Wowww.... snow.... thought I'd never see it again. Was I secretly wishing that I wouldn't? Perhaps.
It didn't matter what I thought. It came down anyway.
The news couldn't get enough of the UK's impending storms. One news station warned that it'd be a huge blizzard crippling the nation. Another merely noted that we'd have a few flurries coming down from Siberia. It wasn't until further in the evening— when it began to come down a bit more fast and furious— that all the stations warned that we should prepare for a *possible* national emergency.
"...more snow coming our way from France of which we've never seen since 1996—! Make sure you have extra clothes in the car and something hot to drink!"
It came. It melted. It snowed again. It melted. More blizzard-like snowflakes. Then it melted. In the end, it was all this hoopla for two inches of slush and a complete dead-halt of life.
Am I missing something?
In our neck of the woods (East Anglia) some reported up to 15cm. Now last time I checked, 15 cms translates into— uh lessee 2.54cm equals 1-inch, divide by 15 carry the two— just shy of 6 inches (depending on which guy you talk to). Sorry but even a tv-interviewed passerby from Denmark remarked that this wasn't snow. Hell, it wasn't even like New Jersey snow.
Tangent: The only time (in my lifetime) that New Jersey completely stopped was back in the 90's. She was in a state of national emergency apparently. It was over a foot of snow. But that didn't stop me driving 20-odd miles down the Garden State Parkway to get to work— only to be greeted by a sign that said, "CLOSED". Thank God I was in my trusty Jetta... she took a lickin' and kept on tickin'... God rest her soul. (Sorry— unavoidable double-tangent.)
So being that I was used to the flurrying stuff, I pull out the required shoveling utensil (here, it's my unavoidably stunted gardening shovel) to clean all two inches. And lemme tell you, I got a lotta strange stares....
"What's that daft Yank up to now???"
Mind you, as soon as I finished, I heard the familiar faint shovel scraping surround-sound. I felt slightly vindicated...okay maybe not.
I found it strange that there weren't any snowplows, kids flogging their nubile energy to clean driveways, or masses of people catching snowflakes on their tongue, prancing around enjoying how clean everything was. It was perfect snowman building stuff too. Not even a snowball fight in sight.
Is it me?
Hell, I'd be right out there— playing hooky from work or school— dressed with five million layers, trudging my plastic disk up and over the 8-foot wire fencing, then trudging along through sand pits and ponds just to grab a premier sledding spot on "Suicide Hill" (county golf course, Summit, New Jersey). Admittedly, I did this well into my twenties. A sledding addict I was. *Okay, delayed childhood.*
Technically, it was illegal for insurance reasons, but we were never stopped. The grounds keeper would warn us in such a way that reminded me of Willy Wonka trying to stop Veruca from eating the forbidden fruit. He finally gave up in the end.
But I digress....
Today, I'm in my orchid-growing-like heated office, sun shining and the huge storms have come and gone leaving little snow around. Granted, it did freeze up a bit— a minor inconvenience.
We've been warned of more snow on the way, "... of which the likes haven't been seen since last century..."
Ya, but is it enough to keep everyone from work? We'll see.
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Friday 15 August 2008
Is that on Atkins?
Country life is always an adventure. Take for instance the next door neighbor's cat Sage.
Now I've had cats all my life and have endured all sorts of —uh— gifts. The odd field mouse, butterfly parts, crickets legs, moths here and there and of course the infamous 15-inch raccoon in extremely late stages of rigor mortis (but that's another story). They've all been left for my bedazzlement which I should get a BAFTA for each performance. This cat though was on a mission. And it wasn't ta bring mama a gift.
Country folk, and maybe this a universal thing, tend to think that cats— if left a bit hungry— will own up to their own devices — eventually taking care of the inconvenience caused by pilfering rats, mice etc that keep eating the feed or seed. Personally, mine never did. To this day, Molly (my common but well traveled American shorthair and 15 years old next week) will stand near the feeding birds and everyone will remain calm as English pitless cucumbers. No feathers flying. No dismembered remains to pick up.
