Trick or treat, hoody styley

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Well, we had a right laugh tonight. #1 was the scary murderer out of Scream, #2 was a vampire (complete with Day-Glo white face, false pointy teeth, dripping blood and flappy cape), L from next door was the most fabulous Corpse Bride, complete with the most beautiful hand-made ragged dress (all home made) and black-rimmed eyes, and Little C was a wonderful glow in the dark skeleton. We made quite a little trick or treat troupe, I can tell you. Oh, and Bertie was ‘bat dog’ with authentic-looking bat-wings sellotaped to his black doggy coat.

Blimey, though, people do Halloween properly here. C and I drove the kids to the more isolated places (some people do up their houses and only get a couple of visitors so it’s polite to make an effort) and then walked round to the rest. One lady had her entire house decorated, with her porch completely wrapped in cobwebs and a loudhailer spouting spooky music. Another had her hall decorated as a huge spider’s web, complete with giant spider on the ceiling. C and I felt a little outdone and vowed to try harder next year, whilst secretly plotting a commando Christmas display of lights that you’ll be able to see from Mars. Anyhoo, they all got a nice bag-load of booty and we finally made it home for drinks and nibbles whilst watching a fellow neighbour’s highly illegal firework display.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. ‘Aaarrrgghh’, screeched #2, ‘teenagers!’. I opened the door to be confronted by 5 or 6 hoodies who’d made no effort at all at dressing up. The conversation went like this:

Me: ‘What have you come as, then?’
Them: ‘Gangsters’
Me: ‘Hmmm very scary. Lucky for you I’ve got a few lollies left’
The hoodies then grab handfuls of lollies and start walking down the drive.
Me: ‘Em… I think you mean thank you’
Them: ‘Yeah, thanks. We won’t burn your house down then’.

Oh. Well that’s a bonus. Happy Halloween.

Xmas cancelled due to budgetary constraints

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So I’m a bit of a whiz on the ol’ Microsoft Money. I like knowing where every little penny (or cent, sorry) of our money has gone and I’ll often be found sobbing fat tears of despair onto the keyboard come the 30th of the month. I’ve just found a great new thing on there called ‘Budget Planner’. Basically it’ll set you up a budget, taking all your average spending (or letting you set your own limits) and then giving you a computery smack on the wrist if you exceed it. I like it: a virtual naughty chair for spendaholics and it’s just what we need. So I set to work slaving over my budget. It’s actually very good because it won’t let you be silly and just allocate, say, thirty quid for hair care. It’ll remind you, in very much the same way as J does when I talk rubbish (ahhh, the ‘best friend talking some damned good sense into you’ chat), that you actually spent 120 Euro on your last haircut, and to stop being such a fibber.

Oh dear, though, it seems that currently our outlook is somewhat less than rosy. For example, here’s the good news: if we’re really good, we’ll be able to buy food again next Thursday. Oh, but the bad news is that if we want to buy heating oil every three months either the dog’ll have to go without food (noooooo!) or the petrol budget will mean that we can only take the kids to school once a week (hmmm…kids or dog…tough one.) So heating oil will have to be four monthly in order for me to have an empty house during school hours plus a happily full-up greyhound sans rumbly tummy.

Still, cheer up, people, it’s not all doom and gloom. At the rate I’m going, I’m currently set to retire when I’m 97 and therefore won’t have need of pension payments in my budget. Bonus.

Don’t mess with the Bertmeister

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Well, wonders will never cease. I’ve got some exciting news to report: Bertie’s morphed into a ‘dog that cares’. Yes, yes, I mean, I know he cares about dinners and walks and wags his tail when we get home and everything, but greyhounds aren’t generally known for their outlandish displays of devotion. Okay, he sleeps across Hubby and me on the sofa but this is actually a calculated and selfish means to a comfy warm bed whilst getting your ears scratched, rather than actual affection. It could be an axe wielding homicidal maniac on the sofa, and he’d still lick his ears, we fear.

Last night then, we graced the local Pumpkin Festival which came to a spectacular climax with fireworks over the loch (which I missed because I was on the way back from the airport, but hey, I got there in time to go to the chippy) with C, D, L and Little C (who was a star in the parade but don’t mention it EVER AGAIN, OKAY?). When we came back, Hubby and D decided to go down the pub to carry on the festivities, seeing as it’s Halloween Bank Holiday today (yep, they have a day off especially for Halloween!). Bertie was not impressed that one of his family wasn’t in their proper position come bedtime and paced annoyingly up and down the hall like some furry Sergeant Major inspecting his troops. I finally fell asleep but was woken at 3am by a noise that sounded a bit like an embarrassed cough: ‘humph’. Then another: ‘hruff’ and finally a full blown but very tiny ‘woof’. I sat bolt upright. Firstly because it was 3am and I realised that the bed next to me was still empty, but secondly and more importantly, this was the first time that Bert had ever barked in anger. A real bark! My baby!

