Black and Blue

‘You think that jacket’s black, don’t you?’ JP observes as I twirl, Anthea Redfern-style, in my vintage suede jacket, courtesy of eBay.

'Not again', I groan.

I simply cannot get into the habit of checking the descriptions on eBay to verify that the colour I can see in the photo, is the actual colour of the object of my desire. My suede jacket is clearly listed as being blue.

46 things about me #2

I am slightly colourblind.

To whit:

My new black jacket is blue*.

My green Faithless t-shirt is brown.

My grey coat is black.

My gold coins are copper, and worth peanuts.

My black gun is green.

Comedy Gold for my friends – or at least Comedy Copper.

The Little Ducks have a fancy dress day at school on the topic of superheroes.

JP is going as Agent K, but doesn’t have a black suit jacket. I buy a black school blazer on eBay and turn my attention to Tiddler’s costume (more later).

The black blazer arrives and JP rips open the packaging.

You know what’s coming next.....

‘IT'S BLUE', he shouts.

‘No, it’s not. It’s black. It’s fine’ I try to placate him, before defeat rears its ugly head and looks me square in the face.

'It’s blue', he repeats. 'I’m not going as Agent K from Men In Navy!'

I hasten to the haberdashery to purchase some Dylon (remembering to verify with the Checkout Charlie that the black dye I am waving about is actually black) and don my marigolds.

All is good.

Until Tiddler announces that he's going as Captain Underpants.

In just pants and a cape.

In October.

Superhero day dawns. JP is resplendent in black (with a green gun). Tiddler has long black thermals under his red pants and cape, for warmth and decency.....

..... and 6 pairs of assorted boxer shorts on his head.

He strikes a Ninja pose, whips the first pair off and flicks them at me with a battle cry.

'Fear me, for I wield the Boxers of Mass Destruction!'

*Although it does mean it goes with my black jeans, which turned out to be blue.

Phobia

My name is Duck and I am a Globophobic.

I am afraid of balloons.

Really really.

For me, being in proximity to inflated latex is akin to entering a room with a lion in it. Heart pounding, blood pressure rising, hysteria, panic attacks and occasional fainting.

I take only small comfort from the fact that it is considered one of the top ten strange phobias in the world.

Most of my close family and friends know this and balloons are not in evidence at events that I am known to be attending. The Little Ducks understand and don't bring balloons home from parties.

One of the hardest things I have to do each year is pass under the balloon arch at the start of the Great Manchester Run. I have to do it or the electronic timer tag thingy on my ankle won't record my achievement.

It occasionally provides an opportunity for me to embarrass myself in public.

Which is nice.

At the height of the Glazer protests at Old Trafford last year, fans took to bringing yellow and green balloons to the game. My fellow fans in the North Stand were treated to the unexpected sight of me freaking out and screaming like a banshee when hundreds of green and yellow missiles rained down from the second and third tiers directly onto my head.

It took some persuasion for the stewards to put away the straitjacket and and stand down the men in white coats.

But to those who mock and scoff and torment people like me with strange phobias, beware!

Anatidaephobia is the fear that somewhere, somehow a duck is watching you.

Really, really.

In the weird and wonderful phobia charts, it's right up there with globophobia and its sufferers are subjected to the same level of mockery.

But sometimes there is method in the madness.

Ducks are in fact evil*.

Personally, I think one look into our cold, beady eyes should tell you this, but the big, fat, funny beaks lend us a benign, comic air.

Animal spin-doctor supremo Beatrix Potter did a fabulous propaganda cover-up with her delicate, anthropormorphic creation - Jemima Puddleduck - to the extent that parents willingly expose their offspring to certain death in parks and ponds around the country, with only slices of bread to pacify the ducks' voracious appetites.

So I was mortified to find the true nature of Duckkind exposed on Facebook this week. With no thought for the mass panic that could ensue, someone published this:

So now the world knows our secret** and anatidaephobics the world over can continue to sleep uneasily in their beds.


* Not as evil as rabbits, but getting there.
** Don't worry. The medication keeps me totally under control***
*** Although I couldn't entirely vouch for Tiddler.

