Now here's an idea for a wedding.......

Anyone thinking of getting married in the near future? Well, I found this clip especially for you.

"You are so kind, you are verging on saintly," I hear you cry.

"I know. Thinking about other people is my raison d'etre." I reply, dropping my eyes to the floor and tilting my head almost imperceptibly to one side.

"So what you got?" you ask.

"The best humdinging church entrance I have ever seen at a wedding, enjoy," I repond. "And I don't think this wedding will be forgotten in a hurry......" [points remote control towards TV and presses 'play'].

Vid. No. 1 Here comes the  Bride - with a twist

Come fly with me

Right. I want to see if anyone can nominate any software which has more of a novelty factor than Google Earth.

I rediscovered it again today, and can't for the life of my fathom out why it is so enthralling looking at stuff from above..... but it is, so I thought you might like a bit of an aerial tour.

Pic.No.1 Forest Hill - the village I live in

Pic.No.2 Look! It's my house and large patch of desolate scrubland garden

Pic.No.3 Oxford City. A good place..... lots of restaurants and universities

Pic.No.3 My London house. I like it there..... no cows or sheep

Pic.No.4 Buckingham Palace. Hello Queen

Pic.No.5. Angkor Wat, Cambodia. One of my favourite holidays..... except for the spiders. They were so big you could saddle 'em. 

 

Pic.No.6.  I harbour a secret desire to visit Machu Picchu one day. Apparently you travel there by Donkey. Good job I am like Dr Doolittle when it comes to wildlife.

Well, I hope you enjoyed your tour. I bet you ten quid that you can't resist going on Google Earth after reading this!

I don't quite get the countryside

Living in the countryside is full of contradictions and surprises, as I discovered today.

I had decided to take advantage of a rare bright spot, and take Naughty George for a long drag in the fields and forests behind my cottage.

'Ah,' I thought to myself once I saw the view, 'this is why I moved to the countryside from London'.

Pic.No.1 Mud and crap everywhere

Ten metres later, I had a rapid change of heart ...... "Ugh, this is  gross, there's crap everywhere." I muttered out loud as my wellies got sucked into a rancid muddy mire, nearly pulling them off my feet, "You wouldn't have to put up with this in London. Don't they have bloody concrete round here?"

Pic.No. 2 the mud was as deadly as quicksand

After finally extricating my feet from the fetid bog, I suddenly saw a sight that warmed my heart. After a whole summer of intimidation and near-death experiences involving the cows in the locale, I spotted my antagonists incarcerated in a barn. For the first time all year, I held the bovine balance of power.

Pic.No.3 Killer cow gives me a death stare

I cautiously approached the barn (making sure they definitely could not escape), spotted the main hardcow and shouted, "Hey cow! not so brave now, are you?"

In return, I saw his expression, nay death stare (which I think I captured rather well), that chillingly combined malevolence with frustration at his inability to charge. You know, sometimes cow revenge is a long time coming, but it is always sweet.

I continued on my way, feeling the piercing eyes of the cow in my back, and took the forest path at the end of the field.

Pic.No.4 Naughty George (the black speck thing) on the forest path

The forest path runs alongside the farm behind my house, and is owned by the very same farmer who's cows have been trying to attack me all year. So imagine my surprise when I emerged from the forest to find his fields full of these.........

Pic.No.5. A massive herd of sheep have suddenly appeared in a field

Sorry to keep harping on about sheep. But where the bloody hell have they come from? One minute there were hundreds of cows in there, and the next minute, literally thousands of sheep have materialised from the ether. The change seems to be both abrupt and quite extreme. Was there some kind of flock rotation scheme going on, or had he been keeping them all in a secret location....... or maybe there was some other, more sinister explanation?

Actually I have a theory. After a feature in the news this week revealed that sheep are subversive killers (they burp methane which causes global warming), the sheep share value probably plummeted, enabling farmer's to purchase them in their thousands for relatively little outlay.

Thinking about it, it has seemed warmer in Forest Hill since their arrival............

It's so cold that the dictionary needs an additional adjective

There's nothing like a hot shower on a cold day.

Yep, you can see where this is going........ cold day, cold shower....... 'it's going to warm up soon, oh yes, come on hot water,' I muttered as goose bumps gradually started engulfing my whole body.

No such bloody luck. The shower gradually got colder and colder, resulting in my forcible ejection for the sole reason that I wanted to avoid death by hypothermia.... something that always puts a dampener on the day. In fact, I think a word should be invented to describe the feeling that you get when stepping out of a cold shower and realising that you can also see your breath in the air. Oh yeh, it was that harsh it deserved its own adjective.

'Ok,' I thought to myself once clad in three layers of clothes, 'this lack of hot water thing is going to spoil a lot of days if I don't sort it now.'

Being an Engineer, I felt quietly confident that I could resolve the problem quite quickly..... that is until I started investigating the plumbing. The house was like a bloody NASA space project (as you can probably tell, I haven't lived here long). 

Pic.No.1 Big boiler / heater type of thing with loads of pipes

Pic.No.2 Another smaller boiler / heater type thing with a control panel and more pipes

Pic.No.3 Another boiler / heater type thing with another set of controls, and yet further pipes

It has solar panels, under-floor heating, at least three boiler type things and thermostat controls in every room. Oh yeh, this thing was big and ugly, and if I added engines, it could probably land on Mars.

"So!" I hear you cry, "did you find out what was wrong?"

"Sure did sirrreeeee, my engineer's nose never lets me down!"

For those of you with a anti-technical disposition, turn away now.......... The boiler pressure had dropped to 0.5 bar when it should have been 1.5 bar, thus causing the system to lock-out. A quick top-up of the central heating system, and voila! I have got my hot water back!

Sunday lunch with the rellys

After a hectic Sunday morning where two sets of rellys arrived more or less at the same time, things calmed down a little once 'relly set A' departed for warmer climes.

"Why hello Mr and Mrs W (my nicknames for them)," I said, turning to Izzy's second set of Grandparents, "are we still up for lunch?"

"Blooming right," Mr W replied in his brummie accent, "I can't wait for a proper Sunday lunch."

"Me neither, let's shoot," I said, and with that we jumped in the car and headed to The Star in Stanton St. John.

Pic.No.1 the rellys out for lunch

I was quite excited by the prospect of lunch because Mr and Mrs W had just bought a second home in Cyprus, and I wanted to hear all about it.

"So, how's the new house?" I asked in anticipation.

"We had to spend £800 in the first two days buying the basics," Mr W said, reeling off a list which included a soldering iron and a lazer-guided circular saw.

"A soldering iron isn't a 'basic'," I pointed out.

Mrs W shook her head despairingly, "that's the least of it."

Mr W looked indignant, "but what if the neighbours need help with their electrics?"

It was with amusement that I had to agree that Mr W needed a soldering iron. He is the type of person who will actually make a roof rack rather than buy it. He can strip a car down into intsy wintsy pieces and then build it up again, which is why he drives an AC Cobra. Oh yes, a handier person you will never meet (in fact, I secretly wish that Mr and Mrs W lived in a cottage at the bottom of my garden).

Pic. No. 2 I had to include this picture of me because Clare thinks that I am never actually there (that's cos I am normally taking the pics you numpty!)

After a very pleasant lunch, everyone came back to my cottage to indulge in copious amounts of coffee. I even lit the newly-cleaned fire to make the house cosy.   

Pic.No.3 Mr and Mrs W chilling with Naughty George

So all in all, I had a lovely weekend.... but unfortunately, the cobwebs or housework hasn't been touched. Miss Havisham rocks!

Relly Mayhem

'Ahhhhh........ nothing like a quiet Sunday in,' I thought to myself when I got up on Sunday morning.

At long last, I had loads of time to get the jobs done that kept getting pushed aside during the week. Plus I was starting to tire of the increasing number of people who were referring to me as Miss Havisham.... I mean really, Miss Havisham used to wear a wedding dress...... me + wedding dress ......... nah, I would rather spend the money on a new car.


So there I was, still in my night attire, and covered in soot from cleaning the fire grate, when the door knocker sounded. I glanced at the clock, and noted that it was only 10.30am - who on earth could it be?

I opened the door and there stood my Father and Wicked Step Mama (aka WSM).

"Bloody hell!" I exclaimed, "what are you doing here? I didn't even know you were in the country."

"Errmmm, hi," they said, looking me up and down with appalled expressions. "Sorry to have caught you unawares," they added, as I became conscious of the fact that I looked like a chimney sweep.

"Oh ignore this," I said gesticulating at the coal-dust that enveloped my being, "I just had a good night out last night," I asided, trying to make it look a bit more rock-and-roll.

"Looks like it," they recoiled.

"Hey, just help yourself to coffee whilst I jump in the shower," I replied, becoming increasingly self-conscious.

Ten minutes later, I rejoined the rellys in the kitchen and was catching up on the news, when the door knocker went again. Sacre Bleu! It was set of rellys number two (these were expected, though early). The house quickly descended into chaos, helped to a large extent by Naughty George woofing continuously (and vacuously) at everyone and everything.

"Ok, would everyone like to take a seat?" I shouted above the din.

"No, we are off now," hollered Father. "We just stopped by to drop off your Christmas present," he added as WSM entered the kitchen with the most eye-watering, enormous hamper I have ever seen.

"Flippin 'ek, that's amazing," I declared, as WSM piled all the goodies that wouldn't fit into the hamper, into the fridge.

Pic.No.1 My Christmas Hamper - you can just make out the champers on the right hand side dahlink

I said goodbye to Father and WSM and then went back to the hamper to explore. Oh yes, I am one lucky, lucky girl. It was filled with every luxury item of food you could ever desire.......... [note to self: buy some of those dieting pills from Boots].

Thank you chaps!

The social life of a four year old

Crikey, it's a hard life for four year olds these days. Not only do they have school and post-school activities, but they also seem to have a manage-by-the minute social diary.

This weekend, I had Izzy's Saturday morning blocked out for her fourth party in two weeks.

"Izzy, your social life is verging on hedonisitic," I exclaimed, putting on her must-have mini Ugg boots.

"I know," she answered blithely. "I want my Next fake fur jacket too," she added, turning to the side as she looked at herself in the mirror. 

"Blimey, it wasn't like this in my day," I muttered under my breath, 'we were lucky to be clothed in sackcloth.'

So, at 10.30am, I arrived at the Whizz Kidz venue in Thame, and spotted a big climbing frame clad with rope mesh and containing slides, swings and ballpits within.

'Aaah!' I thought to myself when I saw it. 'From prior experience, I know that you can slot a child in a hole in the side, and they don't pop out again for two hours. Marvellous.'

I duly picked up Izzy, popped her through a hole in the mesh and then went to meet my friend Sam, who had the misfortune to be running the show.

"Hiya Sam!" I shouted, spotting her across the room.

"Oh hi, you made it." she said.

"Yeh I did, but I completely forgot to buy Honey [her daughter] a birthday present," I added.

"You are majorly crap," Sam replied.

"Yep, can't complain about that," I added. "To get me off the hook, I was just going to bring a tag, and stick it on a present that someone else had bought."

"Why didn't you? Attack of the morals?" Sam asked.

"No, I didn't have a tag......." I answered dejectedly.

"Oh well.... fancy a coffee?" Sam replied. And so we sat and quaffed coffee, watching with amusement the child-induced devastation of the surrounding area.

Pic.No.1 Honey's birthday cake

Pic.No.2. Sophie and Izzy delicately nibble jam sandwiches

Pic.No.3. Honey is sooooooo going to be a papparazzi photographer when she grows up

Party over, I thanked Sam, and headed home for what was promising to be a nice quiet weekend where I could catch up on the mayhem of the week........ bliss.

Long lunch on a Friday? That's just reckless

What is a girl to do? That was the dilemma I faced yesterday. On the one hand, I could take the sensible option and spend the day working on non-disclosure contracts. On the other, I could kick the contracts to the kerb (as the contestants eloquently holler on the Jeremy Kyle show), and go out for an unexpected lunch.

Ummmmm..... I contemplated the downside of going for lunch; the contracts need doing, and the lunch would be with a northerner. And the upside? Well I hadn't eaten out for at least four days, especially not at a gastropub, so I was left with no option but ....... bye bye contracts, I'm outta here. 

 Pic.No.1 The Bat and Ball at Cuddesdon

I pulled into the carpark of the Bat and Ball in Cuddesdon, characteristically late, only to find that my fellow luncher hadn't yet arrived. So I waited in the car and indulged in a spot of I-phone online poker.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone beeped the arrival of a text; "I know you're always late, but where are you?"

