So I’m going to have a little moan.  Being of the ’shiny, happy’ variety, I don’t do it often but blimey, the postal system in this country sucks and blows.  As you know, my children both had their birthdays in April.  Our families, the lubly beavers that they are, all send cards and presents and stuff for the boys.  Well.  I think of all the cards that were sent to #2 for his birthday, only 2 arrived on the day.  And this is not because they weren’t posted early enough.  Oh no, all the postmarks were a good few days, even a week before, and with adequate postage attached.  And they’re still coming now.  #1’s birthday, a couple of weeks later, was hardly better.   The last of his came, I think, on Thursday.  And I received a Christmas card in March too.  I wonder if that’s a record?

But this isn’t the half of it.  I’d say every card bar two had been opened and then resealed with a ‘oops, this card has been opened but obviously it’s nothing at all to do with us’ type sticker on it.  Oh, okay then - so whose fault would it be exactly?

And then, after you receive a birthday card which has been ‘opened in transit’, what do you do exactly?  How much bad form is it to ring the sender and have to say ‘erm…you know the birthday card you sent?  Was there money in it?’.  We had to do this when the card that Hubby’s Mum sent me for my birthday arrived opened.  It turned out there wasn’t anything in it, but how awful is it to have to ask?

My sister in law has the right idea.  She always sends birthday cards inside a plain brown envelope.  And do you know what?  They never get opened.  So if someone from An Post is reading this - get a bloody grip.  Oh, and you owe my children about fifty quid in birthday money too.  Cough up, then.

Ooh I’ve been having a right laugh on the official seal generator. Here’s Aussie The Spider Woman’s award:

Clever aren’t I.

Honestly, I’d love to live in Australia.  But….jeez.  Aussie, you have nerves of steel.  Ew.

So this is how we woke up this morning.  Hubby’s back soon.  Bert’s going to have to stop thinking he’s human any minute now…..

So it’s another beautiful day.  The birds are singing, there’s the distant buzz of farm machinery (or is it jetskis on the lough?) and the odd bit of mooing, but otherwise nothing to spoil my perfect, bright green and blue day.  Bert and I wander up to the churchyard.  Two people driving past me stop to say hello, in the place where I was once a stranger.  I tie Bert (in the shade, natch) to the big iron gate and amble through the headstones to C’s lovely spot in the shade of the big tree.  It really is a stunning churchyard; high on the hill, it overlooks the whole village and a big patchwork quilt of farmland beyond.

As I walk back, I hear a car engine running and notice that there’s a man bending down by Bert, ruffling his ears and just about to look at the tag on his collar.  I think I make him jump, but he smiles up at me: ‘oh good.  I was just seeing if the big fella was okay’, and he gets in his car and drives away with a wave.

A good samaritan on a sunny day.  Restores your faith in human nature, doesn’t it.

So lovely C obviously had a word with the big fella upstairs and arranged the most beautiful weekend of sunshine for all her friends and family.  She was buried underneath the shade of a tree in what is surely the most beautiful place in the whole churchyard and today the boys and I took the armfuls of wild flowers that they’d gathered on their walk with Jen (I’ve stopped calling you J, it’s too confusing - why does everyone have the same initial?  Don’t they realise it’s confusing for anonymous bloggers?!) and left them, along with all the other flowers, for C.

Jen had come to stay to give much-needed ’sit down… kneel down… don’t do that…’ support at the church services, and I’ve been lucky enough to have C’s best friend J staying with me this weekend along with her daughter, C’s much-loved God-daughter, L.  They’d been buddies since childhood and although I’d heard all about her from C, it was fantastic to finally meet.  Jen and I spent many a wonderful hour hearing all sorts of things from C’s past - exploits from their teenage years and all about her wedding day.  I’ve cherished every minute.  After all the sadness, it was lovely to sit in the sun with a glass of wine, just chatting, remembering and smiling, with someone who I know C absolutely adored.  Later, we got involved in some mad game with all the children and as we all laughed, hared about, threw water at each other and generally let off a bit of steam, I knew that C would be delighted to see her kids rushing around having fun in the sun after so many tears and such sadness.

I was reminded about the lovely thing that Sleepy did on her blog about what makes her happy.  I had left a little comment, which was something along the lines of: hugs from my 3 favourite men, bitey kisses from Bert when he’s pleased to see me, sunshine, the little ‘incoming!’ Worms (it’s a PS2 game) voice on my phone that signals a text has come in, a phone call from J, shopping, cosmetics (ohh yeah), shoes!, logging on to the blog to find a big pile of comments, walking down the boat road on a sunny day to the lough, baking cakes, stirring a big pot of curry…

And now I can add: that glow that you get right inside to know that you were friends with a really special person, and the added bonus of knowing that, inadvertently, she’s introduced you to somebody new and just as special.

