The Weekend In Pictures

 

Monkey Business

You may have noticed that I have this “thing” for monkeys...you probably don’t know (unless you’re an old faithful reader from way back when) that this stems from being told quite early on in my career that “Any monkey can be a medical writer”. Needless to say, the Dumb Ass who uttered this provocative statement was not himself a medical writer (nor a gym manager aka that other Dumb Ass that I have been slagging off of late)....who wouldn’t know the first thing about writing a clinical report if it printed itself out (two pages a side), then yanked his trousers+pants down, and gave him the mother of all paper cuts across his naked butt.

Monkeys are indeed fascinating animals, and didn’t fall too far from us when the evolutionary tree shook all creatures great and small out of its amble boughs. Just like us shiny apes, some monkeys have to put in a hard day’s work. I recently learnt that, in southern Thailand, pigtailed macaque monkeys are trained to harvest ripe coconuts, which, after tourism, are the region’s largest economic resource. Depending on the extent of his training, a monkey can pick between 600 and 1000 coconuts a day—a human can only manage at most 100.

To learn their trade, the monkeys go to school for three to six months, and only male monkeys attend, since (apparently) females do not have the temperament to be trained. One of the most famous monkey training schools in Thailand was founded in 1993 by the late Somporn Saekow. As a young boy on a coconut farm in the Surat Thani province, Somporn was shocked by the inhumane treatment the animals were given.... monkeys were often beaten by their owners when they did not perform as expected. Following the advice of a Buddhist monk, he developed techniques to teach his fellow primates coconut harvesting through love and compassion, and began training monkeys in 1957. Somporn offered his course to owners who wanted their monkeys trained, and later opened his school to give demonstrations of monkey training to tourists. If you’re interested, you can read about the training of monkeys at Somporn’s School HERE.

Today, there are monkey training schools across Thailand, and many are open to visitors. It was on a visit at one such school that one of the more colourful characters that I’ve met through Aikido classes had an unexpectedly close encounter of the Simian kind. Tattoo Man is not the sort of bloke you would pick a fight with in a dark alley...small and wiry, he can pack a punch that comes with over 20 years of Muay Thai (amongst various other martial arts) training behind it. He’s travelled widely and found himself in some tricky situations, where a bit of self-defence know-how has come in handy. None so strange, though, as that day at the monkey school.

According to Tattoo Man, he was watching the monkeys nimbly scale the coconut palm trees, twist the coconuts with both hands until they fall to the ground and then scuttle back down to gather up their harvests, when one of the hardworking primates suddenly scampered over to him....and slapped him, hard. Taken aback, Tattoo Man first thought this was part of the ‘act’....but when the monkey then became clearly agitated and came at him again, this time with teeth barred...Tattoo Man instinctively stuck out his arm, blocking the monkey’s powerful oncoming jaw with a swift sideward push, simultaneously grappling the punch-hungry primate's arms into a lock that restrained him until the monkey trainer arrived to talk soothingly to the highly strung animal.

No one was sure what provoked the usually placid monkey to attack Tattoo Man that day. Perhaps he bore a resemblance to someone who had treated him cruelly in the past....or maybe the stress of the job (those high coconut harvest targets, the non-stop chattering of his colleagues) finally sent the poor monkey over the edge. Maybe he needs a career change, something less physical... perhaps a desk job? I heard the Original Dumb Ass is still trying to recruit medical writers....

Savage Chickens found HERE

Weekend Snippets

Savage Chickens found HERE

It was another exciting weekend in the Life of Nat...

Starting with a buckled wheel rim and flat tyre, courtesy of the plague of potholes left by the ice and freezing temperatures of recent weeks. Travelling on some of the UK’s roads at the moment brings back memories of the good ol’ Zim days of driving with the constant fear of suddenly vanishing into a bottomless pit of conjoined potholes (of course minus the added potential dangers of being shot at by the presidential guards for passing too slowly past one of his palaces, or running over a warthog).

