Monday, 30 December 2013

Further truths behind British-isms

Although a 'Londoner' of some twenty-three years standing now, I am still - as my beloved OH is wont to point out - a 'nomad'.

Which is pretty rich coming from a Welshman who has been here longer than I have.

Never mind, I digress.

What amuses me no end, however, are the subtle nuances that come with the English language, and the misunderstandings - intentional or not - which arise when others (read: non-British natives) misinterpret the true mean of certain expressions.

Here are some of the ones that have done the rounds of the internet in recent months:

A funny exchange with a friend and fellow blogger about this got me thinking: what about all the other conversations you have where certain meanings are either entirely misunderstood or even taken at face value?

Let's see what we've got. The adapted LCM version, of course.
(click to enlarge - and that is not a euphemism)

And there are many others, but I must be off.
Nothing to be miffed about either, innit.


Friday, 20 December 2013

The annual circular letter, 2013 version

Dear friends/family/neighbours/acquaintances/plebs/whatevs (delete as appropriate)

Once more I find myself at the tail end of another year and wonder: WTF happened?


Given my renown penchant for early rising and an increasingly busy training schedule ("training for what?" I hear you ask, yes, exactly, details here), coupled with sporadic business meetings, a myriad of rugby-related engagements, increasing involvement in school governorship, and the growing concern that my eldest child will soon be taller than me (VERY SOON), I suddenly realised yesterday morning that the year is nearly over.

Or, to quote Kath and Kim, "It's ovah! O. V. A. H."

I then remembered that my realisation probably had more to do with the lengthy wine-tasting event I had attended the night before with my business partners and selected clients, which resulted in missing the last tube home*, getting to bed at some ungodly hour and then waking up wondering why a) my head was still spinning, and b) I had a sock in place of a tongue in my mouth.

It's also called getting older. And lack of sleep. Never mind, I digress, as ever.

Anyway. So, 2013. What of it then?

The good stuff:
- holidays
- training
- friends
- family
- business
- ridiculous autocorrect 'spellings'
- this
- and this

The mediocre stuff:
- needless paperwork
- wasting time on social media
- tolerating fools
- manually correcting autocorrect 'spellings'

The stuff-that-has-me-rolling-my-eyes:
- laundry
- OH's snoring
- muddy rugby boots (yes, I know, I know)
- autocorrect that persists in autocorrecting 'spellings'

And yes, there is lots more.

But if I wrote it all down it would not only take me half way in to 2014, I would also have to seek a(nother) alternative identity. Needs must and all that. 'Tis the time to be cheerful, or so the radio jingles advertisements happy clappy bunnies they keep reminding me.

I have done my usual and vetoed the Christmas card malarky because I am not in to the 'Look how many cards we've got this year!' competition, plus I figured out the kids get enough to make up any shortfall, and anyway they all end up in recycling on January 1st.

Xmas - 0, LCM - 1.

I capitulated regarding the tree though. Apparently after two hours of pestering, OH gave in to the offspring and came back with a three-foot high, live, potted, Nordic fir. Suffice to say my military instructions to the cherubs were stern enough ("less is more, no gold tinsel, and avoid the lop-sided look") and I have not had to spend a further two hours dismantling and re-uphostering the festive shrub.

Xmas - 1, LCM - 2.

And presents. Yup, sorted. Although this year I have bought mine on behalf of OH and even wrapped it for myself. Why? Because if I end up with one more hoodie top as a gift from him I will revert to being a true teenager, start wearing my jeans below my bum, and sulk around saying everything is 'boring'. There is only so much you can tolerate.

Xmas - 1, LCM - 3.

Enjoy the festivities everyone.
See you on the other side.


(c) Scott Adams

* If you saw some random woman remonstrating with a TfL guard about getting access to a tube station very late at night, I trust you listened carefully. She was merely querying - albeit loudly - why all the 'workers' have matching day-glo outfits and hardhats for what should be a relatively easy commute. As you do, after a few *ahem* drinks. At half past midnight.

(I did also ask whether the headgear and power tools were optional extras so they could avoid idle chit-chat with fellow travellers. It still did not get me access.)


Wednesday, 11 December 2013

Crisis? What crisis?

Having just returned from (another) long weekend in Italy to see friends and family, I can officially state that Berlusconi *pulls face* was right: there is apparently NO crisis in Italy.

Everything is fine, absolutely dandy, sweet-as-they-come, she'll-be-right-on-the-night fabulously okay. "Positive thinking", as the plastic fantastic perma-tanned bunga-bunga short-arsed idiot was wont of saying, can fix anything.