And seeing as I’ve deserted you for a couple of days, it’s over to you…what makes you happy?

I’ve thought long and hard this morning about writing this.  But finally I realised that this blog is a little part of me.  A lot of my readers are my family and friends, and many of my fellow bloggers and regular readers have become friends too.  I’ve mentioned C before so somehow it would be wrong not to finish her story for her.

When we moved here last summer, we were elated to find another family in the only other house around.  The two houses were built at the same time and stand, identical, like twins sunning themselves on our little patch of green.  We got on instantly, although sharing a major crisis helps.  The kids are similar ages and have become firm friends, flitting in and out of each others’ houses so much, I’m never sure how many I’m feeding at tea time.  D and Hubby quickly became no strangers to the pub and I took to C instantly.  She was already ill, but brushed it aside as an inconvenience.  She loved Bertie to bits (always a direct route to my affections).  He escaped once and was found expectantly waiting by C’s back door (he could probably smell baking).  We discovered a shared love of cooking (C made the best Bailey’s Cheesecake I’ve ever tasted) and swapped recipes and steaming plates of just-baked cakes, cookies and goodness knows what, which were ferried between houses for testing.  They have introduced us to loads of people, helped us settle in and we’ve shared all sorts of mad adventures including the Pumpkin Festival and a very inebriated New Year’s Eve.

At Christmas, C was determined to make it the best ever for the children (she missed last year having surgery on her brain tumour) and insisted that we went Christmas shopping, pushing herself so hard she ended up asleep in the car on the way home (’I hope I didn’t snore’!).  We share a taste for gaudy Christmas decorations and our little corner of Cavan was lit up like Blackpool, much to our shared delight and Hubby and D’s disgust.  Even as she got more and more ill, she was a lovely friend and my biggest fan.  She was delighted to hear I was writing a cookery book.  I still have her text that said ’You’re the next Delia Smith!’  Despite falling and breaking her hip just after the new year, she officiated the Easter Egg hunt from her wheelchair and still managed to snaffle a couple of packs of Rolos.

Today, C died.  She’d hate any sentimental crap so I’ll just say that my one regret is that I didn’t have more time to enjoy her company, but I know I’m lucky to have shared so much.  That’s one thing a blog’s good for.  Every memory stored away for future reference. 

So this is for C.  And for lovely D, Lou and Little C, for whom our hearts are broken.

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann’d:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

 

Christina Rossetti

Okay, so it’s not a fantastic photo in the scheme of things, but look at me lawn!  What with Hubby being away I had to take up the manly baton and try to start the evil-stinking-growling-lawnmower thingy all on my own.  Fifteen pulls, a light smattering of petrol and a dislocated arm later and I was away.  Our lawns are really weird as our driveway kind of meanders through them so they’re all a weird shape, and some of the back grass is quite steep too, but I persevered and looky here - cricket stripes baby!!  Oh and in case Hubby’s reading, yes, I did ALL the grass.  Heh.

Oh and look at my trees - they’re budding and everything.  Alan Titchmarsh, moi.

So yesterday, then.  It was a pleasant enough day, which ended with a rather inebriated stagger around the garden.  Let me explain: I had to do my ‘popping to another country’ trick as Hubby’s Mate J (not to be confused with My Mate J) needed me to wait in for BT in his new flat while he was doing large wasp impressions up and down to Dublin.  So off I tootled to Northern Ireland, and very happy I was too.  Firstly, I love the journey.  It’s all blazing yellow gorse which looks like the hills are on fire, and lakes and cows and stuff, and secondly I love Northern Ireland. Nothing makes me happier than popping to a shop and paying with real pounds (snaffled from Hubby’s pockets every time he goes home).  Plus, Enniskillen has the largest Tesco in christendom which is good for upstocking (groceries are terribly expensive in Southern Ireland), and there’s a shopping centre containing such treasures as Next and Monsoon next door.  What’s not to love?

