The Friday photo: Edit – a challenge!
Okay then, seeing as we’re all enjoying looking at old photos so much – here’s a little challenge for you. Publish an old photo and tell us a little bit about it : the location/who’s in the photo/if you remember it being taken etc etc. If you have a blog you can publish it on there and link to me, otherwise email me at englishtowers@gmail.com and I’ll publish it on here. Off you go, then!
The Friday photo: more oldies (no nudies this time)
Ah, there’s a lot of girly squealing around English Towers at the moment. No, it’s not Hubby chopping the wood and missing, that was last week – it’s me Ma with the photos. From the same batch as the last lot, here’s me and the Disreputable one getting off the plane. I LOVE this - only DD would wear the full shiny buttoned blazer/sunglasses/shirt and tie ensemble to go on holiday. Mind you, he looks rather dashing (lovin’ those sideburns Dad dad daddyo):
And here’s Mad Uncle Alg in the same fancy dress party (but looking a lot less pleased about it):
And this is the one that caused all the hilarity. Look at Sensible Uncle I (although we really should think of a new name for him after the Lycheeni debacle at Christmas). Giddyup!:
And who says I’ve never been fashionable? Here’s me working the jumpsuit, years ahead of my time:
I’m loving this, Ma. Next!
English Mum in nude photo shocker!!!!!!
Ah, I wept tears of pure delight over the contents of me Ma’s email this morning. Check out these little beauties:
First up, then, is some sort of fancy dress party, and using my Inspector Morse-like skills, I would conclude that I’m Little Miss Muffet – seeing as I seem to be dangling a spider there on a string. Look at that beaming smile! Any other child would be seething at the indignity of it all but not me – centre of attention in a short skirt? I’m in.
And it’s a damn shame my hair didn’t stay that blonde – could have saved a fortune in highlights.
Next up we have ‘Jetsetter Mum’, striding off the plane as though it’s the family Lear, dahling. Lovely knee socks/pinafore ensemble, although I’m not so sure about the anorak. And look at the Disreputable one: blazer, slacks…shiny shoes… We sure knew how to travel.
Best ’til last, then, is this little gem. Ma – is this our house? Look at the kitchen! How quaint were we with our butler’s sink and our mixer taps! How ir0nically ‘Country Living’ of us! Actually, hang on, what are all those wires? Maybe me Ma was hell bent on electrocution?? Although I look quite happy. Bet that Sparkle’s a bit itchy on the old epidermis though.
Ahhh, happy days. And I really am still that cute. No, really. I am.
The sun’s shining again…
So, as you may or may not be aware, we had a little false start when we first moved over here… that is to say I had a little false start. Hubby had already moved over and we stayed behind to sort stuff out. When we finally moved it was Christmas and I missed my folks (yes, I know they’re all mental, but they’re MY mental family), and I’m ashamed to say I had a little wobble and fled back home leaving poor Hubby wondering quite what he was going to do with his new shiny job and newly empty house in a new and strange country. The biggest problem was the school they’d started at. It was a weird, shanty-town type affair with portakabins and strange rules such as no running in the playground and poor #2 was the only child in his class whose first language was English. Now I know that one has to fit in when one moves to another country, and I know that outlying areas of big cities like Dublin will always be multi-national in their communities, but battling a huge move, plus sitting in a class full of Polish, Latvian and Senegalese children and not being able to communicate was tough. And they hated it.
Oh, it’s okay, I came back. And when we did all come back we chose a nice, quirky, fun school for them to go to. It didn’t matter that it was an hour’s drive away at the time as we kind of planned to head north anyway (at the time we didn’t anticipate quite how far north, but that’s another story). And they loved it. They played cricket (in Ireland! Imagine!), learned Latin and embraced their inner quirkiness. Reader, it was a success.
And then everything changed. #1 left for ‘big school’, and slowly, gradually, #2′s smile seemed to fade (and #2′s is a huge and cheeky smile generally – it was like an eclipse…everything seemed darker). Dropping him off became a constant, draining treadmill of pleas, encouragement, bribery…anything just to persuade him out of the car (yes, I tried the rolling pin, but a bruised child is just as tough to move as a sparkly fresh one). It became clear that a couple of children in his class were, well, let’s just say they weren’t particularly friendly. I’d stop short at the term ‘bullying’ but there were a few little incidents…games that he couldn’t join…his beloved watch smashed while he played rugby… His writing was rubbish, he told me, and he wasn’t very good at football. And it played itself out in typical ‘I’m the parent so I’m entitled to interfere’ fashion: parents were talked to, desks were moved…you know the drill. Still, his confidence was ebbing away and things had to change.