Having a damaged wheel and flat tyre is never a good experience...certainly not one enhanced by the rude discovery that the brand new tyre on your spare wheel has at some point been deviously replaced by an old, worn tyre. Not sure who the dastardly criminal was, but it could have happened at the service garage, MOT test centre or long-term airport parking (moral of the story: check your spare every time you’ve had your car worked on and only choose parking where you don’t hand over your keys).

It was “Dumbbells at Dawn” in the gym as the competition for places in the Sunday morning aerobics class showed no signs of taking a weekend off...Dumb Ass is still in charge and is still a Dumb Ass. I almost fainted halfway through the class from the stress...although that may have been the lack of breakfast as I was too lazy to get out of bed in time to eat before the “Eat Now, Puke Later” threshold.

Aikido is getting...er...interesting...we’re learning to roll/somersault, forwards and backwards over our shoulders. Considering I haven’t been caught doing head-over-heels since I was about six, I fear shoulder dislocation at best, a smashed spine at worst. Last night, I finally plucked up the courage to do a “bended knee starting stance” roll...I managed three before the waves of motion sickness took over.

Finally, my cheeky friend is now one up on me in our ongoing “Give Each Other Rude Birthday Presents” competition, with this delightful gift...

Happy doodling!

Funny Business

I am not a business person. In fact, an ex-boss once told me that I completely lacked any sense of business acumen (note, I said ex-boss). I did not take this as an insult....after all, I spent nine years of my life studying medical science, with the express purpose of avoiding spending my working life conversing with a bunch of suits in their uniquely irritating BS (Business Speak), 24/7. With all due respect to those who are actually in the business world, and who like to be pro-active...those who thrive on brainstorming, on getting their ducks in a row and then touching base to get a heads up on whether they’re singing from the same hymn sheet, before going forward and pushing the envelope out...at the end of the day, business is not rocket science (even if it does involve some blue sky thinking).

Nonetheless, I do still like to think outside the box....and even I can spot a really bad business decision when it’s going on under my nose (or rather feet). I’ve mentioned that I’ve started taking gym classes.... as, along with half the population, my rather unoriginal New Year resolution is to lose weight by the ‘Move-more-but-eat-the-same’ principle (I’m realistic enough to know that I’ll never eat less). The popularity of this theme, however, has resulted in some rather stiff competition for the limited number of places available on the aerobics studio floor. Luckily, I’d done my market research, discovered that demand was high and supply low, and have been cleverly phoning ahead to book one of those highly coveted 20 places.

At this point you may be forgiven for mistakenly thinking (as I did) that the reason for the upper limit of 20 per class is simple: the studio can only handle that number of generously proportioned ladies flinging their limbs about, in a desperate attempt to follow the nifty moves of the sprightly instructor, while not kicking their sweaty comrades in the head. Last night, 27 wannadoaerobicans pitched up...only 20 places, so 7 unlucky ones get turned away....7 regular aerobicandos, who were caught napping, didn’t judge the bullish market correctly and therefore did not expect their ranks to suddenly swell from around 7 to 27 (it’s January ladies!)

What you wouldn’t know (as I didn’t until much later in the game) is that there is in fact a larger studio available at the gym...one that is reserved for classes of 21+. So, given that said larger studio was not booked for any other activity last night and had in fact not been used for quite some time (tumbleweed was skimming across it’s once highly polished floor), anyone with even the most minute, invisible-to-the-naked eye quantity of common sense would see there is an easy solution to this dilemma, and that is....

*Drum roll*

Switch the class to the bigger (vacant) studio!

So, is that what the gym manager in fact decided to do? Hell no! Despite the valiant attempts of the instructor to convince him otherwise, the Dumb Ass was not budging...

Instructor: “But the larger studio is standing empty and you’re turning away 7 ladies.....at £4 a head, that’s 28 quid!”
Dumb Ass: “No. We need to keep the larger one available for a long-term let.”
Instructor: “I can see your point...but it’s not actually booked for tonight! Let us use it in the meantime...then when you do rent it out, we’ll make alternative arrangements.” (She knows the market....by February the numbers of wannadoaerobicans will have dropped back to around the 10 mark)
Dumb Ass: “No. Rules is rules.”

