Textin'

Have shamelessly pilfered the idea from this post from Stratford Girl, who I do believe was inspired by a chap by the name of Brennig. Anyway, thought I'd give it a go in a slightly modified version using received texts, because my phone is set up to only store the last 20 sent messages (has to be, otherwise the memory would explode I think!). So I fired up Nokia PC Suite and copy-pasted like a champ.

From: Mum; Date: 22/04/08; Time: 12:23:16
Sorry dont have no any more. Thought i did but not on phone or palm
[I was looking for a phone number I can't lay my hands on]

From: Willie; Date: 17/04/08; Time: 02:19:00
Postcard time - whats your address?
[Self-explanatory]

From: Hubby; Date: 11/04/08; Time: 11:43:28
Thanks nat, phil & you!
[He had caught my cold. That I caught off Dad. That he caught off supernephew]

From: Mum; Date: 07/04/08; Time: 11:27:12
Arrived Dover sunny and cold
[Mum and Dad heading home after a weekend visiting]

From: Dad; Date: 03/04/08; Time: 17:53:41
On board due to sail in 10 mins
[Mum and Dad on the way to visit]

From: Hubby; Date: 01/04/08; Time: 16:51:15
Pick up?
[Somebody had had enough of work for the day!]

From: Dad; Date: 20/03/08; Time: 19:11:10
Carlisle services is [hubby] at home
[This looks like I only ever get texts from my parents but it's the luck of the draw!! Dad enquiring as to Hubby's progress after his wisdom tooth op. They were heading off for a weekend in the Lake District]

From: Stef B; Date: 14/03/08; Time: 10:43:00
Tatie garcon paul
[Colleague from work just became an auntie. Little boy]

From: Cocotte; Date: 11/03/08; Time: 19:49:16
Cocotte! T'es barricadée chez toi avec Toutoune? Y refait plein de vent! Comment ça va? Bisous ma poule!
[Cocotte checking Doggy and I were safely tucked away indoors on a windy night]

From: Cocotte; Date: 08/03/08; Time: 18:08:25
Youhouh! Génial! Bravo!
[Scotland having just won the Calcutta Cup...]

From: Mum; Date: 06/03/08; Time: 11:27:13
Are you on way home yet? How feeling? X
[Mum enquiring if I had been discharged after my tooth op]

From: Mum; Date: 24/02/08; Time: 21:26:25
Parcel arrived am keeping til next sunday to open but ta for nice message am sure will love it lots of love x x x
[Mother's day gift arrived a few days early]

From: Mum; Date: 10/01/08; Time: 10:42:5
Happy birthday to Cléo! How about that, I remembered!
[Dear Mum remembering Doggy's birthday :)]

From: Jane; Date: 01/01/08; Time: 12:31:25
Hey toots! Happy new year! How are you, and your car? Jx
[Blasted car. Lovely Jane]

From: Matt; Date: 25/12/07; Time: 17:25:03
Bon noel! All our love m & m
[Christmas greetings. Obvious really]

From: Andrew; Date: 24/02/08; Time: 21:26:25
Merry christmas. May all your stockings be suspended and all [hubby]'s dreams come true. Andy
[No comment]

How many texts?! I only got this phone at the end of last year, and I've certainly deleted half as many again.

Be afraid, be very afraid

There is a secondary school in our street, which was refurbished and renovated the year after we bought the house (so, six years ago then). But I only noticed the boastful sign not that long ago.

It says "The local education board is readying the future of the département here". When I contemplate the rabble that attends the school (something I try to do as little as possible), my spirits sink into my shoes ...

Farewell, neon felt tip pen!

The laptop has undergone a transplant operation. Following the reappearance of the fluorescent felt tip pen screen, Hubby finally got fed up of being accused of breaking it (symptoms always appeared after he'd been using it, what can I say) and took action. He bought a new ribbon cable for the screen and poked around in the insides of my silver lap-warmer. And now the screen is fixed forever (I hope). Hurrah!

Marks out of ten?

I'm having a day off (cashing in my overtime, as it were). Because the weather is not, I feel, conducive to outdoor activities (ie it is Baltic out there), I have been piddling away my time on the interweb. Found one of those school teacher rating sites and looked up my illustrious (ahem) former place of learning. Was quite pleased to see a fair few names I recognised in the teacher list, which means I can't possibly be even a little bit old doesn't it?

