Foot Note 3

With a thong in my heart...
Don't you just love Ella Fitzgerald? She wasn't thinging about thongs, of course. Where as I am. Well, not exactly singing, but extolling the virtues of thong sandals. What did you think I meant? 
You've got to be joking. I am not a thong girl. Never have been. And now apparently this week in Vogue this flimsy and to my mind, inadequate covering of the nether region has been declared so over. That's funny. I thought they had all disappeared a long time ago. Far too obvious to suggest up ill-lit back passages, so I won't. 
So this week as the sun has been out for more than five consecutive minutes, I have been practising toe-crutch insensitivity with a pair of old Havaianas that I have unearthed from the back of the wardrobe.  I am not sure how far one has to go with this? They certainly seem to be the natural choice for fat post-bunion feet. 
How many hours to start with? 
How raw is raw?
Does alcohol rubbed in help?
Or does alcohol imbibed in sufficient quantities dull the pain? 
I will let you know.. cheers!

4 months later you can hardly see the join...

I thought I'd said I needed a large one?

       +

How to take a Compliment...

It's an art, isn't it? What? Taking a compliment gracefully.
I have always been wary of compliments. Like a great number of my fellow Brits, I am self-conscious in receiving praise. Frankly, it's not a problem I deal with daily.
I remember when I was a school girl debater. My speeches were always colourful and verging on the outer edges of Grammar schoolgirl acceptability. This of course, had nothing to do with my father's final polishing and Naval spin. I was game. And often did well in competition.

On one such occasion, my Head Mistress, one redoubtable Jessie Tennet, called me into her study at the Girls' School to congratulate me on my latest success. She peered at the report written by the adjudicator of the competition with her pince-nez. (I am not embellishing...)
"I gather, by all accounts, you were rather scurrilous..."
What? I didn't have a clue what she meant. It didn't sound much of a compliment. I played safe.
"Well, I did my best, Miss Tennet," I replied, trying to look modest.
It was only later I found it meant, "offensive, derogatory, scandalous," you name it ....

So when I heard today about the new mayor of London's interchange with the actor Dominic West, I was far from impressed with Mr West.
Apparently Mr Khan, the Mayor, said that how he and his wife had watched every episode of The Wire. To which the charmless Mr West replied, "You wasted 72 hours of your life."
I feel another coronation coming on: Dominic West or King Twit. What do you say?

I am returning my wages because I wasted your time...

And Where's My address Book?

How do you get on with Face-Time?
I try not to use it very much. Not difficult, really. However, with a friend I don't see very often, we occasionally navigate the process. I use the word navigate in so far as anything that involves a computer password slows me down. I am not sure whether or not password amnesia counts as an early marker of dementia because if it does, I am a lost cause. I hate passwords with a passion that I normally reserve for inanimate objects, like remote controls, that fail to respond to my repeated jabbings.  I disguise passwords in the front of my address book so that should a thief break into my house and seize upon my address book, they will be flummoxed. The trouble is, I have done such a good fine job of camouflage, I am truly flummoxed myself.
Flummoxed. What a wonderful word. I don't think I have ever had any good reason to write it down before, and now it springs off the page, wonderful and strange. I love words almost as much as chocolate, or custard. Words, at least, don't pile on the calories. Think about the word, disgruntled, for a moment. If disgruntled means you are unhappy then perhaps being gruntled is a sign of happiness.
So I was very gruntled when finally I made a Face-time connection because my friend who'd waited in vain, for me  to instigate the call, rang me. It was a short interchange, however, as my battery then died.
Thank goodness for the mutual understanding of obstacles we techluddites* face daily.
*I just made that last one up. Remember you read it here, first.

Well, Blow Me Down...