"In the car park, where are you?" I replied after five minutes of grappling with predictive texting.

"In the restaurant waiting for you as we arranged.....stay where you are, I'll come and get you, muppet."

And so I was escorted into the restaurant of the Bat and Ball to avoid any further mishap involving me being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Pic.No.2. A festive pepper pot inside the Bat and Ball 

Pic.No. 3. The walls of the Bat and Ball are awash with cricketing stuff

After studying the extensive menu, I eventually ordered 'chicken with cranberry and mushroom stuffing', whilst my fellow diner, being a northerner, ordered the game pie, probably because it had pigeons in it.

Northerners bloody love pigeons. But why? Most likely due to the low-level (and cheap) versatility of the bird; (1) You can use them for sport (homing / racing pigeons); and (2) they are cheap scoff - you can just go down to the town centre, pick off the weakest of the flock (the ones with the gammy legs) and voila! a cheap meal for the whole family.

"Eh up. you need to try pigeon before you condemn it," aforementioned northerner said, pushing a rubbery chunk of manky bird onto my plate.

"Nope". I said, ejecting the object of protest from my plate, and delicately pushing a cranberry onto my fork.

"You've been living down south too long," he said disapprovingly, reclaiming the meat and subsequently chewing on it for in excess of five minutes.

"Maybe..........." I said, swallowing another cranberry.

Anyway, despite the pigeon scare, I have to say that lunch was very pleasant, if not a little decadent for a Friday.

Pic.No.4 Ooh. Lovely. Free mints at the end

P.S. I know it's obvious that I am dripping class, but just to clarify; I don't ever watch the Jeremy Kyle show, and have no interest in the results of the DNA tests and the subsequent altercations. Nor do I read The Sun. That's for the proles dahlink.

This sheep thing is catching on...

Just when I thought that sheep were tired of being 'out there' and were blending into the background, Clare Jones sent me this superb which demonstrates exactly how subversive sheep are becoming.Oh yes, the devious little critters are now morphing themselves into goats in an attempt to gain world domination.

Vid. No. 1. Scientists develop a sheep with the brain of a goat

Now, if I didn't live in Oxfordshire, surrounded by vicious farmyard animals, I would have thought that it was a spoof. Watch carefully and be afraid, very afraid.

Help! I am being stalked by birds

Sacre bleu! It has been a wildlife fest this week. Not only do we have recurring sheep stories, but I am fearful to announce (in case they hear me), that I am being stalked by a gang of starlings. Oh hang on a minute, someone has just dug me in the ribs.......... apparently starlings don't hang around in gangs, they hang around in murmurations.

Blimey, a murmuration of starlings....... that beats my previous longest word, marmalade.

Anyway, back to being stalked. I was in the garden, innocently emptying a jar of out-of-date pickled onions onto my compost heap when I heard the noise. It started quietly at first and then became a deafening cacophony of tweets. I looked up, aghast to see tens of thousands of starlings swooping and diving [note to self: where is the umbrella when you need it?]

Vid.No.l Feathery Dambusters

I ran for my life, diving into the kitchen and did a forward roll to add some gravitas to the situation. After grabbing the first recording device that came to hand (unfotunately it was my phone so the video quality wasn't the best), I captured the airborne assault on camera. 

"So what now?" I hear you cry.

Well, millions of the suckers are sat outside in the tree waiting to attack, and I am housebound, fearful for my life. I mean, if they are vicious enough to mug a squirrel, what will be my fate?

Pic. No. 1. Starlings mugging a squirrel

Vid.No. 2 A bunch of starlings stalking me

I read on the BBC newsite that starlings are now red-listed as an endangered species. Crikey, if starlings are endangered, I wouldn't like to see what happens if they become rife.......... I am writing this post under the desk, with all the doors and windows double-locked to defend myself from the feathery fiends. It's like a scene from a Hitchcock movie. Please pray I make it out alive.

Silence of the lambs

Am I missing something? Is it National Sheep Week or something? Not only did a sheep grab the headlines earlier this week when it was pushed into a supermarket in a shopping trolley, but the attention-seeking ruminators are at it again. Yep, they seem to be becoming the woolly equivalent of Paris Hilton (except more intelligent).

Pic.No. 1 A picture of a sheep burping - Don't do it sheep! you are slowly killing us all!

So what tomfoolery have our ovine friends been up to today? Well quite simply, the little critters have been burping.

Oh yes, you read right. Scientists in Australia and New Zealand (where they are positively obsessed by sheep, as my friend Phil Moore will verify) have discovered that 66% of agricultural emissions of methane come from sheep burping.

Given the fact that methane is far worse for global warming than carbon dioxide, it means that sheep are subversively killing us all.

Pic.No.2. Don't be fooled by their blank expressions

Luckily, the scientists have cottoned onto the fact that sheep aren't as innocent as they look, and are going to genetically modify them all so that they burp less. Ha ha sheep! get out of that one without moving........

Gotta go, I am starting to feel hungry with all this talk about sheep.

I've been fleeced by Marks and Spencer

Ok. I cocked up BIG time. It's the first of December and Izzy didn't have an advent calendar with chocolates in.

After the trauma of being at her Dad's and opening an advent calender that only contained biblical pictures ("that is totally rubbish!" she exclaimed), she stomped into my house with high expectations.

"Ermmmm, your advent calendar is being delivered later today," I lied explained after a Spanish inquisition on the way to school. With Izzy safely deposited in her classroom, I got back into the car muttering under my breath, "bloody hell, this is the last thing I need."

Yep, I already had a busy day scheduled with my lawyer, sorting out the details of my Secret Squirrel X patent. But hey, that's the joy of children.

After spending a rather intense afternoon discussing contracts, patent law, non-disclosure-agreements and collaboration legalities, I left the lawyer's office feeling as though my CPU had malfunctioned. And then I remembered....... OMG. The bloody advent calender........ Tesco..... it's gotta be a dead cert.

After trawling the aisles of Tesco for forty bloody minutes, I only managed to find one advent calendar, and it was a Hannah Montana calendar without a single reference to Christmas anywhere on it. No way was I buying that sucker. I am not particularly religious, but I bitterly detest gratuitous commercialism.

After phoning a friend in desparation, Marks and Spencer was suggested as a possible haven of advent calendars, and so I hotfooted it there post-haste.

You can only imagine my relief when I rugby tackled a little old lady to the ground to get my hands on the last remaining chocolate advent calender with Christmassy pictures on it. Mission accomplished! Izzy will be sooooo pleased.

I queued up at the checkout, and a pleasant chap called 'In Training' scanned the calendar and said smilingly, "that'll be £9.99 please."

"You what?" I exclaimed, "I hope for that price, it gives her a chocolate a day up until Christmas 2010!"

"Sorry, no. It's just for this Christmas," the young man politely replied, prising the ten pound note from my cold, clammy grasp.

Pic. No. 1 Izzy's advent calendar with chocolates in it, and Christmassy pictures

So, after the trauma of the great advent calendar hunt, I de-dishevelled myself, regained my compusure, and picked Izzy up from school. Back at home, the moment of truth arrived; I formally unveiled the chocolate-dispensing, pop-out christmas tree and snowman advent calendar [the bloody thing was more expensive than a week's school dinners - I feel like I've been mugged].

"What do you think?" I asked excitedly.

"It's fine." she replied, "can I eat the first chocolate?"

Being a parent is sooooo rewarding.

It's bloody freezing

I always find it incomprehensible how the seasons change with absolute precision timing. The point in case is this morning. It is the 1st December, and I woke up to this.....................

 Pic.No.1. Why am I showing you a picture of my patio table?

Ummmmm....... maybe you can't quite see it in the photograph above, so here is a subtle hint..........

Pic.No.2. The first frost of the year

I know! it's amazing. On the very first day of winter, the very first frost of the year materialises. Unfortunately for me, I live in a cottage that was built in 1646, and not only is it wonky all over, but it is the draftiest, waftiest house on the planet. The cold comes in through the old casement windows, down the open fireplaces,  up from the cellar, and under all the skewiff latch doors.

After nearly perishing from hypothermia ("I'm going to the kettle, I may be sometime," as Scott of the antartic said) trying to make it from the stairs to kitchen, I decided to try and turn the heating up on the boiler.

The boiler did not divulge its secrets readily, and after staring at the only two icons (one of a suitcase, and the other of a child's safety gate - what does that mean?) intently for 15 minutes in the hope of divine intervention, I finally gave up.

So I write this posting with two pairs of socks on, a poloneck jumper, sweater and a body warmer.

Pic.No. 3 At least my Cylamens look remarkably unperturbed by the chill

Please, please, does anyone know anything about central heating? I beg you, please rescue me from this inhospitable clime!

Is it me?

I stopped off to pick up my daughter (Izzy), from her father's house, and as I entered the living room, was confronted with a bizarre sight against a backdrop of much merriment.

Pic. No. 1 Izzy dressing up

"What on earth is she wearing?" I asked incredulously.

"She is Iz-Qaeda," he replied proudly.

"Oooookaaaayyyy......." I replied slowly, " is it wise dressing a four year old up to look like a member of a fundamentalist terror organisation?" 

"Sure it is," he answered brightly, "it keeps her in touch with current affairs."

"Errrrmmmmm - she is only four.......," I added.

"You can never start them too young," he said proudly. I shook my head in despair, but couldn't deny the fact that Izzy seemed to be having a great time with her fancy dress and toy chainsaw.

What is one to do??! Is it me?

It's weekend! Let's go for something to eat

Eh up! I am being beseiged by bloody northern types. Last weekend I had Sarah from Leeds, and this weekend an old chum from university, Andy 'Poops' Cooper (say his middle name - assigned by me - and his surname quickly) came to visit.

Actually, he is what is termed a 'plastic southerner' (like me) in that he hails from Ilkley, Yorkshire, but lives in Bristol. 'Plastic southerner' is the name northern people give to traitors who have moved down south after finally being worn down by the continual rain, lack of starbucks, and surviving on black pudding and pie sandwiches [oh yes, they really do].

 

Andy turned up on his motorbike at about 4pm, and slithered his way down the grassy slope in my garden until he reached the garage.

"Hi ug!" I hollered to him as he grappled with his motorbike helmet.

"Alright, how you doing?" he shouted, before realising that he was shouting because he still had his earplugs in.

"Great," I replied, "I thought we might go out for dinner with Izzy, and I've invited Steve too."

And so two things of significance to this blog happened; (1) we set off for Pizza Express Oxford; and (2) whilst a passenger in the back, I rediscovered the 'video' function on my camera...... yippee! So instead of normal photographs, I have got some short videos.

Pic.No. 1 An arty pic of Anne Dickens behind a flower

Vid. No. 1. In order (from right to left) Izzy, Steve, Andy

After a while the conversation turned to speeding fines.

"I have been nabbed 3 times in the last two years," Steve said after hearing that I got a speeding fine yesterday, "that after driving for over twenty years with nothing on my license."

"Maybe you have been driving three times more dangerously in the last two years?" I suggested, tongue in cheek.

Everyone laughed, "yeh, it's nothing to do with generating revenue," Poops added.

"When I send off the paperwork for my fines, I address it to 'The Fleecing Department'," Steve added pragmatically.

Anyway, I am going to save my rant over speeding fines for another time and take you back to Pizza Express where everyone had just finished their meal.

"Let's go!" I said and we stepped outside to find that it had started raining......... heavily.

Vid. No. 2. Rain and the Christmas Decorations outside Pizza Express, Oxford


Vid. No. 3. Rain on High Streeet, Oxford

Cooper and I arrived back at my house, wet and cold because of the gales accompanying the rain.

"'Ere, light the fire will you?" I asked him.

And so Andy made like a boy scout and lit the living room fire, much to the contentment of Naughty George.

Vid.No.4. Naughty George lies down in front of the fire

Then Cooper turned to me, "Can you stop taking pictures of me, I feel as though I am being pursued by the paparazzi."

"They are for my blog," I said, "and you are one of those people where you need to take 100s of photographs to get one good one."

"Just don't put a picture of me in the blog then," replied Cooper.

"That's not very interesting for the readers," I replied, making a video of him camera-dodging.

Vid. No. 5. Andy lobs a cushion at me to try and stop me filming........ it works

Finally, the excitement of the video function wore off, either that or the battery ran out, I can't remember. But for the first time all evening, Cooper was free from the prying eye of the lens!

Fancy a tipple anyone?

I found this video on a great blog called Brummie Blogs, and it really made me chuckle, so it would be just downright rude not to share it with you..... enjoy!

