For all you spaniel lovers out there

(And I include myself in your number, by the way. I'm in a good phase with Hector - though any tips on how to stop early morning barking would be appreciated.)

This isn't Hector. This is a cocker spaniel who belongs to a friend of mine, living in France. You have to watch to the end (go on, what better things have you got to do for 2 minutes and 25 seconds?) to appreciate fully the dog's artistic sensibility.

Best Buy, or not so Best Buy...

We have not sold our house. We have reduced the price, which has generated precisely zero extra interest. We will therefore have to discuss Plan B with our realtor, which involves leaving the house empty behind us, for her to sell, and for a management company to look after, all the while paying the mortgage and utilities. That feels like the biggest waste of money since (oops, was about to make bad taste joke about the Titanic, just stopped myself). We haven't worked out Plan B yet. That's this week's job. Not the most appealing prospect, I have to say.

There is one person who I really, really want to buy the house. That would be the person who says "From the picture, I anticipated that the kitchen might be out-dated, but when I saw that fabulous brand-new Samsung range, I was won over. That was the clincher for me."

You want to know why? Well, it's because that would make worthwhile the $500, and the hassle, and the waiting in for delivery, and the 45 minutes on the phone to the Best Buy Geek Squad, which led to the conclusion that we bought a new range, which we didn't need. What we needed to do was remember that our fuse box is geriatric and moody, and that if you don't carefully love and fondle each switch before clicking it back into place, and then carefully love and fondle it again after doing so, then it won't stay, but will click out again, quietly and secretly when your back is turned.

Looking on the bright side... I now know how a range behaves when it's pulling 110 volts instead of 220, because I've seen two of them - one old, one brand spanking new - perform the trick. (I thought electricity was either on or off; I didn't know it could be on-ish.) Who knows when that could come in useful? I also know that when a Best Buy delivery man turns on four hobs, waits 5 seconds, waves his hand over the top of them and declares "yup, working fine", what he really means is "it'll probably work fine, and I'm off now". Another piece of knowledge that I've acquired in the process is that if you use the word 'cooker', Americans don't immediately know what you're referring to, and may even think you have domestic staff.

I also know that the Best Buy customer service phone line plays the most noisy, irritating and aggressive music possible. Why would they do that? Why wouldn't they have chosen something soothing and calming? Greensleeves perhaps, or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Or something appropriately themed, selected according to the appliance that is causing the trouble? For me it could have been Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake Baker's Man, or Sing a Song of Sixpence (four and twenty blackbirds - remember?), or Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?, or You'll always find me in the Kitchen at Parties, or Hey Good Lookin', What ya got Cookin'? Blimey, SO many possibilities.

Anyway, back to the bright side, and  (and this really has been a bit of a bright side), I haven't had to cook for a week, which maybe, on mature reflection, was actually in itself worth $500 (not counting the cost of the Chinese bistro buffet at Dillons and the pizzas). I would break that down into $250 for the joy of not having to face the "What shall I do for dinner?" question every day, and $250 for the expression on two of my children's faces when I told them "Look on it as your golden opportunity to learn to love salad".

Come on, Universe.  I bought a new oven which I didn't need, which means that some Oven-Reconditioner somewhere at the very end of the Best Buy  chain of sub-contractors is happy, because he's got a perfectly-functioning oven when he expected an old wreck. The least you can do is send me a buyer for my house.

The Music of Christmas: Part ll

There's been a post doing the rounds where bloggers have been sharing their favourite Christmas songs. I've already mentioned a couple of mine, and told you how much I love and revel in Christmas music.

But even I have my least favourites. They are (in ascending order of awfulness):

1) Anything recorded sung by children. I don't mind hearing children sing. It's sweet. Lots of them have lovely voices. So why, when they make recordings of popular Christmas songs for the mass market, why on EARTH, do they recruit children who can't sing in tune? There is nothing cute about children singing flat. Or sharp. And putting a quasi-adorable picture on the front of the box, of several smiling children of different races is not going to persuade me otherwise.

