first she pulled her ventilator out, then her feeding tube), I rather frantically made her an octopus likes those that are made by amazing volunteers for premature babies (There are groups all over the world, but here is the link to the UK one .  Be aware though, there are strict rules – for good reason – and Little Wisps one would not have passed, so read everything before you start if you want to get involved)

And, taking a little more (!) time, I made her a giraffe.  This is Long Lucy:

This is Long Lucy’s preferred method of travel:

And this is Long Lucy with a Little Wisp, who was so exhausted after her earlier giant feed, didn’t actually notice:

But she did hold my finger, which made my tummy all melty:

And she does the best cuddles:

She is such a strong little thing, that hopefully it wont be too long before I can visit her and her Mummy and Daddy at home rather than in the hospital.  Wherever she is though, I’ll find her for another one of those cuddles :o)

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colourful smiles

Pog tips of the day:

If you ache from your exercise exertions yesterday from the moment you open your eyes, you’re unlikely to do a fast run in an hours time.

Ignorning the fact that one of the hook and eyes on your sports bras is no longer completely attached to said bra will also contribute to not doing a terribly fast run.

(Well, those are my excuses and I am sticking to them). On the upside, it means you have a good excuse to ignore your time, take a colourful, slightly slower route and take some photos.  All these images make me smile for different reasons and make me wonder at the skill of the people who created them in one way or another.  I give you (even though it was a grey morning) colourful Beachville:


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The mystery of the doors

I’ve always been really good at checking things.  Some people would call it OCD, but I never leave a door unlocked, a window open, or the car open for anyone to snaffle the rather eclectic 10 or so CDs that are around a decade old.

Since moving in with Himself I have relaxed a little on my checking.  It’s a shared responsibility after all, so it can only be half my fault if we’re burgled.  And frankly, I’m surprised we haven’t.

First we had the incident where it rained heavily in the night and our kitchen had an accidental wash down as one of us had left the door open.  Not just unlocked:  wide open.

Then, security conscious once more, we pondered the wisdom of leaving Norman’s window open through the night:

Norman’s window, modeled by Norman

To help us decide I tried to climb through it from the outside.  I can confirm that a head will just fit through at an interesting angle, but unless you’re of eel / worm build, there’s little hope of getting through any further.

Then we went out on Saturday morning and came back….to find the back door wide open again.

We went out on Sunday, I went to one shop, Himself went to another.  I got back to the car first to discover the drivers door was open.  Actually ajar.  A visible open bit.  Checking on those precious CDs I realised we’d not been broken into; Himself had forgotten to shut it (although he did try to argue it wasn’t that bad as he’d ‘definitely turned the key’.  Oh good, so locked but open.)

Yesterday morning, after Himself had left for the office I wandered downstairs to make a drink to find the back door swinging again.  This time we are both convinced that I locked it.

So there are only two possible explanations:  Either we have a ghost who is trying to escape through open doors, or Norman has a pair of well hidden opposable thumbs.  And one or the other also comes for car trips with us.  Because surely, the pair of us can’t both be this useless, can we?  I’m going back to the obsessive checking.  At least that way we can rule out those two explanations, even if it does mean we are useless. :o)

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Bemused, amused, confused

I guess we’ve all had someone say something about us behind our backs at some point, whether we know it or not.  And usually that something is linked, at least a little bit, to some sort of reality.  I thought that was how gossip worked, anyway.  But apparently not.  Because this week I’ve been told a story that we think has probably been around for about 4 years.

It’s a story about someone whose husband died, so they cut off all their hair and (presumably as a sign of mourning) have kept it short ever since.  And that person is….ME.  You know:  the me who until very recently was more single than Bridget Jones.  The me whose only men in their future were expected to be of the furball variety.  The me who has never been married. And the me who does indeed have short hair, but only because after this it seemed easier for all sorts of reasons.

