Mum's Gone To ...

Going for Gold

2012-01-25T11:51:00.000Z

2004 was an Olympic year. In Athens, finely sculptedbodies were pushing themselves to the limit to be ‘faster, higher, stronger’while on the Mediterranean island of Menorca my body, seemingly sculpted with ablunt shovel, lay on a sun lounger, just about managing to turn over the pagesof a book and stretch out for the brightly-coloured cocktail beside me.

Like most people in the hotel complex in PuntaPrima, I had been making the most of the all-you-can-eat buffet at breakfast anddinner, often getting a little peckish at lunchtime too. After a few days ofensuring I was getting my money’s worth, I realised something had togive…before the sun lounger did.

Both my husband, Dougie, and eight year old son,Rory, were putting me to shame on the exercise front. Dougie was making adecent stab at becoming an Olympian, joining all the other competitive dads inthe organised sporting events at this cosmopolitan resort. Huge nationalfervour took hold and communication barriers were overcome using the commonlanguage of shrugged shoulders, plenty of shouting and the constant peep fromthe referee’s whistle. The Italian men encouraged my Scottish husband to jointhem in the fiercely-contested volleyball and basketball tournaments. TheItaly/Scotland team triumphed and Dougie, the big kid that he is, raced up to the stage thatnight to collect his medals.

Rory was just as active, spending a couple of hourseach day in the Kids’ Club. We would watch him walk byin his yellow baseball cap, on a scavenger hunt or en route to thefootball pitch with his little friends. He would then spend the afternoon with us: leaping in and outof the pool, badgering his dad to throw the splash ball to him and clambering onand off his inflatable shark.

Did the spirit of the Olympics encourage me topartake in some exercise? It was Pedro, the archery instructor, whose torch eventuallylit my fire. I had seen the tousled mop of dark hair belonging to this Spanishgod and noticed he ran a class each day. I thought archery might suit me: nottoo exhausting, unlikely to make me perspire in an unattractive manner andpleasingly situated far away from the volleyball court.

As Pedro stood very close behind me, placing his armon my arm, he helped to pull the arrow close to my cheek and whisperedinstructions into my ear:

“You need to have a firm grip, Senora…..now gentlyease it back….steady…steady….now release”.

The arrow sliced through the air and landed, ‘thwack’,straight into the central gold section of the target.

“I think maybe you have done this before?” heenquired with the hint of a smile.

“Oh no,” I replied, breathless. “This is my firsttime.”

“I think Senora is a natural.”

"Do you? How marvellous! In that case, may I ask you onething?”

“Si Senora.”

“Do I get a medal?”

.............................................................................................

This is an entry for the Tots 100 travel-writing competition in association with Thomson Al Fresco. Al Fresco has 54 holiday parcs across Europe, each offering plenty of fun activities for families (including archery!).

If you would like to enter the competition, you can find details on the Tots 100 blog.

Opportunity Knocks Revisited

2012-01-19T11:51:00.000Z

Did you see The One Show last Friday? They were revisiting the famous talent show, Opportunity Knocks. While I was watching the interview with former child star, Neil Reid, and listening to some of the acts who had won in the 70s and 80s, I had to pause and rewind the programme to take a photo of the presenter Hughie Green beside the scoreboard.

With 86 on the clap-o-meter, there was the name Eileen Brennan. My mum.

I think I once mentioned this in a post a couple of years ago that Mum, as well as appearing on TV in 1959 singing Habanera from Carmen, sang on Opportunity Knocks in 1971. So when I saw her name suddenly flash up on the TV, I rang her to see if she was watching. We reminisced about the whole event and laughed about how I had been told, as a 7 year old, to keep it a secret that Mum was going to appear on the show, yet I happily wrote about it in 'My News' at school, so informing the teaching staff of my mother's forthcoming appearance.

I asked Mum to write down her memories of the occasion and here they are, complete with some photographs which were taken in front of the TV screen in 1971, just as I did last Friday.

..................................................................................................

" It all started when my husband, John, wrote to Opportunity Knocks, without my knowledge, to try and get me an audition - which was successful!

In January 1971 auditions were held in a ballroom in Whitley Bay, on the North East coast. The place was packed: singers, dancers, bands, novelty acts. What a buzz. Halfway through the day, they ran out of film for their camera so John kindly stepped forward and offered to go out and buy more (clever move).

A couple of months later I received a letter to say I had been chosen and was to appear on 4 December 1971. Wow. I had to take two dresses so they could choose one for lighting purposes. After all the songs from the audition, Habanera, Ave Maria, musical theatre numbers, they chose a Northumbrian ballad, Blow the Wind Southerly, a song which Kathleen Ferrier made famous.

We travelled by train to London, then a taxi to Thames Television at Teddington Lock. The recordings were made on Saturdays so we started rehearsing on the Friday. I must say I loved rehearsing with a large orchestra: standing in front of them was fantastic. During the show itself the music was piped through a box on the stage; the orchestra were in another part of the studio. A little off-putting, but we coped.

The Saturday was a full and exciting day: rehearsals, make-up, microphone testing. Everyone was so friendly, all the contestants lapped up the excitement. My set was shaded in green and turquoise so my dress was chosen to blend in with those colours. On the set was a rowing boat they had brought in from the river. Oh my God, I thought, I might have to sit in it and pretend to row. No, I just sang with an upright mike.

The star of the show, a young boy called Neil Reid, who had won previous shows, sang 'Sunshine of Your Smile'. I think the rest of knew then we didn't stand a chance of winning but it didn't deter any of us from giving our best.

John enjoyed the experience too as he was my sponsor and had to chat and introduce me to Hughie Green. They chatted about architecture and what our children would be getting from Santa Claus. John was very eloquent and looked great on TV. Being introduced as a 'wife and mother' from Newcastle, I was neatly put in my place. I imagine someone in their 30s now wouldn't be pigeon-holed as a housewife.

It didn't take long for the results to be shown on the clap-o-meter, none of the waiting and heart-stopping carry-on they do on shows now. Show over, it was off to the Green Room for drinks before heading home.

After the show I was invited to become part of a Northumbrian group of singers and dancers who performed locally on TV and for civic occasions (entertaining a group of Russian visitors, for example). A highlight of my time with the group was in 1975 when we were invited to America to perform at the Iowa State Fair.

Looking back I am grateful that opportunity knocked for me; it was an experience I will never forget."

The French are Coming!

2012-01-16T15:33:00.001Z

This weekend was mostly spent trying to sort out the spare room in preparation for a French invasion. Rory's school are participating in a student exchange and, despite me thinking he wouldn't be keen, our son was well up for it. I suspect this may be partly due to the following:

a) the trip is a joint affair with the local girls' grammar school.
b) the age group is 16-18
c) the host school is located in the balmy south of France.

Rory will be travelling via Eurostar and TGV in March to stay with his French counterpart but before I can even get my head round this, I have to steel myself for a young man, aged 17, coming to stay with us. I shall keep his name private: don't want the poor soul googling himself in the next few days and discovering his host's mother is one slice short of a baguette. In any case, Dougie seems unable to keep the boy's name in his head and keeps referring to him as Jean-Pierre and imagining him hanging out of the bedroom window wafting the smoke from his Gauloises.

The two boys have now begun to MSN/Facebook chat/message each other and this is providing some useful information. His favourite foods are 'meat, vegetables, raspberries and cornflakes.' My question as to what he would like in his sandwiches on the days they go on trips, elicited the response 'chorizo'.

'Jean-Pierre' will stay for a week and most days he will go on organised visits with his French group, Cambridge and London being the highlights. However we still have a full weekend to fill and I haven't the faintest idea what to do with him. He lives on the south coast of France, near Marseilles, so surely has access to some very chic resorts and picture-postcard Provencal towns. Not sure Skegness will cut the mustard but possibly the empty vastness of our North Norfolk coast may appeal? Or do I just leave him to sleep, like my own son, until the vaches come home?

I remember being offered the chance to go on a French exchange when I was at school and declined as I was too scared. Dougie, however, exchanged with a German boy, Wolfgang, in 1978, when he was 14. It was all going swimmingly until the weekend during Wolfgang's stay in Edinburgh, when Dougie's parents invited another Scottish lad, his parents and accompanying German student for a meal. The four boys amused themselves in the garage playing with the Scalextric track while the four adults sat demurely having tea. Dougie tells me the German boys were 'being annoying' and things became a little heated. Wolfgang trotted back into the living room where the adults were sitting and asked,

"What means 'Fuck Off'?"

Mum's planning to go to Sweden

2012-01-10T13:54:00.000Z

It's that time of year; holiday planning. As usual we have been all around the globe over the last few weeks considering where we fancy going this summer and seem to have plumped for Sweden. Why?

Denmark was fabulous last Easter: loved the Scandinavian vibe so would like to see more.
Still influenced by my dad's stories of his trips to Sweden in the 1950s.
With all the Stieg Larsson mania there is at the moment, Sweden seems a hip place to go. In fact there are numerous 'Millennium Tours' available for fans who want to stay in a hotel near Lisbeth Salander's apartment, drink in the bar frequented by the Millennium journalists and travel several hours in a train to go to a town which near-enough matches the fictional town of Hedeby.
Last year was lovely doing nothing on a beach in Portugal but we did become a bit restless; touring a country will be far more interesting with plenty of blog-fodder.

Now we have to decide which bits of Sweden we should visit in a two-week period. I'm trying very hard not to try and 'do' everything: we want to have some stops of at least three days to avoid it just being a race around the southern half of the country. But which parts to leave out? Should we include Stockholm, Gothenburg and Malmo or just two fo the three, leaving time to chill by a lake or a beach? I asked on Twitter about the logistics of doing all three cities and got some helpful advice from @Davtel in Stockholm about driving times and a suggestion from @KaisaLarkas in Finland to add a boat trip to the itinerary so we could visit Helsinki too.

We are almost certain we'll fly cheaply with Ryanair from Stansted to any of the three cities: fly to one and come back from another. Having saved money there, we can splurge a little on the hotels. I keep mentioning interesting hotels to Dougie, carefully avoiding showing him room rates. So far we are looking at two classy joints in Stockholm each with a different story to tell: the chic Hotel Rival, partly owned by Benny Anderson from ABBA or Hotel Nobis, a new hotel in a grand building which used to be the bank where hostages were held captive in 1973, leading to the term the 'Stockholm Syndrome'.

Malmo keeps coming on and off our itinerary. I'd like to see the Turning Torso building and Dougie is amused by a Wikipedia entry which states that the Malmo town council have passed a law permitting women to swim topless in the public baths. As one council spokesman put it: ""We don’t decide what men should do with their torso, why then do women have to listen to the men. Moreover, many men have larger breasts than women".

Mind you, as both Dougie and Rory are wondering about the nudist beaches and the Swedish liberal attitude to sex, I have drawn their attention to the introduction in The Rough Guide to Sweden which states, "Sweden isn't populated soley with people waiting for any opportunity to tear off their clothes and make passionate love under the midnight sun.....You'll doubtless see people sunbathing naked but this state of affairs is not an invitation for a love-in". Take note, boys.

The Rough Guide is giving me lots of information and, as it only arrived yesterday, has caused even more changes in the itinerary. I'm dipping into it for the detail but we've also got the DK Eyewitness Guide for the pictures. A perfect balance.

One thing we are definitely going to do is hire a decent car and spend time checking it over so we don't, like we did last year, set off with bits dropping off it and find our spare tyre has a huge gouge in it. I'm sorry if that means less funny stories but I can assure you we will get lost frequently and fight even more frequently so there'll be a good smattering of schadenfreude to make up for it.

Any suggestions of places to go still very welcome. Tack.

Up Jacob's Creek without a paddle

2012-01-05T14:17:00.004Z

I don't know if any of you have been watching the episodes of Celebrity Mastermind but in our house we are Sky plus-ing them like mad, for sheer entertainment value.

The nation's favourite reality TV star, Stacey Solomon (X Factor finalist, I'm a Celebrity winner and face of Iceland...the shop, not the country) was on Episode Two. I missed her specialist subject round where she managed 6 points for her in depth knowledge of The Inbetweeners, but tuned in just in time to see some classic answers in the general knowledge round.

For her first question John Humphries asked her what was the classic sparkling wine named after the region in north-east France where it originates. Stacey, bless her, paused and thought long and hard but when Humphries helped her with the words "a sparkling wine?" she answered with the words, "Jacob's Creek?"

Her knowledge of Britney Spears and the island of Ibiza helped her to gain a couple of points before she cracked me up with her answer to the question "Which breed of dog includes springers and cockers?" - "Cockapoo?"

Even though she only scored 10 points in total I thought she was brave, if misguided, to appear on the show. However she seemed unconcerned at her performance and cheerily announced she just wanted to 'do everything' before she dies. If this includes bombing on a quiz show then good luck to her and, as she was raising money for charity, she got a round of applause from us.

Wish I could say the same for poor old Michel Roux Jnr, Michelin-starred chef and Celebrity Masterchef presenter. In Episode Four he made the fatal mistake of choosing a specialist subject related to his job, the culinary bible which is Escoffier's Guide to Modern Cooking. Michel started badly, not knowing the London hotel where Escoffier had been based in 1899, and then imploded, only scoring four points. He didn't know his chestnuts from his raspberries and got his garnishes all muddled up. I'm convinced if he'd been asked to name the mixture of butter and flour used to thicken sauces, he would have passed on that too.

First-Foot Frivolity

2012-01-02T19:31:00.000Z

Although we had done the Newcastle run the week before Christmas, we decided last minute to visit again for New Year to keep Mum company. There were plenty of people to look after her over the Christmas weekend and she was in good spirits on account of her grandson's first birthday on Christmas Day. But as New Year was always a happy time for Mum and Dad, parties and family get-togethers were part of their shared life for 50 years, I didn't want her to have a sad New Year's Eve. With this in mind, on Saturday morning we drove up a reasonably quiet A1 with a cool box full of Tesco Finest canapes, beer, Cava and a big vat of chilli.

My Auntie Pat and Uncle Alan joined us all for the evening and, buoyed by the success of this game at Christmas, we even had a few rounds of charades, the highlight being Dougie pretending to urinate over everything for a film which will forever be known as The Piss Family Robinson.

As midnight approached we channel-hopped between Jools Holland's jolly Hootenanny and the BBC reporting from the Thames with the usual inane interviewing:
"So where did you get those Union Jack hats?"
"I had to walk to the other side of the river: took me three hours"
"Well it was certainly worth it: well done".

Then began the annual debate as to who would be the first-foot. For the uninitiated, in Scotland and the North East of England in particular, a first-foot is the first person to cross the threshold on New Year's day who brings good fortune for the coming year. Rules have relaxed slightly in that the first-foot can be a member of the household but they must be outside before the stroke of midnight. Tradition has it they should be a tall dark-haired male.

There were three males in the house. Uncle Alan used to be a great first-foot but now his beard and hair are rather white, so he's probably more welcome the week before, and his chosen point of entry would be the chimney. That left Dougie and Rory.

It was at this point I decided to google first-foot traditions and discovered that the tall, dark man should not be a minister, grave-digger or a doctor. We never knew that. We've been using Dougie as a first-foot for years, not knowing he has been a constant harbinger of doom and pestilence. Bugger. So it was down to Rory to save the day. Not keen to move his backside from the comfy sofa, he was equally put out that he was to be shoved out into the cold and miss the final countdown. His moans were ignored and we ran around finding all the things he needed to bring with him: -

Coin - for prosperity - we gave him 50p
Bread/Cake - for food - a chocolate brownie
Coal - for warmth - he nicked a pretend one from my mum's gas fire display.
Drink - for good cheer - a bottle of whisky.

Once he had the whisky in his paws he looked a bit more lively and we shooed him out of the front door with a minute to go. The rest of us counted down, cheered, kissed, watched the fireworks and waited with bated breath for our first-foot. He seemed to take a while and I was worried he'd sneaked off with the The Famous Grouse so in the end I had to shout at him through the letter-box.

When he eventually walked through the door he was, indeed, a bringer of good fortune, with the biggest smile I've seen in ages and which, amazingly, I happened to catch mid-grin on my camera.

Happy New Year to you all and 'Lang may yer lum reek'.

Regressing into Childhood

2011-12-30T12:43:00.001Z

My husband seems to like penguins. Two years in a row he's bought virtually identical penguin-based Christmas cards. Knowing he's a softie, like me, and can't resist teddies and suchlike, I bought him a cuddly penguin for Christmas so he could have one for himself.

We sat up in bed cooing over the new addition to the family and decided to name him.
"Peter the Penguin?" I suggested
"No, not keen," replied Dougie, becoming quite possessive of the little chap.
"Paul?"
"No."
"Paddy?"
"No? For God's sake, does it have to begin with bloody P?"
"Pingu began with P."
"He's not Pingu. What was the name of the penguin in Happy Feet?"
"Dunno, didn't see the film. Wasn't it just 'Happy Feet'?"
"Not calling him that."
"Ok, how about Ant?"
"Ant? As in Ant and Dec?"
"No, Ant as in Antarctic"
"Hmm, not sure."
"No, me neither, he doesn't look like an Ant."
"No, he doesn't, he looks like a penguin." ...cue roars of laughter from Dougie.
"How about David, as in Attenborough?"
"No, I'm thinking Orville."
"Like Keith Harris' duck?"
"Well he couldn't fly either."
"Orville Wright could."
"That's true."
"What was his brother called?"
"Wilbur"
"How about Wilbur?"
"Yeah, he looks like a Wilbur. Perfect. Wilbur it is."

Book Review: Are We Nearly There Yet? by Ben Hatch

2011-12-28T15:03:00.004Z

You know when you read a book and think, I wish I'd written that? This is such a book. Damn you, Ben Hatch.

Ben and his wife Dinah accept the formidable task of travelling round Britain in a battered Vauxhall Astra to write a family guide book. They take off for five months with their two young children and pack in nearly as many family-friendly attractions as Dinah tries to secrete extra pairs of shoes in their luggage. They discover there are only so many ruined abbeys a family can 'ooh' and 'aah' at and that hotels can be judged on the quality of their complimentary biscuits and whether or not you can get CBeebies on the TV.

The 8,000 mile adventure, seeking out a poo museum in Leicester (a big hit with the children, naturally) and a pencil museum in the Lake District (including possibly not the world's largest pencil) is punctuated by family squabbles, toddler tantrums and the odd spot of danger. However, as the trip unfortunately coincides with the failing health of the author's father, it becomes a voyage of self discovery as Ben Hatch reminisces about his own childhood and tries to make sense of the relationship he has had with his dad.

Most parents will read the book, laugh frequently and nod sagely, empathising with the joys and frustrations of travelling with kids. They should also jot down some of the fascinating places to visit. I, for one, am going to add Liverpool to my list, not least for the discovery that people in authority there have a healthy attitude towards ignoring petty rules.

Ben Hatch is a very talented writer; he has a natural gift for humour, dialogue and pace so the story rattles along with ease. The pockets of sadness in the narrative are all the more poignant because of the comedy in the rest of the book.

I bought Are We Nearly There Yet? just before Christmas in paperback (Amazon £5.03) but it's also available in Kindle format at only 99p. Highly recommended.

Whistling Carols and yet another round of Arthritic Charades

2011-12-26T15:03:00.000Z

We did that thing couples do at Christmas; agree not to buy each other anything and then worry as the 25th approaches that someone is reneging on the deal. I realised by the middle of last week that, for once, neither of us had cheated, but this seemed too sad for words to be sitting on Christmas morning with bugger all to open. As Dougie was up to his ears in patients, many of whom were the worried well who "just have a bit of a sniffle but thought I'd get checked out before Christmas, Doc", I decided to do the decent thing and, as well as buy him some Armani smellies and a few DVDs, purchased some top-of-the-range ghd straighteners for me. I knew Dougie would be pleased he'd 'bought' me them as my current straighteners have no automatic cut-off and, in the long run, knowing my propensity for leaving them switched on, it would be cheaper than dealing with the aftermath of the house burning down. I wrapped them up on his behalf and wrote myself a tag, "To my Darling Wife, I just knew these would be perfect for you. All my love, your thoughtful husband, Dougie xxx"

The present-opening session on Christmas morning was a success: both Dougie and I vocalised our surprise at his generous gift.

