A Complete Clock Up And A Costume Drama - Chocolate Required Urgently

Hello Dahlings!  So much to tell, so little time!  (Ha, so little time, in fact no time at all, I crack myself up!)

Blighty HQ has been struck down by Systematic Clock Failure.

This clock does not work.

This clock does not work.

This clock does not work.  (Yes Mr B, I have tried putting in new batteries)

Even Mr B's trusty hi-tech Casio which updates using satellite signals beamed  down by little men on Mars (oh yes, I read the user manual  - see p.175. section 4a)  is Not Performing Properly.  This is his arrangement to top up its solar power panels.  Er, Mr B, that's the teabag jar you have used for propping up   - can I risk a cup of tea or will it jeopardize the important work of the European Space Agency (Buckinghamshire branch)?

AND - Boy 2 cheerfully informed me that he had lost his watch at school
BUT - his friend Clifton Perkins ( not his real name) found it for him on the astroturf

BUT THEN - watch later crunched in freak classroom collision scenario and now hands (of watch not of Boy 2) free floating so possibly time keeping not 100% accurate..

AND - my old Omega watch which I bought 100 years ago has also stopped working
AND - I took it to Omega shop in Regents Street Lundun
AND - they phoned and told me it needed "servicing" which would cost £250 - I kid you not - £250, has the world gone mad?  They could not tell me what wrong with watch but yes, 250 big ones would be needed.  I am going to contact Scotland Yard as I feel this is a watch hostage extortion type situation.  I want a SWAT team to storm that building and get my watch back.  I can always paint the hands to the correct time using my handy laundry marker pen.

But I think the Universe (the one that directs Faux Fuchsia to bake and me to buy nail polish) is trying to send a sign:

A Rolex is the answer.  Everything will continue to be Out of Alignment till I get a Rolex.
(Mr Blighty, how am I doing? Is this convincing? Oh well. it was worth a try).

As if I didn't already have enough of a crisis on my hands, Daphnes4Boyz, that excellent country club (with school attached) to which Boys 1 and 2 belong, has thrown me a curved ball re Boy 1's costume for the Tudor play.

I had already cobbled together this.

Then my lovely neighbour M ( hello M!) lent me this brilliant doublet - her grandmother used to organise pageants years ago and she has the most fabulous range of costumes - matador outfit anyone?

But then Daphnes4Boy$ (not a typo, they have just rebranded to make it clear that they are happy to be paid in US dollars, they have an Equal Opportunities Policy where hard currency is concerned) - sent me these instructions!

 Has the world gone mad?  Do they think I am some sort of 1950s housewife with nothing better to do than drink cocktails  tea and eye up the tennis instructor  Rolex website?   My clock calendar clearly says 1982 ( oh sh*t, not another clock gone!).  I have not got the skills to do advanced origami type dressmaking.

Plus, I have already got my outfit prepared BUT

it's a 1537 one, not 1538!  Oh the shame!  All the other boys will be in the latest fashion for 1538, Boy 1 will stand out like a sore thumb and be scarred for life.  The horror! Total crisis!

To take my mind off these trying events, I have now taken complaining letters to an all time low.

I'll leave you to read this.  And yes,  I did actually send it.

Must go now, might be time to get the boys from school. Or to get them to school. Whatever.

Unfortunate Publications and Mrs B back in da Village

So last week when all the turmoil in Egypt first hit the news, this publication flumped throught the letterbox.  It is Mr Blighty's Civil Service Motoring Association magazine.  I can tell you are impressed.  It's a right racy read. Well no, it's not.  And this time poor old CSMA Club have been tripped up by international events messing with their content.  How very inconsiderate of those Egyptian chappies.  Trip of a lifetime anyone?

Not the best timing and I keep thinking that chap in white is Orlando Bloom, but maybe that's just me

For a while now, I have been struggling to get Boy 2 to embrace reading. Boy 1 was bitten by the reading bug a couple of years ago and now happily lies on his bed not doing his homework but engrossed in Artemis Fowl books which are all about a boy criminal mastermind. So important for boys to have good strong male role models.

