Four years old

I work with children aged 2- 12 years - I provide out of school care which means the school holidays provide me with a working week of about 40 hours and enough paperwork to take down a small forest.

Exhaustion, funding issues and a bunch of kids with more problems than is necessary make my job a constant, hair-pulling headache but with an Ofsted inspection looming I had to send out questionnaires to parents and also get some feedback from the children.

I meanly picked on the four-year-olds. They are more amenable than most ages and you can bribe them easily (so shallow).

It's not long, is it? I mean, to have only been alive for four years (48 months), so can I trust a four-year-olds opinion?

They have limited life experience (obviously), no political views, atrocious social skills and poor table manners. They leak all over the place, pick fights with inappropriate opponents, sleep when it suits them and make unreasonable demands all day long!

Ideal candidates!

"So tell me what you like about Holiday Club" I said, leaving them with another member of staff armed with pens/paint/pencils and paper as I ran off to deal with the outbreak of World War III in the sand.

A while later I came back for the results...

• A painting of a green fire engine
• Two sharks and a princess (apparently)
• Daddy in the garden
• A study in black felt pen

and then there was this.....

Four-year-olds are completely rubbish at writing but this one may just get presented to HM Inspectors in a gold frame.

It says: "I HAD FUN I DON'T WANT TODAY TO END"

You can always trust a four-year-old to remind you why you like your job!

Birdy

It has been quite a while since I have done this but this morning I perched.

The gulls grakked their annoyance at my intrusion but I glared at them and let them get on with their flying practice.

A couple of walkers (the strange tribe who reckon that walking along the cliffs involves Himalayan strength boots and 20 layers of waterproof, breathable clothing, not to mention the weird sticks!) were patrolling my spot so I glared at them as well until they moved off and continued their 50 mile hike along the coast.

I was armed with a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, oh, and a camera, and I settled down to have a half hour perch.

And that's about it really.

Perch = an elevated place to sit and rest.

Where is yours?

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Family portrait

Dear Mum and Dad,

it's been nearly ten years since you both hopped off this mortal coil.

I know I wasn't always a conventional daughter, shunning the marriage/house/children order of things in favour of doing it my own way, but you adored the Feckers.

Todd is now 19 and Dale is 16, and if you have a computer in the next world I just thought you might like to print off this picture because we love it.

I know it looks as if Big Fecker is punching Small Fecker in the head, he probably was, but I just wanted you to know that we're doing slightly better than just a conventional okay!

Love and light

Kate

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

In the Gin House there is me, and two Feckers, Big Fecker and a slightly smaller one. The is an Owen cat as well but he is not involved in this particular grunt.

As a good mum I have a mental calculator. I can calculate when a bedroom will be tidied (when a girlfriend is coming over) and I can also calculate the distance between the teabag sitting on the worktop to its rightful grave in the bin. Three steps to the bin but five steps to where the little, used teabag now sits in its small puddle of teajuice.

I can also calculate the number of shoes that die at the bottom of the stairs and the number of spoons that have taken residence upstairs in lairs that I have not entered since they were 10.

I suppose this is my fault - I forgot to put this rule on the list that clings to the fridge. SEE HERE

But hey, is it worth making a war about it? Am I as rotten as them for not going ape shit about the two million socks that have just appeared in the washing basket? Or should I string them up by their man-bits for leaving another wet towel on the bathroom floor?

Tonight they having a small gathering (read party of the century) so maybe I will just calculate the time it takes me to drive as far away as possible and leave my jam sodden piece of toast that has just done a backflip onto the carpet. I wonder if it will still be there when I get back - go figure.

Nets of Safety

They,

grow in nets of safety.

Cocooned in wired homes,

Lost the need,

To fight and bleed,

For rights a child owns

We,

grew in those nests of safety

Danger never seen.

We swung the bat,

To kill a rat,

And balanced on the beam, that

That stretched across,

The russet barn,

Its floor a rotten mess,

Hide and seek, reality,

Left us with a guess,

of who was up the apple tree.

Its branches kiddling scored.

With broken limbs collected,

from children who weren’t bored.