Whilst Rory and I played with our new toys, Mr Organised filled two recycling bags and set to with the veg preparation for dinner. Once he has his pinny on he becomes so Masterchef, it's uncanny.
"So tell us what you're doing now, Doug?"
"Well, Greg, I'm peeling the potatoes"
"And what's your timing on that, Doug?"
"About five minutes, Greg"
"Do you think you're on track?"
"I think so. Just have to up my game a bit; this is my dream and I want to show everyone what I can do"
"Looks laa-ve-ly, Doug"
"Thanks, Greg"

Prep over, and the consumption of pink fizz affecting his timings somewhat, the chef had a break to watch some Christmas special Sky Sports thing while the sous-chef took over the reins and annoyed everyone by singing ad nauseam the opening ah-ah-ah-ah-a-a-ah bit from the Military Wives Choir's Wherever You Are song.

The inlaws, George and Emily, arrived at 2pm with the 'big bag' which has accompanied them to every Christmas Day at ours since Rory was born. Always dubious about what's going to come out of this bag (not surprisingly after previous disappointments of Chelsea football socks and a belt buckle with a wolf on it) this year they played safe with John Lewis white bath sheets. Dougie entertained them with some obscure TV and film quiz from a tin we'd bought Rory for Christmas. The questions were all American and they struggled with questions about the name of the fish in Disney's The Little Mermaid, when Emily had been hoping for some Emmerdale topics.

The meal was "a triumph, Doug, though the turkey may have been a little overdone". Dinner entertainment was provided by some musical crackers we'd bought. In each cracker was a numbered whistle, eight in total. As conductor, I had a baton and notation for whistled carols. Not having enough people for all eight whistles, each person got two whistles each, which didn't bode well. The First Noel (321345 678765) was, quite frankly, a car crash, not helped by Emily putting near enough the whole whistle in her mouth so that her 5 and 6 notes were inaudible. She then proceeded to laugh so infectiously, no-one was able to purse their lips to make any useful noise at all. Deck the Halls was a tad too fast in the la-la-la bits but we had far more success with a sedate rendition of Jingle Bells possibly because there were none of George's 7s and 8s and lots of Rory's 3s. As Rory was the only one able to produce a pleasant sound from the whistle, I tried to choose songs with plenty of 3s and 4s in them. O Come All Ye Faithful was so painful, I'd suggest it as a more effective method of torture than waterboarding.

We retired to the living room for Christmas pudding on our laps and a few rounds of our favourite family parlour game, arthritic charades. As in previous years George was unable to indicate how many words because of his crooked fingers so, to avoid us shouting out "Three and a half?" we allowed him to speak that bit. After all these years he still doesn't get the idea that this is a mime game and seems at pains to find props. So he nearly disrobed for The Naked Civil Servant and had us all having to uproot from our comfy chairs to see him go into the hall to demonstrate Stairway to Heaven. We were stumped with his charade of Withnail and I, mainly on account of George thinking it was Withnail and One but he topped this with his constant counting to seven as a 'clue' for the second word in Perfect Day: "there are seven days in a week!" he exclaimed after we'd given up.

Thankfully we packed them off home once George had snored his way through most of the Peter Kay DVD. We ended the evening watching The Inbetweeners movie: I hid behind the cushion for most of it. Rory, completely unfazed by his parents watching him with it, roared with laughter and Dougie, rather taken with a whole new supply of rude teenage slang, tottered behind me as we staggered up the stairway to heaven, wondering hopefully if, perhaps tonight, the pony needs feeding....

Who needs a stocking when you can have a Liebster Award for Christmas.

2011-12-21T10:20:00.004Z

Christmas came a few days early for me with a very nice comment on my blog from The Whining Diner and Wellfedfred letting me know I was the recipient of a Liebster blog award. I have seen these award-thingies being passed around the blogosphere and not really paid them too much attention before. But when someone makes the effort to mention you on their blog and tells you they enjoy reading your posts, then it's actually quite humbling.

If you haven't paid a visit to 'Fred' then I urge you to do so; you will find a fabulous blog full of food, fashion, travel and more food.

Google translate tells me Liebster means dear, sweet, endearing, lovely: in fact all those qualities you see in me all the time ;-). Of course, I now have to play the role of Santa and pass on the award myself. The award is given to bloggers with fewer than 200 followers. It has these stipulations:

1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Reveal your 5 blogger picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Hope that the people you have sent the award to will forward it to their favourite bloggers

I have decided to choose five bloggers who don't live in the UK; five people who regularly entertain me with their writing and are always so supportive here on my blog.

A Bavarian Sojourn - Emma, who used to write at A Scandinavian Sojourn, gave me some great advice about visiting Copenhagen earlier this year. She has now moved to Munich so I may have to put that city on our list so I can seek out her help once again.

About Last Weekend - Jody is a Kiwi now living in California with her husband and four children. I have to admit one of the best things about Jody's blog is seeing how glamorous she is and zooming in on her photos so I can drool over her furniture.

Asia Vu - Ms Caroline has moved to Seoul with her husband, Mr Logical, and her two teenage boys. A fascinating insight into a different culture but with a huge dollop of wit and silliness that makes visiting her a real joy.

Funky Wellies' Random Thoughts - Mum to two daughters and wife to Sexy Hubby, KJS lives in Germany and has a love of fashion and rock music. Her current advent calendar, using shots of Desigual fashion, is a treat for the senses.

St Bloggie de Riviere - Sarah is a Brit living near Montpellier in France with her two boys. A great blog to visit to share the fun of bringing up teenagers and empathise with the frustrations, at times, of French bureaucracy and squat loos. Sarah is also typing up her mum's brilliantly funny diaries of their camping holidays from the 1960s and 70s in the form of a blog, Isn't that the Trailer-Tent?

So there you have it. My work is done. Think I'll put my feet up now and join Santa in a sherry and a mince pie.

That Business with the King of Holbeach ...

2011-12-16T10:51:00.001Z

I was asked by the Deputy Head of Rory's former primary school, Ayscoughfee Hall, where I'm still a governor, to help them with the staff Christmas Panto. Of course, I said, I'd be happy to be involved.
Which panto is it?
Cinderella.
Ah then you must want me to be the prince; I'm good at all that thigh-slapping.
Not really.
Or maybe you've seen my Dandini, darling?
No.
A guest appearance?
No, we don't really need you on the stage at all. We'd like you to press the 'play' button on the CD player for the backing tracks.

Devastated.

Once I'd picked myself up, I agreed to assist as it only involved a couple of rehearsals before doing my techie thing yesterday afternoon for the performance to the children, and last night for the parents. I had to sit behind a huge bewildering mixing desk but fortunately was only required to move one slider up and down for volume, together with playing and pausing the CD player. So why was I so worried? Probably because the essence of playing music at the correct time is dependent on being given the correct cues by the actors on stage. A bit of guesswork was needed, plus some timely nods by the director, Mrs Wayman, who was also a narrator. Let's just say, the script was fairly free at times, particularly during the Queen's scenes when, quite frankly, it could have gone anywhere and frequently did.

The Headmaster, an ugly sister, was quite a sight wearing a Cher wig he borrowed from me, although I did hear one member of the evening audience compare him to Brian May on acid. He was accompanied by Mr Hutton, the IT teacher, who sported a stupendous lurex-covered chest. Both chaps flashed an unseemly amount of hairy leg on occasions, enough to give the infants night terrors for weeks to come. Mind you, the Year Two teacher, Mrs Chester, a bit scary at the best of times, was still fearsome dressed in a fluffy dressing gown as the snappy, crotchety Step Mum.

The Prince was played by the reception teacher, Mrs Smith, who impressed me with a fine pair of legs encased in fishnet; doubtless the dads in the audience appreciated them too. Not sure the mums would have been quite so enamoured with the pink tutu worn by the caretaker, Mr Bratley, though I have to say I think he and his floppy wand have missed their vocation: may have to sign him up for our amateur dramatic group as he's a natural.

The Year Six teacher, Mrs Laud, played a world-weary Cinders with a penchant for doughnuts and Jammy Dodgers. I used to wonder why it took her so long to make her entrances until I realised she was wearing huge pink slippers and could therefore only shuffle to the stage. However her gait complemented her outfit of gingham pinny and hair in rollers, definitely channelling her 'Mrs Overall'.

In fact the whole production had an Acorn Antiques look about it: the ad-libs, the 'not sure where I'm meant to be' dithering, the whispered prompts. Of course, this just added to the sheer fun of the show. And what a bloody good show it was: great energy, lots of silliness, proper choreographed dances and some excellent contemporary song choices the kids loved.

Coming at the end of a busy term when the teachers and support staff have been doing their usual work, plus producing two infant nativity plays, I was amazed they still had the energy and dedication to give up their own time to rehearse and perform for the children and parents. Congratulations to everyone involved.

Are you sure I can't have a part next year?

Christmas Card, 1949: The King's School, Peterborough

2011-12-08T08:24:00.002Z

In 1949, when my dad was 15, he designed the card above which was selected by his school, The King's School, Peterborough, for their Christmas card that year.

I remember seeing the card quite often over the years, as it lay amongst old letters and photos at my parents' house. When Dad died in February and I began to write up his memoirs as a blog, Memoirs of John Michael Grinsell, I hunted it out again. It always fascinated me how intricate a design this was, presumably using scratch art technique to carve the picture into the card, picking up the white background underneath? [although from comments below it would seem it's more likely a wood or lino cut]

I could spend hours looking at the detail in the card: the curve of the chair, the architectural precision of the school building and the three little children playing in the snow. Hard to believe a young lad, the same age as Rory is now, laboriously etching out the scene.

Mum and I decided we would both like to use the card for our own Christmas card this year so she had them re-printed locally. I now have a big box to send out to friends.

I think writing my cards this year is going to be rather special.

Friday, 9 December: I think I have an answer as to how the card was created. My dad's sister, Betty, was speaking to my mum earlier and she remembers Dad working on the card at home: it was a linocut. She says he worked really hard for many hours with a special knfe to create the detail you see above.

Tits and Teeth, Darling!

2011-12-05T08:27:00.050Z

Well that was an eventful weekend. As you know from my 'Haemorrhoid City' post, Spalding Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society were asked to entertain the shoppers on Saturday and Sunday in the town centre. Never mind whether people were expecting a selection of festive carols, they were serenaded with songs from Les Miserables, Chicago, Oklahoma, Calamity Jane and even The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

We turned up at 12.30 ready for our 1pm slot and made our way to the stage area. I say 'stage' but in fact it was a very small white trailer, a freezer possibly? Anyway there was no way twenty of us were clambering into that so we moved the mics down onto the pavement. Quite a good location, bang slap in the market square, taking over the spot normally bagsied by the local winos.

Our local radio station, Tulip FM, was running the entertainment for the day from their tent next to us and soon we were plugged in, backing track ready to blast out to the town. Dougie said no matter where you were in town the songs could be heard. He tried to disappear into Homebase but our voices still carried. It wasn't long before we gathered quite a crowd; some maybe curious as to what the racket was and some genuinely keen musical theatre fans who joined in with the chorus numbers. Oh and we just about avoided corpsing during One Short Day: no haemorrhoids slipped out.

The Sunday session was a more low-key affair and it was bitterly cold. We were singing at 10am so not many people were awake. They soon were. The hour's set was interrupted by Santa attempting to come down the street on his sleigh. However he decided to wait until we'd finished. He must have known who we were.

For those who were asking, I don't think any of our songs were captured on video but I can assure you we were all wonderful. The highlights for me were Craig Delaney's Bring Him Home, which nearly had me blubbing, and Jane Fulford's gorgeous soprano voice singing I Dreamed a Dream. My solo on the Sunday, Tell me on a Sunday, went well too, I think.

The other notable event on Sunday was a little mention for @mumsgoneto in the Sunday Times travel section. They have a Twitter Question of the Week and last week's was, "What is your most embarrassing travel moment?" I decided to tweet this reply which they published in the paper:

"Sunbathed topless by pool in Ibiza. Appeared in holiday brochure the year after".

I remember it well. 1991, when I was a young and perky 27 year old. Dougie and I had swum out to the rock formation in the middle of the pool, oblivious to the photographer snapping away. The next year we picked up the brochure to choose another holiday and there I was, posed like The Little Mermaid in bikini bottoms.

There are some people who just can't help being the centre of attention...

One Short Day in the Haemorrhoid City

2011-12-01T09:03:00.000Z

How to ruin a good song for everyone. One Short Day from the musical Wicked is on our set list for the Christmas concert our AmDram group are performing in Spalding town centre this weekend. Of course the proper words are "one short day in the Emerald City" but when we were rehearsing it last week, and not enunciating as well as we should have been, I definitely heard a haemorrhoid. Should have kept it to myself really but decided to share with the group. The result? Everyone now starts to snigger when we begin that number. Our musical director is not best pleased with me.

I'm slightly nervous about the whole set-up at the weekend. We've been told we are singing on a portable stage; the side of a lorry I believe. We know we have an hour's set on the Saturday from 1pm but I notice that day there will also be a choir competition involving many of the primary schools from our area. We have kept the same programme for this weekend which we used in the concert for the local WI (I couldn't make it; on holiday) which is basically a number of show tunes. So I have this vision of all these sweet children singing Little Donkey and then us bunch of old farts belting out Razzle Dazzle. I fear it could all go terribly wrong. Thankfully I'm in the chorus so I'm hoping to hide at the back with a woolly hat and shades.

No such luck on the Sunday. We're in a different part of town that day and one of the soloists from the Saturday can't make the Sunday so I'm doing her song for her. So Abigail will sing Tell me on a Sunday on the Saturday and I'll sing Tell me on a Sunday on the Sunday! Our slot is 10am to 11am which is a tad early and I suspect we'll be singing to the birds and the drunks still wandering around from the night before. But we are troopers and although we may be warbling Oh What a Beautiful Morning on a cold and piddly December day, we will do it with gusto.

Here's a video of One Short Day: the Broadway, not the Spalding, version. But think 'haemorrhoid' when you hear 'emerald' and join me in a childish giggle.

Mum's Gone to the Cotswolds - Oxford

2011-11-26T15:22:00.000Z

A month later, I'm finally getting around to posting about the last part of our Cotswolds trip. So you've had the journey there via Tesco and the Rollright Stones, I've moaned about our fruitless visit to Bicester Village outlet centre and then applauded a rainy Blenheim Palace which ticked many boxes despite the weather and the price (and the cafe floor).

Our final day was beautifully sunny and we had decided upon a trip to Oxford; see the dreaming spires and maybe inspire our teenage son that such delights could be his if would just pull his finger out. Of course I'm a Cambridge girl myself and so the Dark Blues are probably the spawn of the devil but I was told not to be so up myself and just soak up the atmosphere of what, I have to admit, was a rather attractive city.

As is often the case when we visit towns where parking is likely to be tight or made up of multi-storeys which bring me out in hives, we plumped for the Park and Ride. When Rory was little, this had the added benefit of giving him that "ooh we're on a bus" adventure. Not sure he gets quite so excited now but at least it avoids the parental spat in the front seat over maps, one-way systems and parking spaces.

The area of Oxford where most of the colleges were situated was, indeed, quite lovely; honey-coloured stone, stunning architecture, a sense of calm and affluence. Like many cities however, there is a definite 'tat end' which we discovered later on when Dougie was desperate for a pee. During the day we had used the toilet facilities of Starbucks and McDonalds but things were really bad when all we could find were the loos belonging to the indoor shopping centre's car park. I decided to give my pelvic floor a bit of a workout and held on until we found more salubrious surroundings. Dougie, unable to hang on, waded in.

Interestingly, whereas Rory had hated discount shopping at Bicester when all the shops were heaving and noisy, he adored the tranquility of the shops in Oxford. And didn't the little bugger just go and find a nice quiet Jack Wills shop where he found a perfect (full-priced) hoodie. It took us some time before we could prise him out of the shop but once he'd got his pink and navy-striped bag he was a happy lad and allowed us to walk around the town without too much grumbling. Shopping with kids doesn't change much as they grow older: buy them a toy, stuff sweeties into them on a regular basis and, with any luck, you can stretch the afternoon out a bit.

Bus back to the car park but then Dougie decided he was hungry. He's worse than a child. Left us to sit like sad sacks in the car while he disappeared for well over half an hour. As we saw him approaching from the distance, we were about to shout rude things at him until we noticed he was carrying a Waitrose bag. Inside...treats! Crisps and Powerade drink in obligatory lurid colour for Rory: cream cakes and fancy fruit juice for me. Okay, he's forgiven.

Review: Mega Hi-Tower from Garden Games

2011-11-20T15:58:00.001Z

Hi-Tower - with volleyball to give
you some sense of scale

My teenage son, Rory, was sitting beside me when the email came through offering me the chance to review a Giant Jenga game courtesy of Garden Games. I don't usually get asked to review things (apart from some books of late) and the last thing we were asked to test was a chip fryer this time last year. That went down rather well, but unfortunately we had to give it back. However, the good people at Garden Games were letting us keep this. So we said yes, please!

Dougie trying a novel approach
to removing the blocks?!

We've played Jenga before, usually the small version where the pieces inevitably become lost under the sofa. No chance of that happening, I reckon, with this large, outdoor version. 58 smooth wooden blocks (45x60x180mm) in a sturdy carry bag. Mind you, it's a tad heavy: 13.6kg according to our bathroom scales. Husband, Dougie, brought it inside and we made some space in the living room. To be honest, unless you've got a decent-sized room, and don't mind valuables being walloped as the structure falls down, I'd take it outside where it's designed to be played. My heart was in my mouth as the structure wobbled precariously near our telly.

Despite being a teenager, and programmed to find most things boring, Rory got into the spirit of the game. The language was choice at times, but the three of us had a laugh together and there was the predictable male surprise whenever I was successful at removing a block.

I'm sure if Rory had been younger he would have adored playing separately with the blocks, creating his own towers, buildings etc. As it was, game over, he disappeared and left us to figure out which way the blocks went back into the bag.

Would we recommend it? Yes, I think this would be enjoyed by all ages (over the age of 6) and particularly in the summer when having a barbecue or party. Please note, as it's quite addictive, the competitive dads will be in their element!

The Mega Hi-Tower costs £49.99 from http://www.gardengames.co.uk/

Mum's Gone to the Cotswolds - Beautiful Blenheim

2011-11-14T11:57:00.003Z

After the disaster of Bicester and the success of 'going for a walk', our second full day in the Cotswolds greeted us with pouring rain. Undeterred, we donned sturdy footwear and raincoats and drove off to Blenheim Palace. These places are always pretty expensive when you just turn up. As Dougie handed over fistfuls of notes to the man in the booth, I bemoaned the fact that we have a drawer full of Tesco vouchers which could have paid for the whole day in full, if only I'd had the nous to plan in advance. Knowing me, they'll be out of date before I have a chance to spend them.

It was still tipping it down as we trudged from the car park to the Palace but, once inside, it was warm, welcoming and there was a free guided tour (ok, after the amount we paid, let's say 'included'). We were escorted by a wonderfully enthusiastic chap; part Ronnie Corbett, part Brendan from Coach Trip. We learned a considerable amount about the Marlborough family,Winston Churchill and the relevance of specific items in the State Rooms. Hands up everyone who goes round these rooms in stately homes on their own and can only really comment, "Nice tapestry"? That's usually us and we never learn very much.

This tour was followed by a computerised presentation about the history of the house and its family. It's quite a laugh actually, with moving dummies, one of whom was the King's mistress sitting up in bed while her lover was supposedly in the wardrobe. Can't imagine how parents might answer a child's question on that little vignette. There were a few educational computer screens where, let's be honest, most adults and children just press the buttons for a few seconds then move on to something else. But, overall, rather entertaining and again it was free (included).

We found the cafeteria. Busy, noisy and with staff whose method of cleaning tables was to use a cloth to sweep everything onto the floor. Dougie wanted to make a quick exit but I knew we'd get tetchy without food so we persevered though we wished we'd found a Tesco as we seem to do most lunchtimes on this holiday.

Back outside, hoods up, we walked through the grounds and, despite the rain, we were still able to appreciate the Autumn colours, the pheasants, the lake, the waterfall. Best of all, we were virtually alone.

