Evidence that happiness spelled happyness, Paul McCartney and baby poo can appear in one post, though perhaps not seamlessly linked together

This is another of those posts where I have absolutely no idea what I'm about to write.  I just know I ought to write one, and that's all the information I have.   So, fingers to keyboard and here we go on an adventure together.....

Ironies.  I love ironies.  Here are a few that I have noticed lately.

1. I rented a film 2 weeks ago which stars Will Smith and is called 'The Pursuit of Happyness'.  The pursuit lasted a lot longer than I'd intended because the DVD broke half-way through and I had to wait two weeks for a replacement.  (By the way, there's a reason for the spelling of 'happyness'.  It's not just because I'm on my summer holidays from being an English teacher.)

2. I moved to the Midlands from London 4 years ago, partly because of the hot, humid summers we were having.  I'm not good in heat (as the cow said to the abattoir worker).  But it had been raining and cool for weeks, so I decided it was safe to take a week-long holiday in London to see folks.


The day I got there, a big yellow ball appeared in the sky and burned me like a barbecued sausage for the whole of my stay.  I got on the train to come back seven days later; the sun went in, it began to rain, and by the time I arrived back in the Midlands in my summer wear, everyone else was wearing parkas and Wellingtons again and I looked like I'd taken a wrong turn in Ibiza.

3. I just read a book about how amazing humans are for being able to use and interpret language.  I didn't understand much of it.



Family values  Did you watch the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games?  I did, with my daughter (the Japanese Now-Ex-Student), but I'd only just got off the train from London and kept dozing off in front of the TV.  I just couldn't keep my eyes open past about 11pm.  Like a true daughter, she nudged me awake at key moments: [nudge] 'Hey!  The Queen!', [nudge]  'Oy! Team GB coming in!',[nudge] 'Wake up!  Cauldron!' and [nudge] 'Quick!  They've dug up Paul McCartney and he's singing like he still has a mouthful of earth!'   As soon as I'd watched the relevant bit, I closed my eyes again, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn't let me miss anything vital.  She's a love, even if she does keep eating my chocolate bars.

Why it is useful that she has the nudging skill  She is going to train as a cabin crew member for British Airways in September, working on the London to Japan routes.  This 'nudge awake and give important information' technique is going to come in very handy.


Grandma-dom  We have finally decided that I am going to be Grandma to 3-week old Elijah, not Granny or Nana or any of the other possibilities.  And although it's not usual for Grandmas to be christened, he did actually initiate me into Grandma-dom last week when I visited by filling his nappy to the brim so that it overflowed onto my blue tee-shirt.  Anyone who knows any tiny babies will know that their poo is more green than brown at this stage.  I had to go and look in my suitcase to see if I had a clean one I could put on instead and I found this.  I changed into it.    

I think that's called 'preparedness'.

Evidence that Anon should go back to the poetry

Anonymous is a busy person.  As well as writing all those poems which bear his name, he has time to post kind messages on people's blogs.  He's posted two on mine yesterday.

1. 

This site was... how do I say it? Relevant!
! Finally I have found something which helped me.
Cheers!
Feel free to surf my site : zetaclear reviews 

My comment on his comment:  Anon, what worries me here is that you had to THINK about how to define my blog.  And then all you could come up with, after wondering how you could say it, was that it was 'relevant'.  So your cheery positivity after that is, I'm afraid, not convincing, and far from feeling 'free' to surf your site, I feel duty bound not to.

2. 

Wοnԁerful article! That is the kind of info thаt are 
meant to be shareԁ аcгоss thе net.
Shame on the seek engines for nοt positionіng this 
ѕubmit hіgher! Ϲomе on ovеr аnd seeκ advice from 
my website . Thаnk you =)
Feel free to surf my web page :: Roxy Bedding 

My comment on his comment: Anon, let me give you a piece of advice.  If you are to establish a convincing presence on the Internet, you ought to learn the jargon.  Although your term 'seek engine' made me spit into my tea, it's probably something you should go and research.  'Shame on the seek engines' indeed, however, for not positioning my submit higher.  I have been thinking the same thing for a long time.   

Reasons why, if you see Father Bear at the French market, he's bound to be up to no good

I'd hate you to have run out of my shortened fairy tales for those evenings when you are reading to your children/grandchildren/child you are meant to be responsibly babysitting.

The Three Bears and the Brief Appearance of Goldilocks

The three bears lived in a cottage in the woods.  One morning, they were all eating breakfast as usual, unaware that a blonde girl was peering in at them from outside their window.  (Only the omniscient narrator was aware of this fact.)

            A tense argument was raging because Mother Bear never seemed to get the porridge right.  Father Bear complained that his was too cold, and Baby Bear cried because his was too hot.  Mother Bear was getting flustered.  Hers seemed fine.  Men were SO fussy.  

