HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JW!

Hello JW!

And A HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU !!

I`m singing it, but Clare`s version is the most Joyous:

I tried commenting this on your blog but Without Success  (Have I Learnt Technically Nothing?!)
So this is My Last Hope, just in case you float by here...

Have a Fabulous Day

Love & kisses
Dolores
xx

Wow! - Surely you`ve been working out...

Well, yes I have – does it show?

Indeed it does – when I got home from my first session George thought I`d been mugged.

But Pchaw to Beginners` Pain - it won`t always feel like this (they insist) so just Keep Going!

Why did I start going, though - I`ve never liked exercise and have hung grimly on to my figure with simple determination...

But these days it`s not enough to be Fab – you have to be FIT too, specially if you want to fend off the maladies of agedness.  (Aeons away though they may be).

Beach Ready, for example, doesn`t just mean squeezing into your cossie, it means running into the sea with a lilo round your neck ready to save someone...

With such thoughts in mind, I had a very encouraging chat with a young woman in the nearby sports outlet store, after which I bought mat, weights and tracksuit and found a gym for the fun and super-toning of Pole Dance.

I don`t know where this person did hers, but everyone else in my class was twenty-two and wearing teeny-pants.

However, they were very kind and helpful, and generous with their pole-sharing.  And after an hour I knew I`d cracked it!

Strangely, they urged me instead towards Starter-Pilates, which I must admit was enjoyable and educational (I mean – do You know how to find your Core Strength?); and also Flexi-Punch (loved this, and now I`m floating very like a butterfly).

I`ve been training for Four Weeks now, am at the pinnacle of my physical prowess and feel weirdly at one with the Rio Olympians. 

For this New Me I`d like to thank my inspirational gym, my lovely husband, and whoever invented SweatBeGone leggings.

But what next?  How can I satisfy this sudden Need for a new challenge?

Ah Hah...

POWER BAKING!

We are Curious Purple

Do You like decorating?  George and I do, possibly because it`s extremely rare for us.

One such attempt followed the recent departure of beloved SpartaCat - we commemorated this agonising event by chucking out the settees he`d ravaged for years, buying ones with all their own filling, and starting to paint the whole neglected house.  

So far we`ve done the living room walls and half a bookcase - the undercoat half.


It turned out to be ridiculously fiddly:
the SuperFab roller we`d bought for drip-free painting didn`t fit between the shelves, and our Bumper Pack of Budget Brushes!! needed constantly extracting from glutinous paint, bristle by bristle.

The original colour of bookcase - determinedly Brown - required multi-coating, much of which then had to be sanded off to force the shelves back in.

When we reached the never-used cupboard, its contents burst forth in a cloud of potent mildew:  CD`s, box sets, several years` Christmas cards, photos, a shoe-stretch spray (that I really could have done with the other day), agents` details of every house we`ve ever viewed and a startled family of hamsters...

We persevered, remembering previous results had sometimes been gratifying.  But we`d forgotten all the collateral devastation - the sticky, mangled brushes and paint splattered surfaces and piles of tester pots that we hate now...

And the recriminations - Look – you`ve painted over the handles again and that`s obviously your drip on the carpet - it won`t come out, you know!  And Whose idea was 
Echo of Tree - it`ll never match walls that have been Deeply Truffled...

Suddenly you`re addicted - no time to stop for lunch, just put a few more sugars in your tea.  Of course the house is a Mess - it`s not worth tidying and we certainly can`t invite people over the threshold till we Finish, but this isn`t quite the look we wanted (what was the look...?).  

Maybe if we tried that other shade…  maybe if we just painted one wall and then we could try-

Oh Sob - it`s Just No Uuuuuuse!!

Grow your own Microbes

IS there Life on Mars?

Well Nasa`s rovers, orbiters and various pokey things have found underground ice and water, plus soil and rocks that can only have formed in lakes or rivers. (So creatures with watery leanings might be OK up there). 

And Mars once had a magnetic field to protect it from the sun`s radiation… rather like the Earth today. (Encouraging for combustible specimens).

So space scientists Who Know reckon that around the time Mars formed, it was highly suitable for life. 

