Greyhound or Tasmanian Devil? You decide.
So yesterday, Hubby and I decided to consult our greyhound guru, lovely M the trainer, top greyhound geezer and keeper of that most wondrous of hounds, Irish Sprinter of the Year, Johnny Gatillo. First surprise was that Mrs M (hello L!) reads the blog. I love it when I hear that people visit me in dotcom land occasionally, but I was especially pleased to hear that Mrs M drops in as she’s very cool (runs her own beauty business from an amazing wooden log-cabin type building on their land) and rather beautiful. And you know I’m a sucker for the well-groomed. Anyhoo, digressing. So M had a look at the pics and was, frankly, undecided. The colour could be right, but maybe she was a bit broad across the head? No ear tattoos, but then she looks too young anyway. He promised to have a look when she’s older and I got feeding/flea (‘what do you mean, Head & Shoulders won’t do it?’ ‘Nope, your fleas just won’t have dandruff’)/worm (ew) advice and a good slagging for being a greyhound snob: ‘you’re like Hyacinth Bucket – you should call it Sheridan’. But look at her (admittedly blurry) head in this pic that #1 took (don’t, by the way, look at me – I’d just got up). It’s very greyhoundy, isn’t it?
Anyway, the small furry yobbo continues to rule the roost, although after thoroughly pissing Bert off yesterday by using him as a climbing frame, he finally snapped and issued a loud, growly ‘rururur!’ telling-off, which frightened the pants off her and sent her scuttling backwards across the kitchen (see, he really is brave after all).
Puddles of piddle continue to be an occupational hazard (thank Gordon for slate floors) and house-training is somewhat hampered by the fact that all she wants to do is chew her lead, chase flies or fall asleep on the grass. Still, early days.
Uh oh, here comes trouble…
Honestly, I don’t know how it happened. One minute Jen was telling us about the little scrap that a lovely paramedic (hello Willie!!) found wandering alone on the Curragh and brought back to the station house, and next thing, #2 and I are whizzing down to meet Jen at Maynooth (‘oops, shit – did that turning say Blanchardstown? Quick, u-turn!!’) to pick up our new foster baby.
And don’t let that cute little face fool you. So far, she’s emitted more…er…emissions than you can shake a stick at, vandalised my sofa, dangled from my curtains, dragged several pairs of trainers into her bed and traumatised poor Bert into submission. She loves, adores and worships Bert, who, for his part, is denying her existence completely - even yesterday when she was hanging happily by her razor sharp puppy teeth from his bottom lip – she’s just not there, okay?
As for the name? Well, Lou and I quite liked Aussie’s suggestion of Bella, but Hubby and the smalls didn’t. So then we went round the houses:
‘Lily? ‘
Nah.
‘Rosie?’
No.
‘Daisy?’
No.
‘Billie?’
Oooh we quite like that.
‘Onion?’ (everyone turns to #1 with a ‘don’t be silly’ expression)
Nope.
‘Pinot? Merlot? Moet!’
Nope.
‘Ow! F*cker!’
Er…we certainly can’t call her that.
‘Morgan? Stella?’ (Hubby and I are getting into the alcoholic names now)
Nah.
‘Butter?’ (#1 again).
No.
‘Marge?’
Too Simpsons.
‘AJ?’
Too Disreputable.
So anyway, she’s ‘Thing’ or ‘The Puppy’ at the moment. Watch this space.
In which #2 seeks the Holy Grail of all Stratocasters
So, my house is slowly filling up with guitars. In the office/music room/throw-any-old-shit-that-you-can’t-be-arsed-to-put-away room there are guitar stands everywhere; the bedrooms are littered with guitars, there are amps, wires and foot pedals all over the bloody place, and yet they come.