LARP Rise

I knew I wasn't in Kansas any more, as I watched a lizard pushing a pram across the field.

The Little Ducks are in Spain and I am in a field in Derbyshire wearing armour, chain mail, a tail*, ears** and carrying a sword.

My face is painted white, silver and black and a laminated card hanging from my belt around my neck proclaims me as Uncia - Daemon Snow Leopard.

No, I haven’t been eating cheese late at night. This is for real.

I was always a big Dungeons and Dragons fan at university and I am still a big reader of fantasy novels. JP is also very into Magic Cards – thanks to the Crazy Russian generously gifting him a big box with some great decks in.

I am not a fan of computer games and virtual worlds and avatars. I’m quite enjoying this First Life, thank you very much. And besides, I wouldn’t fancy fighting Tiddler for access to the PS3, when there are vital, virtual football matches to be won and lost.

But it had never occurred to me that you could go and do this stuff in the real world

Oh Yes.

My name is Duck and I am a LARPer.

But this is not the stuff of serious re-enactment societies.

Oh No.

I spend my days and nights with vampires, werewolfs, goblins, orcs, trolls, elves, demons, incantors, necromancers, imps, and all manner of bestial and human creatures – not to mention the undead*** and the unliving***

There are rituals and rites to be performed, like short, improvised street theatre for an appreciative audience – but with the possible rewards of high scores and increased powers for the ritual subjects.

There are battles to be fought – honour to be upheld, nations to be vanquished and monsters to be overcome. I spent Saturday afternoon as a vengeance zombie, whose key characteristic was to regenerate after 10 seconds, each time it got killed. Just as well really, as my first foray into battle got me killed at least 10 times.

On the negative side there is some shopping to be done. Marks and Spencer doesn’t really cater for the kinds of outfits required and desired for LARPing. My wardrobe has distinctly more leather and fur these days – not to mention the daggers – locked away from Tiddler for safekeeping.

Oh, and of course there is a beer tent. Happily it seems that snow leopards like the black stuff as much as I do.

*made out of a scart lead and some suede curtains
** made out of leopard-print shoulder pads
*** Not quite certain of the difference yet.

Speaking in Tongues

I never hear the polite, quiet little text alerts on my mobile. Particularly if it's buried deep in my handbag or in my pocket.

Bli Guinness originally provided me with The Butler, but if the phone is within earshot of colleagues, Mrs Duck Senior or the Little Ducks, I then have a mad scramble to cut him off before he offers to tell callers to F**k Off.

Not good.

But now I have R2D2* - alerting me to the arrival of new texts with a cacophony of clicks, whoops and whistles - long enough and piercing enough to be heard anywhere.

I love it and I love the reaction it provokes when my pocket suddenly erupts with noise in a public place.

Yummy Mummy and I were queuing in the Fish Bar in Benllech, when R2 piped up from my jeans.

I let him finish, then turned to the man next to me who looked puzzled.

'It's a text translator' - I offer, by way of explanation. 'It means you don't have to get your phone out to read texts. it reads them out to you.'

'That's cool' - says he nodding in approval.

I wait a few seconds to see if there is a whiff of irony about him, but all I can smell is salt, vinegar and gravy.

I continue - 'Of course, you have to be able to speak R2D2, to understand the message....'

More sage nodding, 'Oh, absolutely' - he says.

I wait a few more seconds for the wet fish of enlightenment to slap him about the face then give up, collect my freshly fried cod and head for the car, avoiding the tumbleweed blowing gently down the hill to the bay.

*Actually it's just a recording of a child's toy, but sounds uncannily like the famous little droid. Funnily enough when I was looking for an image of R2 for this post, the first image I selected came from this site. I have downloaded a translation of Picture of a Duck. Just trying to work out how to post it here.