Video. No. 1. The drunkest man in history

This is just the weirdest

I was reading the BBC new website when I noticed an unusual headline.

"Live sheep wheeled into Asda shop"

Pic. No. 1 CCTV of the sheep in the shopping trolley

What on earth was going through their minds?

Imagine Youth A on a day out to Gravesend, Kent. He's had a few beers and is getting a little excitable with his mate, Youth B, whilst on the way back to the car. They pass a field full of sheep.

Youth A, "'ere, fancy a laff? You wanna nick a sheep innit?"

Youth B, "you know, you is crazy dude, I'm wiv ya like."

Poor defenseless animal is then chased around field before being captured and shoehorned into the back of an pimped up Ford Escort with peeling privacy glass, over-specced exhaust, and ridiculously shiney low profile tyres.

Youth A and Youth B, arrive back in South London after a 22 mile ride, still laughing about their woolly escapades.

"Dude, that was well rude," Youth B laughs.

"What shall we do wiv it now?" Youth A asks, his laughing slowing at the same rate that his realisation increased - he couldn't leave it in the boot forever.

Youth B stops laughing and they both ponder long and hard about the sheep's fate.

"Sorted dude!" Youth B shouts out, "we need to take it where there are other sheep."

"We is in London, there is no sheep," Youth A replied.

"Oh yeh there is, der is sum in Asda," said Youth B.

"But surely them sheep are dead and cling wrapped.......... "Youth A

"Got any better ideas?" asked Youth B, shrugging his shoulders.

And so the poor animal bizarrely ended up, standing in a shopping trolley in an Asda foyer........ thankfully unharmed. They do say the British have a very odd sense of humour.......

Secret Squirrel

To keep myself entertained throughout the long pluvial days, I have started two new business ventures which are, unfortunately, so top secret, that if I told you what they are, I would have to kill you.

In fact, they are so covert, that I have codenamed them 'Secret Squirrel X' and 'Secret Squirrel Y'.

 Pic. No. 1 My new business ventures

Working on projects with codenames has given me an unique insight into why the Army call their missions things like 'Operation Mislay' instead of 'Operation find Osama Bin Laden and his WMD.' It's because codenames are cooler than simply saying what you intend to do, and add more gravitas to the situation.

So, in line with my new surreptitious projects, I have started referring to myself as Agent Dickens, and have taken to carrying a water pistol in my inside pocket. I also do a forward roll everytime I enter my front door...... not quite sure why, but I have seen them do it on CSI Miami.

Pic. No. 2 Agent Dickens, commander of Operation Secret Squirrel 'X' and 'Y'

Anyway, I really need to go and start work.

I have blatantly written this posting because I have got to a hard bit of the project where I need to talk to my lawyer about patents. Coincidentally, I have also suddenly found at least another 1000 'work avoidance' matters that need my urgent attention before I can address the contracts for Secret Squirrel 'X' and 'Y'.

So I am just off to clear the leaves from my front flower bed...........!

Lunch at mine dahlinks?

After a hard day at the Ashmolean Museum on Saturday (I was dragging around a hungover Sarah, who punctuated our arrival at each new artefact with the comment, "eh up, I can't belive I feel this rough"), I decided that it would be rather nice to have a chilled Sunday at my house with that great British institution thrown in - a roast dinner. And with that in mind, I called Steve and Izzy and asked them to join Sarah and I for lunch.

"Is it free?" Steve asked when he answered the phone. "Yes, as long as you bring some broccoli," I replied.

And so the gathering formed in my kitchen, including Naughty George, who had remained in situ next to the oven for at least an hour before that, in anticipation of the imminent roast chicken.

 Pic. No. 1. Naughty George rooted in position next to the oven. What a git.

"Would you like a hand?" Steve and Sarah asked simultaneously.

"Ummm, yes please," I replied, handing over all the vegetables, could you peel those?"

And with that I learned a valuable lesson about guests. If you feed guests small but regular jobs, they are more than pleased to help, and the net result was that I was left with two meagre tasks: putting the chicken in the oven and making a decent gravy.... boyaaaaakkkasha!

Pic. No. 2. Lunch is served, please take your places

"Lunch is ready!" I shouted, putting the dishes on the table, and listening to the ensuing babble of, "oooh this looks lovely."

"Flavour anyone?" I asked, holding up the salt pot.

"Yes please," everyone exclaimed simultaneously.

Pic. No. 3. Little Izzy. She always eats the vegetables first. I am not sure if this lack of vitamin-aversion is normal amongst youngsters

Pic. No. 4. The great British roast dinner

And so we whiled away the afternoon eating like Romans (except that no-one threw up so that they could fit more food in), and chatting about life in general.

Once done, Sarah stood up and looked at me, "you sit down, you've worked hard on this lunch. Steve and I will wash up."

BACK OF THE NET! I couldn't believe my luck, I had just scored a double whammy.

Unwittingly, I had created a scene full of subterfuge and artifice. I had managed to make putting a chicken in the oven and whipping up a gravy seem like a monumental task, thus relieving myself of any further kitchen chores. [note to self; this is a skill well worth developing].

With lunch over, I said goodbye to everyone, and went to read a book in front of the fire.

Bring on the Ashmolean

After spending the weekend in Leeds with Sarah, I decided to reciprocate the favour by telephoning her with the intent of inviting her to Oxford this weekend.

"Oi. You like culture don't you?" I queried when Sarah picked up the phone. "How about you come to Oxford this weekend and we visit the newly refurbished Ashmolean Museum?" [The Ashmolean Museum originally opened in 1643. Interesting fact; that is 3 years before my house was built.]

"Yeh, that sounds good," replied Sarah, "I'll aim to arrive on Friday night."

Sarah duly arrived on Friday night after a hellish journey on the motorway, and had two glasses of wine to chill out. Needless to say, she awoke on Saturday morning with a killer hangover. 

"You are a bloody wuss with bells on," I commented after plying her with aspirin and a light pasta lunch, "do you still want to go to the museum?"

"Yeh," she replied, " I think I will be able to cope now the sickness has gone."

So after a short ten minute journey, a grey-looking Sarah and I arrived at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford city centre.

Pic. No. 1. The front of the Ashmolean Museum

Pic. No. 2. One of the thousands, nay millions of display cases containing ancient pots

After venturing into the first few halls I began to notice a recurring theme.

"Oi, Sarah," I asked, "Have you noticed that virtually the only surviving artefacts from every era in history seem to be plates and pots? They all look the same."

Sarah sighed before replying, "the pots give us an insight into how the ancient people lived."

"Ok," I acquiesced, "but just say, for example, that some of my pots were unearthed in a thousand years time. Would the archeologists be displaying my mug entitled 'world's best mum' in a museum like this?" and on a roll, I added, "and would they name it 'The Ikea period'?"

Despite the validity of my questions, Sarah sighed and ventured off into the next hall, whilst I vowed to try and seek out alternative interests, other than pots.

Pic. No. 3 Serious historians and architects admiring the wonder of the Ashmolean

Then all of a sudden...... BINGO........... I found some artefacts that weren't pots........

Pic. No. 4. A stone lion thing catches a glimpse of Sarah

Pic. No. 4. A stone lady catches a glimpse of Sarah

One thing I learned about ancient civilisations after studying the statues........... most of the antediluvian people didn't have noses, which allows us to draw parallels with modern society, in particular Kerry Katona. 

Pic. No. 5 Some statues doing the 'okey cokey'

Pic. No. 6. An interior view of the Ashmolean Museum with lots of people looking intelligent

A consistent theme in the museum was people 'interpreting' either the art or the architecture. I overheard someone say; "the use of glass not only gives a sense of space but draws you into each exhibition hall." There was me thinking that the glass was there because it was cheaper than bricks.

Pic. No. 7. An ancient pig / cow type thing with something on its nose

Pic. No. 8. An ancient bloke punching the air with no hand

 

Pic. No. 9. An ancient painting of Oxford in the olden days

Pic. No. 10. Me looking through a hole in a sculpture ..... most definitely not ancient

Then, being a bit of an art lover, I saw something that excited me............ "Sarah, look! Installation art!" I shouted pointing out the sculpture I had just noticed.

Pic. No. 11. Installation Art

Sarah looked at me derisively, "we are in an unused exhibition hall. They are just superfluous fire extinguishers," she said shaking her head.... Oops.

"Shall we go?" asked Sarah wearily, leading me out of the museum.

Pic. No. 12 Anne Dickens in the rain outside of one of the Oxford University colleges

Now I have to point out that Sarah is a bit of a photographer, and whilst on our way back to the car she took several 'arty shots' which I have included for your benefit.

Pic. No. 13. Arty shot of a bike leaning on a wall

Pic. No. 14 Arty shot of a telephone box

Pic. No. 15 Arty shot of a bloke on a bike

Blimey, this has been the worlds longest posting. I have got blisters on the end of my fingers and my CPU is malfunctioning........ time for a reboot. See you later.

The psychology of desks........I reckon there's something in it

Following three days in Leeds, and after resorting to cruising the streets in order to try and find an unsecured wi-fi signal that I could pick-up, I finally gave in and returned to Sarah's house.

Pic. No. 1. This is where Sarah sits and reads all the time

"What the bloody hell do you do with yourself all day with no internet access?" I asked her incredulously.

"Read books," she replied, not even looking up from the aformentioned article that was lightly clasped in her left hand.

"Oh my god, that's horrible," I replied, my jaw dropping. 

Sarah sighed, and then her eyes widened, "actually, I think I do have internet access........"

"You think you have internet access?" disbelieving that someone could demonstrate ambiguity about something so consquential.

"Yep. I have a computer in my study, and I am fairly sure that it connects to the interweb," she replied, blatantly trying to get rid of me so that she could return her attention to the rainforest-killer in her hand.

But before she could finish her sentence........ I was gone and pushing open the 'study' door. My sights were on the computer. I fired it up and waited with bated breath until that little grey rotating Skype icon with a cross in the middle, suddenly turned into a green tick.

"Yippee! I'm in!" I thought excitedly, sitting down at the desk, and slowly, but surely becoming aware of my surroundings....... "Oh my God! It's mayhem in here!" I muttered to myself in shock. 

Pic. No. 1 Sarah's study with an agglomeration of crap everywhere

After wading through a chaotic pile of paperwork, what appeared to be ancient artifacts, old photographs and folders, I finally found my tools-of-choice; A mouse, a pen and a post-it note. Keeping the mouse close to my chest, lest it should be lost, I scribbled on a post-it note; "It's a bloody crap hole in here," and stuck it to her monitor.

Then it got me thinking......... do people's houses (in particular their desks), demonstrate an individual's personality?

Pic. No. 2. My desk at home

Actually, I think it does, so I want to encourage people to send me photographs of their desks so that I can undertake psychological analysis of them ........... 

I will have a practice with these two desks first:

Sarah's desk: This desk indicates that the owner puts living life above the practicalities of life. Hedonism scores more highly than organisation. Probably prone to daydreaming, this deskowner may keep on top of day to day tasks but fails to be proactive in other elements of life such as putting together effective investment plans. It is also likely that she has a good looking friend. 

Anne's desk: The lack of anything at all on the desk indicates that this person is highly organised, and probably suffering from OCD. The desk owner is likely to be incredibly good looking and a dog lover dog hater, maybe possessing an annoying dog. This person capitalises on her love of communicating with people by making the computer the focus of her desk. 

PLEASE send me pictures of your desk .............I am getting really into this....! and I will try to see if I can guess your personality...Email me a picture of your desk by clicking here

A day exploring 'Up North'. Blimey it's cold

Whilst in Leeds, I had an unexpected day off, so I decided to make the most of it.

But what is one to do in Leeds with a full day to kill, other than eat kebabs or worry sheep? Despairing at these limited options, I decided to google it.

"What can I do in North Yorkshire other than eat kebabs or worry sheep?" I typed into Google. Unfortunately, the search results came up with; "Not a sheep: Fancy a kebab?", a blog quite clearly written by a nutter. I refined my search a little and "things to do near Leeds" came up trumps. Yep a trip to Haworth it was going to be.Click here to have a sneaky preview.

"Haworth!" I hear you cry, "what is so good about Haworth?"

Why, my little love muffins, Haworth is the home of the quintessential English authoresses, the Bronte sisters.

And so commenceth a picture journey of my trip to Haworth.

Pic. No. 1. A picture of the Leeds streets. There has been a refuse collection strike on for the last nine weeks so there are bins everywhere. Dirty devils.

That actually reminds me of a news article I read lately. Apparently a new species of rat has been found in Papua New Guinea and it is 10ft long. Given that in the UK, statistics show that you are never further than 10ft from a rat, if this species was introduced would we be permanently touching a rat?

