A Social Whirl

(Always makes me wonder just what an anti-social whirl would look like. Would it involve - I dunno, axes, maybe?

Anyhoo.)

Everyone got back from their weekend away safe and sound, thank you for asking, and VERY happy to be reunited. Kit in particular - these days he is being so affectionate, and I know it's the last hurrah of his boyhood, before my very dear first-born son disappears in a maelstrom of hormones. *sniff*. (When it's Beri's turn, will I even notice? Hmm . . .)

Jeremy and I thoroughly enjoyed Beaconsfield Operatic Society's production of Calamity Jane, highlights of which included the evanescent American accents (now you heard them, now you didn't . . .), the kissing (mucho kissing. What is it about AmDram kissing? It starts so very suddenly, both parties remain utterly immobile throughout, and it stops like both sets of lips were of the same magnetic pole. Why can't they just think of England? Or Brendan Fraser? (Click the link. It's so-ooo-o worth it.)) , and our bass-baritone, dragged-up friend Martin's newly shaved chest and falsetto song. (He had to kiss someone too, while his wife watched from the audience. Elaine, whose lovely husband just now won the lead role in - oh bugger, I've forgotten what - some Alan Ayckbourn anyway - has expressly forbidden him to kiss ANYONE under ANY circumstances. EVER. (Anyone else. Other than her. I'm almost sure.) All the times I've seen Jeremy perform - and he's kissed more sopranos than I've had hot dinners - it's never once occurred to me. Mind you, thinking back to the last time I saw him sing, (and I was great with his child, oh the irony) the kissing was the least of it. But then it never occurred to me to forbid writhing around on a table-top with a half-naked soprano either. Tcha.

ANYWAY. (Is there a point to this post? Oh yes . . .) last night the opera, tonight Burn After Reading. (Very nice looking site, but takes a bit of time to load.) Clooney did his Oh-Brother-Where-Art-Thou schtick again (still amusing though), Frances McDormand was reliably brilliant, and Brad Pitt was HILARIOUS. And that chair - oh my . . .

And tomorrow Sid has a friend to visit. I'm a bit anxious about this, as not only is little Malene new in the school, she's new in the country, and I don't know how well she speaka da Eeengleesh. Anyone venture the Norwegian for 'I want my mummy'? Or 'Grated cheese? Call this lunch??'

We are off to Germany first thing Saturday, just for the weekend, and the fun continues all the way though a packed half term. I'm already looking forward to school starting up again.

Quickly, somebody drop a pin . . .

You know that gentle rustling noise it makes, as it disturbs the air molecules, then that teeny tiny clatter it makes as it hits the floor? You don't?

Well, I do.

This whole weekend, that is what I am going to be listening to. My lovely husband has taken my lovely children to his parents. (Spare a thought for my poor MiL, who fell over in a pub (hmm) and cut the webbing around her thumb badly enough to require thirteen stitches. Thirteen. Oh, and it's her right thumb. (Beri, to my slight stupefaction, wondered what Grandma was doing in a pub. 'She can't go in one, she's a woman.' I need to go to the pub more. A LOT more. To set a good example.) But Jeremy assures me an infestation of grandchildren is just what she needs.)

So I am off to Elaine's happy place, then I thought I might swing by Seven Dials because its lovely, and back home for a concert of mediaeval music in the church. (Ooh, church on my own tomorrow! This may well be a first.) And Sunday lunch in the Blue Elephant.

(Here's a thing. I'm fairly sure the expression, 'on my own', rendered in french, is occasionaly used in english conversation. Y'know, like en famille or au fond or amour propre. I wanted to use it to describe my forthcoming Blue Elephant experience, but couldn't remember what it was. I hopped over to a translation site (it gave me sur ma propre. I'm damn sure that's not right.) and it listed the most popular searches. They are

• i love you
• i miss you
• beautiful
• go to hell
• my love
• goodbye
• thank you so much
• love
• do you have nuclear warheads
• hello world
• faith
• i dont want to die alone
• I love my wife
• evil

How fabulous is that!)


Blimey, look at the time. What am I still DOING here!

Now we wait.

Until the 21st November, when the results comeout. (and you will please excuse theoccasional burst of PROFANITY on account of I recently cleaned the keyboard - I say recently, it's a bit like the Forth Bridge, I get to the other end and start from the beginning again - and it was the turn of the Space Bar. Now, the thing about my memory, you will recall (I jest. Why the heck would youremember this kind ofcrap. I would, but not you.DAMNthisspace bar!), is that I only remember stuffthat isn't useful. I can remember that Mark Rothko is an early influence on Roy Speltz, and who the Princes in the Tower were, but not howmy friend Davidgotrid of his eczema, or that when I put the newly cleaned space bar back onto the keyboard, it spends ages NOT WORKING. Or only working when I hit it really reallyhard. So, £&(%)"£(&%. And )(£&%.

There.)

In other news, I remembered at 3:15, walking in to the school playground, that I should have picked up four little'uns from Forest School 15 minutes before. Groan. The heinousness of forgetting one's own child palesin comparison with forgetting other people's. Much running, yelling and reckless driving later, allthe sprogs were reunited withtheir parents, having had a ball playing in the forest. And the grownups I had discommoded were hideously forgiving. It was horrible, I tell you, horrible.

Ohand andand, we had a lovely day aboard the SB Hydrogen, celebrating Jeremy's folks' 50th wedding anniversary.

On the left, a bunch of barges, with partygoers. On the right, the congratulations cards for their grandparents. Octopuses. Of course.

And in more picture news, in my sidebar you can see the progress on Sid's jumper. Hilariously, I discovered on starting the second sleeve, that I had misread the pattern, and had knitted the first sleeve 50stitches wide, when it should have been 62. There isn't even any point in unravelling and re-using the wool, as it's in such tiny bits,none of them long enough for abigger sleeve. But asitspure wool, I getto put it in the food recycle. Yay.

And Jeremy wants me to tell you about me drying a pair of Sid's knickers in the microwave, and scorching them past rescuing, but I'm not going to. Too embarrassing.