Writer’s unblock

  • By Alison
  • 8 January, 2016
  • Comments Off on Writer’s unblock

Today I found myself writing. Proper writing – not writing cheques, or instructions on how not to stack the dishwasher. Not passive aggressive notes on which compost bin to use … Continue Reading →

Spring has sproinged

  • By Alison
  • 7 April, 2013
  • Comments Off on Spring has sproinged

    After what seems like a year long winter, the sun has finally shown its face and it’s amazing how quickly the spirits lift with a bit of warmth … Continue Reading →

Don’t feed the wildlife…

  • By Alison
  • 6 January, 2013
  • Comments Off on Don’t feed the wildlife…

Last year I broke my own unspoken rule about being an observer rather than an interferer to the wildlife around us. I tossed my foxy friend a scrap of ham, … Continue Reading →

You’re just small potatoes

Mother Nature and I had a conversation the other day. Well, not so much a conversation, as me making a mental statement, and Mother Nature giving me a slap down to make sure I knew my place in the world. Thanks, Mother N.

It went somewhat like this…

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Contemplations on eyebrow hair

From there to here,
From here to there,
Crazy eyebrow hairs

Here’s one that’s long,
Here’s one that’s grey,
Here’s one that needs a pluck

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my dishy man

He is dishy, of course. But that misleading title belongs to a little diatribe all about my man and his relationship with our dishwasher.

If you’ve ever read the first ever blog post I wrote – written back in the days when blogs hadn’t been invented yet (1996), but published here on this blog in 2007 – you’ll see that the washing machine and my husband don’t see eye to eye. That relationship deteriorated to the point that he was banned from touching it before we were even married. I’d be surprised if he even knew where it was these days.

The washing machine might be out of the picture, but the dishwasher has struggled on, trying desperately to please. It’s never been a good relationship, but he’s never managed to flood a neighbour’s kitchen with it, which is always a plus…

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Don’t tell mum!

  • By Alison
  • 13 February, 2011
  • Comments Off on Don’t tell mum!

When I was at university, I made sure I learned everything I could about social interaction and cultures. I’m not talking about my course – I’m talking about what you do when you’re not studying. I excelled in this regard.

I also had some quite adept mentors on my side. 

My mother used to get a pained expression on her face when I told her about nights out that I had when I was at uni. With her lips pressed together like a pinched nerve, she’d warn me that the longer I stayed out, the more chance there was that something would happen.

I used to think… GREAT! I’d love something to happen…

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Saling through the seasons

No, I didn’t mean to type “Sailing”, and yes, that is a word – I just made it up, but it’s still a word. Because it was all about the Sales. Department store Sales, New Year Sales, January Sales – whatever you want to call them. They were up in my face, and I wasn’t happy about it.

I’m a really “with it” type of person when it comes to fashion, and when I say with it, I pretty much mean totally without. I like what I like, and I don’t notice what is going on around me. Being in fashion is either an accident produced by dressing in dark, or retro fashions that I am still wearing rolling around for a second coming.

Early on this winter I did notice however, a trend amongst the chavvy set for the wearing of massive puffer jackets with fake fur trip on the hoods…

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Only mad dogs and Englishmen (go out in snow)

The recent snowfall in England has successfully done its job once again, in bringing pretty much most of Great Britain to a complete standstill. Airports closed, network rail halted, and roads gridlocked with abandoned cars.

Of course, only the crazy and stupid people would choose to get in their cars and add to the problem when the snow is falling and the gritters are still stabled. The warnings come thick and fast to NOT drive unless you absolutely have to.

Which of course, is why we found ourselves driving through Saturday’s blizzard, both dressed in wedding finery, and going nowhere fast…

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body dump

Before I had children, I had a flat stomach. Well, almost. I never actually had a FLAT stomach, more like a kind of little bubble let’s say. But I could suck it in really well. For ages. Until I had a beer, then I’d forget, and just flap about down there.

And I had shapely thighs. Because sausage shaped is a legitimate shape. 

And a pert bottom. It could hold up a pencil. And probably the notebook to go with it. Somewhere there was a black woman who wanted her booty back.

And in short, I had dancers legs – which is a not so subtle way of saying my calf muscles could probably crack walnuts.

I went to the gym, I worked out, I ran, I cycled and I played softball. So I was always fit. And yet… my body never managed to make it to a revered status in my mind. I never loved it.

Then I hit 40…

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