Sorry, I digress. Back to the journey to Haworth, because the 'Guardian travel' website promised spectacular scenery.

Pic. No. 2 The Leeds Football club ground ..... hardly spectacular

Pic. No. 3. A mill. Everyone up North either works in a mill or down the pits. But in terms of scenery, we seem to be deteriorating

Then all of a sudden, I took a left turn, disencumbered myself from the city, and coasted into the North Yorkshire countryside. Oh yes, it was starting to look good (apart from the fact that my ears had popped because of the altitude, and the clutch on my car was starting to heat up after all the hill-starts at the Bradford traffic lights).

Pic. No. 4. The left turn that took me into the North Yorkshire countryside

Pic. No. 4. A viaduct spans two hills which are bigger in real life than they look in the picture

Pic. No. 5. The Bronte Parsonage Museum sign

Pic. No. 6. The Parsonage where the Bronte sisters lived and wrote

The parsonage was ace (particularly as the Brontes' are my favourite authors) and after a cultural tour of the building, it became fairly obvious that the sisters weren't lookers, even though they could spin a good yarn, quite simply because no one had wanted to marry them. Plus they had to pretend to be men in order to get their novels published, and to add insult to injury, they all died young, leaving pops on his own. That's the 1840's for you..... and there was me fretting that Dominos Pizza don't deliver to my postcode.

The next leg of my journey took me to the North Yorkshire Moors which is a barren landscape woven into many of the Bronte sisters' novels.

Pic. No. 7. The bleak North Yorkshire moors

After experiencing the moors, it became quite clear that the only organisms able to survive the inhospitable environment are sheep. Not only that, they appeared quite unperturbed about the fact that raging winds were whipping around their spindly legs. Hey sheep..... you have my respect, even though I suspect that your resilience to the conditions is probably related to stupidity.

Vid. No. 1. Even better! a video of the North Yorkshire moors that inspired the Bronte sisters. Listen how to how windy it was.... it would have blown a squirrel off its perch if there were any trees ........or squirrels

Finally, my trip took me to a country park named after the village at its heart - Wycoller. Wycoller boasts the ruins of an old hall which apparently inspired Charlotte Bronte's 'Ferndean Manor' in her novel, Jane Eyre.

Pic. No. 8. Wycoller Hall (in ruins) with a stream winding around it

Pic. No. 9. The Pack Horse Bridge at Wycoller dates back 800 years and originally served the wool weavers who needed to cross the river

Pic.No. 10. Blimey, look at how worn the bridge is. Either the wool weavers were fat, or a lot of them used the bridge

 Finally, my North Yorkshire tour came to an end, but not before I encountered some cows. Now, as you probably remember, I don't have fond memories of cows after my experiences with them in Oxford.

Luckily billy bovine was situated at the other end of a cattle grid which meant that I could capture his menancing stare on cellulite without being charged.

Pic. No. 11. A killer cow frustrated by a cattle grid

I pointed my camera, and shouted, "Woo hoo........ hello cow......... what you gonna do about it?"

Unfortunately, I hadn't noticed a car pull up beside me with a rather posh lady asking, "excuse me, are you lost?"

"Errrmmm, no, just undertaking a geographical study of the area," I replied hastily, pushing my camera into my pocket.

And so endeth my cultural tour of 'Bronte Country'.

A night out in Leeds

Shortly after arriving in Leeds, Sarah piped up, "do you fancy going out for something to eat?"

"Yep," I replied, "but I thought you only had pie shops up north?"

"Well actually, the concept of restaurants has started to reach us," she replied drily, "what do you fancy to eat?"

"Indian." I replied, throwing down the gauntlet.

"No problem," she said, and so we set off in the car. After a 10 minute drive we pulled up outside a stylish looking restaurant called the Aagrah.

Pic. No. 1. The Aagrah Restaurant

The restaurant specialised in Kashmiri food, and the menu clearly showed that the chefs weren't afraid to venture beyond the old favourites like Chicken Tikka Masala.

"Blimey," I shouted, waving the menu excitedly, " I could eat everything on here - as long as its got a face."

"Told you that we can do culture up North," Sarah replied.

Pic. No. 2. Sarah in the Aagrah - Nokia 8800 Arte's just don't take good night shots

I settled for a new dish that I hadn't tried before, called Murgh Achar and I the conclusion was - excellent.

Pic. No. 3. Me looking all grainy, yet still managing to carry off a windswept and interesting look

So if you are up North (there are many branches of the Aagrah), do try and visit. The ambiance, food and service are all spot on. I only wish they had restaurants down south!

Losing the plot

Eh up. Well here I am in Leeds, nibbling on a pigeon pie and wearing a flat cap, and I have just realised that I have left all my cables at home so that I can't upload any photographs for you.

Bloody typical.

Pic. No. 1. For the US readers who don't know why I have referenced a 'flat cap' I have included this picture to show you what UK northerners look like

As if that wasn't bad enough, I decided to have a shower before my friend called "our Sarah" [everyone's name is prefixed with 'our' when you are in the north] and I went out for dinner.

I was about to get out of the shower, I realised that I had left the towels in a different room, necessitating an unclad, and sodden dash to the bedroom. It wouldn't be so bad but I did the same thing yesterday at home...... ummmmmm...... I think my mind is in need of a reboot.

Best dash, got things to do...... like figure out why my mobile has stopped working.

I am being battered by gales now....... unbelievable

There I was, whining about the British weather, and thinking things couldn't get any worse.

With persistent rain forecast, and my only form of protection from the elements being a sun-shade that I bought in Hong Kong [which also kept randomly collapsing, engulfing my head like a venus fly trap].

Vid. No. 1 Things did get worse.......... a lot worse

I awoke on Saturday morning to the sound of the wind whistling around my cottage, and the rain lashing on the windows.

"Bloody brilliant,"  I thought, opening the curtains to find my garden strewn with leaves, branches and the contents of my recycling bin which had been blown over by the gales.

Have you ever watched those Game Shows in which the contestants go into a transparent box and have to try and grab money that is being blown around them?

Well imagine me in my garden undertaking a similar activity, except that my reward was plastic bottles, empty yoghurt pots and carrier bags. It is truly pants living in the UK sometimes.

Vid. No. 2. Can you hear the wind whistling around my study?

After securing my righted recycling bin with a number of bricks, I went inside to contemplate my next move. There was only one course of action. Lock all windows and doors and light a fire..... and it was quite a cosy evening.

I am off to Leeds in a minute to visit my chum Sarah, so hopefully my next post will be reporting how grim it is up north!

Look! I have got a new blog design

So whaddya think? like it or no?

I didn't like the old design one bit, but given that I possess the artistic ability of a pea [oh yeh, this girl is an engineer through and through], I just tolerated it. 

Pic.No.1. The old blog design

My friend was supposed to be visiting this weekend but had to cancel, so with an unexpected empty day in front of me, I looked at the old brown / grey colour scheme and thought, "is that really the best I can come up with?"

After pondering the question for a while, I decided that yes, that was the best I could come up with.

That left me with a bit of a dilemma. What do you do if you are faced with an design challenge, but remain steadfastly talentless in the design department?

After my second ponderation, I decided that there was only one course of action. Yep, I needed to nick someone else's design, and as luck would have it, I remembered reading about nickable blog designs on a blog called Kevin and Amanda.

BINGO! It was the perfect place for the artistically challenged, and after an hour or so of finding out how it all worked, my new blog emerged from its chrysalis like a binary butterfly.

If you like the design and fancy a similar one, I think it is only fair that I include links to the designers:

Allie Brown's Layouts

Butterfly Girls Blog Designs

My Style Backgrounds

But don't visit them if you don't like my template, because they are all based on scrapbooking (which, as I gather, is a weird hobby where you stick bits of crap that you find throughout the day into a book).

P.S. I have a weird gap on the right hand side of my header image, does anyone know how to get rid of it?

Friday 13th - beware of the jinx

Crikey. There I was complaining about about my unlucky Hong Kong umbrella, then after publishing the post, I noticed that the date today is Friday 13th!

So that got me thinking about all the bad things that have happened today, and I feel that I can now present conclusive proof that Friday the 13th is indeed, unlucky:

1. My umbrella kept collapsing and engulfing my head
2. The washing machine got stuck on the rinse cycle
3. The top drawer in my freezer cracked when I tried to open it because it was iced up
4. Naughty George pooed on the living room floor because he didn't want to go out in the rain
5. I forgot to buy Bloo Blocks for my toilet whilst at the supermarket
6. My Firefox browser hung when I tried to download a council tax form
7. My friend Sarah cancelled her vist to see me this weekend because she had forgotten about a christening she was going to on Sunday
8. I got lost in Oxford trying to find the Town Hall
9. Naughty George was sick on one of my rugs after eating food from the compost heap
10. My Sonic-care toothbrush developed an intermittent fault
11. Naughty George killed a pheasant in the back garden
12. The padlock on my shed seized up whilst I was trying to find a spade to bury pheasant
13. Naughty George rolled in cow manure on his walk
14. Naughty George jumped up onto my Laura Ashley armchair covered in cow manure
15. I discovered that normal detergents don't remove cowpat stains from upholstery

I am telling you, Friday 13th is jinxed..... so y'all take care now.

I'm not a celebrity - get me out of here!

Right, that's it. Book me a flight to the Bahamas asap. I am now officially fed-up with the variable British weather (variable in that it always seems to alternate between heavy and light rain).

Pic. No.1. Look at that for a forecast

So, my life is oscillating between venturing outside and getting soaked, or staying inside and getting cabin fever. It's like a chef offering you a choice of either olives or anchovies for your pizza topping.

I am not a fan of umbrellas because I tend to get tangled up in them, but after my second change of clothes in a day, I concluded that I needed some form of rain proctection. Hence after much rummaging around, I found myself a sun shade that I bought in Hong Kong.

"Bingo!" I thought to myself and ventured out to the supermarket.

 Pic. No. 2. My Hong Kong 'Ocean Park' umbrella drying out next to my comedy 'weeing dog' door stop

Much to the amusement of passers by, I soon discovered that my bloody umbrella is like a Venus Fly Trap, in that it randomly collapses, engulfing my head. To add insult to injury, I also found out that the thing wasn't particularly waterproof, and would on occasion, bombard me with several large splodges of rain which seemed to make a beeline for my mascara.

Pic. No. 3. Heavy rain outside my back door. Actually... you can't really see it. Sorry.

I eventually abandoned the thing and left myself at the mercy of the elements, which meant that by the time I had unloaded my car, I was wet, my shopping was wet, Naughty George was wet because he had been bounding around whilst the front door was open, and the umbrella was wet. Even more infuriating was that I now couldn't close the blasted contraption, especially after spending the day with it enveloping my head. So it is just sitting there, steadfastly open, and taking up a corner of my kitchen. 

What's a girl to do? ......... only one thing for it........ do what the British always do in the face of adversity..... make a lovely cup of tea.

Pic. No. 4. Lovely cup of tea anyone? My kitchen

The tea really didn't do anything to lift my mood, when suddenly the telephone rang.

"What?" I answered

"Hiya, it's Sam," piped up a voice. "I am fed up of being cooped up in the rain, fancy going out this evening?"

"Sounds like a bloody plan!" I replied, "see you at 8pm".

Hurray! so long suckers....... I'm outta here!

Remembrance Day

Every year, England holds a two minutes silence at 11am, on 11th November to remember all the troops who have fallen since world war one and in subequent conflicts. Click here to view article. It is also called 'Poppy Day' or 'Remembrance Day,' and has all the more poignancy because it hasn't lost it purity by being commercialised by marketeers.

The holding of the silence is also pretty much universally recognised as well, albeit a company or private affair. 

Unfortunately I missed the two minutes silence because I had forgotten to adjust my clocks to 'day saving' hours, so this posting is an attempt at vindication.........

I have actually visited Flanders which was an area of conflict suffering some of the heaviest losses in WW1, and to this day I will remain overwhelmed and shocked by the sheer number of soldiers' graves that lie aside the old battlefields.

Hopefully, the picture above will give you even a small idea of the scale of loss in WW1. It despicts an average sized graveyard in Flanders ......... but then imagine driving for a further hour and a half with the same size grave sites being alongside you all the way. That is the staggering scale of the loss.

According to my research, 16 million people were killed in WW1 alone which equates to over a third of the population of Britain today, and I found a poem by John McCrae that was written after his lost his best friend in the war..........

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them...