Eventually we conceded defeat and, pretty well soaked through and sniffling, we plodded back to the car. The log fire of the Old Swan and Minster Mill cheered us up, together with the fun we had listening to a dad trying to teach his two young children how to play snooker in the gallery above us:

"Come along now, Toby, that's not the way to hold the cue....No...No...further down...ah well that wasn't very good was it?....should have aimed the cue ball at the bottom of the red ball....ah Daddy won again"

Competitive Dad or what! (see sketch from The Fast Show, below)

We Will Remember Them

2011-11-11T07:00:00.002Z

Do you remember this photograph I posted a couple of weeks ago (here) for The Gallery, the theme for that week being Faces? Well, that particular week there was a prize for the best photo and accompanying story. I'm very pleased to say this snapshot of survivors of the Great War, including my grandfather, was chosen as the winner (see the post about the win on Tara's website)

I'm delighted the photo was acknowledged as being a little bit special because, of course, today is the 11th day of the 11th month and, this year, the 11th year of the century. Remembrance Day. A day, and a weekend, when we take time out to remember those who sacrificed their lives for us. Although these men in the photograph survived the war, they were very brave to enlist and fight for their country. They will all be dead now but they live on in photographs such as this.

The prize for the competition was a Kodak Pulse Digital Frame and I'm going to give it to my mum. It's a clever WiFi gadget with its own email address so I, and the rest of the family, can email photos straight to the frame. I think she'll like it.

Many thanks to Tara for running The Gallery each week on her website. It's the only linky/meme I have returned to regularly as I often find there is a theme which encourages me to seek out old and new photos and, more often than not, there's a good story to be told too.

Book Review: The House of the Wind by Titania Hardie

2011-11-10T08:07:00.001Z

The House of the Wind, by Titania Hardie, tells the story of two women, centuries apart, whose lives are woven together by the myth of the woman who walked away unscathed from the ruins of the Casa al Vento. Madeline Moretti (Maddie), a lawyer from San Francisco in 2007, is mourning the accidental death of her fiancé. Maria Maddalena (Mia), living in Tuscany in 1347, has seen her own mother killled in a brutal fashion. We learn how their future unfolds and how history binds them together in a very spiritual way.

The novel is beautifully written and I only wish I'd been reading it under warm Tuscan skies with no time limits, rather than snatching chapters here and there, which, to be fair, didn't allow the book to work its magic on me.

The narrative swaps from one century to another and I do find that a bit tricky. Just when I'm being drawn into one character's story and feeling empathy, the scene changes and I have to work hard to remember where I was with the other. The book is quite long and at times I was urging the plot to move a little faster. Yet there were some fascinating insights into corporate legal work in the United States plus some very interesting detail about medieval life in Europe during a very unstable period in history.

And how could I not be captivated by the setting in Tuscany of the very real hotel Borgo Santo Pietro which sounds so luxurious and serene, I'm tempted to book a holiday there right away.

I have very fond memories of Tuscany as our precious son was conceived there 16 years ago. Maybe there is magic to be found in that beautiful part of Italy after all.

The House of the Wind was published by Headline Review on 27 October 2011 in Paperback Original, £7.99. I was sent the book by the publishers to review.

Mum's Gone to the Cotswolds - How to spend nothing at Bicester.

2011-11-08T15:54:00.000Z

Path up to Minster Mill reception.

Now, where was I? I was interrupted in my story of what we got up to at half term by my giddy trip on the Thames and the exploits of my salad-loving son.

The last you read, we had reached the Old Swan and Minster Mill hotel, near Witney, via lunch in Tesco car park and a slightly spooky stop-off at the Rollright Stones.

Our first evening meal in the hotel restaurant was, as they say in food reviews, a triumph! A pint of local Hobgoblin beer for Dougie, a Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonic pour moi and a lemonade plus a few slurps of beer for Rory. The food was fabulous too. The boys had fish and chips, served in a replica chip shop wire basket with a small layer of newspaper (The Times, I think), a little pot of mushy peas and half a lemon, wrapped in muslin, all served on a very chic slab of slate. I had salmon in a cajun sauce and, as I was the only one with room afterwards, a big dollop of Eton Mess.

We slept very well.

Breakfast was even better. We had to walk outside from the Minster Mill part of the hotel to the Old Swan inn. What better way to start the day than to sit by a log fire with a bacon, sausage and egg bap made to order. Morning papers, cup of tea...lovely.

I was tempted to stay all day but we had shopping plans. Armed with an extra 10% off any purchases at Bicester Shopping Village we were all set for a good old spend. How wrong we were. Whereas the year before Dougie and I had bought plenty of designer bargains; this year, with a teenager in tow, it all went belly-up. My focus was no longer on my own needs (ok..wants) but on my boy, trying to find him new jeans and some winter clothes. Unfortunately it was very busy; the shops were heaving, the muzak unbearable and my son had turned into his father. Diesel jeans I suggested? "No, Mum, look at the price! Too expensive even when reduced. I'll stick to the ones I've got" (Dougie punched the air. That's my boy!)

Even the cafes and restaurants were a nightmare; queues out of the door. So we boxed clever. Walked around the corner, out through a gap in the bushes, and found a Tesco. Costa Coffee franchise just inside the door. That'll do nicely. Our second lunch from Tesco in as many days.

Boys refused to go back through the bushes to continue our shopping so we returned to the hotel, changed into boots and went for a walk. Rory slightly dubious about such an activity; he wasn't sure what was involved, but he soon got the idea. The grounds of the hotel were gorgeous; the River Windrush gently flowing through the middle. After exhausting the meadows, we found a path through the fields and came across an English Heritage site, Minster Lovell Hall, which, in the late afternoon sunshine, was quite captivating. Best of all; it didn't cost a penny.

Cheap day all round...

St Kenelm's Church, Minster Lovell

The ruins of Minster Lovell Hall

More ruins

Santa's come early...

A conversation I wish I'd never started - No.3

2011-11-06T12:39:00.003Z

Another in the series of 'Conversations I wish I'd never started' with my teenage son, Rory. However, whereas conversations One and Two portrayed a mother with an addled brain versus a 'too sharp he'll cut himself' son, this time I think I may just have the edge.

Conversation took place at midday today as I managed to persuade my lad he should maybe think about getting up. It's Sunday, 6 November, the day after bonfire night.

Me: Ooh look, there's a rocket in the front garden.
Son: Where?
Me: There, poking out of the ground.
Son: I can't see it.
Me: It's right in front of you. Can't you see the stick?
Son: Why would it have a stick?
Me: Because they come with a stick.
Son: Do they?
Me: Of course they do. Can you see it now?
Son: (peering) Oh! A rocket! A firework rocket!
Me: Yes, what did you think it was?
Son: A type of lettuce.

And he has the cheek to say I'm too middle-class!

Mum's Gone to London for a bit of Thrillaxing with iExplore

2011-11-03T14:10:00.004Z

I'm always a bit wary of boats ever since that unforgettable day in Iceland when I was seasick for three hours on a whale-watching trip. The fact that it was accompanied by the natural consequence of taking laxatives the night before....well, maybe I shouldn't dwell on that but I'm sure you get the picture.

However, despite the fact that I thought I was going to die, that experience has become the stuff of family memories, one of those tales that will be talked about ad nauseam (literally), accompanied by the words, "Do you remember the holiday when...?"

Our trip to Iceland, with activities such as white-water rafting, snow-mobiling, glacier-hiking and the 'didn't quite see a whale but saw my breakfast float away'-watching, has to be my favourite holiday experience. Why? Because we came home refreshed, exhilarated and happy in the knowledge that we had given Rory, our son, a few life-changing moments.

So when I was invited to London yesterday for a speed boat trip on the Thames and to learn of a new travel website which embraces this concept of 'thrillaxing', I jumped at the chance. A group of bloggers, with three of their gorgeous children, were kitted out in big coats and life-jackets for a wild 50 minute ride down the Thames with the Thames RIB Experience. In all honesty, if we'd walked by the Thames and saw this boat trip, I would have been tempted to play the Mummy card: "You boys go on it; I'll stay here and look after the bags". I had no excuse this time so threw caution, and my hair, to the wind and had the most brilliant time listening to the informative/funny commentary and joining in with the James Bond and Hawaii-Five-0 music. I wasn't sick; in fact the motion of a speed boat didn't seem to affect my stomach, but I did squeal a lot. I took the following video during one of the slow parts of the ride; when the boat took off around Canary Wharf I had to keep my hands firmly attached to the bar in front of me, rather than my camera. But hopefully you'll get the idea. I saw some fabulous sights, including the rather beautiful Renaissance curls of the two ladies ahead of me.

During lunch following our trip, the travel presenter Craig Doyle told us of his holiday experiences with his wife and four young children, before we were enlightened as to this new website, http://www.iexplore.co.uk/, which, under the umbrella of the Tui organisation (including Thomson, First Choice, Exodus, Crystal and Sunsail), is a one-stop place for people seeking holiday inspiration.

iExplore has done some YouGov research and found that 75% of UK holidaymakers find that keeping active abroad helps them take their minds off what's happening at home and in the office. However, they don't suggest everyone goes whizzing off on speed boats and trekking up Kilimanjaro. No, they appreciate families, couples and singles will all have different budget requirements, comfort levels and an idea of how much 'activity' they want to do. The options range from river boating to gazing at the Northern Lights and going on safari.

I decided to try their travel profile Inspirator quiz and after assessing that I like comfy beds, too much luggage and sightseeing like a meerkat, I'm classed as a 'Culture Craver'. I think that's pretty accurate.

You may also like to have a look at their Facebook page and a quiz they are running www.facebook.com/iExploreTravelUK . Upload your thrillaxing photo or video for a chance to win a holiday worth £5000.

If only someone had taken a photo of me on that whale-watching trip - I'd be in with a helluva chance!

Mum's Gone to the Cotswolds - Crossed Wires

2011-11-01T10:07:00.001Z

We were staying in Britain this half-term so there was no having to get up at a silly hour to catch a flight. Rather, a leisurely breakfast and into the car by 10am for the drive to Oxfordshire. Of course we still had the usual squabbles about which route to take. As Dougie doesn't like the Corby-Kettering-Northampton route, we chose a new one via Bedford and Milton Keynes, though as our SatNav lady obviously prefers to travel via Northampton, she was having none of it. So it was me and the map.

Even though I say it myself, I was spot on with my navigation. There was only one hiccup when at a T-junction Dougie asked me if it was right or left. I said yes, it was right and said the name of the the village on the sign, "Aynho". At which point he stopped the car and turned to me,
"So which way then?"
"I've just told you! Right".
"But then you said, ay...no. So is it left then?"
"No, it's right! I said 'Aynho'"
"There you go again, AY...NO"
"NO....IT'S BLOODY AYNHO. THE VILLAGE. ON THE SIGN. LOOK"

We took a couple of detours: a lovely lunch...in Tesco car park off a roundabout in Milton Keynes (classy) and a quick stop at the neolithic stone circles, the Rollright Stones, which I thought would appeal to everyone. The King's Men stone circle is set in a wooded clearing; across the road is a larger solitary King stone, while a short walk away is a group of leaning stones (the Whispering Knights). According to legend, a king left his troops while a group of knights were plotting treason. He encountered a witch who promised him, "Seven long strides shalt thou take And if Long Compton thou canst see, King of England thou shalt be.” The king thought this an easy task but hadn't realised the hillside would obstruct his view, whereupon the witch turned him and his men to stone.

It began to rain as we were leaving, which all added to the spookiness of the experience. Back in the car and it wasn't long before we reached our hotel, the quite beautiful Old Swan and Minster Mill near Witney. Our rooms were called 'cosy' which was quite apt as they were small, but perfectly formed! The rooms were together, reached by a lockable door to our own separate teeny corridor. Having dumped the bags (or rather, me dump the bags, Dougie carefully hang everything up) we set off for an explore and found a gorgeous lounge, complete with a crackling log fire. The boys decided to have a game of snooker in the minstrel's gallery above. I told Rory what the gallery was for and he looked at me with a vacant expression.

"The minstrels played here', I explained.
"Who are they, then? Some 70s group?"

The Gallery - Faces - Survivors

2011-10-26T07:00:00.004+01:00

The First World War ended on 11 November 1918. This photograph was taken in April 1919; these young men had survived. This is a snapshot in time of a group of men with their lives ahead of them, their futures uncertain but surely, with the war over, possessing hope.

They are, of course, all dead now, but the picture brings life to each individual face. The fact that these squaddies have been photographed at rest allows us to catch a glimpse of their personalities; a more posed photo would have told us very little. I don't know how many of them saw action in France but I see weariness in some of the faces, bravado and swagger in others.

What do I see when I look at this face? The joker of the pack, I'm guessing. Cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, legs outstretched, a goat on his knee. Handsome chap. Was he a bit of a ladies' man or did he just think he was? Was he really as assured as he looks? What had he seen during the war? I wonder how was he changed by his experiences.

How about this pair? Best buddies I think. More at ease than some of the others, posing without their caps; jackets undone. Maybe they were related? Brothers-in-arms.

This man looks quieter than the rest. His cap is too far back on his head so he looks rather awkward. There's a comforting arm on his shoulder from one of his pals. Has the camera captured sadness in his eyes?

This last face, sitting on the far right, is smiling. He looks relaxed, his posture showing him to be at ease. And I do know what his future holds.

His name is George Arthur Grinsell and he is my grandfather. He was born in 1900 and joined the army as soon as he could, aged 18, just as the war was ending, so probably didn't see any real action. He became an accountant, married Elsie May in 1927 and had two children, Betty and my father, John. He joined the Home Guard (Dad's Army) in the Second World War. He died at the age of 62.

I never met him. But I know his face.

Some of you may already know that since my dad died in February I have been typing up his diaries in the form of a blog 'Memoirs of John Michael Grinsell'. It's been a fascinating task and one which has helped me know more about my roots. Photographs such as the one above are now coming to light and somehow, appreciating how I fit into this circle of life, is a very healing process.

The theme for The Gallery this week is Faces. To see more contributions, have a look at Tara's website, HERE.

#FriFotos - Pink - Lake Garda

2011-10-21T11:03:00.001+01:00

Another little dip into the Twitter travel world of #FriFotos where the theme today is PINK for Breast Cancer Awareness.

I had a look through my holiday albums and found my best selection of that colour from our trip to Lake Garda in Italy. We stayed in the beautiful town of Bardolino on the eastern side of the lake and as the sun set each evening, the sky turned a delicate shade of warm pink. I loved it so much I now use one of the photos as a header on my blog.

On one particular evening the traditional Bisse racing on the lake took place, beginning as the sun began to dip and ending in the black of night.

I hope the photographs below will give you a warm glow, though maybe the last one, taken bizarrely in the town square of Sirmione, may just make you smile. Simples!

How to embarrass your teenage son in Burger King

2011-10-17T08:21:00.002+01:00

Let me set the scene. On the A1, coming home from Newcastle yesterday afternoon, we stop off for an early tea at the Moto services in Blyth, Nottinghamshire. Rather caught on the hop as there is no queue at Burger King so I haven't time to construct the order in my head before I open my mouth. My son, Rory, quickly states his order with no hesitation so it's my turn and I'm not ready. Eyes flickering at the boards above my head advertising innumerable combinations of Whoppers, I ask a stupid question of the young pale-faced chap who is waiting with bated breath to prod the buttons on his till.

Me: "Do you have any burgers without cheese?"

Now why did I ask that? I'm no stranger to burger joints, for heaven's sake, I do know you can pick and choose what goes in them. But I've said it now, so have to go along with the ensuing conversation.

Him: "You can have mouse without cheese."

Right. He's speaking English; he isn't foreign but I'm flummoxed. Not sure whether to query whether mouse will be deep-fried or just squashed flat and griddled to within an inch of its life. And how puzzling that it should be the mouse which comes without cheese considering how the mouse/cheese relationship is such a close one. Decide to push on with this follow-up question:

Me: "Excuse me?"

Yup, that's going to work.

Him: "You can have mouse without cheese."

Thanks, mate. Just repeat it, why don't you! Didn't know what you were talking about first time and now I'm panicking. Rory is mortified and has slunk away to gather up handfuls of ketchup sachets. I look to Dougie, hoping for some assistance. He looks equally stumped and is avoiding my pleading look. I have no idea why I don't just pick a burger, any burger, but I'm scanning the list for something that begins with an 'M'. Can't find one so try again:

Me: "Sorry?"

Him: (sounding slightly shirty now) "Mouse without cheese!"

Me: "Mouse?"

Him: (gripping his till with both hands) "MOUST!"

Me: "MOUST?...OH....MOST! I can have MOST without cheese. Oh well I'll have an Angus then, as a meal, with coffee."

Oh the shame. Join Rory to pick up sugar and milk cartons and leave my poor husband to continue the order. As we sit down I begin to laugh and then can't stop giggling. Rory informs me that I'm always embarrassing in fast food restaurants. Apparently I'm 'too middle-class'. What on earth do you mean, boy? I stopped asking for cutlery and a pepper-mill years ago. He's right, though. I try to make small talk when I should shuffle to the front and mutter my order with no extra discussion about the weather or how busy it is.

It's then we remember the classic opener I uttered in KFC when we'd just come off the plane after our gorgeous holiday in Portugal this summer. Again, wrong-footed by the lack of customers, and forgetting where I was, I said the following:

Me: "What can you recommend for three people?"

Rory's face turned puce and he looked as if he could happily throttle me. The young girl serving was taken aback but, bless her, she stepped up to the mark and said very slowly, as if she wasn't sure if this was some kind of sad joke:

Her: "Um...well...there's an 8-piece bargain bucket...and a 10 piece bargain bucket...or a variety bucket. Yeah...sort of...buckets....with a bottle of coke?"

I think it was at this point, before I opened my big mouth even further and debated the intricacies of the bucket combinations, Rory took charge and told me: "For god's sake, go and sit down, Mum'.

It's hard trying to be invisible for your children.

My Winning Entry

2011-10-14T08:41:00.000+01:00

As I still own the copyright to the article I wrote for the Beautiful Britain family travel writing competition, I thought I'd post it here on my blog just so I have it for posterity. It is also published on the Have A Lovely Time website along with the runner-up submissions.

So here it is, for anyone who missed it:

“This Way to the Devil’s Arse”

Like most 10 year old boys, my son was mightily impressed by this sign indicating the way to Peak Cavern and the largest natural cave entrance in the British Isles.

After the obligatory photo shoot, involving Dad bending over so the big arrow was strategically pointing just below his hitched-up cagoule, we spent a fascinating hour or so in the enormous cave, discovering its history by tagging along behind a group of fidgety school children.

This was just one of the highlights of a family break in the Peak District, a breathtakingly beautiful National Park offering a wide spectrum of attractions suitable for all ages and, importantly, weather conditions. Peak Cavern was the ideal spot to dodge the rain, coupled with its close neighbour, Speedwell Cavern, where we took a fascinating journey by boat to explore its underground passageways. It was still raining when the boat trip ended so I naturally took shelter in the gift shop to pick up a piece of Blue John stone, a mineral unique to the Peak District caverns.

We were self-catering in one of a number of apartments developed from the old Pump House of the Ladybower Reservoir. The reservoir, a stone’s throw away, is part of the Derwent Dams, and we were able to evoke a sense of history by telling our son how the RAF’s 617 Squadron, “The Dambusters” used to practise their low-lying flying techniques over these very waters before their successful mission in Germany with Barnes Wallis’ bouncing bomb.

We couldn’t fault the location of the apartment; in the countryside, overlooking the lake and hills and a short stagger from an excellent family-friendly pub on the other side of the road. Somehow my provisions of microwave rice, quick cook pasta and suckable yoghurts were overlooked when we had the delights of steak pie, battered fish and spotted dick with custard to tempt us in the evening. In my experience plenty of fresh air requires a big feed afterwards.

When the sun eventually appeared, we made the most of the blue sky and headed for Matlock Bath, a fashionable spa town of the 19th century which, with the advent of the railway bringing hundreds of day-trippers, became the very popular resort it still is today. One of its attractions, the Heights of Abraham, is a hilltop park on the steep slopes of Masson Hill, reached by an impressive cable car which rises above the valley. Son was keen to have a go but it was only when we were dangling over the valley, the car swinging from side to side as it stopped for people to take photos, I discovered my husband suffers from a type of vertigo brought on by ‘things high up hanging from thin wires’. As he turned white and began to whimper, I distracted our son with plenty of oohs and aahs as we looked out of the window. A restorative cappuccino was supped at the top of the hill before we considered the return journey; in the end I accompanied my son in the cable car and we waved to the vertiginous one who fought his way through the scrub to descend the hill on foot.

Bang goes our future skiing holidays.