46 Things

1. I draw smiles in my Guinness
2. I am slightly colour blind
3. I was a finalist on The Weakest Link
4. I once said I Love You to Ian Botham
5. My favourite food is sausage and mash
6. I have a phobia about balloons
7. I can do the Rubik's Cube
8. I love the perfect stolen kiss in The Wedding Singer
9. I have tiny feet
10. I carry a Mighty Sword*
11. Technology baffles me
12. I am a blood donor
13. I speak fluent french
14. I don't like tomato ketchup
15. I love tattoos
16. I rub my nose after playing a pool shot
17. Old Trafford is my favourite place in the world
18. I drink warm milk at bedtime
19. I would like to model for a life class
20. I own a set of flying ducks
21. I have medals for ballroom dancing
22. I am terrible at geography
23. I am proud to be Welsh
24. My talisman is a tiny wizard.
25. I know how déjà vu works
26. I make great cheesecake
27. I remember everything
28. I am completely buoyant
29. I do not park
30. I love the Beatles
31. I hate shopping
32. I have no pain threshold
33. I once held a tarantula
34. I shared a lift with Brad Pitt on my honeymoon
35. I wish my teeth were straight
36. I cry at Coronation Street
37. I wear red underwear to football
38. I get cranky when I'm hungry
39. I know the secret of happiness
40. I hate being tickled
41. I can say the alphabet backwards
42. I like toy boys

43. I hate fun fairs

44. I can cure hiccups
45. I am a cat daemon at weekends
46. Today is my birthday


*Aka Swiss Army Knife

Flicking the F's

So last week, Sister in China, Junior, the Little Ducks and I were on our annual camping holiday here in Anglesey - joined at various times by Yummy Mummy and H, Mr. and Mrs. Panther Hunter and Cub, the Ginger One and Mr. Duck Senior.

At some point, the conversation turned to Welsh. Not literally - that would require a complete cultural transformation by the majority of the party and a few handy Babel Fish.

No - to the peculiarities and vagaries that constitute the Welsh language, consisting as it does of an alphabet of 28 letters and specifically to its unique pronunciation.

'We're in Benllech' - I explained.

'Benleck?'

No, Benlllllleccchhhhh - (rolling tongue and clearing throat)

'Benleck'

'NO! Ok, try this - Llandudno'

'Landudno?'

No, Llllandidno

'But it's a u not an i'

As per my 45 Things #23, I felt bound to explain as follows:

'It's simple*. In Welsh i's are y's; u's are i's; au's are i's; y's are e's; dd's are th's; si's are sh's; ff''s are f's and f's are v's. Ll's and ch's have no equivalent whatsoever in English and just are. Easy!'

The faces of the gathering began to take on that bemused look you get in Tesco's when they rearrange all the aisles and you end up with Vanish In-Wash Stain Remover instead of streaky bacon to go with your eggs in the morning.

I decided to make it even simpler.

'In short, when Welsh people are pissed off they flick the F's instead of the V's.'

I demonstrated the gesture, which looks something like a shadow puppeteer doing a pair of Playboy bunnies** and walked off in despair, a trail of ll's and ch's drifting behind me.

*Check it here for clarification
** Do try this at home - the gesture, not the Playboy Bunnies, (although feel free if that's your thing, and Hugh Heffner can spare a couple).

Your Very Good Health!

The Manchester Run is less than 3 months away and my target of 55 minutes for this year seems enormous at present. After breaking my ribs and getting swine flu last year, my running regime has been somewhat sporadic and I find myself carrying a few extra pounds and horribly unfit again. Boo.

I can't do diets - my maths is too dreadful for counting calories or points and I'm colour blind, so the whole red days/green days malarky is a non-starter.

I don't think I could do slimming pills - the TV ad for the leading brand is enough to put me off. They're called 'Adios', the soundtrack is Burn Baby Burn and the active ingredient is Fucus.

Adios, Burn and Fucus.

Seriously?

It sounds more like the executive committee of the Assassins Guild than a diet aid.

Speaking of diet aids, I was in Holland and Barrett last week for dried blueberries and Dead Sea Mud (tagging along, not shopping).

They really need to rethink their marketing strategy or at least employ doormen to vet the losers trying to gain entry, in the same way posh clubs only allow beautiful people in.