The troops who lose their life in Afghanistan are always brought back through the streets of Oxford (where I live) to the John Radcliffe hospital ..... this week there were six.

The thing I like best about today, is that it isn't about politics or the rights or wrongs of war... it is about remembering those who died to try and make our country a better place.

Happy 40th birthday you fossil

It was Monday and I was wondering through Forest Hill, taking Naughty George on his daily drag when I bumped into Steve.

"How you doing?" I shouted above Naughty George's vacuous barking.

"Alright," he replied eyeing Naughty George with disgust, "it's my birthday."

"How old?" I hollered

"40," he yelled back, above NG's piercing yaps.

"Jeez! I don't think I've ever met anyone that old." I shouted back, frantically poking Naughty George with my foot to try and make him shut up. It didn't work and I resorted to getting on my knees and clamping his muzzle with my hand.

"What are you doing for your birthday?" I asked whilst Naughty George emitted small squeaky-like sounds from the back of his throat.

"Nothing today," Steve replied peering down at me, "because I am going up to Birmingham to celebrate on Saturday."

"That's pants. I'll take you for a couple of pints this evening. Fancy trying the Abingdon Arms in Beckley?" I asked, putting Naughty George in a headlock to stop him squirming free from my muzzle-grasp.

"Yeh, that'd be cool," said Steve looking at me perplexedly, as I lay on the pavement with my arm tightly around my dog's neck, "I'll pick you up at 7pm," he added.

Pic. No. 1. The Abingdon Arms as we arrived. You can't see anything unfortunately because it is dark

Pic. No. 2. I nicked this picture off the Abingdon Arms website so you can actually see what it looks like.

"So," I asked Steve, as we settled down with our beer, "were you carbon-dated to find out your age?"

"Nope," he said wearily, "it was on my birth certificate."

"Was that written on papyrus?" I laughed heartily, getting into the swing of things.

Suffice to say, he just shook his head slowly and took a sip of his JD and coke. Oooooookayyy, no more age jokes then.........

Before I go, back to the Abingdon Arms quickly; lovely pub. lovely atmosphere, open fire and friendly staff. Go there! It's good.

P.S. Happy Birthday Steve

Back to Blighty, hey ho

So my holiday in Amercia came to an end and it was with a heavy heart (and suitcase - it was full of trick or treat sweets) that Clare dropped me off at Orlando airport.

The journey didn't start too well, with me underestimating the time it takes to pack two suitcases, and Clare increasingly flapping that we weren't going to make it to the airport in time.

"You know your problem?" I said to her. "You worry too much."

"Ugh Anne, I don't mean to bring this up, but on the way here you missed one flight, get booted off another, lost all your luggage, and your journey took two days longer than it should have done because you ended up in Amsterdam instead of Detroit. Which," she added, "was in exactly the opposite direction to the one in which you should have been headed."

"Good point, well made." I concluded and cranked up my packing speed.

Ten minutes later Clare was shoehorning my luggage into the boot of the car whilst I rued the footloose and fancy-free days when my bags were misplaced by North West Airlines and floated around in a mysterious baggage ether.

Baggage safely on board, Clare screamed out of Clermont onto the highway towards Orlando Airport (never breaking the speed limit of course), and before I knew it, I was handing my bags over at the 'self check-in' desks.

The whole time Clare was standing at my shoulder, "got your passports and boarding passes?"

"Check." I answered

"Got your luggage receipts?"

"Check."

"Right then." She said, "go through to your departure Gate now, and hopefully even you shouldn't mess this up."

"Will do." I replied, and then added, "was that a dig?"

"No, but you have a safe journey," she replied, pushing me through passport control, whilst Izzy and I waved manically.

I am pleased to report that the whole journey went like clockwork. We flew to our connecting airport, Detroit, with no problems. 

Pic. No. 1 Izzy pursues her travelator hobby ....... relentlessly

We even had two and a half hours connection time which allowed Izzy to enjoy her new-found hobby of going up and down, and up and down, and up and down - yep you got it - the various travelators.

With my limited experience of kids hobbies, the only thing akin to the travelator hobby, was the 'slam the door shut every three seconds' hobby which she favoured a year or so ago, and ruthlessly applied to every door encountered.

Pic. No. 2. A pilot bloke walking past a parked plane in front of a fancy fountain

Anyway, you will be pleased to know that after I took an arty shot of a pilot and plane in Detroit, I embarked the flight to Heathrow and arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule at 7am.

However, arriving ahead of schedule when your destination is Heathrow doesn't mean a thing. [Prepare for rant!] It is by far the WORST airport that I have ever had the misfortune to pass through.

Firstly, they generally only have about two Passport Control guards on the 'European Nationals' section, so it takes at least 30-40 minutes to get through. If you are a 'Foreign Nationals' section, then there are about 20 guards processing passports in seconds flat.

Then comes the baggage reclaim. In most countries in the developed world, the luggage is coming out on the carousels by the time you have cleared customs. Nope, at Heathrow, I was still waiting after one and a half hours, watching the same unclaimed pink case with white spots going around and around. Then to top things off, a voice came over the tannoy; "we apologise for the slight delay in Detroit baggage reclaim."

Slight delay? Do they think we are daft? I could have driven from London to Birmingham in the time it took to get my case back. BOYCOTT HEATHROW! FLY TO GATWICK!

 Pic. No. 3. A diminuitive smuggler manages to get her trick-or-treat contraband through customs

So we got our bags at last, took the worlds most expensive cab (£18.00 for five miles) to where my car was parked and so began the final leg of the journey home to Oxford.

Disney's Magic Kingdom .... woo hoo!

It was the day we were all waiting for........ here's a clue ........ endless tat and commericalism, served up next to a plastic castle that looks like a wedding cake (all the things that the Americans do best). You got it! We were off to Disney's Magic Kingdom - for Izzy's sake you understand - we would have never contemplated it if it wasn't for her.......... we're far too sophisticated dahlink.

After a 20 minute drive from Clare's house (talk about strategically placed) we arrived at the Magic Kingdom and were monorailed to the ticket desks at the entrance.

"That'll be $238.00 please," smiled the ticket attendant from her booth.

"You what?" I exclaimed, "you'll have to prise the credit card from my cold dead fingers."

"No problem ma'am," she replied with her frozen smile.

"Just bloody pay it," hissed Clare, "think of Izzy."

I begrudingly handed over my card, and gave the attendant my best death stare. She remained unphased and handed over three entry tickets, "y'all enjoy yourselves now," she added.

Pic. No. 1 Izzy being non-plussed on the main street leading to the plastic castle / wedding cake

Things didn't start too well, with Izzy appearing distinctly non-plussed once we arrived at the main street leading up to the plastic castle.

"Izzy," I pleaded, "can you enjoy it a bit more? You cost $78.00 and for that, I expect to be able to tell my friends that it was worth it for the look on your face."

No response.

"Why don't we take her to see Mickey Mouse?" Clare suggested hopefully, and so we headed off to Mickey's house.

Pic. No. 2 Izzy outside Mickey Mouse's plastic house

Izzy's mood lifted a little once she saw the plastic monstrosity in its full glory, and she even acquiesced to having her picture taken outside. Slowly, slowly catchy monkey.............

Pic. No. 3 Mickey Mouse's bedroom

After a brief sojourn in Mickey's bedroom, I came to the conclusion that he could do with some lifestyle coaching and an interior designer. He has got some baaaaad looks going on and is in desperate need of a moodboard (I learnt that word from www.mydeco.com) and stylist (just look at the horrors going on in that wardrobe).

Pic. No. 4 Mickey Mouse's kitchen

Then Mickey vindicated himself somewhat after I viewed his kitchen. It looked better organised than the room at the back of my house that I venture in to reheat pizzas and make cups of tea.

Next up came Minnie Mouse's house, with a typical Disney photo opportunity around every corner, and Clare managed to persaude me to have my picture taken on Minnie's armchair......

"I look like a complete dork," I protested.

"Shut it and get into the swing of things," Clare replied.  

Pic. No.5. Me looking like a prat in Minnie Mouse's house

Finally, after winding our way through Mickey and Minnie land, we appeared to be reaching 'kiddy utopia', that is, a meeting with the monarchial mouses themselves.

Pic. No. 6. Izzy meets a bloke in a mouse suit

"'Ere, Clare," I whispered, "isn't that a bloke dressed as a mouse?"

"Sssssssh," she replied, "don't let Izzy hear you say that, you'll ruin the magic."

"What do you think he puts as his 'occupation' when he submits his tax returns?" I replied.

"Dunno," replied Clare, ushering Izzy into the next attraction, the Princess Grotto.

Pic. No. 7. Izzy meets Princess Belle

"Do you think she puts 'Princess Belle' as her occupation?" I pressed.


"Probably," Clare replied.


"Don't you think that the tax inspectors will think she is taking the mickey?" I asked.

Clare was studiously ignoring me and turned to Izzy, asking "would you like to go on some rides?"

"Yes, please!" Izzy replied, jumping up and down and now well into the spirit of things.

Pic. No. 8. Izzy meets Cinderella

So we studied the map and headed off towards the rides, when Izzy hollered with excitement, shouting, "I want that one!" pointing towards some rather large cup and saucers.

"Would you like to go on with Clare or me?" I asked, knowing the answer in advance.

"With Clare," she replied, at which point I started laughing and gesticulating at my friend.

I saw her hissing 'you git' under her breath as she selected her preferred teacup.

Pic. No. 9. Clare's humiliating experience in a teacup

It wasn't long however, before I received my come-uppance and ended up on a ride called 'Streetcar' which consisted of petrol powered go-karts on a rail.

Being a motorsport lover, I pleaded with Izzy, "please can I drive?" .............. "please?"

"No," she said, hands on hips, "I'm driving."

"But you are only four, and I am a grown-up, so that means that I am more important than you," I replied, clutching at straws.

Suffice to say, ten minutes later I was ensconced in the passenger seat,  hurling around the track at the mercy of a diminuative, maniacal lunatic, and randomly shouting, "HELP ME!"

Pic. No. 8. Izzy chauffeurs whilst I take my mobile calls

The day was coming to a close, and after being outside in the 33 celsius sunshine all day, Clare wanted to get back home and have a dip in the pool.

"One more ride?" I bargained.

"Ok, one more," she replied at exact moment Izzy pointed at some flying elephants. "I want that one!"

I deployed my old trick, "who do you want to go on with?" I asked.

"Both of you," Izzy replied. Darn. No flies on her. But you can see where they've been.

Pic. No. 9. Clare riding an elephant

So I managed to capture one last photo of Clare flying through the air on a giant elephant, which just sums up the surrealism of Disney's Magic Kingdom.

Video No. 1. Me outside plastic fairy castle

All in all though, it was a fantastic day out, and I would highly recommend it..... except for the food, which is universally disgusting. See you tomorrow!

Happy Halloween

Wow. Halloween in America is a very different affair to Halloween in England.

Pic. No. 1 Clare's Halloween pumpkin

In England; you turn off your porch light and close the curtains with the hope of discouraging the kids from the local estate from calling. Does it work? Nope, the streets become awash with marauding gangs dressed in hoodies.

The doorbell sounds and you tentatively open the door.

"Trick or treat?" hisses a malevolent teenager, his face half obscured by a bandana.

"Treat!" you smile, trying to disguise your consternation, and simultaneously handing over a bag of sweets.

Aforementioned malevolent teenager looks disgusted and replies, "we don't take sweets, only cash or cards," he says pulling out a handheld card reader.

"Sorry, I don't have either," you reply, "so it will have to be trick."

"Your choice," says the teenager chewing on his gum, and swaggering off with the rest of the gang.

Ten minutes later, the dog plop arrives through the letterbox. A truly British, heart-warming affair.

In America things are completely different, as I began to realise when, two days after arriving in Clermont, Clare announced, "Come on. We need to get to the supermarket to prepare for Halloween."

"Are you having a laugh?" I queried, "all you need is enough cash to pay off the local teenagers, and you're sorted."

"Not in America, you miserable git," replied Clare pushing me into the passenger seat of the car, and setting off to Walmart.

So what exactly is the difference between English and American Halloween? Well, in America, it isn't the local teenagers who are the opportunists, it is the marketeers. They have managed to squeeze as much money making potential as is possible from such an obscure celebration [do you know the origins of Halloween? I haven't got a scooby why we wear sheets with eyeholes cut-out on 31st October].

Oh yes, they go the whole hog here; the houses are decorated, costumes are carefully put together and a fortune is spent on sweets for trick-or-treating children. To illustrate the point, I have put together the following photo-diary.

