Yes, I thought a title as snappy and inviting as that would have you clicking quickly over here.
Here's a story. What would you have done? I'm genuinely interested. And when you've all told me, I'll tell you what I did.
11-yo found a £10 note in our front garden. Imagine the joy. We're in a cul-de-sac of two houses, not on a street, so it was a bit of a puzzle. No-one passes by, possibly dropping money as they go.
We asked our neighbours, and it wasn't theirs. We said "Finders Keepers", and 11-yo was happy. But then a couple of days later, I asked the postman, and he said yes, it was his (and I asked in such a way that I knew it was, ok? I didn't just say "We found a £10 note; did you drop one?"). So I gave the postman £10.
So what happens now? Do I tell 11-yo, and tell him he has to give up the £10 note to me? Do I not tell 11-yo, because spoiling a child's joy is a rotten thing to do? Should I have not even asked the postman? (Too late now on that one.) Do I split the damage 50-50 with 11-yo - not logical, but a reasonable compromise?
The other factor you need to know in this story, is that it's 11-yo's birthday this week. Obviously that has no moral bearing at all, but I find it significant, in a flakey maternal way.
.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Saturday, November 24, 2012
It's my birthday
... and I'll blog if I want to, blog if I want to, blog if I want to,
You would blog too, if it happened to you.
Or maybe not.
Anyway, it is my birthday.
Because my birthday is on the 24th, I always looked forward to being 24. I thought it would be significant in some way to be 24 on the 24th. When it came to it, I don't think it did feel very significant. Two decades of expectation, and then nothing special. Ah well.
I'm 48 today. As I was walking along, yesterday, pondering, as you do, when you walk along, on the day before your birthday, it occurred to me that 48 is twice 24, and that therefore this birthday is doubly special.
I have to make the most of these significant birthdays. The next one will be 72, and then 96, and then that will probably be it for significant birthdays of this kind.
.
You would blog too, if it happened to you.
Or maybe not.
Anyway, it is my birthday.
Because my birthday is on the 24th, I always looked forward to being 24. I thought it would be significant in some way to be 24 on the 24th. When it came to it, I don't think it did feel very significant. Two decades of expectation, and then nothing special. Ah well.
I'm 48 today. As I was walking along, yesterday, pondering, as you do, when you walk along, on the day before your birthday, it occurred to me that 48 is twice 24, and that therefore this birthday is doubly special.
I have to make the most of these significant birthdays. The next one will be 72, and then 96, and then that will probably be it for significant birthdays of this kind.
.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
How I know, I just know, that Google Maps is edited by a man
I love, love, love Google Maps. I'm sorry if you're a Mapquest fan - is anyone these days? - but Google Maps is just so much better than anything else out there.
I can spend hours zooming round the world. I don't, because I reckon I already spend too much time in front of a screen in idle pursuits. But it's fabulous, isn't it? You can SEE so much. I wish my father had lived in the era of Google Maps. He loved travel, geography, thinking about other cultures. He used to read travel books, and look at atlases. He would have loved zooming round the world. How it feeds your imagination! It's like being a child.
Google Maps are so USEFUL too. I love the street view. A house has come up for sale near our one (which is STILL on the market, waaah). I can have a quick look at it on Google Maps. Oh yes. THAT one. I recognise it. Going to a new place in our new city, and not sure if I'll find it ok. Quick scoot around Google Maps to have a shufty in advance so I know what to look out for. Feeling nosey about an area for some underhand reason? You can have a snoop from the privacy of your own desk. I trust the routes and timings of Google Maps far above our GPS - though if Google Maps added a voice, called itself Emily, and insinuated itself into Husband's trusting heart, then I'd probably turn against it too. It's MARVELOUS, that's what Google Maps is. And I try not to use upper case words too much in my writing (lazy emphatics, in my opinion), so when I do so, you REALLY know I mean it. They've started showing buildings in 3D on the map now, when you go in close. That's fairly incredible.
I like the odd quirk of humour too. If you set a route from England to America, it tells you to swim the Atlantic (at least it used to... I've just tried it, and it didn't seem to work). And there's a place in Antarctica where they've added a little cartoon penguin (not that I'd encourage stereotyping the culture of any geographical location, but they do have a point).
But...