            The phone rang.  Mother Bear went to answer it.  ‘That’ll be Auntie Freda,’ she said, leaving the kitchen.  

            Father Bear said to Baby Bear, ‘We’ve lost your mother now.  She’ll be hours, I bet.’  (Auntie Freda was going through some kind of gynaecological crisis with her 'tubes' which Mother Bear had explained to him in detail the previous evening, God love her, but which had made him regret having quite so much penne pasta at dinner.)

            Baby Bear threw a sulk, having burnt his tongue and gone off the porridge idea completely.  ‘But I’m hungry,’ he whined.

            ‘I know, son’ said Father Bear, tapping his nose conspiratorially.  ‘But don't worry.  I’ve got a Plan B!’

           Canny old Father Bear had been shopping at the French market the previous day without Mother Bear’s knowledge.  Mother Bear had lost enthusiasm for anything French since Father Bear’s unfortunate lapse with someone called Simone from work, so he hadn't owned up to his purchases.

               Father Bear reached into a top cupboard and, to Baby Bear’s delight, pulled out a packet of six pain au chocolat as well as a couple of fresh, squidgy baguettes.  They warmed these in the microwave (singing loudly during the 'ready' beeps) and then enjoyed them together while Mother Bear was talking to Auntie Freda.

            The little blonde girl, watching them, realised how hungry she was, and she ran home to see if Mother had any pain au chocolat in her cupboard.  She hadn't, in fact, and the blonde girl had to make do with stale Rice Krispies.  It was a bit of a let down, and not a lot of fun, compared with the day she could have had - the breaking and entering into a bears' cottage, a bowl of delicious porridge, the dramatic dismembering of a chair, and a chance to bounce on three different beds before choosing her favourite, like you do in Bed City, but without a twelve year old with spots trying to sell it to you.

'What kind of mother ARE you?' complained Goldilocks bitterly, finding no continental pastries were
available at home.  Judge her not: it is hard to find you have a stupid name and hair the
colour of custard, but no fairy story to star in.

Evidence that my readers have eclectic tastes

I'm intrigued.  Someone who's bought my book on Amazon Kindle (is it one of you, dear friends?) has 'also viewed' a book called 'Panic Button - A Psychological Thriller'.

I imagine, whoever you are, that you think my book about a teacher's day in a boys' independent school is going to be a cheery, light-hearted journey through the modern classroom, and that the other book would be a tense, thrilling, nail-biting, scary and stomach-turning read.

Just wait until you get to my chapters about the vomiting boy, the boy who had a bogey the size of a cabbage on the end of his finger, and the Wine Gum stuck to the teacher's shoe during invigilation.

In fact, I should probably have subtitled the book 'Being Miss - A Day in the Life of a Teacher who Could Have Done With a Panic Button'.

Rupert was finding the book terrifying.  Finding that he was actually IN the book was even more so.  

Reasons why Cinderella and Nigella are never destined to be friends

Another Fairy Tale adapted for parents and grandparents who would rather watch TV than read lengthy bedtime stories ...

A beautiful girl called Cinderella lived with two ugly sisters who treated her like a slave.  One morning, an invitation came from the Prince to a lavish ball.  Both of the ugly sisters were very excited, and had already booked Botox appointments, but Cinderella, who was not allowed to go, despite being naturally smooth of forehead, was sad. 

            As the sisters set off, fluttering their fans, Cinderella cried. 

            She sat alone in the kitchen.  Suddenly, there was a ping and Cinders glanced towards the microwave, but it was actually a Fairy Godmother who had appeared in the corner of the kitchen.  (Cat flap?)   Unlike most Fairy Godmothers, this one was not smiling or happy.  Unlike most, she also sounded worryingly like a piece of kitchen equipment.  

            ‘What’s the matter?’ said Cinderella, kindly. 

            ‘It’s no good,’ said the Fairy Godmother.  ‘I had all these great plans to send you to the ball in a coach made out of a pumpkin and now it can’t happen.’ 

Not a travelling method for those who want to blend in

            ‘But why not?’ said Cinderella, thinking that she had never before received good news and bad news in such quick succession.  Sometimes, life was shite.

            ‘Because Nigella made Pumpkin Pancakes on TV last week, so the shops have sold out, and I can’t get a pumpkin for love nor money,’ moaned the Fairy Godmother, her head in her hands.
            'Please put your head back on your neck,' said Cinderella.  'I'm not comfortable with the idea of being in a fairy story that changes genre so suddenly.'

            In the end, Cinderella made the Fairy Godmother a cup of tea and they both sat, disconsolate, until they heard the Ugly Sisters clacking up the garden path.  The Fairy Godmother pecked Cinderella on the cheek, said, ‘Maybe next time, poppet,’ and disappeared.  

