Red, Yellow, Blue

I had the day off from work today and went to explore Woburn Village in Bedfordshire. The town is surrounded by the Estate of the Duke of Bedford, and has an interesting mix of over 200 listed buildings (mostly Georgian) that house antique shops, art galleries, pubs and restaurants.

As usual, I took quite a few photos while walking around. When I got home and looked at them more closely, I noticed that there was a touch of red, yellow or blue in each one.....

Blue fence railings, Old St Mary's Church

Blue gate and red berries

Blue sky, Old St Mary's (medieval)

Blue door

Blue door and yellow daffodil

Blue sky, red and blue of the Union Jack, and blue window frames

Blue sky, "new" St Mary's (1868)

Red door, St Mary's

Red lamp post, St Mary's

More yellow daffodils

Red-bricked buildings

Village sign and tubs of flowers

An Ode To Broadband

The internet....what would we do without it? Well, we wouldn’t be blogging for one thing. There’d be no email, no online shopping or gaming or dating or banking....no social networking (Face who? Twit whatever!). Patience would become a necessity, not a virtue, in a world where information was no longer available at a key stroke or mouse click and we’d be flexing our muscles to lift all those huge books through which we’d now need to trawl just to find out a fact that was probably out of date before it went into print.

I’m the first to admit I would have a quite miserable time if I was to be disconnected, permanently. My job would be very different or nonexistent...and I’d certainly have to get in my car and drive into the office every day, not just dial up into my work server.

My reliance on the internet came on gradually...a bit like those extra pounds that have crept onto my middle. It all started at university with email, then surfing the web and sourcing information from online journals...moved to internet shopping, and now, it’s my first port of call for banking, booking holidays, finding a restaurant, even booking a medical appointment. I am constantly amazed by just what can be arranged over the internet....

Like getting a flat tyre changed today...no need to stress, huff and puff changing to the spare one then driving about, trying to find a garage. Just a quick search to find a tyre supplier/fitter, tap in the details....and pretty soon Tyre Man was on my doorstep, ready to replace the punctured one and balance the wheels. Done before you can say Google 100 times....OK, maybe if you said it really fast, but then you may be mistaken for a turkey, possibly not a good idea if you’re anywhere near the U S of A today.

We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK, but I sure am thankful for the internet...today and every day.

Retail Therapy

This past weekend, B and I had a marathon shopping session. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a big fan of shopping...crowds, screeching children and (typically) overheated shops do not bode for an enjoyable experience.But if I hate shopping, B abhores it (as in detests vehemently). Getting him to step foot inside a shop (weekly grocery shopping included) is an effort in itself and I usually do not subject him to the "torture"...or myself to his tortured looks, eye rolling, tutting and general grumpiness. However, there comes a time (every couple of years) when he realises that he is going to have to face his demons...usually around the time his butt starts hanging out of the seat of his worn-out jeans. While he buys everything possible on the internet, clothes shopping by mail order has never been that successful (and I have tried!).

So, we resigned ourselves to a day of hell at the mall (mkone to be precise)...we were up early to (a) get a free parking spot close to the mall entrance and (b) be there as the shops open, before the crowds descend....something both our sets of parents advocated way back in our youth (you know you're turning into your parents when....), and we would scorn them, as at that time (when we were laid back and unphased by crowds...and mainly didn't really have the cash to spend on anything, so going to the shops was pretty much null and void anyway) having a lie-in on a weekend was top priority (to sleep off a hangover and 4 am bedtime ).

Apparently, half of middle England had the same idea as by the time we got there, the free parking was rapidly filling up and the mobbing masses were already migrating up the mile-long walkway that runs from one end of the shops to the other. We were going in with a pre-determined Battle Plan: get in and get out in under 2 hours....with a completely new wardrobe for B, the bulk of the Christmas shopping and a new cocktail dress for the upcoming Christmas parties for me...yeah, right! Six and a half hours later, we dragged our sorry bodies back to the car, arms at least 5 cm longer from carrying the 6 massive bags we'd acquired....but we got almost everything we went there for, including lots of Christmas presies and this dress for me....

It's rare that I find  a dress that actually fits without my unmentionables falling out and that falls flatteringly to hide the tum 'n bum. I found a black, silk floaty cardi to go with it too, so all set for the "party season".

B reckons he's not going shopping again until he's 90 though....we'll see!

One Man’s Rubbish, Another Man’s Treasure!

I have a good friend, A, who has more than a passing interest in clocks, watches...indeed, anything that goes tick-tock (you can check out his blog). He’s been finding car boot sales are a great, cheap source of old clocks and broken watches and has been trawling the booty down London way this summer. He spent last weekend visiting us (together with his long-suffering and very tolerant wife), so we thought we’d peruse the boot sales in our area...a whole new experience for B and me, as we’re really quite naive about the car boot scene. We were quickly shown the ropes by our hardened bargain-hunting friends. Turns out it’s quite acceptable (even expected) to haggle a bit over the prices and best to appear completely uninterested in an item you are just dying to get your hands on....possibly come back later as sellers may let things go cheaper at the end of the day rather than lug them back home again.