(Sage on the other hand was doing her country duty— that or she was hungry.... which I doubt. That cat looks more than well fed.... hmmmm.... two and two equals— )
As I glanced up from the computer, what lovely vision do I see? Sage and a well fed 6-inch RAT in her mouth. She was determined to cross over our garden lickity split and into the sanctuary of hers for no doubt a gastronomic feast. I should know. That rat's been knicking the bird food in the shed and building a condo to boot.
Now I will admit that I am squeamish about some living necessities. Looking at carcasses on a plate is not my idea of a tasty meal which is probably why I became veggie *mumble mumble* years ago. Certainly seeing Sage carry one very much alive and humongo rat in her mouth wasn't a pretty sight. I just hope she was a bit humane before taking her first morsel. (LA LA LA disregard the thought.)
Then of course there's me thinking of possible babies left behind blah blah blah.... Yes, yes I know its a right of nature to do its thing, but yowza honey... can I be spared the details?
Now I've had cats all my life and have endured all sorts of —uh— gifts. The odd field mouse, butterfly parts, crickets legs, moths here and there and of course the infamous 15-inch raccoon in extremely late stages of rigor mortis (but that's another story). They've all been left for my bedazzlement which I should get a BAFTA for each performance. This cat though was on a mission. And it wasn't ta bring mama a gift.
Country folk, and maybe this a universal thing, tend to think that cats— if left a bit hungry— will own up to their own devices — eventually taking care of the inconvenience caused by pilfering rats, mice etc that keep eating the feed or seed. Personally, mine never did. To this day, Molly (my common but well traveled American shorthair and 15 years old next week) will stand near the feeding birds and everyone will remain calm as English pitless cucumbers. No feathers flying. No dismembered remains to pick up.
(Sage on the other hand was doing her country duty— that or she was hungry.... which I doubt. That cat looks more than well fed.... hmmmm.... two and two equals— )
As I glanced up from the computer, what lovely vision do I see? Sage and a well fed 6-inch RAT in her mouth. She was determined to cross over our garden lickity split and into the sanctuary of hers for no doubt a gastronomic feast. I should know. That rat's been knicking the bird food in the shed and building a condo to boot.
Now I will admit that I am squeamish about some living necessities. Looking at carcasses on a plate is not my idea of a tasty meal which is probably why I became veggie *mumble mumble* years ago. Certainly seeing Sage carry one very much alive and humongo rat in her mouth wasn't a pretty sight. I just hope she was a bit humane before taking her first morsel. (LA LA LA disregard the thought.)
Then of course there's me thinking of possible babies left behind blah blah blah.... Yes, yes I know its a right of nature to do its thing, but yowza honey... can I be spared the details?
Tuesday 15 July 2008
Our Wee Pos' Office
I never thought a village this small could get caught up in big time politics....
Take for instance our post office— a well used and essential part of this village. It doesn't just provide a place to buy stamps— one can do one's banking, exchange in foreign currency, buy umpteen licenses, pay bills, collect pensions— you name it and it probably does it. Without it, the shop it's attached to would close and loads of disabled and/or elderly people (of which this village has many) would be up a creek— not to mention killing off the life-line to the "outside world" this village has.
Unfortunately this government sees it a different way.
It started when they decided to sell off Royal Mail to the private sector. He-who-shall-be-obeyed immediately began closure proceedings— just lopped off over umpteen little post offices around the country, one of them being ours in Old Newton. I was outraged and quickly got on my soapbox about "...how this would never happen in the 'States blah blah blah..." without scandal, shame, loads of negative publicity, and a damn good ol' fight. I couldn't believe how all the post offices laid down and died— without qualm, without fight.
But I was wrong.
Little did I know that the person in charge of the Save Our Post Office campaign was already rarin' ta go with his six-shooters a'blazin by serving papers— actually suing the conglomerate who closed our location in the first place. Ha-le-LUya baby and pass the ammunition!!