I discovered this story when Himself went out with some colleagues and one of them mentioned my deceased husband and associated short hair.  Himself told me the full story when he got home, only to realise that was really all he knew.  There were no details, like had we been married long? Did I have children who had managed to pass me by as well?  Was my husband good looking? I sent him back to the colleague the next day to find out answers to these questions and, more importantly, to see if she knew where the daft story had started.  We think that it was someone who I have never met, spoken to, or ever had any interaction with had told another colleague who had in turn told this one.  Sadly, there were no answers to the other questions which will leave me wondering for a while about how he filled in those gaps (because I assume if you’ve made up this much, you’d at least have a full picture in your head).

I don’t know if I should be bemused, amused or confused.  I don’t know why someone who doesn’t know me would make up something so completely unconnected to me about me.  And I don’t know how in 4 years nobody has mentioned it to me.  It’s strange.  But probably worth bearing in mind the next time someone tells you a story about someone else that it might very well have absolutely no link to reality!

(On the upside, in the midst of all my singleness, at least someone thought that it wasn’t permanent.  Even if they had never met me.) :o)

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The clumsy gene

When someone you care about is having a hard time, you do what you can to help, don’t you?  It’s been tricky helping out my Sisters now I’m not round the corner from them and I did wish I could do more than just borrow Little Pea a bit.  Now I wish I hadn’t wished quite so hard.  Because it seems that to help her out, I have unintentionally taken on Sister 1’s clumsy gene.

Sister 1 is clumsy in a small child sort of way.  For the last week, she hasn’t done anything daft, but I have:

Last Friday I fell over on my run.  I landed on one of my substantial calves, catching both elbows and my left armpit (how?  Who grazes their armpit?!) on the way down.  I got to compare hurts with Little Pea at the weekend, and he was quite impressed:

This photo does not do it justice at all.  It’s really impressive.  Honest.

The next day, I headbutted the corner of the shed.  Not just a little bump, you understand;  I cut my head open.

Two days later, stretching after a run I caught my head on the metal postbox by our front door (it’s one of those fixed to the wall).  I still have an egg on my forehead.

And then I cooked pasta.  The spiral ones that have a hole going all the way though their wiggle so that if you take a piece out of the boiling pot of water to test if it’s ready, you drain that boiling water out and onto your lip:

That photo doesn’t do it justice either.  You’re looking bottom left.  It was impressive.  Honest.

So even though my photos don’t seem to prove much at all, I do believe I have taken the clumsy gene from Sister 1 in the spirit of helping her out.  And while I’m all for helping, Sister 1, could we maybe just share the clumsy gene for a while?  At this rate I’ll have no body parts left without a hurt on them!  :o)


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Auntie, Auntie Pog

It’s not a typo.  After another Beachville visit from Little Pea which included us experiencing temperature very differently:

Doing some Auntie Pog / Little Pea swinging:

Getting a little closer to Norman:

And generally getting worn out:

I took Little Pea home, got on the train and went up to London, to meet….my GORGEOUS new niece.  I am an Auntie again.  An Auntie, Auntie Pog.  We will call her Little Wisp:

Little Wisp likes having her head stroked:

And likes looking at her Mummy:

She is absolutely beautiful and I’m so proud to be her Auntie.  I think she is already pretty perfect, but she has a poorly tummy and will have an operation soon.  Right now, she seems to be giving the doctors and her Mum and Dad a bit of a hard time and has decided to try out the ventilator machine.  Weirdly, Little Pea’s Dad is also poorly in the same hospital.  The poorly ones and my amazing, strong Sisters could do with all the positive thoughts and energy available out there at the moment, so if you have any spare, please could you send them over? :o)

To Sister 1 and Sister 2:  You know I’ve always thought you were the best thing since sliced bread, but I underestimated you both.  You’re both SO much stronger than bread (even stronger than a French stick when it starts going stale and your can’t break it up at all, at all, at all), and as proud as I am to be an Auntie to your gorgeous children, I am as proud to have you both as Sisters. xxx

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