And we weren’t the only ones out bargain hunting on a sunny Sunday morning. Apparently, in recession-hit Britain, car boot sales are at an all-time high. The sharp bite of the credit crunch is prompting people to clear out their homes to make some much needed extra cash, while savvy shoppers hope to pick up goods at a knockdown price. There were loads of sellers and buyers out on Sunday and the early birds do seem to get the good bargains.

Visiting a car boot sale can certainly be a lucrative activity. Last November, a 12 cm vase by French designer René Lalique was bought at a sale in Dumfries. It later fetched £32,500 at auction at Christie’s. And earlier this month, an antique dealer picked up an ornate piece of wood at a car boot sale in West Yorkshire that may well be a 1,300-year-old artefact from the Crusades....the door of a tabernacle, a box used to carry and protect sacred texts, carried by the Knights Templar. If its origins are verified, the unusual item is expected to go under the hammer at Christie's in December.

We weren't quite so fortunate, but nevertheless, two boot sales and four hours of hard bargaining later, we came away with...

• Seven (!) decrepit clocks and a pocket watch for A’s ever growing collection


• A fun kiddie’s clock for the nursery of imminent mini A


• Several books (including some beautiful, brand new leather bound children’s classics that will find their way into my niece’s Christmas stocking)


• A lovely old brass plate for B and my hallway table (perfect for holding keys and other odds n sods)


• A touch of sunstroke (in our haste to grab a good deal we bounded out the house into one of the hottest days of the year without any type of sun protection or water), and


• An old map of Bedfordshire that includes our village and other locals...a reproduction of one drawn by Robert Morden in 1695, that can still be ordered as reprints today for £30. The copy we bought is fairly old itself...we reckon around 1950s/60s as it’s very faded and musty-smelling, which kind of adds to the appeal...but with a new mount and frame, it will look great hanging up in our newly decorated hallway.

All in, a good day’s entertainment for under a tenner....we may just be hooked!

"Grumpy Legs"

I have two nieces - J aged 9 and M who's 4. My brother and his family live down in East Sussex, so as we were going down that way for the Christening last weekend we'd arranged to have lunch with them en route. I hadn't seen J and M for months, and was quite suprised to find how much they'd changed.

J has become quite the young lady ("madam" some may say!)... when we arrived she was busy "doing her hair", which seemed to entail introducing lots of tiny plaits and ribbons into her poker straight, curtain of hair. She was quite shy at first, but after a few minutes asked B (who she relates to well) if he would teach her some more chess moves...the last time they'd been over at our house we'd brought out the board games to try and keep them occupied on a dismally wet day, and she'd shown a suprising interest in learning chess.

M latched onto me, insisting on showing me her bedroom, her books, her cut-out cardboard pirate ship covered in stickers of all sorts of things, including mermaids and cacti (desert island anyone?)...and 'her' Barbies. Turned out they are her sister's and she was not supposed to be playing with them...but "Grumpy Legs" took them from J's room and put them in hers. So, not her fault then...

I soon realised that "Grumpy Legs" (also known as "Grumpylex") is M's imaginary friend....he'd just turned up one day and has been making mischief ever since...

Did you eat the last biscuit, M? No...that was Grumpy Legs.

M, did you spill your water over the floor? Nope, Grumpy Legs was playing with the taps.

Who made a bad smell? Grumpy Legs farted! [Said with the great glee that all children dedicate to toilet humour... and followed up with the "belly-button does a fart trick" her not-always-so-ladylike older sister taught her]

Made me think I could sometimes do with a "Grumpy Legs" of my own, a kind of alter ego that could say the things I really want to say or do, but I know I have to bite my tongue and clench my fists close to my side....because I'm supposed to be a mature and responsible adult.

Take for example a little scenario that arose later that evening. B and I had decided to treat ourselves to a hotel for the night before the Christening. We'd ended up booking a beachfront hotel in Hastings...not our first choice but there was not a room left in Eastbourne as the pre-Wimbledon tennis tournament was underway.


After a good walk along the seafront and through the Old Town, we decided we'd go back to the hotel for a relaxing drink and dinner in their restaurant/bar. The other patrons seemed predominantly French...indeed we'd encountered quite a few in the town already and wondered why the place was so popular with our cross-Channel comrades. We'd speculated they must like Hastings, as it was the setting for former conquests (1066, The Normans and all that). Turned out most of the staff on duty were also partial to les escargots.

Not long after we'd settled down with a glass of red wine, we heard a slight altercation at the table close to ours. It transpired that Le Garcon had served his compatriots' wine....not in a wine glass....quelle horreur!...but in a tumbler! Turns out the staff had had a bit of an early run on wine orders and the dishwasher was on overtime. Not one to let such a gastronomic crime go unrebuked, the outraged Frenchman stormed up to the bar to protest...loudly..."I am French...and to serve me wine like that is an offense!"

Of course it would have been fine to serve it to a 'rosbif'(Brit)....hell, we're happy with a straw in a bottle... or even a trough on the floor!

All right mate, keep your hair on...