Google Maps has just changed the way one of its features works, and it's a disaster. Now, it has to be said, I'm not the world's most spatially competent person. I'm a bit slow in three dimensions. I remember the days when I instinctively wanted a mouse to operate in left/right the other way. You get what I mean. I wanted to move the mouse to the left, and see the cursor move to the right. Apparently it's quite common, and don't worry about me. I got over it some years ago. I can cause hilarity by trying to learn a new Playstation or Wii game. It involves a lot of expletives, and questions like "but why does it go THAT way, when I turn the console THIS way?" (more lazy emphatics, sorry). If I'm in a lift, and I want to hold the doors open for someone who's hurrying to get in, it's very hit or miss whether I will improve their chances. I look at those arrows and lines, and in the heat of the moment, pressure on, hit both, one after the other, until I get the desired result. I really, really, really can't imagine the solar system, with planets in orbit on different planes. They should be in a straight line, like in the pictures in books. No... operating 2D to 3D isn't my strong suit.
In fact, in the early days of Google Maps, when you had to click on a small arrow on the side of the frame to move the map from left to right or up and down, I found it counter-intuitive. I pointed out to Husband that if you click on the arrow on the left, the map moved to the right. What was the logic of THAT? He helped me re-wire my neural pathways on that one, by suggesting I think of it in terms of "you click on the arrow that points in the direction of the bit of map you want to see next". Good old Husband.
Which brings me to the point of this post. Google Maps has changed the way you get the camera to rotate around, when you're in Street View. Once you've got over the initial excitement of being in Street View ("Oh my goodness, look at the DETAIL... it's AMAZING..."), you can usually turn around, to the left, to the right, and then walk up and down the street. But they've changed the little operating thingy in the top left hand corner. You used to click on the arrow that points in the direction of the bit of world you want to see next. The left arrow for looking to the left; the right arrow for looking to the right. Easy peasy. Now, they have a compass, and when you hover over it, you can "rotate compass clockwise" or "rotate compass anti-clockwise". This is totally bewildering. It means you click on the left side of it to go right, and the right side of it to go left. WHAT IS THE POINT OF THAT? It makes me feel like I'm driving from north to south and someone won't let me turn the map round. That's what it makes me feel like.
And THAT, dear Bloggy Friends, is how I know, I just know, that Google Maps is edited by a man.
.
I can spend hours zooming round the world. I don't, because I reckon I already spend too much time in front of a screen in idle pursuits. But it's fabulous, isn't it? You can SEE so much. I wish my father had lived in the era of Google Maps. He loved travel, geography, thinking about other cultures. He used to read travel books, and look at atlases. He would have loved zooming round the world. How it feeds your imagination! It's like being a child.
Google Maps are so USEFUL too. I love the street view. A house has come up for sale near our one (which is STILL on the market, waaah). I can have a quick look at it on Google Maps. Oh yes. THAT one. I recognise it. Going to a new place in our new city, and not sure if I'll find it ok. Quick scoot around Google Maps to have a shufty in advance so I know what to look out for. Feeling nosey about an area for some underhand reason? You can have a snoop from the privacy of your own desk. I trust the routes and timings of Google Maps far above our GPS - though if Google Maps added a voice, called itself Emily, and insinuated itself into Husband's trusting heart, then I'd probably turn against it too. It's MARVELOUS, that's what Google Maps is. And I try not to use upper case words too much in my writing (lazy emphatics, in my opinion), so when I do so, you REALLY know I mean it. They've started showing buildings in 3D on the map now, when you go in close. That's fairly incredible.
I like the odd quirk of humour too. If you set a route from England to America, it tells you to swim the Atlantic (at least it used to... I've just tried it, and it didn't seem to work). And there's a place in Antarctica where they've added a little cartoon penguin (not that I'd encourage stereotyping the culture of any geographical location, but they do have a point).
But...
