April showers

I like to think I have my inner drama queen under control. Yes, occasionally I can feel her struggle against her restraints, like when I drop a gloopey spoon on my newly washed kitchen floor or discover I've been sewing for the last few minutes without thread in the bobbin, but generally she stays put and fumes quietly to herself.


These last few weeks however have seriously tested that control. 


It started with a hospital appointment. I'm not going to bore you with all the details but that pinched nerve I mentioned way back when, well it wasn't. It turned out to be the result of inflammation which has caused another few issues ( hence my workroom being a no sew area!)
Anyway I had to go for some tests to see what's causing it. The procedure itself wasn't a problem but the poking and prodding required before hand by the registrar and the ubiquitous trainee left my lower back feeling as if a troupe of Leprechauns had just performed Riverdance on it, and stayed for four encores.


She'd raised her head having sensed the possibility of a rant. 


After getting the boys off to school the following morning I decided the safest and most comfortable place for me would be back in bed. I hadn't taken No 1 sons desire to tussle with a hedge in to account, or his inability to keep a cycle helmet on his head past our garden gate. The hedge won, his head lost.

He takes his helmet with him but it spends more time strapped to his bag than on his head

One mild concussion later and there I was, trying to find a comfortable spot on the couch beside him in order to monitor his condition as per the GP's instructions, all the time fluctuating between the desire to hold him, comfort him and berate him for not wearing his helmet. The conflict of motherhood! How often does the hand that soothes the fevered brow itch to administer a clip round the ear?


She'd now thrown her hands in the air, gesturing wildly.


A few days after that the plumber called to let me know our new water heater had arrived and could be installed the following week. We needed to move our existing one to allow for remodelling the bathroom and had decided to replace it with one that could be used with solar panels - it all seemed such a good idea at the time. Ah, hindsight!

Our new, all singing, all dancing Dalek of a hot water tank

A flurry of cleaning ensued.(Ridiculous really since from previous experience I know that the house will descend into chaos within minutes of any workman arriving, but it somehow makes me feel better knowing it's clean to begin with.) Halfway through this frenzy the vacuum cleaner started to make some very strange noises. The drive belt had gone! Well, I guess the hoovering would just have to wait until it was repaired. 


The first week of the holidays arrived and at 8 a.m on the dot so did Dave the plumber, much to the disgust of my two teenage sons who had been looking forward to a fortnight of 'lie ins'. They made sure everyone was aware of their displeasure.
The swap over of tanks did not go as smoothly as planned (now there's a surprise). Years of extensions and remodelling had left a labyrinth of pipes under the floor as well as in the loft that Daedalus would have been proud of. Poor Dave spent three full days trying to find out which ones were redundant before he could complete the job. 

Just some of the pipes under the floor

That wasn't the only problem. We knew that the shower in the bathroom would no longer be usable but since it was due to be replaced it wasn't an issue. What we didn't know was the two remaining showers would also be unusable as they were supplied by a different source and there would be incompatible water pressure. To get to the pipes to rectify this we had to sacrifice our en suite.

My de-tiled en suite. Oh well I wanted the tiles replaced at some point anyway.

By this point my inner drama queen was tearing theatrically at her hair.


Two days in to the four of us using the remaining shower, the one we'd had fitted last year in preparation for the destruction of the main bathroom, I discovered it was leaking. While I was searching for more old towels to mop up the water the phone rang. My vacuum cleaner couldn't be fixed without considerable outlay. Great! The carpet hadn't been hoovered for a week and was beginning to make me twitch. 
Okay, I can deal with this I thought. I decided to borrow the spare that my husband keeps in his workroom. Twenty minutes after switching it on it suddenly stopped. I'd managed to kill another one, only there was no possibility of an expensive resurrection this time.


She was beginning to slip free of her restraints.


Trying to see a silver lining I remembered an ad. for a Dyson special offer that would give 20% off a new vacuum if you sent them back an old one. The man of the house was dispatched to retrieve the belt deficient hoover. His van was blocked in by the joiners who at that moment were tearing the rest of the bathroom apart so he decided to take my car. It wasn't playing. Since I hadn't driven it for three months it would seem that in a fit of pique the battery had discharged itself. That's when we discovered the jump leads that had been in the shed were now conspicuous by their absence.


I let her out. I'm not proud of myself. The collected towels were thrown on to the floor, a few choice words were expelled and the deceased vacuum was kicked on the way past as I flounced with Bette Davies haughtiness from the room. It took a couple of damp hankies and a few glasses of red but eventually I regained control.