Anyhoo, it turned out that he was barking at a very tired but remarkably sober Hubby who was walking up the drive, obviously looking menacingly burglar-like and Bertie had taken it upon himself to clear his throat and for the first time ever, protect his family. Well, dear reader, I was touched. And not a little emotional, I can tell you.

This morning, Hubby was well impressed that Bert had taken it upon himself to be family defender in his absence. Who’d have thought eh? Behind that silly face, cute floppy ears and those balding, gangly legs, there’s a scary guard dog just waiting to get out. Well, kind of.

Mini Fruit Soda Breads

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So we’ve got a house-load this weekend. Me Mam’s over with my twin niece and nephew (The Fleas). The house has echoed to the sounds of thudding little feet, MarioKart wars, raucous laughter and (occasionally) indignant argument. Cries of ‘I’m hungry!’, ‘ow, get off!’, ‘it’s my turn!’ fill the air, and I’ve yet to sleep in past 7am (6am this morning with the clocks going back).

But it’s lovely to see them and fantastic for my two as they miss them loads. So this morning we had a huge, final breakfast with croissants, pains au chocolat, baguettes and these yummy little fruit soda breads, adapted from Rachel Allen’s recipe which I must have tried ten times and just couldn’t get to work for some reason.

1lb (450g) plain flour
1tsp salt
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
25g sugar
100g sultanas
1 egg
350 - 400ml buttermilk (or just sour some normal milk with juice of ½ lemon)

So first, whack your oven on as high as it’ll go and weigh out your dry ingredients. Make sure you sieve the flour, salt, and bicarbonate of soda really well. If you don’t, little bits of soda will show up in your finished scones as green lumps. Not very appetising. Then stir in the sugar and sultanas.

Crack the egg into a jug and give it a whisk, then add your buttermilk (or if you’re not using buttermilk, remember to add the lemon juice to the milk), topping it up to about 400ml altogether. You might need a bit extra but I never do.

Pour the milk mixture bit by bit into the flour, stirring with a fork. You’ll probably find you won’t need all the liquid but that’s fine as you can use it to glaze them at the end. It’s a bit messy but be patient as it’ll come together into a nice soft dough. Turn out on a floured board and pat into a big flat squareish shape. Cut into 9 or 12 or whatever, depending on how big you want them. Brush with the leftover milk mixture and sprinkle with crunchy brown sugar.

Stick your little soda breads on a baking tray (non stick preferably) and bake them on the high setting for about eight minutes (I had to turn mine round half way through as my oven doesn’t cook very evenly). Then after the eight minutes turn them down to about 200 (gas 6) for the last five or six minutes. Watch them just in case as the smaller the buns the less time they’ll need. They’ll sound hollow when you tap them if they’re done.

Serve warm with lots of butter to melt into them and enjoy the (brief) silence.

Where do you blog?

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Okay, so Mrs Isitjustme wants to know where we all do our internetting. Here’s the desk and dog for your delectation. Not sure what the wipes are doing there but the rest is just general crap. So now, next time you’re reading my endless stream of drivel, you can picture me and Bert sitting in our little dark hovel.

Large greyhound squeezed into impossibly small chair: courtesy of Abhaile Greyhounds
Computer: courtesy of Dell
Printer: Hewlett Packard
Baby wipes: Tesco Value
Mug: Emma Bridgewater
Handcream: Nivea
Trailing wires: courtesy of Eircom who wouldn’t put an extra socket in. Thanks, guys.

Where do you do the deed, then?

Lunchtime lipo. I’m in.

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Remember those ghastly plastic surgery programmes where the surgeon has got that ENORMOUS canula thingy and he’s raking it up and down inside the flabby person’s stomach like he’s digging for potatoes or something, and the horrible suction machine is filling up with all that oozy yellow fat? Bleeuurrrggghh. Well, there’s a real flurry of advertising here in Ireland for this new procedure which is sort of like liposuction ‘lite’. And ok, although I’m pretty normal size, I’m alarmed to say I’ve noticed a tendency to muffin-ness in the abdominal region. I have to say if the Euro Fairy visits me in the night tonight (that, or if ma hoond, the Doofus, comes in fast at Dundalk) I’ll be signing on the dotted line.