Long story short, then… Monday morning saw #2 start at the local school. He’s in the same class as Lou-next-door and Big Lovely, starts at 9.30 and finishes just after 3. He can hardly believe it. It’s like a half day. And yesterday when he arrived home (walked all by himself – it must be all of..oooh…300 yards?) he’d had a lovely day. He rushed to do his homework (which he did painstakingly, joined-up) and went to research WW2.
And no, he’s not learning Latin, nor will he play cricket. But do you know what? He’s actually not bad at Gaelic Football, and at lunchtime he played basketball with Middle Lovely and there’s this pretty girl that sits a few rows in front of him….
And the sun’s out again. I can feel the glow reflecting off him.
So it’s mainly pink and chocolatey then…
So I know I didn’t win at the Blog Awards, but I’m not too disappointed, especially as two of my very favourite Irish bloggy mates won Best Personal blog (well done, Annie!!), and Best Food/Drink Blog (go Spudness!!) and sure, ’tis nice to be nominated anyway. If you voted my way then thanks, I’m absolutely humbled and delighted.
I’m feeling pretty shiny and happy anyhoo as I’ve been doing a spot of planning for our upcoming wedding blessing/vow renewal/anniversary-type-thingy (let’s not split hairs here, it’s a big piss-up with champagne and cake, and that’s what’s important). Today, over lemon roast chicken, mash and roasted parsnips, we had a little family brainstorming session:
Me: We need lots of colour, it’s a celebration: hot pink! Jade green, turquoise and bright orange!
#2: Chocolate!
Hubby: Champagne… and dancing
Me: Pink champagne
#1: And dancing… ooh, and linen suits – we could all wear linen suits, like on Miami Vice.
Me: And flowers – pink and orange flowers – and limey green foliage – ooh and swirly jewel coloured dresses!
#2: And lots of chocolate – a chocolate fountain!
Hubby: Doughnuts! Coffee and Krispy Kremes at midnight (to keep us going)
Me: Ooh yes. Diamonds! Okay, well sparkly stuff anyway… and Jimmy Choos!
Hubby: Erm…. (looks worried)… can you hire those?
#2: Did I mention chocolate?
Everyone: YES!
So that’s it, then. The hotel called me, and they’re fully booked already! And I can get planning. It’s basically lots of pink stuff, champagne, doughnuts and chocolate. Roll on September.
Parmesan chicken
So I sometimes think my little carpet monsters don’t know when they’ve got it good. Take last week: #2 went out shopping with D-next-door and seriously, dearest reader, you’d think he’d won the flipping lottery:
‘D gets curly fries! And chicken nuggets! And spicy wedges! And we walked straight past the fruit and veg without buying anything!! And we got chocolate fingers!’, all said in the breathless manner usually reserved only for conversations about Slash and Rooney.
‘But hang on’, says I, bristling somewhat, ‘you get lovely, fresh home-cooked food every day!’
‘Yes, but Lou and Little C get to eat curly fries! And nuggets from the freezer. Not like your ones’.
See what I have to put up with? D-next-door of course thinks all this is hilarious, but actually (with plenty of nagging coaching from me and Mrs Lovely) he doesn’t do too badly, and recently cooked leeks, LEEKS, I tell you. He was darned pleased with himself too. Anyhoo, digressing. So right, I thought, I’ll cook him nuggets and wedges, if that’s what he wants. I’ll just do them my way:
4 chicken breasts
2 slices stale bread (or crusts, whatever)
The nice heel bit left over from the parmesan (or a 2″ chunk)
1 egg
Splash of milk
Olive oil
Potatoes
Chilli powder
So first, preheat your oven to 200/gas 6 and cut the potatoes in half, then cut each half into three or four wedge shapes. Bung them into a pan of salted water and bring them to the boil.
Meanwhile, cut each of your chicken breasts into three or four pieces. Whizz the bread and parmesan together in the food processor until they’re crumby, then add a generous pinch of salt and a good grinding of pepper. Whisk up the egg with a splosh of milk and dunk each piece of chicken first in the egg, then toss in the cheesy breadcrumby stuff.
Drizzle some oil on a baking tray and put your coated chicken pieces on it. Drain the now-boiling potatoes, and spread them onto a second baking sheet. Drizzle with oil, sprinkle with salt, pepper and a generous pinch of chilli. Bung both trays in the oven and leave for 20-30 mins until both your potatoes and chicken are golden brown. The timing will of course depend on how big the pieces of chicken and potato are. You might have to put one to the bottom of the oven or whatever – you know the drill.
Serve with a nice green salad, or some buttered frozen peas and some sweet chilli sauce. Or mayo. Or both. Bung it on the table and pretend it’s Captain Birdseye’s. *Tsk*
The Friday photo: what a difference a week makes
So I wake up this morning (first one up, don’t you just love half term?) and walk outside with Bert, bracing myself, to be confronted by…sunshine. I’m a little shocked at first. What’s this? The sun on my face? I rush back upstairs and fling open the curtains to show Hubby. ‘Look! You can even see the windfarm through the mist!’