I am actually quite happy with Artemis as previously there was a most trying flirtation with a series of books about Warrior Cats - yes, tribes of puddies with annoying names like Cinderpaw. It was beyond tragic, I had to bite my tongue when reading this tosh not to blurt out " The Black Metal Snake is a ROAD with CARS on it you stoooopid moggies and in the next chapter Fluffyplumpkins the Overlord is going to get flattened by a truck, so get over it!"




But Boy 2 has steadfastly remained aloof from this reading malarkey. He reads only on a "need to know" basis: instructions on computer games, cake wrappers and explosives manuals. But the other day we had a breakthrough. He came out of school clutching this and read it all the way home. I'll knock the lamppost back into shape later.




I announced this development triumphantly to Mr B over the phone. "What is the book called?" asked Mr B.

"Bone"
"Do hope that is not being used as a verb!" comments Mr B.   Not helpful Mr B. Back to the spare room.



Now below we have a little book I borrowed from our local library to help the boys with their French.  (I do wonder why those 2 are being let loose on another language when they have more than enough scope for atrocities against language with their mother tongue... "random" as the only adjective for example).

The story is in English at the top and French at the bottom.

Poignantly, the goldfish checks out early on in the book.

But do not be fooled by the English text.  Georges the goldfish is not being placed in a box for ceremonial burial in the old jardin.  Oh no.  This is the French we are dealing with!  Georges has been placed on a bed of lettuce, and dressed with a lemony vinaigrette, ready for the dinner table.  That lot would eat anything! There is no way they would waste a tasty morsel like Georges.  (Note to French Ambassador: no point writing to me to complain, try that Clarkson chap).

In other news,  yesterday I went back to Bicester Village, high end designer outlet and my Spiritual Home.

I did some thorough investigations in Gerard Darel. (The shop Mr B, don't start with all that again!)  I sinned and bought this lacy blouse.  At a huge discount of course. Yes Mr B, I do have other white tops.  But no, they are not exactly the same. And yes, I did need this one. 

 The dress below was in silk and with side pockets and made me think of FF.

 I sinned again and bought this polka dot dress.  Mr B can I just speed things up?  a)yes b) no c) yes.

 Below, this is in Joseph, these are samples and were a very good price.  I sinned again with the floaty tie front blouse.  A bargain and the ties will keep me busy all day working out how to tie them..a)yes b)no c) yes

One of the shop assistant ladies told me Kate Middleton comes to the Village and that she likesTemperley.  Also Liz Hurley drops by.  No sightings of Warnie yet, they don't sell beds in the Village.

Must go, got a goldfish to marinate.

Day Out with the Big G

So the Boys finally went back to school after their epic holidays. The headmaster was a bit surprised when I dropped them off at 4am on the first morning but I wasn't taking any chances.

The house was horribly quiet. Spooky. Grandma (my mother, aka the Big G) and I decided to have a jaunt up to London, as we had cabin fever and needed a bit of Culcha (note to self: not a small town in southern Spain).

We chose the Courtauld Gallery at Somerset House, as the Big G had never been there before. We bravely took buses from the train station to get there. All went to plan except for sailing past the gallery and being carried off across Waterloo Bridge, the other side of the Thames. I had visions of us ending up in Peckham. (By the way, a well informed friend tells me that young Londoners now speak Jafaican, not Cockney; Grandma and I tried to get in the swing ("well sick innit") but really couldn't pull it off).

After our busnapping ordeal, we repaired to the gallery cafe for an restorative hot chocolate. For me the most important part of a museum is its cafe. You can only take Culcha so far.

I liked the teapots on display.



The Big G then forced me to stop admiring the teapots and go up to look at the pictures. I immediately lost focus and stared out the window at the ice rink. They have an ice rink every year around Christmas time.