.

Battle of Peanut - 2010

It had been a faithful molar but of late its armour had taken a few knocks, rocks and those nice hobnob biscuits with chocolate on one side. It could take no more.

The battle plan had been simple. An innocent meal with my sister, lubricated by some Tiger beer and sweet chilli sauce but lurking somewhere in the pak choi the enemy lay quietly until the last possible moment before revealing itself.

The first strike led to an "ouch, oh bugger!", but like all adrenalin filled battles the peanut damage was not revealed until the next day. Over a morning cup of tea the molar shed its little gold helmut and exposed the devastation underneath.

The voice on the end of a frantic phone call said that help was not at hand until Tuesday morning but the little molar was not going quietly.

After the discovery that the toothfairy was held up in Bratislava and that no strong painkiller, whiskey or illegal substance was going to put the wounded tooth out of its misery, a string and a door knob were considered.

"You have fractured the root, it must come out. That will be £54, do you have a credit card?" the Evil Dentist smirked.

The little molar battled against the pliers for half an hour - how brave it was! The empty grave is still reminding me of its struggle.

RIP little toothypeg - you served me well but would you please have a word with your neighbours and inform them that there is no need to put up quite such a struggle as modern medicine, and a loan big enough for a new house, will allow the Evil Dentist to fill the graveyard with a fake tooth that will last until 3010!

World Book Day

Today is World Book Day so if you haven't read any books I would move on and read something more interesting on another blog.

I like books. I like the feel, and the smell, and sometimes I quite like a good yarn.

When I was young I became every hero and heroine I read...no, no, no, strike that - things haven't changed! I have just finished lounging around on the French Riviera with Francoise Sagan in Bonjour Trieste. Not my most favourite characters but true to their time.

As it's WBD, and bookish types need to produce something a bit booky I followed some links and found this...

The Independent has made a list (aren't they just so good at lists?) about author's (the famous types) favourite fictional characters -

Find it HERE

I have many characters who have stayed with me for years but my enduring love is Granny Weatherwax, created by Terry Pratchett. She appears in a number of his Disc World novels and never fails to delight me with her insane sanity!

With a hundred or more seconds and thirds I feel I am a complete failure at making choices and will say that I love all rounded, juicy, misbegotten characters as long as they are well written.

I am a hopeless character slut!

.

Hurrah for me

Phew! It seems I haven't lost the the will to write.

I am drowning in words and my fingers are aching from nights of misuse.

WHOOPEEE!

So bye-bye real world and hello fantasy of my own making......

.

Nope, still here.....

September in France

Six hours bobbing across the English channel had better be worth it. I am not the greatest of sailors and after overdosing on seasicky tablets I made sure I knew where every sick bag was located in the entire ferry.I needn't have worried - the ferry is a massive cruise thingy and hardly noticed the mild swell or the 640 vehicles in its bottom that should have sunk it. I like to look on the bright side.

So, arrived in Cheap Tobaccoland and set off via the marvels of sat nav to the undiscovered interior of Brittany for a weekend of Frenchy fun.

Unfortunately Pontivy was asleep on Saturday but there were plenty of Tabacs to keep my thirst quenched.

Apparently it is traditional to have camels in the street in St Brieuc!

Quimper was also very pretty - this the Cathedral de St Corentin...

Quimper also gave me a taste of French cuisine - yummy!

The river was full of carp who enjoyed l'hamburger - obviously not fussy eaters.

Old bits of Quimper city wall.

And then to Concarneau (Konk Carne in Breton!).....

Me on the wall at Concarneau. It was about 31 degs and me skinnies were cooking me legs!

Ville Close (Closed town) - a town within a fort within the harbour within the town of Concarneau - yes, really!

Loved this part of France - very similar to Cornwall and I now have enough medicinal supplies (l'vino) to last me until Christmas 2015. Bien!

Now...where next?

A-muse-ing myself

With wilful neglect I left The Muse chatting up a dodgy Greek waiter last month.

I was fed up with her fickle ways and smug tones and I got on the plane home without her. She looked happy enough in my silver lurex bikini and genuine Dolechee and Kebabbana sunglasses but she still hasn't come home.