People still walk around looking as smart and polished as ever. The new cars on the road are aplenty, the traffic jams undiminished. The streets abound with locals doing the 'passeggiata', the shops appear busy. The restaurants are bustling.

Except that nobody is buying - the lack of visible shopping bags being ample proof - and solely the affluent Chinese are making purchases in the elegant Via Montenapoleone. The only outward sign really that times are tight, very tight.

As my lovely friend Donatella (not the Versace one, but far more talented and untainted by surgical manipulations) commented:

"In Italy there is this perception that something, some miracle, will always save us at the last minute."

That minute came and went some time ago. But in Italy life continues regardless, as if someone, somewhere, will come to the rescue and replenish the (totally depleted) public coffers, sort out the bureaucracy, place the economy back on track, and put the country on the global map for the right reasons (Belusconi not being one of them).

She continued:

"Italians are very good at ignoring the obvious and pretending nothing has changed, right until the shit is up to their necks."


The 'ma che ci vuoi fare?' attitude (lit. trans: 'what do you expect me to do about it?') is pretty legendary and - to me, at least - infuriating.

However, when everything around you is capitulating - the economy, the justice system, the public sector, the stalwarts of industry - you can almost accept that there is little any one individual can do to change the tide.

The difference this time round is that the shit is not just reaching their necks.
It is up to their top lip and there is a distinct air of 'fed up-ness' wafting about.

I am half hoping this might, might, just be the momentum needed for my paternal country to get its arse in to gear, pull itself up by the bootstraps and get stuck in to shovelling the shit away. By whatever means possible.

If for no other reason than there is no white knight on the horizon.

And shit stinks, no matter how long you ignore it.

Donatella's solution


Friday, 22 November 2013

Scaling new heights. Or depths. Or something.

You know those nights when you should have gone to bed instead of messing about on the laptop?

The times when what started as playful banter turned into a more serious discussion?

The days when a vague recollection of having said something to someone at some stage about 'joining in' or 'taking part' or 'count on me' come back to slap you in the face?

Yes? Good. That's what happened. Over a period of, hmmm... *counts* ... twelve hours.

In the space of a glass of wine too many, a surreal set of instant messages via Facebook with two other individuals (one in Manchester, one in Canada of all places), and a good deal of rather rash decision-making, we came to a conclusion.

We have signed up to do a marathon.

Next September.

Yes, as in 2014.

I know, I know, I can hear you asking, "What's the big deal? You are always going on about training with the Moose and the RP Fit Club lads, it should be a doddle!"

Uhmm. No.

LCM has never run a marathon (laundry marathon, yes; running 26.2 miles marathon, no).
Heather has never run a marathon (quote: "There are 38 weeks between now and beginning of September. That's plenty of time, right?"). 
Dara has never run a marathon (quote: "You know I know I can WALK 26 miles. Worst comes to worst... I'll see you guys in a few hours.").

So we have entered the only marathon that makes it, well, worth our while.
On all fronts.
Cue the list:

  • easy access - check
  • picturesque - check
  • not too hilly - check
  • not too warm - check
  • well organised - check
  • fancy dress - check
  • drinking - check

Re the last point: if that seems 'obvious', think again.
When we say drinking, we actually mean 'wine tasting at the water stations'.

Yup. The marathon in question takes place in a vineyard.
Water is optional.


And the cut-off time within which to finish is eight hours.

We might just have completed our 'sampling' by then.

And finished the marathon. In some state or other.


Thursday, 14 November 2013

Dispensing justice

A picture says a thousand words.

LCM dispenses justice after receiving yet another
incomprehensible rambling email


Friday, 8 November 2013

Dear Cold Callers

Guess what?

Just because I have answered the home phone number does not mean I am happy to take your call.

And just because I *am* at home does not mean I have nothing to do (aside from dossing around on Facebook, reading and commenting on some very funny blog posts, and resisting the temptation to buy even more training kit).

And since you didn't ask (because you obviously forgot) let me tell you that I am very busy trying to figure out the format for a really important presentation for a client to their operating committee (that's the big wigs who call the shots, in case you were wondering).

In fact, I am that overloaded with 'brain fry-up' (a new term, just invented, will copyright shortly) that you were lucky to even have me answer the phone in the first place as between getting fresh air to clear my head - thanks to the Moose and the RP Fit Club lads - and finally showering and changing out of my filthy training kit, I have become particularly adept at sitting and staring at my Mac for hours on end. And not answering the phone full stop. Because that would entail getting up and my arms and legs are quite grateful for some respite, thank you very much.