For a more relaxed day out Chatsworth House was also well within reach for a day trip; its house and gardens were quite spectacular. As Chatsworth had been used to represent Pemberley in the 2005 film of Pride and Prejudice I was rather hoping my husband would do the decent thing and leap into the lake, so he could come out all wet shirt and breeches like Mr Darcy in that infamous scene. Despite the fact that he was keen to appear macho after the debacle of the previous day, he refused, muttering something about not having a towel and it being a bit chilly.

Back at the apartment, an hour of lolling in front of the television before the nightly trip across the road to the pub. A pint of real ale, some rib-sticking hearty dishes and a log fire to sit beside. With ruddy cheeks and aching calves we stretched, yawned and headed back to bed.

It’s a long, tiring but enormously satisfying day when you’ve been to the Devil’s Arse and back.

Crime and Punishment

2011-10-12T08:34:00.001+01:00

What's the worst punishment you can remember a school dishing out to its pupils?

I ask this because a feature caught my eye in a magazine from my husband's old school, George Heriot's in Edinburgh. The archive department is looking for material to complete a report on the school's history. They already have a fascinating collection such as Andy Irvine's Scottish cap from 1973, a pair of crumbling 'breeks' (trousers) from 1700 and a letter from Queen Anne asking the school for the sum of £200!

However the department is also on the look out for further information on events in the school's history where their collection is a little light. In this list they ask for more information about the school in the war years, request a copy of the film made by STV of the Duke of Edinburgh's visit in 1961 and they hope someone may have a recording of a televised school service broadcast from Greyfriars Kirk in 1962.

But I also spotted the following:

"The cancellation of the mid-term holiday in February 1964 because of the boys' bad behaviour"

What on earth did the naughty boys do in 1964 to cause such a blanket punishment to the whole school, as I'm assuming all primary and secondary pupils were included? It must have been pretty severe as surely teachers would have had their holidays cancelled too. Can you imagine the uproar today if a school took such a stance? There'd be hell on. All those February skiing holidays booked?

I asked Dougie if he knew the reason but as he was born in 1964 he has no idea. I can't find any reference to it on the internet. I'll probably have to wait until the archive report is published to discover what heinous crime was committed. Rory thinks that as it was the 1960s it could be drugs, Dougie thinks it's more likely to have been a huge fight between rival schools.

Does anyone out there know? Can anyone better this with an alternative school punishment?

Success for the Devil's Arse

2011-10-10T14:55:00.001+01:00

A few weeks ago I entered the Beautiful Britain family travel writing competition on the website Have a Lovely Time. I found out on Friday that I had...erm...won! I had to keep it a secret until it had been announced on the website but was allowed to ring my family and shriek loudly down the phone.

The competition involved writing about a family travel experience in Britain. My entry was "This way to the Devil's Arse", about our trip to the Peak District, involving a visit to Peak Cavern (The Devil's Arse), Matlock Bath and Chatsworth House. I wasn't sure that having the word 'arse' in the title was a very clever idea, it being a family travel competition, but crossed my fingers, counted the permitted words and emailed it to the organisers who were judging all the entries anonymously.

If you'd like to read the entry, please have a look on this link: This way to the Devil's Arse

There is also a Readers' Choice prize for one of the 8 runners-up. If you'd like to read them and vote for your favourite, pop over HERE.

My prize? £200, a day pass for an English Heritage property of my choice and a copy of the judge's book, Travelling with Children (Catherine Cooper).

I have to say I'm so thrilled to have won. Really, really, really delighted.

#FriFotos - CAPITALS

2011-10-07T07:10:00.000+01:00

I've recently been following a travel hashtag on Twitter, #FriFotos, where all the social media savvy travel gurus seem to congregate on a Friday (naturally) to share their photos on a weekly theme. A fortnight ago I dipped my toe in the water and tweeted a photo on the theme of 'stone'. There were dozens of fabulous pictures of ancient monuments and iconic buildings. Me, I posted a photo of yours truly standing next to a statue of a willy, outside the Penis Museum in Iceland. (see post, HERE, if you haven't had the pleasure)

As the theme this week is 'capitals' I couldn't decide which photo of which capital city, to submit to the esteemed gathering. So I decided to gather a photo from each city into one blog post. I've tried to find a photo which fully represents the spirit or history of each location. You've probably seen all the silly ones - the podgy Spiderman in Madrid and the perky bookshop sign in Copenhagen - so these are my sensible offerings. You'll notice I haven't included London or Edinbugh - can't find a decent photo of either, anywhere in my files. Hopeless!

You can follow the #FriFotos on Twitter yourself and see what other travellers have posted.

Retiro Park - Madrid

Nyhavn - Copenhagen

Brandenburg Gate - Berlin

Parliament Hill and Rideau Canal - Ottawa

My Boys outside Hallgrimskirkja - Reykjavik

Eiffel Tower at dusk - Paris

My boy in front of the Colosseum - Rome

Holiday Plans for October Half Term

2011-10-04T14:49:00.002+01:00

Old Swan and Minster Mill

After much deliberation as to what to do and where to go this half term, we have decided to stay in the UK and get cosy in the Cotswolds.

The last time we visited this neck of the woods Dougie and I went as a couple as Rory was away skiing with the school. We had a fabulous time at Barnsley House, where, if you remember, there was a huge bath at the bottom of the bed. Now this was all very well for a romantic few days a deux but when you've got a 15 year old lad in tow, it doesn't bear thinking about.

So I did some searching on t'internet and I have found this gem, the Old Swan and Minster Mill, a gorgeous inn and country house set in 65 acres of meadows and gardens on the River Windrush. It is owned by the de Savary family and has undergone a multimillion pound refurbishment. It's not cheap but it is beautiful.

The reason it ticks all the boxes for a family break is mainly the fact that it has inter-connecting rooms. I had a bit of a rant about the scarcity of these in a recent post. We have booked two rooms in the more modern Minster Mill block and they have discounted the second room, which is a big bonus.

The hotel does seem to understand what makes for a family holiday experience, albeit at the top end of the market. As well as family rooms and connecting rooms, it is dog-friendly (not that we've got one!) and has activities available for all ages including nature walks, archery, petting farm, duck races (?), fishing, table tennis, table football and arts/crafts. We even received a phone call asking if Rory would like to go to the children's Halloween Party at the hotel during the week we are staying. I declined on his behalf as he would rather stick a hot poker in his eye, quite frankly, but we appreciated the offer nonetheless. Free wi-fi and a great pub menu were of more interest.

So, readers, I need some advice as to where to go for days out while we are there. We are sort of equidistant from Cheltenham (Dougie and I visited there last time), Cirencester and Oxford. I'd love a day in Oxford but, being a Cambridge girl, am a bit clueless as to what will be of interest for all of us. One good thing is that Rory now enjoys shopping (hoorah) and we've pencilled in a trip to Bicester Village for some discount bargain-hunting.

Let me know if you have any suggestions and, while you're at it, tell me where you're off to, if at all, with the kids this half term.

Back in the Saddle

2011-10-01T14:54:00.001+01:00

Me as Katie Brown in Calamity Jane, 2008

I opened my mouth, took a deep breath and the words came tumbling out in a river of pure musical theatre schmaltz.

It's been a year since I've done any singing, having decided to take a break from my local am-dram society. "I'm resting, darling" has a deliciously diva-esque ring to it, don't you think?

I've been involved with the Spalding Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society (SADOS...and yes, we probably are) since 2002 and this was the first year I wasn't involved in their Spring musical. Yes, I've been enjoying the break from organising publicity, line-learning and the stomach-churning angst of preparing for a show. But, truth be told, a life without any jitters, panic and stress can be a little bland. Plus I've missed my friends; the silly giggles, the goofing around, the "we'll never be ready in time" hyperbole which is a permanent feature of every show we do.

So, last night, I popped along to rehearsals for a concert which is being performed at the end of October. It's not going to be a full-blown production at the theatre but it's a small injection of musical adrenalin I think I need. What's rather daft is that I'm not even going to be available on the night in question. However, the same set will be performed at another 'gig' we have, two short stints in the town centre for the Christmas light switch-on in early December, and I'm around that weekend.

The pressure is off because, as I'm not going to be there for the first performance, I will just be singing in the chorus. With that in mind, I happily took my seat last night, after the obligatory luvvie hugs, and warbled along in the ensemble.

I didn't quite anticipate what would happen as I started to sing some of the 'old favourites'. Tunes and lyrics came flooding back to me. The harmony for The Black Hills of Dakota (Calamity Jane) came bubbling up, unannounced, from the far recess of my mind and I was transported back to 2008 where I had played Katie Brown, the frightened phoney actress from Chicagy, singing Keep it Under Your Hat intentionally off-key. For some reason I remembered the first night when Calamity and I were singing A Woman's Touch; someone had covered the tablecloth with too much muck so when we lifted it at both corners to shake it out, we were covered in dust and could hardly breathe, never mind sing.

The title song from Anything Goes; as I sang the words "In olden days a glimpse of stocking" I was there in 2003 for my first speaking role with the society. I was the purser of the ship, a role normally taken by a man but we were short of fellas that year so I got my chance to march about in a bossy fashion and even tap dance, dressed in an extremely thick, fetid, wool suit during an unbearably hot week in June.

At home today I've rooted around to find all my mementos from previous shows: photographs, good luck cards, newspaper clippings. Plus I am annoying the family immensely by playing all the CDs from the musicals. I've discovered this new kitchen of mine, with its tiled floor, is bloody ace to sing in....LOUDLY!

Nothing to see here...

2011-09-26T10:26:00.000+01:00

....but plenty to see over on my other blog, Memoirs of John Michael Grinsell.

I've been busy typing up Dad's memoirs and so far we've covered his early childhood in Ely, Cambridgeshire during the Second World War. I can now picture this lovely little boy with his blond curly hair, pretending to be a soldier filling up his tricycle with imaginary petrol from the garage next door and listening to the Spitfires and Lancaster bombers flying overhead from the nearby RAF bases.

Writing up his memoirs in the form of a blog is proving to be such a good idea. As always, I wish I'd started it sooner as Dad would have so enjoyed reading daily posts on the computer. Nevertheless, the family are gaining an insight into his life and Mum, in particular, is finding it such a comfort to read all about the man she loved whom she misses so much.

The Joy of the Hotel Book Library

2011-09-22T13:45:00.004+01:00

Our bookshelves at home!

One of the rarely-mentioned joys of visiting hotels is having a good old nosey at their book swap/exchange area and seeing what gems they have. You can tell a lot about a hotel's clientele just from the quality of the books on offer, as well as gaining a fair idea about the mix of nationalities.

In Portugal this summer, the book swap area in the Martinhal Hotel was in their computer room. It had dozens of books available and they were mostly English, reflecting the percentage of British guests at the resort. I'm making huge assumptions here but there were less supermarket 3 for 2 stickers plastered on them, as is the case in the cheaper hotels we've stayed in, and far more Waterstones' labels. You could roughly gauge the dads' books from the mums' books (if the couples were anything like us) and if there were any naughty novels, I had a habit of trying to guess who, around the pool, was likely to have been the previous owner, before borrowing the well-thumbed copy myself.

We always take a whole pile of paperbacks on our two-week summer holiday if we know we're going to be lazing about. Husband Dougie gets through a huge amount of shoot 'em up thrillers-for-boys, particularly if the hero is a forty-something, intelligent spy with a penchant for classy cars. I tend to go for a mixture of travel books (often based on the country we're visiting) and some easy chick-lit-but-with-some-substance novels. Once we've rattled through our chosen books, we have a daily visit to the hotel library to try something else, often nipping back to swap again after ten minutes if it doesn't immediately grab our attention.

This year I found two authors, both new to me, whom I might never have been drawn towards at home. The first was Kate Atkinson, a thriller writer with an ability to construct sentences which are pithy and very, very funny. The book I found was Started Early, Took My Dog, featuring a private detective, Jackson Brodie, who appears in some of her other novels. An absolutely cracking book from an author who wasn't on my radar at home but is now.

The other was The Wilding by Maria McCann. An unusual historical novel about a 17th century cider-maker. Beatifully crafted prose, a highly-original concept and an old-fashioned mystery to boot. Thank you to whoever left that one on the shelf.

Of course my worry is, now that people are getting into their Kindles and ebooks, what is going to happen to the hotel 'library' where I spend many happy hours mooching? Will they disappear? It's starting to become difficult to wander round a pool and not be able to work out what nationality people are and whether their taste in literature is of interest. That's part of the joy of people-watching on holiday and it's in danger of dying out. I'm fretting already.

Have you found any interesting finds in a hotel's book exchange? And while I'm on the subject, what have you been reading this summer? Any authors to recommend?

Book Review: The Thread by Victoria Hislop

2011-09-19T11:42:00.005+01:00

Katerina Sarafoglou, a young seamstress with exceptional talent, creates beautiful gowns for the rich ladies of Thessaloniki in Greece, the passion for her work shining through as her needle threads its way through the fine silks and wools.

Victoria Hislop's new novel, The Thread, weaves a story of love, family feuds, resilience and loss against a backdrop of the turbulent history of Greece, and, in particular, the northern city of Thessaloniki, throughout the 20th Century.

After her highly successful first novel, The Island, which was set in Crete and the leper island of Spinalonga, Victoria set her second novel, The Return, in 1930s Spain. In this, her third, widely-anticipated, novel, she returns to Greece and readers are once again treated to a tale which not only ticks the boxes for providing a heart-warming love story, but enlightens and educates with an accurate, fascinating insight into the history of this region.

This is how I like my history; a social interpretation of how political, religious and environmental forces affect people in their day to day lives. In 1917 we learn that Thessaloniki is devastated by a fire which has a huge impact on the future of this multi-cultural city, where Christians, Muslims and Jews were living together in a fairly successful symbiotic way. Add two world wars, civil war, communism versus nationalism and it's clear that the city is never going to be the same again for its inhabitants.

The book begins in 2007 so we know the outcome of the relationship for the two main characters, Katerina and Dimitri, before we are taken back to the beginning of their lives. Having knowledge of the ending doesn't, in fact, detract from the enjoyment of the narrative: there are enough questions, surprises and anxious moments to keep the reader entranced from beginning to end.

I suspect comparisons will be made with Louis de Bernieres' Captain Corelli's Mandolin and it's true this book will excite imagination and encourage travel to Thessaloniki to experience the spirit of a city nestling in the arms of the ever-present Mount Olympus. But for me this book has the same emotional appeal as Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. In that novel I was able to appreciate how political changes and religious extremes impact on normal, diligent families and their neighbours in Afghanistan: in The Thread similar trials are thrust upon a group of hard-working, tolerant, loving individuals in war-torn Greece. Their specific stories may be fictional but their voices are real and resonant.

The Thread, by Victoria Hislop, is published in hardback and ebook on 27 October 2011, by Headline Review

Why Don't More Hotels Offer Connecting Rooms?

2011-09-15T11:15:00.000+01:00

Family rooms in hotels are essential when you have little ones but when your children are older, being all cosy together has distinct disadvantages. Our 15 year old son has no wish to sleep with us when we're on holiday and vice versa. So why don't more hotels offer connecting rooms so our children can be accessible but privacy for all can be maintained?

When I search for hotels for city breaks I very often struggle to find ones which have connecting rooms. Even those that do supply them seem reticent to publicise it. They happily provide junior suites which are, quite frankly, just bigger rooms with a couple of uncomfortable 'comfy' chairs in the corner. Suites are very expensive and even then our son, a gangly six-foot teen, would be hanging out the end of a put-me-up. If he does get a decent bed, it still doesn't alter the fact that he is still in the same room as us. He doesn't sleep with us at home so why would we want him grinning at us from a few feet away when we're on holiday.

Connecting rooms are bliss. It's like being in an apartment: plenty of space, an extra bathroom and the knowledge that children are safe in the next room which you can access at a moment's notice through the inter-connecting door. Everyone can come and go between the two rooms but when bedtime arrives, we don't all need to be looking at each other, moaning about who's snoring or snuffling.

Having two rooms next to each other is not the same thing. We have done this on occasion and it's not ideal. Too often I've been caught in a hotel corridor, in my dressing gown, knocking on our son's door urging him to get up in the morning. Asking the hotel for an extra keycard does help but I still seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in the corridor as I take the keycard for my son's room but forget to take my own so I can get back in again.

We've also had the situation where we've been promised adjoining rooms, only to discover the hotel has been unable to cater to our request, so our son is half-way down the corridor. I know he's a big lad but I want him near me. I'm a mother and I whittle.

Hotel resort complexes seem to have this sussed: many beach hotels abroad are aparthotels so that everyone has their own bedroom, with a kitchen, occasionally an extra bathroom but still having access to hotel facilities. This often isn't possible in city hotels for obvious reasons of space and the design layout of the original buildings. But surely there must be a market for considering the needs of families with older children? Can they not just alter a few rooms to make them interconnecting?

A few hotels which we have used in the past which have this facility:

Palais de la Mediterranee, Nice

Hotel Urban, Madrid

Jesmond Dene House, Newcastle upon Tyne

In Paris we settled on an apartment, which is maybe what other families do. It was good but a bit functional and I missed some of the facilities of a hotel, like the bar!

We have just booked two connecting rooms at the family-friendly hotel, Old Swan and Minster Mill in the Cotswolds, with a reduction on the price of the second room, which is even better. Will report back on that hotel in a few weeks time.

I'd be interested in your views on this. Are there hotel brands which do offer connecting rooms which I should be considering? Suggestions please.

Dad's memories of the war

2011-09-14T09:49:00.001+01:00

Over on the new blog, Memoirs of John Michael Grinsell, I have typed up some of Dad's memories of the war. He was five when it began. There are also some photos - I have to say he was the most gorgeous little boy: look at those golden curls!

Getting cracking on the new blog

2011-09-10T08:54:00.000+01:00

In my last post I explained I would be writing a separate blog, Memoirs of John Michael Grinsell, using the recollections my dad had written before he died earlier this year.

I've been overwhelmed by your encouragement - such wonderful comments about how people would love to have stories of their own families written down for posterity. Jen (Mum in the Mad House) suggested I could use the blog to show off my dad's paintings so I have now used one for the header of the new blog. I got Mum on board yesterday to hunt out more photos to illustrate the narrative as I go along.

Yesterday evening I posted the next part of his story - Let's start at the beginning - setting out a truncated family tree, as it were. I have managed to include two fascinating photographs which offer an insight into the fashion of the Edwardian era and the 1920s. If you click on them to zoom in, you'll be able to look at the detail.

Part of me is cross with myself for not doing this earlier but then, with everything, you don't realise how precious things are until they are gone. My dad may not be with us any more but this new blog is a living, interactive testament to his memory and I think he would be, in his own modest way, rather chuffed.

I won't always use this blog to point the way to his stories but, while it's in its infancy, a little nudge will help it along.

A Tribute to Dad - A New Blog

2011-09-08T12:47:00.002+01:00

My dad began to write his memoirs about ten years ago and, at the time, I suggested I type them up for him. The pair of us began this process with great enthusiasm: I would type a few pages up, he would check and correct them. But then I lapsed with the typing and Dad, because of his illness, Motor Neurone Disease, found it more and more difficult to write. I bought him a tape recorder and he continued his story on tape for a little while. However he never finished his memoirs and I feel so guilty for not encouraging him further.

Dad died in February this year, 2011, and I have only now picked up his old blue book, with his wonderful handwriting in it, and decided I must type up some of it every day. It then occurred to me that it would be a great idea to create a blog of his autobiography so the family can read his story right from the beginning. Then, if I become lazy and forget to update, I will have plenty of people to chivvy me up.

If you would like to read his story, the new blog is called Memoirs of John Michael Grinsell. Pop over there and subscribe or 'follow' if you'd like to receive regular updates.

Box of Frogs in the Kitchen

2011-09-07T08:38:00.000+01:00

You just know when something feels right. That's just what happened when I visited a local gallery at Ayscoughfee Hall in Spalding, to see a friend's mosaic exhibition, A Touch of Glass.

The exhibition, held during August, showcased some of the original new pieces by Fiona Gurney of Box of Frogs Mosaics, Deeping St Nicholas, Spalding.

Each mosaic is unique and made to original designs using a selection of glass tiles, handmade porcelain, recycled china, sea glass, jewellery and treasures found in drawers.

Mum was staying with me for a few days so we took a detour from shopping and cappuccinos to pop into Fiona's exhibition. Immediately Mum spotted a very contemporary lamp, the chunky base decorated with exquisite mosaic. She knew exactly where it would go in her house.