I don't mind about the erratic shopping lists, or the sloppily constructed notes to the Feckers, but I have half a mind to do some writing but she is still having a blonde moment and is romancing Panos Christos Mikos Stupidos in some bar in Kalamaki.

Anyway while she is getting her slut fix I wondered what it would be like to be a Muse, an inspirational, creative juice enhancing Minx! Heh heh....

(Minx with a pearl earring and a rather fetching hair wrap)

(Mona "fat cheeks" Minx)

(Marie Antoinminx - loving the hair extensions!)

Oh dear, the King of Muse would be turning over in his grave....

(Bard from an awful lot of pubs)

Anyway, if you see the harlot, send her home and tell her to bring some more of those nice olives. If not then please just share your musings in the box provided below and hopefully I can at least have a laugh.

Live streaming

I started thinking (always a dangerous pastime) and wondered if kick-starting some writing could come from no apparent kick.

I have turned off the editor (who is probably sat at some bar somewhere anyway) and let the fingers free to do as they will.

Nothing is happening....

I need coffee.

Can you just ramble on about nothing and find it interesting?

The answer is no, Kate, you are beyond stupid. Can you get beyond stupid? Are there stages of stupid and what about before stupid - what's that?

Anyway, I'm not interested in the slightest. My own inner voice has bored the pants off me for a while now. How the fuck do you feel? If I am bored then how can you be interested in the inane claptrap that often adorns this blog?

I need a wee - the toilet seat is still broken, in case you wanted to know.

I have the mind of the femalest of female butterflies, I can't even go to the loo without being distracted by thoughts that have no relevance to the job in hand - erk! I am wondering if the Feckers have started eating toilet paper - am I not buying enough food - are they resorting to quilted muesli?

And why am I buying quilted toilet paper - eeeek, I have been brainwashed by the very adverts that I don't watch. What is wrong with ordinary paper with which to wipe - we lived with the unquilted variety for years and years and before that there was school loo paper? Paper? Paper? That was not paper. That was some kind of genital torture with the absorbancy of teflon.

Small Fecker is now talking to me in the voice of King Julian from the film Madagascar - there is no hope for any of us.

I need nicotine.

King Julian says that there is something that I shouldn't be missing on the tv but he is lying to get me off the computer. I shall give up the hot seat but not before I have ordered a ton of school loo paper.

I really should eat.

Hunted in fridge and found a piece of crusty cheese, half a tomato - (who puts half a tomato back in the fridge?) and a tub of houmous that has crisps already added - how thoughtful!

So, I will try not to lose hope about my writing and I will pray to the small Gods of Good Blogging that one day this stream of consciousness turns into a river and I can start making sense again.

And so the wait begins........

Gratuitous bikini shot (because I'm old, and shallow!)

I really must learn not to smile so much!

Costas (who else?) drives an easy bargain - eetsa no problem! His array of not-so-shiny scooters await the tourist who dares. We purchase our transport and take off like the responsible non-teenagers we are. The helmuts are safely stored under the seat - no point in looking after your head when you are driving around in a bikini and bare feet.

A little should be said about the roads - in fact a whole lot should be said about the roads but it is best to try and stay alive along a highway(think overlarge lane) that has been laid down by some lunatic Greeks. The tarmac resembles a recent eruption of some Ionian volcano coupled with potholes that come with their own guide.

I not only survive but can also navigate the island without the aid of signposts. Why do you need signposts on such a small island - you will get there eventually, but tomorrow may have to be soon enough!

And so, off into the depths of the Greek countryside where we are verbally attacked by the cricket noise. Rosemary, thyme, lemons and olives arrive on the wind that I can only describe as Greek salad. We drive through the 'Greekness' and pass small inlets of pure turquoise. At every turn there are stone houses, olive groves, mountainous hills and death-defying drops to a sea that has no right to be that colour.

I find an unpleasant side to scooting. My teeth have become a graveyard to small flying bodies who haven't got the horse-power to avoid their enammeled death. I am a death-bringer and I really should learn not to smile so much. Killing the locals might be an offence if the police were remotely interested!