How quickly news spread thanks to our brave soldiers. Out came the news reports from all the major channels— our little village got its fair share of its fifteen minutes of fame that's for sure. Surprising how a little scandal DOES work.
For now, we've a reprieve until they can settle this— which may be months.... could be years. As far as I'm concerned, as long as its opened, I'm happy.
Take for instance our post office— a well used and essential part of this village. It doesn't just provide a place to buy stamps— one can do one's banking, exchange in foreign currency, buy umpteen licenses, pay bills, collect pensions— you name it and it probably does it. Without it, the shop it's attached to would close and loads of disabled and/or elderly people (of which this village has many) would be up a creek— not to mention killing off the life-line to the "outside world" this village has.
Unfortunately this government sees it a different way.
It started when they decided to sell off Royal Mail to the private sector. He-who-shall-be-obeyed immediately began closure proceedings— just lopped off over umpteen little post offices around the country, one of them being ours in Old Newton. I was outraged and quickly got on my soapbox about "...how this would never happen in the 'States blah blah blah..." without scandal, shame, loads of negative publicity, and a damn good ol' fight. I couldn't believe how all the post offices laid down and died— without qualm, without fight.
But I was wrong.
Little did I know that the person in charge of the Save Our Post Office campaign was already rarin' ta go with his six-shooters a'blazin by serving papers— actually suing the conglomerate who closed our location in the first place. Ha-le-LUya baby and pass the ammunition!!
How quickly news spread thanks to our brave soldiers. Out came the news reports from all the major channels— our little village got its fair share of its fifteen minutes of fame that's for sure. Surprising how a little scandal DOES work.
For now, we've a reprieve until they can settle this— which may be months.... could be years. As far as I'm concerned, as long as its opened, I'm happy.
Tuesday 8 July 2008
Summer Holiday
It's a shame I haven't written in a while. But quite frankly, there was nothing to write about. Since my last entry, it had been raining non-stop. I've never known rain to be so miserable.
Nah, that's not true. Try staying dry on your commute to work/school into the (New York) City. Now that's miserable. However we were somehow comparatively spared this year. The storms eventually stopped a few days before our vacation which we planned a bit earlier in the season than last year. So, we had two glorious weeks camping on the coast of Norfolk. Miraculously, we beat the rain.
Actually, it wasn't quite the "normal" camping of sleeping on dirt and digging the mandatory ablutionary hole in the ground. I'd consider it luxury camping since we were with our trusty 1996 Conway Countryman folding camper complete with running water, an electrical hookup, daily rubbish pick up (at designated points), and proper shower and toilet facilities (thank you very much). The weather was kind and we couldn't believe our luck at the amount of sunshine we had. My pallid English husband actually turned a golden brown reminiscent of enthusiastic sailors. I on the other hand was only too happy to shake off the jaundice color my Mediterranean skin had developed over the winter. Now I look human.
The sun had us up— well me— at 4am every morning. Sparrows, swallows and starlings chirping away— and the wood pigeons— yowza the wood pigeons — trying to get it on (it's a constant mating season around there). I sat outside enjoying nature's peacefulness and clean sea air with my customary cup of freshly ground, french-pressed, free-trade Colombian java— ya just can't beat a good cuppa. Ahhhhh, I love camping....
But I digress (so what else is new?).
We purposefully kept our agenda open. No touristy things– no schedules, no castles, no shopping, no mansions— only pubs. Yep, pubs. However in order to enjoy them in our grand style, we made a pact. Our first goal— every day— was to go for a long walk—towards a designated local. We could then rejoice in our accomplishment in said local which specialized in Norfolk's regionally renowned delicacy— namely Norfolk's Woodforde real ale or some other obscure one. I shudder to think that all these years I was drinking the fake stuff.
Real ale.... I never thought I'd relish it, but it was like no other. It was rich and flat, and relatively warm. None of this mamby-pamby gaseous, pale, low-alcohol, pasteurized, COLD lager— but the REAL stuff that grows hair on your chest and a belly to match. Afterwards, with our heads swooning over the richness of our liquid manna, we'd saunter over to the chippy for a requisite bag a'chips for additional sustenance on the bus back to the site. Thank God our walks were never less than 5 miles or you'd have to tow us home— on a crane— individually.