Party Like It's 1979

Birthdays these days come and go without much of a kerfuffle. Last night, B and me popped down to our local ‘gastro pub’ for a very enjoyable, yet quiet dinner and a 'couple' of glasses of wine, but that was all...

The days of wild, outrageously-themed parties, fuelled by obscene quantities of cheap alcohol and resulting in hangovers that last well into next week are long over for us. They sort of fizzled out when the seemingly never-ending round of raucous 21st and 25th birthday parties finally rampaged to an end in the last days of the 20th century. There was a momentary, half-hearted revival of the “Party Like It’s 1999” days for some 30th birthdays, but we never really got up off the couch long enough to cause a stir...we are officially Old Farts.

For me, the best birthday parties were those of my childhood. My birthday fell just before the end of the long, summer school holiday, when the days were hot and sunny and carefree. Birthday celebrations were simple affairs, usually only lasting a couple of hours at most and followed a set routine. The whole school class would be invited to arrive promptly at 2 pm, when the festivities kicked off with the party games... predominantly running races but also the old favourites of pass-the-parcel, balloon relay, musical bumps and scavenger hunt.

My older brother took charge of the games at my birthday parties...what a great brother! you’re probably thinking, but he did have an ulterior motive. Any prizes left over at the end of the party would usually be divided up between the two of us, so he suggested “Let’s not be too quick to dish out the prizes, Nat....the more left at the end means more for us!” I was not 100% keen on his plan, finding it a tad unfair on our gift-bearing guests...but back in those days I believed Big Brother knew best.

BB decided we’d set the bar high....awards would only be given to the winner of three races in a row, and then it was a chocolate frog or lollipop only for the child in first place, nothing for any others. As the house that my family lived in at the time had a huge garden that backed onto vacant scrubby bushland, these running races became mini marathons....and had two friends reaching for their steroid pumps long before the games were over. Strangely enough, before responding to their invites to my birthday party the following year, the asthmatic duo first asked if BB would again be organising the party games....

Hot and exhausted from all that running about, we’d gather round the dining room table, which would be laden with the feast that Mom had probably spent most of the previous week preparing. A typical menu at my parties would be a salty/sugary/E-number overload from a combination of crustless sandwiches, sausage rolls and mini meatballs, crisps, cheesey curls, fairy cakes, rainbow jelly cups, biscuit happy faces and ice cream cone clowns, all washed down with lemonade or cream soda.

The party would culminate in the age-old rendition of “Happy Birthday”, with blowing out of the candles and cutting of the novelty birthday cake...again imaginatively and painstakingly created by Mom. My favourites were a guitar (with liquorice strings), a chocolate cat (with liquorice whiskers) and a kitchen stove (complete with chocolate biscuit dials). Every child went home with a 'present' of a piece of cake wrapped up in a paper napkin (and the more athletic ones with a chocolate frog or lollipop).

As we grew older, the parties became more sophisticated and expensive, and therefore restricted to only close friends. Two of the more memorable ones I was invited to were lunch at Wimpy (hamburgers and milkshakes) followed by a trip to see 'Canonball Run' at the cinema, and an afternoon of unlimited ball sinking at the putt-putt (miniature golf) course. Summer swimming parties and sleepovers were all the rage aged about 10 to 14, and thereafter childish birthday parties were replaced with the dreaded teenage (boy-girl) parties....

Those painfully awkward times are best left forgotten.

Savage chickens found HERE

Happy Birthday To Me!

So, I’m 18 today...yeah, second time round. Thirty six??!! How did that happen? In my head, I’ve never aged beyond about 25 and I sometimes have to stop and think how old I really am... I know what you’re thinking and no, that’s not the early onset of senile dementia.