So today when the bathroom fitters went through an electrical cable and took out all the plug points in the kitchen I smiled serenely 


She collapsed in a swoon, the back of her hand raised to her head.  

An ever expanding list (part 2)

Passports!


Well, passport photo's to be precise. I have yet to meet anyone, correction, any woman who is happy with her passport photograph. It offends our sensibilities and seriously messes with our self esteem. Not surprising really, that unsmiling stare doesn't do much for anyone. Mine usually makes me look like a combination of deranged psychopath and the intellectually challenged. Although to be fair after an early morning/late evening start, a three hour wait in an uncomfortable airport, a flight of however many hours in a less than spacious plane serving dubious 'food' it could be said that it's probably doing me some favours :o/

With that being said, while I wasn't expecting the boys to come back with shots that made them look like the next teen heart throbs, I was hoping for ones that wouldn't make me want to be standing three aisles away, looking in the opposite direction during check in.


It was so much easier when they were younger. Perhaps easy is not the right word. While I completely understand the need for children to have their own passports (although can't quite get my head around why only lasting for half as long as an adult one they cost more than half the price!) did anyone at the identity and passport service actually stop to think how difficult it was going to be for parents to get an acceptable photograph of their infant?


I was fortunate. The boys were nearly two and a half before we were invited to join their grandparents on holiday. I dutifully set off, with the help of my mother-in-law, to obtain the appropriate images. After two aborted attempts at the photo booth it became apparent professional help was required. Down a little side street in Dumfries we came across a photographers that was open. In amongst all of the wedding and Gala day shots in the window was a sign advertising passport photographs. Result!


The door had one of those springy bells hanging above us that jingled as we entered. It was quite dark inside since all of the windows had been blanked out with black velvet, the perfect backdrop to the pictures on display within them. A door creaked at the back of the room. I looked at my mother-in-law at the same time as she turned to me. The door creaked again. Okaaaay. So that was a bit spooky! The door opened a bit further and then, with a violent pull, it was opened to its full extent revealing a small woman, dressed in a high necked blouse and long skirt, who must have been about a hundred and three. For some reason  Arsenic and Old Lace immediately came to mind.

Feeling a bit like a landed fish, mouth wordlessly open and gasping I eventually got out the usual pleasantries and explained what we were there for. Full of a charm and grace that is sadly missing in most receptionists these days she informed us that yes, indeed we would be able to get passport photographs of the boys taken that day and ushered us in to the studio. 


It was much lighter in there, white back drops and bright lights creating the illusion of daylight. I was expecting to see the photographer in a corner doing something technical with a light meter and lenses so was completely at a loss when this tiny little woman, wearing orthopaedic braces on both wrists started manhandling a tripod with a camera on top across the room. I looked to my mother-in-law again. She looked back with a raised eye brow that would have done Spock proud.


It transpired the receptionist was the mother of the photographer, who not only minded the shop but could also fill in for him when he wasn't around. She fussed and tutted for a few moments murmuring to herself, leading me to question her suitability for the job in hand.She then proceeded with a strange bird like efficiency to position the boys just so, and somehow managed to get them to stay that way while she took the photographs. Which was a good job really since she wasn't using a digital camera but rather a passport specific instant Polaroid ( producing four identical images on one sheet).


She did however have a problem pulling the paper from the camera, eventually enlisting my help with the procedure. At this point my mother-in-law and I silently, almost telepathically, agreed not to look at one another again in case we offended the old dear by collapsing on the floor in a fit of the giggles.

No 1 son looking suitably worried, as every innocent person going through customs usually looks

No 2 son couldn't help a small smile, it's in his nature, and at the age of  2 is excusable.

Fortunately for my peace of mind by the time the boys next passports were due the local chemist was offering a photograph service. I don't think I could have kept my face straight if I'd had to see her again. 


This years upcoming school trip to Belgium meant another renewal was required. I sent the boys off, stupidly thinking they would be capable of obtaining a decent photograph themselves. Vanity thy name is woman, because its glaringly obvious it doesn't belong to my teenage boys .