Google Maps has just changed the way one of its features works, and it's a disaster. Now, it has to be said, I'm not the world's most spatially competent person. I'm a bit slow in three dimensions. I remember the days when I instinctively wanted a mouse to operate in left/right the other way. You get what I mean. I wanted to move the mouse to the left, and see the cursor move to the right. Apparently it's quite common, and don't worry about me. I got over it some years ago. I can cause hilarity by trying to learn a new Playstation or Wii game. It involves a lot of expletives, and questions like "but why does it go THAT way, when I turn the console THIS way?" (more lazy emphatics, sorry). If I'm in a lift, and I want to hold the doors open for someone who's hurrying to get in, it's very hit or miss whether I will improve their chances. I look at those arrows and lines, and in the heat of the moment, pressure on, hit both, one after the other, until I get the desired result. I really, really, really can't imagine the solar system, with planets in orbit on different planes. They should be in a straight line, like in the pictures in books. No... operating 2D to 3D isn't my strong suit.
In fact, in the early days of Google Maps, when you had to click on a small arrow on the side of the frame to move the map from left to right or up and down, I found it counter-intuitive. I pointed out to Husband that if you click on the arrow on the left, the map moved to the right. What was the logic of THAT? He helped me re-wire my neural pathways on that one, by suggesting I think of it in terms of "you click on the arrow that points in the direction of the bit of map you want to see next". Good old Husband.
Which brings me to the point of this post. Google Maps has changed the way you get the camera to rotate around, when you're in Street View. Once you've got over the initial excitement of being in Street View ("Oh my goodness, look at the DETAIL... it's AMAZING..."), you can usually turn around, to the left, to the right, and then walk up and down the street. But they've changed the little operating thingy in the top left hand corner. You used to click on the arrow that points in the direction of the bit of world you want to see next. The left arrow for looking to the left; the right arrow for looking to the right. Easy peasy. Now, they have a compass, and when you hover over it, you can "rotate compass clockwise" or "rotate compass anti-clockwise". This is totally bewildering. It means you click on the left side of it to go right, and the right side of it to go left. WHAT IS THE POINT OF THAT? It makes me feel like I'm driving from north to south and someone won't let me turn the map round. That's what it makes me feel like.
And THAT, dear Bloggy Friends, is how I know, I just know, that Google Maps is edited by a man.
.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Compliment... I think...
I picked 8-yo up from school one day last week, not dressed in my usual clothes, but in sharper attire.
I thought I was going to have to eat public humble pie and confess to having bought an item of clothing that I poured scorn and loathing on in a previous blog post. Jeggings. I thought I'd ranted at length about them, but on looking up that old post, it turns out, my memory was wrong. I was ranting about pyjama jeans. Pyjama jeans... *physical shudder*...
Now I probably don't strike you instantly as a jeggingsy kind of a gal, and I confess that in M&S recently, I had to ask the meaning of the word "treggings". I can't be doing with all these hybrid items. It's like layering. I've never got the hang of that. If you're cold, put on a jumper. If you're not, wear a shirt. Can't really do layering. Doesn't make sense, and looks like you didn't finish getting dressed properly. Perhaps I just had too many people in my childhood telling me to tuck my school blouse in (or "tuck yourself in" as they would say, which is a very odd turn of phrase, if you stop to think of it).
As I was saying, jeggings have not come naturally to me, but now I've taken the plunge (visual image of two M&S assistants each holding one side of a pair of jeggings, and me on a diving board above, shutting my eyes and holding my nose, stepping off and arriving, bump, ouch, into the garment), and I have to say they do look great with long suede boots, and a snappy city-dweller short mac. (Do they call them "macs" these days, or should I say "raincoat"?)
Back to 8-yo. When I picked her up, she said
"Oh Mummy, I hardly recognised you, you look so pretty".
Which I took as a compliment.
.
I thought I was going to have to eat public humble pie and confess to having bought an item of clothing that I poured scorn and loathing on in a previous blog post. Jeggings. I thought I'd ranted at length about them, but on looking up that old post, it turns out, my memory was wrong. I was ranting about pyjama jeans. Pyjama jeans... *physical shudder*...
Now I probably don't strike you instantly as a jeggingsy kind of a gal, and I confess that in M&S recently, I had to ask the meaning of the word "treggings". I can't be doing with all these hybrid items. It's like layering. I've never got the hang of that. If you're cold, put on a jumper. If you're not, wear a shirt. Can't really do layering. Doesn't make sense, and looks like you didn't finish getting dressed properly. Perhaps I just had too many people in my childhood telling me to tuck my school blouse in (or "tuck yourself in" as they would say, which is a very odd turn of phrase, if you stop to think of it).