Anyway. I digress.

My point is, if you are going to call, then can you please ensure at the very least that you make it clear whence you are calling from, never mind why (which you never clarified either, by the way)?

Because after my third attempt to understand who the bloody hell 'Widipidiya' was, I could almost forgive you for hanging up on me.

As it is, I win.

LCM - 1
Virgin Media - 0


Friday, 1 November 2013

Trade offs

Not so long ago I mentioned in passing about the lovely lads from Rugby Pro Fit Club.

I also mentioned about a 'trade-off' going on and hinted at a future post that would give more insight.

This is that post.

During the summer months some of the rugby premiership players run skills and coaching camps for the kids. Typically this would entail a) leaving the children with responsible qualified coaches and trainers, b) sneaking off to the club house to indulge in a quick pint, and c) reappearing at 'finish' time suitably refreshed and relaxed.

Sometimes that worked. Other times it didn't. And when it didn't it was because the adults were set some of the same challenges as the children.

Challenges such as:
- how many sit-ups can you do in a minute (answer: lying on the ground is much more pleasant)
- how many press-ups can you do before collapsing (I still suffer after-effects of broken wristitis)
- how many burpees can you perform before your knees give way (or your back, or your legs...)

Anyway. Point is, I missed out on a couple of the sessions. Possibly one of the harder ones too, judging by my mate MAC:

Well, I thought I was being funny. Until this came through:

Thus the gauntlet was thrown down.

Fast forward to more recently. In exchange for helping the lads refine their business plans and go-to-market strategy, I am getting some extra PT sessions thrown in (extra because there is always the Moose, of course).

Today? It started with a question.

RPFitClub - "Have you ever done German one hundreds?"
LCM - "What? What is that? Like saying 'Vun hundret' vit a German ax-cent?" *

I don't even get an answer. I get 'the stare'. Uh oh.

Further fast forward to this afternoon. 
A text.
"How are the arms?"

My reply: "Arms are dying. Will be using a straw to drink my tea at this rate. Just as well I can use my nose for typing."

And writing blog posts, of course.

* more accurately termed as German Volume Training: 10 sets (of an exercise), 10 reps (that's ten times). Yes, really. Times a lot of different exercises. Involving arms, in my case *sigh*


Thursday, 24 October 2013

LCM's bake-off

Apparently there has been this series on the telly called 'The Bake-Off' or 'Let's Bake' or 'Wear a Pinnie and Make Fancy Things with Icing' or something like that.

I have no idea. I will rely on others to tell me all about it.

Anyway, my point is that since the last post, I have been feverishly working myself up in to a floury frenzy, fretting about what to donate to Mr Man's Year 6 cake sale taking place on the Friday before half term. That'll be tomorrow.

Could I possibly do a 'Calendar Girls' special and buy a M&S Victoria Sponge and pass it off as my own? What about a Waitrose chocolate roll? Or a Sainbury's fruit loaf?

Not at all. In spite of all forms of procrastination I could think of (and there are many, believe me, imminent conf call and strategic business planning for phase two of major project for a client being just a couple of them), I actually took up the challenge and have baked not one, not two, but three different offerings to present to the paying masses.

This was my first effort:

Okay, okay, so they were out of a packet.
Sue me.

I was so pleased with myself I tweeted my fellow class rep and cake-stall-organiser and partner-in-crime (because so much more fun than texting, innit).
As ever, she did not mince her words.

So I baked these:

Mini lemon madeiras - and that's runny icing
in the corners, no drool

It appears I was not trying hard enough: 

So I came up with these:

Sticky, tacky and appealing to young 'uns

Perfect, apparently.
Taste test with cherubs to follow shortly. If they're bouncing off the ceilings by bed time, I'll know I've hit the (sugar) jackpot.


Friday, 18 October 2013

Of deadlocks, strikes, draconian laws and baking cakes

Amidst the whirlwind of running a business and cajoling clients in to accelerating timelines - also known in common parlance as the 'put-a-rocket-up-your-arse-or-the-wheels-will-fall-off-your-company' technique - I have being paying cursory attention to the whole US budget brawl and government shut-down saga.

I have also been dealing with issues closer to home that have to do with pestiferous unions and a teachers' strike.

Given that I am not a SAHM (Stay At Home Mum - keep up people!) and due to the aforementioned unions' indirect interference and knock-on effect on wraparound school care provision, I had to park conference calls and client meetings yesterday and take on a new mantle.