I have to give credit to Britain. It is a land of walkers. And they cater to those that will endeavor. Hundreds of maps are dedicated to the avid walker and the paths are well marked. My husband collects maps— and actually uses them—what a concept! We used three from his collection but were sorely disappointed that the government has evidently allowed the sea to reclaim some of the coastal paths.
Tangent: Story told is that the present government thinks it's too expensive to fortify the Norfolk coast. Whether or not it's the present national contingent or the provincial one I'm not sure. But I find it scandalous... and quite haunting. Its almost like a sacrificial lamb the Norfolk coast has become. And I'd like to know "what for?".
Still, we took loads of pictures and kept memories... I think. *hic!*
So, if you're in the area, I'd highly recommend stumbling uh walking the Norfolk coastal paths. Something truly memorable. In the inevitable words of Arnie, "We'll be baaack... "
...even if its not there.
Nah, that's not true. Try staying dry on your commute to work/school into the (New York) City. Now that's miserable. However we were somehow comparatively spared this year. The storms eventually stopped a few days before our vacation which we planned a bit earlier in the season than last year. So, we had two glorious weeks camping on the coast of Norfolk. Miraculously, we beat the rain.
Actually, it wasn't quite the "normal" camping of sleeping on dirt and digging the mandatory ablutionary hole in the ground. I'd consider it luxury camping since we were with our trusty 1996 Conway Countryman folding camper complete with running water, an electrical hookup, daily rubbish pick up (at designated points), and proper shower and toilet facilities (thank you very much). The weather was kind and we couldn't believe our luck at the amount of sunshine we had. My pallid English husband actually turned a golden brown reminiscent of enthusiastic sailors. I on the other hand was only too happy to shake off the jaundice color my Mediterranean skin had developed over the winter. Now I look human.
The sun had us up— well me— at 4am every morning. Sparrows, swallows and starlings chirping away— and the wood pigeons— yowza the wood pigeons — trying to get it on (it's a constant mating season around there). I sat outside enjoying nature's peacefulness and clean sea air with my customary cup of freshly ground, french-pressed, free-trade Colombian java— ya just can't beat a good cuppa. Ahhhhh, I love camping....
But I digress (so what else is new?).
We purposefully kept our agenda open. No touristy things– no schedules, no castles, no shopping, no mansions— only pubs. Yep, pubs. However in order to enjoy them in our grand style, we made a pact. Our first goal— every day— was to go for a long walk—towards a designated local. We could then rejoice in our accomplishment in said local which specialized in Norfolk's regionally renowned delicacy— namely Norfolk's Woodforde real ale or some other obscure one. I shudder to think that all these years I was drinking the fake stuff.
Real ale.... I never thought I'd relish it, but it was like no other. It was rich and flat, and relatively warm. None of this mamby-pamby gaseous, pale, low-alcohol, pasteurized, COLD lager— but the REAL stuff that grows hair on your chest and a belly to match. Afterwards, with our heads swooning over the richness of our liquid manna, we'd saunter over to the chippy for a requisite bag a'chips for additional sustenance on the bus back to the site. Thank God our walks were never less than 5 miles or you'd have to tow us home— on a crane— individually.
I have to give credit to Britain. It is a land of walkers. And they cater to those that will endeavor. Hundreds of maps are dedicated to the avid walker and the paths are well marked. My husband collects maps— and actually uses them—what a concept! We used three from his collection but were sorely disappointed that the government has evidently allowed the sea to reclaim some of the coastal paths.
Tangent: Story told is that the present government thinks it's too expensive to fortify the Norfolk coast. Whether or not it's the present national contingent or the provincial one I'm not sure. But I find it scandalous... and quite haunting. Its almost like a sacrificial lamb the Norfolk coast has become. And I'd like to know "what for?".