I have to say I was incredibly lucky at both primary and secondary school. The luck of the draw dealt me mostly decent teachers who had enough enthusiasm for their subjects to catch my interest. If only everyone could be so lucky.

Some advertising

Three weeks ago we spent a weekend in the Champagne region with Hubby's family. It was most pleasant. We visited the museum of wine and vines which was most interesting, we went to a champagne capsule collectors' fair (more about that in another post), and Hubby and I supported the local economy by purchasing some of the produce of the land ;)

Anyway, the point is not that, the point is my stepmother-in-law runs gîtes (cottages, basically) at the farm. They have converted old farm workers' dwellings and stable buildings into some very charming little cottages for holiday lets. And C was telling us about the course she's been on to improve her website and how to reference it. And I said that I would add a link from the blog. Which I have duly done. And I'm sticking another one in this post for good measure.

So if you are ever looking for a quiet place to stay just south of the Loire valley, where you can enjoy walks and bicycle rides in the country, try your hand at some fishing or pick up the tourist trail to the châteaux, try the Gîtes de Courmain!

A soldier of the great war

Walter Pixton joined the Royal Fusiliers on 3 February 1916, aged 19. In due course he was posted to the Somme, and during the course of the battle was severely wounded on his left leg.

Struggling to make his way towards the medical facility, he was given assistance by a soldier from a Scots regiment. This man supported him until they almost reached their goal when a barrage started up.
The Scots soldier was seriously wounded by the flak, so the two men helped each other to reach medical help.
Eventually they were put into adjacent beds. The Scots soldier was aware that he had been fatally wounded and he gave Walter his kilt because he had no family to send it back to.
Walter was returned to his family in Ulverston, Lancashire (now Cumbria) to recover in a local convalescence home. He was discharged from active service in December 1917 due to being no longer fit for War Service.
He gave the kilt to his mother Elizabeth Pixton, who carefully unpicked it and made it into a carriage rug. It was also used as a table covering in the family parlour for many years.
Eventually it came into the possession of Walter's daughter and youngest son. We would like to give it to the Somme 1916 museum, as we consider it to be part of the history of the battle, shabby though it may be.
We never knew the name of the Scots soldier.

The above is a letter written by my dad's cousin Maureen and her brother, accompanying the donation of the Scotsman's kilt to the museum of the Somme, in Albert (Picardy). Walter Pixton was my dad's uncle on his mother's side. It was only a year ago we found out he had served in the Great War.

Mum and Dad were here last weekend. We went to the town of Albert and visited the museum. Dad was pleased to see the kilt on display, and took several photos. He's planning to visit the Scottish National War Memorial in Edinburgh Castle in the hope that staff there may be able to help him identify the unknown soldier's regiment.

Not fallen off the planet

Just fallen out of circulation. Been a funny old few weeks with lots of ups and downs but I'm hoping tomorrow will include blogging time. Interweb greetings and hugs to you all!

Blondes vs Brunettes

Forgive me the levity of the post title, because I actually have rather a serious subject for you today (for a change). Anyone living in the UK or who follows UK events will know that Yorkshire schoolgirl Shannon Matthews was found alive by police yesterday lunchtime. Good good. She had been reported missing 3½ weeks ago, after failing to come home from a school swimming lesson. And now she's been found, she's alive and apparently in good health. So far, so happy ending.

But the thing here is not the happy denouement to the whole affair, it's the comparison I wish to draw between media coverage of Shannon Matthews' disappearance, and that of toddler Madeleine McCann, who went missing in Portugal in May last year. You can't not know about young Miss McCann, you can't not have seen the acres of newsprint, hours of airtime, and kilometres of blog posts surrounding her mysterious disappearance. The McCann story was the lead story for days and days after she was reported missing. And Shannon Matthews? Well, I think they lead with her story on two occasions: the day or day after she was reported missing, and the day she was found. Maybe that's not quite true, but the last 3 weeks have certainly not been non-stop Shannon.

Let's do a quick and highly unscientific Google test, shall we. Shannon Matthews typed into Google.co.uk brings back 536,000 results. This less than 24 hours after she was found alive and apparently well a few miles from her home. Right, what of the McCann girl. Madeleine McCann brings back only a few thousand more: 542,000. But Maddie McCann returns a further 300,000: 746,000.