As I was saying, jeggings have not come naturally to me, but now I've taken the plunge (visual image of two M&S assistants each holding one side of a pair of jeggings, and me on a diving board above, shutting my eyes and holding my nose, stepping off and arriving, bump, ouch, into the garment), and I have to say they do look great with long suede boots, and a snappy city-dweller short mac. (Do they call them "macs" these days, or should I say "raincoat"?)
Back to 8-yo. When I picked her up, she said
"Oh Mummy, I hardly recognised you, you look so pretty".
Which I took as a compliment.
.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Birthdays
I love celebrating the children's birthdays, but this next one, 11-yo turning 12, is proving a bit of a hair in the gate. He and I have birthdays four days apart, and in America, they fell around Thanksgiving. We developed the tradition of a wonderful family time, taking the kids out of school for three days to turn the long week-end into a week, and heading off to Colorado. Late November in Colorado can be sunny and mild, or snowy and cold. It can be autumn or winter. I loved the element of surprise. We returned to favourite haunts, and did favourite things. We found snow, by heading high, and had a morning's sledding. We had a hike to a waterfall. We spent time in a cafe, drinking hot chocolate and playing cards. It was a much-anticipated week in a place special to the family. I even loved the journey, 10 hours' drive, along roads that had become familiar over the years.
11-yo has always done well for his birthday, because I've never wanted him to feel it's overshadowed by Christmas. Going to Colorado included a family celebration, and then he always had an event with friends too when we got back, whatever floated a young boy's boat. This year, back in Scotland, I was stuck. He was too. When we first discussed it, there were tears. He was suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of friends back in the US, the memory of the huge party he had a couple of years ago joint with his best friend whose birthday is around the same time, and assertions that he doesn't have any friends here who he would want to invite. I left the subject for a few days. At the next discussion, he claimed that everyone in his entire class has already seen Skyfall, and no-one would want to see it again. No other idea was right either. Nobody would want to do anything.
This morning, as we walked to school, I found I was explaining and re-explaining why there had to be a limit of 3, on the number of friends we'd take to the cinema, and that if he really wanted to include a whole bunch of boys, we could have them round for a video and pizza instead. Phew. Given the choice of being faced with a child's anguish ("I don't have any friends") or a child's anger ("But WHY can't I invite 4 for the cinema?"), I'd willingly take the second, exhausting though it can be.
I thought we were unstuck on the birthday front, and it felt good. Until 8-yo piped up
"For my birthday, we'll be going back to America, won't we?"
I knew I had to nip that expectation in the bud, and told her that no, that wouldn't be possible.
"But it's ok, because it'll be half term," she countered.
Sometimes moving continents is a real bummer.
11-yo has always done well for his birthday, because I've never wanted him to feel it's overshadowed by Christmas. Going to Colorado included a family celebration, and then he always had an event with friends too when we got back, whatever floated a young boy's boat. This year, back in Scotland, I was stuck. He was too. When we first discussed it, there were tears. He was suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of friends back in the US, the memory of the huge party he had a couple of years ago joint with his best friend whose birthday is around the same time, and assertions that he doesn't have any friends here who he would want to invite. I left the subject for a few days. At the next discussion, he claimed that everyone in his entire class has already seen Skyfall, and no-one would want to see it again. No other idea was right either. Nobody would want to do anything.
This morning, as we walked to school, I found I was explaining and re-explaining why there had to be a limit of 3, on the number of friends we'd take to the cinema, and that if he really wanted to include a whole bunch of boys, we could have them round for a video and pizza instead. Phew. Given the choice of being faced with a child's anguish ("I don't have any friends") or a child's anger ("But WHY can't I invite 4 for the cinema?"), I'd willingly take the second, exhausting though it can be.
I thought we were unstuck on the birthday front, and it felt good. Until 8-yo piped up
"For my birthday, we'll be going back to America, won't we?"
I knew I had to nip that expectation in the bud, and told her that no, that wouldn't be possible.
"But it's ok, because it'll be half term," she countered.
Sometimes moving continents is a real bummer.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
My Liz Jones ha'p'orth
Well, Liz Jones has upset mummy bloggers. We are predictably up in arms and writing about it. Writing about ourselves in arms makes a change from writing about babes in arms, I suppose.