I was equally struck by a series of four mosaics called Fissure (i - iv). I had a gut feeling that the four squares, each measuring 20cm, would look perfect in the kitchen, especially as the window end, which now has vertical blinds rather than curtains, has a couple of narrow walls crying out for suitable decoration.

Now the exhibition has finished, I have collected the mosaics and they are taking pride of place in the kitchen. Took a bit of doing, trying to get the spacing right, while ensuring the gold fissure remained in line from top to bottom. But I think we succeeded, near as damn it, if you don't look too close.

Fiona’s studio is part of the Lincolnshire Art on the Map Scheme and she also has pieces on display at the Stamford Arts Centre, The Vales and Fens: Art on the Map exhibition.

If you fancy having a go at constructing your own mosaic Fiona runs day courses at her Box of Frogs studio in Deeping St Nicholas and the Unique Cottage Farm Studios, Low Fulney with the next available courses on August 20, September 17, October 15 and November 19. Courses cost £45 and include light refreshments, with all equipment provided, 2 hour taster sessions and half days are also available on request

Fiona can be contacted via her website, www.boxoffrogs.co.uk

.

Emily Murray - Defying Gravity

2011-09-05T15:22:00.000+01:00

Further to my last post about the final of Polka Dot Has Talent, here is a video taken on Saturday of Emily Murray, joint winner of the competition, singing Defying Gravity from Wicked. Have a listen to this stunning voice and make a note of her name for the future. As an amateur singer myself I have to say Emily's power and range is quite amazing: I'm very envious.

Beware there is a huge screech from her family at the end of the song which will probably burst any tender ear-drums.

The Night I became Amanda Holden - Part Two

2011-09-04T15:27:00.007+01:00

Thought I should update you on my foray into the world of being a judge for a talent contest. If you remember my post last week (and if you can't, it's HERE) I had the unenviable task of judging a group of very talented youngsters from a local performing arts group here in Spalding. I escaped unscathed from the heats and prepared myself for the semi-finals and final this weekend.

This is the third year of Polka Dot Has Talent and the stakes are high as the prize for the winner is £1000. Yes, you read that correctly. One winner (a solo act or a group) walks away with a cool grand. No pressure, then, to get the right result.

The semi-final on Friday night was quite tough. How do you whittle down 18 acts, ranging from group dance acts through to three little children with the cute-factor doing a rendition of I Just Can't Wait to be King from The Lion King? We came up with a final 12 eventually, though I went to bed that night wishing we could just have put them all through.

The final yesterday afternoon was held at the South Holland Centre in Spalding. It's a lovely theatre, seats about 350, and the finalists would get to perform on a proper stage with a sparkly backdrop, atmospheric lighting and excellent sound system. I was nervous and I wasn't even performing. They, on the other hand, seemed to grow in confidence and were all very excited backstage.

The other three judges were Neil Couperthwaite, accomplished singer who has performed on the West End and been involved in Polka Dot from the beginning: Mike Raymond, manager of Blackfriars Theatre in Boston; George Barnett, last year's winner in possession of £1000 plus a gorgeous singing voice, and me, local amateur singer who wonders how on earth she got this gig aside from the fantastic job she once did, helping the children perfect their Geordie accents for Billy Elliot (I have my uses!)

We stood waiting for our cue music, the X-factor tune thundered out as we took our seats in one of the upstairs boxes. I tried to channel Cheryl Cole/Amanda Holden but as I sat in the box I felt more like The Queen or Statler and Waldorf from The Muppets.

The 12 finalists performed in the first half, to huge applause from their supportive families and the usual comments, praise and constructive criticism from us. Two of the highlights: the powerful voice of the beautiful Beth Newman, whose performance of I Dreamed a Dream made me cry and a very funny pair of teenage lads doing a Robbie Williams/Jonathan Wilkes version of Me and My Shadow plus a Robbie/Jane Horrocks version of Things, complete with blonde wig and soprano voice.

In the interval the four judges escaped to deliberate. We each had our favourites, to the extent that all four of us had made totally different choices. Scores had to be added up, including those from the audience who were allowed one vote each and became a fifth judge.

In the second half the audience were treated to the semi-finalists who hadn't reached the final but got the chance to perform; and perform they did, brilliantly. Last year's winner, George, repeated his winning song, Sunset Boulevard, and a group from Polka Dot who had been in New York the week before, hoping to perform in Central Park, only for the concert to be cancelled due to Hurricane Irene, treated the audience to a fabulous medley of musical theatre songs.

So, who won? After much checking, the result was a dead heat between two acts who each took home £500. First place was shared between Emily Murray, a 17 year old with a stunning voice who had sung Defying Gravity from Wicked and Double Threat, a very young brother and sister pairing whose perfectly choreographed hip-hop routine to Party Rock Anthem by LMFAO was breathtaking.

Does Polka Dot have Talent? A resounding YES!

*********************************UPDATE***************************************

I've managed to find a video of Emily's winning performance from Saturday. Hopefully you will see why she was joint winner with a voice I couldn't match in a million years. Turn your volume up and enjoy - but beware there's a big screech from her family right at the end.

A Pain in the Neck

2011-08-31T14:12:00.001+01:00

This may well be a very short post. I'm typing it standing up, the only position I can gain some relief from a very painful neck. Sitting down, even on a comfy sofa, never mind a wheely chair at my desk, is so uncomfortable, after a few minutes I have to get up. I could lie down but only if I stay very still: as soon as I turn, a pain shoots up the right side of the back of my neck and I start wimpering.

How did I succumb to this injury? Emptying the dishwasher. Rather than take a bit of exercise and walk round the island in the middle of the kitchen to put the glasses away, I stretched over the hob, ducking my head to avoid it being clonked on the cooker hood. Head did avoid being clonked but, it being poked forward, rather like a demented chicken, I overstretched the neck ligaments.

You may recall I also have a frozen shoulder which means my right arm, shoulder and right side of my neck are all affected now. I still can't fasten my bra or remove clothes which don't have buttons in the front and now I can't sit down and play in bloggyland for more than a few minutes before I go all stiff!

Husband is not being that helpful. He keeps reminding me to take painkillers, has prodded the affected area a bit, mumbled something about my trapezius and says he gets it a lot too. He's as bad as those doctors who try to reassure you by saying, "There's a lot of it about".

However, every cloud has a silver lining. Standing up constantly, like the knackered old nag that I am, I have found that doing lots of cooking seems to ease things. So the family are benefiting from some fabulous culinary creations: chocolate brownies, white chocolate cookies, lamb tagine, creamy potatoes with bacon and maple syrup, raspberry crumble...

To say nothing about the toning effect on my legs - I could crack walnuts, I tell you.

The night I became Amanda Holden

2011-08-28T12:12:00.002+01:00

It's ages since I've done a bit of am-dram. "I've been resting, darling" is what I say to everyone about the break from my musical theatre stuff.

So it was quite a treat to be asked to be a judge for Polka Dot Has Talent, a contest for members of one of our local children's theatre groups here in Spalding. I couldn't make the first heat a few weeks ago, but I'm sure they managed to get Louis Walsh to step in and guest judge in my place.

I was a little nervous about my role and conscious that some of these young kids would finish the evening disappointed at not going through to the next round on the say-so of my fellow judges and me. Quite a responsibility. I contemplated going all Cheryl Cole for the evening, exaggerating my Geordie accent (doesn't need much exaggerating, I hear you shout) and flirting with young boys, telling them they 'owned the stage' and 'eeeh, pet, I just luuved yuh'. Perhaps not.

My ever-supportive husband then started to put the wind up me by suggesting I keep a close eye on potential scary parents who believe their little darlings are the next Leona Lewis. "Don't criticise them too much or they'll lynch you", he advised. "Have they a side door you can exit from?" He then said I needed a minder. Simon Cowell has Big Tony; maybe he should be my Big Doug?

In the end, I went on my own and left Big Doug at home.

The room at Polka Dot Academy was set up just like in the real TV show - we three judges were seated facing the stage, with the audience behind us. The compere introduced us and we took our seats. We were told that after each act two of us would be asked for comments; constructive criticism was welcome. Gulp.

The evening was excellent; a really talented group of kids. There were three dance acts and the rest were singers; soloists and three sets of duets. In the end it wasn't too hard to give criticism. I was able to suggest one young lad keep the microphone closer to his mouth so we could hear him better, another nervous boy with a great voice had looked at the floor throughout his song and some of the dancers hadn't smiled enough. The compliments were easy : fabulous voices, entertaining musical comedy, brilliant stage presence.

We had to disappoint one dance group (most of whom had performed in separate acts anyway) and one lovely young lad with a sweet-sounding voice whose nerves had got the better of him. Thankfully he was also part of one of the dance groups which was successful.

I managed to leave by the front door without being heckled or attacked and am now looking forward to the semi-finals next Friday evening and the final which is to be held at the South Holland Centre theatre in Spalding next Saturday afternoon.

Big Doug was waiting for me in the Green Room (ok, the kitchen) when I got home with a gin and tonic. I told him I'd probably need a new frock for the final. Well, Amanda Holden would, wouldn't she?

Darren and Helen who run Polka Dot are appearing tonight, 28 August, on Dragon's Den, BBC2 at 8pm, pitching for investment in the Pantomime part of their business. Can't wait to see how they get on and discover if any of the children I watched last night appear on the show.

Mum's Gone to Portugal - The Memorable Bits

2011-08-22T09:33:00.002+01:00

I suppose it can't get much more memorable than sharing the first week with a TV celebrity chef (see previous post) but there was a smattering of other bits I'd like to share with you

The Car

You may recall our disappointment with our Vauxhall Corsa rental car which was scratched and dented pretty much everywhere (but the Portuguese rental agency didn't see that as a problem). On the second day Dougie discovered rather too late that the front nearside tyre was pretty bald (yes, we should have checked at the airport: thought we had, too blinded by the dents). Never mind, he thought, I'll just change it for the spare. The spare had a huge gouge in it. So we were left with one probably illegal tyre which was preferable to the gored spare. "You don't want to go far this holiday, do you?". We were an hour and a half's drive from the airport and we would have had to return it there for them to probably just shrug.

We chanced one trip out and as we reversed out of the car park we heard a tinkling noise very reminiscent of glass. Marvellous, the glass had fallen out of the driver's side wing mirror - into lots of tiny pieces. Why would it do that? We decided to rescue the situation. A wobbly drive to the Intermarche to look for some tape (yes, Dr Duct Tape hadn't brought his this time...what was he thinking!) and I searched in the toiletries aisle for a cheap wash-bag from which we removed the mirror (after paying for it, obviously). We taped the little rectangular mirror into the wing mirror's housing and it did the job. Had to pay 40 euros to the rental agency at the end of our holiday for the damage. Ha! Now trying to get that back from the insurance as we, thankfully, had excess cover.

The Trips Out

This photo was taken at the 'end of the world', Cabo de Sao Vicente, the most south-westerly point of European mainland. It was cold, windy, and it was the day the glass had dropped out of the wing mirror so, as you can see, everyone's a wee bit tetchy. We didn't stay long.

Sagres fortress, the next must-see on the list, we didn't see as the queue was long and I needed a pee as I had refused to pay for one at the end of the world.

We went home, via the supermarket to buy our repair kit and lots of wine.

We did go for some walks on our holiday - not proper adventure walks, just a little wander over the dunes. We tried it on the only day it rained. We got absolutely soaked and tried to take shelter underneath a shrubby tree thing, with Dougie getting all Ray Mears again, finding a filthy bit of old plastic sheeting and attempting to make a roof for us in the shrubbery. It didn't work. We went home, wet. We drank wine.

The Food

The Lobster tank at As Dunas restaurant

Cataplana copper pot

Martinhal resort had been getting some bad press in TripAdvisor reports but either we're not very discerning as regards food and service, or things have improved. Certainly the family buffet restaurant was like most buffets ; a bit chaotic but plenty of choice and full tummies. The fish restaurant, As Dunas, was frequented by the Torode family, so we took that as a good sign. We loved the food there and were far more adventurous than usual, choosing our fish from the ice cabinet and picking some special Portuguese dishes like fish Cataplana which was like a hearty fish stew served from a copper pot. Rory really enjoyed his fish and announced one evening, "I'd like more sea bream at home, I think". Bugger me, looks like a portion of Bird's Eye breaded cod won't cut the mustard anymore.

The Lazing About

There was plenty of this. Two weeks of lolling around, swimming, a bit of tennis and lots of book reading. These final three photos sum up how relaxed we all were in Portugal. You may want to click on them to see the incriminating arrows!

Mum's Gone to Portugal - Having Dinner with John Torode

2011-08-18T15:25:00.008+01:00

There are four pools in the Martinhal resort and this one pictured, the beach club pool, is by far the most popular. It never looks like this when it's open - the Fat Boy loungers and beds are pounced on at 10am and it's like that all day.

We joined the masses on our first day and I ignored my book, so fascinating was the people-watching. This was very much a Home Counties pool: well-heeled families, all with an assortment of good-looking children in tow. I suspect the fortnight we were there, the Ocado deliveries back in the UK must have suffered, such was the large number of their customers who had de-camped to this part of Portugal. I was a little in awe of them, I have to say, and dared not open my mouth to speak, for fear they would discover I was a Northerner and their offspring would be wanting to adopt me as a pet (see Harry and Paul sketch)

Let me describe the indigenous population by the pool:

The Beach Club Pool Mummy - a delightful creature, dressed in floppy hat, Jackie O shades, a teensy bikini with something chiffon over the top and cork wedge heels or beaded flip-flops. Tries to look elegant whilst sinking into a bean bag seat, orders mojitos from Emerson the barman, or a glass of rose or "Have you a green tea?" Can be heard to squeak to her offspring, "Shall we go for some pasta, darling? How about a carbonara?" Either pre-holiday spray-tanned or fashionably pale with very flat stomach and little cellulite: I do hope some of them are, in fact, nannies and haven't given birth to a brood after all.

The Beach Club Pool Daddy - To a man, sensible shorts is the dress code; not a budgie smuggler in sight. Walks from the bar to the lounger rather carefully, trying to hold belly in. Tries not to boast but is prone to wank-speak on occasions: "Yah, I did 5K today...just under 25 minutes...yah...you've got to keep something in the locker". Is in charge of lugging Fat Boy loungers to where wife is flapping about trying to bagsy a spot (though they'd never say bagsy).

The Beach Club Pool Baby - Most of the young children are dressed in an all-in-one lycra suit or half-naked with mamma chasing them in her heels trying to put more sun-cream on their reddening shoulders. It is very windy here in the Algarve but everyone has brought suntan lotion in a spray bottle so most of the cream disappears into the air. Children seem to be named after Tellytubbies.

The Beach Club Pool Teenager - Granted there aren't that many but the few that are sprawled about the decking are dressed in a JackWillAberFitchHolliDry combination of T-shirts and board shorts with the band from their boxer shorts visible (the young chaps): bikinis or very fitted shorts and numerous friendship bracelets (the young girlies). They all sit within their family groups, plugged into iPods and ignoring parents. Heard to grunt now and again before they shuffle off into the shade. (NB: I have one of these).

It is while I'm absorbing all this that I start imagining I can spot someone famous. I mistake an over-weight bloke in a navy polo shirt for James Corden and then suddenly yelp to Dougie that John Torode from Masterchef has just walked by. There is much peering through sunglasses to take a better look and then we both realise that I'm right. It is John Torode, dressed in the same knee-length shorts uniform worn by the other Beach Club daddies and an attractive white linen shirt. He is at the resort with his wife and young family: he has two littlies and two teen boys much like mine.

You'll be pleased to know, readers, that I behaved impeccably. I did not jump up and down hysterically or run up and ask him to autograph my napkin, nor did I photograph him or shove my camera-phone in his face. No, I acted as if I am surrounded by celebrities all the time. Everyone else seemed to behave too, allowing the man to enjoy his family holiday, but many, like me, used their sunshades and books to hide surreptitious glances.

Rory looked up from his iPod and told us that a Masterchef techno spoof song was in the charts. It's really catchy and it was so tempting to entertain the pool by leaping up to sing "I like the base, base, base, base, I like the buttery biscuit base" but I'd have been lynched so I chickened out. Shame, I'm sure he'd have loved my rendition.

We saw the Torode family a fair few times that first week. We ate at As Dunas, the hotel's fish restaurant, on a number of evenings and they were seated at the next table on one occasion. As I tucked into my sea bass and fries I thought to myself, "if it's good enough for John, it's good enough for me". Pass the ketchup, JT.

For my official review of Martinhal on TripAdvisor have a look at the link (I'm Francesca)

http://www.tripadvisor.ca/ShowUserReviews-g189121-d1675303-r116718252-Martinhal_Beach_Resort_Hotel-Sagres_Algarve.html#CHECK_RATES_CONT

Mum's Gone to Portugal - Home from Home in Martinhal

2011-08-16T12:26:00.003+01:00

Despite having packed two plastic boxes full of medical supplies, Dougie was still flailing about on the night before our trip to Portugal, having chopped his finger with a kitchen knife. It was more of a gouge than a neat cut so he couldn't glue it. He danced about a bit, holding digit in the air aimlessly, then managed to find an unpacked dressing and, you've guessed, a roll of duct tape to stem the bleeding.

After this auspicious start to the holiday, we girded our loins and poorly finger, and set off the next morning at some ungodly hour for the delights of Luton airport. Queue-hopped far too many times for check-in, only to discover the plane was delayed for two hours. For once in our lives, when we eventually boarded, we were first on the plane: shame really that this was a time when we had pre-allocated seats.

At Faro airport we wandered with our wheelie bags to a very smart, newly-built section outside the airport where all the car rental companies had their air-conditioned offices and separate parking areas. Funny but we couldn't find the office for Rent-a-Crap-Car Ltd anywhere. Seems our Vauxhall Corsa, which we had pre-booked for a very reasonable price, was in a separate car-park,and the office was a metal bus shelter. Two very happy, sweaty chaps in vests were dealing with a queue of like-minded cheapskates. As Dougie queued, Rory and I took turns in guessing which car would be ours. There was one very sad one with a huge dent and crack in the back bumper. Yep, that was ours.

We made sure one of the chaps in a vest noted the scratches and bumps before taking our lives in our hands and driving away. Dougie was incredulous that we should be so careful in our choice of vehicle at home, but we don't make the same consideration with a hire car. It was an automatic, like at home, but it was a pig to drive and under-powered (probably due to our heavy cases)

It took us, eventually, to the resort of Martinhal, the very western tip of the Algarve. Check-in was rather long-winded as the very pleasant man on reception was keen to tell us everything about the resort. We were hot, smelly and tired and all we wanted was to be given the information in a folder to be read at our leisure. Evenutally our cases were loaded onto a buggy and Dougie had to return to the car, unfortunately, to move it nearer to our apartment.

Can I say this in capitals? THE APARTMENT WAS FANTASTIC! There, that's better. We had booked an Ocean House with sea view. It had two bedrooms and bathrooms downstairs and a huge kitchen/lounge/dining area and balcony upstairs. Designed in fabulously retro style, with a massive green sofa, plenty of cushions, chic seating on the patio and a decent telly. The kitchen had a Neff oven, hob and dishwasher just like I've installed at home and a Nespresso machine. I was in heaven. A welcome pack which includes four chocolate muffins and a box of cornflakes made me realise in an instant that this was my kind of resort.

I'll leave you for now with a selection of photos of our gaff and will tempt you to come back for the next post where I will let you know which celebrity I lay beside at the pool....

For my official review of Martinhal, see TripAdvisor report here:

http://www.tripadvisor.ca/ShowUserReviews-g189121-d1675303-r116718252-Martinhal_Beach_Resort_Hotel-Sagres_Algarve.html#CHECK_RATES_CONT

Mum's Going to Portugal...very soon.

2011-07-27T12:42:00.001+01:00

I don't think I was ever cut out for budget travel, backpacking or slumming it. As you can see from previous posts I tend to choose hotels based on the thread count of the Egyptian cotton sheets and the presence of a Nespresso machine. So it should come as no surprise to hear we're off to Portugal this summer, to the 5* Martinhal Resort where I can park my lazy behind on a sunbed and I won't have to mop the floor every day or bring my own bedding (what were we thinking, having a holiday in a mobile home last year!?)