So get this: it’s done under local anaesthetic, they insert this fibre optic laser thingy into the skin (yes okay it’s a canula, but a teeny weeny one, not that tent pole they usually use) and the laser zaps your unwanted flab which is then reabsorbed into the body gradually over the next few weeks. Yes I know it’s still surgery and yes I know it’s vain and unnecessary yada yada, but if someone said ‘hey, give us a couple of grand and I’ll make your fat disappear’ you’d probably offer to sleep with them as well as handing over your dosh. Or is that just me?

Talking of Isitjustme, she’s currently explaining to me in words of one syllable how to do stomach crunches. She reckons 100 a day should do it. Watch this space.

The Incredible Foldable Greyhound

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Right, so we’ve decided. The downstairs room that was going to be a kind of ’boutique hotel room’ thingy (for this read ‘office with a bed in’) has been kicked into touch. This was partly because we can’t afford to get an en suite put in, and partly because I thought it would be a bit dodgy to knock on my guest’s door and ask to use my desk when I got a sudden urge to blog at 11.30pm.

So we’ve moved the bed upstairs to the spare room. The upshot of this is that Bertie can no longer sprawl on the bed while I’m blogging (another reason I wanted to move it - I thought he would get too used to sleeping on the bed and try and hop in when guests were using it). He’s a bit of a people-dog, our Bert, and doesn’t like to be in one room when we’re in another. He was mighty disgruntled, then, when he ambled in after me only to discover that his usual comfy spot had disappeared. He walked out, walked back in, sniffed the (rather small) chair next to my desk, walked back out again, then, having finally made his mind up, stepped gingerly up onto the chair and proceeded to do at least three very tentative 360s before he could get all his unfeasibly spindly legs tucked underneath his bony body. He seems comfy enough but looks can be deceiving. He might just be stuck.

By the way, can you see that his little bald thighs have finally got a teeny sprinkling of bum fluff? How cute is that. He’ll be furry by Christmas I bet.

Oh, and thanks to Isitjustme for this link. Apparently I’m a PG13 because I said ‘sexy’ four times, ‘slap’ twice and ‘crap’ once. I’m sure I’ve said shit a couple of times too. Ah well.

Proper Irish Brown Bread

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Now I’ll confess I have a tendency to fiddle with recipes. Usually this is just a personal taste thing, or sometimes it can be because they’ve got too many ingredients and I can’t be arsed to put them all in. This time it’s because I live in the middle of bloody nowhere and couldn’t actually find some of the ingredients. The original recipe from my mate 73 (he adds 3 tbsp bran and 2 tsp wheat germ, as well as the odd handful of nuts or seeds) is linked here and is incredibly good so please try it out. Here’s my pared down tinkered-about-with version of Mr 73′s proper Irish brown bread which we scoffed, in its entirety about 5 seconds after it came out of the oven

300g coarse brown flour
200g plain white flour
½ tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1 tbsp black treacle
450 - 500ml milk

Put all the dry ingredients into a bowl and mix thoroughly. Add the black treacle then enough milk to combine into a lovely pasty mess.

Butter a loaf tin then bake in a pre-heated oven for 20 minutes at gas 6 (200º), then another hour at gas 3 (170º).

It’s a testament to the simplicity of this recipe that one of my kids turned the oven off by accident half way through cooking. When I discovered, I quickly turned it back on and it still came out perfect. It makes a beautiful, moist, dense loaf, which is crying out for a thick covering of butter and some really good jam. Nice one, 73.

Cold AND unappreciated grrrrr

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I’m SO cold that I’m actually struggling to type this morning. I hate being cold, it makes me really grumpy. My nails have gone blue and my nose is red. Oh no, I’m not expecting any sympathy, Hubby and I let the bloody heating oil run out. In our defence, we’re used to gas central heating, which takes no more maintenance than an ability to pay the bill at the end of the month. All this putting your wellies on, squelching across the garden, hopping up on to the concrete ledge bit, undoing the lid and peering into the stinky gloom to see how much oil there is left is, frankly, beyond us. I’ve spent a large portion of this morning swearing a lot and standing under the shower trying to get warm. It did work but when I finally got out you could have picked the icicles off me. Nasty.

