Merry Christmas
from
Tiger
Tiger
his bitches
and of course from me. Wishing you all peace, health and as many purple ones from the tin as you can handle.
Merry Christmas chaps xx
Merry Christmas chaps xx
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Chilly
Our postman is very nice. He never acknowledges shabby morning attire. He's polite and efficient and our two second 'chilly again, isn't it' chat is all very civilized.
But the holiday season brings temporary postmen. Young ones untrained in the art of politely not looking at you directly. You half hope they have a mild myopia which would shield them from the fact that your face looks as if piece of puce coloured scrunched tissue paper has been smoothed over it. By a child not so handy with the glue. If they have to wait whilst you sign for something, their eyes may wander to the eye mask (only if it was a head achey night, you understand), pushed up on your head so that your fringe is standing on end. Teabag skits around their feet, delighted to welcome someone new. When she's happy she squeals. They didn't expect this when they signed up for a spot of Christmas delivering. It's beyond the call of duty and they turn quickly, slipping on the ice in their haste to get away.
If I'm not here, you can always leave it in the wheelie, I call to them but thanks to Teabag's volume, my voice goes unheard.
When you realize that you've answered the door for five days in a row in an aesthetically shocking dressing gown, you want to shout I've actually been up and 'working' for 2 hours. Really I have. But words are futile. The damage has been done.
And this morning it was a Post Girl. I detected a hint pity in her eyes. Does your mother never look like this in the morning? I want to ask. I make a decision to be dressed and brushed and dignified tomorrow to save them the angst. And then I think, no. They're young. They will heal. Soon it will all be over and the regular postman will return and we can go back to pretending we are all very civilised. Which of course we are.
Chilly again isn't it?
We've had snow. Quite a lot of snow for us and I can't remember the last time we had it this side of Christmas. Teabag and Peggy ran out on the first morning and sank shoulder deep into the white stuff. Which was fine and fun until they wanted to wee and realized they were in too deep to assume the regular position.
But the holiday season brings temporary postmen. Young ones untrained in the art of politely not looking at you directly. You half hope they have a mild myopia which would shield them from the fact that your face looks as if piece of puce coloured scrunched tissue paper has been smoothed over it. By a child not so handy with the glue. If they have to wait whilst you sign for something, their eyes may wander to the eye mask (only if it was a head achey night, you understand), pushed up on your head so that your fringe is standing on end. Teabag skits around their feet, delighted to welcome someone new. When she's happy she squeals. They didn't expect this when they signed up for a spot of Christmas delivering. It's beyond the call of duty and they turn quickly, slipping on the ice in their haste to get away.
If I'm not here, you can always leave it in the wheelie, I call to them but thanks to Teabag's volume, my voice goes unheard.
When you realize that you've answered the door for five days in a row in an aesthetically shocking dressing gown, you want to shout I've actually been up and 'working' for 2 hours. Really I have. But words are futile. The damage has been done.
And this morning it was a Post Girl. I detected a hint pity in her eyes. Does your mother never look like this in the morning? I want to ask. I make a decision to be dressed and brushed and dignified tomorrow to save them the angst. And then I think, no. They're young. They will heal. Soon it will all be over and the regular postman will return and we can go back to pretending we are all very civilised. Which of course we are.
Chilly again isn't it?
We've had snow. Quite a lot of snow for us and I can't remember the last time we had it this side of Christmas. Teabag and Peggy ran out on the first morning and sank shoulder deep into the white stuff. Which was fine and fun until they wanted to wee and realized they were in too deep to assume the regular position.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Jigging
My mother had tickets to see The Lord of the Dance. I know. She had planned to take the girls but The Teenager (who will now be known as Maya as that is probably her name) had to tidy towels in a department store for minimum wage. So I went in her place. Well, you can't waste a ticket, can you. Not at 33 pounds a pop. Yes 3 3. In a regional, small town theatre.
The Younger One (who remains 'The Younger One' for now) was looking forward to it. She likes a bit of Irish jigging. My mother loves it. I was in two minds because as far as dancing goes, Strictly (Come Dancing) serves my dancerly needs on a Saturday evening perfectly. But as I said - 33 pounds and all that. Besides, it meant leaving the house after dark in a clean shirt and in my world, that's rare.
Our tickets were row C, but the front two rows had mysteriously disappeared, so we were front row. Uncomfortably close. 'We won't be able to see their clogs' said my mother. You can glean from this that we are not au fait with the terminology of Irish dance. I was worried. If a dancer lost a clog, we were done for.
The lights dimmed. There was an almighty explosion. Had something malfunctioned? A bomb? Could Michael Flatley's jiggers really be a terrorist target?
'Should we evacuate'? yelled my mother over the booming Irish music.
'I think I already have' said the elderly woman in the next seat.
The dancers flew onto stage, all sequins, flailing legs and bouncing curls. And that was just the men.
Truth was, they were really quite incredible. Just when you thought they couldn't dance any faster, they cranked it up another notch, umpteen synchronized pairs of legs doing impossible things. Ramrod straight backs. It was quite the spectacle.
Whilst we couldn't see their feet, we were close enough to see that after almost two hours of strenuous dancing, they were barely out of puff. And there was another advantage in being so close. The lead male dancer would catch my mother's eye, smile and wink. She adored that. In fact the look on her face was worth missing Strictly for. Clapping for an encore she even shouted 'More'. Just the once.
And I bet - bet the ticket price itself, that everyone in that audience, once they'd got home, with the explosions and Irish music still ringing in their ears, had a little go at doing an Irish dance. Bet you.
Not that I did of course.
The Younger One (who remains 'The Younger One' for now) was looking forward to it. She likes a bit of Irish jigging. My mother loves it. I was in two minds because as far as dancing goes, Strictly (Come Dancing) serves my dancerly needs on a Saturday evening perfectly. But as I said - 33 pounds and all that. Besides, it meant leaving the house after dark in a clean shirt and in my world, that's rare.
Our tickets were row C, but the front two rows had mysteriously disappeared, so we were front row. Uncomfortably close. 'We won't be able to see their clogs' said my mother. You can glean from this that we are not au fait with the terminology of Irish dance. I was worried. If a dancer lost a clog, we were done for.
The lights dimmed. There was an almighty explosion. Had something malfunctioned? A bomb? Could Michael Flatley's jiggers really be a terrorist target?
'Should we evacuate'? yelled my mother over the booming Irish music.
'I think I already have' said the elderly woman in the next seat.
The dancers flew onto stage, all sequins, flailing legs and bouncing curls. And that was just the men.
Truth was, they were really quite incredible. Just when you thought they couldn't dance any faster, they cranked it up another notch, umpteen synchronized pairs of legs doing impossible things. Ramrod straight backs. It was quite the spectacle.
Whilst we couldn't see their feet, we were close enough to see that after almost two hours of strenuous dancing, they were barely out of puff. And there was another advantage in being so close. The lead male dancer would catch my mother's eye, smile and wink. She adored that. In fact the look on her face was worth missing Strictly for. Clapping for an encore she even shouted 'More'. Just the once.
And I bet - bet the ticket price itself, that everyone in that audience, once they'd got home, with the explosions and Irish music still ringing in their ears, had a little go at doing an Irish dance. Bet you.
Not that I did of course.
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