That was (of course!) 4.6  billion years ago, and these days there doesn`t seem to be anything alive up there - at least, not on the surface... but what if it`s all happening underground?

To answer this Very question, the European Space Agency has just launched a probe headed for Mars, to be followed in two years by a robotic rover able to drill 7ft into the surface. 

For, Something up there is continuing to produce methane - what could it be? 

Actually, they think it`s Microbes… 

How do Martian microbes behave when visited - will scientists find them wrapped round the end of the drill, waving? (Or Snarling).

Some experts are concerned about Bringing Back such finds (I know I am) – unknown organisms could wreak Absolute Havoc with Earthly flora and specially fauna - we`ve all seen the films…

Nevertheless ESA boldly sent some of their own microbes out into space last August 2015 (disguised as health food) to help in the search.

Kombucha is a fizzy and Very Healthy Fermented Tea bursting with bacteria and yeasts, and some of it is now clinging to the outside of the International Space Station. 

How will it survive unprotected in space, an exceeding-cold vacuum of cosmic radiation and unfiltered sunlight? 

Can it even survive? Finding out will help assess the survival abilities of microorganisms on Mars - highly relevant in the Search for Life.

(Those more interested in how Kombucha battles against nasty oxidants and infections of the Bacterial kind should know that Starter Kits are available).

In Conclusion, surely there must be Life of some ilk on other planets - how could we possibly be the only one Chosen? 

(Though I don`t-want-them-to-visit-yet thank you)!

Not since...
 

The Warminster Thing!!

 

(Don`t Have Nightmares)!

Consider the Worm...

 

This worm is a resident of the UK and yet just Look at the Size of it!  That person`s hand can hardly contain its folded-up Enormity - at 15in (40cm), it is three times the size of a common-or-garden specimen.

How can this be?  Global Warming… Aliens… No! – this worm lives on the beauteous Inner-Hebridean Isle of Rum where, abundant in wildlife though it be, the island has no moles, frogs, badgers… in fact hardly any evil-worm-eaters at all.

In this blissful otherworldly place, worms simply live long and prosper, becoming not only the biggest earthworms in the UK, but also the longest-living - up to ten years instead of two! 

Worms are modest creatures and yet Charles Darwin wrote, "Of all animals, few have contributed so much to the development of the world as we know it, as these lowly creatures." (Surely food for deep thought).

It doesn`t seem much of a life though… incessant chomping on any old soil and casting it out as Something Beautiful  (healthy and fertile); It has been estimated that nearly every particle of healthy top soil on earth has passed through earthworms at one stage or another. (earthwormsinfo.com). 
So tread delicately out there.

One (perhaps the?) benefit of being an earthworm is that they don`t catch any diseases, teeming as they are with good and Mighty bacteria. Sadly, they`re also protein-packed and toothless, hence their countless predators.

Agonised by such thoughts, I always reinter worms unearthed in my gardening efforts, but it only takes the patter of rain to bring them hurtling back out to Breathe. 

Or of a Fiendish Cunning seagull pretending...

(I thought he was just Happy when we first spotted him). 

One Day, Seagull, all worms will be Anaconda-Sized.

Up and AwAAAaaaaay!

 

Well it`s all gone – the cards, the tree, the Chocolate called Tonka (not made of dump-truck, but of exotic South American Tonka Bean). And delectable. I`m hoping it`ll soon be found to be a Super-Food.

Anyway, this is that grim, grey, grotty period (I like it), when we splodge around thinking oh hell – we really have to get the roof mended now.  

And then of course, we must Make a Resolution.  As urged by magazines, TV programmes and you-can-do-better books.

So I`m taking up Wingwalking.

People often ask, "Where can I WingWalk?", say the professionals of Wingwalk Displays.

I think we can all relate to that…  and next time I can tell them!

For not long ago there was talk of this very thing on the radio – recently graduated Nikita Salmon answered a Wingwalkers Wanted ad in the local paper and was soon whizzing round the heavens in Formation Display! 
 

She described her job as the most exciting in the world; as quite an Adventurer myself, I could not forget her words and Now is the Time! 