It promotes itself as a health store, yet its customers are the very worst advert for their products. The shop is packed with fat, wheezy pensioners, dragging their tartan trollies while they stock up on prunes and cod liver oil; or pale, obese men eyeing up the instant muscle powder.

Everyone's a before, not an after*.

No, it has to be running for me - and soon - before my clothes start to protest even further.

It could be worse. JP and Tiddler were having a oneupmanship contest in the back of the car recently - largely involving threats of exposure to school mates, regarding valentines, love and girls worth kissing. It was about even, until Tiddler stuck the knife firmly in with:

'If you do, I'm going to tell everyone at school you're secretly fat!'

Game, set and match, Tiddler. There's no comeback to that.


*although if they're taking Adios, they may never reach after.

Immortalised

The fabulous Notkeith has once again come up with a brilliant, original illustration to accompany the more bizarre of my posts.

Thanks NK.

If you haven't already checked out his wonderful drawings, go over and take a look now.

From last week's Bike Shed goings-on:

Virtually There

The Little Ducks did their Christmas lists last week and I communicated my innermost desires and wishes to Mrs. Duck Senior, for general circulation*

You all know what a fan of shopping I am. Not!

So you will be pleased to know that I completed my Christmas shopping on Sunday. All done.

Not only that, every item I have chosen is brilliant and perfect and will take me to the top of the Best Christmas Present charts in every Duck family residence. I am a Retail Goddess.

Smug doesn't being to cover it.

Until I realised on Monday morning that my shopping expedition was the stuff of Sunday night dreams and not only that, I cannot remember what ANY of the inspired and wonderful gifts were!

So contrary to my previous post and my 45 Things, I do not remember everything.

And the shopping remains to be done.

Bollocks.

• * A new coat for Local Walks for Local People;
• a new #1 hat, as I've lost my beloved United beanie;
• new speakers for the big-ass Megane - I've wrecked mine playing super-loud music (the only way to enjoy music IMHO);
• a Moleskine Notebook (on my list for years and never received - take note Santa);
• NO chocolate - I'm the one person in the world who doesn't like it;
• a Philadelphus bush for the Purple Garden;
• a phone number for someone who can make curtains.

Misery Loves Company

I rely on iPod Shuffle Karma to tune in to my moods - good and bad - and select the appropriate soundtrack.

You know - when it just seems to know what to choose, so that you nod in approval at each fresh track and never reach for the skip button.

It's particularly important for those times when you're closer to oblivion than Heaven and it's all you can do to keep breathing in and breathing out and get through the days.

I'm no Julie Andrews. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens don't perk me up and I definitely don't punch the air in delight at wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.

I have a theory about misery. If it's there, you should go with it, rather than fight it. The last thing you need is conflict. If you're down, happy music just makes you feel worse, because it's so out of sync with how you feel. Miserable music on the other hand, is the aural equivalent of having your hair softly stroked, your temples massaged and soothing words murmured gently in your ear.

It fits.

So when karma lets me down, I hit the Misery Playlist:

Clash - Bankrobber
Smiths - How Soon Is Now
Beatles - Hey Jude
Cure - In Between Days
Alanis Morissette - Mary Jane
Portishead - Glory Box
Pogues - Rainy Night in Soho
Simon and Garfunkel - Wednesday Morning 3am
Peter Gabriel - In Your Eyes
Space - Money
Joan Osborne - One of Us
James - Laid
Andreas Johnson - Glorious
Muse - Blackout
Stranglers - Midnight Summer Dream
Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb



Owen Goal Update:

17 minutes at Anfield - long enough to get booed by the beach balls but not long enough to score. On to Oakwell on Tuesday and an excellent goal but in a mickey mouse cup that barely meets the bet qualifying criterion of being 'competitive'. Way to pick your moment, Michael.

Appearances: 12/15
Minutes Played: 420
Goals: 3
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:140
Goals Per Appearance: 0.25
Projected Season Tally*: 11

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (35 mins), goal frequency (every 140 minutes or 4 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (28 Prem games and c13 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 80%). So 41 games x 80% = 33 appearances. 33/4 = 8 more goals

Can You Hear Me At The Back?