You don't hear expressions like that any more... "You could have knocked me down with a feather." Another one. They belong to a bygone age where surprise was expressed more inventively, more eloquently than the current trend for short sharp expletives. But judging by the way in which, if you live long enough, you see cycles in history, in fashion and in politics, we will no doubt eventually see a return to more decorous speech.
So in the spirit of reviving a trend, I will say,"My giddy aunt! Did you read about the school in Buckingham banning teachers from using whistles to signal the end of playtime?"
Staff at St. Monica's Primary School have banned the whistle because it is "too aggressive", and children could be "afraid of the noise". More stuff and nonsense.  Apparently teachers will wave their hands above their heads to indicate the end of play.
I very much would like to see that in operation. There will be numbers of helicoptering teachers experiencing vertical take-off as they frantically whizz their arms around. The shrill cries of the poor little darlings will mask the sound of the overhead flapping; all attempts to terminate playtime will be purposefully ignored.
It reminded of me of my abbreviated training as a Drama teacher. Before my first teaching practice, I was told that the way to get a class's attention was to ding a triangle or shake tambourine. At the age of 18, I knew instantly that this was a duff directive. There was no way I was going into a class with either. I would use the power of my personality and my best authoritarian voice to achieve command.

With no experience whatsoever, I was abandoned by the Drama teacher who could only see a double period fag-break in front of her, and left with a class of thirty Year 8s in the school hall. They were running riot in seconds. Swinging off the curtains on the school stage, and even kicking two footballs around.
It was a nightmare. As I finally got them sitting down, holding a football under each arm, the bell went and I was released from purgatory.
I can remember very clearly the name of the main miscreant, even now, and my written assessment of the lesson.
"It was a complete disaster. I only gained control of the lesson once I'd confiscated Noel Edwards's balls."
Sometimes desperate measures are required. If only I'd had a whistle....

This one is an absolute champ..

Choose Your Poison...

We've been watching Marseilles on Netflix.
Gerard Depardieu as Mayor of Marseilles. Most likely, he was cast for the size of his conk. I mean let's face it, the nose probably got the part and made it part of the contract that he brought along Gerard. He spends a fair amount of time putting cocaine up it, and using it instead of Steradent for brightening his dentures. It's always up the schnozz then vigorous frottage of the gums, isn't it?  I watch mesmerised by the whole thing. It is high quality, bonk-busting TV, with the sort of beautiful light you find in the South of France.
So I suppose it is hardly surprising that I dreamt last night that I took my first fistful of coke. Yes, fistful. A ginormous pile of it. Recounting dreams is dull. I've said that before. Sorry.

I have always had a problem with portion control. I make the best Campari sodas, the best Gin and tonics because my inner bartender comes through with absolute belters every time. I like my tea to be as strong as a builder's bum, and my coffee so I dark I can see my reflection. It's the same with food.
Mean cuisine is simply not my style. This does not prevent me however, from entering into a restrictive covenant with food every time there is an occasion on the horizon.

Last night I decided that as it was Friday night, I would give Dearest a special treat. After a week of almost totally healthy eating where the puddingless meal has left him snuffling through kitchen cupboards in a fruitless (funny that) search for something sweet, I produced ice cream.
I would just like you to know that this Blog is not the sort that is bringing in an income every time I mention a branded product, so what I am doing is simply sharing the deliciousness of this latest nectar.
It's called Movenpick and we had Tiramisu. Oh boy, oh boy. I gave us each a modest dessert spoonful each. But that simply unleashed the evil sugar genie. We had half each of the pot.
225 cals of pure ecstasy.  Ocado is the Dealer. Ssh! Don't tell anyone it was me who told you....

Eating this will harm your waistline but will make you smile.

The joy of text...

The day started well. Well, it did for my electrician. I gave him two kisses on the bottom.
Aha! Got your attention now. Yes, how the sparks flew.
You, my astute and selective readership, will know by now that this is not that sort of confessional..
I am referring to text etiquette, whereby you do not give your electrician, no matter how long you have known and trusted him with your inner circuitry, any kisses at all when you conclude a text. A full stop is all you need. Maybe a question mark? Or if you're feeling frisky, an exclamation mark at most.

I love texting, generally speaking. I got myself initiated in the art in a dank porta cabin that housed extras on Eastenders, many years ago. Time between scenes was filled with endless gossip and patient training of an older citizen as she grappled with her new mobile phone. If you recall, in those days, texting required endless clicking to obtain the right letter, and you also had the simultaneously helpful and infuriating predictive text.
I can remember returning home after depositing our son at university, and seeing he'd left a rucksack containing a few  breakfast plates. He received a text from me, saying, "Just found your sucksack and slaves." I have improved enormously since then. As have mobile phones.