Presenting Zakynthos (Zante)

There was....

...nice sea views.... ..and nice flowers.... ...pretty coloured water...

...a few old ruins...

...nice mountains to climb...

...and valleys to look at...

..an attractive coastline...

..the water was very blue..

...and they had some caves...

...and a shipwreck cove...

...and some rocks...

...and some very high cliffs...

..oh, and the sun was quite hot as well...

Live long and popcorn

A trip to the cinema still excites me. Sharing a film with a bunch of film nerds and the overpowering smell of stale popcorn has never been enough to put me off going to see a nice big, fat, phaser drenched blockbuster.
Last night I trotted off to exchange body odours at the latest Star Trek movie.

A long time fan of the Star Trekking series and films I was a little worried that this one would fall on its ass before me ice cream melted. Going back to the beginning and resurrecting the original cast in new bodies was going to be a hard one to get my head around and just how were they going to capture the infinite cheesyness of James Tiberius Kirk, Bones, the grumpy bastard in sick bay or the engineering ("I'm giving it all she's got, Captain") madness of dear old Scotty.
And should I have been worried that the collective age of the crew only put them a few light years ahead of High School Musical (a film I know nothing about, I hasten to add)?

No, no worries at all. This was cracking film from the breathtaking CGI'd docking station that felt like 3D to the re-invented, facially tattooed (rather sexy) Romulan baddies. Thingy Wotsit, the director, got it spock on and even the uniforms brought on a familiar feeling like an old, comfy pair of lycra slippers.

I am left with a) an aching need to see it again, and b) a wish to hop on a plane and get the next one finished as soon as possible.
For the time being I will content myself with trying to fathom why I am now hopelessly in lust with the deliciously pointy attributed features of young Mr Spock....



.......beam me up, baby!!

I'm wondering if facial hair is a good look!

The tanning conspiricy and other unlikely theories

I met an acquaintance outside a shop.

"You haven't been in there have you?"

"Err, yes and no." I said, glancing back into the tanning shop. I knew what was coming next - yep, here we go....

"Skin cancer." she hissed.

"Unlikely." I hissed back, and moved off before she had a chance to tell me that I was going to drop dead next month.

(gravy browning will kill you one day!)

It wasn't that I didn't agree with her, over-tanning is definitely bad for you but it would be hard to explain about a congenital liver condition = low level jaundice = nausea and that 3 mins of UV a week helps keep me healthy!

No, okay, I suppose it wouldn't be that hard to explain . I do have a bit of a tan - it was mostly gained from an afternoon sorting out a jungly garden last week, but do I need to justify that to anyone? Surely my choices are my own.
The government helpfully put pictures of nasty diseases on packets of cigarettes - desperately trying to look politically correct they are still raking in the extortionate taxes. It is the same with alcohol and all the other vices that humans like.

(No? Well, maybe you should be!)

Too much of anything can kill you but I am struggling to find a reason for not getting as much fresh, tax free, legal air that I can.

Dear Madam,

further to our conversation about my abject misery last summer I am just writing to ask you if the signs that I see all around me are in fact just another one of your little jokes (last year you thought it funny that I had purchased seventeen new t-shirts and never got to wear any of them without a fur coat/wooley hat/gloves/wellies over the top) but it seems to me that spring might be underway.

I am not usually given to dumping a load of flowery type pictures on my blog (there are far more shoes in my wardrobe that probably deserve it more) but I just wanted to display the promise you have shown.I know that thunderstorms and gale force winds, hail, snow and bitter cold are probably more entertaining for you but would you please take into consideration that humans are marginally less miserable when the weather is good.


In essence, madam, I am putting in a request for one of our usual Cornish summers and not the miserable effort you gave us last year as it is very hard to look stylish in a pair of muddy wellies.

Yours
Minx

pee ess - I am enclosing an invoice for the t-shirts.



(All photos were taken at near Mawnan on the Helford Passage, Cornwall, and no plants were harmed in the making of this blog post.)