Sometimes I wish I were a Lesbian.

No, not me. Chandler from Friends. Series 1*.

Anyway. He says it in Central Perk - followed up with 'Did I say that out loud?'

Now he did it for comic effect, but I just say things out loud because they're in my head and won't stay there.

Words, like brightly-coloured Spacehoppers, bounce around the chambers lined with grey filing cabinets**, desperate to come out and play.

As you know, I don't restrict this pastime to when I have an audience, and even if I do, most utterances are of the rhetorical kind.

But here's the thing.

Until now, my mutterings have taken the form of monologuing - mostly, but not exclusively, in my own Welsh Lancs. accent.

However, on Wednesday, while driving home alone, I realised I was having a two-way conversation with myself, with both sides being played by me.

And neither side was winning. At one point I found myself pointing repeatedly with one hand and waving dismissively with the other, when I realised I was talking utter drivel. But would I be convinced? No. Total refusal to admit I was wrong, and complete frustration when I couldn't get myself to back down and accept that I was right in the first place.

On days like these I thank God for the hands-free mobile phone kit. I don't actually have one, but I pray that the drivers of the cars behind and in front of me assume I do.

* God how sad is it that I know that?

** full of useless shit, but beautifully catalogued and retrievable in nano-seconds.

That's My Boy

I swear.

A lot.

I make no apology for it. I don't do it in front of the Little Ducks or Mrs Duck Senior and I try to keep it to reasonable levels at work; but apart from that, my speech is peppered with Fucks and Bollocks and Twats*.

I embrace the Anglo-Saxon as an important and useful part of our heritage, but tend to stick to the classics to be honest. The Urban Dictionary is a closed book to me and I am astounded at some of the expressions from everyday life that take on a whole new meaning therein**

JP shies away from it. He even spent the Transformers 2 movie counting the swear tally, while Tiddler just watched the fighty fighty bits open-mouthed.

Tiddler just keeps getting better at it. Normally when you hear kids swearing, it's comical. They can't get it right at that age. They use the wrong one, or put it in the wrong place, or use the wrong tense.

Not Tiddler. When he thinks he's out of earshot, he relishes in bloodys and fucks and hells. Obviously there's trouble if I catch him. Current punishments are confiscations of Go-Gos or Playstation privilege withdrawal.

The trouble is, there's part of me that just wants to give him points for getting it so right. Perhaps it's in the genes.

* But not the C-Word. I just can't bring myself to say it, ever.
** Look up tromboning or bathing the dog. or don't. I'd go with don't.

45 Things

1. I draw smiles in my Guinness
2. I am slightly colour blind
3. I was a finalist on The Weakest Link
4. I once said I Love You to Ian Botham
5. My favourite food is sausage and mash
6. I have a phobia about balloons7. I can do the Rubik's Cube
8. I love the perfect stolen kiss in The Wedding Singer
9. I have tiny feet
10. I carry a Mighty Sword*
11. Technology baffles me
12. I am a blood donor
13. I speak fluent french
14. I don't like tomato ketchup
15. I love tattoos
16. I rub my nose after playing a pool shot
17. Old Trafford is my favourite place in the world
18. I drink warm milk at bedtime
19. I would like to model for a life class
20. I own a set of flying ducks
21. I have medals for ballroom dancing
22. I am terrible at geography
23. I am proud to be Welsh
24. My talisman is a tiny wizard.
25. I know how déjà vu works
26. I make great cheesecake
27. I remember everything
28. I am completely buoyant
29. I do not park
30. I love the Beatles31. I hate shopping
32. I have no pain threshold
33. I once held a tarantula
34. I shared a lift with Brad Pitt on my honeymoon
35. I wish my teeth were straight
36. I cry at Coronation Street37. I wear red underwear to football
38. I get cranky when I'm hungry
39. I know the secret of happiness
40. I hate being tickled
41. I can say the alphabet backwards
42. I like toy boys

43. I hate fun fairs

44. I can cure hiccups
45. Today is my birthday


*Aka Swiss Army Knife

Uncomfortably Numb

I don't really do Nights Out In Town.