Last night was okay because we had a big roaring fire going in the unfeasibly expensive new fireplace. Hubby had a mate round and while they talked about man stuff (I try to join in but then there’s just this high pitched whistle while I watch their lips move) I spent a very contented half hour or so snuggled up in front of the flames with a nice glass of Hardy’s talking to J on the phone about all sorts of stuff, but mostly about why men take us for granted (yes, I know, another bloke vs woman thing). It’s true, though. J mentioned to C that a chap at work had asked her out. ‘Ha’, replied C, ‘he’s welcome to you’. No, no, no. You see, this is entirely the wrong response (just for future reference, C). The correct answer should not have been accompanied by any snorting laughter and should have been more along the lines of ‘what?’ (in suitably horrified tone of voice) ‘Another man interested in my darling? Well you can tell him you’re well and truly taken with a man who loves you with a fierce passion and who would fight to the death for you’. This reminded me of the incident when that Garda gave me his telephone number and Hubby nearly wet himself laughing. Not exactly the most flattering of responses, especially when you know how much time men actually spend checking out other women. 73 Man calls it the ‘male public gaze’, although maintains that sometimes it’s actually involuntary. You know the thing, when they surreptitiously (or not) check out the view as a fit girl walks past them in the street. It’s kind of like the subtler version of the ol’ builders-on-a-scaffold wolf whistle.

Anyhoo, Hubby’s (single) mate, J, heard me telling my J that I could walk around butt naked all day and Hubby wouldn’t even notice. He thought this was very funny and said ‘that’s why I’m never getting married’. ‘Ah’, says I, sagely, ‘but at least I don’t have to do all that excruciating dating stuff any more, and I do still get lucky occasionally’. Oops, too much information.

Ghost Whisperer

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Is anyone else totally obsessed with this programme? Tuesday nights we scrabble around trying to get the kids in bed so we can be sat in front of the TV by 9pm. If you haven’t seen it, it stars the fantastic (and thoroughly gorgeous) Jennifer Love Hewitt as Melinda Gordon, a girly who can see dead people and helps them sort out their unfinished business so they can ‘cross over’ (or something). Anyway, it’s not all the ghosty stuff that interests me most, although the stories are generally quite good, it’s JLH’s wardrobe which is AMAZING!

She’s not one of these size zero girls, which is thoroughly refreshing, and dresses to show off her amazing curves. She’s obviously got a very creative (and quirky) stylist and although there’s been some shockers (black net skirt with biker boots à la Avril Lavigne) generally she looks stunning. Last night she had this lovely low-cut top on with some great jeans and in the scene when she went to bed, she actually took it off too - Hubby nearly had heart failure.

Check it out if you get the chance, girls - for the fashion if not for the fiction. Oh and for the boys, well, just look at the pics - need I say more?

Bloke Stuff

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So 73 Man, one of my favourite bloggers, recently pointed out that ‘…I can hold a table full of people’s attention on the matter of effective household composting but fail to recognise in others how they might be feeling’. This, I pointed out, just made him male and was nothing to be ashamed of. I can go a whole day with a right cob on and Hubby won’t notice at all. Isn’t it weird, though, that we wish our other halves to notice when we’re annoyed or upset without actually having to point it out?

Bertie fell down the stairs last night (he got up from his bed on the landing and had a shake while standing too close to the top stair - a recipe for disaster) and once I’d checked he was okay and got back in to bed I found myself wide awake. I laid there thinking about a good few things, including the above, and perfected a little list of stuff that’s wholly and unashamedly male (in our house, not nationally), and not wanting to poke fun at our opposite number I’ve added a number of female ones too.

Bloke stuff:

Phones. ‘Your phone just beeped’: Hubby always has his phone on him and can hear an incoming text message from several miles away. I sometimes lose my phone for a whole day and often retrieve text messages that are 24 hours or more old.

Smells. ‘What’s that funny smell?’: every male member of my household catches a whiff of something approximately every five minutes. #1 adds insult to injury by shouting ‘ew it smells funny in here’ every time we walk into a shop/restaurant/sandwich bar/café.

Gears. ‘You’re still in fourth’. So? It’s a gear isn’t it? I’m moving forward aren’t I?

Directions. ‘You know the garage? The one next to the farm down on the Dublin Road? Take the turning just past there on the left, then you take that right and it’s just up there’: Er no, I don’t know the garage. And there’s a farm? And… no, you’ve lost me. How do you notice these things?

Girly things:

People. ‘Ooh look at that lady’s hair/handbag/husband/nose’: I’m always doing this and not only will Hubby not look, but he just doesn’t ‘get’ people-watching at all. I’ve even been known to approach someone to ask where they got something if I particularly like it. This mortifies him and makes him scuttle off in the other direction.

Multitasking: Nothing makes Hubby angrier than when I sit in traffic putting hand cream on, then the traffic starts to move again and he has to steer, or when I’m putting lip balm on in the rear view mirror. Big whoop, I’m a multitasker.