They both came home with mug shots that any police file would be proud to sport. All that was missing were height lines and serial numbers along the bottom. No 2 son looked like an ASBO waiting to happen, complete with hoodie, one that he had only been allowed to wear under the explicit instruction it was removed before any camera made an appearance. 
No 1 son on the other hand had excelled himself. He looked like some sort of drug dealer that had sampled too much of his own product.If I hadn't been so taken aback I would have been impressed. What was even scarier was that the assistant had asked them to check the images before she printed them off and they hadn't see anything wrong with them! Geesh!


I met them from school the other week, oversaw the new haircut, frogmarched them back to the chemist and had new photographs taken. Looks like the independence is going to have to wait a while. Either that or I'm going to have to learn to relax:o)

Avian antics

The expected return to the workroom the other week didn't materialise. Boooo! Why is it that the only time you have a burning desire to do something is the very time when you are unable to do it? The contrariness of human nature I suppose ...... or it could just be me.


The upshot of my further delayed return is that I have no new projects or finished products to show you. What I do have is a short video. You may remember me telling you about Wee Mental a few months ago. A scruffy little bird that had taken to battering at the kitchen window. Well he has been a constant visitor throughout the winter and I managed to capture his antics on film the other day.

He does this at least 6 times a day for about a minute and a half on average. He doesn't limit it to the kitchen window either. There is food aplenty outside, there are no spiders on the glass so I'm not entirely sure what he is hoping to achieve. It's quite possible, after so many blows to the beak, that he can't remember what he's trying to achieve either. But it's entertaining nonetheless and I've come to expect his visits, often stopping whatever housework I'm engaged in to watch him (as if I need an excuse!).


I started uploading this post a few days ago and I'm sad to report that I haven't been visited for the last three days. My hope is that Wee Mental is otherwise occupied. It is Spring after all and he may be too busy impressing the ladies to pop round and entertain me. Thats what I'm telling myself anyway :O(

An ever expanding list (Part 1)

Get a haircut.
Have a new passport photograph taken.


Two more items to be added to my mental list 'Tasks not to be undertaken by my teenage sons without adult supervision'.


I sent them out the other morning with those instructions. I thought I was helping with their personal growth, giving them some responsibility, encouraging them to make decisions on their own. In hindsight I should have known better. Their downfall didn't lie in the absence of ability but rather their lack of vanity.


Haircuts have never been high on the list of priorities, in fact for the first couple of years they weren't even an issue. The boys newborn auburn fuzz gave way to gossamer. Hair as soft as silk, as fine as spun silver. It would glow in the sunlight, a luminous halo above their cherubic faces.
It also meant they looked bald for the first 10 months! 


When it did eventually begin to sprout and darken we discovered that No 1 son had been blessed with what has become affectionately known as the 'bedlam barnet' ( or 'Muppet mop' on occasion). Of course, in the age old tradition of good cop bad cop, that meant No 2 son has hair that usually behaves impeccably.

Initially, and somewhat nervously, I dealt with the few curls that crept over their ears or nestled messily at their napes (The first ones cut are tied with a ribbon and kept in a small box. What can I say? I'm a sentimentalist!) But their hair became longer, thicker and beyond my dubious skills. Was it time to let someone else loose on their locks?


Enter the man of the house. With clippers. He's cut his own hair (or what's left of it) for years and after a bit of wrangling over which guard was to be used I agreed he could take over. So for the next four years they were bi-annually shorn like sheep. It worked really well in the summer, preparing them for the anticipated heatwave (snort!), but meant that winter attire always had to include a natty line in hats. 


If it got too untidy to wait for the next clipper session I took them to the 'Gents Hairdressers'. They liked it so much their dad was given the heave- ho.( I think it might have had something to do with the lollipop the barber would give them on the way out) 

It's an unassuming little establishment, set in off the street almost hidden from view, easily missed if it weren't for the barbers pole.


Walking through the door is like taking a step back in time. Not to the dim and distant past, just a decade.... or four:o) The floor is covered in vinyl, the pattern of which has long since been worn and scrubbed away. Two large barbers chairs, all shiny chrome, cream enamel and burgundy faux leather, take pride of place in the middle of the room. Since the proprietor is also the sole employee only one of the chairs is used. It's artificial ageing is a distant memory, the dark red worn to bright cherry, polished by countless posteriors.  


To the right, under the window, is a wooden bench. There is no appointment book made up weeks in advance, here you simply walk in, take a seat, and wait your turn (be it for a haircut, a fishing permit or to drop off your pools coupon). 
It will be a quick, no nonsense cut of the short back and sides variety, and no paying over the odds for fancy products or verbal inanities.(The barber, being born and bred in Moffat, probably knows more about you than you do yourself so has no need to ask if you're going on holiday. In fact she could probably tell you where, when and for how long you're going, and what the in flight film will be! ) 
To pass the time while you wait there is a choice of reading material in the corner, a couple of daily tabloids, invariably turned to the sports section, and a pile of old Dandy annuals (the boys love them). 