Last Saturday, then, found us once again in our spiritual home: our local guitar shop. They’re always terribly welcoming and friendly in there (nothing to do with the fact that we’ve probably paid their mortgage in there for the last two years). #2 has been saving hard for a guitar for rather a surprisingly long time. It’s been tough going: he’s lusted after Xbox games, drooled over flat screen TVs, coveted sparkly white Adidas trainers, but no. His determination has seen him through. So we’d annoyed the lovely people there to death, plugged in various amps, played 17 million gazillion different riffs (‘Stairway to Heaven’, anyone?), twiddled with buttons and even had a sneaky play on a couple of drum kits… and then it happened: nestling quietly in the corner is nothing other than (queue angelic choral music) THE GUITAR OF HIS DREAMS!!!! The Fender Stratocaster in cream!!! Just like on Wayne’s World (remember the scene when he ogles it on the stand in the guitar shop?: ‘It will be mine. Oh, yes — It will be mine’). Okay it’s second hand, but it’s perfect and tantalisingly close to little #2′s budget and I can feel his hands sweating as he finally gets his mitts on the object of his affections. Trouble is, it’s still too much money. ‘Ah’, says Smiley Friendly Guitar Bloke, ‘but we’ve got a sale on next week, and if you’re one of the first fifty in the queue, you get put in a draw for this Gibson Les Paul too’.
And so it came to pass that we were out of bed and away from English Towers before the bloody rabbits (note to self: must get a gun) this morning to get down there to join the line of other hopefuls (we were twelfth – not bad eh?). It’s been a tense week – what if it’s sold before I get there? What if I still can’t afford it? But happily, opening time finally came, and stomachs rumbling (damn you, McDonalds – not opening until 9am on a Saturday?) we rushed upstairs to the guitar section to find #2′s beautiful Strat not only still there but IN THE SALE!
Long story short then, the Strat is ours, #2 is immensely happy, and yes, we got in the draw for the Les Paul. Fingers crossed, then, and as Mad Uncle A would say: ‘rock and roll!’.
The Friday Photo: Happy Birthday Bertilicious!
So today’s FP is dedicated to that most wondrously lazy and patchily hirsute of individuals, the Bertmeister, aka Burpy, the Biffer, Biff Sniff, Sir Biffington Sniffington, Bishous, Mumma’s bubby (sorry), the fella, the geezer, yer wan, that f*cking dog!!!, and any number of other stupid nicknames depending on how loved up we’re all feeling and whether he’s nicked one of your trainers and you really, really need to go out in a hurry.
‘Tis a glorious thing for a greyhound to be retired to a comfy sofa rather than being, er, retired in a completely different, somewhat euphemistic way. I’m a realist, and let’s face it, people aren’t exactly queuing up to adopt a retired greyhound, and there’s a serious glut, which is a shame as they’re rather good company. And for a greyhound quite as utterly, totally, completely, thoroughly, uselessly rubbish at racing as Bert was to have lived to have seen his fourth birthday is practically a miracle. Thanks, Jen.
Once, when we were at the races, I remember #1 asking someone how long greyhounds live. ‘Hmmm’, came the answer, ‘depends how good they are’.
So here’s wishing the gangling, clumsy great duffer a happy fourth birthday. He might be shite at racing, but he always seems to get to the sofa first. Bless.
C’s vegetable soup
So I often get emails asking after Little C and Lou. D battles cheerfully on, holding down a full time job as well as combining Mum/Dad duties at home. It’s now, unbelievably, nearly two months since their Mum died and with the added childcare pressures of the summer holidays, it’s a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust.
Happily, Little C and Lou are cheerful, muck-in with everybody kind of chaps, so it’s no hardship to have an extra couple of smalls about during the hols. There are obviously stumbling blocks (I for one feel very weird if I ever have to tell them off), but D also has a lot of support from his wonderful family, so nobody ever feels overwhelmed. One problem I do have is with food. Little C, like #2, is not a big eater, and finding something that everyone will eat can sometimes be a struggle. I’d never be one to force kiddies to eat stuff they don’t like, but I’m not going to let them eat Nutella sandwiches, either. Happily, with her usual forward planning and attention to detail, C left behind a folder of recipes; everything from how to make mashed potato to how to roast a joint is explained perfectly and, sitting in D’s kitchen the other day flicking through them, I noticed this little beauty. And do you know what? It was hoovered up by everyone – even the veg-phobic Little C.