2) The Little Drummer Boy carol. It's boring, tedious, gloomy, and factually ridiculous (little drummer boy goes to play drum for sleeping newborn baby - I hope Mary gave him what for). I grant an exemption from my loathing of this carol to David Bowie and Bing Crosby, who do a nice job of making it into a duet. It is the only exemption I will allow.

3) Frosty the Snowman. I don't know what it is about this song (I'm not going to elevate it to 'carol' status), but I really hate and detest it. I don't even know the lyrics. I looked them up for the purposes of this blog post, and frankly, I was happier when I didn't know them. Anyone else share my detestation?

If you don't share mine, what are your LEAST favourite Christmas songs?

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The Music of Christmas: Part l

I love Christmas. I always have. I think I've mentioned that before (and since a quick check reveals that I've written 18 posts to date with the label Christmas, I expect I have mentioned it more than once). And one of the best things about Christmas is the music. I love Christmas music. I love it all.

I love the familiar favourites about Santa and snowmen and reindeer and children, rehashed in scores of ways, played over wobbly sound systems in shops, abused as the background music to adverts on tv, warbled by children in school concerts.

I love the jolly ancient songs about wassailing. They make me think of our medieval forbears cheering themselves in the dark, dank, muddy, winter days, with a wassail bowl and a hog roast and a roaring fire. (Oh, thank heavens for central heating, fast food and shopping malls.)

I love carols, careful carriers of theological truths down the ages before most people could read and write. I used to love my 12" black vinyl record of carols, with a picture of snow-laden Christmas trees on the front. (I wonder if I still have it somewhere?) I love all those David Willcocks arrangements from Carols for Choirs. What a genius that man was. My favourite Christmas hymn is Of the Father's Love Begotten, which we had at our wedding (in January, not quite Christmas, but still Epiphany and therefore seasonal). It's based on a hymn written in the 4th century. It's old.

I love the Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge on Christmas Eve. I sat and listened to it with my grandmother in the last month of her life in 1983. I had just got a fancy radio/cassette player which I was rather pleased with - it had two built-in speakers, taking me to the lofty heights of stereo sophistication. She needed an oxygen mask on during parts of the service. It's one of my loveliest memories.

I love modern classics, All I want for Christmas is You, Santa Baby, Let it Snow, War is Over, Slade's So Here It Is - all of them. My favourite in this category is Paul McCartney's Wonderful Christmastime. There's something about that song that just gets me between the ribs.

I love mystic-sounding madrigals on CDs which have the word Celtic in the title, with pictures on the front of people in hooded garb, gazing mysteriously across misty landscapes. (Incidentally, don't you think the current iPod generation misses out, with downloadable music which has no need of album covers?)

I even love the offensively vacuous Kidz Compilationz CDs we have. I'm going to have to use the word 'festive' at this point. You know the kind. Lots of jingles and jangles and a good strong beat, where Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer morphs into Ding Dong Merrily on High which segues into We Wish You a Merry Christmas which blends into Away in a Manger which transmutes into Deck the Halls. We have one version in which they sing 'bows' of holly instead of 'boughs'. Falala-lala to that.

Ah yes. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without the music. I love it all. Well... Almost all...



NB I've sent this post to Notes from Home for her Christmas Carnival. If you're writing about Christmas, why don't you join in too?

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Cuteness abounds

Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life. I’ve seen my own newborn babies, (funny how your own are so gorgeous, whereas other peoples'...). I’ve seen baby rabbits, and ducklings. Our next door neighbour has just got a 9-week old puppy. That’s fairly darn cute. It’s a cockerpoo (cocker spaniel poodle cross). Is that just in America that they come up with these clever cross-breed names, or are they doing that in England too?

Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.

Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.

It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.

A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer

Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.

I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.

A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.

In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.

I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.

* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?