Though not quite as youngfitandbeautiful as Nikita, I certainly meet the criteria for the Individual No-Dancing version (over 16, under 12 stone) and I`m well under the age of doctor`s certificate required (65). 
 
Might need a leg-up to the top wing, perhaps…

But once wedged into the rig, you`ll be taken on a palpitating series of aerobatic manoeuvres - could be low-level flypasts, zoom climbs, 500ft dives…

It`s DAZZLING, HEART-POUNDING and SPECTACULAR!!

Tempted?  And for this unforgettable experience, you can even have a video camera on the end of the wing!

Come on down! 

HI-FIVE, Hardy...

How do You Greet a Stranger - With a sturdy handshake, a wafting peck on the cheek... 

Or are you tormented by an agony of indecision? 

If so, you`re not alone.  For aeons, meeting someone for the first time has caused untold anguish; hiding in the kitchen at parties and refusing to join evening classes are but seven of the silly things some will do to avoid New People.

Help is at hand.  The biggest study ever into this behavioural quandary has now been conducted – we need suffer no more.

The study suggests that most people harbour an underlying reluctance at being touched by a stranger anywhere but on their hands.

(Must make a note).  But Yes, I probably harbour that reluctance... 

Apart from the odd pedicure.   And the cheek to cheek greeting we got accustomed to when living in France. 

There, you had the additional problem of How Many cheek to cheeks – should it be the four kisses of our own village, or the three-ser, two-ser or one-ser of everywhere else?

Although we who exchanged cheeks weren`t Strangers – cheeks were for friends or at least,  friendly gatherings. 

So the Hands still have it, the Hands have it…  Except one of our French neighbours warned us severely that she didn`t like handshakes because hands are where all one`s horrid microbes live.

Boldly, our French GP always shook hands when we turned up with our ills and microbes, as did workmen coming to repair problems electrical, boiler or plumbing-y.  What a  potent melange we must all have concocted...

George and I unthinkingly continued these greetings when we came back to EnglandOurOldCountry. 

Our new handshaken GP was somewhat taken aback but kept her composure and as for friends here, well, they do their best to just take it on the chin...

Anyway, The Study found that kissing at first meeting was now acceptable, but people would often "put their hand on the arm of the person as a braking mechanism and to let the other person know that they are not about to chomp them."

 (Oh hell - that`s a braking mechanism)?

The general conclusion was that Strangers should stick to Handshakes, which must be a huge relief to us all.  Specially if we`re a freemason, perhaps. 

And if a Handshake doesn`t seem quite right...

The Brimstone Protocol

Your Mission, Brimstone (should you choose to accept it), is to leap into the void suspended only by silken strand, aiming for that scrotty Poinsettia on the table down there (obviously decided to make this one last two Christmases…). 
 
Now – you`ve fulfilled the first part of your caterpillar duties admirably – your eating-and-eating has been unsurpassable and now it`s time to glue your enormous self to a branch and pupate for a while. You`ll be fine – just pretend to be a leaf. 

I have to tell you though, Brimstone, that when you emerge you might see some changes... perhaps most noticeably, Wings – this is perfectly normal. And you must use these to Take Off and find yourself a mate, because binge Eating, Brimstone, is no longer your duty; as a butterfly your duty is to Multiply.

Well, my work is done now, and I will self-destruct in thirty seconds. Turn away, lad – it won`t be pretty.

I Accept my mission, Captain, and I`m ready to do my best. Oh Yuck! He wasn`t joking… Oh well:

Wheeeeee! Out of the way - Here I co-! Oh sod it…

And so it was that a couple of weeks ago a green and wiggly thing abseiled past my ear, missed the poinsettia and stopped half way past. 

 

A moment`s ponder, then it started gently swinging till it manoeuvred itself onto one of the leaves. Then looped its way over the edge and disappeared.