In the gallery there was a lot of top stuff. Grandma and I agreed that Renoir is too chocolate boxy.

I have always liked this one.

This is one of Cezanne's Mont St Victoire pics. He always seemed to be painting that hill. I could see Mont SV from the window of my room when I was studying in Aix en Provence. But mainly I could see the caretaker's teenage daughter climbing over the fence to sneak off with her friends.

Here is a Blighty Elf and Safety Announcement: this is not the way to hold a baby. I don't care if it is the Baby Jesus, he could so easily roll off onto the floor. A huge bump on his head will stop his halo fitting properly.

On the way out I spotted this Tiffany pop up shop type thing. Grandma firmly steered me past it, lest I was tempted.

This reminds me of other important news. Mr B, who has been working like a dawg at his office drafting an important new law on supertax on confectionery for the under 5s has now managed to Get It Out and has reemerged from his office. I explained to the boys that the familiar looking chap wasn't the plumber, it was their father. They took it quite well.

Mr B, feeling guilty at his absence, suggested he make it up to me by taking me somewhere nice, somewhere I would really like, but warned me not to get too excited, it would not be the Rolex shop. Well, I thought, if not Rolex, maybe a little Hermes scarf or at least a little toddle round Selfridges? "Oooh Blighty", I sighed, "please tell! "

This was his answer - I am NOT making this up:

"Borehamwood Vehicle Licensing Office."

Who said romance was dead?

In Which the Nice Lady from Disney Makes A Young Boy and an Old Mummy Very Happy

On Friday while Boys 1 and 2 were at school, the postman rang the bell at Blighty HQ and handed me this package. Of course, I had no idea who it was from but it was addressed to Boy 2. Very exciting.


When he got home from school, Boy 2 examined the parcel carefully, looking for clues.




Here is an action shot of Boy 2 getting to grips with the package. Don't ask about the green hanky attached to his hand.






Wow! A Wii game. Brill! Apparently this game is much sought after by the Club Penguin cognoscenti.



And look, badges and iron on thingies!



And this is Sensei, he is the Business in Small Boy World. And the coin attached to him is, I am told, super fab, as you log it on the 'puter and this means you get 3 trillion million Club Penguin coins and can buy an IKEA style sofa for your igloo. ( I may have got this a bit wrong but that's the gist of thing, I think).



And a dinky little Club Penguin bag, essential for Puffle transportation.



And make your own Puffle Christmas tree decorations - Boys 1 and 2 set to work, leaving red felt tip pens uncapped on the bed (Standard Operating Procedure, obviously).





Boy 1 stuffed this one with paper to give it extra volume. Nice.




So thank you so much Nice Lady from Disney, that was super generous and kind of you, we are thrilled!


Now listen up Hermes and Rolex, you need seriously to raise your game!


NO BEDCOVERS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST, EVEN BY RED FELT TIP PENS. THERE IS A GOD.

Colour Me Beautiful and Other Things I find Worrying about my Wife

Good evening, Mr Blighty here. I have been entrusted with the drafting of this post under the Bloggers Spousal Delegation Act 2010. I trust you will find this post clear and easy to follow. I can assure you that it is compatible with the European Convention on Human Rights (I have been taking extra care in that respect following the controversial Clamping of People Walking Too Slowly in Urban City Centres Act).

Very occasionally (when she has been reading one of those women's magazines at the hairdressers) Mrs Blighty will ask me if after 11 years of marriage the mystery has gone from our relationship. I can quite confidently say that on the contrary, the mystery only deepens. Particularly the mystery of what on earth is going on in Mrs B's head.