Feelings: I get all girly if I haven’t been hugged a certain amount of times in a given period. Hubby maintains that he’s actually quite shallow and doesn’t register this sort of stuff. Oh and boys? Patting your wife’s bottom when you walk past her doesn’t actually constitute a hug.

Anyone got any they want to add here?

Doofus the Wonderdog

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Well, we are the collective family of cats that got the cream this morning. Our little greyhound lad, affectionately known as Doofus, won his first race last night and bloody hell it was SO exciting I nearly popped. He came in a good length and a half in front and we yelled and shouted and made total arses of ourselves. Then I did that really embarrassing thing of standing in the queue for the tote (yes, I bet on him too!) telling everyone that he was our dog and asking if they saw him win. But I don’t care, because he’s a WINNER, yippee!!

What, this old thing?

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Poor old Heather Mills McCartney eh? It must be so dreary having to explain to a court why you need 80 million quid a year to live on. I wonder if they make her break it down at all? That must be worse than having to explain to Hubby where I’ve managed to spend the fifty Euro cash he gave me at the weekend: ‘well, there was the car park fee … erm … and I bought a newspaper … and…oh, there was the croissants on the school run…’ Us mere mortals have a bit of trouble even comprehending those sorts of figures. We were listening to the radio on the way home when they mentioned the £80 mil, and our conversation went something like this:

Me: £80 million? Blimey, what does she spend it all on?

#1: ‘Maybe she buys Tesco’s Finest, although I reckon she’d still have a bit of change’

#2: ‘Ooh, I know - maybe she orders in?

Me: ‘Nope, still not enough. Ah, I’ve got it, maybe she can’t cook’ (having only one leg and all it must get difficult standing by the oven) ‘and needs to employ a chef to feed her and the chavvy.’

#1: ‘Still not enough. Maybe she’s got a Ferrari

#2: ‘Or two’

Thing is, even if she’s got two Ferraris, a butler, a massage therapist, a shopping consultant (never again having to utter the immortal words: ‘what, this old thing? I’ve had it ages, darling’), a nutritionist, an expensive hairdresser, a nanny, a really serious Ebay habit and gold plated bloody pants, I just can’t see that it can be possible to stand in front of this tribunal or hearing or whatever (without blushing) and prove that you need £80 million to see you through. I’m actually quite impressed. That’s some serious spending. ‘Ah’, said the presenter, ‘but is she happy?’ Too bloody right, she is, she’s young, attractive, intelligent, she’s got more millions than you can shake a cheque book at, an adorable little girl and she’s managed to really really piss her ex-husband off. I’d be bloody ecstatic.

Nigella: Sexy? No No No

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No, honestly I’m not a Girls Aloud fan, I promise. There are no girls in the house apart from me so I’m sublimely cushioned from the delights of the long legged lovelies and their ‘you go girl’ brand of poppiness. Apologies, then, for stealing a Girls Aloud song as my title, but it just seemed so apt. You see, it’s Nigella again. Not content with selling out by punting recipes designed to feed a football team in less time it takes to open a packet of frozen pastry (sacrilege), she’s now holding forth in Esquire magazine about all manner of horrors. Let me elaborate: first of all she’s dressed up like a wanton oven-ready turkey in some kind of aluminium foil getup, then to add insult to injury she starts banging on about some very risqué personal stuff. Prepare to cringe:

‘Stockings never fail to make you feel sexy. I like hold-ups, but the problem is if you’ve got too much meat at the top, you get a bulge there. So I often wear those over-the-knee French schoolgirl socks. But I know men like the whole strappy thing of suspenders, so I’ll wear them. In fact, thinking about it, I’ve actually worn them with nothing but a pair of shoes in bed before.”

Oh. My. God. Me Mam always drummed into us that it was bad manners to talk about ‘personal stuff’ in public and I’m afraid I agree. It’s like asking someone how much they earn. I’m in the Indo today (blink and you’ll miss me) discussing domestic goddessness and I mean, yes, Nigella was the girl who made cooking all a bit cool and saucy - the odd raised eyebrow and licked finger were very seductive and made us think of food as more than just sustenance. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not against quick cooking, frozen pastry or any of that other stuff. But it’s just not Nigella. Yes, she’s millions of men’s fantasy…culinary crumpet, blah blah blah. But this? Nope, sorry. Next time I’m making one of her recipes (from her old books, not Nigella Express) my mind will be filled of horrifying images of La Lawson gallivanting around the bedroom with ol’ Charlie Saatchi, her bulgy thighs hanging over the top of her stockings. And as for her perving over the entire Chelsea football team? Ugh. I can’t even tell you, you’ll have to read it. John Terry’s probably having a lie down as we speak.