I like writing texts that are small post cards, and I love receiving them as long as War and Peace. I do not, however, like text-speak, Particularly from my contemporaries when I know they can write proper English with punctuation. So I am a self-confessed pedant which makes me my own worst critic when I get something wrong. Something I usually notice as I have just pressed send.
So I apologised to Richard, my electrician, for the kisses on the bottom. It seemed the right thing to do. I kept it short and businesslike.
I didn't explain that I don't even give Dearest two kisses on the bottom.
(Not unless he has been very very good.)

Is Mine like Yours..?

The big thing about renovations when you have been in a house for thirty six years is that you realise that this is your last shot at major interior design. You are either going to move. Onwards, or eventually upwards. It's not a morbid observation; this is it how it is.

I have a friend who's husband prefaces every new major purchase with "The Death...". So a new bed becomes...You've got it.
He has a predisposition for collecting and hanging on to things in the event that they may come in useful at some point in the future. They have his mother living with them. Her little invalid car is in the garage. She is no longer able to use it, but it remains where it is, taking up a great deal of space. My friend suggested that he sold it. But with a familiar look in his eye, he said,"Might as well hang on to it..."  What a harbinger of doom! You can imagine it flashing its lights, purring its engine and saying, "I'm waiting for you..."

Suddenly, Dearest's protests, that his moth-eaten fisherman's jumper has still got plenty of years left, as he removes it from the top of the jumble pile, pale into insignificance by comparison.
That was, until this morning.
I may have mentioned that Dearest has taken to the  mean streets of Hertfordshire in the early hours. Sometimes, though mainly not, accompanied by me. On top of an average ten hour day, this obviously requires iron-discipline, absolute focus, and a very short fuse..
This morning, he could not find a clean Polo shirt to complete his jogging ensemble.
He didn't understand why he could never find anything. He just could not understand the effing system. At all.
I was aghast. I gently pointed out that there was no F in system. And that in thirty six years of marriage that there never had been. I was astounded that it was only now that he realised it.

It's true. It really is. There never has been, and I've just been rumbled.
Well, not quite. I didn't say all this aloud.  I will, however, make system-making my project of the day.
After I've read the newspaper.

No, you can't have one last fling...

I have only worn a mortar board once. For graduation, some forty years ago. As far as I can recall, it remained on my head for the duration of the ceremony, and was plonked back on for a few happy snaps later.
There were no group photographs and certainly no one felt moved or impelled to throw his or her mortarboard in the air. What dull days were these...
We have since adopted the US tradition of hurling them above our heads in a communal photograph.
Joyous cliché, but why not? Celebrating a moment of sweet victory before the vice-like claws of student loan demands darken the days.
But now, if you're a student in East Anglia, even this moment is to be snatched away. Can you believe that the almost omni-present spectre of Health and Safety is stepping in to intervene? There have, apparently been a number of injuries over the years caused by falling mortar boards. They'll be banning champagne corks next (could take your eye out), or buses because you could get squished by one of them...
Disappointed students will be relieved to hear that they can mime the throwing of their mortar boards and have them photoshopped in. Goody.
Another virtual experience in a world that seeks to cosset and protect but is actually achieving quite the opposite.

Let's photoshop in some students....

House Wives' Choice....

I love Radio 4. I love the way it makes you listen and learn about things that if anyone had said in the first instance that you'd be fascinated by how the flatulence of sparrows is becoming an invisible threat in our cities, you'd never believe it. But it hooks you in and you enter an entirely different world. An alternative world where sparrows fart wantonly.
Well, there was none of that the other morning when I was lured into Desert Island Discs (to which I have listened from childhood onwards, at Roy Plomley's knee) by the unmistakable tones of Tom Hanks. If you get a chance to listen on catch up then please give yourself a treat.
For anyone unfamiliar with the format, the guest is invited to share six records (I love that the wording has not been changed since its origin) which will all have resonating meaning for him when he is stranded on a desert island. It is a wonderful way of exploring, very briefly, a life through musical connections. It was a moving experience as Tom Hanks described his childhood; at one point there was radio silence as he struggled to express his reason for choosing a particular track. It was a poignant and uplifting programme.