This isn't my first trip to Portugal. That was in 1983 while I was at University. I was reading Geography at Cambridge and signed myself up for a field trip to the Algarve. Bloody hell, I thought, that sounds like a lark. I pictured myself lying on the beach all day, maybe taking the odd photo of rock strata, possibly noting the cloud formations above, while supping Mateus Rose and eating sardines. It came as quite a shock to discover that while we were staying in the sweet village of Burgau, in a small cottage overrun with ants, we had to actually do some field work. We had to climb hills, measure valleys, take river samples, all in the pissing rain. The weather came as quite a surprise: I had envisaged wall-to-wall sunshine, albeit we were going in March.

As you may notice from the photo above, I really wasn't dressed for the tasks. I'm sure I had some walking boots for the day up the mountains, but on one jolly sightseeing trip to a winery (that's more like it) I wore fetching blue tracksuit bottoms and cream stiletto sandals. Yes, really! Have a closer look. That's me posing like a complete eejit on the right with my friend Helen, who managed to bag herself a Portuguese waiter during the week, so that was a plus.

My second visit to Portugal was in 1986 when my boyfriend and I made up a foursome with another couple, Sarah and Mark. A very pleasant week in a villa in Armacao de Pera. But I was summarily dumped a few months later so I'd rather not talk about it.

So I'm returning, en famille, to the beautiful Algarve and, fingers crossed, this time it will be memorable for all the right reasons. My only reservation is that, although I knew that as we were staying in the most southwesterly point in mainland Europe, dubbed by the Portuguese 'Fim do mundo' (the end of the world) centuries ago, I didn't quite anticipate how windy it's likely to be. Apparently the last few weeks the wind has been so strong, diners have been given blankets to wrap up in on restaurant terraces. I should have known, for heaven's sake, I'm a geographer, I can read a map...ish. Though maybe the fact that the national windsurfing championships are taking place on our beach this weekend should have given me a clue....

60 Day Makeover - The Kitchen Reveal

2011-07-25T10:12:00.001+01:00

I think you've waited long enough. I wrote about the upheaval of putting in our new kitchen some weeks ago and apart from a few little photos showing how things were progressing, you haven't had the chance to really have a good nosey at what we've done.

I recorded a short video showing our old kitchen the day before the fitters arrived - early May I think it was. Have a look at it so you can see what we changed.

VIDEO OF OLD KITCHEN

The new kitchen and utility room took about six weeks to complete before we could then start to put everything back in. It's not completely finished as we're waiting for some window blinds and we're still experimenting with where things should live, but today seemed as good a day as any to let you have a poke about....

VIDEO OF NEW KITCHEN

The Gallery - Vintage - The Mystery of the Danish Dish

2011-07-20T07:00:00.020+01:00

When my father died in February this year I began to read his memoirs; they are written in an old lined book, stories of his childhood, National Service and university days. I read about his two visits to Copenhagen which he took in the late 1950s as part of his study of architecture at Cambridge. I wished I could have spoken to Dad about his trip but thought the next best thing was to follow in his footsteps and take a trip there with the family.

We had a fabulous holiday in Copenhagen at Easter, thanks to some great advice from Emma at A Scandinavian Sojourn who sent me a detailed email with ideas for canal trips, restaurants and the sights worth seeing.

On our return my mum was talking to Dad's sister who said that in the 1950s Dad had brought a piece of pottery back from Copenhagen as a gift for his mother. When their mother died in the 1970s, my aunt kept the dish but now she knew of my interest, she was more than happy for me to have it as a memory of my father.

A few weeks ago the black, shallow dish, 30 cm in diameter, was given to me. It was quite water-marked as it had been used as a plant stand but I managed to clean it up. Maybe I'm biased, but I think it's a beautiful simple piece, typical of the clean lines and unfussy Scandinavian design that my dad loved so much.

The mystery of who made the dish still remained. To try and establish its provenance I enlisted my blogging friend, Emma, to be my detective in Copenhagen. I sent her these photos, showing the distinctive lettering on the base, and asked if she could help.

Yesterday I received an email from Emma: her husband had managed to track down the make. He had received confirmation from Danish ceramic experts that the distinctive mark was that of Herman August Kahler.

The Kahler ceramic company began in 1839 with his father, Herman J Kahler in Nestved, Denmark. The son, Herman August (1846 -1917) introduced the HAK signature which continued to be used until the factory closed in 1974. Herman was famous for his glazed ceramics but as yet I don't know whether this piece was one of his or, more likely, a later piece made in the 1950s at the time my dad was in Denmark.

I am now trying to find out a little bit more about the dish, armed with this fantastic news from Emma and her husband. However, no matter what I discover, this piece of pottery will always be treasured. My father, a young man in his early twenties, chose it, wrapped it and carried it carefully home to his mother over fifty years ago. It's my turn to look after it now.

The theme for this week's Gallery is 'Vintage'.

Dr Dougie's Guide to Duct Tape

2011-07-18T13:52:00.004+01:00

Many of you will know about my other half's love of the silver grey sticky stuff. You may remember from a previous post of his expertise in fixing lethal barbecues, wobbly frying pans and burst rubber rings during our holiday to the Dordogne. The photo (left) also shows how he tried to rescue our over-burdened plum tree with a good strapping of gaffer tape.

But is it duck or duct tape? Let me allow the good people who make 'Duck Tape' explain its history (info taken from this website here)

"The first name for Duct Tape was DUCK. During World War II the U.S. Military needed a waterproof tape to keep the moisture out of ammunition cases. So, they enlisted the Johnson and Johnson Permacel Division to manufacture the tape. Because it was waterproof, everyone referred to it as “duck” tape (like water off a duck’s back). Military personnel discovered that the tape was good for lots more than keeping out water. They used it for Jeep repair, fixing stuff on their guns, strapping equipment to their clothing... the list is endless.

After the War, the housing industry was booming and someone discovered that the tape was great for joining the heating and air conditioning duct work. So, the color was changed from army green to the silvery color we are familiar with today and people started to refer to it as “duct tape.” Therefore, either name is appropriate"

So now you know.

My husband, a mild-mannered country doctor, loves his duck tape and at home it is used to tape up a broken shower, hoover attachments, curtain poles cut too short and various bits of pipe/gutter. He also uses it to strengthen his knees before playing volleyball, by wrapping tape under the patella. I think he's supported his post-sprain ankle with gaffer tape too.

Dr Dougie's speciality is duck tape on cuts. If he cuts himself at home he immediately reaches for the superglue in the garage to cauterise the wound then keeps the edges of the wound together with his trusty duct tape. I do hope in his surgery he would treat patients with proper medical glue and steri-strips. Though to be honest his skill with that isn't much better. I remember when he glued a wound on a little girl's forehead and accidently glued his rubber glove to her head. In the end he had to remove the glove and, as it dangled from her head, he cut it as close as possible to her head so she left the surgery with a closed wound but with an attractive flower of white rubber as an adornment. Thankfully she and her mother thought it hilarious so she wore her rubber flower with pride until it eventually dropped off.

You can imagine his excitement, then, when he read an article in one of his medical mags at the weekend which referred to a study suggesting that duct tape is significantly better at treating warts than cryotherapy (liquid nitrogen). My man was quite delighted to have a genuine medical reason for using his tape and I suspect he will keep a few rolls of it in his medical bag now and issue it on prescription (well, probably not the latter).

It led us to thinking of other ways he could use duck tape in his work. Our top three are:

Broken limbs - use with piece of wood to make a splint
Weight-reduction - tape fridge door
Contraception - tape legs together (that was my idea)

So, readers, any suggestions for me to pass on to the doc and save the NHS some money?

Mum's Gone to get a good whipping

2011-07-15T08:51:00.002+01:00

You thought I was a nice, respectable doctor's wife, didn't you? You couldn't possibly imagine I was into S&M - surely I'm more of an M&S kinda girl? Okay, maybe it doesn't surprise you at all, knowing my husband's penchant for gaffer tape and my habit of taking rude photographs on holiday (see this week's Gallery post).

But this week I have come clean and admitted to having enjoyed a little thrashing some years ago. I blame Tim @dotterel when I read all the talk of whipping over at his 'Bringing up Charlie' blog. To bring you up to speed, Tim was sent some interesting PR information regarding a fun family day in Ripon where they plan to re-enact public whipping in the market place.

Is this really a suitable event for children? In my book, a definite yes. Children of a certain age delight in guts, gore and all things vile. My own boy positively relished the London Dungeon a couple of years ago: we have the obligatory photo of me locked in some contraption with my son about to chop my head off with an axe. All very jolly.

But a visit to Invereray Jail many years ago did involve the sort of historical re-enactment that the Courthouse Museum in Ripon is also keen to present. They have a whipping table which visitors can lie upon, poke their arms through the holes within, have their ankles and waist tied up and allow other visitors to ~~pleasure~~ punish them with a birch. I took my life in my hands allowing my nine year old son to do the thrashing but happily took delight in fastening the little bugger in afterwards so I could have a turn. Now doesn't that look like a perfectly acceptable family activity.

Inveraray Jail, on the banks of Loch Fyne in Scotland, proved quite a hit with us and, as the photos below will show, I think Rory certainly has his mother's love of acting, don't you think! That's my boy...

The Gallery - Travel - This way to the Devil's Arse

2011-07-12T14:31:00.000+01:00

This week's Gallery theme is 'travel' so instead of trying to pick a favourite destination I've trawled through my digital albums to find a selection of holiday photos which will hopefully put a smile on your face. My mantra for travel is to find the absurd and have a good laugh...usually at my husband's expense.

Let me know which one is your favourite or why not improve on my captions which, you will note, are particularly lame so that yours will look even better!

Very true (Derbyshire, UK)

I do hate it when people damage the spines of books (Copenhagen, Denmark)

Superhero gone to seed (Madrid, Spain)

Compare the Meerkats (Sirmione, Lake Garda, Italy)

Apparently it's Danish for 'final sprint/end of sale' (Copenhagen, Denmark)

Look, no hands! (Paris, France)

It's been a hard day (Reykjavik, Iceland)

Prehistoric Man...and a statue (Dordogne, France)

Bisse Racing in Bardolino

2011-07-11T09:00:00.000+01:00

Thanks to Colin Nicholson's article, 'Next Stop: Venice' in the Sunday Telegraph's Discover section, I was transported back two summers to our fabulous holiday in Lake Garda, Italy.

The article was about the gondola regatta which takes place on Saturday evenings around the lake during the summer months. We noticed when we were staying in Bardolino, on the eastern side of the lake, that 'bisse racing' was going to take place but had no idea what it was. That evening, sitting outside at a lakeside restaurant, the air gently cooling as the sun dipped a little, we could hear music, drums and a general heightened excitement before we saw the teams walking past us, accompanied by flag-bearers dressed in traditional garb.

Following them down to the lakeshore, with all the other tourists and locals, it took some time before the racing began as they had to punt/row/gondle? into position. As you can see from this photo on the right, it was quite a breathtaking sight with the setting sun casting a pink glow across the water and the mountains. It was quite dark when the race actually began but the thrill was still palpable, though as tourists we had no knowledge of how long the race was, how many circuits they had to do and, in fact, were not completely sure who had won each heat. Random clapping and cheering ensued.

The telegraph article explains why gondoliers row standing up. Apparently in Venice in the 13th century, the gondoliers needed the extra height to see over the mist and although today's competitors use both hands, they would have traditionally rowed one-handed because they were holding a fishing rod in the other. I'm wondering whether that reason would fit with punting in Cambridge. From my time there, I can vouch for misty mornings but, as punting requires two hands, probably not much fish to be had.

Review of Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

2011-07-09T20:50:00.001+01:00

It's a cliche to say 'Don't judge a book by its cover' but I'm afraid we all do. The original book cover for this novel is on the left and it appeals to me as it conveys intrigue, something a little vintage and there is a sense that this is a book of substance just with the words 'a novel' neatly printed after the title (yes, I'm a sucker for marketing).

Water for Elephants has now been made into a 'major motion picture' so the whole book cover has been given a revamp, complete with actors in soppy pose, an elephant to remind us it's about elephants, twinkly lights and a random trapeze artist swinging about in the background (or is it a monkey? I can't be sure).

It was this second version I was asked to read as part of the Love A Book online reading group initiated by Cara at Freckles Family so I was a bit ambivalent about it. If I'd been given the original book I would have lunged straight in. However, despite the lack of lunging, I was well and truly drawn into the unfolding drama from the first page.

It is a love story, set in a travelling circus during the Depression in America, but it is so much more than just the tale of two lovers. Very enlightening, a previously unknown world of circus life at a particular time in history is brought to life. We are shown the exhausting, perilous existence of those working behind the scenes, away from the glitter and sequins of the performers.

Jacob Jankowski, a young vet who hitches a ride on the circus train, tells the story from the confines of his nursing home. He is now a very old man, but the circus is in town and his memories are sparked.

The pace of the story, rattling along like the circus train itself, makes for an effortless read but that is in no way a criticism: the author chooses her words with such care and precision there is no need for unnecessary description. I felt it lost its way a little in the second half (but I may just have been tired and picked the wrong time to continue reading) but the ending was far better than I'd anticipated so I was left feeling very uplifted to the degree that I may well have cheered out loud.

I'm not really an animal lover, can't think I'm much into circuses either but the vivid cast of characters, both human and animal, plus the excellent narrative by Sara Gruen, make this an unexpected pleasure to read. Give it a go this summer and transport yourself to the Big Top.

The Gallery - Grandparents - Grandma Eileen

2011-07-06T07:19:00.001+01:00

My mum and my son - what a combination! The huge love I have for my mother is amplified when I see her with Rory.

When my son was born the bond between the two of them was very obvious. On the day I brought him home from hospital she was there for us both, wrapping him up tight and shushing him to sleep when I was tired and fraught.

She may live 200 miles away but every time we visit my boy is showered with gifts and her undivided attention. In the early days Dougie and I would be allowed a lie-in while the toddler Rory would wander into my parents' room, knowing she would have bought an endless supply of sticker books. He would snuggle in between Mum and Dad, sticking away to his heart's content.

He may be 15 now but he still adores his Grandma Eileen. She sends him daft texts on her mobile phone and now she has a laptop and is au fait with the internet she sends him silly emails and links to YouTube videos.

Over the years I have had to avert my eyes as sweeties are handed over and sigh when a tenner is illicitly folded into his eager palm - "That's spending money, don't tell your mam!"

Pop over to Tara's Gallery today to find more special grandparents who are loved and cherished too.

Seeing Double in Majorca

2011-07-05T08:33:00.005+01:00

Some of you may have seen the picture on the left before. It was featured in an article in Prima magazine about Mediterranean holidays of my childhood. I wrote about it in a post about a year ago. Here I am, aged 8, being plied with wine on a family holiday to Majorca in December 1972. A happy holiday; we took my grandparents with us that time and Grandma showed us up by trying to smuggle a bottle of Advocaat in her suitcase, wrapped up in a pair of huge knickers, all because she fancied having a snowball at Christmas.

So what about the photo on the right? Well, this was sent to me by a lovely lady, Marion, who now lives in Panama. Marion has been reading my blog for a few months now and she got in touch some weeks ago to ask where I had bought the anorak I was wearing in my Iceland photos. We have continued to keep in touch. This is what she said in the email:

"After enjoying several am-dram/country specific articles from Mum’s Gone To …… I click on one called Prima. Whooooah, wait a minute, I know that chap in the photo – what does that sign say, Son Amar – I’ve been there, done that. Off I go to root through an album of old, old photos and lo and behold there it was. Can you believe this, the same chappie. Only difference in the photos is the age of the recipients of the wine from El Porron. Even the neckline of the dresses are somewhat similar. My photo was taken around 1973 and I’m at least 18 years older than you (think I was around 23 or 24 at the time). But even at your young age you are much more controlled than I appear to be – I doubt if I could possibly have opened my mouth wider, I look as if I am making an attempt at an impression of the entrance to the Queensway Tunnel. Obviously I was a trainee lush in my younger days even before the trials and tribulations of this world wore me to a nubbin of my former self.....

Can you believe it? Sitting at virtually the same table in a huge restaurant, the sort where the tour companies organise bus trips to, probably only a few months apart, being served by the same chap (minus his cardi in Marion's photo as it was probably the summer then), both of us happily knocking back the wine. Forty years later the beautiful woman in the second photo comes across the young girl from the first photo and that one moment is re-lived.

As Marion said for both of us, "My flabber was well and truly gasted".

Note (added 5 July 2.30pm) - Have since worked out that we must have gone on this holiday in December 1972, not 1971, so have adjusted the post accordingly. Mum was reminding me today that my brother and I, nicely oiled with Spanish plonk and always happy to take centre stage, entertained everyone on the bus on the way back to the hotel, with a version of Chuck Berry's 'My Ding-a-Ling'. As this was a UK hit in November 1972, the date of our holiday could be settled once and for all.

Mum's Gone to Quebec with Wills and Kate

2011-07-03T12:15:00.001+01:00

Rory and Dougie in Quebec City

This is my final post in my special guide to Canada for the royal couple. Final because after Quebec today I have no knowledge of the other bits of Canada so best shuffle off and leave them to it.

All I can say is I do hope William brushes up on his French now he is in Quebec as this story below is a warning to him:

An hour or so into the journey from Ottawa to Quebec City and it seems hours since breakfast so we start looking for somewhere to eat. As usual we drive past plenty of suitable dining options because we're "not sure" until we're desperate and plump for a place not half as nice as the dozens we've already passed. However this place does look cheap and cheerful and has signs saying PIZZA so it will suffice. Having had a week's worth of smiling "How can I help you, Sir?" americanised charm, we suddenly realise we're in French territory now and a Gallic shrug is our welcome. Rory decides he would like a hotdog and that seems simple enough: the international language of fast food should help us out here.

"Un hot-dog, s'il vous plait", I say confidently.

"Oui", says our waitress at the counter, then follows this up with an incomprehensible question which sounds like "schrweeveeooroowerstee?"

I'm flummoxed. I have no idea what she's saying. She stands and looks at me and just repeats the question, with no attempt to make it easier with any hand gestures. I seem to recognise the word "ou" in the middle of the phrase, it being the French for "or", so I presume she is giving me some sort of choice pertaining to the hotdog.

"Maybe it's with or without onions?", Hubby offers.

"No, it's not that, I know the French word for onion, it's oignon!"

"Avec une baguette?", I say, wondering whether she's asking if he wants it in a roll or not.

"Oui, avec une baguette, mais schrweeveeooroowerstee?"

Not being that knowledgeable about the intricacies of hot dog cuisine, I'm at a loss. The waitress then turns to the three evil-looking cooks, brandishing their pizza cutters, and asks if they can translate. All three of them look at us as if we've questioned their parentage and say, "NON".

I'm about to give up and just order a pizza when a knight in shining armour gets up from a nearby table and says,"How can I help you folks?". My hero, an English-speaking Canadian who isn't about to boil me alive. I explain the dilemma and the watiress repeats her question."Oh, she wants to know whether you want your hot dog steamed or roasted?" To be honest, I'm still unsure how to reply and have to ask this nice chap what is the more usual method of hotdog preparation. Apparently it's steamed! So steamed is what we order.

Pretty street in Quebec City

Our helpful diner then tells us that we're off the beaten track, they never get English speakers in this part of Quebec state and certainly never people from England itself. Dougie is not happy staying here a moment longer than necessary as we're not "local people" and he reckons we could be lynched. Rory's schrweeveed hotdog is shoved down his gullet at speed and we hot foot back to the car, turn the SatNav back on and follow her bossy directions to Quebec City by the quickest route possible.

Mum's Gone to Montreal with Wills and Kate

2011-06-30T09:39:00.001+01:00

Having hopefully experienced the fabulous toilet facilities in the Museum of Civilisation in Ottawa on Friday, the Royal couple's next stop on their Canadian tour will be Montreal on Saturday 2 July. They won't be staying in a hotel as they are travelling overnight on HMCS Montreal to Quebec City. Such a shame as I could have recommended the Marriott Chateau Champlain in Montreal, affectionately known as the cheese-grater on account of the windows .

I have stressful memories of arriving in Montreal, a huge, rather overwhelming city, all because of the damn SatNav woman who directed us through a tunnel just as we were approaching the city centre: the signal disappeared but we had to choose between two roads while we were in the tunnel. We chose the wrong fork and proceeded to drive back out of the city. When we eventually saw the cheese-grater it was like we'd reached nirvana, albeit a concrete, corporate one.