What’s happened to my heroine? And shall I be forced to take her signed photo off the front of my fridge? Watch this space.

Pimp my boudoir, part deux

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Okay, so I’ve decided to embrace the whole chocolatey thing going on with my curtains (that, and Hubby won’t let me buy any more) and here’s the latest addition: choccy bedlinen! It’s taffeta, dahling, and actually surprisingly comfortably if a little slippy. Turn over in bed too quickly and you’re likely to whizz out onto the floor quicker than you can say ‘Jamaican bobsleigh team’. Still, it looks nice. And as you can see, I’ve accessorised wiz a leetle greyhound throw. Peachy.

Oh, and be grateful. I picked up all the clothes and crap all over the floor and the bed just so I could take this photo.

Wine, cheese & carpet

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Hmmm…bit of a funny day yesterday. We decided to head out and start getting some of the items on our unfeasibly large list. There’s everything from loo brushes to bookshelves on there. We also went and had a nice loud family argument in the carpet shop over which colour carpets we should have upstairs (#1: red, #2: blue, Hubby and I: a nice nondescript beigey colour. We won). We really liked our pine floors at first, but when he and J came round, C was horrified to see Bertie lolloping up and down the stairs (an accident waiting to happen apparently - this being due to the fact that he has several hundred skinny legs that could all get tangled). Not only that, though, it’s like living below a herd of incredibly clumsy elephants when the children are crashing about upstairs. And with Little C being a permanent fixture in our house and still hobbling around on crutches too, soundproofing is definitely needed.

Later, we were out at the school’s ‘Wine and Cheese’ party. It was very nice - Hubby indulged in the stinky cheese and I ate the grapes off the edge of the plates and drank the wine. I like these events at school, they’re such a good idea. We get to have a bit of a chat with the kids’ teachers when they’re ‘off duty’ as it were. They’re much more fun after a few glasses of vino and you get to find out more useful information than during parents’ evenings when they’re on such a tight timescale to see everyone before the evening’s out. For example, #2′s a bit scared of his Irish teacher. ‘Pah’, she said, ‘I’m not scary really but I have to keep them in check otherwise they’d walk all over me’. Fair point, well made.

When we got home, Bert had obviously found himself at a bit of a loose end and we found mysterious scenes in the bathroom where he’d decided to knock the top off the laundry bin and take all the laundry out. He must have done this with his teeth, but nothing was damaged, just spread all over the bathroom floor. Greyhounds, eh? Weird.

Oh, and yes I know I need a bath panel. It’s on my list.

Meet the neighbours

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Bertie’s definitely the strong, silent type. He’s not prone to undignified fits of barking, even when someone comes to the door, but there’s something about our new neighbours that really gets his goat. You see, we’re surrounded on two sides by fields which currently contain the most adorable fluffy, huge eyed baby cows (yes I know, there’s probably a technical term for them but I’ve no idea). Whenever we take Bertie out, they come rushing up to the fence to have a look and for some reason it really annoys him so he barks. And barks, and barks, and barks. The babies, for their part, don’t give a monkey’s and carry on regarding him with their big, liquid eyes. Hubby says it’s lucky I’m not a farmer or they’d all be crowded into the kitchen (wellll, I feel sorry for them when it gets dark).

The Great Chocolate Debacle

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So back in August, around the time we were moving, I received a phone call from the Disreputable One. There was a fair bit of embarrassed umming and erring and straight away I thought ‘hello, what’s all this then?’ Now don’t get me wrong, having a Dad that’s a bit of a pickle (putting it mildly) is endlessly entertaining, but if you haven’t been told a revoltingly rude joke within the first five minutes, you know something’s up.

Turns out he’d sent us some chocolates - three boxes as it turns out - and having not heard from us was in that weird situation one sometimes finds oneself in when bestowing gifts of having to phone up the gift recipient and politely ask if they’ve received the present without a) seeming like you’re fishing for thank-yous and compliments, and b) inferring that the recipient is rude for not getting in touch. Well, no, we hadn’t had the chockies and bugger me, I could have done with some when we were moving so I was more than a bit gutted. ‘Not to worry’, said the Disreputable one now all that inconvenient embarrassing stuff was out the way, ‘I’ll get on the case’, and off he went.

Anyway, we’d forgotten all about it again when he emailed (it’s less embarrassing) asking if we’d had them delivered to our new place. ‘Nope’, we said, ‘still no bloody chocolates’. We supplied the full address (again), our home number, my mobile and Hubby’s mobile just in case (not that he ever answers it in case someone asks him to do stuff) and off he went again. This time the reply was even more bizarre:

DD: ‘They say that the chocolates have been delivered; they were signed for on the 12th at 12.04 by a Stephen Wild. Anyone you know?’