Sometimes though, when 'bedlam barnet's' curls and ringlets act up, slightly more styling is required. That's when I make them an appointment with my hairdresser. Which is what I did. And made the mistake of letting them go themselves! 


Perhaps I wasn't clear enough. Maybe I should have written it down. When I said, 'a haircut' No 1 son must have heard 'a hair cut' because that's apparently what he got. I could detect no discernible difference when he arrived home. I just wonder how he decided which hair to sacrifice?  
As to No 2 son, well what can I say. He came home looking like a Paul Weller tribute act! ( I'm sorry if that offends, but lets be honest here, for all his musical talent that man has never had a decent 'do )


So its back to the hat box for a few days until I can arrange another appointment, and this time I'll be going with them!


As for the passport photographs. Well.........

Rescue and refurbish

I should be able to get back to crafting by the end of next week and I can honestly say, for the first time in ages, my fingers are twitching to get started. I have no idea yet what they want to get started on, they don't keep me that well informed. I just know if I don't make something soon I'm going to pop ( I don't do explode - too much mess to clean up afterwards)


In preparation I have been squirrelling away some finds from the charity shop. When you can't make, hoard! Many people bring in textiles that aren't fit for resale but can get sent for recycling. The shop receives a donation for each bag they send off. We often have to decant the bags brought in by the public into sturdier pre-printed bags we have for transporting to recycling depots.


It was during this task, sorting through grubby net curtains, frayed towels and pobbley brushed nylon sheets that I came across these.

I took them out , checked them over, but could find nothing wrong with them other than the fact that they were slightly dated and the donor obviously thought no one would want them. 


Ha! I fell in love with them on the spot. Which was quite strange actually since they are so 'not me'. But that's the thing, I think I was drawn to the vintage novelty of them, if that makes sense. So I rescued them, measured them, priced them and bought them.  


I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do with them, the only thing I am sure of is that they will no longer be curtains. ( I say that but judging by past experience they are likely to remain in their present state for some time to come)


I few days later I arrived to start my shift and found this little treasure at the till point.

Can you tell what it is yet?

Perhaps if I open it up....

...add the trays....

...and flip down the sides?

A slightly shabby but fully working butlers table!

Well I couldn't resist. It just had to come home with me. With a little bit of TLC,(I'm still not sure whether to sand it down and wax it or paint it in some trendy colour. Any ideas?),it will be perfect in my workroom. I'm a bit of an untidy crafter. I invariably have half started, or worse still half finished, projects strewn across my worktable, taking up valuable space. It makes it increasingly difficult to lay out patterns or cut out fabric. 

This butlers table will give me somewhere to put works in progress, keeping my large table free of mess ( well that's the plan anyway:o)), with the added advantage of trays I can bring in to the house with me of an evening should I feel the need to continue some crafty endeavour.

I can't wait!

Ice!

There's a lot to be said for living at the top of a hill. Its quiet, there is little chance of flooding and the view is not obstructed by ariels and satellite dishes.

However, when a layer of ice covers every surface horizontal, vertical and all 90° in between....

 ....getting down off it can prove to be a bit problematic.

 A car won't manage, no matter how many wheels are driving, if it has nothing to grip on to! 

 A bicycle would just be folly ( although the boys seemed to manage it)....

.....and my walking boots didn't come equipped with crampons.

 How about a tea tray? I could pretend it was the skeleton....

 ...then again perhaps not. Maybe I'll just stay up here until it thaws.

 Now that seems like a plan I can work with :o)

Winter visitors

I've been unable to craft or blog much recently ( or catch up on all my blog reading!) for one reason or another. I hope to get back to it all soon but in the meantime I thought I'd share these with you. One of the things I love about the snow is the evidence our garden visitors leave behind :o)

After we had all come inside Billy, one of our resident badgers came out for a stroll.

After a tour of the garden he climbed the 15 stairs up to the balcony...

...had a little wander about ( I always imagine him doing this while humming tunelessly to himself)... 

...then left to let another visitor have a go.

They decided to stay for breakfast...

...and seemed a bit embarrassed at being caught in the act.