Years ago, NOIT tended to end in disaster for me. For instance:

Walking into a canal fully-clothed at the Water Witch in Lancaster and then trying to persuade a cab to take a dripping, stinking girl home;

Ending up in hospital for a week with concussion, after a shoulder ride race round university campus ended with my forehead meeting a low beam and the back of my head meeting a pavement;

But that was a long time ago, so I wasn't particularly apprehensive when, for the first time since moving to East Lancs 13 years ago, I planned a NOIT.

We went to see Think Floyd at the local Met, following up a trip to The Australian Pink Floyd Show earlier in the year in Manchester. They were fantastic.

So far so good.

It was Ginger Rick's birthday, so we had all arranged to meet up after the concert at a local cellar bar to celebrate. Or so I thought.

Apparently dimly-lit, slippery flights of stairs and three inch wedge heels don't mix and I plummeted unceremoniously down the steps to the bottom.

The results from A & E read as follows:

2 bumps to the head,
Cut cheek - now scarred
Cut and bruised arm
Bruised knee
Severely bruised thigh
2 cracked ribs.

I'm thinking I might leave it another 13 years before doing it again.

And in a twist of ironic fate, while the Little Ducks are holidaying in Mexico, I got Flu last week - the coughing from which has re-cracked my ribs!

Thank you and good NOIT.

It's In The Bag

There are days when I’d like to be 10’ tall.

Like when I’m standing in Heaton Park with 70,000 others, struggling to catch a glimpse of Noel and Liam on the big screen, never mind the actual stage.

Yummy Mummy and Mr. Yummy Mummy gave up and retreated further back to enjoy a better view and avoid the golden showers*.

Luckily everyone was dressed for the wet weather we’d had all day and I was wearing Bli Guinness’ waterproof coat not mine, so no real harm was done.

The concert was awesome. Barman and I threaded our way to the barriers at the front and bounced to the music as part of a 70,000 strong choir extolling the virtues of Cigarettes and Alcohol.

The layers of clothing did provide plenty of concealed areas in which to smuggle cans of Strongbow**. I chose the back of my jeans and felt very pleased with myself when they went undetected at security. But hats off to Pops, another regular at the Local Pub for cheek and inventiveness and a new gold standard for smuggling.

He’d heard that a friend had smuggled in two boxes of wine the previous day by removing them from the cardboard boxes and concealing them in a 40GG bra worn by his girlfriend. He duly bought his own, ditched the box and arranged the bag down the front of his jeans and under his waterproofs. He made his way to security and was dismayed to see that the boys and girls in Hi-Vis jackets were conducting body searches.

His left breast is patted. - ‘?’

‘Mobile phone’

His right breast is patted - ‘?’

‘Pack of Hamlet cigars’

Her hand moves lower…. – ‘??’

‘Colostomy bag.’

‘Oh. In you go, Sir.’

Genius.



Update: once again Notkeith has come up with a fantastic original cartoon to go with my words. Thanks a million. Do go and admire his brilliant artistry here.

*Seriously, I get why you’d pee in a cup to avoid the queues at the 40 toilets (the amount deemed adequate for 70,000 people who’d been drinking all day) and also to guard your place near the front, but why feel the need to fling it in the air? If golden showers are your thing, that’s fine, but surely reserved for the privacy of your own home.

** Can’t do the black stuff in cans. All kinds of wrong and lager is just a golden shower in a can, IMHO.

Highs and Lows

High

So JP and Tiddler did the Great Manchester Mini Run on Saturday following their inaugural run last year. They were both 'going for it' so I made sure we were at the front of the 2000+ kids waiting for Usain Bolt and Haile Gebrselassie to fire the starting gun. JP came an astonishing 8th, yes 8th, in an equally astonishing 6 minutes and 21 seconds. Tiddler wasn't that far behind him having finally discovered how to run without skipping. But then they're both slim and weigh about as much as a bag of fluff, so there's very little to carry round and they're aerodynamically streamlined.