Still, we took loads of pictures and kept memories... I think. *hic!*
So, if you're in the area, I'd highly recommend stumbling uh walking the Norfolk coastal paths. Something truly memorable. In the inevitable words of Arnie, "We'll be baaack... "
...even if its not there.
Thursday 29 May 2008
Old Newton's Wild Kingdom
Our bird feeder must to have a reputation like that of a 3 Michelin star restaurant by the amount of birds we attract. Starlings are always the ones who start off the feasting, followed by coupled doves (feisty little things), noisy sparrows, blue tits (no human affiliation whatsoever), and the lonely pantaloon-legged wood pigeon whom I fondly call "Gus"— to name just a few of the regulars. Sometimes we even get the odd pheasant chomping away, making loud clucking sounds (no gun jokes please).
There's one starling who I swear has six babies. Then again, she might be feeding the neighbor's kids too— a bit of bird babysitting if you will. She'll grab a piece of bread three times her weight and shove it into the nearest babe's mouth. I could almost hear her saying, "OPEN dammit!". Some chicks will swallow it, but others— well, they're a bit smarter. For instance one particular starling knows to appreciatively take the pound of bread from mum, then place it gently back on the floor and wait for the next round of grub instead of trying to choke it down. Quite funny to watch really. He's very methodical— but quite exasperating for mum I'm sure.
Starling Mum never stops. Like a well-oiled machine, she'll pick up a piece of bread (a daily on the menu), enthusiastically shoves it into baby's mouth, then moves onto the next one. Obviously part of her daily aerobics regime. By the time she finishes the last of her umpteen children, she goes back to the first. Well, whomever she remembers as the first. I've seen her feed the same chick several times while the others wait patiently. I guess its the loudest gets fed first— and often.
The doves on the other hand can be quite lazy. I've seen one belly-up to the bird box, plant himself down, and eat what was around him. Oh and God forbid you're "... not from around these here parts..." or you'd be dead meat as far as they're concerned. Those placid looking birds can be vicious little buggers. I've witnessed two males fighting a few feet from where I stood. If I hadn't've stopped it, one of them would surely have been the neighbor's cat's next dead meal— feathers flying everywhere. Heeee-uuuu-WEE — wadda fight!
Have I mentioned the bathing facilities lately? The two ton plastic mushroom container is never empty. It always has fresh water with the odd bird bathing and singing. No doubt the acoustics are accommodating. Of course the water is used for other things too— drinking for one, and the odd suicidal snail.
We have had a few hedgehogs too. When they walk, they look like rolly pollies with legs on a rounded peg. Strange little things— and their mating sound— yowza!— it's like a cat who's close to death or— worse— WET— and desperate to come in after some light drizzle. I'm sure they do that sound to psyche me out. Strangely enough I've heard, "Get this— watch what happens when I start wailing...!" from the bushes— then again that could've been the after effects of the pub's moonshine. Still, they're quite fascinating— and quite ticklish on the belly I've found.
It's never a day without an aviary or hedgehog adventure. Forget Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I've got my own wild kingdom a few feet from my office door.
There's one starling who I swear has six babies. Then again, she might be feeding the neighbor's kids too— a bit of bird babysitting if you will. She'll grab a piece of bread three times her weight and shove it into the nearest babe's mouth. I could almost hear her saying, "OPEN dammit!". Some chicks will swallow it, but others— well, they're a bit smarter. For instance one particular starling knows to appreciatively take the pound of bread from mum, then place it gently back on the floor and wait for the next round of grub instead of trying to choke it down. Quite funny to watch really. He's very methodical— but quite exasperating for mum I'm sure.
Starling Mum never stops. Like a well-oiled machine, she'll pick up a piece of bread (a daily on the menu), enthusiastically shoves it into baby's mouth, then moves onto the next one. Obviously part of her daily aerobics regime. By the time she finishes the last of her umpteen children, she goes back to the first. Well, whomever she remembers as the first. I've seen her feed the same chick several times while the others wait patiently. I guess its the loudest gets fed first— and often.