I have my own, somewhat cynical theory to explain the disparity. Madeleine McCann is a photogenic blonde, blue-eyed little girl, daughter of a not unattractive couple - mother a GP, dad a heart surgeon. They live in a Leicestershire village, in a big house and they go on nice family holidays to Portugal (where they then think leaving the kids alone in the holiday apartment is a good childcare plan, but that's not the point here). Shannon Matthews is a smiling brunette schoolgirl with a cute spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. But her parents are, for want of a less pejorative term, schemies. Her mother has 7 kids from five different fathers, and (don't hate me for being blunt), is less easy on the eye than slim, well-dressed Kate McCann.

And, let's face it. A housing estate in north Yorkshire in February is a zillion times less glamorous than a sun-kissed Portuguese beach resort in May. Ach, I dunno. The disappearance of any child is a tragedy for that child and its family. There can't always be good news as in the case of Shannon Matthews. But I suppose I just wanted to point out how picky and choosy the media is when it comes to covering some events, and how fickle and shallow editorial choices seem to be, based on the knowledge that a pretty toddler from a well-to-do middle-England family will always sell more cheap papers than a cheeky-looking brunette with a single-parent mum on some northern council estate.

Post-op report

This picture is not of my teeth. Dr Oral Surgeon said they didn't keep mine. I suspect this is because they had to obliterate them into tiny pieces to get them out. Anyway, see the top right-hand one with the wiggly root? Imagine it with four wiggly and long roots, each wiggling in a different direction. That was my teeth. I feel quite proud of my singularly wiggly wisdom teeth roots. Indeed, Dr Oral Surgeon said they had never seen such wiggly ones.

So now I am wisdom toothless, dentally regressed back to adolescence. Thank heavens that's only a sort of figurative state, as it were. Imagine having to be a teenager again??!! Ugh. Everyone was extremely kind, even the anaesthetic nurse who stabbed me repeatedly with the needley things, and had the temerity to say she couldn't get the cannula in because of *my* wiggly veins (I dunno, wiggly teeth, wiggly veins ... should I rename the blog "attentionallwiggles"?).

Hubby goes on 20 March for the same torture. I really hope he doesn't feel as bad as I did post-op. I cried in recovery. All I could say was "mal" (sore). They said "how sore, on a scale of 1 to 10" and I held both hands up. I'm a baby. If I could have articulated more than one word, I would probably have asked for me Mum. So, they pumped me full of some nice drugs that made me feel sleepy and dribble, which was very pleasant in a strange sort of way.

And can I just say, based purely on our experience of French healthcare (and I hope none of you ever find yourselves in a situation where you need to choose), better to be in a private clinic than a public hospital because it's cleaner. Everything was clean. When Hubby was in a public hospital last year with his ankle, it was pretty grotty actually. The staff were very kind and competent, but it was dirty. And they were chronically short-staffed. The poor nurses were desperately over-stretched. Not in the private clinic. But that's one person's experience and cannot be generalised, I hasten to add.

And as for the tube in my nose, I have no recollection of that at all! I think I wasn't really all that conscious when I first came round. And that will make sense to anyone whose brain works like what mine does.

Thank you everyone for your kind comments. I much appreciate your indulgence of my scaredy cat-ness!! And I hope your wisdom teeth aren't wiggly xx

Sleepy

Had my pre-op appointment with the anaesthetist this morning. He was a very pleasant chap. He has scared the living daylights out of me. I've already started having odd wisdom-tooth-extraction-related dreams. Like the one where I got lost in the clinic and they had to send out a search party for me. With sniffer dogs and a helicopter (yes, really). And I had earplugs in. And if I removed them, my mouth bled. And other strange happenings I'll keep to myself.

I'm sure that all the detailed explanations of what will happen and when are supposed to reassure me. Probably some tiny, logical part of my mind is reassured. But right now the vastly bigger and hugely less logical part of me is terrified.

Is it too late to change my mind and have them out under local, 2 at a time? But that'll hurt too. And I'll be able to hear it. No, all 4 at once is better. Apart from the anaesthetic bit. And the bleeding bit. And the tube in my nose bit. Why do I need I tube in my nose?

I know, I am the most pathetic example of a thirty year old ever to walk the earth.

Anxious fatty cyst woman

Yesterday I went to the Doc. Actually I saw the replacement Dockette, as Doc was on holiday. Is on holiday. Anyway. I went because I have a little lump at the top of my thigh. I already asked a doctor about it in December and he said "oh that's nothing, it'll go away all by itself". I duly forgot about it. Until the other day, when I noticed it was still there. So, being a slightly anxious type, I decided to see if it was still "nothing".