Quite a bit later we realised that we'd been waiting an awfully long time for our food...and that there was a plate of something that looked suspiciously like one of our meals rapidly cooling on the side of the bar. Even later, after finally managing to lock eyes with Le Garcon (who was scurrying about no doubt looking for more wine glasses) said plate was brought to our table...but without cutlery and without my food order. The darn dude made a rapid retreat before we could even query the absence of either. I was itching to go up to the bar and say loudly (purely for the benefit of Les Francais)....."Excuse me old bean, hate to bother you and all that...but I have a slight problem....you see, I am English and I eat with cutlery...and typically, I enjoy my meal at the same time as my husband!"

But of course, I didn't....instead B went up to the bar and discreetly queried what had happened to my meal and whether cutlery was supplied. Apparently there had been a mix-up with the order (they'd assumed I wasn't eating....wonder if that's a subtle hint I need to go on a diet)... and I only got my food well after B had devoured his (I did tell him not to wait!).

Did we cause a fuss? Course not....we're English! Stiff upper lip and all that.....

Where's Grumpy Legs when you need him though?

Just Taking The Piss

So what do you usually talk to your hairdresser about while he/she’s cutting your hair? Let’s think....holidays (pretty standard)....the weather (it usually comes up before holidays - the desire for some sun).....maybe house renovations, which invariably leads onto the topic of husbands.....and their DIY skills, or perhaps their lack thereof. But what about discussing our husbands’ toilet habits.... that’s a bit off-side, isn’t it.... or is it? It turns out my hairdresser’s husband is pretty much on target, or at least his aim is...because she insists he sits down to pee, and he obliges! B says “That’s one ‘whipped’ man!”......but I’ve done some ‘indepth investigations’ (I Googled “Men Sitting Down To Pee”) and I can reveal that it’s a fairly common ‘peenomenon’.

Forget the age-old ‘seat-up versus seat-down’ debate between the genders, apparently an increasing number of women are now asking their men to sit down when they ‘point Percy at the porcelain/siphon the python/get out the one-eyed trouser snake/strain their tatters/wring out the sponge/empty the hairy plums/water the horses/go where the big knobs hang out/shake hands with the wife's best friend/drain the dragon/ring the rattlesnake/unbutton the mutton/take a leak’. Even in these good new days of equality and chore-sharing, women are still more likely to be the ones that clean the bathroom...and we’re weary of wiping up wayward weewee (now say that last bit 20 times, fast).

Japanese men, in particular, are not afraid to admit they’re ‘dudes who pee like a lady’ (with apologies to Steve Tyler). A survey conducted in 2007 by Western-style toilet manufacturer Matsushita Electric Works found that around 40% of adult Japanese men sit down to empty their bladders...almost three times the number recorded in 1999.




Astonishingly, the statistics are even higher for the Germans, a population already renowned for having more than a healthy interest in the contents of their toilet bowls. There, men are being shamed into sitting to urinate by a little gadget called Spuk, or ‘Spook’. Attached to the underside of the toilet seat, Spuk quietly endures sitting visitors.....but anyone trying to lift the seat and attempt to stand and urinate (known as ‘Stehpinkeln’) should be prepared for the ghost’s unrelenting wrath.

“Hey, stand-peeing is not allowed here and will be punished with fines, so if you don’t want any trouble, you’d best sit down,” one of the devices orders in a voice impersonating the former German leader, Chancellor Gerhard Schroder. Other versions start roaring like a lion or try to persuade stubborn customers with the soothing voice of a female flight attendant. “We welcome you aboard Never Come Back Airlines,” the voice says. “We’d like to ask our male passengers in particular to sit down, buckle up and refrain from smoking.”


Patentwert, the manufacturers of Spuk, say they are ready to direct their gadgets at the British market. Their prototype English-speaking ‘WC ghost’, says in an American drawl:
“Don’t you go wetting this floor cowboy, you never know who’s behind you. So sit down, get your water pistol in the bowl where it belongs. Ha, ha, ha.”

Patentwert also plan to copy the voice of the Queen....perhaps to say something along the lines of: “Kindly be seated. One does not want one’s bottom wetted with one other’s weewee”. Indeed ma’am....that would be an ‘anus horriblis’.


Avoiding the ‘splash factor’, though, is not the only reason some Swedish women are pressurising their men to take a seat. A feminist group at Stockholm University is campaigning to ban all urinals from campus, “because a man standing up to urinate is deemed to be triumphing in his masculinity, and by extension, degrading women." Their argument is that “if women can't do it, then men shouldn't either”. Personally, I think they’ve missed a trick...thanks to the Shewee, we girls can now write our names in the snow as well as any lad. Invented by 28-year-old New Zealander, and James Dyson Award winner, Samantha Fountain, the portable urinating device is ergonomically-designed and (most importantly) dishwasher-safe. The 'suction' of the Shewee’s fit to ladies’ 'bits' has been likened to that of Dyson’s vacuum cleaners....let’s just hope that’s an exaggerated description of its leak-proof seal.


No more sitting on less than desirable public toilet seats, peeing onto our shoes as we attempt to hover over squat toilets, and baring our bums in the public eye or...and here I write from personal experience....straight back onto stinging nettles!

Ladies, it’s time to stand up and… pee!