The doves on the other hand can be quite lazy. I've seen one belly-up to the bird box, plant himself down, and eat what was around him. Oh and God forbid you're "... not from around these here parts..." or you'd be dead meat as far as they're concerned. Those placid looking birds can be vicious little buggers. I've witnessed two males fighting a few feet from where I stood. If I hadn't've stopped it, one of them would surely have been the neighbor's cat's next dead meal— feathers flying everywhere. Heeee-uuuu-WEE — wadda fight!
Have I mentioned the bathing facilities lately? The two ton plastic mushroom container is never empty. It always has fresh water with the odd bird bathing and singing. No doubt the acoustics are accommodating. Of course the water is used for other things too— drinking for one, and the odd suicidal snail.
We have had a few hedgehogs too. When they walk, they look like rolly pollies with legs on a rounded peg. Strange little things— and their mating sound— yowza!— it's like a cat who's close to death or— worse— WET— and desperate to come in after some light drizzle. I'm sure they do that sound to psyche me out. Strangely enough I've heard, "Get this— watch what happens when I start wailing...!" from the bushes— then again that could've been the after effects of the pub's moonshine. Still, they're quite fascinating— and quite ticklish on the belly I've found.
It's never a day without an aviary or hedgehog adventure. Forget Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I've got my own wild kingdom a few feet from my office door.
Saturday 24 May 2008
Summer's Here!
Here we are on the Bank Holiday weekend— Memorial Day weekend— the beginning of the summer season and the weather has started out brilliantly over here. Dreams of weeding and planting, planting and weeding fill my head. A barbeque or two are added for good measure, along with the traditional afternoon gin-laced Pims for medicinal purposes. Ahhhhh — *hic!* — lovely....
Our backyard grows diligently. In the nursery, I'm sprouting summer's essential sunflowers, sweet smelling spock (no relation to the Vulcan), green peppers, lupin (my husband's favorite), and corn flowers (porque me de la gana)— along with a multitude of aging avocados that I didn't have the heart to throw the seeds away (very Cuban).
In our allotment section at the bottom of the garden, we've planted broad beans (aka big ol' lima beans), rhubarb (tangent: leaves are poisonous but the stalks make an orgasmic crumble [dessert] according to hubby), and old potatoes (remember chippology?). Those accidentally started to sprout in the pantry and I saw a golden opportunity for an experiment. Incredibly enough, they didn't get blight or mold to the surprise of my husband.
(Potatoes are also are unintentionally growing in the compost heap. Frisky little buggers, aren't they?)
Unlike my finely manicured next door neighbor's yard, ours is a working experiment. Ne'er a year goes by without something different growing. Last year it was weeds. This year, its vegetables.
Speaking of my neighbor— bless him— he's always puttering about. Normally its something to do with bricks and paving only because he lucratively does that for a living, On occasion however (albeit unnecessary) he'll do a bit of weeding. Nice fellow, but doesn't stop for a moment. Oftentimes we'll hear him hauling a heavy thingymebob or another in the wee mornin' on any given day. Thankfully, the birds make a louder racket.
Complementary, their back yard is very inviting and peacefully entertaining— quite a feat when you have two young children. Play houses, toys, and the odd rabbit hutch meander through the civility of ornate lawn furniture. I do however have a sneaking suspicion that he and his wife live vicariously through our veggie gardening attempts. In the beginning, when I started to lay out my digging lines, I'd hear a voice over the fence, "Saw ye diggin'. Watya plantin' taday?" Frankly I wasn't sure if that was an attempt to keep abreast of my obscure planting habits or genuine curiosity. But I tried answering as best I could.
Admittedly, my answers are a bit obscure only because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Y'see, I too am what ya call a seedling— a transplanted, transferred, formerly closeted couch gardener. I used to live imaginatively through gardening books and catalogues.
But not anymore.
Now I'm trying to put all those years of gathered information into use... albeit with lots of effort. I've lost a few plants. I've killed a few (sorry). And even those blasted aphids have taken some. But it doesn't stop me from continually trying. When I'm in a horticultural bind, the internet is a huge source of information— even if my husband thinks its rubbish.