Pic. No. 1. Clare decorates her house with a dodgy looking ghost, a spider's web at the window and a dead bloke (bottom right). [Interesting fact; I have also got a dead bloke in my garden in Oxford, except mine is genuine unlike Clare's Walmart affair].

Pic. No. 2 Clare buys Izzy a pumpkin to make a lantern

Pic. No. 3 The finished article, ready to go outside the front door

Pic. No. 3 A box of candy waiting to be bagged up for the trick-or-treaters. No cash or cards to be seen. It's weird here

Pic. No. 4 Izzy's Halloween costume. I know she looks like a conspicuously un-scary princess, but that was her choice and we didn't want to dampen her enthusiasm

Pic. No. 5 Trick or treating around the Hills of Lake Louisa. Yep, people actually decorated their houses like this and spent $100s doing it.

Pic. No. 6 A ghostly severed foot pursues Izzy from house to house whilst she trick-or-treats in blissful ignorance

Pic. No. 7 Clare gets into the spirit of things by donning a grotesque mask

Anyway, I now have 6KG of candy to take back to Oxford with enough E-numbers to have Izzy bouncing off the walls for the next six months, and an inevitable excess baggage fee.

P.S. Just in case you were wondering about the origins of Halloween, here you go: The festival of Samhain celebrates the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darker half", and is sometimes regarded as the "Celtic New Year". The celebration has some elements of a festival of the dead. The ancient Celts believed that the border between this world and the Otherworld became thin on Samhain, allowing spirits (both harmless and harmful) to pass through. The family's ancestors were honoured and invited home whilst harmful spirits were warded off. It is believed that the need to ward off harmful spirits led to the wearing of costumes and masks. Their purpose was to disguise oneself as a harmful spirit and thus avoid harm........ yep, I thought it was pretty boring too.

It's a tough life

There is one thing that I don't understand about us English ...... we spend most of the year complaining about the contemptible weather, then summer arrives, and instead of enjoying the five days of patchy sunshine that comes with it, we jet off on a summer holiday abroad.


It's mentalist. Not only do we miss out on grappling with wasps whilst 'al fresco' dining on a charred barbequed beefburger, but we pay a premium on flights for the priviledge.

Hence I made the decision about eight years ago that I would take all 'summer' holidays in British winter time.


To prove it makes sense, I have got the photographs showing what I have actually got ............

Pic. No. 1 It's me! In British wintertime! Blimey it's tough

Video. No. 1 Izzy tries her hardest to enjoy the sunshine

Compared to what I would have had in Oxford..........

Pic. No. 2 The four day weather forecast for Oxford, UK

Actually, looking at the weather forecast above, can someone please explain why the 'sunrise' time changes from day to day? Surely the earth goes round the sun at the same speed every day?

Views of Florida

After the weekend in Jacksonville, Clare, Izzy, Gary the dog and I jumped into the car to drive the three hours back to Clermont (the reason being that there is a swimming pool there - yep, I am shallow like that).

Not relishing another long journey after my disatrous trip to the US, I decided to keep myself amused by taking my camera and getting some pictures of Florida for you to look at.

Pic. No. 1 Portrait of Clare driving

Pic. No. 2 The route from Jacksonville to Clermont

Apart from the fact that it is always sunny, another cool thing about Florida is that there are thousands of lakes. Many of the houses are built on the lake shore with jetties giving them boat access. I want one!

Pic. No. 3 Arty shot of jetty

Pic. No. 4. Another arty shot of a jetty


Pic. No. 5 Yawn, ok, I'm bored of jetties too

Finally, I decided that I wanted a picture of something that was archetypal America. Oh, yes, I managed to pull a right gem out of the bag.......................... feast your eyes on..............

Pic. No. 6. A genuine trailer park

Jerry Springer, eat your heart out!

My luggage has turned up

I thought you might like an update on my luggage. After being lost in Amsterdam three days ago, we finally received a telephone call from the airline to say it had been found and was on its way (thanks to much expediting by Clare, who by this stage was tiring of my odd clothing combos).

Pic. No. 1 Our luggage finally turns up

To be honest, I was a bit gutted. I had got used to living footloose and fancy free like a treehugging hippy. I was even going to braid my hair, get a henna tattoo and start calling everyone 'man'.


Clare on the other hand was overjoyed because it meant that the rapid consumption of her toiletries came to an abrupt end.

Day at the beach anyone?

After arriving in Jacksonville, Clare and her husband Jody (yes, he is a lamb shank) had to go out for a work's dinner. So that left Izzy and I in the apartment with a take-away pizza, and 32 episodes of 'on demand' Spongebob Squarepants to watch back-to-back. Aah, the joys of childhood. Just let me get my hands on the person who created that bizarre, preternatural bath sponge........


The next morning, we got up to find that Clare had cooked an appetising American breakfast to get us all ready for a day at the beach.

After shoe-horning our paraphernalia and Clare's 6'5" husband into Clare's sporty hatchback, we set off on the 15 minute journey.

Pic. No. 1 Missing lifeguard at Jacksonville beach

Now I am not a fan of beaches for three particular reasons;

(1) they have got sand, and I hate sand. It gets everywhere, and once it is everywhere it bonds itself in situ;

(2) the sea has got bits in it. Uggghh. There you are swimming along with all the weird tentancled creatures beneath you, and a bit of seaweed tangles itself around your ankle. Completely gross.

(3) Once you get to the beach you suddenly have to start enjoying mundane activities, such as putting sand in a bucket and turning it upside down, throwing a plastic disc to another person to catch, or (god forbid), sunbathing.

So in summary, if you took the sand, the sea and the inane pastimes away, I would just love beaches.

Clare declared me, 'a miserable git,' and suggested that, 'I try and get in the swing of things.'

Pic. No. 1 Me and Izzy jumping waves at Jacksonville beach

So I did. I went wave-jumping with Izzy, and then spent the rest of the time designing a beach that would appeal to me. It would incorporate beach-side wi-fi, and the replacement of the bog standard sand with my new invention called Astro-sand©. I would also have a big underwater seive that would stop bits and creatures from getting into the bay area....... oh and I would have a LOT more lifeguards doing random macho things.

Pic. No. 3 The excitment of a day at the beach proved a bit much for Izzy

I thought you might like this cute picture of Izzy after we got back to the house. A day at the seaside is just too much excitement!

Bears and snakes en-route to Jacksonville

We loaded the car with our luggage (or lack of it in my case), fastened-in Izzy and Gary the dog, and set off for Clare's house in Jacksonville so that we could spend the weekend at the beach.

"Fancy going the scenic route so that you can see a bit of countryside?" asked Clare once we were underway

"Sure do," I replied, "it will give me the opportunity to get some arty shots". [Because I am a bit like David Bailey you know].

Clare veered off the highway, and before long we were in the spectacular Ocala National Park.

Pic. No. 1 Arty shot of a tree in the forest

The scenery oscillated between lakes, almost tropical forests and wide open plains, and each mile we travelled, the further apart became the buildings, until we were in remote countryside.

Pic. No. 2 A shot across one of the plains where horse ranches were

I turned to Clare, "blimey, we are like Thelma and Louise," I said after realising that we hadn't seen any signs of civilisation for 20 minutes. "Without the dodgy headscarves, and holding-up banks," she replied.

At which juncture, Gary the dog started whining to be let out.

"We are going to have to stop," Clare said, pulling into a small dirt track that appeared to go nowhere.

Pic. No. 3 Clare and Gary the dog down a dirt track in the middle of nowhere

I decided to get out and stretch my legs, and after walking to the main road, I saw something that made my blood go cold.

"Quick Clare, run!" I shouted, "we are going to be attacked by grizzly bears." I sprinted for the safety of the car, threw myself into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut, pushing down the lock. Izzy didn't even look up from the iPod Touch that she was watching Spongebob Squarepants on. Kids these days have no sense of urgency.

Pic. No. 4 Beware of the Bears!

I suddenly became aware that Clare was still outside with Gary the dog. Maybe she hadn't heard me?

I wound down the window, "Clare!" I shouted again, "just remember that the only way to escape a grizzly bear is to run downhill!" [apparently they have the furry animal equivalent of four-wheel-drive, so you have no chance of survival climbing trees or running up hill, but downhill they are supposed to be a bit cumbersome - I am like Ray Mears see.] It was at that point that I realised the vista was flat and she had no chance of escape.

Clare looked up at me, "Anne, the bears in Ocala Park are black bears, the biggest thing they are likely to attack is a chicken drumstick."

"Aah," I replied, my cheeks reddening, "well you can't be too careful."

Clare was still laughing when she got into the car, "sorry, I am laughing with you, not at you," she spluttered. You just can't get the mates.

"Ten minutes after we had resumed our journey, Izzy piped up; "I need a wee."

"I'll pull over here," said Clare, cutting into a small layby. I decided to get out and stretch my legs again when I noticed another sign.

"Bloody hell Clare! Quick get into the car," I hollered.

Pic. No. 5 Beware of the snakes!

Clare started laughing again and informed me that I was probably only at risk if I decided to go swimming in the lake. She has got one laissez faire attitude to natural dangers that girl.

After our two near-death experiences, we finally arrived in Jacksonville three hours after we started out, and boy was I ready to chill out on a beach which didn't have any bears or snakes.

P.S. I have just realised that in one of the paragraph's above, I 'wound' down the window. Given that the window was electric, there must be a more up-to-date verb for this action. What is it?

What! no luggage?

After a long and arduous journey, akin to something from the film 'Planes, Trains and Automobiles', I was finally, and safely, ensconced at my friend Clare's house in Clermont Florida, albeit without any luggage.

Luckily for me, Clare possesses both benevolence and planning skills in abundance, which resulted in her making a trip to Walmart to procure some clothes for Izzy and I, prior to our arrival.

The morning after we arrived at Clare's, I had a cool shower and donned the new shorts and t-shirt that Clare had left in my room.

"Clare!" I shouted, "the clothes fit perfectly - thanks ever so much."

Clare came into my room and stopped in her tracks.

"What the blazes have you got on your feet?" she asked incredulously.

"It's the only footwear I've got, all my sandals were in my luggage," I answered.

Clare groaned, "you can borrow some of my flip-flops," she sighed and disappeared from the room.

Pic. No. 1 Ok, with hindsight it was not a good look

Once I had swapped my winter boots for flip-flops, Clare announced that it was nearly time to set off. We were going to her house in Jacksonville to spend the weekend at the beach, and I have to admit, this having no luggage milarky is great. I didn't have to pack a thing (but don't tell Clare I said that because she would probably do that 'despairing' look again).

I've killed Vincent the Vaio

Uh oh. There I was all excited about being in America, surfing the net and flailing my arms randomly as the plethora of theme parks on my doorstep revealed themselves [I know that I should pretend that they are beneath me, but I can't help myself].

There is one word in the sentence above that gives a clue as to what is coming next, and that word is 'flailing.' Yep, I managed to flail a whole drink into my laptop keyboard.

As if in slow motion, Clare jumped up and launched herself at my laptop shouting, "quick, unplug your power cable and get the battery out you muppet!"

"I can't see this ending well," I commented to her as she frantically tried to extricate the battery from the bottom of my machine.

Pic. No. 1 Vincent the Sony Vaio is dead

After 10 minutes of emergency surgery, Clare announced that I would have to leave my laptop for at least 24 hours to see if we could dry it out and rescue what was on the hard drive.

Drama over, she turned to me slowly, "hang on, haven't you done this before?" she asked.

"Yes, last year," I replied, "that time is was a whole cup of coffee," I added.

"You are a danger to yourself," said Clare shaking her head and wandering off.

Anyway, I really need some help - I tried firing Vincent up today and the screen is just blank. No boot-up appears, nothing. What does this mean? is Vincent really dead or are there any cunning tricks that you can recommend to resurrect him from the dead?

I finally made it ... just

So, after leaving the hotel and arriving at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, a most unusual thing happened. We managed to catch our 10.25am flight to Detroit with no problem at all (except for the fact that our luggage was still missing, but to be honest, this made check-in a lot easier because there was nothing to lug around).

We had a fairly uneventful 8 hour 20 minute flight where we were served plastic chicken in a plastic dish, with plastic sauce topping and soggy broccoli. I don't know about you, but I have a partiality for food served in lots of different packages, so aeroplane food is the ultimate cuisine.

Pic. No. 1 The flight to Detroit

The only notable thing that happened on the flight was that the chap sitting in the seat in front of Izzy complained about her new found hobby - putting the tray table up and down repeatedly.

Now if I had been him, I would have probably leant over the back of the seat, calmly ripped off tray table, thrown it into the ether, and sat back down whilst the steam coming out of my ears reduced in pressure.