Full time mother to three children.

Here's a quick summary of events:

  • 08:00 - include kids (aged 10, 9 and 8 btw) in PT session with the Moose - chaotic, children acting like total nutters, akin to cats on speed, LCM's mood not aided by fact that her eldest (Mr Man) runs so fast she cannot touch him, let alone reprimand him because he is, literally, 'streets ahead';
  • 09:30 - oversee Blossom (daughter)'s cake-making extravaganza and coordinate small army of 'helpers' in the background who insist on also mixing/weighing/pouring/licking spoons/bowls/knives/anything except the inside of the dishwasher;
  • 11:15 - have shower and wonder whether anyone will notice if I retire to bed early claiming headache or sore finger or similar;
  • 11:25 - start homework
  • 11:55 - kids 'make lunch'
  • 12:30 - kids still 'making lunch'
  • 12:57 - kids interrupted from 'making lunch' by being told to do their laundry and put it away unless they fancy wearing odd socks and fancy dress to school for the rest of the term because the Laundry Fairy has gone on holiday and clothes do not magically wash themselves;
  • 12:58 - refrain from answering Widget (youngest)'s persistent questions about where has the Laundry Fairy gone on holiday;
  • 13:00 - continue homework and request some music practice given outlay of money for lessons (Blossom on cornet, a good deal of coercing required, not least due to distraction of recently baked cake, now iced)
  • 13:05 - music practice finished - yes, exactly, @£#%&@?? Never mind... pick your battles wisely
  • 14:00 - homework finished. I will repeat that. FINISHED. Quick scan over kitchen table displays two laptops, one notebook, two kindles, a calculator, various pieces of paper, numerous pens, lots of rubber filings from erasers and several empty mugs of tea. No discarded nurofen packets visible.
  • 14:07 - on bikes to collect two other friends for 'play date'
  • 14:30 to 18:15 - river walk, playground, swings, roundabouts, tree-climbing (complete with mock 'leg break' just to freak me out, although the sniggers and laughter sort of gave the kids away), cake eating, game playing, movie watching, pizza eating, returning of play dates to parents...
  • 18:25 - handover to OH in time to get to a governors' meeting (somewhat akin to last point but more serious and involving grown ups)

So, in summary, things I have learnt:
  1. SAHM = bloody hard graft (I knew this, but every now and then it is good to be reminded)
  2. negotiate to get things done but be prepared to concede some ground (something the US Congress could do with putting in to practice more readily rather that appearing as total arses to the rest of the world)
  3. kids are perfectly capable of doing their own laundry and putting it away (see point 2 if in any doubt)
  4. I survived
  5. my daughter bakes a very fine cake

Lemon iced Madeira,
truly scrumptious 


Monday, 14 October 2013

No messin'

It was just another weekend and another minis rugby festival.

Five years on since the eldest started playing and you would think I'd be used to all this stuff.

Anyway. First things first: it was NOT raining. Hooray. One - nil to me (and the troops).
Also: I did NOT get lost getting to the venue. Excellent. Two - nil.
And: no mustering of the troops since stepping down as Team Manager and letting others lead the way. Relief. Three - nil.


Except I was asked if I would referee some of the matches.

Now, let's be clear here. I have not attended the formal ELRA course yet. Not because I don't want to, but more because the RFU likes shifting the dates around and none of them suit my busy (social) calendar.
However, I have refereed sufficient minis games up to U8s to a) know the form, b) know the rules and c) know which end of the whistle to blow in to.

So of course I stepped up to the mark, very happy to help out, as ever.

All well, a terrific game between the host club's U8s B team and a very valiant opposing side. Score of 10-3 to the hosts.

Complimented on my refereeing by none other than Serge Betsen who was on the sidelines.

And then asked to referee another match. This one between the hosts' U8s A team versus a North of London side.

I think my recounting via email of the event to the U9s head coach covers everything:

"Hysterical exchange with the North of London team coaches (hard men of the 'tats-you-like' school of knocks, complete with wraparound dark glasses) who were busy mouthing off at me from the sidelines until I stopped the match, walked over and asked if there was a problem.

Him - "Kids can't hear you calling the tags! I'm calling them!"
Me - "And that's why they cannot hear, because you are shouting over me."
Him - "And the opposition are crowding our players, they can't pass!"
Me - "It has been noted and they have already been told."
Him - "You need to do something about it!"
Me - "Would you like to referee?"
Him (pointing somewhere vaguely over my shoulder) - "I did one over there…"
Me (holding out the whistle) - "Do you want to referee this match?"
Him - "Uhmm, no…"
Me - "Right, so then SHUT UP. I am the referee. I make the decisions. Show some respect and set an example to your kids."