"Nahhhh that's a load of hogwash." when he sees me coddling a seedling. "Jus' chuck 'em inna ground."
"Hmmmm that's a bit rough...", I think, as I secretly tuck it into its bedding. Then again, there might be something in what he says. He's always lived in the country— they even teach horticulture in schools still. What's to doubt? Stubbornly though, I'm optimistic that my internet-fired gardening strategies and me will be able to gloat when it comes to harvest.
...assuming we get there....
Our backyard grows diligently. In the nursery, I'm sprouting summer's essential sunflowers, sweet smelling spock (no relation to the Vulcan), green peppers, lupin (my husband's favorite), and corn flowers (porque me de la gana)— along with a multitude of aging avocados that I didn't have the heart to throw the seeds away (very Cuban).
In our allotment section at the bottom of the garden, we've planted broad beans (aka big ol' lima beans), rhubarb (tangent: leaves are poisonous but the stalks make an orgasmic crumble [dessert] according to hubby), and old potatoes (remember chippology?). Those accidentally started to sprout in the pantry and I saw a golden opportunity for an experiment. Incredibly enough, they didn't get blight or mold to the surprise of my husband.
(Potatoes are also are unintentionally growing in the compost heap. Frisky little buggers, aren't they?)
Unlike my finely manicured next door neighbor's yard, ours is a working experiment. Ne'er a year goes by without something different growing. Last year it was weeds. This year, its vegetables.
Speaking of my neighbor— bless him— he's always puttering about. Normally its something to do with bricks and paving only because he lucratively does that for a living, On occasion however (albeit unnecessary) he'll do a bit of weeding. Nice fellow, but doesn't stop for a moment. Oftentimes we'll hear him hauling a heavy thingymebob or another in the wee mornin' on any given day. Thankfully, the birds make a louder racket.
Complementary, their back yard is very inviting and peacefully entertaining— quite a feat when you have two young children. Play houses, toys, and the odd rabbit hutch meander through the civility of ornate lawn furniture. I do however have a sneaking suspicion that he and his wife live vicariously through our veggie gardening attempts. In the beginning, when I started to lay out my digging lines, I'd hear a voice over the fence, "Saw ye diggin'. Watya plantin' taday?" Frankly I wasn't sure if that was an attempt to keep abreast of my obscure planting habits or genuine curiosity. But I tried answering as best I could.
Admittedly, my answers are a bit obscure only because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Y'see, I too am what ya call a seedling— a transplanted, transferred, formerly closeted couch gardener. I used to live imaginatively through gardening books and catalogues.
But not anymore.
Now I'm trying to put all those years of gathered information into use... albeit with lots of effort. I've lost a few plants. I've killed a few (sorry). And even those blasted aphids have taken some. But it doesn't stop me from continually trying. When I'm in a horticultural bind, the internet is a huge source of information— even if my husband thinks its rubbish.
"Nahhhh that's a load of hogwash." when he sees me coddling a seedling. "Jus' chuck 'em inna ground."
"Hmmmm that's a bit rough...", I think, as I secretly tuck it into its bedding. Then again, there might be something in what he says. He's always lived in the country— they even teach horticulture in schools still. What's to doubt? Stubbornly though, I'm optimistic that my internet-fired gardening strategies and me will be able to gloat when it comes to harvest.
...assuming we get there....
Thursday 22 May 2008
Alotta Hooey
I love the internet headlines...
"Working class 'has lower IQ'"
That was the first one that got me reeling this morning (which doesn't take much some days).
It continues...
"Bruce Charlton, reader in evolutionary psychiatry at Newcastle University, suggested that the low numbers of working-class students at elite universities was the "natural outcome" of IQ differences between classes."
Ho boy... right... soapbox please... *cough-cough*
If you were to ask any Briton if there was a class system still in place, you could tell their class by their answer.