As I am currently on holiday from my highly demanding and important job of keeping my semi-colons under control, I have been able to observe Mrs B's activities from close quarter. I have come to the following conclusions:

a) she is as nutty as a fruit cake with a side order of extra nuts;
b) she spends a lot of time talking about ironing but never actually doing it; and
c) she still has no real understanding of the best way to load the dishwasher.
When I pointed out her shortcomings on this latter point, her response further revealed her lack of expertise in this area - even if I could get it up there, it would not lead to cleaner dishes and would definitely breach Elf and Safety legislation.
Let me illustrate further the mystery that is Mrs B.
The other day I was sitting at the computer checking developments on my latest exciting piece of drafting, The Recycling of Dentures for Old Age Pensioners Act, when Mrs B rushed in from the library waving a book at me and shouting, "Come on Blighty, help me do my colours, I can't work out whether I'm light and warm or soft and clear!"

At that precise moment she looked quite pink and over-excited but I felt it would not be in my best interests to point that out.

Mrs B explained it was all to do with skin tone and she needed to decide what her's was. There were pictures of various celebrities illustrating the different types. "But don't you dare say I am like Judy B***dy Dench!" warned Mrs B. ( Mrs B always refers to the ubiquitous Miss Dench in these terms, on the grounds that Miss Dench is in every single film ever made and is always the same; personally I think Mrs B is jealous that Judy gets to play M in the Bond films and so meet that Craig bloke Mrs B seems to find so personable).

After prancing around with different coloured scarves and demanding whether they lit up her face and brought out her eyes (on stalks??), to which I answered "I suppose so" each time, she stumped off upstairs "to do the ironing". After about 10 mins she reappeared, waving her paws at me and trilling: "Look, I've painted my nails and they match my necklace and this vase". I dutifully took a picture before pointing out she was going to find it a real pain carrying the vase round all day. Mrs B then announced that I did not know anything about fashion and swept off further to contemplate the ironing. Another thing which mystifies me about Mrs B is her approach to gardening; her lack of enthusiasm ("But I did gardening last year, surely it's not time to do it again?") is matched only by her lack of success. She was disgusted to find something had been eating the leaves of her hosta. There were dark mutterings about "those damn deer". Any deer better steer clear of Mrs B for a while. Unless it wants to end up in one of her "nourishing" stews.

Meanwhile anything Mrs B hasn't planted or "nurtured" (I use "nurture" in the loosest possible sense) flourishes with amazing, unstoppable vigour.

Mrs B got very very cross when this Miracle Gro thingie would not work. I found her in the most dreadful pickle trying to attach it to the hosepipe. I tried to calm her down by pointing out that the blue matched her nail varnish. She gave me a withering look. I thought about suggesting she tried spraying it on her chest, but she had the secateurs in her hand at the time.

I suggested a look at the trees at the bottom of the garden might calm her down. The beauty and majesty of nature and whatnot.

But what really did the trick was a little drink of this very fine wine. Mrs B and I drink only the best.

During her latest library visit Mrs B also sourced a couple of relaxation tapes for Boy 1. For some time now he has been doing the Dance of the Seven Bedtimes, coming downstairs to complain he can't get to sleep as he has been lying there for all of 3 mins/ it's too light/dark/the thread count in his sheets is not high enough, he needs silk pjs/his pillow needs spraying with lavender water etc.

"Rest and Sleep" is particularly hilarious. Each evening the house now echoes with a hypnotherapist lady saying in a monotone " Do you know how many muscles there are in your eyelids?" Sometimes you can catch Boy 1's abrupt reply of "Who cares!". The tape is doing the trick, however: he apparently lies in bed constructing unhealthy fantasies about how she is a serial killer before falling peacefully asleep.

Finally can someone please explain why Mrs B keeps leaving this brochure where ever I look? I have promised to buy her a leaf blower, what more could she want? Ah, the mystery that is Mrs B!

Note from the real Mr Blighty, this post was in fact drafted by Mrs Blighty masquerading as me. Further proof that she is nuts.