1 tbsp olive oil
2 litres stock
1 onion
1 celery stalk
2 carrots
1/2 swede
1 parsnip
Handful frozen peas
Couple of handfuls red lentils
So heat your olive oil in a large heavy based pan, and chuck in your chopped onion and celery, sprinkle with salt, then fry gently until translucent. Then add your stock (either defrosted chicken stock, or made with cubes – whatever), and finally chuck in all your chopped vegetables and the lentils. Bring to the boil and let it bubble away for a good half hour or more until all the veggies are soft.
Whizz in the blender until completely smooth and serve with plenty of warm cheese bread.
Good ol’ C, eh?
In which Jen and I are the oldest rockers in town
So yesterday, then. Early in the year, Lubly Auntie Jen had purchased Linkin Park tickets for the RDS in Dublin. Not exactly enamoured with the idea, but swept away by Madam’s enthusiasm (railroaded, moi?) and wishing to protect our offspring, we naturally had to go with them. Queue several months of worry, planning and plotting and plenty of ‘ooh, only [insert timescale here] to go’.
Yesterday dawned hideously rainy and windy (sign of things to come, perchance?) and I managed to borrow D-from-next-door’s sat nav (‘It’s completely foolproof, honest’ *worrying pause* ‘er…I’m sure you’ll be fine’). To be honest, I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse, but actually it wasn’t too bad. There was plenty of girly squealing when we got into the centre of Dublin:
‘Look, Mum, I can see the Liffey!’
‘Don’t talk to me, I’m concentrating! Arrrrggghhh!’
and Mrs Tomtom-sat-nav-woman was blasting ‘filter left here’ then ‘prepare to turn right here’ instructions at me, but we made it in one piece to the parking area. Phew.
A rather long queue in the rain followed, but Jen and I rather enjoyed the people watching (‘tartan leggings with those thighs? Uh uh’). #2 was my biggest worry, seeming rather teeny for an event populated by a scarily large amount of mohicans and piercings, but most were very friendly. We eventually got in, and after the warm-up acts, one of which, Coheed and Cambria, was quite good, although not really my cup of cha, and one of which, Queens of the Stone Age, the sound seemed very poorly engineered and we could hardly make out what the poor guy was singing. We could certainly feel the baseline, though, which was a big thump-thump-thump in our chests.
Anyhoo, finally Linkin Park came on, the crowd went wild, and we actually got into it a little bit. Jen and I took turns to have #2 on our backs (needing traction this morning, though) and I even recognised a couple of songs. The second half of their set was by far the best. By that time we’d moved to a less crowded area to the side (it wasn’t actually that packed), so we could all see the stage and the big screens well, and more recognisable songs came on. We were even taken by a small, far too ancient urge to dance about a bit. Shocking.
Gripes: mainly the fact that alcohol is served and several silly arses seem to want to pay extortionate amounts for a ticket, then spend the concert completely incoherent, staggering annoyingly around being a nuisance. Also that people were allowed to smoke. Not only is it bloody annoying to be inhaling someone’s icky smoke, but frankly, dancing with a lit cigarette is asking to take someone’s eye out (oh, hark at me, I’m turning into my mother).
Highlights: ‘What I’ve Done’, an awesome track; watching the kids dancing around and singing all the words until they were hoarse.
Biggest bummer: having to drive all the way home and not getting back until 1am as Mrs Tomtom decided to drive us all round County Meath by the scenic route.
Chances of us ever doing it again: slim to zero, but hey, me sprogs deserved a treat. That’s not to say that if I could choose the concert I wouldn’t go… who would you go and see live??
Hubby’s Evil Chilli Couscous
So last night we all sat down for a nice family meal to celebrate the end of term/prizes/the promise of good reports to come (#2 looked slightly green at the mention of those), etc. I made little meatballs with my lamb kebab mixture, which I baked in the oven, along with some of #1′s famous tomato sauce.
Hubby, generally a stranger to the kitchen (unless there’s scrambling of eggs or anything to do with chillis) contributed this exceptionally good couscous recipe (well, come on, couscous is hardly cooking, to be fair).