Next day after in-depth Googling, I recognised a Strange New Leaf stuck to the stem.  `Twas surely a Brimstone Butterfly Pupa! (Don`t like to think he`s a Moth – we have curtains we care about…)

The thing is, How did he get to the ceiling, and right above our poinsettia, thereby avoiding myriad deathly kitchen landings: the white-hot-plates of the cooker, the bottomless evil waters of the sink and oh lord! the disgusting piles of fester in the cat bowl…

One could postulate that, nibbling contentedly on nearby clematis, he was carried away by a moonlight shadow and whisked through the window to the ceiling on a fierce updraught.

He`d made it by whatever magic, and I monitored his progress (of staying stuck to stem) for Two Weeks. Between two and four weeks I knew he`d Burst Forth, so with careful surveillance I would see him briefly in full flutter then urge him outside to fulfil his destiny.

Nooooooh! He`s Gone. This morning he wasn`t stuck to his stem; nor was he in the pot, on the table or in the cat fester. ( And SpartaCat no longer has the oomph to catch a Brimstone with or without wings).

I never imagined I`d be So Devastated by his disappearance.  Is he coping; how are his wings; will we ever see him again…?

The Cut and Thrust of the Garden

"What`s that blasted noise Angela? I`m trying to read the paper!"

"I think someone`s mowing again, Denis."

"And one of those petrol-driven jobbies, I`ll wager – completely thoughtless, some people!"

Sound familiar? If You suffer from Noisy Gardeners, you`re not alone. Earlier this month residents of a north London suburb found themselves driven to the End of their Tethers by this – the constant, pitiless Tumult of their neighbours` gardening...

 Sadly, as with so much anti-social behaviour, it seems to be a growing problem. Particularly at weekends, when everyone else is trying so hard to Relax.

Reduced to desperate measures, these residents have been forced to Form a Committee. Because it`s not only lawnmowers, but also hedge-trimmers, chain saws... and those appalling leaf-blowers - surely the worst! 

(Actually, what do they do, apart from blow all your leaves next door)?

These machines are often gigantic and ridiculously Noisy not to say Dangerous in the wrong hands! 

Why can`t everyone, is the cry, go back to using those lovely old-fashioned manual gardening tools - So much more satisfying; so much more Considerate.

The longer this menace goes on, of course, the more likely is the possibility of retaliation.  There has already been talk of Red and Yellow Cards for serial culprits - what if that`s Just Not Enough? 

There Will be Squabbles...

YET are we not all guilty in our own way?  Is it possible my own whistling-a-happy-tune out there could irritate...?!  My muttering, swearing, snarling, startling yelps when pottering `twixt our shrubs - might someone hear all that?

So let`s all make an effort; let`s keep jolly quiet in our gardens...

And then we can begin to think about Noisy Neighbours Indoors...  Did I mention George has bought me a bongo drum? 

We can Rebuild...

We meet beautifully synchronised at the pub. "Well," says Molly, coming to a gentle halt and checking her wrist appliance, "I`ve done four and a half million steps and burnt more calories than I`ll eat in a week."

"Yeah, me too," say I, with an understanding sigh of exhaustion.

And a suspicion that my ten-minute saunter from home used a sprout`s worth of calories in about 47 steps.

But how can I really know? If only I had one of those Personal Fitness Gadgets!

These seem hugely popular at the moment. Employers are even urging their staff to use Pedometers, Trackers and the like to monitor their fitness and Get Healthy - a healthy workforce is surely a more productive workforce. 

(I say that but speaking personally, I tend to think a happy chocolate-filled workforce is productive enough). 

It is of course sensible to be as fit as possible, and these new dazzling accoutrements are made to encourage us Excitingly - so many Styles and Colourways… so many things to count!

 

Who`d have imagined, for example, that the Fasterfitband attached to your wrist like a mere watch measures not only your steps but also heart rate, temperature and quality of sleep!  (Applied with comfy fit and superglue for round the clock efficiency).

 

Some devices connect to your PC or iphone, or  "can communicate your stats to the cloud". 
(I thought the cloud was where all your finished ebooks go – obviously there is so much more)... 

And if you haul your stats down from the cloud, they can be displayed on a screen of your choice – Bring out the pringles!

But `Wearable technology` doesn`t stop at wrists and ears – should you want your cadence measuring or your pelvic rotation, there are shorts packed with the Very
Sensors… sensors that can provide Realtime Feedback into headphones! 