Unfortunately, I hadn't noticed what she was doing because I was engrossed in one of the funniest in-flight films I have seen in ages called, 'Hangover'. But fortunately, the chap in front was a polite complainer, so the situation was diffused quite easily with me re-introducing Izzy to her 'seatbelts' hobby which kept her entertained for the remainder of the flight.

Pic. No. 2 Detroit Airport from the air. Looks a bit like an etch-a-sketch drawing

After a VERY shaky landing involving cross-winds and some chronic wobbling on behalf of the captain (he was probably suffering a reaction from the E-numbers in the in-flight meal), Izzy and I finally disembarked at Detroit. Hurray! the biggest part of the journey was now over!

It was 1.30pm and according to our schedule, we had to wait around Detroit airport until 7.30pm when our connecting flight would depart. I was not having that. No Sirreeee, so I decided to seek out some 'opportunities'.

I ran to the North West ticket desk and asked if I could change my ticket to an earlier flight to Orlando.

Pic. No. 3 The North West ticket desk

"I can put you on standby but it will cost you $50 per person," she drawled, smiling.

"Yep, ok lets do it." I replied.

Suffice to say the next voice I heard through the tannoy was; "THE 3.15 PM FLIGHT TO ORLANDO IS OVERSOLD AND WE ARE LOOKING FOR PASSENGERS TO GIVE UP THEIR TICKETS FOR A FREE OVERNIGHT STAY IN DETROIT."

Ok, there was a subtle message there, and I decided to heed it - there was probably very little chance that I would get on the 3.15pm flight. Hey, no worries - I had a contingency. I had noticed that there was a 5.15pm flight going to Orlando which would still get me there 2 hours before my scheduled landing.

I duly approached the ticket attendants, and they (joy upon joy) confirmed that they had two free seats for Izzy and I. So, to cut a long story short.........

We boarded the aircraft, and after sitting patiently for 30 minutes with nothing going on, the captain picked up the tannoy; "HELLO THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. I AM SORRY TO ANNOUNCE THAT DURING A ROUTINE CHECK WE FOUND THAT ONE OF THE BRAKES IS OUT OF LIMITS. IT WILL REQUIRE A NEW BRAKE FITMENT WHICH WILL TAKE AT LEAST ONE AND A HALF HOURS."

This was nearly the straw that broke the camels back. I picked up our hand luggage, legged it off the aircraft and back to the nearest ticket agent.

"Hi," I said, "I have paid to get an earlier flight, but it has been delayed due to poor maintenance, so I want to cancel my upgrade and get on the same flight that I was originally booked on - the 7.30 from Detroit to Orlando."

The ticket attendant was uber-helpful and reinstated my original tickets.

"Ok," he said, smiling "you have seats on the 7.30pm flight."

Izzy and I embarked, took our seats and started to relax about the fact that we seemed to finally on our way to our journey's end.

Pic. No. 4 Basic, basic, basic. No in-flight entertainment or anything. That is North West Airlines

I tucked Izzy into her seat, got out my book and waited for take-off..............and waited for take-off.......and waited for take-off.

Then an announcement came over the tannoy; "SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY IN TAKE-OFF BUT WE ARE MISSING A CAPTAIN. HE SHOULD BE ARRIVING WITH US IN ABOUT 20 MINUTES."

Now I would consider myself a fairly laid-back person, but even laid-back people have a limit. I felt a red mist descending before my eyes and something akin to apoplectic and delirious welling in my chest. I had an urge to shout; "you bloody scoundrels!"

Before I opened my mouth, I paused and remembered the out and out 'arrest policy for anyone causing an affray upon a flight', so I decided to keep my inner chagrin well hidden.

Pic. No. 5 A night flight to Orlando

The Captain finally arrived, swaggering through the cabin like a returning war hero, and promptly announced over the tannoy, "PLEASE NOTE THAT WE HAVE A 30 MINUTE WAIT FOR 34 PASSENGERS ON A LATE CONNECTING FLIGHT."

Sacre bleu! This is never ending.

After waiting for the allotted half hour, the mysterious 34 passengers did not materialise and the Captain decided to abandon them to their fate, finally taking off without them. YEAH! we are finally on the last leg of the journey!

After a 2 hour 20 minute flight, we stepped off the aircraft and into the Florida heat, making our way to the baggage claim hall. Do I actually need to write this next bit? Yep, our baggage was still lost, necessitating a trip to 'Baggage Services,' to file a missing luggage report with a smiling representative.

Pic. No. 6 The baggage reclaim hall with none of my baggage in it

There is a upside to losing all your luggage. Do you know when you walk through the 'nothing to declare' channel at customs and always feel guilty even though you haven't done anything? Well this doesn't happen when you don't have any luggage.

Finally, I set foot out of an airport for the first time in two days feeling like Papillon breathing air as a free man. Clare was supposed to be picking me up however, but was nowhere to be seen.

I rang her, using the last bit of battery juice, "where are you?" I hollered.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, "you told me to pick you up a ten to twelve."

"NO!" I hollered back, "I said 10.12 pm"

So after a 45 minute wait in the warm Orlando air, a black car duly pulled up with Clare waving frantically at me, not in a 'hello' kind of way, but in a 'root me to the spot and prevent any more mishaps' kind of way.

So after two long days, my journey finally drew to a close, ready for my holiday to commence.

A night in Amsterdam

After a 20 min trip on the shuttle bus, we finally arrived at the Courtyard Marriott. I was slightly anxious for two reasons; (1) there was bound to be some cock-up with booking given recent happenings; and (2) Clare booked the hotel, so surely she wouldn't miss this opportunity to punish me for missing my original flight.

As we got closer to the hotel, I had visions of a rat-infested dingy hole with a single shared bathroom per floor, frequented by unwashed indigents.

Finally, we pulled up outside a brightly lit facade, and the driver announced; "we have arrived at our destination, you may disembark."

Luckily all my concerns were unfounded and as I headed into the foyer, I realised that Clare had pulled a gem out of the bag - the hotel was absolutely great and appeared to satisfy my epicurean tendencies well. Click here to view hotel. Being the kind-hearted sole that I am, I have taken a few pictures for you so that you can have a sneaky look at the inside. It was decorated in a contemporary theme with Art Deco hints.

Pic. No. 1 Izzy outside the main foyer

If you were a smoker they had a nice touch; a marble smoking area which had a heater that automatically turned on when you approached, along with music to keep you entertained. How cool is that?

Pic. No. 2. The main foyer

Pic. No. 3 The business Corner

The business corner offered free wi-fi which I would have used if my luggage hadn't been lost with my laptop charger contained within.

Pic. No. 4 My bedroom in the hotel

As soon as I got in, I ordered a couple of paninis on room service and set about hand-washing all our clothes so that they we would have something to wear tomorrow. Without wanting to sound a bit whingy, there is one characteristic that all Dutch hotels have - the room temperature is always a bit too cold and the duvets a tad too thin, making me think that Dutch race have somewhat self-flagellating tendencies.

Hence I ended up trying to iron all our clothes dry, a feat which took about two hours, and led to an overriding worry that amount of steam generated would trigger the smoke alarm.

Pic. No. 5 Our bathroom in the hotel

Pic. No. 6 The ladies toilets in the foyer

After a good nights sleep, Izzy and I headed for the restaurant, had breakfast and prepared to continue on our epic journey to Orlando.

Drama in Amsterdam

"What the devil are you doing in Amsterdam instead of Orlando?" I hear you cry in horror.

Pull up a chair, make yourself comfy and let me take you back to that fateful Friday morning when I missed my flight at Heathrow................

________________________________________

After finding out from the reptile-eyed attendant at the check-in counter that the gate was now closed for my flight, I instantly came up with a cunning plan. Post-haste, I ran over to the Delta ticket desk, and after queuing for 40 mins whilst they efficiently dealt with the two people in front of me, I ended up in front of the affable-looking Petra.

"How may I help you?" she asked with a well-practiced smile.

"I have missed my flight to Detroit, and I would like to be put on the next one which leaves this afternoon please." I replied.

The smile didn't slip one bit as she answered, "I am sorry, but it is half term so virtually every flight out of Heathrow is overbooked."

Things weren't going quite as planned.

"I need to get to Orlando, purrrrleasssse can you explore every avenue?" I pleaded, dropping to my knees and clasping my hands, whilst Izzy tried to extract the cash from my pocket (her opportunism never fails to impress me).

"Ok, but it might take a while," she smiled back, her teeth clasped.

One and half hours later, following the intervention of three co-workers, two supervisors and a complex system of prisms and mirrors, Petra reached over the counter with an increasingly blank smile, and placed six prized boarding passes into my eager hand, "Here you go, I have managed to get you to Orlando."

I fled from the ticket desk with my booty and examined the glorious passes in detail. After studying the itinerary, it began to dawn on me that my journey time increased by a full day EEK [note to self: Clare is going to kill me, start thinking of a viable excuse].

The problem was that I had to fly to Amsterdam first, stay over for the night, and then continue the next day to Detroit (with a six hour wait in the airport) before finally connecting with the Orlando flight. But hey, given the lack of options, I just had to get on with it.

Pic. No. 1. Izzy enjoying her new hobby

After killing time fuelling Izzy's new found fascination with travelators (I spent three hours going one way and then the other on a single 20m stretch) I duly made my way to Gate 18 for the 2.20pm flight to Amsterdam.

I handed over my first set of boarding passes to the flight attendant and recoiled when the scanning machine 'booped' and a red light came on.

"I'm sorry, but we can't let you board, there is a problem with your passes. There is no E-ticket verification number," smiled the attendant.

I looked at the attendant incredulously. "But the aircraft is just sitting there, it has two empty seats on it, and you are saying I can't board because of a number irregularity?"

"I am sorry but I can't help you. This is a KLM flight, and the boarding passes were arranged by Delta, you will have to take up the matter with them," he smiled.

Oh, bloody hell. I watched in desperation as the final passengers boarded and the Gate finally closed, and it was then that I spotted a Delta flight about to board at a distant Gate.

"Come on Izzy," I enthused, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her to the Delta boarding attendants.

Pic. No. 2. Look! a plane at the airport. The novelty wore off after 36 hours

They smiled at me warmly until I said, "I've just been kicked off a KLM flight because a Delta ticket agent cocked up my boarding passes." Then they just smiled (same clenched teeth smile as previous Delta agent).

I continued, "so, I need you to get me on a flight to Amsterdam so that I can catch my Detroit flight tomorrow morning."

Pic. No. 3 Two hours more fun on the travelators..........

Much to-ing and froeing ensued, and two hours later, I found myself ensconced on a flight to Amsterdam. It was only after I had refused the food, that I realised that I was in business class because the chap next to me was tucking into a Cordon Bleu meal of salmon with cream cheese and dill dressing. DOH. Never mind, I was on my way and things seemed to be going ok.

That is, until I reached the Dutch customs. [Before I proceed, I need to explain that the name on my passport is Anne Dickens, whereby my daughter's name is Isabella Wainwright because she took her father's name].

An intimidating border control agent studied our passports, and then looked to me and then to Izzy (who has auburn unlike my brown hair), and back again.

"Is this your child?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, puzzled, "why?"

"She doesn't have your name," he replied gruffly. "Where's her father?"

"Probably at home watching TV," I answered. It didn't appear to go down well, and a crowd was starting to gather.

"Has he given permission for you to take her out of the country?" he asked gravely, "you are supposed to have a certificate verifying this."

Then it dawned on me. He thought I was kidnapping her. Blimey, this wasn't good and the crowd was growing, and interspersing the conversation with gasps.

Then I had a brainwave, "I can give you his telephone number so you can ask him yourself," I enthused. The crowd shook their heads slowly and disapprovingly.

The border control agent looked at me blankly and decided to take a different approach. To my horror he turned to Izzy; "hello," he said, "is this your mummy?" he asked, pointing to me. I froze, my jaw dropped, and my stomach churned, for the simple reason that Izzy will often randomly answer questions like this with something like; 'no that's not my mummy, I don't know who she is'; because it makes people laugh.

There was a pause, and everyone waited with bated breath, staring at the 2 foot person beside me. She smiled, and answered, "yes, that's my mummy." I sighed a breath of relief and I am sure that if the border agent hadn't waved me through customs with a frown, the crowd would have started clapping.

I grabbed Izzy's hand and made my way to baggage claim. My friend Clare had sent me a text to say that she booked me a hotel for the night, so all I had to do was collect the luggage and find the shuttle bus to the hotel.

