tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748828213375020012024-03-28T23:30:20.693-07:00Being MeWelcome! You have found the home of 'Being Me', Fran Hill's blog. If you like what you read, you will enjoy my funny teacher-memoir 'Miss, What Does Incomprehensible Mean?' My next book - a funny-poignant novel about sibling rivalry in a foster care situation - is out in April 2023 with Legend Press and is called 'Cuckoo in the Nest'. My website is at www.franhill.co.uk. Come and visit for more Fran info!
Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.comBlogger679125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-47230732268748614882023-09-04T11:56:00.000-07:002023-09-04T11:56:06.730-07:00Evidence that Fran is still around <p><span style="font-size: large;">What? She still exists? Where has she been, then? On a bus all this time?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Those of you kind enough to care may have noticed that my last post on this blog was August 2022. I was busy editing my new novel 'Cuckoo in the Nest' and things drifted in terms of regular blogging. Before I knew it, I had cancelled myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But ... RESURRECTION!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have re-appeared on Substack which allows people to blog but also has lots of other features akin to social media only less toxic (so far). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you'd like to keep receiving the same kind of material I was posting regularly on here, please do come along and subscribe. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Go <a href="https://franhill123.substack.com/p/reasons-why-fran-has-leapt-onto-substack" target="_blank">right here right now before you forget</a> to subscribe for free via email. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the meantime, my archive of Blogger posts is still here and will remain for eternity if the rumours are true about the internet. So, you have plenty of time to catch up should you wish. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Otherwise, see you on Substack! </span></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-402308404745114462022-08-07T14:12:00.009-07:002022-10-04T09:55:26.374-07:00Evidence that Fran is looking forward to winter <p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I'm writing a short story called 'Heat'. I haven't finished it yet because I can't decide how it ends but it's about a couple in conflict and begins, 'They say domestic wrangles are usually about sex or money but whoever </span><i>they</i><span> are has overlooked thermostats.' </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The story features two people who marry and move in with each other, never having shared a house with a partner before. They are about to find out that there are 'three of them in this marriage': the woman, the man, and a little white dial fixed to the kitchen wall.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>It's </span><strike>categorically</strike><span> </span><strike>not based on personal experience </strike><span> the story of my whole life. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's summer now, though, which is a welcome break from the thermostat friction between me and my spouse. Instead, we replace it with <strike>light-hearted talk </strike> bitter confrontations about whether drawing all the curtains in the house, locking every window tight and sitting as silent and still as death in the eerie darkness really does keep you cooler than opening everything possible and letting the AIR, which God invented for this very PURPOSE and gave freely to the WHOLE world, circulate throughout the house. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My next short story will be called 'Ventilation'. In fact, right now I'm wondering about a whole series. Heat. Ventilation. The Washing Up Cloth. The Cutlery Drawer. Duvets. Crumbs in the Butter. Toothpaste on the Mirror. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIUsUpFKHOz7qY6fSWnB4mgnJReWI8hy0105k-DOvMlHyyQBrhFCEcqDmRvopoK67XND2CbYEY8FnpF3tPo7HpB0R7-8jAe1e5Fm5hw2iddz98s9S0IjEf-xJfUSePakwmtFiya8ZeyVrsuDuuSxbyx3_h_kWQdV6S0o43paVUQC0vpGb85bjGEQ6Kg/s960/argument-6080057_960_720.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="960" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIUsUpFKHOz7qY6fSWnB4mgnJReWI8hy0105k-DOvMlHyyQBrhFCEcqDmRvopoK67XND2CbYEY8FnpF3tPo7HpB0R7-8jAe1e5Fm5hw2iddz98s9S0IjEf-xJfUSePakwmtFiya8ZeyVrsuDuuSxbyx3_h_kWQdV6S0o43paVUQC0vpGb85bjGEQ6Kg/s320/argument-6080057_960_720.png" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fran and her husband calmly discussing how a washing up cloth should be hung up to dry</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone's talking about the heat, though, in the UK. We've already had some screaming-hot days that punished us all with their fearsome UV rays and apparently there are more to come this week. I and my wardrobe are not prepared for this heat as I own 362 cardigans and 3 teeshirts. There's not one dress in there; I haven't worn a dress since about 2005 unless you count the one I tried on just before my daughter's wedding last May in an attempt to be conventional. It had frills and fripperies. I looked like a drag queen and took it off before anyone in the changing room saw me, took a photo, and uploaded it to TikTok captioned 'The New Seventh Wonder of the World'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am grateful, however, to be working from home now, because when I was teaching in schools, I often, in heatwave temperatures, had to do 'corridor duty' at break or lunch time. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In one particular school, the corridor was a glass-roofed affair which, in other contexts, would have acted as a tropicarium, a sauna, or perhaps a giant saucepan whose contents bubbled and boiled, only in this case the contents were me and 300 girls queuing up for lunch and gradually melting like hot toffee and merging into each other. 'Behave yourselves!' I would shout impotently above the noise of hundreds of braised teenagers. 'You'll only make yourself hotter.' Meanwhile, my own body failed to recognise itself, dehydrating by the second, and my feet swelled like bread dough on a fast rise. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5dfINvRq3fH2_tMgBYz6PGAPIajQGOOw_hfaUt0QYsnlpEzNaRouARx_CmHZ_GOnsCb_Mq4EfIu3lkZa0MZ9EChj9-v-jTwKVhH9UKtguTuojLzq3v364Me8gNh-TG5Euw2q1ALX5wXEkSzdEITOlaxHdYwdc7cjtg0hWyXx6swZjLVVg0mspRcchQ/s960/cracked%20land.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5dfINvRq3fH2_tMgBYz6PGAPIajQGOOw_hfaUt0QYsnlpEzNaRouARx_CmHZ_GOnsCb_Mq4EfIu3lkZa0MZ9EChj9-v-jTwKVhH9UKtguTuojLzq3v364Me8gNh-TG5Euw2q1ALX5wXEkSzdEITOlaxHdYwdc7cjtg0hWyXx6swZjLVVg0mspRcchQ/s320/cracked%20land.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fran's tongue after lunch duty</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've set my new novel (out next March with Legend Press - yay!) in 1976 which was a heatwave year for the UK, resulting in drought, hosepipe bans, communal taps in the street, and high profits for anyone who had shares in Ambre Solaire. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The novel features sibling rivalry in a foster care situation and explores what happens when the foster child turns out not to be the dysfunctional one in the household. The heat doesn't help as conflict increases within the family, as you can imagine. Here's a link to <a href="https://www.thebookseller.com/rights/legend-press-bags-hills-debut-novel-inspired-by-being-fostered" target="_blank">the press release about the novel in 'The Bookseller'. </a> Soon, I'll be able to share the cover with you and I hope you'll look out for it and let me know what you think.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I wait for the cover reveal and for proofs to be prepared, I should finish my 'Heat' story, once I can decide what will happen to them. I am tempted to melt the husband and have him re-formed into candles, I won't lie. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">STOP PRESS: The title of my novel has been changed from 'Checking for Snipers' to 'Cuckoo in the Nest'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-52252414536677667282022-06-25T10:56:00.029-07:002022-06-26T00:50:56.514-07:00(More) evidence that Fran's performance in the kitchen has been inconsistent <p><span style="font-size: large;">'What are you cooking for dinner?' my daughter asked on the phone one evening last week. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Mince,' I said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Savoury mince?' she said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Don't call it savoury mince,' I said. 'That makes it sound like something that you'd serve in an old people's home, or perhaps feed to a dog.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Awkward pause, then she said, </span><span style="font-size: large;">'You called it savoury mince all through my childhood.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I did?' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I nearly asked, 'And was it? Savoury?' But I dared not, because when my husband and I look back we realise that we subjected our three children to a wide range of poor cuisine as they grew up. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We overcooked meat, leaving roast chickens in the oven for hours until they'd have made credible weapons for hand to hand combat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We overcooked fish, wrapping it in foil and baking it for so long that all moistness fled for its life and the white fish turned grey as though in despair at what had happened to it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We overcooked vegetables so that every last vitamin ended up in the water that went down the sink. (The sewer rats near us in Hampton, West London were healthier than anywhere else in the country.)</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhef2FlzbKiNYJyOwW627fjJIxvFjvpCYd0dqp1kdbwnA5-RA3MQSB5jZVVtVrBDCPlt5idq307s9P27Zcs9IEMMTWzSVMy8mUjWNJ_qMkow7AxON0fcTU1qzwhf7R0PG80c6N6y_2DYe5QYG2qYAYaZA1W588dvNJhHB0n770a4kK64JJ8LZl_EpwuNw/s960/rat.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="610" data-original-width="960" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhef2FlzbKiNYJyOwW627fjJIxvFjvpCYd0dqp1kdbwnA5-RA3MQSB5jZVVtVrBDCPlt5idq307s9P27Zcs9IEMMTWzSVMy8mUjWNJ_qMkow7AxON0fcTU1qzwhf7R0PG80c6N6y_2DYe5QYG2qYAYaZA1W588dvNJhHB0n770a4kK64JJ8LZl_EpwuNw/s320/rat.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wife wanted us to move up North but I said not while the Hills were still around </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We also used far too many ingredients in a dish, over-complicating it. I would cook fried rice, for instance, and in it would go carrots, beans, onions, mushrooms, sweetcorn, peas, tomatoes, prawns, chicken, broccoli, a recent utility bill and a coaster or two. It ended up an indiscriminate mess and as I usually over-cooked the rice, it could all stick to your palate, stubborn as glue, so that you'd find a coaster still there the next morning when you yawned in the bathroom mirror. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There was also the soup that my husband insisted on making which was quickly dubbed 'body part soup'. It was a version of his mother's clear chicken soup but his soup contained all the offal that used to come with chickens then. Liver, kidneys, hearts, perhaps eyeballs and testicles, bobbed on the surface of the soup like buoys at the coast. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The cabbage we fed the children varied. On the days I cooked, it may have been boiled to perdition but it was at least nicely shredded. My husband, however, has never learned to shred cabbage and instead hacked at it randomly, resulting in a pile of desecrated half- and quarter-leaves. 'Have some FIELD!' one of the children said one day when serving it out and cabbage was field from then on. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Most weeks we made a beef and cabbage stew. This was prepared in the pressure cooker. Indeed, we put so much pressure on that poor meat that, cowed and brow-beaten, it shrivelled to nothing and surrendered. What began as self-respecting chunks of stewing beef ended up shredded and a shadow of its former self: like All Bran but made of cow.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXM5bpDH3E2J4GjaNzb-poIvgReiEDOjPFXD1s7YaEZVYDWD3doHQ1_kH3FtDbpFmdrZX5jwwE-OanJqv-8Tflz8LXlEx-Nl5HOVHYsCqXZDFZV4Fnqqc9_8vQ7yWfX2boclYO_5kVEbzgx7-6OEhCOinkT_fqDdXQeDv30ew0jzD90-KcqR3cldw7Q/s750/pressure%20cooker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="750" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXM5bpDH3E2J4GjaNzb-poIvgReiEDOjPFXD1s7YaEZVYDWD3doHQ1_kH3FtDbpFmdrZX5jwwE-OanJqv-8Tflz8LXlEx-Nl5HOVHYsCqXZDFZV4Fnqqc9_8vQ7yWfX2boclYO_5kVEbzgx7-6OEhCOinkT_fqDdXQeDv30ew0jzD90-KcqR3cldw7Q/s320/pressure%20cooker.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There's a strange twist to my story. All three of our children have, somehow, developed into great cooks in their own ways, perhaps determined never to feed their friends and family food that has been killed once and then murdered again several times. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our younger daughter loves baking - on a recent visit, she cooked us a Bakewell Tart: the type of cake that yells to you from inside the tin. Our son has excellent meat skills and we have learned from him the secrets of a good gravy that doesn't a) need carving or b) resemble pondweed. Our older daughter is also skilful in the kitchen and a roast dinner at hers stays in the memory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But not for the reasons ours used to. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-34506147727213700722022-06-12T12:57:00.016-07:002022-06-13T01:03:31.568-07:00Reasons why Fran isn't applying to appear on The Great British Bake-Off<p><span style="font-size: large;">When the grandchildren came round last week, we made Welsh cakes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Two years ago, we made them on holiday in Wales and they were so delicious that the children requested this repeat performance. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, the aspect of the performance that did not get repeated was that, in Wales, I didn't transform the cakes into slabs of inedible charcoal by frying them in a cheap, thin-bottomed pan. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nevertheless, the children tried to be optimistic as, one by one, I lifted the burnt cakes from the pan with a fish slice and layered them like pieces of soot-black roof tiles on a blue flowered plate. The plate looked highly offended, being more designed for delicate cup cakes than a pile of incinerated carbohydrate. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When the Welsh cakes had cooled (and hardened even more) we tried them. 'They're nice, Grandma,' the children said, biting into them gallantly but with true alarm in their wide eyes like those facing a zombie invasion or firing squad. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The only consolation is that apparently charcoal is good for flatulence and even if the grandchildren don't have problems with flatulence for another thirty years, I suspect that their innards are now nicely lined and well set up for it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Welsh cakes aren't the only things I've burnt recently. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Last weekend, when we stayed with our daughter and son-in-law, joined also by the grandchildren and their parents, I decided to make a polenta and almond cake as a daughter-friendly non-gluten alternative to the scones we were having for tea. She had all the ingredients in her store cupboards so I spent a happy half-hour mixing the cake. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what went wrong. Perhaps it was because I didn't know my daughter's oven. Or that I set it at the wrong temperature by mistake. Or I didn't line the tin properly. Or I'd done something to offend the gods and this was Cruel Revenge Part II, Part I being the Welsh cakes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But the polenta cake emerged after its allotted 45 minutes encased in a thick crust of charcoal. Top, bottom and sides, as though it had been on a spit over a furnace, perhaps in a blacksmith's forge. A lump of coal 23 cm in diameter that only its mother could love. A cake pathetically far from the dictionary definition of 'cake' and much nearer the definition of 'remains of bonfire'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKGDKUtDKLWEXmu9n3I4d87A6T6LNgrcOZryO_Lns2t7UmrXxmLohqyyirmPyS1tGQLJcdZfTh4yh1NpwU0077MdPiqZWcXxNXElETV4BhXDRh9r2o1jwFo2_E1gd7HFxwUt92jH1ZO9rriWWH4hirypp-Po8WRVq4ajg3ADTbJVtwBRTHWhsD1jUNMw/s383/blacksmith.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="383" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKGDKUtDKLWEXmu9n3I4d87A6T6LNgrcOZryO_Lns2t7UmrXxmLohqyyirmPyS1tGQLJcdZfTh4yh1NpwU0077MdPiqZWcXxNXElETV4BhXDRh9r2o1jwFo2_E1gd7HFxwUt92jH1ZO9rriWWH4hirypp-Po8WRVq4ajg3ADTbJVtwBRTHWhsD1jUNMw/s320/blacksmith.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll just hammer on this piece of Fran's polenta cake and we'll have you sorted.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I stared at the cake and cried. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I've had other baking disasters over the years. Biscuits that spread in the oven so that only one biscuit, 20cm x 20cm, resulted. Cakes so dry at a tea party that until we could continue polite conversation we had to hand out hammers and chisels so guests could remove slices of it from their palates. </span>Scones so flat and hard I sold them within ten minutes on DryStoneWalling.com </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But this one hit hard. I'd been so keen to make my daughter a cake. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Worse, as I wept in the next room, grieving the loss of the cake and of my dignity, I could hear my son bravely slicing off the outside layers of the polenta cake with a carving knife while the others shouted encouragement: 'I can see some of the insides! There's definitely cake under there!' like rescuers after an earthquake, certain that there are still people alive beneath the rubble. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone was very kind and, later, my daughter even ate some of what had been rescued. I think she's been reading from Foxe's Book of Martyrs and was trying to put some of its principles into practice. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Next time, I'll pick up something from the Free From aisle at the supermarket on my way there. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And when the grandchildren come round again we're playing Ludo. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p>'</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjtUsowtfiF-j8TKNIXmJuP5kB5RU-R6PFGf_smUBENJxE5l9kLVNfuXN340oI7mPtM8u4RhY1W-bz-27661Im60kjObk1ETTpAHMYgVypBnhL_IGJ-GS5w34TjlRlGCT0RIR3wmE-z_NxWlFRTL-Pm47oK19fddk8WaqDnZs3bej-IyTpWrdXGA3-w/s510/dry%20stone%20wall.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="510" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjtUsowtfiF-j8TKNIXmJuP5kB5RU-R6PFGf_smUBENJxE5l9kLVNfuXN340oI7mPtM8u4RhY1W-bz-27661Im60kjObk1ETTpAHMYgVypBnhL_IGJ-GS5w34TjlRlGCT0RIR3wmE-z_NxWlFRTL-Pm47oK19fddk8WaqDnZs3bej-IyTpWrdXGA3-w/s320/dry%20stone%20wall.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'What happened to those scones you made, Fran?'</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-81127814703782808332022-05-15T10:55:00.000-07:002022-05-15T10:55:35.732-07:00Evidence of Fran's near-death experience <p><span style="font-size: large;">It's Saturday evening as I write. This time last week my body still comprised one-fifth woman and four-fifths pudding. I was so stiff with starch that I couldn't bend at the waist to take off my socks at bedtime. I felt as though all my internal organs had been re-upholstered. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Despite all this, non, je ne regrette rien. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had gone with two friends to The Pudding Club. It was their 60th birthday treat to me and - well - what an experience! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm aiming to go again on my 70th, 80th, 90th and 100th or should I ever tire of life as it could do what Dignitas does but with added custard. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Have you heard of the Pudding Club? It was started by people who felt that the traditional British pudding should be saved from extinction and celebrated. Because of this, the evening is full of ceremony and ritual as guests make their way through seven puddings, all paraded in regally, applauded and cheered. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Seven puddings? Yes, you heard correctly. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Puddings are in the news. There's a documentary on the BBC at the moment about the pudding chosen to celebrate the Queen's Platinum Jubilee. The winner is a trifle, although it looks nothing like the trifles I knew from the 1970s. Ours had damp sponge like eating a sweaty glove, jelly as hard as nails, and the hundreds and thousands bleeding into the fake cream. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Pudding Club is based at a Cotswolds hotel in England. We arrived, along with about 25 others, were given a Bucks Fizz, and received a talk from a Master of Ceremonies about what was to happen to us. Much was made of the 'sugar rush' we could expect. Some guests looked apprehensive. The MC hadn't mentioned spontaneous combustion but the words hung in the air. A man who'd drunk a pre-pudding pint of Guinness was told that it may not have been his best move (and could indeed have been his last). We were advised not to leave our favourite of the seven puddings until the end because our attitude to it could well have changed by then. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was going to write that Zsa Zsa Gabor made the same mistake with husbands but when I looked it up I found that she and Husband 9 - Frederick Prinz von Anhalt - were together for 30 years until she died. Damn research, spoiling what could have been a great analogy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At the Pudding Club, we were given a score sheet so that we could record our puddings one by one and rate them. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I will show you photographs of the puddings. Trigger warning: if you have a gluten sensitivity, then just by reading this post you could put your health at risk. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 1. Spotted Dick. 8/10. My friends thought I was brave to begin with this. They meant foolhardy. It's basically lard with raisins and was used in medieval times to shoot from cannons and rout the enemy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZkghMKggAfblGwe9E2IUQrrlqb3L4CRvW4a5BiFKFORLIOmouWmlb5d_Uzn_qPQtqkXkmEWdjhDOK-7S0XgEhfwZaDhQICwWNqXPi6DMJktm5eVa1P-vBpGKe2Ycy5EwZYeijJPxzC6dZLJ4aEMkd0iZPMqE2kOy2Q_Lir4pRyraGMfXOJszJdAsnpw/s2576/20220507_204752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZkghMKggAfblGwe9E2IUQrrlqb3L4CRvW4a5BiFKFORLIOmouWmlb5d_Uzn_qPQtqkXkmEWdjhDOK-7S0XgEhfwZaDhQICwWNqXPi6DMJktm5eVa1P-vBpGKe2Ycy5EwZYeijJPxzC6dZLJ4aEMkd0iZPMqE2kOy2Q_Lir4pRyraGMfXOJszJdAsnpw/s320/20220507_204752.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 2. Apple crumble. 8/10. If you're shocked that I even ate a second pudding, I must say that these pictures are close-ups. Each portion was about half a normal* one.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*we could debate the definition of normal, however. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqABP1kuI6O7epHXMsuC7iU-xz3YIHYZUp2T6B_fytWCU0Y2oyxUGYhFHEa1pBM2gVz21jak3p5t8pScStQqN54O9dtZmuEu1AL68g8uwPVqCG4YmF4IM2SyQnurAO-JXVNkJu7lLyQPuTyFWbhdkhAYRYr5V_sr8_RQioHFiNRGkNt-Q4B6-WX76pQ/s4000/20220507_205531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqABP1kuI6O7epHXMsuC7iU-xz3YIHYZUp2T6B_fytWCU0Y2oyxUGYhFHEa1pBM2gVz21jak3p5t8pScStQqN54O9dtZmuEu1AL68g8uwPVqCG4YmF4IM2SyQnurAO-JXVNkJu7lLyQPuTyFWbhdkhAYRYr5V_sr8_RQioHFiNRGkNt-Q4B6-WX76pQ/s320/20220507_205531.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 3. Marmalade bread and butter pudding. 9/10. This got my top mark. It's bread, butter, marmalade, eggs and milk, in essence, which makes it most suitable as a breakfast food. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_97llXTPq5hmjkxnlGHi0hscQ-GNfB0CzzBukRaKjvCthRQjXl3WovocZpxJAzgHNdZ1EyBU154-emUyVt27ussHZVxdkbxk4q9_CZilnd4CeBLlWSopKdY29_hmBm9AcLZvGpWBzlWK2fbaFPdUEL5c5VjOehsk5D3P3ZDVbKmlagSxAhXgPME_YA/s4000/20220507_210155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_97llXTPq5hmjkxnlGHi0hscQ-GNfB0CzzBukRaKjvCthRQjXl3WovocZpxJAzgHNdZ1EyBU154-emUyVt27ussHZVxdkbxk4q9_CZilnd4CeBLlWSopKdY29_hmBm9AcLZvGpWBzlWK2fbaFPdUEL5c5VjOehsk5D3P3ZDVbKmlagSxAhXgPME_YA/s320/20220507_210155.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 4. Duchess Pudding. 8/10. This was a sponge involving dates and nuts, developed for the Platinum Jubilee, we were told. I had eaten too muchess by the time I got to the duchess and was beginning to wonder whether I would still fit in the car on the way home. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYIohiPHjsj5R9xZrFO-OIBKEpNCfkYbUU0WTafcZclwdEe_-G-aINjNVzm-OHbsgn_Fahybd1kBMqKVBWDi_ZB_io_XPrGw2vzocqHKwQULVRZMAtd473E8pGi7-KzGC1wS8MqgzwdWN7n18brG_QbM22w3yDRMRiF8Z-JnFy3kWH5EMnvp_SNnjUw/s4000/20220507_211052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYIohiPHjsj5R9xZrFO-OIBKEpNCfkYbUU0WTafcZclwdEe_-G-aINjNVzm-OHbsgn_Fahybd1kBMqKVBWDi_ZB_io_XPrGw2vzocqHKwQULVRZMAtd473E8pGi7-KzGC1wS8MqgzwdWN7n18brG_QbM22w3yDRMRiF8Z-JnFy3kWH5EMnvp_SNnjUw/s320/20220507_211052.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 5. Sticky toffee pudding. 7/10. The pudding was delicious but the accompanying toffee sauce was so sweet, it hit a place under my earlobes, made my eyes water, and caused the nail varnish on my toenails to begin flaking off. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkkDmCSDdcHBWUWJtizpq46xRajtHddbH1_uv8I9fZP2cOtceMGYwFQLnFNhUP_h9snbm1LFgKWnQkkzgyZJX1fp6_Gr7MO_Jb1oOeHrk9nQ5x5FTvycGcAnjDCDUxLVCgCt7O5ZWeWXmOVbQK18aoVUXUkKYTPQJsdL9eu8ltPWvZlaHVPo5mlEw6Q/s4000/20220507_211930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkkDmCSDdcHBWUWJtizpq46xRajtHddbH1_uv8I9fZP2cOtceMGYwFQLnFNhUP_h9snbm1LFgKWnQkkzgyZJX1fp6_Gr7MO_Jb1oOeHrk9nQ5x5FTvycGcAnjDCDUxLVCgCt7O5ZWeWXmOVbQK18aoVUXUkKYTPQJsdL9eu8ltPWvZlaHVPo5mlEw6Q/s320/20220507_211930.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 6. Lemon sponge. 7/10. By this time, we were all groaning, and keeping a beady eye on the man who drank the Guinness, in case he exploded near any of us and we needed to dive under the tables. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsCUM_lw5E1HiavLKrKO_X-gtcSmykO5hCarwCdV8i9KAc0r26n8tfMdjZwFL93Z7MP0t4SGtvpkDRQ-FUj48_KSFytg_25oeQpRINP5DTpXZqfCpwaDU6LCUNoH49OE8CkuBEp3Mb-9RnHmf0bogx4opTwzw0Lf7y-4P_Mx5IWjXc_XC4xqAmG6XfQ/s4000/20220507_213107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJsCUM_lw5E1HiavLKrKO_X-gtcSmykO5hCarwCdV8i9KAc0r26n8tfMdjZwFL93Z7MP0t4SGtvpkDRQ-FUj48_KSFytg_25oeQpRINP5DTpXZqfCpwaDU6LCUNoH49OE8CkuBEp3Mb-9RnHmf0bogx4opTwzw0Lf7y-4P_Mx5IWjXc_XC4xqAmG6XfQ/s320/20220507_213107.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pudding 7. Chocolate and raspberry mousse. 8/10. I had two spoonsful of this, even though it was tasty. It was a wise decision, although using the word wise about anything I was doing at this point seems facile, considering I was filling my bloodstream with so much sugar that I was more or less marzipan by then. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwxV1FmS5vmjfzRcN3YUmn12kLCIyGWmwpgviE-yRtW_FmLeuPC0KNIhuy4Tp4SvJiE4balrIwrzUOZHbFJH6p3-uXTw_jwsDwP61TcyT8bsY1A-nfgNnFlLv8dT8TrD_vc_tg4kxf-uE4u4b53hMQwQFJizx8U9bZpPVoDwf3rJnoUa6111MMa0M1w/s4000/20220507_214132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwxV1FmS5vmjfzRcN3YUmn12kLCIyGWmwpgviE-yRtW_FmLeuPC0KNIhuy4Tp4SvJiE4balrIwrzUOZHbFJH6p3-uXTw_jwsDwP61TcyT8bsY1A-nfgNnFlLv8dT8TrD_vc_tg4kxf-uE4u4b53hMQwQFJizx8U9bZpPVoDwf3rJnoUa6111MMa0M1w/s320/20220507_214132.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />At the end, all the scores were counted up and the winner announced. I can't remember which one won although this may be because my brain was taking little in by this point, its cells having been nudged aside in favour of desserts. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the car on the way home, I and my friends suspected that none of us would have a good night's sleep. But I slept like death, probably because I'd come so very near it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Still, as I said at the start, I regret nothing, and would go so far as to recommend it to any of you. Go <a href="https://www.puddingclub.com/">here</a> for details and three trillion calories. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-87794855532045344822022-04-27T03:21:00.001-07:002022-04-28T07:07:57.274-07:00Evidence that a 60th birthday has Fran musing on change (and decay)<p><span style="font-size: large;">I am <strike>forty fifty</strike> oh-all-right-then sixty today. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'You're entering your seventh decade,' my (younger) sister wrote in my card, because that's what sisters are for: to cheer and encourage you. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some things belie your age, though, don't they, however hard you cling to your youth? The down-turn of the mouth; the crows-size-11-feet around the eyes; the appearance of elasticated trousers in the wardrobe due to the baffling disappearance of what used to be your waist but now appears to be spare cookie dough. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Where do waists go? Are they with all the lost socks?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found something else which illustrated the passing of time recently. Our holiday list. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was packing for a mini-break with a friend: the first time I've been away for aeons. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Where's the holiday list?' I asked my husband. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'What's a holiday?' he said, glumly. (Imagine Eeyore just after he's stubbed his toe.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulom4Urr-KdnPuA2Vm6feXmMLL4LO7WaNagTVMESCSslM-aCtkULaj9uyvCaKnQly65E6pescTuF78q1QRCDda9OFGfpPlmLzRa9mh9EuUqey2wLbm1uNx9aflSk_81rbupuF_yVWnDLQBhnfNzyiqSw92uH7PEj23ENOrpUtBqpPmUZdcUHdW18_kw/s612/eeyore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulom4Urr-KdnPuA2Vm6feXmMLL4LO7WaNagTVMESCSslM-aCtkULaj9uyvCaKnQly65E6pescTuF78q1QRCDda9OFGfpPlmLzRa9mh9EuUqey2wLbm1uNx9aflSk_81rbupuF_yVWnDLQBhnfNzyiqSw92uH7PEj23ENOrpUtBqpPmUZdcUHdW18_kw/s320/eeyore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Over the last 40 years, we've compiled a list so that our family didn't forget to pack important items for holidays. Suncream. Toothpaste. Knickers. The children.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found the list eventually, tucked in the back of last year's diary, waiting hopefully to be recommissioned. The boiled egg slicer in the back of your cupboard has the same look, as does the jacket you wore once before realising it was the wrong shade of yellow and made you look nauseous. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've mislaid other things during the pandemic too. The dangly earrings I used to wear to social occasions. Lip gloss I used to wear before masks made it redundant but without the remuneration package. Confidence I once had that fellow shoppers wouldn't breathe particles of death over me. And faith I used to have in governments that they knew what they were doing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Items on our holiday list have been added to over the years. Others have been changed or deleted, as family circumstances ebbed and flowed. It's a piece of social history now. I'll give you a flavour. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1. 'Medicines' started off in the 1980s as a couple of Paracetamol and a bottle of Calpol tucked into a shoe. The pills and potions now have their own dedicated bag and we're not talking dainty cosmetic purses unless you mean dainty for a blue whale.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">2. 'Money'. Having our purses and wallets stuffed with cash used to seem so fundamental to trips away. We'd need coins for parking meters and ice cream vans, and bank notes for restaurant visits, tourist attractions and steam train rides. Now, cash payments seem slightly archaic or quaint. The card is king. I tried to board a London bus a few years ago during a city break by paying cash. The driver threw me off, staring disgustedly at my proffered coins as though I'd tried to pay for a journey with a cowpat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">3. 'Masks.' A very recent addition to the list <strike>except for those occasions when we went on our Elizabethan Re-enactment Holidays with a Masked Ball on the last evening</strike> because of Covid. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">4. 'Walkman and charger'. Do you remember Walkmans? Walkmen? Or, perhaps now, Walkpersons? Whatever the correct plural form, why bother even discussing it? They're off the list. Pff. Gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2PSXxfEs8jEF4VZAYyCKScdcpl5wDKLHIOQ8U0Jjq7781h8K9e1mjlXAVgKUJFfCnPuFJAmRi_eecINCDlnfuSDRH3m1fPegFsUo_SlEgS9_IAv9I10aspaov9tu3OmH1HrMWly_rDzGNOjb59pI9FFWQKqU4qA-MvnySV6VZN07wIDHb8X0wSFjQg/s1280/holiday%20list.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2PSXxfEs8jEF4VZAYyCKScdcpl5wDKLHIOQ8U0Jjq7781h8K9e1mjlXAVgKUJFfCnPuFJAmRi_eecINCDlnfuSDRH3m1fPegFsUo_SlEgS9_IAv9I10aspaov9tu3OmH1HrMWly_rDzGNOjb59pI9FFWQKqU4qA-MvnySV6VZN07wIDHb8X0wSFjQg/s320/holiday%20list.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">5. 'Address book.' We never went on holiday without this because we used to send postcards. But it began to seem silly sending a postcard to people to whom you'd already sent a hundred online messages. 'We're having a lovely time (as I said in the text) and the weather's great (as I said on Facebook) and we had fish and chips yesterday (as I told you and 362 others on WhatsApp and even provided a photograph as though you needed a definition of 'fish and chips'). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">6. 'Marking.' If you've read my teacher-memoir 'Miss, What Does Incomprehensible Mean?' you'll know why this was on our holiday list for 15 years running. In the world of English teaching, the word 'holiday' roughly translates to 'Time to mark 60 mock exam scripts'. Sometimes, if we travelled by train, I would try to knock some of them off during the journey but the students could always tell. ('Miss, you've written something here I can't read. I think it says 'Improve your handwriting' but I'm not sure.')</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5a0ke8obzhMUgX2pK6VMpORPFg5AYCWNGQ_sgtigPp12A6Mkd1A1sK8xrxEds898Tru7dQr-AB_1k5dhI0mzL78EfvDhkJgQaJUTK5T3JjMs3larriEF25y1gxu_gwPNUxvMV8SiVK7fuRFbnpQ-NrW3hukKaVRk-rOtpTBo5PZaXjSjuZOqXDb_PsA/s960/Lauren%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="960" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5a0ke8obzhMUgX2pK6VMpORPFg5AYCWNGQ_sgtigPp12A6Mkd1A1sK8xrxEds898Tru7dQr-AB_1k5dhI0mzL78EfvDhkJgQaJUTK5T3JjMs3larriEF25y1gxu_gwPNUxvMV8SiVK7fuRFbnpQ-NrW3hukKaVRk-rOtpTBo5PZaXjSjuZOqXDb_PsA/s320/Lauren%20photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">7. 'Torch'. We use our mobile phones now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8. 'Camera.' We use our mobile phones now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">9. 'Holiday information.' It's all on our mobile phones now.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">10. 'Tickets'. Rinse and repeat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I suppose we could call some of this 'progress', enabled because of technological changes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And, inevitably, the list itself - currently a dog-eared piece of paper - will make its way to the 'Notes' section on my mobile phone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But we all know what happens to information on our mobile phones when they crash and burn and we have to buy new ones. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you see a couple in their sixties by the seaside, pink and blistered for lack of sun cream, and knickerless, you'll know what's happened. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-72628703728661193132022-03-04T07:15:00.005-08:002022-03-04T07:15:59.804-08:00Evidence that Fran may have learned to identify a sparrow at last <p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Here's a poem about nature that I wrote this morning although my observations were made from the warmth and safety of the indoors as regular followers will not be surprised to hear. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>A morning in March</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The neighbour has frisbeed
stale slices<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">of bread across his scraggy
lawn<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">beneath the apple tree, its
branches winter-bare<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">save forgotten Christmas
lights.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">But the birds can take
incongruity<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">with more grace than I do.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">First come the pigeons, plunging
in like gossips<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">to a whispered
conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">One triumphs away a whole
slice<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">which hangs uncertain from
its beak,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">wondering if it will survive
the journey. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The sparrows arrive next, flitting
up down up down<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">as though on the end of a
conductor’s baton.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">They peck-kiss at the
slices, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">checking left and right
for rivals,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">then dart upwards as
though caught thieving.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Last, a robin, a lone actor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It observes from a branch<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">until the sparrows have
flecked away,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">then hops to the middle of
a slice,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">its cheeky breast applauding
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">against the white of its
stage. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9I1EKPMgGxbb4_KFHYPJe6jme7uCd71BYGCoA7He2bBLesmv_-BBoMyDdK4pXhR-NnngJyEOdM3vYy7DrK5tTS_Zsd6gcSat4Bjw-N29XhRhi9Wk9yWO4OiMVC6w1qHVobzdrg6lqR-b7inv-AaWF5zeFr1LBApsZEWAx9WtrFROc_696GG5pRfNRnw=s960" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9I1EKPMgGxbb4_KFHYPJe6jme7uCd71BYGCoA7He2bBLesmv_-BBoMyDdK4pXhR-NnngJyEOdM3vYy7DrK5tTS_Zsd6gcSat4Bjw-N29XhRhi9Wk9yWO4OiMVC6w1qHVobzdrg6lqR-b7inv-AaWF5zeFr1LBApsZEWAx9WtrFROc_696GG5pRfNRnw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'You mean, she actually recognised us?'</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-67523948133043116362022-02-15T14:35:00.006-08:002022-02-15T14:36:42.848-08:00Reasons why you might find Fran eating with her eyes shut<p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on unnaturally-coloured food. My gardener husband is always experimenting with new varieties such as purple carrots or white strawberries and I make a big fuss. I want my carrots orange and my strawberries red or not at all, thanks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Likewise, if he puts beetroot into a dish and it dyes everything crimson or bleeds onto the plate, I lose my appetite, having anticipated dinner, not a Tarantino production. For me, beetroot has to be kept in a dish of its own at a safe two metre distance and wearing full PPE.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWp6v6nMwy_pFy1bv0joriGht0gL0cHtmIIcR8N2hIQ4tuYk8kMOVCAQ5UsPav2gTnojJI8tP36DUiGfEIOIS6cQAtrdbiSxb2zfuIl5wfIQF98sBq9BUTy2qFnkKDR8EIIRTTI4CrQHb6wKaJl7eCQ_jMStOFRhnJ8QLs7WeK1EpalBRlaeRQAmIRFg=s960" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="623" data-original-width="960" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWp6v6nMwy_pFy1bv0joriGht0gL0cHtmIIcR8N2hIQ4tuYk8kMOVCAQ5UsPav2gTnojJI8tP36DUiGfEIOIS6cQAtrdbiSxb2zfuIl5wfIQF98sBq9BUTy2qFnkKDR8EIIRTTI4CrQHb6wKaJl7eCQ_jMStOFRhnJ8QLs7WeK1EpalBRlaeRQAmIRFg=s320" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I could only eat this while wearing a blindfold </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I've cooked you some tuna with mash and veg,' my husband said earlier this evening when I emerged from the front room having tutored three students in a row. I was ready for dinner. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I went into the kitchen. </span><span>'Where is it?' I said.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'On the plate,' he said. 'Where you're looking.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>All I could see was a flat slab of what looked the colour of putty. </span><span>'That's not tuna.'</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Yes, it is.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'It's white,' I said. 'What terrified it?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'It's albacore tuna,' he said. 'It's naturally white.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'It's anaemic tuna,' I said. 'It's the same colour as the mashed potato. The same colour as the cauliflower. The same colour as the frozen wastes of the Antarctic, the same colour as a church candle, as a wedding dress, as a ....' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'You're taking this a bit far,' he said. 'Are you going to eat it?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I'm going to embarrass it,' I said, 'and see if it pinks up a bit.' I addressed the plate. 'You naked, pallid thing, you, brazenly lying on my plate, all cowardly and ashen. You should be ashamed.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'It's not working,' he said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I bet it doesn't get to socialise with other tunas,' I said. 'I bet it gets shunned.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Don't be ridiculous.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Do you think it's a ghost tuna?' I said. 'A spectral tuna. That would explain things. Although it would raise a few other questions.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I made myself a rainbow salad: tomatoes, red and yellow peppers, lettuce, and 25 capers, and dressed the offending item in bright colours before taking the plate to the table. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'If frightened fish is all there is,' I said, 'frightened fish it'll have to be. But no way was I eating it when it was white on the plate like a lazy quarter pound of lard.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I began to eat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Five minutes later, he said, 'What do you think? You'd eat it again, wouldn't you?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'With the lights turned down,' I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'It tastes all right, though, doesn't it?' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I'm not sure,' I said. 'All I can taste is capers.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A poem in memory.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>The ballad of Al Bacore</u></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I met a fish called Al Bacore.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A tuna? I just wasn't sure. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I covered up his shame with salad. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">(I'll stop there. He's not worth a ballad.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-19823791068988482352022-01-23T07:47:00.006-08:002022-01-23T07:49:11.906-08:00Reasons I now want to be called the Franfluencer <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Apparently, a 'binfluencer' is that person in your street who puts out their rubbish and recycling first, leading to a rush of activity as all the neighbours follow suit.</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">That must mean that a chinfluencer starts facial hair fashions, a ginfluencer leads others in trying new alcoholic flavours and a drive-in-fluencer is that chap at the head of the traffic queue at McDonald's. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Let's not stop there. (I am ignoring you at the back, shouting, 'Yes, let's!') </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Is a pigeon-fluencer a bird which struts ahead of the flock in the search for crumbs? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Does a Boleyn-fluencer lead the campaign for posthumous justice for beheaded second wives? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Are enough break-in-fluencers convicted? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Do rolling-pin-fluencers hate everyone who uses ready-prepared pastry? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Do has-been-fluencers jolly middle-aged B-list celebrities along? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Do puffin-fluencers try to persuade other bird species to paint their beaks in bright colours?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkHHuEwrsYDd8r6KpeG7C48tQXGgjrbkvTlNSvoiZm-_-xFbflfvAV3L19iMaabhvr95b7wi9qBvhKlW2_I-tR_32OSqA1mTor_DHOqNee7V4G4FBECmp9SwWaymPtvQHYQimNuVqUc3O2XGsWZmdqFVjNnuKcd88cm-8Y6rRDLF02POq1n47nxi0Drw=s720" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkHHuEwrsYDd8r6KpeG7C48tQXGgjrbkvTlNSvoiZm-_-xFbflfvAV3L19iMaabhvr95b7wi9qBvhKlW2_I-tR_32OSqA1mTor_DHOqNee7V4G4FBECmp9SwWaymPtvQHYQimNuVqUc3O2XGsWZmdqFVjNnuKcd88cm-8Y6rRDLF02POq1n47nxi0Drw=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean, who's going to ignore him?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Is a therein-fluencer someone who wants the rest of the world to use archaic vocabulary? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Does a sevendeadlysin-fluencer tempt those who've only done six of them to complete the set?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Is a take-it-on-the-chinfluencer someone who runs resilience workshops? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Do The-Adventures-of-TinTinfluencers read any other kinds of books? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Does a haematoporphyrin-fluencer ever dare to tell people they meet what their job is? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-33135198946508655942021-12-09T10:18:00.022-08:002021-12-09T10:25:27.393-08:00Reasons why Fran might be avoiding you <p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I met someone new at church the other day. 'Tell me your name,' she said, 'although I'm bound to forget it by next week.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Tell me yours,' I said, 'but, ditto.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We exchanged names in the same way people exchange business cards, knowing that their loss is inevitable and that they will be found, years later, down the gap between the sofa cushions or in the pocket of a jacket that needs dry cleaning. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'There are people who've been coming here for years,' my new friend said, 'and I forgot their name early on. Now it's too embarrassing to ask.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Or to check whether they are a Nick or a Mick, or a Jean or a Joan.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'If I even got that far,' she said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'We should have a Church Amnesty Day for forgotten names,' I said, 'as they do with weapons or stolen goods or those library books you've had since 1974.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We agreed that this was a good idea. On Namenesty Day, it would be perfectly okay to admit, 'I have been pretending to know your name for many, many years, both to you, and to everyone else in the church. Sometimes I have avoided having conversations with you in case you called me by my name and I couldn't reciprocate. Once, I saw you in the street and stepped into a betting shop to avoid you although I've never gambled in my life. In fact, fourteen other people were in there. Only one was interested in the horseracing. The other thirteen had also forgotten who you are.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The person to whom you were admitting this would be duty-bound on Namenesty Day to extend mercy in the circumstances unless, of course, they had also forgotten your name, which would be a moment of great joy and manic relief-laughter all round. At that point, you could queue up together for tea and Namenesty Day cake, calling each other by name with wild abandon while you still could, because, of course, the following week, their name would once more be Thingy With the Curly Hair. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJFbMLcjh7M3qJQjws4LNIEp9DXi6PdCoYCiEy9kkWLvF0hPmWwFme9Nl2SQBC_w_TYs3TyUwQ4ZSFVLLnkBlFDMdXkjOs3RWNRdAZm22EnqA_AhIa0OhE7IV-DjuhT_8zy9eM9hF8J1zSO2-HUQuW72vJsP6kU3lotaZB98GjZ9TLbDfrOtF1dn4FDA=s960" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="960" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJFbMLcjh7M3qJQjws4LNIEp9DXi6PdCoYCiEy9kkWLvF0hPmWwFme9Nl2SQBC_w_TYs3TyUwQ4ZSFVLLnkBlFDMdXkjOs3RWNRdAZm22EnqA_AhIa0OhE7IV-DjuhT_8zy9eM9hF8J1zSO2-HUQuW72vJsP6kU3lotaZB98GjZ9TLbDfrOtF1dn4FDA=s320" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Actual picture of Fran's brain </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The conversation reminded me of one I had when I was teaching in a school in London many years ago when I tried to convince a male teacher colleague that his name wasn't [let's say] John Collins. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'If we get a rise in pay,' he was saying, 'my name's not John Collins.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'But your name isn't John Collins,' I said. 'I've just been having lunch with John Collins.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'No, you haven't,' he said. 'Whoever that was, it wasn't John Collins. I'm John Collins.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Are you?' I said. 'But I've been teaching here for four years now and I've been calling that other man John Collins all this time. I called him John all the way through our chat. I tell other people he's John Collins.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'None of that makes him John Collins,' he said, patiently. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Who is he, then?' I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He sighed. 'I have no idea. I don't know who you're talking about, do I? Next time you see him, you'd better ask what his name is.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I can't do that,' I said. 'It's too embarrassing. I'll just hide in the English store cupboard if I see him coming down a corridor. Or resign and move to another school.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He looked incredulous. 'You'd go to those lengths? Why not admit it?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'AdMIT it?' I said. 'Who are you? Some kind of monster?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'No,' he said. 'I'm John Collins.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I saw a fabulous news story on my Twitter feed today. Click on the link for this short video. Now, <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0b8x89h?at_custom4=F714BBB0-58CD-11EC-B9C9-57BC96E8478F&at_medium=custom7&at_campaign=64&at_custom1=link&at_custom2=twitter&at_custom3=LR+BBC+WM" target="_blank">THIS man</a> has a memory! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-11446535923212070932021-11-20T10:28:00.001-08:002021-11-20T10:28:22.100-08:00Evidence that Fran pays more attention to trees than she used to<p><span style="font-size: large;">My week in photographs. Enjoy! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZInPtpkxkyuMiUpLoqatlNrEXjRijQF105ebS6CWzkvQpEShHCw_1ZlsBtoPROvA8WPwqbVV7f9axGB-_r6OWzkz-GnfTTbgku9_VZfBxOup9Gn0KPfWKkGyo4PEZmvgs9NA_Yn5hjmZE/s2048/graveyard+trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZInPtpkxkyuMiUpLoqatlNrEXjRijQF105ebS6CWzkvQpEShHCw_1ZlsBtoPROvA8WPwqbVV7f9axGB-_r6OWzkz-GnfTTbgku9_VZfBxOup9Gn0KPfWKkGyo4PEZmvgs9NA_Yn5hjmZE/w300-h400/graveyard+trees.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;">1. This is the view from my bedroom window. Our house overlooks a Victorian graveyard (or 'gravy yard' as my granddaughter dubbed it and as we now call it). How about this for illustrating the difference between evergreen and deciduous? I can't help thinking that the bright orange one looks smug and flaunty as though it knows it's more interesting than its green neighbour. All we need, though, is a windy day, and the smugness will be wiped from its face as it shivers, embarrassed by its nakedness, while the green tree revels in its warm coat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5A8ZA0-wJjGZf64GuNov4T7qZ-MVmoT7ObOiWst5Ff0G9Cv-1SGHdC7bBOMULr-hL34XGW1npO50cZvqENccjxprOSoN2YO7uU5tR1g9tb20mQMcUb8r6nGUtSGpcnT0Hwr-0Kcabcu8r/s2048/Guys+Cliffe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5A8ZA0-wJjGZf64GuNov4T7qZ-MVmoT7ObOiWst5Ff0G9Cv-1SGHdC7bBOMULr-hL34XGW1npO50cZvqENccjxprOSoN2YO7uU5tR1g9tb20mQMcUb8r6nGUtSGpcnT0Hwr-0Kcabcu8r/w400-h300/Guys+Cliffe.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">2. This is Guys Cliffe House, an ancient ruin which I pass on my daily walk. 'Hello, ancient ruin!' I call to it and back comes the echo 'Hello, ancient ruin!' Rude! Thirteen years ago, when we were exploring the Warwick area with a view to moving here and renting a house, I took a similar picture and sent it to all my friends, saying something like, 'It might need an update but the landlord assures us it's full of character and well-ventilated.'</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lvyGyFMkemirEnZ129zkxPD0e3rxqLP3JHiey9o4TrukVvvzmT-MdTaXPKiUgg30a0EQKg649j69mvRQbaBMODremtLP0DEai88mt54YQ-bXROng2h5ykhmGQo6FMyicm3b6Qa9AOzTB/s2016/van+trip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lvyGyFMkemirEnZ129zkxPD0e3rxqLP3JHiey9o4TrukVvvzmT-MdTaXPKiUgg30a0EQKg649j69mvRQbaBMODremtLP0DEai88mt54YQ-bXROng2h5ykhmGQo6FMyicm3b6Qa9AOzTB/s320/van+trip.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;">3. My daughter dropped by yesterday. She drives a van and my husband had asked if she'd help him transport 'a couple of plants' to his allotment. We were right to be sceptical. This 'couple of plants' came from a man who goes to the shops for 'a couple of bits' and comes back with three aisles' worth of goods, and the man who tells us that the walk he has planned for us is 'a couple of miles' only for us to discover that we have walked from our house in the Midlands to Inverness by mistake. The couple of plants turned out to mean a large collection of giant triffids, several lumpen bags of compost and a huge black bin. I watched with her as he loaded it all up and each time my husband appeared from our side alley with a trolley, we thought he'd brought the last items, but, no. Like a magician pulling scarves from a hat, he had plenty more where that came from. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjxAm3ilvQj-GZXQpiVrVnYtt8HbCJhY-SW24gAvoF5ehFdoYRJ3RKE5pr2oORaDsBASAZHqqMRFKZ521E1eUMbEXg5dNSlaqM_ycynshE66mnygtk1GU640rTisZTaG_Ag5kXd9i5Dz1/s2048/young+and+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjxAm3ilvQj-GZXQpiVrVnYtt8HbCJhY-SW24gAvoF5ehFdoYRJ3RKE5pr2oORaDsBASAZHqqMRFKZ521E1eUMbEXg5dNSlaqM_ycynshE66mnygtk1GU640rTisZTaG_Ag5kXd9i5Dz1/s320/young+and+old.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> 4. Going back to trees, I found this autumnal baby tree so intriguing: so young and yet so old, all at once. It's one of perhaps a hundred trees that have been planted in some fields near us and as I've walked in those fields during spring and summer I haven't noticed the new trees much at all. They've faded into the background. But autumn came and suddenly it was as though they'd foraged in their wardrobes for something more showy, tired of not being noticed and keen to make a splash at the party.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXci21HVKlDOpdEZljykMEEDBQaajDWk6B0Lxem-R1K7kM7tLbCDAI9OiVM2EXrzSryNyHBtdJYn9wtKNJjkljAazidRtluLWU0ypcfA4qrzRUCj-ICMmcao6Ri_AxMi7Kr4P1iYqdsVm/s2016/boots+in+box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXci21HVKlDOpdEZljykMEEDBQaajDWk6B0Lxem-R1K7kM7tLbCDAI9OiVM2EXrzSryNyHBtdJYn9wtKNJjkljAazidRtluLWU0ypcfA4qrzRUCj-ICMmcao6Ri_AxMi7Kr4P1iYqdsVm/s320/boots+in+box.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;">5. Sticking with the theme of trees, here's a box made from trees with a cat in it. The cat is Boots and belongs to the van-owner daughter already mentioned. She sent me the picture. Boots looks as though butter wouldn't melt, doesn't he? Well, our daughter was telling us about the problems Boots causes for her when she is conducting sensitive conference calls about bereavement from her home office. If she forgets to shut him out, the calls end up with extra sound effects provided by Boots as he bites the heads off live mice then crunches away at their little bodies with gusto. She has to wait until the conference call has ended to clear up his <strike>grave</strike>gravy-yard of victims. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Do you have a picture that sums up your week, followers? Post it in the comments - I'd love to see it! </span></p><p><br /></p></div>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-40211923827840477712021-10-15T10:29:00.003-07:002021-10-15T10:29:54.804-07:00Evidence that you are middle-aged <p><span style="font-size: large;">1. Your earworm is the tune from the Hovis advert.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">2. When you yawn, the skin on your face takes an hour to regroup. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">3. You know how to write a letter. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">4. When you bend to tie a shoelace, you clean a skirting board while you're there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">5. You'd be upset if a Christmas hamper didn't contain tinned ham and brandy snaps. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">6. Your diary is made from paper. </span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">7. You take someone under 30 with you to buy a mobile phone. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">8. You have curry powder on your nose after reading its ingredients.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">9. Your pyjama bottoms are not shorts.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">10. Telephones in your dreams have dials. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6t_VlWN3kIwRf49NQLADdgiaSPihgpbIdX4xCgImNv0U28xTmWVv-9rnE8sffEZhoTShbSMwHy2alb2CZkVl2O2tyPJHm294bqQQBVYFLpX1TzszH9mQ9L2tpN0Dog_VbmWSehxqIy1L/s960/telephone-3594206_960_720.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6t_VlWN3kIwRf49NQLADdgiaSPihgpbIdX4xCgImNv0U28xTmWVv-9rnE8sffEZhoTShbSMwHy2alb2CZkVl2O2tyPJHm294bqQQBVYFLpX1TzszH9mQ9L2tpN0Dog_VbmWSehxqIy1L/s320/telephone-3594206_960_720.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">11. You have fourteen spectacles cases in the house.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">12. When you spot yourself in a shop window, you think you're being followed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">13. You still think shit is a swearword. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">14. You remember curries with sultanas in them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">15. You pile things on the bottom stair 'ready to go up' because you're not. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">16. You still call it 'the world wide web'. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">17. Your definition of high heels has changed dramatically. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">18. All your cups of tea are described as 'nice'. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">19. You have watched the first 45 minutes of a hundred films. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">20. Every object is a thingy. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><br /><p></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-89710808491441237442021-10-07T01:41:00.000-07:002021-10-07T01:41:09.242-07:00A poem to celebrate National Poetry Day, Libraries Week and 88 year olds everywhere <p><span style="font-size: large;">I wrote this poem, which was published in MsLexia magazine, after seeing a news clip about an 88 year old lady. She had recently learned to read and had therefore discovered a whole new world of stories. You can see the news report by clicking on the link under the poem. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Once upon a time<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">Once upon a time, all she could do<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">was drift her hands along each silent spine<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">or turn hieroglyph pages like a visitor <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">lost in the streets of a foreign land,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">her forehead a frown of lines – <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">a message of bewilderment she hoped<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">others could not read.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">Then, like whispers, or baby footsteps,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">or leaves dropping like scraps of tissue<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">kissed by an infinitesimal breeze,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">shapes on pages birthed sounds on her lips -<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">each day a new one, a tiny gift –<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">and in her mind, dragons, heroines,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">castles, pirates, the sighs of reunited lovers. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-england-devon-41847757" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Watch the news clip - have a tissue handy </span></a><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-57497741797182413752021-08-24T07:16:00.019-07:002021-08-25T05:03:35.953-07:00Reasons why marriage preparation classes need a radical overhaul<p><span style="font-size: large;">They say that opposites attract and, after 39 years of marriage, I'd suggest this theory is best tested by going to a supermarket together with a long list. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It could even substitute for marriage preparation classes. It would teach a young couple so much more about their different approaches to life than mere theories ...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our conversations go something like this when we're in Tesco: </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: We need to buy teabags. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Okay, let's get these. I'll put them in the trolley. Done. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: Hang on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: What?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: How many teabags in that pack? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: 240. Can we go now? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: For how much? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: How would I know? Let's just buy them. It's what we need.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: You look at the price tab, here. It says £3.49. That's steep. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Is it?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: These ones here are only £2.99.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: But we don't usually buy that make. I'm bored now. Can we move on to crisps? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: I swear that tea's gone up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Ah well. We're not exactly destitute. It's a few pence. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: It all adds up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I'm bored now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: Or what about this 2 for 1 deal here? That works out as .... um .... let's see ...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: You should have brought your abacus. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: We'd save 30p if we bought 2 for 1.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: We don't need 2 for 1. We're not at war. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: We could buy 4 if they're that cheap. I'll put them in the shed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I'm bored now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: Maybe they'd be cheaper in Sainsburys.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Maybe I'll just run this trolley into your shins. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHu637hyphenhyphenGx5hG7rXsq3M4lMiTXkVi7SG7KoN1b5R8V8IvJUHxS5w_qFlea-K_ICNUQPm388EOpLM2IuO5jK6FGL85of0RUus1SMvLCnSKDnGuzDRPfz7Wd521N5IMa-dpng-iQYtjMtDgd/s720/shopping+trolley.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHu637hyphenhyphenGx5hG7rXsq3M4lMiTXkVi7SG7KoN1b5R8V8IvJUHxS5w_qFlea-K_ICNUQPm388EOpLM2IuO5jK6FGL85of0RUus1SMvLCnSKDnGuzDRPfz7Wd521N5IMa-dpng-iQYtjMtDgd/s320/shopping+trolley.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This difference in approach to item selection carries into the online shopping we've been doing since Lockdown began in March 2020 and we have exactly the same conversations while I'm tapping items into the search bar and adding them to our list. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">To be fair on him, I'll tell you that, for medical reasons, he can't use the laptop to do the online shop. Otherwise he'd have started doing it himself, trust me. You're probably realising why. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The conversations continue when the shopping arrives and it's time to unpack ... </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: What's this?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Lenor. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: I know it says Lenor. But it's not fabric softener. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: What is it? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: It says 'Fragrance beads'.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Oh, how interesting!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: You add them to your Lenor fabric softener (which we now don't have) to enhance the sickening aroma of the already toxic chemicals. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I've never heard of them. Ooh, if you shake the carton, it sounds like a musical instrument. Shake, shake! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: You must have clicked on this by mistake. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I saw 'Lenor' and went for it. Ah well, we can give them to someone we don't like at Christmas. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: And what's this? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Cans of Coke. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: Who for? Plankton? They're 'mixer' cans. Only 150 ml. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: What's the usual size? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: 330 ml. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I'm bored now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: Why are these toilet rolls cream-coloured with added lavender? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: They are? They're Andrex, aren't they? I saw 'Andrex' and went for it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: And there aren't as many sheets on these as on our usual rolls.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Who the heck cares how many sheets are on each roll? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: <i>Silence. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: You do, clearly. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: How come we ordered green tea? We don't like green tea.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I saw the word 'tea' and -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: This carton of cream is big enough to feed the Army.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: You could drink it instead of Coke. I'm bored now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: And three packs of loose carrots? You probably thought you'd ordered three loose carrots.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: Can I go? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: There are two broken eggs. Maybe we should -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I am not writing an email to Tesco about two broken eggs. Don't even think about it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: Why not? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I bet they spit on the lettuces next time they deliver. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: You do realise a box of eggs costs £1.65.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: How do you even know that without looking? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: So that's 27.5 pence per egg.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: I'm bored now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Him: 2 eggs is 27.5 x 2 so that's 55 pence they owe us. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me: But I saved you that by buying Cokes for plankton. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Priest: 'Welcome to your marriage preparation classes. Our first lesson is called 'Supermarket Shopping'.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Young couple: 'Uh?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-68891193478202988172021-07-16T07:02:00.009-07:002021-07-16T07:10:07.519-07:00Reasons why Fran needs a gag, not just a mask<p><span style="font-size: large;">The driver, a man in his fifties, was standing outside his bus today, having a sneaky fag in the sunshine before the next trip. I waited to board, slipping on my mask. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'It's a steaming hot day,' he said. 'But I'm not one of those people who moans about the heat.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One of the talking bus drivers, I realised. They don't all want conversation, and neither might this one, after today. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'That's the best way to be,' I said, glad he'd mentioned it first, because I'd been about to moan about the heat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I don't moan when it's cold either,' he said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ah. Here I could show more empathy. 'Cardigans all the way for me.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>'Can't stand people who moan,' he said. 'If it's hot, they moan. If it's cold, they moan. They're never happy.' He began to mimic someone complaining. 'Ooooh, it's too </span><i>hot</i><span>. Oooh, it's too </span><i>cold. </i><span>Moaners, the lot of 'em.</span><i>'</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I shook my head slowly from side to side. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'What's the point in moaning about things?' he said. 'People are bloody miserable.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Indeed.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'You won't catch me moaning,' he said. 'I just get on with it. Get on with the job. Not the moaning type, me.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'You must suffer in the heat,' I said, 'in the driver's cab.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I do,' he said. 'But do I moan about it? No, I don't. What's the point? It doesn't change anything.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Good for you.' I was running out of responses. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>He chucked his fag end into the gutter. 'Let's get on this bus,' he said, went up the steps and sat in his cab. '</span><span>I'll tell you when I do moan,' he said. 'When it's freezing cold in the winter and the heater in the cab doesn't work. Then I raise hell. The bosses don't know what's coming to them when my heater doesn't work.'</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'Right,' I said. 'A single to Rugby Road, please.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I took my ticket and found a seat half-way down the bus. There was one other passenger, a man sitting behind me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The bus driver hadn't finished our conversation. 'I'll tell you what,' he shouted down the bus. 'Bloody roadworks on the Coventry Road again, clogging everything up. What a pain. Couldn't get through for love nor money. Bloody council.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My mouth let out the words before my brain could think about whether they were wise. 