It was an entirely different musical programme last night, when we went to see Jose Carreras in the Royal Albert Hall. A Life in Music is a celebration of his life through a range of musical pieces. He was joined by Celine Byrne (from Dublin) and Margarita Gritoskova (from St Petersburg). It was an unforgettable evening. Unlike, Tom Hanks's selection, where everything was familiar, this was to opera novices like us, an introduction to a number of pieces that were unfamiliar.
In the space of two days I have had two very different musical experiences; I feel privileged to have heard both.
And no, in case you're wondering, I didn't sing along with Jose. He seemed to be doing very nicely without me.

The start of a two year tour..

Of Mice and Men.. and hamsters...

Happy hamster days... The relentless whirring on a wheel in the bedroom as my young daughter blissfully slept, oblivious. Golden Syrian hamsters who could adapt to small fumbling hands and who could generally be trusted not to remove a large chunk of flesh of an unattended child.
Then there were the pesky Chinese ones who all but nibbled their way out of the cardboard box in the back seat of the car, then made their great bid for freedom in the living room, upon arrival.
I still have a photograph of three prostate figures, Dearest and the two children, stretched across the living room floor, peering under the chaise longue, armed with spatulas, flour sifters, and a colander: the whole kitchen artillery of hamster-catching equipment. The picture is blurry because I could hardly keep the camera straight; I was heaving with silent mirth.
This evening that image came back to me as my son described the mouse infestation in his flat. My recent antics with ants paled into insignificants (sorry).
I know that he and his partner have tried the humane route. They laid a trap, thinking they had caught one, but not wishing to look it in the eye, carried it gingerly all the way to Hampstead Heath to release it, only to find the box empty when they got there. Such a gentle approach has meant that the word has got round in the mice community and they have invited their friends.
Now the mission is to rid them of Mickie and pals.
Having studied form, I would suggest a whole set of Tupperware is called for and an ultrasonic pest repeller.
Thank goodness they both have birthdays in June....

petsplanetinfo.blogspot.com

Put one in a cage while the other puts one in a rage.

Striking a Blow for Bunionistas Everywhere..

I sometimes fear for the casual reader of this Blog.
The one who was probably searching for something quite different, like The Great British Bake Off, in search of buns not bunions... but with some fat finger fumbling ended up with me instead.
Or the reader, unfamiliar with the way in which Blogs work, earnestly searching for some hard core info on bunion removals, finds me waxing lyrical about wine..
So if you've been drawn by the title of this post, welcome!  The first 40 odd posts are devoted to Bunion-talk, you'll only find passing references to the ex-bunion and the emergent other bunion. I would like to declare, here and now, that I will not subject you, my loyal readers, to the same level of detail regarding the removal of brother bunion. (At a date to be determined.)
However, when a topic that is so close to my feet comes leaping off the news page, I feel impelled to share it with you, tout suite.
So here is one big cheer for Nicola Thorp! You've never heard of her? Me neither, until today.
Miss Thorp was working as a receptionist in the city, in a big finance company, until she was sent home for refusing to wear high heels. She was ordered to buy a pair of high heels, and when she quite reasonably suggested that her male colleagues were not being asked to do the same, she was sent home with a flea in her ear, as my grandma would have said, and no pay.
The good news is that this was not a girl to be trifled with and she immediately launched a petition urging parliament to make it illegal for women to be required to wear high heels at work. Right on, lassie.
Any podiatrist will tell you that protracted wearing of high heels is responsible for damaging ligaments, nerves in the ankle and contributing to the development of BUNIONS.... So while on the one hand, I am shocked that such regulations are still in existence in this enlightened age, I am delighted that someone like Nicola Thorp has delivered a stiletto incision below the belt of outmoded bureaucracy.
Dear Nicola, would you like to borrow my Hotter Trotters?

No brainer; I'll take the trainer.....

In Search of Fine Vines.....