Even happilyer (ahem) when I got there, Mr BT was waiting.  A quick cup of tea, a brief read of OK Magazine (Jordan’s died her hair black, Posh and Becks went to a basketball game and Becks got papped checking out one of the cheerleaders’ arses, some bird from Corrie got married and Cheryl is considering taking Ashley back - there, you don’t have to buy it now) and he was done.  And yes, of course I had a nose round.  Well, you have to don’t you.  It’s a lovely flat: penthouse, dahling, with three bedrooms (master with balcony and stunning views), cream carpets, leather sofas, nice kitchen, wet towels on the bathroom floor (tsk, he’s such a boy) and more technology than you can shake a stick at.

When I’d finished poking about, I had a quick unintelligible chat with the BT man (I never have been able to understand that accent; it all sounds like ‘dirdledirdledirdle to me) who eventually got sick of me going ‘pardon?’ every five minutes and wandered off, and headed off to Tesco.  And there, joy of joys, I found Banrock Station’s Sparkling Shiraz is being discontinued (are they mad?) and was on special offer at half price!!  Hence the fact that I opened a bottle once the kids had gone to bed, and spent a happy evening in front of the TV.  The trouble is I had to take Bert out for his evening constitutional and once the fresh air hit me, I found myself feeling somewhat befuddled.  This manifested itself in a very ungainly stagger around the garden.  At one stage I walked straight into our potted Christmas tree (Bert walked straight into it too - and he calls himself a sighthound?).  I just hope D next door wasn’t looking out the window.  Tsk.  What a lush.

So Saturday night, then, we went to see Forgetting Sarah Marshall.  #1 had his mate over for the weekend and they were keen to see it, but I was a bit worried by the 15A rating it had been given.  Now before I get hate mail for being a bad mother (note: I already know!!), a swift search revealed that this means children under 15 should be accompanied by an adult and that it contains ’some comic sexual references’.  Meh, I thought, how bad could it be?  He’s a ten year old for goodness sake.  He’s seen the odd pair of boobs and had sex education classes.  He’s no stranger to a willy joke.  And anyway, most of these comedies with their fnar fnar implied rudeness go right over his head.

Anyhoo, we got settled in with our Maltesers and waited for the film to start.  I sat next to #2 in case I needed to quickly divert his attention from something comically sexual.  The cinema in Cavan is quite small but very nice and we were the only people in the film…on a Saturday night!  I was gobsmacked, but then I’m used to twelve screen multiplexes packed to the gunnels with teenagers throwing popcorn so it was a somewhat welcome change.

So, the film then.  Well, I won’t ruin it for you but basically Peter (played by Jason Segel - a very unappealing slob-like creature) is dumped by his CSI actress girlfriend, Sarah.  He goes on holiday to Hawaii to get over her and, who would have thought it, bumps into Sarah, with her new boyfriend, English rocker, Aldous Snow, played by the fabulous Russell Brand. 

I think my biggest complaint isn’t the comedy - there were some very funny moments - it’s the fact that there were enormously large gaps between anything funny.  Sadly, you had to wait so long for Peter to stop getting drunk, blubbing, moaning and basically boring us to death, that they lost half their comic value.  He then gets involved (unbelievably, because she’s gorgeous and he’s a big fat useless crybaby) with the receptionist at the hotel (played by the stunning Mila Kunis) and, well… you can watch it if you want to know the rest.

Russell Brand basically steals the show as the laid back rocker who reminded me SO much of Mad Uncle A it’s not true.  His one liners were fantastic, and his lazy Essex drawl somehow emphasised the fact that he wasn’t trying too hard.

Anyhoo, the boys liked it.  That is, the older boys liked it.  #2 wasn’t sure given that he’d missed half the film as my hands were clamped over his eyes.  Some comic sexual references my bottom.  I tell you, dearest reader, there was more gratuitous sex in the film than I’ve seen in a long time (ahem).  One scene shows Sarah Marshall giving her ex a blow job and while, admittedly, his back is to the camera, it’s pretty graphic, especially as she’s imploring him to ‘get hard for me baby’.  Hmmmm.  Another shows Aldous Snow showing a newly wed how to pleasure his wife by simulating sex with a giant chess piece (you had to be there, but it was dead rude).  Best bits…er…well, they were all Russell Brand really.  When he’s serenading Sarah in a hammock and he’s singing: ‘I’m on a hammock wiv me lady, watching the sea roll by.  Things are great now cos we’re in Hawaii’ is classic, but you need to imagine the accent.  And when he grudgingly wears an awful Hawaiian shirt she’s bought him and the waiter spills cranberry juice on it he deadpans: ‘oh no, not the shirt…take my eyes but not the shirt’.

Aw, okay.  Go and see it then.  It’s not three bad.  Just don’t take the kids.