As a painfully shy child, I often daydreamed about how mature and sophisticated I would be by the time I reached my mid 30s. I always imagined myself with immaculate hair and make-up, wearing power suits in pastel shades with big shoulder pads (you must realise that these futuristic visions were heavily influenced by the fashions sported on TV soaps of the Dallas and Dynasty era), confidently being Very Busy And Important in my Very Busy And Important job.

Ummm....most days, you’ll find me in my home office, barefaced and attired in my baggy old jeans, fleece and slippers...naturally still being Very Busy and Important, writing about... er.... bums and oozing wounds... and other tantalising topics.

In the UK, cars over three years’ old have to pass an annual Ministry of Transport test (known as the MOT) that checks the vehicle’s safety, roadworthiness and exhaust emissions. Given that one car year is the equivalent of twelve human years (you know, like seven cat years to one human...nah, I just made that crap up!) I figured it’s time for me to take a body MOT.

So, how am I doing as I commence the downhill slide to the big 4-0? What sort of shape am I in? Not too shabby I think/hope...I still have my own, naturally brunette hair (one or two silvers bravely put in an appearance every few months but they soon find the sharp end of the tweezers), all the usual teeth (plus a few extras...yeah, freaky hyperdontia thing going on in my mouth!), all limbs in reasonable working order, and I still have my tonsils and my appendix too (we don’t need them but nice to have, all the same!).

I very nearly lost a toe aged nine in a bizarre yet predictable accident involving a sharp piece of metal, and me running past in my bare feet....blood and gore, toe hanging by a thread... but thankfully our GP lived down the road and stitched it back on promptly, albeit ever so slightly crookedly. And despite all my drunken attempts to destroy my liver in my first couple of student years, that organ is still present and (hopefully) functioning well, given my now very infrequent intake of alcohol.

I have lots of laughter lines around my (still unbespectacled) eyes...but hey, at least I’ve laughed a lot and possibly been laughed with/at. Won’t be booking the botox jabs just yet (Amanda Holden and Danii Minogue have done wonders putting me off those with their immotile looks). A bit of extra padding in the seat cushions...but as we learnt last week (on HERE), that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Let’s draw a veil over the emissions levels (if no one hears you parp or belch, it doesn’t count).

Overall verdict: I just pass inspection and am deemed fit to go out in public for another 12 years. You have been warned....

[Next MOT scheduled for: 20 January 2022]

Happy Blue Monday!

Back in 2005, Cliff Arnall (a psychologist of subsequently slightly dubious repute) devised a maths “formula”, taking into account factors such as the weather, debt, time since Christmas, broken New Year’s resolutions and motivational factors, to pinpoint the third Monday of January as “the most depressing day of the year” in the UK. Arnall’s contentious “research” was used in a promotion by Sky Travel at the time to encourage people to cheer themselves up by booking a summer holiday bookings....and has been regurgitated in the newspapers every January since.

This year is no exception, but the one article that caught my cynical little eye was the Telegraph’s attempt to revamp an otherwise stale story, by offering tips on how to beat the Blue Monday Blues.  Hidden between all the touchy-feely, “eat lots of chocolate coated blueberries and hug a bunny” ideas put forth, was one pick-me-up tip that was actually a bit of a downer.....it suggested readers cheer themselves up by “imagining the end”. While this may sound like it’s taking the “blues” to a whole new level, the motivation behind this off-beat way of thinking follows claims by Richard O’Connor, author of “Happiness: The Thinking Person’s Guide”, that “Picturing your own death is a great way to improve your state of mind...In your final moments, you are at peace and your thoughts are clear. You can get in touch with a number of regrets. Fortunately it’s not yet the end of your life. You have the time to correct some of the problems.”

Well, that's certainly galvanised me into action....next January I won't be reading any Blue Monday articles as I don't want to be on my death bed, regretting wasting so much time reading recycled rubbish!

Savage Chickens found HERE

PS....If you're still interested in beating the Monday Blues, you can read the full Telegraph article HERE.