The best bit about the hotel, apart from the funky windows, was the restaurant, and, in particular, a delightful Italian Des Lynam looky-likey waiter called Ezio who made a fuss of Rory and plied me with Italian wine while reminiscing about his family back home. On one night there was a violin-player who worked the tables and, despite it all being a bit embarrassing, I couldn't help joining in with Volare and Begin the Beguine. He was an odd chap: he had a manic grin and was a tad thyrotoxic, Dougie diagnosed, from his rather bulging eyes. But he played a decent fiddle.

Montreal has to cope with extremely cold temperatures in the winter, so much so that they have an underground city, with walkways and shops in between many of the Metro stations. There was a metro station underneath our hotel: we were able to take the elevator straight down to the basement and hop on a train. Having lived for a few years in London, I always take charge when we're faced with something similar in a foreign city. Dougie has often said he wished my innate sense of direction on a metro network could be replicated above ground. Harsh.

The hotel is next to the Bell Centre, the home of Montreal's hockey team but also a great indoor concert arena. When we were there we managed to secure tickets to see Rod Stewart: a great night which even Rory enjoyed despite being the youngest there and surrounded by women of a certain age dressed in skin-tight leopard print (not his mother, I hasten to add). If William and Kate had been there on Saturday night they could have popped along to see Katy Perry performing but apparently they are shooting off early after a cookery workshop. Shame.

Mum's Gone to Ottawa with Wills and Kate

2011-06-28T13:10:00.000+01:00

I'm sure it was an oversight that the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge neglected to seek my advice before their tour of Canada. However, I am a generous woman and I have decided to share with them my unsurpassed knowledge of some of the cities they will be visiting, based on a two-week fly-drive in 2008.

William and Kate's first stop will be the capital, Ottawa, on Thursday 30 June. Our drive to Ottawa was via the scenic route along Highway 60 through part of the Algonquin National Park. This national park is part of the Nipissing District of Ontario. It might have been "Ni pissing" for them but I remember needing to stop fairly frequently after an excess of coffee at breakfast.

The royal couple should be warned that this is bear country and I told the boys at the time that if you come across a brown bear you should stay still and with a black bear you should run away. But then I couldn't remember whether that was the right way round. However I was more worried about some of the health hazards you could encounter when you're in the back country. It said in my book you should be careful not to get "beaver fever"; Wills and Kate, take note.

Keep that bloody bird away from me!

What else did I glean from my guide-book reading at the time? In 1864 Queen Victoria had to decide which town should become the capital of Canada. Legend has it she picked Ottawa because of a watercolour painting she admired of the countryside outside the city. A more likely reason is its position between the English and French populations. Another gem was that Ottawa, although the capital of Canada, has been dubbed one of the dullest cities in North America. I have to disagree. Ottawa is a lovely city: a mix of London and Edinburgh with some very British parliament buildings.

Just like in London they have a Changing of the Guard ceremony on Parliament Hill. It takes place at 10am and I remember on our first morning in the city we were grabbing a very quick breakfast at 9.30am when, in the distance, through the window, we could see the pipes and drums marching past the hotel. If only we'd waited, we could have just stood at the front door of the hotel, or even hung out of the bedroom window to see the spectacle. But, toast in hand, we'd missed it. To add to our irritation, by 10.30 we eventually set out, walking towards the river, we heard the pipes somewhere behind us. Of course, the soldiers were marching back again, past the hotel we'd just left. So we'd missed them...twice!

I have fond memories of this city, it was so clean, plenty of drinking fountains everywhere, easy to walk along the river without having to dodge the traffic. We walked over the river which took us from the English city of Ottawa to the French city of Gatineau, the border between the states of Ontario and Quebec. We spent the rest of the morning at the Museum of Civilisation in Gatineau, only because we had free tickets for it as part of our fly-drive package. So glad we did. The museum was fantastic, a beautiful building itself and plenty of loos on every floor, all sparkling clean. That's how a museum should be. A high loo ratio. We learned all about the history of Canada from the first settlers onwards and whereas in other museums there's a tendency to glaze over after a while, this place was spot-on with how to amuse all ages.

It was on the way back over the river that one of the most memorable incidents of our holiday took place. Apologies if people have read this before but I can't write about Ottawa without plucking this out of the archives.

It was while we were ambling along in Ottawa that we kept seeing little furry animals popping out of holes near the river bank and along the canal. They were quite chubby, with reddish brown fur and probably measured about 2 ft in length. We sat at a cafe by the canal trying to decide what they were. In the end I plucked up the courage to go inside to ask the cashier.

"Can you tell me what the little furry animals are outside?"

"Sure", he replied, "They're groundhogs"

"Groundhogs! Like in the film, Groundhog Day?"

"Yup, that's right, we have hundreds of them round here".

Who'd have thought it! I was very excited when I returned to the boys to tell them. We gave Rory a quick synopsis of the film: Bill Murray gets stuck in time during Groundhog Day and has to replay the day over and over again.

Dougie then smiled wickedly and said,

"I dare you"

"Dare me to what?"

"Go back into the cafe and ask him again".

I've been given the cold shoulder

2011-06-25T16:23:00.002+01:00

It happened first in 2008 for months: now it's happened again. I can't understand it. I didn't do anything wrong, can't think what might have caused it but I do know that it's painful and so frustrating....

This shoulder isn't just cold, it's positively glacial. Ok, it's frozen. Yup, having experienced months of a left frozen shoulder a few years ago, it has returned and this time it's my right shoulder. It's an odd condition and goes through three stages - freezing, frozen and thaw, lasting up to three years. At the moment, according to the physio I visited on Thursday, I am coming to the end of the freezing, painful stage but now that the joint is stiffening up I'm becoming frozen. I feel a bit like Sid and Manny from Ice Age, desperately trying to out-run the impending tomb of immobility.

The main difficulties are bra-fastening, armpit de-fuzzing, hair-drying and generally putting clothes on. Ironing is a bit tough too but I can live without that. Bedtime is also a problem. I have positioned a big cushion down the middle of the bed so I can rest my arm on it. Dougie thinks this big divide is sending him a coded message: he peers over the Maginot line now and again with a wistful look in his eye.

I sat last night watching Andy Murray at Wimbledon and said, "I couldn't do that".
"Hmm", replied Dougie, "I agree, with your arm you couldn't play"
"No," I said, "I don't think I could throw a sweat-band into the air".

It's true. It's that sudden movement which is an absolute killer. I stupidly swatted a fly with a tea-towel the other day and the pain was so intense I was screaming in agony. It's short-lived pain; shoots up your neck and down into your fingers but 30 seconds later it goes away.

So what do I have to do to cure it? Gently, gently, advises the physio. She recommends hot baths and microwave wheat bags. Excellent. On Thursday she gave me some ultrasound treatment and massaged my shoulder but has suggested I lie on my back with my hands behind my head and.....well.....just lie there.

Dougie walked into the bedroom early this afternoon and I was flat-out and drifting off:

"What are you doing, you lazy tart? I thought we were going to put all the things back in the kitchen?"
"Do you mind," I replied sleepily, "I'm doing my exercises".

"Another good tug should do it"

Choosing to Die - My thoughts

2011-06-22T11:33:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I watched the BBC documentary, Terry Pratchett - Choosing to Die, where Sir Terry Pratchett explored the contentious issue of assisted suicide. The programme has created much controversy, in particular for filming the final moments of Motor Neurone Disease sufferer Peter Smedley, drinking his glass of poison at the Swiss clinic, Dignitas.

My own father died of MND in February this year so this was a hard programme for me to watch. But watch it I did. I have great admiration for Peter Smedley and his wonderful wife, Christine, and I defend their decision to wish to avoid a protracted illness, by ending his life far sooner than necessary but when he was still capable of travelling and physically able to take the liquid which would kill him. However I can't help but wonder what the years ahead would have been like for this gracious, charming couple if they had decided to wait and see.

My dad was diagnosed with the disease in 1994 at the age of 60. I remember hearing the devastating news and, at the time, expecting his life to be over in a couple of years, at most. In fact he lived until 2011, dying peacefully in a hospice at the reasonably ripe old age of 76. In those years he saw the birth of my son, Rory, sat with him completing jigsaws, helped him to draw, read him stories, watched him grow up to be a young man.

His life wasn't easy, he was virtually immobile in the latter years, but he never wanted his life to end. He endured the indignity of requiring help from carers to wash him and see to his needs, but was then able to sit in his wheelchair, paint, complete crosswords with my mum, watch the TV, listen to music, laugh and be part of a loving family.

I'm so grateful he didn't decide to make things easier for everyone by choosing to end his life early; he would have missed out on so much. He knew the prognosis but, with the support of everyone around him, lived the life that was given to him to the best of his ability. In his final weeks he received care from excellent Macmillan Nurses and at the end, St Oswald's Hospice in Newcastle upon Tyne made sure, with their outstanding palliative care, that he didn't die a painful death. Mum was with him and he just slipped away.

I know there have been complaints about the BBC programme but I found it a very moving film and one which was also balanced. I cried watching Peter taking his own life, his words, "I understand" a constant reply to the questions he was asked regarding his decision. I felt desperately frustrated for the younger man, Andrew, an MS sufferer, who took the same decision to die when, to me, he seemed so full of life, enjoying the sights of Zurich. I wanted to shout, "Stay and enjoy Zurich! Savour every last drop of your life!"

But there was another man who was filmed who seems to have been forgotten in all the post-broadcast debate. Mick, the former taxi-driver, had been suffering from MND for seven years and had made the decision, with the support of his wife, to not take the suicide option. His wife wanted to care for him, they would take it in their stride and they had a fantastic hospice which would be there to care for him. His decision was just as brave as Peter and Andrews': the progression of his MND is likely to be very hard for him.

I'm not entirely sure where I stand on the idea of euthanasia. I defend Peter and Andrew's decision to end their lives, I think it sad they should have to travel to Switzerland in order to do this, but I'm also very wary of rushing into providing such a service as a matter of course here. If it had been available in the UK, if it had been the norm to have such an option, would my father have worried about being a burden and therefore taken his own life early?

I think, while the debate continues, the government should support palliative care services in this country so that they aren't just relying on charitable donations. If everyone had good access to the kind of care my father received, then seeking an early date to shuffle off this mortal coil might not be so critical.

Mum's Gone to the Moulin Rouge

2011-06-20T16:14:00.002+01:00

Well, not quite the Moulin Rouge, Paris, but it was South Lincolnshire's equivalent, courtesy of the annual Spalding Midsummer Ball.

Last year the theme was Boogie Nights and we disco-danced to The Real Thing under spinning glitter balls. This year the theme was very ooh-la-la with can-can dancers, a cocktail bar and sumptuous red and black decor. Each table had as a centrepiece a funky transparent leg filled with tiny LED lights. The corridor leading to the main room had been designed to look like the dressing rooms of the Moulin Rouge: individual tables adorned with mirrors, bottles of perfume feathers and sequinned gowns. An incredible amount of hard work by the committee to see that every detail was perfect.

Our annual jaunt to the ball, for what must be our 10th year in a row, is always the highlight of our dwindling social calendar. I still remember our first one: our table consisted of fellow parents from Rory's primary school. Dougie didn't pace himself that night and I watched, in shame, as he returned from a visit to the gents and proceeded to sit himself down at someone else's table and start supping at their wine. Meanwhile the whole of our table waved to him from 10 feet away. He was hurriedly removed from the room by me and bundled into a taxi before he embarrassed me any further. The next year one of our friends created a special placard for the back of his chair to aid his navigation. I've kept my beady eye on the bugger ever since, although our pals think I don't give the old boy any slack; they ask me every year if I've brought my big hook with me.

This year Dougie behaved impeccably apart from a worrying incident when his wedding ring became caught on a key-ring which is sewn into the lining of his sporran. Inevitably this precipitated raucous laughter and 'got your ring caught in your sporran' innuendo abounded. Meanwhile he was getting very hot and bothered, rummaging around in his crotch region for some considerable time and putting up with even more jibes as the chaps at the table were waiting for the seemingly reluctant scotsman to contribute to the kitty.

The evening didn't go smoothly for me, either. Dressed in a black satin dress, complete with elbow-length black gloves, there was some debate on the table about whether I should attempt to eat the meal with gloves on or off. No-one was quite sure of the etiquette regarding this, although there were plenty of ribald comments regarding my need to be gloved-up for any frolics after the ball was over. I decided to keep them on for the starter then removed them when I paid a visit to the ladies as the idea of wearing gloves for that activity just seemed wrong. When I came out of the cubicle I noticed the dye from the gloves had seeped out onto my hands and arms: I looked ridiculous with black fingers and blue-black forearms. You should have seen me, standing at the basin for ages scrubbing away at them like a demented OCD sufferer. As the black dye poured down the sink, I suspect I was given a very wide berth by the other ladies re-touching their lippy nearby.

I stayed in the shadows for the rest of the evening, apart from a few goes on the Gift Tree where, for a tenner a pop, you were guaranteed a prize. I was angling for a Kindle, or even a teddy bear like last year, but came away with vouchers for a cut and blow dry, a portrait sitting, and a bag of Toyota car-cleaning products. Not a bad haul and happy to have supported the charities Action Medical Research, Macmillan Cancer Support and Spalding Special Schools Federation.

Verdict on the ball? One of the best yet. Room looked fabulous, seating arrangements much improved from previous years, food was spot-on with perfectly cooked chicken served to 500 guests and the biggest puds I've ever seen....and Dougie stayed on his own table all night. Result.

My Father's Legacy

2011-06-14T10:08:00.009+01:00

My Dad died in February so all this talk of Father's Day is difficult for me. The theme for The Gallery this week is 'Dads' and over at Tim's blog, Bringing up Charlie, there is a Fatherhood Festival to highlight the publication of his new book, 'Fatherhood: The Essential Guide'. Tim understood my initial misgivings at joining in the Dads-fest but enlightened me with the information that the first ever Father's Day was a daughter's tribute to her father. That made me think quite hard and I realised that rather than trying to ignore the day and the sentiments surrounding it, I should embrace it and celebrate the life and love of a very special man.

My dad was diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease 18 years before he eventually succumbed to the disease. In that time he became gradually weaker with initially his legs and then his arms losing their function. As a former architect, my father obviously had drawing skills but had never really painted or sketched for pleasure since he had been a child. So he took up painting as the MND took hold of him. Watercolours, charcoal, pencil, pastels were the mediums of choice. Often painting from memory or from photographs, his talent for art gave him and the family immense pleasure. In the latter years it was a struggle for him to draw; he would have to steady his crippled right hand with his equally immobile left hand, my mum would place the drawing implement in his hand to get him started, he could only paint for a few minutes at a time before tiring.

He helped others find solace in painting. At the day centre hospice he visited each Wednesday, he ran an art class for other patients with terminal conditions, several of whom created beautiful drawings for their families to treasure only weeks before they died.

On the night my dad passed away my brother brought my mum back to her home. She stood in the hall and exclaimed, "How am I going to cope now he's gone?". My brother held her close and then pointed at the walls in each room "He's not gone", he said, "just look around you. He's everywhere".

I took photographs of a selection of his work: some are at my parents' home, some here with me, all treasured. There are paintings of the quayside in Newcastle, bulb fields in Spalding, Emmanuel College, Cambridge and Mont Saint Michel, France. They should be posted below as a slideshow but let me know if you can't see them or click on this link to see pictures separately

https://picasaweb.google.com/mumsgoneto/JohnGrinsellPaintings#

Island Girl

2011-06-10T14:27:00.000+01:00

This is my new island. It's a bloody big one. If you stand at one end you need semaphore to ask someone at the other end to pass the salt. Husband is having depraved thoughts which seem to involve me sliding my derriere across the induction hob. Best move the knives first.

We seem to be getting there. Week 5 has consisted of the floor tiler and the decorator dancing round each other. Today, however, I have had men flocking round me. The carpenter came to finish the plinths, the electrician turned up to do the remaining sockets but they have had to work round the decorator who has covered all the surfaces with dust covers. I think the tiler has been shoved in the pantry to get out of everyone's way. It's happy chaos.

As I type, the big kick-ass American style fridge-freezer has arrived. There are five men huffing and puffing as they try to lift it up the steps and through the French doors. To me...to you...to me...to you. I can't look. This is the item Rory has been waiting to see for over a month. I reckon there will be much slush-puppy-making going on with the crushed-ice machine. My worry is that this is a huge wodge of stainless steel which is going to show up every finger mark. And I'll have to find somewhere else for our collected fridge magnets to go - if the family think they are getting put back on this beautiful beast, they've another think coming!

When will it be finished? I'm hoping middle of next week as my mum is coming down from Newcastle on Thursday to visit for a few days. It may turn out to be rather like '60 Minute Makeover' with my mother cutting the ribbon as she comes through the front door just as the kitchen fitters quickly shuffle out the back.

We should probably open a bottle of champagne to celebrate - if only I could find the glasses. I know I put them somewhere...

Flying High

2011-06-08T10:25:00.004+01:00

Do you remember the British Airways adverts some years ago which featured the Flower Duet music from the opera Lakme by Delibes? One of my readers, the lovely, funny Marion who lives in Panama, emailed me a link to an amusing alternative version. It reminds me of the Cheap Flights parody by Fascinating Aida which I've seen lately: beautiful voices, witty lyrics.

See what you think of this one...

Mum's Gone to the Airport - Trish's Top Travel Tips

2011-06-06T11:13:00.002+01:00

I think we are all familiar with most travel tips regarding air travel: colouring books for children, pashminas and loose clothing to counteract the cold and trapped wind (you didn't know that?) , roll up your knickers and stuff them in your shoes (this is luggage-packing advice, not a suggestion of fun things to do on a plane).

What you really need are some essential tips that the magazines don't tell you. This is where I come in with Trish's Top Travel Tips (ah, the joy of alliteration). Today's lesson is 'Airports'.

1. Hand Luggage or Hold Luggage?

If you're going on a two-week family holiday then bite the bullet and pay for as much hold luggage as you are allowed. If this is your well-earned summer break you want to have as many pairs of shoes at your disposal to make your vacation as pleasurable as possible. Remove some of the kids' toys and replace with sandals in all colours.

If it's a short break then you can save money and time by only taking carry-on luggage but, be warned, you will spend the weekend in shoes which pinch and you'll be fed up of the black and white clothing combo you've chosen. You will also have to suffer the ignominy of carrying all your lotions and potions in a very small transparent bag. Do you really want your teenage son and the rest of the travellers in the security queue to snigger at your ylang ylang massage oil, G-Pulse lube and haemorrhoid cream? Don't think that decanting the stuff into anonymous plastic bottles will help: you will only live to regret it when washing your hair with something decidedly slippery.

2. Food

Do you eat before going through security or after? It all depends on the quality of the eateries on each side. Problem is, you don't know until you've passed the point of no return whether your decision is the right one. In Montreal and Madrid we chose to eat airside. Big mistake: only two food outlets we could find, both busy and food disappointing. In Copenhagen we feared a similar experience so grabbed a pizza meal deal at the first 7-Eleven we spotted, only to discover a whole smorgasbord of tempting treats on the other side. I have now learned my lesson and plan to google each airport before we travel and print out a map showing what delights they have. This will also be invaluable for indicating where the check-in desks and toilets are located so you can avoid having a marital tiff as soon as you arrive.

3. Drink

You will not be allowed to take a bottle of water through security so remember to buy some on the other side so that you have some refreshment while waiting at the gate in the long queue of people like you who refuse to pay for speedy boarding. Do not assume there will be a cheaper bottle if you just keep on walking. There won't be and you'll be left paying 2 euros for a teeny bottle from a vending machine: this will make you very cross, especially if you are Scottish.

4. Security

This is still quite an ordeal, requiring the removal of coats, jackets, boots and belts. My advice here is, if you're going to wear a belt, make sure it's superfluous to requirements. If you actually need a belt to keep your trousers up then you'll embarrass yourself. If you like being frisked, wear lots of chunky jewellery in odd places and the security officer will have you standing on a podium, poking you with her light-saber quicker than you can say 'Im not carrying a dangerous weapon, honest'.

5. Car Parks

Book your car park as far in advance as possible to save money. By all means choose a 'meet and greet' service, where they valet-park your vehicle, but only if you want your husband to hyperventilate as he hands over his precious keys. If you can't cope with the images of some young oik whooping it up for a fortnight in your SUV and wearing out the back seats, you will have to plump for the Long Stay Car Park and take the transfer bus. This will cause another domestic as your husband will choose a spot as far away from the bus stop as possible and, most probably, in a part of the car park not yet tarmaced so your wheely case will topple over.