Me: ‘No’

DD: ‘Oh bugger. This is getting ridiculous.’

Me: ‘I hate to point this out, but lucky old Stephen Wild. Whoever he is he was obviously minding his business one day when some random delivery guy knocked on the door and gave him a shipload of chocolate. He must have been ecstatic.’

You can just imagine it can’t you:

Witless Delivery Guy: ‘Hello, are you English Mum, I’ve got a load of chocolate for you’.
Stephen Wild: ‘No’.
Witless Delivery Guy: ‘Ah feck it, here, have them anyway.’

Well, I could feel a ‘Horrified of Hemel Hempstead’ letter coming on, and lo and behold in my in-box today was a copy of DD’s poison missive to the chocolate company: did they not think it weird that the guy who signed for the goods had a different name (and address obviously)? And frankly (as I’d already pointed out) it’s just as well that they are in the chocolate business and nothing more important like nuclear physics or something. Good Gordon Ramsay, who do they employ to deliver their goods that can’t differentiate between two completely different surnames? Trained chimps?

His final suggestion, though, took the biscuit. Knowing the DD as I do, I’ll bet you two Double Deckers and a Curly Wurly that he was laughing his ass off as he wrote it: ‘My suggestion is that your Managing Director should arm himself with three parcels and personally deliver them to my daughter. You might also consider it necessary to reimburse me (a) for the frustration and stress that this has caused, and (b) for the costs of the whole operation. I did, last year, use your services for a reasonable percentage of my Christmas presents. If this is the way your company is going, I think I should probably follow my partner’s advice and forget it for this year.’

Ouch. Nasty.

Oh, and by the way, I asked him if his Child Bride minded being called The Child Bride and he said he wasn’t sure but that it was okay because if it’s good enough for Des O’Connor, it’s good enough for him.

Shut up and drive

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So I like it up here in Cavan. It’s lovely and quiet (apart from our new baby cows which are currently mooing the place down - pics soon), the people are lovely and the scenery is spectacular. But oh, the driving. I seem to spend my life in the car. Firstly, there’s not really any supermarkets near here, well, unless you count a very teeny EuroSpar that in no way caters for my ridiculous and diverse taste in ingredients, so I face nearly an hour’s drive to get down to my nearest Tesco. To be fair, I could drive up to the SuperValu in Cavan town in 45 minutes, but I figure 15 more minutes for twice the size of shop is a small price to pay. Every so often I go mad and drive to my nearest Dunnes which is kind of like food shopping in Marks and Spencer (bliss!), but I don’t do that too often as a) Hubby goes a funny colour when he sees the bill and b) my freezer stuff is defrosted by the time I get home. Oh, and by the way, when you live here it’s ‘up to Dublin’ even though geographically it’s south, and then if you’re in Dublin and you’re driving home, you’re going ‘down the country’. I’m getting used to it. So just to give you an example, here was yesterday’s tally:

1. Drive boys to school: 30 minutes
2. Drive home again: 30 minutes
3. Drive down to Ashbourne to walk round the lovely shops and visit aforementioned Dunnes: 60 minutes (plus 10 minutes stuck in roadworks on N2 - narrowly avoiding the urge to leap out and berate the little man that holds that STOP/GO sign for unfair twiddling of his sign in favour of the other side)
4. Drive back up (or should that be down?) to collect boys: 60 minutes
5. Drive home: 30 minutes
6. Drive back to school an hour later to pick #1 up from after-school activity: 30 minutes
7. Drive home: 30 minutes

Okay, I suppose it was exceptional with the shopping and the after school thing, and I really should have gone straight out shopping after dropping the boys off (duh) but still, even my meagre maths skills make that nearly 5 hours in the car. 5 HOURS! And some people actually commute from here to Dublin every day. Can you imagine? They must be frazzled.

Still, in my continual quest for the bright side, here are a few reasons why it’s not the end of the world:

1. If I’m in the car I’m not having to do housework and boring stuff like that
2. I get to listen to the music that I like, as loud as I like and sing along too (I’m currently spending quality time with Enrique Inglesias - no honestly, it’s a good album)
3. Bertie likes doing the school run and it keeps him from getting fixated in a very unhealthy way on the baby cows (and drooling on my windowsill too).
4. When stuck in traffic I get to file my nails, have random text conversations with J, put hand cream on, look in the mirror and all the other stuff that drives Hubby bonkers.
5. I can drive merrily along in 4th gear without Hubby huffing and puffing next to me and tapping the gear stick officiously.