(Your headphones unless otherwise indicated). 

There are also smart glasses, clever leggings, and shirts that fiendishly change colour at the surge of a hot muscle, pinpointing precisely which muscle! (That one may take some time with the less vigorous among us).

 

So you`re hurtling around, gadgets monitoring everything except whether you want to  Please STOP soon and you feel just like a Spook-spy – "this Sweatband contains a hidden transmitter; it also acts as a tracking device". 

How reassuring that HQ could transmit inspirational training songs, or instructions if you start to flag  - Lift those knees! and... Keep Lifting those knees!

 

And in case of trauma they will have the means to find you: "Come in Alpha 1!  Hang on we`ve lost him.  OK – triangulating now. There he is, in the isosceles quadrant!" 

 

(Don`t know what Triangulating is, but they did it a lot on Spooks for searching purposes). 

 

Anyway,  I got to Deep Thinking about all this thrilling stuff, and decided it would indeed be a good idea to revitalise.  And the doctor was in total agreement: 

 

 

It`s All in The Hat

"You know you can have the bumpers up, don`t you?" says the maintenance man on his way back from beyond the pins.

"No need, thank you!" say I brightly, hoping he gets hit by a twenty-pounder.

I look up at the score board defiantly. We`ve just finished our first game and out of a maximum of 300, I`ve managed to score 28.


A dazzling record of which I`m proud - no-one else has come Near!

I might point out here that we haven`t touched a bowling ball for two months… during summer school holidays the alleys are best left to zillions of gifted and hyper-excited children. (Particularly since they added LaserThwackBattleFun to the superbowl centre). (With Lasers).

Of course we four have missed the thrill; we`ve been playing together for two years now and our enthusiasm has brought us very close; though it`s usually me winning The Flaming Ball, the simple hilarity of the game means it`s always a Fun and Good-Natured test of skill.

What a delight it was to push open those gleaming doors again and enter the reception, misty-eyed as we gazed once more upon the table football tables, the virtual car rides and the YouCanBe-Rambo Experience.

Aah, those Mechanical Arm machines where you can win a ghastly Thing of Plastic (or a fluffy Meerkat for the dextrous). The place pulsates!

We go through to the lanes clutching our vouchers for a free non-alcoholic beverage at half-time... Then begins the FindaBall ritual.

George likes a Fourteen-pounder despite semi-dislocation of shoulder. Bill and Ella both take a Ten-pounder, (having gone so far as to acquire their own), and I wander despondently about the racks searching for an Eight.

Which are usually orange and taken by a child who should be back at School, or by a fleet of regulars whose championship started three minutes ago and whose aisles are lined with all the orange balls.

The first fling is Thrilling – will the ball make it all the way down the lane or will it smash into the floor and just stop three feet away; will it ricochet from bumper to bumper and finally have a touch and go tussle with one pin…

(Not that we often bumper-up of course) - we win or lose by Pure Skill.

Is it gaining this sporty new skill that makes Bowling so beam-inducing?  Yes... but there`s the camaraderie too, the gleeful collective astonishment of an actual Strike and above all, with the autumn chill drawing hordes of lunchtime spectators, nothing beats the Roar of the Crowd from the gallery.

I`m Not taking this Lying Down

"I saw that!" said George.

"It was a skim," I snarled, "A Very Delicate skim!"

We did some glaring. This New Bed doesn`t seem to be having quite the promised effect on our well-being.

Of course it`s a huge adjustment... our other had been with us for many-many decades and it really was time to phone the WeTakeAnyCrott man and wave goodbye. (Fond memories…)

Choosing the replacement was hard - so many to bounce upon and so much these days for the kind and Determined salesman to explain: fillings and toppings and memory, tension and support…

 But as soon as we spotted the Mesmeros Siren double bed with Balthasar headboard and two-drawer divan set in chocolate weave we Just Knew. (And I`m so glad we plumped for the optional Fish Tank).

It was delivered with a surprising bundle of leaflets. Modern beds, You Know, come with instructions. (or were they just for us…).