Do You Understand The Words That Are Coming Out Of My Mouth?

When I first came to live in the UK, I had to learn to communicate with the locals. You’d think that would be an easy task - we all speak the Queen’s English, right? Wrong! Regional accents, different slang words and inflections in totally different places only served to confound me almost daily.

“You talk funny!” my first UK boss informed me (in his broad Leeds accent) on my first day at work. He then spent the next two years “correcting” my pronunciation at every opportunity.

Typical conversation with my boss:
Boss: “You have a good weekend?”
Me (trying to quickly recover from the shock of actually being spoken to and not just sworn at): “Yes, thank you....we visited the city of Bath.”
Boss: “I think you mean Baaaatttthhhhhh!”
Me: “No. Bath... as in BARth....the way people who live in BARth say it.”
Boss: “Do some f*cking work!”

For the first three months in London, I was convinced that people around me were politely commenting that they couldn’t be asked to do such and such, when they were rather more rudely saying that they couldn’t be arsed. In other words, they couldn’t be bothered (pronounced bovvered in some circles).

I quickly learnt that the response to All right? is in fact another All right?... and that this means “Hello, how are you?”, much like the southern African, all encompassing Howzit? People you have never set eyes on before that moment will call you their mate, sometimes even going as far as to claim you as their luv or pet if you wander far enough north. Someone calling you a chav (or in my case a chavette) on the other hand is not a good thing, and it means you may want to stop wearing so much knock-off designer sportswear and vulgar jewellery.

Littering conversations with know what I mean? is common practice....but it does not in fact require any formal response, such as "Yes, I do know what you mean" or "No, I am not quite sure what you mean....please elaborate." Similarly, the term innit!... though sounding suspiciously like a question along the lines of “Is that not so?”....is merely a statement to generate emphasis and requires no further action on your part. Further north, a variation on this is the frequent use of the query Right? I once worked with a bloke who wore this word out, leading to some logistical confusion in the lab..."So what you need to do, right?, is take this one on the right, right?, and feed it through the right slot on the left, right?" Luckily he was not a driving instructor....."Turn left, right? Then right, right?....."

I’d always known bollocks to mean testicles, but it turned out to be a multitasking word...it can be used to describe something that is no good (“That's bollocks!” or “A load of bollocks!” or “He's talking bollocks!”). Surprisingly it can also be used in a positive manner to describe something that is the best as being the dog's bollocks.

Traffic lights are not "robots" in the UK and trousers are not "pants"...in particular, the term pant is never, ever used in the singular, a common southern African trait (“I wore my jean pant”). Another Saffa phrase best avoided is the classic (buying time before responding) “Ja, no, well, fine, but...”. The Brits have their own version of this tactic (“No but yeah, but no, but yeah....”), but by using it you run the danger of being labelled a Vicky Pollard (see chav).

Cheers! is most typically used to say “Thank you!”....but it can also be said on leaving, in which case you may favour Laters!, a shortened version of “See you later!” Actually there is no time frame for this “later” business and it could be in a few minutes, next week or even a few months’ time....a bit like the Saffa trick of saying “I’ll do that just now” or maybe “now-now”, when you really have no intention of even looking into the task for the next week.

After 8 years, I think I'm sorted! on the language front and could easily blend in with the locals, were it not for my accent, which I will probably never lose....it will just become slightly more diluted with every year spent here. Friends back in South Africa claim I sound English, but most people in the UK think I’m a Kiwi(!)

Maybe I should take elocution lessons from these lads...

Just Chewing The Fat

Having a fat bum, hips and thighs is healthy....or so claim researchers at the University of Oxford in this month’s edition of the International Journal of Obesity. Any American readers please note, by “bum” I mean your rear, not some homeless person that sleeps rough and asks you for spare change at the traffic lights - you may prefer the term “fanny”, but that’s a whole different kettle of fish over here in the UK, and that is not for here....besides, when last did you see a chubby hobo?