Further note - the above note was in fact drafted by Mrs B masquerading as......oh shut up

What goes around comes around

Mr Blighty came home from work earlier than usual last night. He was in a very good mood and looked very pleased with himself. "Why are you home so early?" I asked suspiciously (I had only just had time to untie the tennis instructor*). "Oh, so I'm not allowed to come home to my own house and see my lovely wife?" replied Mr B. That did it, I was extremely suspicious. I scanned the hall and noticed an interesting looking package sitting there. "What's that?" I said. Mr B told me to wait till after supper (he was already climbing into his protective suit and putting on his helmet and visor). While he was wielding the hammer and chisel (my macaroni cheese tends to be very robust) I tried to wheedle further information out of him. Is it a present for me? Yes, he responded. I was now beside myself with excitement. And when he added that it was something I had always wanted, I almost fainted with joy.

At last Mr B finishes his supper and I hose down the kitchen, and Mr B does some quick dental repair work.

He hands me over the package, inside is a large box tied up with a red bow. I rip it open, like a frenzied toddler with a Lindt bunny at a Easter egg hunt.

This is what I find.

What a difference just 2 letters can make.

Mr Blighty is now back in the spare room. Indefinitely. And pointing out he got me the chrome version is not going to help.

*Joking of course. It was the plumber.

**Thanks to Amazon and Rolodex for use of the picture.

Watch it Mr Blighty

Setting the table to creat the right ambience is so important
and little extra touches really show you care

I received a most interesting comment from the wise and lovely Ms Faux Fuchsia yesterday, following my post which revealed my longing for a Rolex watch. Ms Fuchsia explained that if you blog, a Rolex will be forthcoming; she had started a blog, and lo and behold, Mr FF had bought her a fabulous Rolex.

I was beyond excited to learn this. I could hardly contain myself when Mr Blighty reappeared yesterday evening from a long day of meetings, wrestling with the difficulties of comma placement and the trying question of whether brackets have a place in modern legislation. But, wise wife that I am, I bide my time while Mr Blighty removes his dinner from the oven, having donned his bio-hazard suit and selected a medium hacksaw from his workbench in the garage with which to tackle his Marks and Spencer Chicken Kiev. I even let him carry out his usual nervous preliminary probing and dissection of said dinner before I broach the subject. (The poor man has never forgotten my far too literal interpretation of that British classic, Toad in the Hole).

“Mr B”, says I, “FF tells me now I am blogging I will get a Rolex: when FF started blogging, Mr FF got her one”.
Mr B grunts and asks me to pass him the pliers.
I press on. “ So, what do you think? Would that be OK?”
Mr B looks up, ponders for a moment and replies, “ Yes, I suppose so.”
Be still my beating heart! At last!
“Really, are you sure?” I ask excitedly.
Mr B puts on his special legal opining face and pronounces:
“Well, if some Australian chap wants to buy you a Rolex, fair enough, can’t think why on earth he would want to, but fine, go ahead, let him”


Mr B is now sleeping in the spare room.

Cooking with Blighty

Dahlings, can't stop long today, am busy cooking up delicious bolognese for my loved ones. Here are the ingredients, I do get so much pleasure from cooking!

*************************************************************

Er, I'm back, that didn't go as I expected, very strange texture and taste.

Ah, I see. It's OK, I am getting so much calmer as I get older...The problem with embracing thrift is that they make the value range packaging too similar for blind old bats like me who always have their glasses perched on the top of their head where they don't work so well, for God's sakes what is that red stuff on the rice pudding label, if that is not tomato sauce what on earth is it? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!

Feel a bit calmer now. We'll have these, only 10p per packet and really quite tasty. And there is always a silver lining: if I feed Boy 1 and 2 on these every meal for the next 10 years I will have saved enough money to buy me a Rolex. Ha! That's my idea of thrifty cooking!


Note to Social Services and all those concerned people out there: I would never for a moment entertain the idea of scrimping on my children's food to buy a Rolex Lady Datejust, 26mm, steel and Everose gold, it would never so much as cross my mind, waterproof to 100m, model no 179171, I don't even really know much about Rolexes, I am not really a material person.....