Well, what time do you call early when you are on holiday? If you get up at five in the morning to catch the train, then I suppose 7.30 constitutes a lie-in.  It didn't feel like one. As we scrambled to dress and breakfast by 9.00, not once did I ask whose idea was this?
As the booking was made at the last minute, it was not entirely clear as to whether this venture was for us alone, or in a small group. I confess that as Dearest who made the arrangement  has a congenital dislike of any group activity unless he is part of a cricket team, I assumed it would be a cosy threesome. Not so! Outside was a handsome eight seater Peugeot. With two remaining seats for two little Brits amongst six other, American, guests. ( From Texas, in case you're curious, my American readers..) 
As we clambered aboard, I heard the sound of Dearest's heart nose-diving to the ground, and as I shook hands with the nearest and hailed those in front, I hoped that none of them had heard it. 
Conceptually, a group outing is my husband's idea of hell, but this was, as it turned out, a most wonderful and entertaining day.

Francois Marcou, our guide, is a natural entertainer and an educator. His verve, his enthusiasm, his gusto should be bottled and uncorked whenever you need an uplift. 
We learnt so much about how to taste wine that I fear I have wasted too many years to mention, glugging, not savouring it. And ruining it by fingers on the glass. "Zut alors," as my old French teacher used to say. (Not heard, a single French person say this. Ever.) 
A beautiful lunch in a hill top restaurant with stunning views was very much needed, as you have absolutely no idea how exhausting wine tasting can be.. And no, it's not obligatory to spit it out after every tasting. I did find, however, that the high step back into the car got higher as the day progressed which meant, dignity sacrificed, I received several marital 
poussées de derriere to re-launch me . ( Look, I am just trying to make it sound more elegant than it was in reality...) 
The trip was nine hours long and  at 110 euros each, not a cheap option. But in terms of entertainment, conviviality and newfound knowledge it was an experience non pareil.  
Yes, you can shove yer Gran on a bus... If it's being driven by Francois Marcou.. Guide extraordinaire.


Find him on Trip Advisor.... You won't be disappointed..

French Bunion Soup...

I wonder what the French is for bunion? I don't know, but if you say Bunion d'Avignon with a Gallic shrug and a French accent,  you sound like Charles Aznavour...
I've had cause to say this several times to mon cher mari these past few days, as this is where we happen to be. Avignon.  For a long weekend. 
There are two things that happen when I go on holiday. One, my bowel goes into seismic arrest. No go. And Two my other baby bunion starts to throb. Yes, glow. 

The title of this Blog gives me licence to go into detail about one and thankfully (universal sigh of relief) not the other. For those wistfully wondering how the ex-bunion is faring.. Thank you, it is tip-top.
There are many cobble stones in the magnificent city of Avignon. But I think the baby bastard bunion is merely using these as an excuse. I think it has grand designs. 
Well, let me tell you, I can have grand designs too.. But more of this plus tard. 
Look, I'll cut out the French because that is exactly what I have done on this trip when I was so aghast at finding myself telling a stranger that there was no 'bed' (lit) in the public toilet from which I'd blindly emerged, instead of 'light' (lumiere). Why does the brain always trawl over these things when it is too late to correct them? 

Anyway, after the blissfully simple journey from St Pancras, London, on the Eurostar to Avignon (no changes apart from a local train in Avignon to take you to the centre) and a Campari you could swim in, at the lovely La Mirande, I agreed to a wine tour of Chateau Neuf du Pape the next day.

We heroically did our homework the night before, on half a bottle. We hoped the following day would not prove that we've been doing it wrong all these years.. 





Post script:
I have since looked up the word for bunion in French. You will never believe it... It's oignon. Yes, the French for onion.
In the process I found a very nice recipe for French Onion Soup which unsurprisingly the French call Onion Soup. I found it on an elegant Blog called
aladyinfrance.com. She certainly knows her onions when it comes to blogging. And a lot more.


Inside the Papal Palace

A Girl can Change her Mind...

My father, adopting the style of the late inimitable Dave Allen, would tell the tale of a young Irish woman who was getting married. She asked the priest for guidance as to what colour dress she she should wear on her wedding day.
He told her that if she went to the altar, a pure maiden, she should wear a white dress, but if she had committed sins of the flesh she should choose a blue one.
He asked her what colour she would be wearing.
"I will be wearing a white dress, father," she said.
The priest smiled. She continued, "... with little blue spots on it."