'I thought you said you didn't moan!' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I said it with a smile so he knew I was only teasing but, you know, masks ...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-tTCFA1Ih_VDOBbI25X13ekXoS40oPHN7nV0-O1WC4aVzYw-AGxfNX0bU_K3832lZOjZNwUaPOqk4__-fETYHM0uQD6COFuez-qrPzG3N3Htwy3ecdS44Yl5-bB_ib6B3vr_RJFoOUkwq/s960/lion+mouth.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-tTCFA1Ih_VDOBbI25X13ekXoS40oPHN7nV0-O1WC4aVzYw-AGxfNX0bU_K3832lZOjZNwUaPOqk4__-fETYHM0uQD6COFuez-qrPzG3N3Htwy3ecdS44Yl5-bB_ib6B3vr_RJFoOUkwq/s320/lion+mouth.webp" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my big mouth</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He stuck his head out of the cab and looked back down the bus. 'Say again, love? I didn't catch that.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I had to repeat it, only louder. My fellow passenger must have heard what I'd said so I couldn't pretend and say, 'I said, I love the way you give out the tickets.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I thought you said you didn't moan,' I said. The second time, it sounded much more insulting. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There was a pause. Goodbye, world, I thought. I am about to die at the hands of a revengeful bus driver. You could have waited until I was 60, because round numbers are always more satisfactory, but it wasn't a bad run. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I <i>said</i>, I don't moan about the <i>weather</i>,' he said, put his head back in his cab as though disgusted with me, and started the engine. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately at that point the noise of the engine took over and I bent my head to my crossword puzzle, praying, I won't lie, that we didn't meet any roadworks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Phew. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When we reached my stop, I said to the driver, 'Thanks very much,' and stepped off the bus. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He didn't reply. But that was better than, 'I hope you meet an axe murderer on the way home.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-90566599274941628702021-06-22T09:16:00.003-07:002021-06-22T09:16:49.981-07:00Reasons to love bookshops <p><span style="font-size: large;">It's Independent Bookshop Week in the UK so I thought I'd post a poem I wrote in celebration of bookshops. It was published in the Bookseller magazine recently. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XTNKZ2R_G5uspmSkAKmz3aq_qRDM3y3Iyzb75fXEYYaDBECvrroJ_CKuOzdeJSws54YsMYvfLfQqKI-GYPYVQqI8mVig7lDZtyR9N0l4e0podbE29m-gIb3Zij88pBQFpXNpaSGu-WEG/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XTNKZ2R_G5uspmSkAKmz3aq_qRDM3y3Iyzb75fXEYYaDBECvrroJ_CKuOzdeJSws54YsMYvfLfQqKI-GYPYVQqI8mVig7lDZtyR9N0l4e0podbE29m-gIb3Zij88pBQFpXNpaSGu-WEG/w390-h260/image.png" width="390" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>To bookshops</b> (with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.</span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I love the jingle-jingle of the bell<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">announcing my arrival with a smile:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">‘You’re in a bookshop. All will now be well.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I love the spines of books upon the shelf<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">that promise romance, laughs and mysteries.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I love the smell of paper, print and ink,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">the rustling of pages in the peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I love the ‘Recommendeds’ and the ‘New’,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">the joyous promise of that corner chair<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">that tells me I should choose a book and rest -<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">convinces me that I have time to spare. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I love, I love, the beauteous books you sell. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">(My bank account does not love thee so well.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">What do you like best about bookshops? Do you have a favourite one? Tell me why. </span></p><br /><p></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-37216857112962648082021-06-01T10:18:00.005-07:002021-06-01T10:21:43.321-07:00Reasons why Fran has been absent without leave <p><span style="font-size: large;">Apologies for a long absence. I suspect this blog post will attract between three and five readers as blogs are like tender plants which, untended, droop and wither. I should know, as I have murdered plenty of plants in my time. I am hoping I haven't similarly asphyxiated my blog. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmLUNTvG6TCtL5aWj_gHNsGX_9LLerRaAELVeCqCrcjtHVO1-xgGlv_3yRR3p_OP3LhuOEMpVMFAh0JdWOUovOeMZpwbYz08JqMtvLQqomUgBfF9Ue7U_wdnTjGpU5waFBQg27izCRi5X/s720/sunflower-29307_960_720.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="455" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmLUNTvG6TCtL5aWj_gHNsGX_9LLerRaAELVeCqCrcjtHVO1-xgGlv_3yRR3p_OP3LhuOEMpVMFAh0JdWOUovOeMZpwbYz08JqMtvLQqomUgBfF9Ue7U_wdnTjGpU5waFBQg27izCRi5X/s320/sunflower-29307_960_720.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All Fran did was look at it.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you are here and reading this and are neither droopy nor withered, I thank you, and you are most welcome. Do come again and bring a friend. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Honest, m'lud, I have been slaving over a hot keyboard, writing a novel, and today I wrote the last chapter. I didn't know at the time that it was the last chapter until I looked back on it and realised that the story was finished. Sometimes stories don't ask proper permission; they just do their own thing, like recalcitrant toddlers, wonky shopping trolleys and viruses. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you write yourself, you'll know that having finished a first draft is just one step on a long journey of edits, rewrites, plunges into pits of despair, more edits, cuts, rearrangements, plunges into pits of despair, rinse and repeat until the egg whites stand up in soft peaks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Writing novels is like housework. You feel as though you're achieving something, and for a little while you have, and are triumphant, but then reality butts in. For instance, this morning I swept the kitchen floor but all that meant was that, when my gardener husband arrived home, shedding bits of hedge, soil and probably himself (he's 65 this year), I minded a lot more than I would have done had I not bothered sweeping. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHtEDOY8JUoOtJ1v1iqgKFN29gaq_HOd_LNIUaKby_zU-U4LVdDE6x5d7V51IEFlZTrRF0r_VMXnU49Azg2Jkik2BApz15gP53KPrkPsEpFeHCA-5Y4ni2c2L5DGdjlIe5_G9AOWUg1e2/s720/gardener.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="574" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHtEDOY8JUoOtJ1v1iqgKFN29gaq_HOd_LNIUaKby_zU-U4LVdDE6x5d7V51IEFlZTrRF0r_VMXnU49Azg2Jkik2BApz15gP53KPrkPsEpFeHCA-5Y4ni2c2L5DGdjlIe5_G9AOWUg1e2/s320/gardener.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A gardener without bits so, not Fran's husband</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Also, I scrubbed the kitchen sink until it smiled at me, but all that means is that, the first time one of us recklessly brushes crumbs off the breadboard into the sink without rinsing them away, I will wish I'd left it as it was. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Similarly, although I've written a draft novel and that should seem like a big deal, all it's left me with is a hundred notes in the margin that say things like, 'Is the asthma important to the plot?' and 'Didn't I say she had red hair in Chapter 1?' and 'If the aunt in New Zealand surfaces, will she need a subplot to herself - please, no!?' and 'I've got far too many people grinning and shrugging. THESAURUS!'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If I'd minded my own business, forgotten the novelist aspirations and just read a book or made scones, I could save myself so much trouble. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Writing the novel has coincided with a lifting of some restrictions, something they used to call taking off your corset, but which now means you can see family and friends indoors as long as you keep a window open and only hug them like you would an electric fence. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This has meant that grandchildren have come back into our lives, having been kept at a distance, waving from across roads and fields. We gathered together at lunch time on Sunday at our daughter's house and, when my grandson (8) arrived, I asked him what he'd been doing all morning. He sighed. 'Waiting,' he said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think it's safe to say he was looking forward to the reunions. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, despite my whinging about how much work I've made for myself by writing a draft manuscript, sweeping my kitchen floor and scrubbing my sink clean, there is much for which to be thankful, and I am. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Or, I will be, once I've worked out what to do with the aunt in New Zealand. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-45375727304650653402021-04-03T07:50:00.009-07:002021-04-04T11:53:56.301-07:00Evidence that those who send me junk mail should do their research<p><span style="font-size: large;">An envelope dropped through the letterbox this week. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here it is. In case you can't see it, the writing says, '<b>Important Information About Your Conservatory</b>'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX33T7lmFrN9cmiLzM54Mdqjov4EXXajC-jcVBXGscTX0xpUlr-3Iw-HOtklnT852uCVmOW_6bmOMjxjSRgLT8UFUVr3UMq4CZY7BSP9cVedBH2TNskbrpUAP18fQT-5LEwPbWnb3AAhzu/s2048/conservatory+.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX33T7lmFrN9cmiLzM54Mdqjov4EXXajC-jcVBXGscTX0xpUlr-3Iw-HOtklnT852uCVmOW_6bmOMjxjSRgLT8UFUVr3UMq4CZY7BSP9cVedBH2TNskbrpUAP18fQT-5LEwPbWnb3AAhzu/w400-h300/conservatory+.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1. We don't have a conservatory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>2. If the advertisers had peeked round the back of the house at our tiny garden, they'd have noticed that, had we added a conservatory, the lawn and the shed would have been inside it. </span><span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">3. Within the envelope was information about how to maintain the conservatory we don't have. I must say, our conservatory maintenance costs are pretty manageable. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">4. Also, there was information about how to buy a conservatory in case we don't have one. So, they lied. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">5. There are inappropriate capitals on the message and if they knew anything about me they'd know that this would be enough to stop me buying their conservatories. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">6. The writing is squeezed into the right hand corner. Do they think I will re-use this envelope for a handmade card? -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> To my darling, sweet husband on our anniversary.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <strike><b>Important Information About Your Conservatory.</b> </strike></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">7. The writing is also in green in a blatant attempt at a garden-themed font, but it's difficult to see. At first glance, I thought it was a blank envelope that I could use again - yay! At second glance, I saw the writing. I've never come across a better example of anti-climax than this. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8. We don't even own the house. It's rented. I'd love to see the landlord's face if he turned up and found we'd installed a conservatory. 'But a badly-designed envelope TOLD us to,' isn't going to cut it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But that's the problem with junk mail. The people who send it don't check their facts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We also receive leaflets asking us to sell our house that we don't own. Apparently there are keen buyers for it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We get 'Buy this humungous family pizza for 24 people' leaflets when there are only two of us. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We get leaflets saying 'Local gardener for hire' but I live with a gardener and you can't get more local than that. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We get leaflets from local garages offering to MOT the car we don't own. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Worst of all, I get leaflets from Slimming World offering me a discount on my first session and, if they'd looked at me properly, they'd realise I'm barely 8 stone and already drop-dead gorgeous. I mean, look! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7b0vhRQjdJEU4el-3llxQUK0O_Z_CGAQrUDXxmGg-tytHzmlZYNsKt7CN_BfDWduD4PCfOW5POPUiFmr6ntRZi4KEV-u1kvgek98U1MSgrs3mCY623PINqu3AznDTZgTVtjyPH2YwSRQ/s720/jelly+bean.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="691" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7b0vhRQjdJEU4el-3llxQUK0O_Z_CGAQrUDXxmGg-tytHzmlZYNsKt7CN_BfDWduD4PCfOW5POPUiFmr6ntRZi4KEV-u1kvgek98U1MSgrs3mCY623PINqu3AznDTZgTVtjyPH2YwSRQ/s320/jelly+bean.png" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-86525969364376769652021-03-10T11:23:00.014-08:002021-03-11T13:17:14.499-08:00Evidence that pandemics cause all kinds of communication issues <p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday I visited the dentist. Let me tell you about some of the communication issues I met.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Communication #1. The email from the dentist. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Amongst the other 347 instructions regarding my consultation with the dentist about a broken tooth was this: 'Please do not use our customer toilets while you are here.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I understand why this has to be so in the current Covid situation. But my bladder is made from cheap market-stall cling film these days, not its previous reinforced rubber. I thought back to Adam and Eve and to God saying, 'Don't eat from one particular tree,' and remembered how things turned out. I knew that as soon as I stepped over the threshold of the dentists' surgery, my bladder would want to do the one thing that was forbidden. My only option was, therefore, to visit the public conveniences in the town square once I climbed off the bus. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y8nkUptDwj-6FKYr-8ty-wXdqn24n9WAFlVacXkUZJSkTqOAyIb5LW28vGN34tPkay1hv82dPNMGr5NpmvQSkJsO2fWuSwUVdhoEZMC1PHLELL8WgVcjGT2XO1_l9cUbj2XP-e1an6YD/s722/holding+on.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y8nkUptDwj-6FKYr-8ty-wXdqn24n9WAFlVacXkUZJSkTqOAyIb5LW28vGN34tPkay1hv82dPNMGr5NpmvQSkJsO2fWuSwUVdhoEZMC1PHLELL8WgVcjGT2XO1_l9cUbj2XP-e1an6YD/s320/holding+on.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Communication #2 The sign in the public conveniences</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I washed my hands in the public conveniences using the automatic machine on the wall. It was one of those 'squirt of foamy soap, dash of water, gust of Arctic wind' contraptions. Between water and air, you get 6 seconds to clean your hands. The local council has obviously realised this because there's a sign to the right of the automatic machine announcing, 'After using the automatic handwasher, please wash your hands thoroughly for 20 seconds.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Communication #3 The sign in a shop</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I passed a shop on the way to the dentist. A sign on the door says, 'Please wear a mask before entering the shop.' I must have missed the guidance that says that as long as you were wearing a mask before you went in, you can hang it from your ear while choosing your groceries and breathing particles of Covid over all the fresh vegetables. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Communication #4 The sign in the dentists' surgery</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Among the other 347 instructions, the email from the dentists' surgery had specified that patients should not take personal belongings into their consultation. I duly left my bag and coat on a chair above which was a sign: PUT YOUR BELONGINGS HERE AT YOUR OWN RISK. The sign itself was ambiguous: was this an instruction or a warning? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The door to the consultation room opened and a female dentist peered out and beckoned me in. Then she pointed to my bag and coat. 'Are they yours?' she said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">'I'm just obeying the sign,' I said, thinking I was about to be rebuked. Did 'belongings' not include bags? Coats? Had I placed them too untidily? I wasn't sure what to do. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She smiled. 'Don't leave them there!' she said, cheerily. 'Bring them in.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Don't they use this method to torture people: sudden shifts from aggression to kindness? Put it this way, after all the emotional turmoil, the dental treatment itself was a breeze.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNoARoq69mC_kG9aKBxp1RRaok3k0q9JRkqIc5oJoNceBtqgPodyUr5eBA0pL9A2us3SoYhETIzOpbTgQ3cus_VXn0xgi0kmmXQG-NUmazYASlWZdygQnx9Yu3kaZo3XMTqiKJuys2jsJ/s720/emoticons-150528_960_720.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="462" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNoARoq69mC_kG9aKBxp1RRaok3k0q9JRkqIc5oJoNceBtqgPodyUr5eBA0pL9A2us3SoYhETIzOpbTgQ3cus_VXn0xgi0kmmXQG-NUmazYASlWZdygQnx9Yu3kaZo3XMTqiKJuys2jsJ/s320/emoticons-150528_960_720.webp" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Communication #5 The dentist's PPE</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I heard very little of what the dentist said once she'd donned her PPE to repair my broken tooth. Her voice was completely muffled. But as most of her comments were directed at the nurse and not me, I wasn't worried.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But, at the end, when I stood up from the chair, I turned to face her. 'Any general advice?' I said. 'Can you see any warning signs? Things I should be doing?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She replied, 'Poofleboofle snom chortleboff poolarly bofflewhisk pombootle snaff.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And I said, like an idiot, 'Thank you. I will.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-2260890106261425242021-02-20T13:50:00.005-08:002021-02-20T14:28:20.146-08:00Evidence that Fran should take more care in the kitchen <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: large;">A Tragedy Involving Froth</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I went into the kitchen, unaware<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">of huge disaster waiting for me there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">The bowl was stacked with dirty crocks, of course:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">the detritus of pork with apple sauce.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">In haste, for I was keen to watch TV, </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I squirted in the Fairy recklessly</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">which meant, before too long, the froth had frothed</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">so frothily I knew all hope was lothed. </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">Imagine if the sea were all detergent -</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">you’ll understand how things became so urgent. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">Huge bubbles on the ceiling and the floor<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">and mutinously bubbling through the door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">and bubbles scaling walls just like Bear Grylls<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">and on the windows and the windowsills. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I wished that I had not been so remiss -<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I now had froth in every orifice -<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">so, when I sneezed – a sneeze so loud and long -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">a million bubbles added to the throng.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">Attacked by bubbles, terrified, afflicted, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large;">I waited for my death by Fairy Liquid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: large; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnvd-FkjCu_4aGd3j1WaE-fyLxW2YH05xg6yAXlxNKRT84QupQbOxiPZYh01dY90Fz7g4aRFHjK07_JI0XwWTxd6ghKYXMEQCti7sCrAbcSRnLp2fBjZszhfbcGckn0l6kwNt8BZgC1or/s898/detergent.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnvd-FkjCu_4aGd3j1WaE-fyLxW2YH05xg6yAXlxNKRT84QupQbOxiPZYh01dY90Fz7g4aRFHjK07_JI0XwWTxd6ghKYXMEQCti7sCrAbcSRnLp2fBjZszhfbcGckn0l6kwNt8BZgC1or/s320/detergent.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The emergency services knew Fran was under there, somewhere </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span><p></p><br /><p></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-3037728691164117072021-01-23T09:52:00.013-08:002021-01-23T10:21:38.149-08:00Reasons why Fran can now forgive the ironing board incident <p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's nearly a month since Christmas and I still have my pile of books and notebooks from friends and family on a chair by the sofa. I can't bring myself to put them all away. There's no reason why I should. No one's <strike>dared to move the pile so that they can sit </strike>sat on the chair for a while anyway. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbJRfL00ZCkZjIUCobuItSUcs7GEYpcVJmx9jnpJmVuJcfMqCAIvAi4BluBEd_e4ydq5vtk1ig6TLJUCRq9tNwxaije_Rz3sq9CbmdgwttXHFiNt9aDMl1MtII0bXmn6qgNUc2oglsVrs/s275/books+and+notebooks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbJRfL00ZCkZjIUCobuItSUcs7GEYpcVJmx9jnpJmVuJcfMqCAIvAi4BluBEd_e4ydq5vtk1ig6TLJUCRq9tNwxaije_Rz3sq9CbmdgwttXHFiNt9aDMl1MtII0bXmn6qgNUc2oglsVrs/s0/books+and+notebooks.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But these are lovely presents: novels, books of poetry, books about poetry, delicious notebooks .... what's not to like?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I haven't always received such pleasing gifts. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was married in April 1982. At the end of that month, I turned 20. Yes, a young bride, and one who wasn't so delighted with her birthday present from her new husband. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5S8FdtAGGXaJk1kJA4yiaZKqapNhwDTJobGvyYsg3hZrJ_waUMYQ55Y-USXSnuoS72uxjtBkuEzoZXamA7IQi436_nt54o9yaeoGs107AIb4bzLa7phiMf7KWSoNk-XhpIVtAow1Qe1f1/s384/ironing+board.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5S8FdtAGGXaJk1kJA4yiaZKqapNhwDTJobGvyYsg3hZrJ_waUMYQ55Y-USXSnuoS72uxjtBkuEzoZXamA7IQi436_nt54o9yaeoGs107AIb4bzLa7phiMf7KWSoNk-XhpIVtAow1Qe1f1/s320/ironing+board.webp" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'I've bought you an ironing board cover, too,' he said, looking pleased. 'It's the right size. I've checked.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And indeed he had. It was prettier than the plain blue one on this picture: flowery and cheerful. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">He had tried. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nevertheless, we had words. I was compassionate, don't worry. I was his first love and the only other woman he'd bought presents for was his mother who was a domestic goddess of the highest order and would have been disappointed with fripperies such as boxes of chocolates or posh hand cream. Can openers ... ladles and fish slices ... a three-pack of bleach ... these warmed her spring-cleaner cockles. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Over the following years, his present-buying improved. There was one year in which his performance dipped and he bought me a lamp for my birthday. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfiDHNMx78YsRWnwBH88RJcNq_JQNxCo8FbAVS2kbi5WybNCkH0rDdH3QaZhlJwM89xMXDpvWiBOfCbUFOZIgK8z7mUtGsDSKCyfP213uD1-fdaUX3GLV85WoGilBAjToKFzE9s9JfX2NE/s340/lampshade.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfiDHNMx78YsRWnwBH88RJcNq_JQNxCo8FbAVS2kbi5WybNCkH0rDdH3QaZhlJwM89xMXDpvWiBOfCbUFOZIgK8z7mUtGsDSKCyfP213uD1-fdaUX3GLV85WoGilBAjToKFzE9s9JfX2NE/s320/lampshade.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Why is that so bad? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Because it wasn't that kind of lamp. It was <i>this </i>kind of lamp. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKODGgPzizi2KSOpZ-pm_-JTZ2m5tlBW6C5wvfZgkgi9hzzfBspG6HLNb4EJwIJFRw1L-DLC-Qu21SlFiYuGj6qOjb0dF1kABCWIe4A_XNw6mpedGXKn842f1XkJpeUVpTL1kWfwzPRcbv/s510/lantern.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKODGgPzizi2KSOpZ-pm_-JTZ2m5tlBW6C5wvfZgkgi9hzzfBspG6HLNb4EJwIJFRw1L-DLC-Qu21SlFiYuGj6qOjb0dF1kABCWIe4A_XNw6mpedGXKn842f1XkJpeUVpTL1kWfwzPRcbv/s320/lantern.webp" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">At the time, our washing machine lived in the 'outhouse'. It used to be the outside toilet when the house was built in Edwardian times but had been converted into a utility space. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'I know you don't like going out there to put the washing on in the dark,' he said, as I unwrapped my <strike>giant box of Milk Tray, Chanel perfume and new silk dressing-gown</strike> lamp. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Thank you, dear,' I said. 'I do indeed hate to go out in the dark as there may be an axe-murderer in the garden. Now, I'll be able to see him clearly and guide him into the house so that he can dispatch you in the light.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Other than the Year of the Lamp, my husband has sharpened up his skills, buying sparkling wine, chocolates, my favourite Coco Chanel, flowers. As a teacher, I would call this 'rapid progress'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But time has passed. We are both middle-aged now - in fact, he's 65 in September - and although on birthdays we make more effort, Christmas has brought a new present-buying tradition, particularly as funds have run lower. The 'joint' present. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The joint present is usually something we know we need for the house but which has been on the list for years because it's not top-priority. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, this year, he unwrapped the king-size duvet cover and matching pillowcase set and expressed surprise, as did I, even though I'd ordered, wrapped and labelled it and he'd agreed to the pattern when we looked on the John Lewis site. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">He also unwrapped the knife block. Again, we both claimed to have known nothing about it, despite having trawled Amazon looking for the one we wanted. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dU3CgINkrad8RnUGGUlwPVNqd831A-ugGhHmSIpiRv9AWwQF_p0Nk_DnxHZlZzZ3zIpsXtlhxpP_eqhfU_Dfmga-pGPv5yY50a8555qgs2PLziDSLZ1QI-qNs2di-brCppFGmP3l93JN/s206/knife+block.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dU3CgINkrad8RnUGGUlwPVNqd831A-ugGhHmSIpiRv9AWwQF_p0Nk_DnxHZlZzZ3zIpsXtlhxpP_eqhfU_Dfmga-pGPv5yY50a8555qgs2PLziDSLZ1QI-qNs2di-brCppFGmP3l93JN/s0/knife+block.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Romance is dead but the knives are lovely and tidy </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Over the last few years, we've bought each other a vegetable chopper, a new set of pans, a vacuum cleaner and three bathmats. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Being middle-aged can help this process along. We've often forgotten, between the wrapping and the unwrapping, what we bought. Then it really is a surprise and, even if it is only a saucepan, at our age, that little frisson of shock is all we can cope with before our hearts do strange things. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A surprise kitchen gadget for Christmas is one thing. A surprise cardiac arrest is another. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So, I can forgive him for the ironing board incident. As it turns out, he was ahead of the curve. </span></div><div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p></div>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-2966624946970602672020-12-24T13:55:00.001-08:002020-12-24T13:56:03.344-08:00Evidence that Fran is acquiring technical skills <p>Happy Christmas, lovely followers! I know it's not been the year any of us would have ordered (had we been asked) but here and there I have tried to offer humour, cheer and a moment's distraction. Thanks so much for being around, for reading, and for your super comments which I love until they are funnier than my own. </p><p>I hope you are able to spend some time, however limited, with family or friends. Our plans were disrupted but we're still able to see one set of family so, counting our blessings! </p><p>I've been adding videos to my Youtube channel and these two are Christmas-themed, so I offer them here for your entertainment over the holiday. The first is a poem, the second a song. Take your pick or enjoy both :) </p><p>See you in 2021 😊</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MQmDvjS-2pw" width="320" youtube-src-id="MQmDvjS-2pw"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9UPbu2bixpM" width="320" youtube-src-id="9UPbu2bixpM"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-882302156328979162020-12-18T15:09:00.006-08:002020-12-20T08:59:27.593-08:00Evidence that Fran is perhaps over-thinking during Zoom events <p><b>I've been to so many Zoom events lately, often those for writers. Here are thoughts I have during them.