8oz couscous
1/2 pint chicken stock
4 tbs olive oil
1 tbs sultanas (or very finely chopped dried apricots would be good, I think)
Couple of sliced spring onions
1 tbs chopped flat leaf parsley
2 tbs chopped mint
4 tbs good olive oil
2 small finger chillis, deseeded and finely chopped (Hubby used 6 and we’re still breathing fire)
Salt and pepper to season
So once your meatballs (or whatever you’re eating this with) are nearly cooked, put the couscous in a bowl along with the sultanas and pour over the hot stock. Stir, then cover the bowl with cling film or a plate or somethng and leave for five minutes. Meanwhile, heat your oil in a pan and bung in your very finely chopped chillis. Swirl around so that the chillis release their oil, then you can turn it off. After five minutes, when the couscous has absorbed the stock and the sultanas are all plump and lubly, fork the couscous through to fluff it up and pour over your chilli oil. Add the chopped herbs and spring onions, season to taste and if you want to go mad, serve with a little sprinkling of chopped pistachios.
Enjoy. Oh, and an added bonus is that you get lovely minty burps afterwards. See, not only do I provide you with lubly recipes, but you get fragrant indigestion into the bargain.
Goodbye carefree childhood, hello teenage angst
So I think I’ve said before that the school the children attend is a good old fashioned Irish preparatory school. They have boarders, and Matrons, and get to play in the woods and have proper lunch and cricket and rugby and stuff. #1 has spent two happy years there and today was his last day. He was tremendously sad, although this was slightly offset by being allowed to stay over yesterday for the leavers’ party, which seemed to include a day out to some mad place where they did ‘bog jumping’ (yes, really, in a peat bog – he still has it under his nails), an assault course, a proper outdoor barby (‘I had a burger…and a hotdog with loads of onions…ooh, and some really nice marinated chicked…ooh, and lemonade…’) and then back to the school for a specially arranged late night swim in the outdoor pool (a lovely detail was that the staff on duty used their car headlights to light the pool for them) and very little sleep afterwards, no doubt. This was a wonderful, memory-building last night for #1 and his friends, something they’ll no doubt tell their children about.
So it was with a certain melancholy that we took our places in the beautiful hall (I especially love it that one of the paintings shows a magnificent greyhound) for #1′s very last Prizegiving Day. Well, there were prizes for this and prizes for that, and I have to admit I’d kind of zoned out a bit and then… hang on, was that #1′s name I heard? Yes! And I could see him weaving his way up to the front to receive The Senior Music Prize, no less. I could see #2′s face all smiley and proud as he clapped double hard for his big brother. And then, shortly after, once again to receive The Latin Prize!!! Afterwards, breathless and red faced, he came rushing up clutching a distinction certificate for History too. Not to be outdone, #2 got a certificate for swimming – he is just coming up to his senior three years now, so I can see there’ll be some healthy competition on the prize front in years to come.
So on to senior school, then. Many new challenges ahead. And honestly? This school’s been the making of him (and continues to do a great job with #2). They arrived, uncertain in a new country and frankly unhappy to be joining a new school, and he leaves a confident, happy, sunny teenager. He’s still our mad professor, but he’s taller. And more argumentative. Happy days.
The Friday Photo: And they say romance is dead?
So he’s mowing the lawn and he rushes into the house and says ‘there’s something wrong with the lawn, you’d better go upstairs and look’.
‘Hmph’, says D over the fence from next door later. ‘Should’ve drawn her a hoover’.
In which the Hubster shoots the house martins…
…with a camera, we’re not that bad.
So we continue to be pestered to within an inch of our lives by the House Martin Hoodies. Poor Bert lives in permanent fear of being divebombed mid-pee in the garden, and hanging out washing (the whirly is by the garage door) has become seriously dangerous territory. Walking past the garage the other day I was attacked so mercilessly and squawkily I nearly fetched me tennis racquet. Hubby couldn’t resist having a cheeky peek in the nest just to see if there really were babies in there, and yes, teeny fluffy hoodies are being groomed for thuggery right there in our garage. The final straw, though, the pièce de résistance if you will, was when the lounge window was open at the weekend and one of the little buggers actually flew in through the open window and buzzed me as I sat at my desk. Being a big cowardly girl I sat and screamed until the boys plus their very brave mate came and rescued the bloody thing and threw it back outside. And it pooed on my desk too, the little f*cker.
Jeez. I’m renaming English Towers the Hammer House of House Martin. Be afraid.