The point that I find offensive is this.
The title of the article is "Free? You blogging mums may as well wear burkas", and the concluding comments are
"Women have again been duped into thinking the world exists in their tiny, safe, fragrant homes, that life revolves around burps.
They might just as well don a burka, and shuffle, so narrow is their vision."
Am I the only one who finds this racist? Or if not racist, then religionist? Is published racism now acceptable? (I don't read the Mail, so you may need to fill me in on this one).
I've said enough. It's my policy not to add to these blogging spats, but I felt I had to point out the angle on this one that other people seem to be missing.
.
The point that I find offensive is this.
The title of the article is "Free? You blogging mums may as well wear burkas", and the concluding comments are
"Women have again been duped into thinking the world exists in their tiny, safe, fragrant homes, that life revolves around burps.
They might just as well don a burka, and shuffle, so narrow is their vision."
Am I the only one who finds this racist? Or if not racist, then religionist? Is published racism now acceptable? (I don't read the Mail, so you may need to fill me in on this one).
I've said enough. It's my policy not to add to these blogging spats, but I felt I had to point out the angle on this one that other people seem to be missing.
.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Hector is back in favour
Yesterday I took Hector for a walk round the school playing fields. As I was going home, I came across 11-yo and his class-mates, on the way back to the boys' changing room. 11-yo's face suddenly made it all worthwhile, when he saw Hector, called him, scooped him up into his arms, and showed him off to his friends. "Hector, my puppy", he crooned, to the admiration of the other boys.
He put Hector down, and I turned for home. Suddenly, Hector was disappearing in the opposite direction. He'd found a piece of orange peel, picked it up, and, suspecting (correctly) that I'd take it away from him, rushed off. Heading for the nearest hiding place, he dashed straight into the boys' changing room. He was so quick that I didn't see where he'd gone, but I knew, from the shrieks of laughter and excitement coming out of the door. 11-yo sprinted after him, there was more shrieking and hilarity, and then 11-yo emerged, Hector in his arms.
Hector. You brought mirth to the First Form, raised their spirits, and gave them a story to tell over tea. You elevated 11-yo's status among his peers. Oh, the kudos of having a puppy, and a puppy who naughtily ventured into the boys' changing room!
You can stay. (But try harder on the house training, would you?)
.
He put Hector down, and I turned for home. Suddenly, Hector was disappearing in the opposite direction. He'd found a piece of orange peel, picked it up, and, suspecting (correctly) that I'd take it away from him, rushed off. Heading for the nearest hiding place, he dashed straight into the boys' changing room. He was so quick that I didn't see where he'd gone, but I knew, from the shrieks of laughter and excitement coming out of the door. 11-yo sprinted after him, there was more shrieking and hilarity, and then 11-yo emerged, Hector in his arms.
Hector. You brought mirth to the First Form, raised their spirits, and gave them a story to tell over tea. You elevated 11-yo's status among his peers. Oh, the kudos of having a puppy, and a puppy who naughtily ventured into the boys' changing room!
You can stay. (But try harder on the house training, would you?)
.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Why Husband is like Obama (and why I am not like the First Lady)
So Obama is President again. As he made his victory speech, there was a small, seemingly insignificant phrase, that resonated in the Manhattan household. You possibly missed it, amidst the background noise of the whole world beyond America breathing a huge sigh of relief. As he paid tribute to his daughters and talked about their return to the White House, he joked "but one dog is enough".
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
Friday, November 2, 2012
"Health risk of drying laundry indoors"
Well, that's all we need, isn't it? Drying laundry indoors puts too much moisture into your air (a litre per half load). That's bad for you.
But how does that compare with the ill health caused by the stress of using a washer-dryer?
We should really all be drying our laundry outside (in Scotland in November?), or finding a glass-walled, south-facing well-ventilated space in our homes. And if you don't have a glass-walled, south-facing, well-ventilated space*... I suppose you sit and wait till someone invents clothes that don't need washing. Personally, I'm not going to worry, because I reckon the moisture content in the air I breathe the minute I set foot outside our house (in Scotland in November) is probably well above what a litre per half load produces inside.
You can see the clip here, but I wouldn't bother. It'll just depress you. Everything makes you ill these days, doesn't it?