</b> </p><p>1. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else?</p><p>2. I bet I'm not the only one drinking red wine out of a tumbler to pretend it's Ribena. </p><p>3. I wish someone had warned me that when you surreptitiously check your phone, your face lights up like a beacon. </p><p>4. That woman's dog is so tiny it would do better as a sandwich filling. </p><p>5. How embarrassing that I posted the Clapping reaction just as that man told a tragic story. </p><p>6. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else?</p><p>7. Hey, if I tilt my head back just a little like *this*, I reduce the number of chins by a sixth.</p><p>8. Crap, no! My Chat message saying, 'I'm loving this' came up just as that lady was describing her latest rejection from a publisher. </p><p>9. If I turn my camera off, I could eat this Snickers bar then claim technical problems. </p><p>10. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else?</p><p>11. Look at that woman, blowing her own trumpet and posting a link to her novel in the chat. </p><p>12. What if I preface the link to my book with, 'Not blowing my own trumpet, but -'? </p><p>13. Arrrrggghh! Fran, DON'T lean towards the screen. You are a GARGOYLE.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDaAHxt6ysWYdqcsE19qlXqexNjzvNNhwMUXV5PEc1PpGO_SJOXZPEwiRJclKJ4w5XkXYAwkwW-n1IHE1YDnF6U1guLsNfJRrFqr0aGE_CY0jCpMPf8xWKkYQ0i6ObpJt90n1dbvbcvn8/s960/gargoyle-1663460_960_720.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDaAHxt6ysWYdqcsE19qlXqexNjzvNNhwMUXV5PEc1PpGO_SJOXZPEwiRJclKJ4w5XkXYAwkwW-n1IHE1YDnF6U1guLsNfJRrFqr0aGE_CY0jCpMPf8xWKkYQ0i6ObpJt90n1dbvbcvn8/s320/gargoyle-1663460_960_720.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>14. That woman's cat may be pedigree but it looks like it ran into a wall. </p><p>15. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else?</p><p>16. Does she realise she slurps? </p><p>17. Is her name really 'Honeybun' or was her last call to her boyfriend? </p><p>18. If I dip my head like *this* I have seventeen chins but the nose is much improved. </p><p>19. If I leave out apostrophes in the Chat, will people think I'm cool and contemporary, or thick? </p><p>20. My nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to everyone. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-54573494115396015332020-12-01T07:57:00.022-08:002020-12-01T13:40:02.178-08:00Reasons why Fran is desperately in search of earbuds <p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>My try-to-get-fitter walk in the fields today was a silent one. I usually listen to the radio through earphones but have lost one of the soft earbuds and nothing spoils a walk more than having hard plastic nudging up against your fragile tympanic membrane. The BBC's </span><span>'Woman's Hour' is a brilliant programme but loyalty has limits. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was disconcerting, walking in silence. Listening to radio distracts from the disturbing reality that my legs are propelling me in forward motion because, if I think too hard about this, I frighten myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, while walking, I had to listen to my own thoughts. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And now I've listened to my own thoughts, I remember why I like radio better.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The inside of my head is like a wastepaper basket. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Be grateful that I only offer you a brief excerpt. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, look, that bird is - / Where did I put that mark scheme. I'll need it for - / My shoes are getting muddier./ Maybe mash with the fish tonight / really muddy / The trees are definitely more wintry / Perhaps I should have said yes to that request / Or chips - we haven't had chips for a while / that man's dog is off the lead / I wonder when that student's mock exam is / I don't know if I have any spare earbuds / my back hurts / oops, am I on the farmer's crop? / shall I go round the field again - yes, I will as my back isn't too bad / Or fish pie? Do I have prawns in the freezer? / Actually, that tree still has some orange leaves / I'll have to leave these shoes outside to dry / Do I need a new laptop? / What if no one likes the new book? / Or maybe not fish pie. Maybe I could egg and breadcrumb the fish / I knew I shouldn't have done an extra lap of the field / My back hurts / But if I'd said yes, I'd be too busy / or what about roasties? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was teaching A level English Language, we studied the nature of spontaneous speech. Spontaneous speech is how we talk when we're chatting informally, without planning what to say. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Spontaneous speech contains hesitations, pauses, mistakes, re-starts, interruptions, overlaps, repetitions and grammar errors, but it also contains shifts in topic, revisits to a previous topic, and digressions. Most people are surprised to see transcripts of real, naturally-occurring speech and how chaotic and messy it is. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Still, linguists say that, because we want to cooperate with each other, and we're desperate to be understood, we try to make what we say as coherent as possible. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish someone would tell my mind this. It obviously has no desire to cooperate at all or behave in a respectable, orderly manner. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I also realise what a miracle it is that, with a brain that thinks like this, I ever utter a coherent sentence, the journey from brain to tongue and lips being so short. What a process must be happening on that journey, like an unravelling of tangled wool. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Do you know the children's story of Mr Messy by Roger Hargreaves? Here's how Mr Messy looks at the start of the tale.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3uFADnY928qv0o_X_av_yIJ_FZDFBgCnsj2GR6vAWopffbWTkcEjTY9rZ1m5ZYkVzND81nQSJpt0yglLCdfMcSlHJxG5z5FSYMXTgTpoz_nB4i4IvZZnyO6rJWTAsrwh2SKrdsVZpb-T/s196/mr+messy+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="196" data-original-width="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3uFADnY928qv0o_X_av_yIJ_FZDFBgCnsj2GR6vAWopffbWTkcEjTY9rZ1m5ZYkVzND81nQSJpt0yglLCdfMcSlHJxG5z5FSYMXTgTpoz_nB4i4IvZZnyO6rJWTAsrwh2SKrdsVZpb-T/s0/mr+messy+2.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And (look away if you can't bear a spoiler) here he is after his visit from Mr Neat and Mr Tidy. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyVURpp-LEDxaE3IGcHhHTLEFFZZMmgKYRXpt31o48f1dIyET5p-XWMNnUiz-JW5m0BiMOuvN0P7BuWsG2KphcAXXSyKhAuQM3YcY1btoUVfeVIjP5Je0Tc2KDavl8mcfA_FW3MLJImkI/s2048/mr+messy+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1558" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyVURpp-LEDxaE3IGcHhHTLEFFZZMmgKYRXpt31o48f1dIyET5p-XWMNnUiz-JW5m0BiMOuvN0P7BuWsG2KphcAXXSyKhAuQM3YcY1btoUVfeVIjP5Je0Tc2KDavl8mcfA_FW3MLJImkI/s320/mr+messy+3.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Something similar must happen to our thoughts before they reach an audience. Thank goodness it does. People wouldn't need a pandemic as an excuse not to come and visit. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm off to look for earbuds. I need a long break before visiting my own head again. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74882821337502001.post-86702431078313278492020-11-07T07:28:00.015-08:002022-11-13T01:33:10.881-08:00For Remembrance <p><span style="font-size: large;">I wrote a poem for Remembrance Day based on Ecclesiastes 3 verses 1-8. You may know the original verses better as a famous Pete Seeger song. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qURAnrk30ng" width="320" youtube-src-id="qURAnrk30ng"></iframe></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">First, here are the verses as they appear in the Old Testament. Following them is my own poem 'There is a Clock-Strike'</span></p><p></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (New International Version of the Bible)</span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">There is a time for
everything,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">and a
season for every activity under the heavens:</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="text"><b><sup><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">2 </span></sup></b></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to be born and a
time to die,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
to plant and a time to uproot,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
<span class="text"><b><sup>3 </sup></b></span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to kill and a
time to heal,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
to tear down and a time to build,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
<span class="text"><b><sup>4 </sup></b></span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to weep and a time
to laugh,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
to mourn and a time to dance,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
<span class="text"><b><sup>5 </sup></b></span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to scatter stones
and a time to gather them,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
<span class="text"><b><sup>6 </sup></b></span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to search and a
time to give up,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
to keep and a time to throw away,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
<span class="text"><b><sup>7 </sup></b></span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to tear and a time
to mend,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
to be silent and a time to speak,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
<span class="text"><b><sup>8 </sup></b></span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time to love and a time
to hate,</span></span><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;">a time
for war and a time for peace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Segoe UI, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Segoe UI, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><b>There is a clock-strike - by Fran Hill </b></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">There is a clock-strike for
all imaginings<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and the peal of a bell
for each earthly circumstance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time for the red-faced,
hungry newborn<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">but, too, for the ashen
quietness of the dying. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to dig deep and
seed and water<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and a time to nestle a
trowel underneath and tug,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to take away the whisper
of a life<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">yet also to offer balm
for the mending of wounds<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to raze to the
ground and transform to dust<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and a time to craft walls
which stretch for beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to gather many
tears in cupped hands<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">but then throw the head
back to smile at the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to bend over a
gravestone and remember<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and to dive and leap into
a chorus of joy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to throw stones to
the moody winds<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">but also time to pick
them from earth for redemption.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to fold a loved
one into your gracious touch<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and one to hold them distant like
mist on the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to call a name out
and peer for sightings<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">but then to lie down
content with the absence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to hug possessions
to your jealous heart<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and to hurl them to the
air like nothing that matters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to rend a garment
and make its edges rough<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">yet also a time for tiny
stitches in threads of silver.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to rein back words
as though wild horses<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and then to let them fall from
your lips as free as birds.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time to release your
passions and bid them run<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">but, too, a time for the sober
face and withheld love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">A time for conquests with
the vengeful sword <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">and for the joining of
hands that means a world at rest. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text" style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3jngKubIO6VkQ1l2QL_xsKGgHC0H6pdwb9VRA-8cp93kFsxE0Bzse6Sa3unFpibaxkCXFhPjPAw_Vml7iH2Uyc_-OOYEgxhQ23Lr2r5nhjHvYmUneDOHS1KD3Zl0MUIH-5BsWZsXU8Tz/s960/candles.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3jngKubIO6VkQ1l2QL_xsKGgHC0H6pdwb9VRA-8cp93kFsxE0Bzse6Sa3unFpibaxkCXFhPjPAw_Vml7iH2Uyc_-OOYEgxhQ23Lr2r5nhjHvYmUneDOHS1KD3Zl0MUIH-5BsWZsXU8Tz/s320/candles.webp" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span class="text"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="line" style="background: white; margin: 0cm;"><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Fran Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07935088780461825341noreply@blogger.com16