Vlog music

This is a salute to Tom. He is Elsie Button's husband, and father of Betty and Phil Mitchell (sorry, in-joke that only regular readers of Elsie's blog will get. Hang on, I hate in-jokes on blogs. They can be so excluding. You can read about it here). The marvellous Tom worked out what song I was wanting to use as backing music to my vlog about the vegetable juicer. It was Love Fool, by The Cardigans. As Tom realised, my words bear no resemblance to the original, and that could explain why I couldn't find the song in all my web searches. Even the most intelligent web search engine can't read my mind (although I expect it won't be long before they invent that).

It is a great song, though, so I'm putting it here to get y'all toe-tapping. But when the chorus comes round, you've got to try the new Iota lyrics, (which, frankly, are much better). Remember, it's

"Hold me, Squeeze me, Don't ever leave me".





Embedding a youtube video? Ha, easy peasy yesterday's news for us vloggers!

Thank you, Tom!

And another thing - thank you all so much for your lovely affirming comments. Have to admit it was quite scary putting that vlog up. I'm glad you like my voice. People have told me before that I have a nice voice, but I've never liked it myself. I didn't like it anyway, and then a French teacher said "Oh la la, tu as une vrai probleme au niveau des voyelles" (you have a real problem at the level of your vowels - the French are always talking about levels of things) which probably didn't help, given the fact that I remember that comment to this day - there's a clue in there somewhere.

And in answer to those of you who asked, can I witter on ad infinitum? I think the answer would have to be... yes.

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Pea coat, the song on everyone's lips

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, the King and Queen of Coats decided to have a party.

A good time was being had by all, but the festivities were getting a bit out of hand, and things were becoming wild. In an attempt to control the chaos, the King decided to get the coats into small groups. He hoped that getting each together with its own kind would calm things down, so he arranged them by category, shouting out instructions. Unfortunately, at this late stage in the proceedings, some of the coats were beyond even knowing for sure what kind of a coat they were.

So the King got his Royal Trumpeters to gain silence with a catchy little fanfare that they'd learnt way back at Trumpet Pre-school, and announced in his most regal tones:

"If you're a pea, and you know it, clap your hands".

I make this up as I go along, you know. I'm sorry. It's just what I do. I should get out more.

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U2. Me too.

Yesterday morning, when we woke up, Husband and I rolled over to face each other. We bared our teeth, shrugged our shoulders up to our ears, and performed a joint version of “hee-hee, hee-hee, hee-hee” in true Mutley style. Yesterday was the day we were parking our kids with friends, and heading off to a U2 concert. They were performing in Norman, Oklahoma, which (in case you’re as ignorant as I was) is the home of the University of Oklahoma, and – importantly for U2 - has a big stadium.

We booked the tickets a few weeks ago, to give us something to look forward to, in the depths of chemotherapy. Yesterday it felt weird to be going, rather than looking forward to going. The mirage in the distance had become the reality of the present moment. We had had an anxious spell earlier in the week when 12-yo, who has the constitution of an ox (an unwritten one, as all the best ones are) and is almost never ill, got ill. For 24 hours, I thought “ah, this is just one of those 24 hour things”. For the next 24 hours, I thought “this child is never ill, how can he be ill with 2 days to go before the U2 concert?” For the third 24 hours, I stood him upright, and slapped him regularly to bring the colour back to his cheeks, and that seemed to do the trick.

My relationship with U2 got off to a bad start. The guy who had the room next to mine in my second year at university was a big fan, and played their music too loud and too often. And when I say ‘their music’, I mean ‘the one track he played of their music’. So I was subjected to In the Name of Love several times a day, and as the weeks wore on, my enthusiasm for U2 waned. Over a decade later, I was reintroduced to their music, when I married Husband who had been a faithful U2 fan.