And it is still, "nothing" that is. A fatty cyst (ha ha, that could be me all over!). It will go away by itself. So while I was there I stocked up on the pills to make the thing in my head that's not right work properly. (I am doing very well, only take 1 or 2 a week.) Dockette not knowing my file, she asked a few background questions before handing out the prescription. What sets it off, how do I sleep, etc. Apparently I present textbook anxiety symptoms. Good to see I can get something right, I'm a textbook example!

She asked where I worked. "[Employer]," I replied. "Oh, right," said she. In a "that explains a lot" way. This isn't the first instance of a GP tsking like that when my employers are mentioned...

Ach, I dunno. I love what I do but I don't know why I'm doing it where I do any more. Is it time to move on? At the moment I'm seriously lacking in motivation. I feel like I've been in the same "place" in relation to my work/job content for the last year and a half at least. Sometimes I'd like to freewheel for a couple of days (you all know what I'm talking about), but that's not an option because if I don't do the stuff, no one else will (oh poor me!!). What I mean is, look at Hubby. If he's feeling demotivated, he might ease up the tempo a bit. So his work doesn't get done. At the end of the day, what are the consequences? His work doesn't get done. I feel like easing off and my work doesn't get done. It doesn't get done and maybe a product catalogue isn't printed in time and maybe the company misses out on customers and sales because of it. And maybe my employers will decide they can find someone else to do my job.

I'm feeling a bit all over the place. I don't know where to go from here. I'm fed up (can you tell?), tired, and feeling seriously under-valued (both financially and skills-wise) in my job.

Lazy blog reader

I finally got myself organised and configured Thunderbird to read the RSS feeds from all you lots' blogs. This means one-stop shop blog-reading, which is ideal for time-challenged and generally lazy bods such as myself.

Now I just have to find some software that will read my thoughts and post comments for me automatically... ;)

Perfect.

Will it hurt?

So I finally gathered up all my courage into a tiny bundle and made an appointment with the "jaw and facial surgeon". This is a profession which seems only to exist in France. In the UK I think the moniker would be dental surgeon...

So anyway. He looked at my x-ray and said "oh yes, they need to come out!". (That pic could actually be my x-ray, except all four of them are like that sideways one, and they are a thousand times bigger.) He looked on his schedule and said "March 5 at 2pm?" and then he charged me 40 euros (I think I made a career-choice error) and left me to sort out the paperwork with his secretary.

All of which means I'm having all four of my squinty and wrong-way-round wisdom teeth removed in a marathon (ah-hem) 30-minute operation on March 5 (which also happens to be Super nephew's birthday, he'll be 2). I have a ten-thousand page medical questionnaire to fill out before seeing the anaesthetist. It has questions like "Do you drink alcohol frequently?" (well, define frequently) and "Do you do any sport?" (yerrrsssss. Sort of). I'm a little bit scaredy to tell the truth.

Still, a diet of yoghurt and er, yoghurt for a few days after the op won't do my hips any harm!

I want to be alone

I am sick fed up to the back teeth with everyone and everything. I'm going to take Doggy and hide in a hole under a tree and I'm not coming out again until everyone has GONE AWAY.

Blog friends are excluded, of course, but everyone else must leave the planet immediately because you are all pissing me off and making me upset. Go on, get out of it.

See you all later when the horrible people have gone xx

Arthritic athlete

We played calcetto at lunchtime today. This is a truly fantastic way to spend 45 minutes getting a bit hot and sweaty, let me tell you. Calcetto is like 5-a-side football, played outdoors on an enclosed pitch that's roughly the size of a tennis court. There are no touchlines so the ball is always in play, and there are five metre high fences all round the pitch, so you never have to trek halfway across the playing fields to go and fetch the ball when someone misses a pass. Most excellent fun. And we won. ;)

So why an arthritic athlete? Well I did spend the afternoon hobbling about the office wincing when I moved my right leg. I think my body is rebelling against my fatness because whenever I've done any running lately my right hip appears to seize up. It is a subtle message from my skeleton to say "lose some weight you big heifer!". As soon as work calms down a bit I'm off to the gym, I promise!