*Cue cheering from the other team's side of the pitch*

Of course, as I walked away he then noted I had 'Boss' emblazoned on the back of my hoodie.

Result: hosts 8 - mouthy men 3.

As the winning team's coaches commented whilst shaking my hand post match, "We reckoned not to mess with you!"
And this was after Serge Betsen had complimented me on my refereeing in the earlier match."

To which I received the following reply:

"And great to get validation from Mr Betsen. Although take that with a pinch of salt: as one of the best back row players of his age one could argue he had a healthy disdain/ignorance of the laws!"

Never mind. I, for one, am walking at least a foot taller. 

Four - nil, I reckon.

Yes, it is him.


Wednesday, 9 October 2013

On yer bike!

Some things are anxiously anticipated. Like exam results.

Others are nervously pre-empted. Like lurking parking wardens.

Even more are totally fretted about due to fear of failure or being 'shown up' as a pretentious wannabe who is all talk and no action and will be (self) dubbed 'Madame Escargot' by the rest of the party.

Yes. You know where I am coming from.

That strange land of the two-wheeled lycra-clad power-to-weight-ratio obsessed cyclists.

And I loved it.

After a rather delayed departure from Heathrow (thank you BA) that entailed replacing lightbulbs and lots of noise involving hydraulics for some two plus hours, we finally winged our way to Linate (that's Milano, Italy, in case you were not au fait with such matters) and were swiftly driven - via an incorrect a baffling a scenic Garmin-led detour through Monza's outskirts - to the gorgeous setting of Bellagio on Lake Como.

Just a touch of cloud and rain

I know this area, but not as well as I thought as I had forgotten how majestic the mountains are, how stunning the views, and how bloody cold it can be when the daytime temperature hovers around 14C degrees!

Never mind. Good food and wine soon put paid to any reservations about the forecast - chilly and drizzle - as did the sight of my bike:

All together now: "Ooooooohh!"

I was smitten. Even more so when we finally set out the following morning.

Actually, I lie. The photo above is Dan Martin's bike. But mine was the same, and that was good enough for me. Sadly it did not make me go a) faster, or b) uphill without considerable effort, but I'll put that down to all the distractions along the way. The views were just one of them. Lots of men in lycra may have been another.

So on Saturday we cycled round lakes, up hills and down vales. Some 100km odd, of which I managed 76km before being swept up by the broom wagon. Am I too proud to admit defeat in the face of Category 1 climbs? Uhmm. No, not really. Especially since the afore-mentioned Garmin route finder was being particularly adept, again, at sending us (in the BW) the opposite way to the rest of the cycling party and I was able to make myself indispensable by pushing the four ton minivan backwards off a raised kerb, uphill.

Yes, I have my uses. Fast two-wheeled ascents are not one of them.

That evening, more fabulous food and wine, great conversation and lots of laughs with other members of our group: a father - 'King' Russell - and (6ft 5in) son James, an American couple - Nate and Kate - from Washington DC, Nick the exiled Yorkshireman residing in Belgium and permanently looking for a cash machine, and our amazing guides Richard and Jim.

Cyclists united in lycra

Sunday saw us rendezvous in Bergamo for the start of the Giro di Lombardia.

Bergamo - calm before the circus hit town

And part of the circus arrives

I found my laundry fairy!

The Death Star (aka Team Sky)

In true Italian style, everyone heads for the start
at the same time, en masse. 

'Il Lombardia' is a one day 242km race with the mother-of-all-bastard-climbs at the 180km mark, the infamous Muro di Sormano which we had attempted to master the day before. Two of the group managed: 'dad' Russell (much to his son's chagrin) and guide Jim. Richard proved his worth on the Sunday by conquering it as well.

Here's a visual taste for you:

Yes, that does say AVERAGE incline
of 17%

Fortunately, although it was cool and wet, there was better visibility than when we were at the peak the previous day:

Which way is down please?

I digress. The point I am trying (feebly) to make is that these professional cyclists sailed over this monster hill of some 1.7km in length and then still had another hill to climb past the Madonna del Ghisallo chapel before cycling down a hairpin bend-ful descent (yes, I made that phrase up) and another 40km to the finish line.

You cannot but be in awe of these athletes. The fact that you can furthermore be in the thick of it at the start, during the event and throughout the whole race and within licking - not literally - distance of the the cycling stars adds further to the fun and entertainment.