Low

Unlike their mother, who had to try to keep up with them (failing miserably, I'd add here) as the 'designated accompanying adult'.

It was only when I crossed the finish line that it dawned on me that doing a one mile sprint race the day before the Great Manchester Run wasn't the best idea I've ever had and totally wrecked the months of training I'd put in. I never sprint. I'm definitely built for endurance rather than speed and came away red-faced and limping. Not good. Next year I shall watch from the safety of the finish line. The whole course is barriered off and marshalled so even Tiddler couldn't get in much trouble on his own.

High

So I limped off to Old Trafford to watch United win the title at home for only the second time since the Premiership started and ensure that the Fat Spanish Waiter has an empty trophy cabinet again.

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
We're going to Italy
Que sera, sera

Low

So I was stiff and sore yesterday morning - and not in a good way. My 55 minute target was out of the window as dosed to the eyeballs with Ibuprofen, I was just looking to break the hour. It was close all the way round and I was relying on a sprint finish to clinch a sub-60 time. As I passed Mr Duck Senior and the Little Ducks on the Cheering Bus at 9k, blowing me kisses and waving their giant foam fingers I tried to kick for home.

Nothing happened. My legs just wouldn't respond. The petrol warning light had been on for at least 2k and now I was down to vapour. I finished in a tantalisingly close 61 minutes. Boo.

High

So a little despondent and VERY stiff and sore, the Little Ducks and I headed for the Local Pub and a celebratory lunch. We had steaks and Belgian waffle stacks and I reflected on the fact that I improved on last year's time, came 2000 places higher than last year and 639th in my gender and age group. I also raised over £500 for Cancer Research. Not bad for a lame Duck.

Immortalised

Last week over at Misssy's she had the inspired idea of suggesting that notKeith base his cartoon Pic A Day on blog posts. He duly obliged with this after she posted about dog poo.

On Saturday, he chose one of my own posts about finding sex toy packaging in the ginnel, (after I cheekily emailed him) and produced this brilliant, brilliant cartoon.





I am grinning from ear to ear, particularly since I think I can remember which washing line I've seen those boxers on!

A big thank you and hearty recommendation to go over and check out notKeith's inspired artwork regularly.

Suburban Stick Insects

When I hear the words 'Stick Insect', I immediately think of tropical rainforests, Attenborough voiceovers or the vivarium at the Manchester Museum. Exotica at the very least.

So when the Chicken Farmer offers me some as pets for the Little Ducks, I jump at the chance. He has hundreds as they breed like rabbits, apparently, but are not as evil*

I beg an empty Bensons Licquorice and Blackcurrant jar from the lady at the sweet shop and prepare for our new arrivals.

The NotRats lick their lips and gnash their orange teeth in anticipation - then remember that they are vegetarian and return to flicking poo and chewing their playtunnel.

10 stick insects of varying size turn up on my desk in a jar, with a net cover like a jam pot. There are extensive instructions printed on the side.

'Eat privet and bramble. Spray once a day with water'

Privet? How suburban. I am fascinated.

I had been scoping out the local garden centre, looking at rubber plants, palms, cheese plants and banana leaves and working out the cost of keeping the little Peperamis happy. But privet? I picture Sir David striding through the jungle, showcasing the privet topiary as he exposes the secret suburban life of our fauna.

Unfortunately, Friendly Drive was built in the 60's - and the front gardens are open plan and largely festooned with Laurel and Leylandii.

I decide to check out 1940's and 50's suburbia, by taking secateurs out on my running routes. But there is a problem. The kind of people who have privet front hedges are also the kind of people who keep them closely clipped (and have pictures of ivy on their wheelie bins) so finding somewhere to pause and snip a few branches proves difficult.

Eventually I find a house with both green and variegated privet - shockingly neglected and ideal Stick Insect food. I knock on the door to ask permission. Cash In The Attic is on the TV, visible through the greying net curtains in the small bay window. No answer.