I’ve never been a rock concert kind of a gal. I did go and hear B A Robertson perform in Borehamwood (oh yes) when I was about 17, but I don’t feel that qualifies me to critique U2’s show. If you want a description and reviews, I’m sure Google can supply them. And of the Black Eyed Peas, who were supporting. I’ll just give you my perspective.

It was fabulous. What more can I say? I loved the show: the drama, the excitement, the atmosphere of the big crowd, the enthusiasm of the college town audience. I loved the music: the familiarity of the old songs, the energy of the new. And Bono. What a hero. There’s a bit of a bloggers’ debate going on about his shades, but I have to say I like those shades.

The show was designed to be accessible 360 degrees. A rock concert in the round. (Novel idea, but hang on, didn’t Shakespeare come up with something similar all those centuries ago?). The band performed in the middle of the stadium, under a huge spaceship-like structure with a wrap-around video screen. Bono described it as enabling them to be more intimate with the audience. “Intimacy on a grand scale”, he said. With 50,000 people there, I didn’t think that ‘intimacy’ was quite the right word, but then our seats were right at the top of the stands. Certainly I did feel drawn in, connected, part of the show.

I saw Bono and The Edge interviewed by Jonathan Ross a few weeks ago, promoting the tour, and one thing stuck powerfully in my mind. Bono said that much of U2’s music was about joy, and he thought people didn’t know how to respond to that, because there isn’t generally a lot of joy in rock music. So last night, I listened for the joy in the music. And I heard it. There’s anger, aggression, edginess, sadness too. But I’m glad Bono had pointed out the joy, because for me, this was an evening of celebration.

Bono said that U2 last performed in Norman, Oklahoma, 26 years ago. That would have been one year before my repetitive exposure to In the Name of Love. During that time, I have graduated, had several different jobs, married, had three children, lived in ten different homes in six different towns, started a blog… And all they’ve been doing is singing, recording and touring. Poor old U2. What a very samey time they’ve had of it.

This is not doing the evening justice, but I am tired after the long journeys and the late night (still not quite back to my full energy levels), and Husband has plied me with a glass of red wine which he misguidedly thought would help the writing flow. I’m trying to think of a clever quote from U2 lyrics to finish the post off with, but I can’t. Oh, I know. You’ll enjoy this. When I got back, I looked at the U2 website, and noticed that Paris was on the list of venues. Full of excitement, I emailed my brother who lives in Paris (long-time readers of my blog will remember he used to comment as Charlesinparis).

“You have to go to U2” I gushed. “They’re going to be at the Stade de France on September 18th. You absolutely have to get tickets. Now.”

Don’t laugh at me too hard. An evening of intimacy with Bono - it can be a disorientating experience.

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Vile dins

I left this story as a comment on a blog. Two people said they liked it, which I thought justified me sneaking it in as an entry on my own blog.

I was once listening to The Archers. David and Ruth were having an argument and in the background there was the tortured scraping of a child playing the violin. "That is so unrealistic", I thought. "The BBC sound effects department were obviously having a laugh that day. It never sounds THAT bad." Then the signature tune (da da-da da-da da-daa) came and went. But strangely the violin scraping continued. It was my own son in the next room.

This is a true story. It has a happy ending. He persevered with the violin, and now plays with attack and confidence. The scraping days are over, and I hope he is on the way to enjoying a musical instrument for many years to come, and maybe for life.

I could listen to The Archers here, by internet, but I don't. It wouldn't be the same somehow. The storylines weren't grabbing me at the time we left Scotland in any case, and it seemed a good time to sign off. I wondered if there was a US equivalent, which I could listen to on the radio as I potter about the kitchen (does anyone listen to The Archers anywhere except the kitchen?) I think it would be a good step towards integration to get dug into an Archers' equivalent. I've heard about a radio show called The Prairie Home Companion, which sounds like it might be worth tuning into. I'll let you know how I get on. And how realistic the children sound effects are. It'll never have such a good signature tune, though. That's for sure. Those familiar jaunty violins...