Anyway, back to the bum story....apparently, extra weight on your hips, bums and thighs can protect against heart and metabolic problems, as slow burning hip fat sucks up harmful fatty acids and spits out a hormone called adiponectin that protects the arteries, and promotes better blood sugar control and fat burning.

Woohoooo! I can finally justify the significant presence of my lard arse....

Butt hang on, if having a backside à la J-Lo 'n Beyonce 'n Co. is the Next Big Thing, what the heck was I doing last night in the fittingly named “Hips, Bums and Tums” aerobics class of my local gym, desperately trying to reduce the size of my derrière? Yeah, yeah, you guessed it....with my new-found energy levels from all that strenuous hot chocolate drinking snowshoeing in Norway, I’m now on a new year fitness fling, along with half the population.

Not having set foot inside an aerobics studio for the last four ten years, I’d picked the H, B and T as the least frightening option. The other classes (Bodyattack, Bodyblast, Bodycombat, Bodypump) all sounded like they took place in a warzone and were highly likely to incur Grievous Bodily Harm. I was more than a tad apprehensive about attending the first session as I was sure I’d forgotten all the Jane Fondaesque moves (toe tap! box step! grapevine!) and would be the stumbling idiot at the arse end of the class.

But, as with most things you dread, it turned out OK in the end... the class was actually quite enjoyable and I didn’t faint, trip over my own feet (or anyone else’s), fall over clutching at my heart, slip in a pool of my own sweat, or get asked to leave and never return. I may even be up for another hefty dose of clench and squat next Tuesday night....big bums may be all the rage, but I still need to fit mine into last year’s jeans.

...........................................................................

Quite ironically, this was my 'fortune' from the cookie that came with the Chinese takeaway that followed the gym class (yeah, I’m really taking this healthy living lark seriously)....

I’m going to take this to mean....stop worrying about the size of your bum!

Everybody Was (Not) Kung Fu Fighting

I don’t condone violence, but I do think it’s probably a good idea to be able to defend yourself, if the need ever arose.

Just before Christmas, a distasteful little episode involving some rather pushy carol singers on my doorstep made me realise how unpleasant it can be when you’re placed in a vulnerable situation. Now before you start thinking I’m the sort to want to beat up innocent Salvation Army carollers, just because they’re a bit out of tune....let me elaborate. Contrary to my usual cautious approach of first finding out who was a-calling, I stupidly just opened the front door one snowy evening and spied four young lads (aka The Foul Four) lurking outside. Actually, I smelt them first....a lovely combo of cheap booze, cigarettes and the Great Unwashed. They promptly broke forth into a half-hearted rendition of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”, then stuck their paws out, fully expecting me to hand over my hard earned cash. I toyed with the idea of chucking a quid at them....then thought sod it! While I’m happy to donate to carol singers who are collecting for charity, and always get in sweets for the local kids’ Halloween candy scrounge, I take objection to funding some louts’ vices. So I merely said, “Thanks for that!” and slammed the door in their pimply faces.

I had a really bad feeling about the outcome of this little scenario and snuck to the upstairs window, to check if they had left my property. What did I see? One of the youths appeared to be fiddling with the door of my car parked on the driveway, while another was peering with intent into the driver’s seat. Enraged, I threw open the window and yelled... “Oi, you lot! Clear off!” I think the sheer volume of my voice startled the bejesus out of them, as they started moving off...then one of the them turned around and spat, “You should’ve given us some money then, b*tch!”, while his mates taunted and jeered, showing me the finger. The final insult came when the uglier one of the motley bunch pulled down his trousers and exposed his somewhat paltry bits. Tempted as I was to request that the poor lad (who was clearly labouring under the misapprehension that his undercarriage warranted a public showing), wait where he was while I reach for my handy telescope, I refrained from further comment and silently watched them eventually lose interest and crawl back under their rocks.

After this delightful experience, I started to think seriously about doing some type of self-defence course. Up until then, I’d always felt really safe in our village, and frequently take long, lonely walks through the woods and farmlands around here. The sudden knowledge that there were nasty bits of work like the Foul Four living within slithering distance gave me the heebie jeebies.