The upper echelon would say, "No, no— of course not. Long gone fa fa fa wot? Everyone is free to blah blah blah blah as they please wot wot...." I start zoning out once the first "blah-blahs" start— normally at the beginning.
If you tried to ask the people in the middle (affectionately our version of the Yuppies), you wouldn't get an answer. They're forever trying to get into the higher stratosphere that they forget to breath. They drop like flies eventually. Like the ol' cliche, "Hamsters on the perpetual wheel." Unfortunately, they never get any higher to the Queen's classification than you or me (or her son for that matter), but— hell— don't tell them that. They're forever lost in public (private) schools and petrol-guzzling thingamejig whatnots, they won't hear you.
But they seem happy.
On the other hand if you were to ask any ol' bloke— a laborer— a farmer— a mechanic— hands dirty, obviously from some engine or field, he'd unequivocally say that there was an almost ironclad classification system. Ironically, its also the dirty hand class that are the most prosperous and educated at the moment. Makes me kick m'self for not being a farmer.
But I'ma lurnin'!
I say bugger this working class stigma. At least in the States you can achieve wealth, position, and honors if you wanted to despite your background. Hell, it makes for better copy if you were from the lower classes, preferably starving, couldn't read, or on the streets living in your car before you made your first million, then lost it, then made it again threefold. Success by any means (preferably, honestly) is what counts— and says something for your status— you earned it. And it makes for a nice jingle in your pockets too.
So to conclude m'lawd, I can safely say that the class system is alive and well in the United Kingdom. Of course, that my friends, is the good ol' Yankee Doodle Dandy know-how coming out. We are still free in these (those?) United States.
Then again, soon I will be in a position to help vote out any idiot MP who'll agree with statements like these in the first place. Then we'll see who's who in which what class thinking blah blah.
Wot wot. Hrmph wot.
"Working class 'has lower IQ'"
That was the first one that got me reeling this morning (which doesn't take much some days).
It continues...
"Bruce Charlton, reader in evolutionary psychiatry at Newcastle University, suggested that the low numbers of working-class students at elite universities was the "natural outcome" of IQ differences between classes."
Ho boy... right... soapbox please... *cough-cough*
If you were to ask any Briton if there was a class system still in place, you could tell their class by their answer.
The upper echelon would say, "No, no— of course not. Long gone fa fa fa wot? Everyone is free to blah blah blah blah as they please wot wot...." I start zoning out once the first "blah-blahs" start— normally at the beginning.
If you tried to ask the people in the middle (affectionately our version of the Yuppies), you wouldn't get an answer. They're forever trying to get into the higher stratosphere that they forget to breath. They drop like flies eventually. Like the ol' cliche, "Hamsters on the perpetual wheel." Unfortunately, they never get any higher to the Queen's classification than you or me (or her son for that matter), but— hell— don't tell them that. They're forever lost in public (private) schools and petrol-guzzling thingamejig whatnots, they won't hear you.
But they seem happy.
On the other hand if you were to ask any ol' bloke— a laborer— a farmer— a mechanic— hands dirty, obviously from some engine or field, he'd unequivocally say that there was an almost ironclad classification system. Ironically, its also the dirty hand class that are the most prosperous and educated at the moment. Makes me kick m'self for not being a farmer.
But I'ma lurnin'!
I say bugger this working class stigma. At least in the States you can achieve wealth, position, and honors if you wanted to despite your background. Hell, it makes for better copy if you were from the lower classes, preferably starving, couldn't read, or on the streets living in your car before you made your first million, then lost it, then made it again threefold. Success by any means (preferably, honestly) is what counts— and says something for your status— you earned it. And it makes for a nice jingle in your pockets too.
So to conclude m'lawd, I can safely say that the class system is alive and well in the United Kingdom. Of course, that my friends, is the good ol' Yankee Doodle Dandy know-how coming out. We are still free in these (those?) United States.
Then again, soon I will be in a position to help vote out any idiot MP who'll agree with statements like these in the first place. Then we'll see who's who in which what class thinking blah blah.
Wot wot. Hrmph wot.
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