It is the only untrimmed option in the row of terraces, so I ignore the 'No Hawkers' sign on the door and knock again.

Now to be fair, If I peeped round the nets and saw someone in lycra Capri pants with a see-through crotch**, a baseball cap, a swanky iPod armband, brandishing secateurs and jogging on the spot on my doorstep, I probably wouldn't answer either.

I backtrack 50 yards, assume the start position, take a deep breath and perform a perfect run-by pruning.

I make it back to Friendly Drive in record time, put the week's insect food shopping in some water and touch my toes

- in the kitchen.


* Actually my evil rabbit theories have now been confirmed on national radio - I heard a vet talking about them last week saying they were insuitable pets for children as they can be evil and vicious. I sat in gridlocked traffic with a smug face for at least 20 minutes.

** I kid you not. I didn't notice when I went out running in them for the first time with red lace knickers underneath, until I was touching my toes as part of my warm down on the driveway afterwards.

The Price of My Soul

Yesterday, I did a very bad thing.

We did a great local walk to Jubilee Tower at Darwen - known affectionately as Thunderbird 3. We climbed to the observation platform and surveyed the familiar landmarks we have walked over the past few months, including the wind turbines at Scout Moor which we walked last week. Elegant, extraordinary and spectacular. I loved them.

Anyway, on returning from the walk, we headed to the pub to watch the game against Chelsea.

Hang on, I hear you cry. Shouldn't you have been at Old Trafford in your seat, where no-one else can sit when United are playing, for as long as you live?

Yes, I should. But someone offered me £110 for the ticket, and I didn't have anyone to look after the Little Ducks for me to go anyway, so I took it!

So there you have it. I am a sell-out! The price of my soul is a measly £110. I feel like I sacrificed a puppy.

This year, as has become traditional, I had 10 pints of Guinness - on my nails. A belated Happy New Year to all.

Can You Guess What It Is Yet #2?

I hate fun fairs.

I am totally risk averse and have never been on a normal-flesh-coloured-knuckle ride, never mind a white one, in my life. At best I'll throw darts for goldfish or hook ducks for cuddly toys. Oh, and I have been known to gobble a candy floss on occasion

Also people tend to die or get injured when I'm there, so it was with some trepidation that I accepted an invitation to Alton Towers last weekend with Two Socks, Bli Guinness and Amazing Dave. 'I'm only looking at the gardens though', I warned them.

In the end, Two Socks buggered off to London with the entry vouchers, so the three of us set off for Grasmere instead.*

Led Zeppelin, Metallica and AC/DC provided the soundtrack, and I provided the packed lunch (not a picnic according to Dave, on the grounds that we didn't have a tasselled tartan travelling rug).

We headed for Easedale Tarn, trying to avoid Bli's extensive wind display, which was impossible, even upwind of him. The tarn was reached easily and we rested for a few minutes to watch a couple of brave souls taking a swim.

With time on our side, we continued upwards. At a particularly breezy and desolate spot we turned to look back down towards the tarn. It was spectacular. There wasn't another human for miles and the silence was broken only by Bli's backside.



As we scrambled back down in the warm sunshine, an impromptu dip in the Tarn to cool off was mooted. There was talk of dangling and paddling, but I insisted that only a full dip would do (unless the water was icy).

In the end, I swam, Bli waded and Dave dozed on a rock. The water was fantastic. Clear, exhilirating and shared only with a few other ducks. I felt revitalised, alive, and happier than I'd been in weeks.

Back in Grasmere we bought Sarah Nelson's famous gingerbread, which is unequivocally the best I have ever tasted and went for a couple of pints of the black stuff.

All in all a brilliant day.

We walked back to the car to head home, when I stopped in my tracks outside an art gallery, unable to believe my eyes at the sign outside.

Now, we'd already passed a shop called Rock Bottom and were disappointed that there were neither sculpted nor candied rears to be had. But this was in another league altogether.




Now I definitely don't remember climbing that, I thought, as I peered closer.






* Just as well, as there was a fatality at Alton Towers. I'm seriously jinxed.