B has always been keen on martial arts, and studied two styles of karate in his youth....he was never happier than when “sparring” in the dojo, with his partner in bloody noses and cracked jaws. He’d showed me a few basic defence moves....like the thumb-to-cheek bone-agony-inducer and the bend-fingers-back-bone-breaker, but it’s not quite the same as training in the arts oneself. So, when we came across an advert for a beginners’ Aikido course starting at our local sports centre, we decided we’d both give it a go.

Created by Morehei Ueshiba (known as ‘O Sensei’ or ‘great teacher’), the guiding principle of the Japanese Martial Art of Aikido is harmonisation, not confrontation. It promotes winning over one's self, rather than fighting with others, to develop a deep sense of peace and calmness. Aikido is performed by blending with the motion of the attacker and redirecting the force of the attack rather than opposing it head-on. The Aikido practitioner "leads" the attacker's momentum using entering and turning movements, completing the techniques with various throws or joint locks. Aikido has a simple ethic: if attacked, offer a sincere, robust defence but without hurting your aggressor. This attitude has been at the core of criticisms of Aikido and related arts.

For some pre-class preparation, B insisted on us watching 'Under Siege 2', which was coincidentally being shown on TV (as part of the Kick Ass Season), the night before the first lesson. While my mind did rack up the potential benefits of being able to defend myself against a multitude of knife-wielding baddies à la Steven Seagal, I didn’t really learn much from this particular homework.... apart from realising that the film stars a very young Katherine Heigl, more recently seen in 'Grey’s Anatomy', 'Knocked Up', '27 Dresses' and 'The Ugly Truth'.

So there we were in the first Aikido class (all 19 of us), lined up and barefoot on the mats....and the first thing I noted was that I was outnumbered 18 to 1 by persons of the male variety. Not a problem, I figured.....if I can practise with sturdy male opponents, I’ll be fit to face the burliest attacker. After a thorough warm-up, we were first taught how to fall.... a kind of controlled collapse by means of a folded knee and diagonal roll. Next, the tankan (a pivotal move on the ball of the foot) and tsugi ashi (moving the front foot forward, drawing the rear foot up behind)...before we progressed onto a combination of wrist twisting and arm gripping moves that would be useful for disarming an attacker bearing a knife or sword (this session included a bit of wooden sword action). Lastly, a series of smart moves, intended to disengage an attacker who’s grabbed you by the lapels.


All in, it was a fun evening and quite a physical workout. B is already smitten...he just has to unlearn all the karate stuff that he kept reverting back to and he will no doubt soon be well on his way to mastering the art. I know that I will be a slow learner, but I have decided that I will at least give the classes a trial month.

So, watch this space...I may well be Ninja Nat in the making....

Things That Made Me Smile On a Snowy Saturday...

Getting painstakingly handwritten letters in the post from my nieces to say “thank you soooo much for the beautiful Christmas presents”
As an adult, it is very heart-warming to receive such polite little notes, but I can remember writing them as a child...sometimes doing so under duress and the threat of not getting any gifts the following year. Come to think of it, I would have gladly avoided some of the lousy presents one of my less inspired aunts always sent me....I distinctly remember getting a nasty, brown, plastic toilet bag at about the age of 7, and a couple of crotchet covered coat hangers the year after. While the shops in Zimbabwe weren’t exactly heaving with pretty trinkets those days, I reckon she could have managed something with a bit more wow factor. I always keep those lacklustre presents in mind when I’m gift shopping for my nieces and goddaughters.....they stop sending me thank you notes, and I may just have to start perusing the novelty knitted toilet roll covers aisle at Tesco.