*One of the funnniest expat blog posts about laundry that I've read is this one, in which Rachel talks about how much she was looking forward to the conservatory in her new home. She dreamed of sitting there on a winter morning, sipping coffee in the warmth of the sun and watching the birds in the garden. All her English visitors to the new home commented how lovely the conservatory was... but they all exclaimed how great the space would be for drying laundry. It's one of those ultimate cultural divide things.
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But how does that compare with the ill health caused by the stress of using a washer-dryer?
We should really all be drying our laundry outside (in Scotland in November?), or finding a glass-walled, south-facing well-ventilated space in our homes. And if you don't have a glass-walled, south-facing, well-ventilated space*... I suppose you sit and wait till someone invents clothes that don't need washing. Personally, I'm not going to worry, because I reckon the moisture content in the air I breathe the minute I set foot outside our house (in Scotland in November) is probably well above what a litre per half load produces inside.
You can see the clip here, but I wouldn't bother. It'll just depress you. Everything makes you ill these days, doesn't it?
*One of the funnniest expat blog posts about laundry that I've read is this one, in which Rachel talks about how much she was looking forward to the conservatory in her new home. She dreamed of sitting there on a winter morning, sipping coffee in the warmth of the sun and watching the birds in the garden. All her English visitors to the new home commented how lovely the conservatory was... but they all exclaimed how great the space would be for drying laundry. It's one of those ultimate cultural divide things.
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Thursday, November 1, 2012
Nappy Valley
Superstorm Sandy has shocked us all. What do you make of how America is dealing with the aftermath?
I emailed Nappy Valley Girl, saying "I think everyone is waiting for a blog post from you. Hope all is ok." I'm not sure what I expected, but those of us who follow NVG's blog, written from Long Island, know that she is the kind of gal who'd be good in a crisis. Do you remember that time when they were away on holiday, there was a storm which blew over a large tree, right onto their house, demolishing it in one fell swoop? They had to move house.
As I say, I'm not sure what I expected, but it was probably a story of some kind, a description of what the storm was like, a few thoughts on how everyone is coping. Maybe an insightful reflection on some aspect of American life, as revealed by this dramatic episode. Well, this is what she replied:
"Ok but no power possibly for 2 weeks. Cellphone patchy. Plus I am unwell. Feels like something from a disaster film round here. Please let people know. America is not coping with this at all."
I then asked if she was happy for me to share this in a blog post, and she said yes.
Spare a thought for NVG (I'm sure lots of us have been). This isn't what she signed up for, when she headed off to Long Island from London. Why not go and leave her a comment? I don't know what else to suggest.
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I emailed Nappy Valley Girl, saying "I think everyone is waiting for a blog post from you. Hope all is ok." I'm not sure what I expected, but those of us who follow NVG's blog, written from Long Island, know that she is the kind of gal who'd be good in a crisis. Do you remember that time when they were away on holiday, there was a storm which blew over a large tree, right onto their house, demolishing it in one fell swoop? They had to move house.
As I say, I'm not sure what I expected, but it was probably a story of some kind, a description of what the storm was like, a few thoughts on how everyone is coping. Maybe an insightful reflection on some aspect of American life, as revealed by this dramatic episode. Well, this is what she replied:
"Ok but no power possibly for 2 weeks. Cellphone patchy. Plus I am unwell. Feels like something from a disaster film round here. Please let people know. America is not coping with this at all."
I then asked if she was happy for me to share this in a blog post, and she said yes.
Spare a thought for NVG (I'm sure lots of us have been). This isn't what she signed up for, when she headed off to Long Island from London. Why not go and leave her a comment? I don't know what else to suggest.
.
What we do best
Since we no longer have the Sunday posts of Pond Parleys to ponder (sorry) the differences between life in the US and the UK (I miss that blog...), I thought I'd share this post with you. It made me laugh, but there are many nuggets of truth and insight in there too.
For example
what the US does best what the UK does best
chocolate chip coookies Scottish shortbread
highways byways
"Just do it!" "It's just not 'done'."
That's just to whet your appetite. There's a whole long list waiting for you.
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For example
what the US does best what the UK does best
chocolate chip coookies Scottish shortbread
highways byways
"Just do it!" "It's just not 'done'."
That's just to whet your appetite. There's a whole long list waiting for you.
.
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