            Cinderella sighed and awaited the arrival of the Ugly Sisters.  She knew that they would gloat over the evening’s events and could only console herself with one thing.  The party guests must have noticed that, despite having shiny, crease-less foreheads, the Ugly Sisters’ necks and cleavages were as saggy and wrinkled as Noah’s testicles. 

             When one's Fairy Godmother turns out to be pumpkin-less, Cinderella mused, one has to get comfort where one can.

Evidence that Fran has changed the entire nature of her blog without prior notice and should rename it Me Being Grandma

Here is Elijah, minus all the tubes etc.  And we've had our first cuddles.  And I told him my best jokes.

Grandma, if it's at all possible, could we just stick to normal Grandma/grandchild conversation
and cut out the wisecracks?

I swear, if you tell that one again about the wide-mouthed frog, I shall
pee in your eye next time you get to change my nappy

Reasons why Fran is coming over all dynastic

Oh, Elijah
Who would hide ya?
My, oh my, here's the
cute Elijah.

Here he is, recovering from a traumatic birth, and all wrapped up.  But he's improving fast, and tomorrow I'm going to see him!  

Reasons to drink champagne at 10.30 at night

I'm a Grandma to Elijah Matthew Hill!

He took his time, and it was a difficult birth for his poor mum, so he is spending the night in Intensive Care to sort out his breathing.  But he's here.

It won't be long before I can entertain little Elijah with my special brand of bedtime story.  Whoop whoop!  Won't he just LOVE them?

Reasons why a fairy tale wolf ends up with time on his hands

Well, here I am, knowing that my son's wife is in labour, and waiting for a phone call to say, 'You are officially a Granny!  Get in that rocking chair NOW!'

So, while I wait, I thought I would post another of the shortened fairy tales I will be using with my grandchild if I'm babysitting but really wanting to watch telly and eat Cadbury's Milk Tray.

And, anyway, someone requested this one ....

The Three Little Pigs

Three little pigs lived with their mother.  One day, the pigs decided they would seek their fortunes, so off they went, knapsacks over their shoulders.  On the way, they spotted a wolf who seemed to be eyeing them speculatively.

‘We’d better build ourselves houses to live in,’ said one pig, ‘otherwise that wolf might get us.’  The others agreed this was a good plan.

They decided to build the first house out of twigs. 

‘Who’s going to live in this twig house, then?’ asked the eldest pig.  ‘Because I certainly don’t want to.’

Both of the other pigs looked at their older brother and shook their heads.

            ‘You won’t get me living in a dump like that,’ said one.  ‘I’d freeze in the winter and roast in the summer.’

‘Me neither,’ said the other, folding his arms across his plump chest.

A fight ensued which left them all much pinker than usual.

‘Oh, stuff this for a game of soldiers,’ said the older pig. ‘Let’s go back to mother.  She was cooking toad in the hole tonight.’

As they headed back up the garden path, one of the younger pigs wondered if he should tell his older brother what ‘toad’ really meant, but decided to stay quiet.  There’d been enough trouble that day already.

The wolf, confused, sat by the twig house, wondering.  Unexpectedly deprived of an opportunity to huff and puff and huff and puff and huff and puff, he mooched off, muttering that fairy tale pigs weren't what they  used to be, dammit.  

The wolf rushed home and checked the ending of the story.  He decided that
there were some advantages, after all, to fairy tales which ended unexpectedly 

Evidence that the young don't find radio serials about agriculture gripping

Domestic conversation.

Youngest Daughter (washing up in kitchen and listening to strains of the The Archers tune dying out):  Nothing HAPPENED in that episode.  Nothing HAPPENED, the WHOLE episode.

Me:  Yes, it did.  There was definitely a minor plot progression. Though I forget what it was.

Father:  The farmer found out that he didn't have a tractor driver for the harvest.

Me:  Ah yes, that was it.

(Disgusted silence from kitchen, then ...)

YD:  Well, that's not exactly SOAP-worthy, is it?

'Okay, so I'm not Clooney, but I'm still a STAR, right?'

No, I am not a grandparent yet.  Although I have just had a text from The Son saying, 'She's having some interesting pains.  Will let you know if any developments.'  She's a couple of days late now, so something has to happen soon.  It's all very exciting.

Therefore, essentially, our lives are more interesting than a daily radio soap opera which has been broadcasting since broadcasting was possible.  And it's not even 'labour' yet.  Just pains.

Things haven't been quite the same in The Archers since Nigel leapt off the roof and went 'Aaaaaarrrggghhhhhhh' for a good minute or so.  They made a big mistake with that, deviating from the usual 'Ruth and David have a row about a cow' or 'They're out of John Smith's at The Bull' storyline.

I will keep you informed about The Next Episode.  And I'm talking babies.  Not Ambridge.