Watching the weather reports on TV and seeing the usually-ignored presenters positively bristle with self-importance
Suddenly everyone is avidly watching the weather forecast for new developments. Well guess what everyone, it’s snowing...again! The novelty has somewhat worn off after 3 weeks of the white stuff, but the media are still milking the story. We’re told this is the coldest winter in 20/30/50/100 years (it’s jumping a decade or two every day) and the newspaper headlines scream “Frozen Britain!”....“We’re Living In a Deep Freeze!”...”Polar Bears and Penguins Migrating To Warmer Climes!”...“Ice Age 3 Now Here!”....oh no, that last one's a DVD on sale. People have been panic buying cat litter....apparently for when the shops run out of food (or maybe to use as a de-icer on their driveways, I’m not sure).

Going for a walk across snowy fields and coming across a dog and his owner out for Walkies in matching tartan coats
Pampered pooch... a world away from the hard life of a Siberian husky. No less frequent in the bowel movement department, however, judging from the little brown trail spoiling the otherwise pure white path.

Dunking a chocolate-coated, chocolate chip cookie into my mug of hot chocolate and wondering if it’s in any way possible to add any more chocolate into that cocoa-rich combo
Yeah, the New Years’ diet is going really well...about as well as it goes every year. Blame it on my boss for giving us all Christmas hampers bursting with goodies that are all going to expire...within the next 12 months. We’re trying to keep some in reserve...for when we run out of cat litter.

Overhearing the following line from the Star Trek DVD... McCoy: [to Spock] Are you out of your Vulcan mind?
And I am definitely NOT a Star Trek fan.

First Blogiversary

Savage Chickens found HERE

Well, I've been posting on here for one whole year now....albeit a tad sporadically, especially at the start. I've experimented (mostly unsuccessfully) with styles and themes and written a whole load of longwinded crap that nobody will ever read. But at least it's out of my head and down here instead, a record of my Life Somewhat Ordinary.

Is my blog the "single most boring piece of self-absorbed, uninspiring drivel" that I set out to avoid? And would it be worth carrying on...even just to remind myself when I'm 109 (senile, in a nappy and drooling in a care home) exactly what a dumb ass I was, I am and that I no doubt will be in the future? This all remains to be seen....or rather to be read.

Thanks to everyone who has read any of my posts...some of you have even perservered right to the end of them AND then still taken the time to leave a witty or inspiring comment. Please keep reading, as I'd like to think this blog is a work in progress, with bigger and better things to come....

10 Things I Learnt In Norway

1. There is nothing as heart (and stomach) warming as a bowl of soup after spending 5 hours at Heathrow, followed by a 2-hour flight to Oslo and a 4-hour bus ride in the dark to our final destination. Similarly, nothing tastes as good as hot chocolate and freshly baked cinnamon buns besides the open fire of a little wooden cabin after 4 hours’ trekking through snow.

2. Taxidermy may be a “dying art” elsewhere, but it’s alive and well in the wilds of Norway, as represented by the assortment of stuffed animals (including a polar bear, a couple of brown bears, several foxes, deer, a wolf, a lynx, a duck with ducklings and various birds of prey) on display in the Rondablikk høyfjellshotell.

3. Walking 5 km on (yes on!) two left snow shoes is a sure bet for blisters from hell and a knackered knee to boot.

4. Got that sinking feeling? It’s probably coz you’re sinking to waist depth in soft snow....now try dig your way out!

5. Tobogganing is brilliant fun....until you have to walk back up the hill dragging your sled behind you.

6. I am seriously crap at cross country skiing...but the boots and skiis are a load more user friendly than the instruments of torture reserved for the downhill version.

7. At the top of a snowy mountain, in -40°C temperatures, with a harsh wind blowing, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and out of your nose, the only thought going through your head is..... “What the frik am I doing up here when I could be on a beach in the Maldives?”

8. Dogsledding is not for the fainthearted and Siberian huskies are wild (and very flatulent) running machines....unrestrained, they’ll run until they drop dead of exhaustion.

9. A sauna is a brilliant antidote to cold, aching muscles... and Norwegians sauna in the nude.

10. After experiencing -40°C, the UK feels positively tropical at a balmy -2°C.