This was the same view less than a week ago:
And here’s a close-up of that skyline. And then I remember exactly why I love living here. Half an hour’s drive to Tesco? Pah. I’ll settle for it, in exchange for this view.
Oh, and the Friday Fridge? It’s over at Aussie’s house.
In which we learn all about secondary fluffage
Sunday night, then. We’re all sitting around watching Ross Kemp: Return to Afghanistan. Well, me and the kids are, Mad Uncle Ali and Hubby are having a little snooze after their heavy afternoon in the pundertakers. Suddenly the air becomes… erm… somewhat tainted.
#1: ‘Eewwwwwww. Who fluffed?’
Mad Uncle Ali: ‘Jesus, was that Bert? That one’s got bones in.’
Bert looks up, succeeds in looking both offended and mildly bored, and lies back down again.
#2: ‘Dad! You fluffed! That’s gross!’
Hubby (yawning): ’I didn’t fluff. Although I DID fluff a little while ago and it’s probably only just reached you.’
#1: ‘So you fluffed then, Dad. Take the shame.’
Hubby (adopting David Attenborough-type voice): ‘Technically, I think you’ll find that what actually occurred was a case of secondary fluffage. ’
#1 and #2 (snorting): ‘Secondary fluffage?!’
Hubby: ‘Let me explain’ (tents fingers scientifically): ‘you see, I’m over here in the colder part of the room, seeing as you lot are hogging the fire. The fire heats up air close to it, the warm air rises and travels across the ceiling, cools down, becomes more dense (cold air is denser than warm air), the air then sinks over here near me and begins to get drawn back towards the fire. Unfortunately, this air picks up any stray fluffage and propels it to those sitting nearest the fire, ie: you. Capische?’
#1 and #2: ‘Ohhhhhhhh right.’
Ali: *blinks*
Me: ‘You get used to it. Be grateful you’re not here for too long or you’ll be talking like that too’.
Ali: *blinks again*. ‘Secondary fluffage. Nice.’
One for the road?
So Mad Uncle Alg is over for the weekend and Friday saw the fellas head off to the pub to… erm… wet the baby’s head, as it were. Hubby, who has learned by painful experience that a night in the pundertakers (especially with D-next-door and Galway C) can lead to symptoms including severe loss of memory, headaches and how-the-bloody-hell-did-I-get-home-itis, rang me at midnight and asked for a lift home. Happily, I was still awake (on Facebook – sad, aren’t I) so I nipped down to get him and Mr Lovely, who had work in the morning servicing Dublin’s good citizens (shame on you, he’s a fireman).
Mad Uncle Alg, on the other hand, had been persuaded by D-next-door (unequalled beer monster), and a couple of the others, to stay put and have ‘one for the road’.
‘Oh dear’, said I, does he realise that one for the road means at least another four?
‘Not sure’, said Hubby, ‘but he seemed on good form’.
And so it came to pass that Mad Uncle Ali staggered in at around 2am after partaking of a little too much of Ireland’s legendary hospitality (and rather a lot of vodka, too).
No matter, he was dead perky in the morning – even going for a run (‘everyone waves at you round here – I spent half my run bloody waving’). Saturday evening we decided to stay in. We watched a film (The Heartbreak Kid, completely unsuitable and #2 spent most of it with people’s hands over his eyes) and Uncle Alg was glued to his Facebook page and his mobile, which seems to beep and buzz more or less continuously with messages from women.
‘Corrrr’, he said to his small nephew at one stage, ‘do you want to see a picture that this hottie has just sent me?’
‘Erm, maybe not’, says I, stepping in before #2 comes face to face with some bird in her drawers.
Sunday, then, saw them all go out for a run (#1 was not impressed and had to keep stopping to have a bit of a dry heave – he’s a Playstation man, not an outdoorser and was practically in tears by the time they got back), then it was back to the pub to watch the footie. I got the dinner on, then went to pick them up after the match. Galway C , who I can’t understand – it must wind him right up that I say ‘pardon’ to absolutely everything he says – and his lovely wife, C, were there by then, plus Mrs Lovely and T the mechanic with his wife G (‘we had oysters last night. They didn’t work’).
‘One for the road, Alg?’ says D
‘Why not’, says Alg. They’re all laughing, the buggers, and I head back off home to turn off the dinner. They could well be some time…
The Friday fridge photo: Grandad’s liquid diet and Bert’s bits
Okay, so this Friday’s fridge photo is from the wise ol’ web wizard himself, Grandad. I can see why he shoots so many tourists – that kind of diet would make anyone grouchy!
Oh, and for the Bert fan club, here’s Bert last night on the sofa, doing his best ‘porno’ pose. Enjoy, girls!