For instance, how often do You turn your mattress? I don`t think I wish to say… having read the Instructions. From now on though, we must rotate and turn the mattress Constantly to encourage upholstery fillings to settle more evenly. Sounds vaguely reasonable…

Except that they mean Every Week for the first three months, and thereafter with the change of season. The procedure (with diagrams) involves a 90 degree Turn and Flip and Repeat Turn (to other corner) and Flip-again and Breathe and Sit Down and have a nice cup of tea.

We can cope with that (in fact George finds my help superfluous). It`s with the Leaflet of Many Rules that we struggle, particularly the Do NOT Sit on the edge of the bed. Rule.

I mean, the salesman had indeed stressed the very wonder of Reinforced Edging in a mattress. It holds its shape against all mishap - never again would we find ourselves sliding unstoppably to the carpet down a slope of Weedy-edged mattress.

But it`s remarkable how hard it is not to sit on the edge of your bed. You`re wandering round the bedroom taking your shoes off… maybe changing your vest or pondering things… you naturally sit on the edge of the bed.

And how on Earth is one supposed to get in or out of bed if not with a mid-way sit?

Well, when I remember I try the old Back Flip manoeuvre but frankly, it had been a while…
 

But it turns out I can fling some fish-food in the tank at the same time – so they had thought of everything.

Now, which page was that Stop-a-Snore button on…

Scent of a Cat

Has he elegance? Has he fragrance?

Not remotely. He isn`t Mary Archer, he`s a raggy-arsed nineteen-year-old (at least 8000 in cat) who`s begun to smell like the corpses of all the tiny critters he`s despatched over the years.

Why? 

He always used to groom fastidiously and constantly; he`s still bendy and suffers no arthritic achings...  But these days he`ll have an occasional swipe of face and front paws, then go for a nice lie down.  

Naturally (isn`t it?) he`s always exuded the fumes of hell when he`s breathed on you (from your knee or from the end of the garden); now he reeketh from every pore. Most Unnaturally.

We are what we eat, it is said, and as he plunges further into decrepitude, what he eats becomes ever more unsettling.

Not for Spartapus (guess George`s favourite film) the bowl of Kitty-splatt and those treats with the meeelting centre. He`ll have Tinned Tuna in Sunflower-oil-not-Brine… maybe a couple of thin slices of Sandwich Beef or some spicy Polish Sausage…

After one minute at these delicacies, he stops shovelling and starts Yowling.  He`s not hungry - he`s The Devil.  

"Look in your bowls, evil cat" (we cry) – "you`ve got eight kinds of flesh and some of my Greek yoghurt – we have nothing else to give you!"

He stares unblinking as we sit down to tea and his message is clear: OK - I`ll have what you`re having. 

So we sacrifice chunks of our chicken and he graciously nibbles at them. Briefly.

I pander to his every whim because I feel his pain of downsizing to a tiny garden, and then of losing his twin sister last year. (Though Honestly - they were hardly speaking towards the end…). 

Anyway, if treating the eating is hopeless, can we at least cure his sulphurous aroma that is now seeping from the very walls!

The pet-shop man suggested a Dry Shampoo for wet-averse cats.  I was as thrilled as when they invented Shake n` Vac – would this work as well on the cat as it did back then on my T-shirts?  

 

Acquainted with his claws, George and I plunged positively into the fray wearing ski-gear and protective head-buckets.  Back-comb his fur, the nice man at the pet-shop had said, and rub the powder in with your fingertips. 

I gingerly waved the bottle of powder under Spartapus`s nose, expecting retaliation.  Instead he seemed to inhale, taking a moment to savour it with a look of Hmm, Not Bad...

So we showered him liberally and drily, rubbed it all over and mopped it off with a warm damp cloth.  And he looked FAB.

Had he Fragrance?

Not really.  But we`ve managed three more successful applications and we`re optimistic about the future if we stick to his treatment. 

Silly as it sounds, though, we are slightly concerned now about some kind of contagion...

The other night we popped into The Two Heads and were greeted with, "There you are - a pint and a Pinot Grigio, and - Bloody Hell! - what have you two been eating?"