Total concentration and power

Those numbers? Not distance travelled, oh no.
Increase in height above sea level.
Just in case you thought "it doesn't look that steep"

Favourite moment?

Sending the kids back home (who are all mad about the sport) this photo with a question: guess whose bike this is?

Clue in the name on the frame

Next morning I received my reply:

"Neripin Tarna".

I am still laughing. I'm hoping he would be too.

Colombian rider extraordinaire: Nairo Quintana,
henceforth Neripin Tarna in the LCM household

Huge thanks to La Fuga and the Giro team with whom we enjoyed (in OH's words) "one of the best weekends away ever".  A most fitting anniversary present for twenty years' worth of nagging.

And they didn't even pay me to write this post. 

Even though I can drop a (lightweight) hint.

Love the bike!


Tuesday, 1 October 2013

Why food matters to Kevin

Remember Kevin?
Yes? Good, you've been following this blog long enough then.
No? Where the bloody hell have you been? Go sit on the naughty step and read this. And this. Tsk.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Kevin.

So the masses that are the Kevinettes descended on the Aussie Solicitor's home on Monday night: a full house, bantering and laughing and chatting and drinking and discussing the two books we had read since our last rendezvous.

We all loved one of them - even the couple amongst us who had not quite read (or finished) the book yet were as enthusiastic about it, so rich were the plaudits. Beautifully written, touching, upsetting and both unspeakably stoic and tragic, you have to keep on remembering that these are true stories and of a time so very recent. One of the best reads Kevin has ever had, we all agreed.

Note: if you have not read it either, then get a copy quick smart, it is brilliant. And then make sure you also watch this film.

As for the other book, barely two of us had finished the whole tome, others were struggling and the rest decided they would not bother after all. Why? Let's just say that when you read about the billions of dollars wasted on 'psychological warfare' by the US in the pursuit of, essentially, trying to walk through walls - yes, really - or killing goats merely by staring at them, you either keep on reading because you think someone is going to suddenly say, "Joke! I was kidding!" (they don't, they are totally serious), or you give up because it portrays certain elements of the American establishment (very high up the chain of command, which is more unsettling) as being, well, fundamentally stupid.

Make your own mind up.

Now when I said we were a full house, well, we were eventually.

The Lovely Radiographer was fashionably late and joined us straight at the dinner table. After the silence that accompanied the usual food troughing eating - pierced only by praise for the delicious meal - she piped up.

"What's for pudding?"

We all laughed, but she was dead serious.

She continued, "Because if it's some creamy milky fancy fluffy thing, I'll have seconds (of the main) instead!"

(nb. there is a case of lactose intolerance here which puts things in to context)

It wasn't. Creamy milky fancy fluffy thing, that is.
It was the most amazing boiled orange cake ever. Dairy free, no less.

So we had seconds of that.
Kevin hates waste.
Books or otherwise.



Friday, 27 September 2013

Month end

I have just realised it is almost - almost - the end of another month.

Stone the crows, where did the time go?

Aha. Let's see:
  • training with the Moose
  • training with the lovely lads from Rugby Pro Fit Club (there is a trade-off going on here, more about this in a future post)
  • writing business proposals for prospective new clients
  • having video/phone conference calls with colleagues and customers
  • dossing around on Facebook
  • giving free career and business advice and guidance to (at last count) seven different individuals (I should start charging for this really)
  • picking up governor duties with the school
  • wondering how did I end up being the Chair of the Resources and Finance Committee
  • probably because it sounded like a good idea
  • like moving the kids' bedrooms around
  • on my own
  • including dismantling a bunk bed, two wardrobes, a chest of drawers and a desk and then relocating them in their new 'positions'
  • and realising that IKEA has dared to change the width of its wire baskets so that I had to improvise and dig out long-forgotten DIY skills to ensure they fitted in the wardrobe that was a mere *cough* twenty years old
Don't believe me? Look:


Of course, OH was underwhelmed. He (eventually) came to admire my handiwork and commented that it was "Okay," before asking what was for dinner.

"Svenska k├Âttbullar," I replied.

Just as well he has such appalling language skills. 
He got pizza and salad instead.


Wednesday, 11 September 2013

Revisiting the archives

Given recent developments, the sudden drop in temperature and my rapidly diminishing enthusiasm for Saturday's event in Hyde Park, I thought a visit to the LCM archives was in order.

You may then understand the 'killer wetsuit' reference.

All together now. "Come back summer!"


Yadda yadda yadda...