Make a note of which car park you have left your car in. This helps enormously at midnight when you return, optimistically wearing the flip-flops and sarong from the beach earlier that day.

So there you have it: airport advice from one who knows. Please feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments.

Mum's not gone anywhere this week

2011-06-03T11:44:00.000+01:00

This time last year we were sunning ourselves in Picardy, courtesy of Eurocamp. This year we are going nowhere; instead I'm playing at being the foreman and chief coffee maker while we have our new kitchen fitted.

As you can see we now have some units, temporary worktops and a jigsaw pattern of tiles which has given me an overwhelming urge to play hopscotch. However, unlike Dorothy, I'm not allowed to follow the yellow brick road while the cement is drying.

There are certain things I have learned, as we are coming to the end of Week Four of Kitchengate.

Do not, under any circumstances, flick through kitchen magazines once your chosen units start to arrive. It does you no good to be hankering after lime-green splashbacks and white acrylic soft-touch cupboards when you've already chosen a classic maple wood with chrome handles.

Microwave meals are only fun for a week. Prepare for the coming of the kitchen by cooking and freezing ahead. Imagining you will be constantly barbecueing in May is a tad optimistic.

Bedtime reading will consist of instruction manuals for new appliances. Most of these seem chiefly concerned with health and safety matters. Ovens, apparently, are hot.

If you choose a cooker hood above a central island, think ahead about the height of your ceiling and the height of your husband's head.

Dust gets everywhere and curtains are not an effective barrier.

Teenage boys are not woken by drilling and sawing at 8am, even if the work is occuring directly underneath their bedroom.

When the kitchen company tell you it will probably take five or six weeks to do the work, don't laugh at such an absurd notion......

The Gallery - My Backyard - Everything's Coming Up Roses

2011-05-25T08:58:00.001+01:00

I decided to play by the rules for The Gallery today so instead of sitting on the sofa browsing through old snaps, I removed by bum from the seat and have wandered round 'My Backyard' to bring you a few photos of the roses which have started to bloom. It's a fabulous day here in South Lincolnshire and for once the wind seems to have died down so the plants aren't being battered.

On my little jaunt I also came across a rather interesting display left by the kitchen fitters on the back step. I think they've tried very hard to design a contemporary look and I'm so pleased I've asked them to fill the vases in the living room too.

The day I walked on Vatnajokull Glacier

2011-05-22T11:19:00.001+01:00

The Family Burgess on Vatnajokull glacier

I read this morning that another volcano, Grimsvotn, has erupted in Iceland, this time under the Vatnajokull glacier in the south east of the country. I've been there, walked on the ice of that very glacier in the summer of 2007. I thought I'd share my memories of the day: -

The last of our pre-planned activities - a 3 hour glacier hike - which is classed as "easy" on the website. Always slightly dubious when they tell you this but I'm getting used to the knot in my stomach before these sessions and I've survived the snow-mobiling and the whale-watching so far. Arrive early at Skaftafell camp site and meet our guide who measures us up for crampons. Initially thought they were bits of crunchy bread you sprinkle on soup but discover they are special metal spikes which fasten round your boots, designed for walking on ice. They reminded me of the metal roller-skates I used to have when I was little: the type you had to adjust to fit round your shoes and your mother always complained when you wore them with good shoes and scuffed the leather. We were also equipped with pickaxes. At this point I'm rather wary as the idea of needing such equipment seems to suggest we're not going for a gentle walkabout. I'm slightly reassured by the sight of another family with two children younger than mine and as we are bundled into the minibus to be driven to the edge of the glacier, I'm resigned to the fact that I've got to just go for it. With this more positive attitude I'm soon clambering out of the bus and keen to get going.

As we approach the ice, the wisdom of wearing crampons becomes clear..... ice is slippery! We are taught how to walk with the crampons on our feet and there is a definite knack to it. Each step has to be deliberate, lifting up from the knees like a puppet on strings. Going up a steep incline requires a waddling gait, a bit like Charlie Chaplin; downhill necessitates small deliberate steps, using the pickaxe behind you to stop you falling forward. It's rather weird walking on the ice which is black with ash in places, and a beautiful blue in others. I can hear water running underneath my feet and the guide is at pains to ensure we don't divert from his trail or we will fall down a crevasse. After a while I find this whole experience quite exhilarating and, for once in my life, I don't seem to be the hopeless idiot at the back with no aptitude for the task in hand. Striding out like Ranulph Fiennes, amazed to be on the third largest icecap in the world, I absolutely love it. It's hard work but the views are stunning and I'm so pleased I didn't bottle out.

The kitchen's coming on nicely

2011-05-19T09:42:00.001+01:00

The plasterers arrived on Monday. A mouthful of teeth between them and a hearty two sugars each in their tea - balance has been restored after the no-sugar, smart, neat-bummed brigade from last week.

Can you spot the ceiling in this photo which has been skimmed? Rory came home on Monday night and thought the brown ceiling was really cool. I told him it was temporary.

The dust is getting everywhere. We have arches between the kitchen and utility room but also between the kitchen and the hall. The temporary curtain we have rigged up is worse than useless: it may, in fact, be wafting the dust further up the stairs. The chaps have put another sheet up in front of the curtain. It helps a bit although yesterday I walked through it and it unravelled and fell on my head, covering me in plaster dust. I said 'bollocks' quite loudly and I think they were shocked as they had mistaken me for a lady.

Yesterday we started to have 'things put in' to the kitchen! Hoorah. Slightly unnerving that the units coming in are not much different in colour to the ones that went out. We seem to be keen on maple in this house. Dougie is now saying we should have just changed the bloody doors.

So what's next? Appliances to be fitted, new floor, lights and counter tops still to be done. Another week maybe? Then the decorator comes to paint it.

We also have a white elephant living in the bathroom. See its trunk coming down through the ceiling searching for water? Feeding him on microwave meals at the moment, but he, like the rest of the family, is tiring of ding ding food and he tells me he fancies a trip out to a restaurant on Friday. I told him I'd book a table.

A conversation I wish I'd never started - No. 2

2011-05-16T09:10:00.002+01:00

You may remember the first 'conversation I wish I'd never started' with my teenage son. The inability of my addled, middle-aged brain to connect with the sharp, intolerance of youth. Here's another one from this morning at breakfast.

Me: I just heard a good song this morning from Radio One's Big Weekend
Son: What was it?
Me: I can't remember.
Son: Who was it by?
Me: The Foo Fighters.
Son: Was it Everlong?
Me: No idea.
Son: Well, how did the song go?
Me: I can't remember now.
Son: What, nothing at all?
Me: No. Say a few more of theirs.
Son: Pretender? Best of You?
Me: Doesn't ring a bell. Actually it might have been Chasing Status?
Son: Chase AND Status
Me: That's what I said! What do they sing?
Son: Let You Go? Blind Faith?
Me: Oh I don't know.
Son: Mum, you're really annoying. Try and think.
Me: I've got it! It went "I've got a feeling...oooh....oooh.....that tonight's gonna be a good night"
Son: That's the Black Eyed Peas.

One lump or two?

2011-05-12T11:54:00.000+01:00

Monday morning, 8.15, the process of demolishing our old kitchen began and, save some cupboards we are going to use in the garage, it ended up in the skip that was delivered mid morning.

The kitchen fitters - plumbers, electricians etc - are a tidy bunch. As they destroy the old units, they clean up after themselves and try and keep the dust to a minimum. They even look smart. No hairy bum cracks on show, no bellies blamanching over their belts, no honking armpits. You could take them home to your mother and she'd be delighted.

Yet what has surprised me more than their appearance and neatness, is the lack of sugar in their tea. What's the world coming to? Of the five blokes working here today, two have coffee with no sugar, two have tea with no sugar and one has tea with half a teaspoonful! The only one having a decent amount seems to be me. They even turn down my offer of Breakaways and Hobnobs.

I mentioned this on Twitter earlier this week and @Shar13 told me her plumber only drinks Green Tea: she had to get some in specially. @PippaD was horrified and questioned whether they were real workmen. This was quickly followed by concerns from @kelloggs_ville who urged me to ring the sweet tea police and get out now as they were obviously fake. Apparently unless they accept bacon butties and tea you can stand a spoon up in, plus 3 sugars or more, they aren't going to do a good job. @PippaD agreed that butties go down well but that her builders were fond of lattes. Lattes?? Soon they'll be wiping their feet and hoiking up their trousers, said Pippa. There was much virtual head-shaking on Twitter as @kelloggs_ville thought Bernard Cribbins would shudder at the thought.

Indeed he would.

The Gallery - Chilled out - Ladyboy

2011-05-11T07:00:00.001+01:00

It's not often you have your camera primed and ready when an unexpected photo opportunity comes along. A few years ago I was lucky. We were staying at my parents for the weekend and I was fiddling about with the camera, deleting old shots, when I looked up and saw my husband transformed into a beautiful woman. I can't believe he was holding the magazine so that his hairline seamlessly matched that of the model. It was rather creepy but I thankfully avoided yelping in order to catch him before he moved.

I thought the shot was perfect for The Gallery this week, the theme of which is 'chilled out'. A man having a lie-in reading his mother-in-law's Prima magazine seems pretty chilled to me.

Goodbye Old Kitchen

2011-05-09T13:24:00.000+01:00

As I sit here typing, our old kitchen is being demolished. I can hear the chap downstairs chipping away at old tiles, unscrewing units from the walls and smashing the brick island into rubble. Most of our downstairs rooms are open plan so we have concocted a curtain to screen off the kitchen from the hall. The words 'wind' and 'pissing in' spring to mind.

We narrowly avoided divorce proceedings over the last two weekends, trying to clear out kitchen cupboards. We had a method of sorting into 'keep', 'charity', 'recycling' and 'Newcastle' piles but each time we emptied a cupboard, it necessitated finding space somewhere else in the garage, shed or house to store the clutter. This explains why Dougie fell out of the loft last weekend.

The Newcastle pile is an interesting one. Mum and a selection of aunties and cousins have shown interest in some soup bowls, serving dishes, numerous tea sets and three sets of curtains. I'm sure they have quite enough of their own chintzy crud already so I'm tempted to say this is an excellent example of taking coals to Newcastle.

We have decided to keep the Simpsons' donut-maker (used once) and the ice-cream machine (twice) but have dispensed with the pasta maker (in reality a tiny mangle) and Le Saucier (the electric equivalent of a wooden spoon). The unused electric fondue set has had a temporary reprieve in that it has moved to the shed, which inevitably means it will eventually be thrown away in about five years time. It has joined the fish kettle and the microwave plate heater on kitchenware death row.

We have enough mugs to supply coffee for a national meeting of the W.I. so have sensibly decided to temporarily keep all the novelty ones (those which came with an Easter egg) to serve teas and coffees to the 'men' as they work. We will then do a bit of a Zorba to celebrate when it's all finished.

The pantry was an embarrassment. Out-of-date lentils, Jamaican ginger cake and some fusty infused oils were summarily dispatched to the bin, along with a ton of fruity tea-bags and a few old bottles of unidentifed liqueurs which we might have slurped if we could have removed the tops.

As the kitchen is now out of action we have set up a catering area in the 'posh room'. I'm rather proud of the fact that we have a coffee station and a buffet table complete with microwave. I'm thinking of turning it into a bijou B&B by having a basket of pastries, mini pots of jam and bowls of sliced fruit.

The novelty is bound to wear off.

Happiness is a good book

2011-05-06T11:14:00.001+01:00

Spotted above a shop in Copenhagen - this perky lady enjoying the pleasures of a good book.

Feel free to add your own caption or suggest what she might be, erm, reading?

Update: I'm going to add suggestions from Twitter and elsewhere:

@tattooed_mummy - Great Expectations

This lead to me going all Dickens and wondering about A Tale of Two Titties?

Mum's Gone to the Spalding Flower Parade

2011-05-05T09:07:00.001+01:00

Last weekend was quite something wasn't it? The Royal Wedding on Friday ended up being so addictive that most of us were glued to our TVs whether or not we had planned to do so. I would have been glued for longer but husband, in a concerted effort to distract me from my telly watching, decided to fall out of the loft. He was fixing a light I think, hadn't put the ladders up properly, they slipped away and he tumbled out of the hole, scraping and bruising his arms in the process. Bloody man, can't give me five minutes peace.

The huge national event of Friday was followed by a sizeable local event on Saturday. The Spalding Flower Parade has become one of our traditions since we moved to the area in 1988. Going over 50 years now, the parade used to be massive, with thousands of visitors descending on the town to see all the floats which were traditionally decorated in tulip heads, when the bulb business was at its peak in this part of the Lincolnshire. Now there are not so many local tulip fields so the heads are brought in from Norfolk but, even though the scale of the event has reduced over the years, it is still quite a spectacle.

In 2006, having watched for many years, the Burgess family began to get involved in the event. In that year, my amateur dramatic group, SADOS, had a music trailer in the parade to publicise our forthcoming musical, Oklahoma. Dougie and I helped to decorate the float, pinning tulip heads onto polystyrene boards. It was a laborious and intricate job: back-breaking work sitting on upturned crates in a cavernous dusty shed. Once decorated, I sang with the cast on the float as it travelled for three hours around the town, Dougie was a steward and leaflet-hander-outer and we managed to get Rory onto the float to wave, even though he wasn't part of the cast. Both lads were heartily sick of "The Farmer and the Cowman Should be Friends" by the finish. In 2007 our show was The Witches of Eastwick. The photo here shows me and another of the three witches doing our stuff to entertain the crowds. This was the year that Rory joined a local kids' drama group so he was having a ball on his own float instead of listening to me shrieking.

This year there wasn't much local involvement as regards drama groups, schools etc which I think is a pity and hopefully will be reinstated. The floats, on the theme British Icons, were impressive as always and Dougie certainly enjoyed the Samba dancers in their revealing outfits, as did some old gentlemen in the crowd near us who perked up dramatically and almost required medical attention.

Rory went to the Parade with his own friends this year. I saw him pass us at one stage and I caught his expression which seemed to say, wave at me now mother at your peril. I waved.

For your delight I have managed to put together my shots from the day in a slideshow. Never done this before so, if it works, this could be a regular thing. Let me know which is your favourite float.

Mum's Gone to Copenhagen - Final Part - Noma next time

2011-05-02T20:07:00.001+01:00

The adolescent Merman

Getting lost can often be a good thing. We decided to return to the city centre via a different train station, Hellerup, as the Bodyworlds exhibition (see Part Three) was equidistant between two. We took a right turn and then, for the hell of it, carried on walking down a residential street to see where it took us. A minute later we were on the beach! Where did that come from?

The sea was calm, the sun was actually quite hot and we really weren't dressed for a day at the seaside. The Danes seemed equally surprised and there was much rolling up of trousers and unfurling of scarves. A few brave souls walked out onto the jetty and took a dip, for all of five seconds before coming out blue and shell-shocked. Rory did his Little Mermaid impression on the rocks and we found an ice-cream hut next to a park, selling Mr Whippy-type cones. It was just like Whitley Bay.

We asked directions to find the station (well I asked directions: Dougie would have walked for the rest of the day hoping for divine navigational inspiration). Had a bit of a domestic as Dougie thought I'd dragged us onto the wrong train then later, as we approached our stop, we suddenly had to make a dash for the doors: we were convinced we'd stopped in a tunnel but it was only dark because we were still wearing our sunglasses. Felt like proper chumps.

Ten minutes later we were supping a Danish lager, lounging in the comfy chairs in the hotel's courtyard. As the world's best restaurant, Noma, was fully booked, we plumped for a meal at the nearby Spanish gaff, Pintxos. Not doing very well at experiencing the Danish cuisine. We should have dined on pickled herring and foraged fungi during our trip but had so far eaten pizza, sirloin steak and tapas.

Our final day was another cloudless one. Before heading to the airport we visited a very cute castle, Rosenborg Slot, looking like something out of Hans Christian Anderson folklore. The highlights? The huge silver lions in the throne room, the crown jewels in the basement and the glass tableware, including, bizarrely, glass cutlery. Ouch.

This was Good Friday so the nearby King's Gardens were packed with Copenhagen's families enjoying the day off. What was so lovely was the lack of shrieking and yelling you might get elsewhere. How do the Danes do it? Their children played happily but quietly: no whinging, no raised voices from adults or children. Must be all that cycling they do: exercise and plenty of fresh air. Though I know it's more than that - it's just their nature and I'm envious.

A beautiful airport where, for once, we chose to eat before we went through security. Where that might have been a good idea in Madrid or Montreal, here in Copenhagen it was a bad move. We could have dined in noodle restaurants, cavier bars, pastry shops and all manner of gorgeous eateries: too bad we'd had a pizza and coke meal deal at the 7/11 before checking in.

Flying our plane home was a female co-pilot: rather nice, for a change, to hear her fabulously jolly-hockey-sticks voice over the tannoy. At Stansted we pulled up a few yards short of the bay. Supposedly a problem on the ground but Dougie and Rory chuckled about the female pilot's parking difficulties. I had to put up with comments like "Oh the pilot must be saying: move over darling, I'll take it from here" and "Good job she doesn't have to reverse". It was like sitting between Richard Keys and Andy Gray.

As we were about to leave the plane, Dougie couldn't find his passport. He swore blind I had it in my handbag and if there wasn't so much rubbish in it I'd be able to find it. I swore blind that I didn't have it, it was in his bloody rucksack. The argument continued through clenched teeth until everyone else had left the plane.Then I heard the words, "Oh it's in my pocket". My heart was still pounding as I had to restrain myself from punching his lights out. The poor steward stood nervously by the exit saying, "Hope you've had a good flight" as I stomped down the steps, hissing at my shame-faced husband, "You absolute f**ker". Which is so unlike me.

I'm sure you've all given up on this post already as I know it's too long but, for my own purposes, I want to remember everything about this holiday: we experienced so much in such a short space of time. And we still didn't see everything we wanted to. Next time I'd like to visit The Black Diamond (the new granite extension to the Royal Library), the Royal Palaces of Amalienborg and the Danish Design Centre.

I also missed seeing the Carlsberg Glyptotek which is a shame because it's the best art gallery in the world.....probably.
I

Mum's Gone to Copenhagen - Part Three - Bodyworlds

2011-04-30T07:14:00.001+01:00

On city breaks there never seems enough time to travel into the suburbs. However on this trip we decided to miss seeing some of the main sights in order to visit Gunther van Hagens' Bodyworlds exhibition. We never got round to seeing this exhibition when it was in London and as it is only exhibiting in Phoenix, Chicago (go see, Expat Mum), Taipei, Cologne and Copenhagen at the moment, we couldn't miss this chance.

It did involve a very short train journey. We prodded at a ticket machine in Norreport Station to no avail so had to squeeze into a chaotic ticket office instead. I was berating everyone under my breath for not queueing before I realised it was like the Sainsbury's deli counter and we needed to take a ticket. It wasn't long before a clean, swift S-train took us to Svanemollen Station and a short walk, via the helpful hedge-trimming linguists (see Part One) to the Experimentarium, which sounds rather menacing but in fact is the old Tuborg bottling factory turned into a Eureka/Science Museum type of place with lots of children going daft.

The exhibition was awesome, in the true sense of the word. Using a plastination process which expertly preserves dead bodies, van Hagens has exposed all the nerves and muscles in order to educate the visitor in anatomy and physiology. The exhibits are all the more enriching because he has manipulated them to show how the parts of the body interact with each other, for example when playing sports. Dougie was naturally very impressed and wished he had been able to see the intricate anatomical detail when he had been a medical student. For the rest of us, although there could have been a temptation to giggle, with reproductive organs on show as the bodies twanged electric guitars, played tennis, football and swam, in the main it was just too inspirational to be puerile....though the Admiral did have a rather splendid telescope.

All of the bodies in the exhibition had been donated for scientific research and I thought how marvellous it must be to think you could live on, posed ways that shouts life and vitality. I did wonder at the couple who are posed in flagrante for all eternity in the 'reverse cowgirl' position and hoped they were well aquainted with each other before their untimely deaths. This particular exhibit was shown behind a beaded curtain with the words "warning: the sex act is performed here" which naturally increased the traffic in this direction hugely.

If this comes to your city (Berlin and Basel soon) then I recommend you try and see it. Children above a certain age will certainly benefit, though having had a wild lever-pulling, button-pushing time in the rest of the building in Copenhagen, one 11 year old boy had written in the visitors' book for Bodyworlds "there wasn't enough to do". Sigh.