There you have it then. Driving: not a complete waste of time.

#1 and Dr Charming

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Well, it’s been a while but I got The Phone Call again today. Oh you know The Phone Call… the one that goes ‘oh hello English Mum it’s Matron here - nothing to worry about *worrying pause* but I think you better pop down to the school’. Aaarrrggghhhh.

This time, amazingly, it wasn’t the Death Wish Child, but #1, who had been late for a lesson and, in his haste (running in the corridor tsk tsk), had tripped over a rug and gone head first into a doorframe. ‘I really think he should go to the doctor’, said the Matron. It’s swelling rather alarmingly and it’s looking very ugly’ (cue indignant huffing noises in the background from #1 - later he said ‘can you believe she called me ugly?!’).

I know we were having that nature/nurture chat the other day, but it really does worry me that I’ve bestowed my natural clumsy-arsed bumbling upon my children. Take Saturday night when I decided we’d christen the new, hideously expensive granite fireplace (every time Hubby looks at it he goes a bit pale and has to sit down), so in I come, totally forgetting about a cardboard box of wood I’ve just put down, and fall straight over it. I actually landed face down lengthwise along the hearth, with the really tender part of my shin against the nasty hard edge and have a bruise the size of Lindsay Lohan’s liver to show for it. Ouch.

Anyhoo, back to the child formerly known as the sensible one. Off to the doctor’s we went, and very charming he was too. He actually said to #1 ‘oh, you brought your sister’ and damn my pink painted toenails if I didn’t giggle like a 12 year old. Pathetic really. After a thorough examination (questions included: ‘how many pens am I holding up?’, ‘any bleeding from the nose or ears?’ and the classic ‘and how many children do you have?’) plus a terribly painful prod about, the verdict was that #1 was bloody lucky it was an inch to the right of his eye, that he didn’t think it needed x-rays and the best thing would be to wait until the swelling, currently looking like half a plum stuck to his face, went down and if there was any indentation left on #1′s cheekbone, it would have to be ‘brought forward a bit’. This made #1 do an impression of his father looking at the hideously expensive fireplace, so Dr Charming quickly added that this would be unlikely and that #1 would be sporting a most fantastical black eye for a couple of weeks that would seriously impress his peers.

Smiles all round, then, and fifty quid lighter (I can’t get used to paying for a visit to the doctor, even if he is charming) we set off for home. I’m thinking full body armour and a full-face crash helmet for Christmas, then.

Tamarind Chicken Noodles

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So you’ll like this one. Hubby, being a bit weird, can’t eat pasta at all - makes him gag, apparently (oh the drama). But he loves noodles, which as far as I’m concerned are exactly the same as pasta so I just substitute one for the other. When he comes home late from work I often put some noodles on as they’re quick and knock this chicken up, or sometimes I just do the chicken and mix it with a supermarket bag of leaves. I’ve messed about with it an awful lot but I reckon it’s just right now and last time I made it I managed to remember to write it down. Oh, and regarding the tamarind, give it a go. I had baked sea bass with tamarind in a Thai restaurant and really loved it so I bought a little jar and I’m quite addicted now. It’s an odd, sweet/sour sort of flavour, but really tastes nice in this:

1 pack fine egg noodles
2 chicken breasts or some leftover chicken, shredded
1 pack Pak Choi, sliced and washed (can be gritty)
Couple of spring onions, sliced

Marinade:
2 cloves garlic, grated
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped, or 1 tsp chilli flakes
Juice of ½ lime
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp fish sauce (Nam Pla)
1 tbsp brown sugar or honey
2 tbsp oil
1 tsp tamarind paste

So slice up a couple of chicken breasts into strips, mix all the marinade ingredients together in a bowl and add the chicken, turning it over so it’s all combined. Leave to one side while you boil a saucepan of water, salt it and bung in your noodles.

Heat a wok or large saucepan and throw in the chicken together with all the marinade (it’s got oil in so you shouldn’t need any more) and the spring onions. Stir fry until the chicken’s cooked, it doesn’t take long. Add your chopped Pak Choi near the end - this really needs to just be warmed through, it’s horrible if it’s soggy - and toss together.

Drain your noodles and tip them into the wok, mixing them all in with the chicken and the sauce. Serve sprinkled with chopped salted peanuts and some coriander.

By the way, if you want to make this more like chicken noodle soup, boil the noodles in 1 litre of made-up chicken stock, cook the chicken separately, then add it all in to the noodles at the end. Spoon into bowls and eat it making shameless slurping noises in front of the telly.