Yesterday was the day I was due to go blonde. I chickened out.
My hair is still brunette. With little blonde streaks in it.

This blonde chicken ain't me.

       

Canine Coronation ..

Forget all the hard news last week.
For those who look for comfortable shoes and cushioned seats were cheered by the way in which dogs dominated the feel-good sections of the press. First, we had an item to determine how doggy-minded you've become. Does he sleep in your bed? Do you pamper him more than your youngest child? Is he your youngest child? The one who never matures beyond adolescence? A toss up for many women as to whether that applies to husband or hound?
Not me, Miss. I only have a husband and previously mentioned, Grand-dog Ted, who does not belong to me.
Then there was the magnificent tale of Pero the sheep dog who voted with his four feet when his owners, farmers in Aberystwth, Wales, re-located him to Cumbria. Not exactly up the road..
He decided Cockermouth was not for him and he made his way, unaided, 240 miles back to his original owners. Lassie eat your heart out. Disney needs an exclusive interview.
I am lapping this lot up like I invented dog-ownership. Really, I am a dog-owner by proxy. I walk, I scoop the poop as fast as he can lay it, and wear the dog poop-scooper badge with pride. Once  a week, Dearest and I are bowled over by a canine dynamo who greets us like he welcomes his primary carers, and my heart melts again.
So I was very concerned to read from experts that this most cherished, most affectionate cockerpoo might be trying to escape the adoring embraces of his family when he yields to cuddles and responds with frenzied licking. Trying to escape?
As I looked this afternoon at this hound with his head once more in my lap and his paw floppily at ease, I fully believe it was his choice to be there.
He was, however, briefly, in the dog-house.
You see, two days ago, Ted was sick in the dining room where son-in-law was attempting to iron trousers for big night out (modern man). Unfortunately, trouser leg trailed in dog-vomit. Explosive expletive occurred.
My grandson, of the lately removed adenoids, still has compromised hearing.
"Why is Daddy calling Ted, King Dog?"


Regal or what?

On not Sharing Rioja with Slugs...

April showers. Even in May. It's what we expect at this time of year.
As I climbed a stepladder yesterday, armed with a Bug gun, between showers of every description, snow, sleet and rain, believing, in the ensuant brilliant sunshine, that each had been the last,   I realised that here was a coming of age.
It all started two years ago when Dearest and I found ourselves admiring rose bushes. I remarked, that it was funny how we had never really gone for roses in our small and imperfectly formed garden because they were "old people's flower of choice". However, here we were, seriously considering them for our garden. We looked at each other, shrugged and smiled, and went ahead.
Two roses (Shropshire Lad, if this detail makes your secateurs twitch) we have planted either side of a ground floor window. The more mature one is roaring high towards the horizontal wires above, (look, I admit we employed a lovely Man who Can..) but is absolutely writhing with aphids.
We are most certainly going to have an obesity problem amongst aphids in the South of England. It might be a bit parky right now, but obviously not cold enough to slow down the proliferation of leaf-chomping insects.
Well, I have dealt them my opening sally and will keep a careful eye on the results of my labours in the coming weeks. I will also be keeping an eye on the ground.
The slug is not the gardeners' friend. Generally, speaking, you know what they like and you can take steps to deal with them. I don't generally have drunk and disorderly slugs in my garden. Some people like to put a drop of beer in a jam jar, as a more humane way of getting rid of them.  But 'til now the blue pellet has been my weapon of choice..
But have you heard the latest? The Spanish slug is on its way.. Arion vulgaris (No, that's its name.)
It is bigger and uglier and chompier than our indigenous ones, and it likes everything except fuchsia. And they are coming for my roses. Listen up! Yours too...
So I won't be putting a couple inches of Vino tinto in a jam jar to lull them into a false sense of homecoming, I am putting in my order right now for microscopic worms (Phasmarhabdtis hermasphodita). Apparently, these  are the natural predators of slugs. Then as Arnie would say, "Hasta la vista, Baby!"
That should  quell the sound of castanets on a summer's evening.
                                             

NO SLUGS HERE