After waiting for 45 mins at the baggage carousel, trying to stop Izzy inserting her arm into the conveyor mechanism, the number of bags gradually got fewer and fewer until it dawned on me that our suitcases weren't there. Have I been bad in a previous life or something?

I made my way to the aptly named 'Baggage Services' desk, where a helpful representative confirmed that my bags were indeed lost.

"Ok, I had come to that conclusion myself," I replied, "what I would like, is some indication of when I will get them back."

"I don't know because they are lost, I will have to locate them before I can give an indication of when you will receive them" the man smiled back.

"But I have an overnight stay in Amsterdam and I don't have anything at all with me," I responded.

"No problem, you can have a complimentary KLM toiletries kit," he smiled broadly as though he was doing me a great favour.

"Thanks for your help," I said half-heartedly, and I grabbed my complimentary toiletries kit from the counter, and made my way towards the exit.

Pic. No. 4 This is the KLM toiletries kit which is supposed to compensate for the fact that all your luggage has gone missing

Schiphol airport is one of my favourite airports in the entire world (and I have been to a heck of a lot of airports from my days working in aerospace), so I knew that I would have no problem finding a supermarket to buy the essentials that were lost with my luggage.

Pic. No. 5 Schiphol airport is ace. If you can choose where to get stranded, choose Schiphol

By the time I had finished at the supermarket, it was heading towards 6pm, so I made my way outside and immediately found the shuttle bus to my Hotel - the Courtyard at Marriott.

Pic. No. 6 Waiting at Stand A9 for the bus to the Marriott

The bus duly pulled up, and I started to get a bit nervous because nothing had gone wrong for at least an hour, so it was with trepidation that I climbed aboard and commenced my journey to the hotel. Surely there will be some error with my room reservation?

I don't think Clare is too happy

My journey to America was originally pretty straight forward; I was to take a flight from Heathrow to Detroit, and then a connecting flight from Detroit to Orlando, where Clare was scheduled to pick me up from the airport at 6.30pm.

My mobile sounded at 5.30 pm with the beep-beep, beep-beep of an incoming text and I saw Clare's number appear on the screen.

'Hi, just checking that the flight arrived on time. Just setting off now to pick you up. C x'

Blimey. How does one break the news? I paced up and down, and finally dashed a reply; 'Hi, Clare. You don't have to set off quite yet, I have just arrived in Amsterdam, so I might be a bit late. Anne x'

The resulting diatribe arrived quicker than expected; 'A bit late?! what the bloody &*#@ are you doing in Amsterdam? You are supposed to be in Orlando!'

Things weren't looking good; the 'C x' had disappeared from the end of the message. I sensed that she was getting irate and that I needed to inject some calm into the situation.

'Had slight hiccup with the flights. Will get it sorted. Can you book me a hotel near to Schiphol airport because I have lost all my luggage. Anne x'

Unfortunately, upon receipt of her next text, it appeared that my attempts to diffuse the situation were faltering.

'Slight hiccup?! Holland is in opposite direction to US! You are further away than you were this morning! What the @#&* is going on with your luggage?'

Ummmmm. What to do now? Yep, if in doubt...... metaphorically run away.

'Can't talk now, Izzy is stuck in a revolving door. Please send hotel details as soon as poss, and I will Skype if I find a computer. Love Anne xx' [note the addition of 'love' and the extra 'x'. That's why I should be a diplomat.]

Luckily, the 'running away' option worked, and I duly received a text saying:

'Booked Courtyard at Marriott. Take A9 bus from airport. Your booking ref is 67843333. Skype me asap. C'

Phew, a 'C' has appeared at the end of her text, she appears to be coming round.

I will try and post an update as soon as I can... so goodbye for now, or vaarwel, as they say in Holland (blimey, I am going native).

Ok, so my journey wasn't finely honed

The clue was in the subtle hint that my friend Clare gave me once she heard my travel plans; "are you crazy? You haven't left anywhere near enough time to get to the airport through rush-hour, especially when you are travelling with your four year old daughter."

Yep, that's what happens when people try the subtle approach with me - her comment went right above my head and I woke up this morning following my plan to the letter. Unfortunately, as I drove down south from Oxford, the traffic around Heathrow wasn't quite following my plan quite as avidly to the letter. I finally arrived at, and parked the car outside my London house, and spotted a wild-eyed taxi driver awaiting me.

"I thought your flight departed at 8.50am?" she stuttered nervously.

"Yep, it does," I replied.

"It's 7.50am now ...... I don't think you are going to make it," she added.

"Plenty of time, don't worry," I assured her, yet the minute the car door shut, I was thrust backwards into my seat as the taxi driver accelerated manically towards the Heathrow trunk road.

We weaved, dived, and ducked in and out of traffic (but didn't do anything illegal like jump red lights or exceed the speed limit of course), and breathlessly, the taxi driver screeched to a halt outside of Terminal 4.

"Quick!" she shouted, grasping the fare from my hands.

The urgency of the situation still failed to reach me.

"Come on Izzy," I said, holding my hand out to my daughter who was obsessing with a new found hobby - suitcases with wheels on.

We meandered into the departures area, Izzy dragging her suitcase over the feet of numerous innocent bystanders, and wandered over to the ticket desks.

"Hi, can I check in for this flight," I said languidly handing over my E-Ticket.

"No, sorry ma'am, the gates have closed for this flight," replied the reptile-eyed ticket attendant.
Time screeched to a halt.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" I asked slowly.

"Yep sorry ma'am, we can't accept you on this flight," Lizardy replied in slow motion.

And so began the saga of my two-day journey to the US.

Next installment coming soon.......... and it will also explain the lack of pictures.

EEEK

Oh crikey, I have just remembered that I am off to America tomorrow.

Not being the best planner on this earth, I am currently running around throwing random 'important things' into a little-red-riding-hood coloured suitcase. On top of that, virtually everyone I know is ignoring my desperation, and trying steadfastly to call me on Skype.

"Go away, I can't talk to you," I have been shouting to aforementioned callers, and the reply is always; "I won't take a minute if you speak now."

Yep, I fell for it, and 3 hours later after many long conversations, I still face three piles of damp washing and two very empty suitcases.

I am due to get up at 5.30am tomorrow morning in order to catch the flight. I will let you know how it goes once I get internet connection.

Gastronomique

Eating at Michael and Deanna's house is a very different affair to the cultural soirees held at my house.

My house; dinner is served and this invariably results in one of the guests shouting, "who's got the flavour?" To which I respond, "stop complaining, it's free isn't it?"

Michael and Deanna's house; Michael is a top chef, and likes to relax by cooking Cordon Bleu meals when he gets home after work. I know! it's unbelievably fantastic. Good job that I am currently staying at Deanna and Michael's house then.

So instead of having a Tesco Chicken Tikka Masala ready meal every night for a week because they were on special offer, I dined like a queen whilst in Lancashire. In fact, I even managed to put together a small picture gallery of Michael in action whilst preparing his various creations;

Pic. No. 1 Shepherd's Pie with homemade green and red stuff

Pic. No. 2 Michael slicing Shepherd's Pie wearing a dodgy jumper

Pic. No. 3 Duck breast with butternut squash puree and some sauce or other which is brown

Pic. No. 4. Close up of duck's breast. Who has that for dinner on a normal night?

Pic. No. 5. Deanna (left) and Michael contemplating daffy after he has been served 'rare'

After ascertaining that they ate like this every night of the week, I could not restrain my incredulity; "It's not fair, if I ate like that every day, I would have to be winched out of my roof by a crane, and don a supersized mobility scooter every time I wanted to visit the shops."

Michael and Deanna, as you have probably guessed are of slender build, and have genes that enable them to daily eat their bodyweight in food without getting any fatter. Meanwhile, I have been frequenting Liposuction Forums in an attempt to rid myself of the fat ring that daffy has left as his legacy.

P.S. I forgot to take pictures of the pork stroganoff that Mick made. Bad me.

Babies and Stuff

The main reason for my trip up north was to see Deanna's 10 week old baby, Gabriel, and try and help out where possible [being the domestic goddess that I am *wink]. Firstly, I need to point out what a gorgeous baby Gabriel is; I have never known a baby be so good. Secondly, I would also like to point out that the amout of 'stuff' needed for someone so small is staggeringly unbelievable.

I knocked together a quick formula and realised that the amount of stuff required is inversely proportional to the age and size of the child.

To put things into context, if baby's stuff reaches 150, it means that the entire ground floor of a good sized house is brimming with prams, bouncers, sterlizers, toys, play-mats and other assorted appendages.

Then let's look at things another way - what do babies actually 'do'? They drink milk, sleep and poop. Blimey, those marketing guys at Mothercare deserve a medal.....

Things aren’t going well

Oh dear, three minutes after arriving at Michael and Deanna's house, I realised that they didn't have an internet connection. Therefore it probably appeared as though I had completely abandoned my blog over the last week. So now I have three days to try and work out how to digitally upload my postings using a carrier pigeon.

Up North is like a deserted outpost, and all that is needed to complete the scene is some tumbleweed. I am actually writing this post using Word, so that I can copy and paste it into my blog once I get back to civilisation. At the rate that technology is regressing up here, I will soon be using one of those old fangled things to write........ what's its name?........ oh yes, a pen.

South meets North. Before and After

"Eh up! Where's yer whippet?" Yep, you guessed it, that's me being Northern.

"Why are you being Northern?" I hear you cry.

Good question. I am practising my accent because this week I am heading to a bleak and desolate place called "the North", and I wanted to learn the language to try and fit in.

Before you try and talk sense to me, I have a very good reason for venturing into virtually uncharted territory. I am off to see friends Deanna and Michael and their two month old baby Gabriel.

As I set off from Forest Hill on my three hour journey northward, the sky was azure, the birds were singing and the autumnal trees were bathed in sunshine. That's what it's like down South that is.

Pic. No. 1 My temperature dial before I set off

My journey took me up the M40 and onto the M6 where the illuminated motorwway signs immediately informed me of 'long delays between junctions 16 and 18'. Is it me? Why does it seem a logistical impossibility to simply get on the M6 and get off again at your desired junction without some drama or other? It just doesn't happen, and I have a theory why; as if paying your road tax wasn't enough, Birmingham has recently opened a toll-road to avoid congestion in the Midlands.

This is the conspiracy; if there wasn't congenstion of some form or antoher on the regular M6, then the supersized toll-road wouldn't be used ......... and therefore no money generated....... ummmm. In addition to this, I have also noticed that there have been 'roadworks' [cough u-hum] for years, just to the north of Birmingham at the point where you decide whether you want to use the toll-road or not. Have I ever seen anyone working on the roadworks? No sirree, it is the 'heavy plant' equivalent of the Marie Celeste.

Pic. No. 2. The iconoclastic Fort Dunlop building in Birmingham

Anyway, to try and keep you vaguely interested, I managed to get a photograph of the famous Fort Dunlop in Birmingham as I crawled through the roadworks.

"Blimey, that's boring," I hear you complain. But have you ever tried to amass visual material to work with when you are on a motorway for three hours? It's mighty difficult, I can assure you, and Fort Dunlop is a bit of a rabbit in the hat in these circumstances.

As I continued my drive up the M6, I was hoping that the signs warning of long delays further up would eventually disappear. Did they? Nope. That meant that I had to take the scenic route at Junction 15 for Stoke which added another thirty minutes to my journey [interesting fact (notice that it is a singular interesting fact] about Stoke - Take That's Robbie Williams was born and brought up here].

Pic. No. 3 The green country lanes around Stoke

Eventually, I got back to the motorway and as time ebbed by, signs of civilisation gradually waned. There are two definitive ways to know for sure that you have reached 'up North'.

1. When you tap your Sat Nav and look for restaurants in the 'points of interest near you' menu, you will find that Starbucks is no longer listed.
2. The weather is rubbish and deteriorates the moment you pass the invisible yet nearly tangible boundary. And can you believe it? I actually managed to get a picture of the North / South divide.

Pic. No. 4 Blue sky with wispy clouds in the southern bit, then you can clearly see a line of dark clouds over the northern bit (no they are not hills!)

After turning on the windscreen wipers, cranking up the heating, and attempting to take pictures of the numerous pits, mills, hills and pit ponies, I finally arrived at Deanna and Michael's house in the lovely village of Barrowford.

Pic. No. 5 The temperature dial after leaving the south

It's bloody freezing up here - how do people survive in this cold, cruel and inhospitable environment? A penguin would struggle to keep toasty. Even worse than that, how do they survive without Starbucks? I will keep you posted on how I get on with three days of living off the land and eating things that would make a billy goat puke.