Ah yes, work. It's like a battlefield in my Inbox. There are many casualties. It's not pretty. I work for a sports company and I don't have time to do sport. It's a disgrace. I added up all the things I have to do, and the time I spend doing them. The total comes to 156 hours a month. I'm supposed to work 140 hours a month. Hey ho.

Horrible laptop screen and other tribulations

The yucky laptop screen has come back again. Grr.

Hubby still doesn't have a new job :(

I have far too much work. I would like for it all to go away :((

We have a new fridge. It's called BOSCH and it's space age. It glows in the dark. No, it doesn't really. Our old fridge unfortunately stopped making the freezer bit cold. Only half a fridge is not much use. It had to go.

The (naughty) car is feeling much better. It needs a wash though.

Maybe soon I will come back and share more randomness with you. Miss you all bloggy people. But too busy, too tired, too much work. Also too much faffing around on facebook. Tsk.

Night-night xx

Car clinic

Looks like we're starting the year with a big spend. Much as I would have liked for that to be on lovely shirts in the Pink sale, fate it would seem has decided otherwise. We'll be getting a new one of these. It's a timing belt. Renault, in their infinite wisdom, say that when one replaces the crankshaft pulley one must also replace the timing belt. Ah well.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Happy New Year everyone! May 2008 bring only good things to you and those you love.


It's snowing! What is it about snow that makes one shiver with excitement (providing one is not embarking on a road journey of any length)? It's the memory of days off school and sledging and snowball fights. Ah, the magic of snow. It can make even scabby old Midlothian look nice ;)

Prouder auntie

You are all of course familiar with Super nephew in all his loveliness:


Well, now this particular proud auntie has a Super niece too!


Isn't she the best? Of course, I am most grateful to Bro and Sis-in-law for producing a girl (lol lol), as this solved my possible dilemma on how to distinguish between two nephews. I couldn't have used super nephew 1 and 2 as this implies ranking. It was causing much consternation, but then Super niece arrived and problem solved. First girl to be born into my Mum's side of the family since me, in fact, so she is even extra special.

Why we pay for European breakdown cover

Or how not to end your trip home for Christmas:


We set off back to France this morning but didn't get very far. We made a quick pit stop at services on the M74 in south west Scotland, and Hubby had barely finished reversing out of the parking space as we set off again than the dashboard lights lit up in their very own Christmas display, the power steering failed and the engine started to make a very unpleasant noise. Hubby promptly re-parked. We sat for a moment then he tried the engine again. Warning lights and nasty noise. Off again. Hubby got out (in the rather horrid wintery shower) and looked under the bonnet. Looking under the bonnet only serves to confirm to me that I know nothing about cars or diagnosing what might be wrong with them. I mean, I can identify different bits of what's under there, but my automotive knowledge stops there. We tried the engine again. Same result.

I got the book of words out and found the page about warning lights. Under the battery warning light it said: when this light comes on, stop immediately and contact your Renault dealer. Oh bum. Oh bum oh bum oh bum. Hubby decided some oil might do the trick, even though the engine management system said it had plenty. He ventured off to the petrol station and instructed me to call Dad as my bottom lip started to tremble.

Hubby returned with oil and the news that the chap at the garage had called out a breakdown truck. I had stopped crying and found the number to call the insurance company. Felt better after we had spoken to them as the agent did a good job of being reassuring in a "we're here to sort it all out" sort of way. That'll be why we let them rob us blind for cover, so that when we need them, they can say "don't worry".

Meantime, Mum and Dad had leapt on their white chargers (read red Mégane and green Clio) and were en route to ground zero. When the recovery truck arrived the bloke took one look under the bonnet and said "ah yes I see the problem, it looks like the crankshaft". Does that sound bad to you too? He said it wasn't a very major thing to fix, providing it hadn't damaged anything else (I like the disclaimer). We transferred everything to Mum and Dad's cars and, declining Dad's kind offer of continuing home in his car and leaving ours in Scotland, we went back to Midlothian. I have decided that I'd rather stay here until we hear from the garage on Monday how long it will take (and how much it will cost) before going back to France.

Needless to say, the insurance company is delighted that we decided to go back to Mum and Dad's rather than requiring a hire car to continue our journey. Of course it is, costs less! So we are having an unexpectedly extended stay in Scotland until the voiture is fit to travel. You'd think I'd be pleased at getting extra time at home but in truth I would rather be in my trusty motor speeding southwards. Some folk are never satisfied.