Playing Twister Naked with Dead Cats - (Sort Of)

From New Orleans to Omaha to Iowa and Lizzie's farm on Friday, to find that a mini Tornado had hit on Thursday night, destroying a couple of buildings. The big workshop was a mangled pile of steel about 30 yards from its original position, with its contents strewn across the fields, and a smaller shed ended up half a mile away in the sorghum field. The damage wasn't on a par with the devastation I saw in New Orleans, but my friends literally built this farm themselves. Seeing months of work destroyed in one night, less than 24 hours from when we were due to arrive was very sobering, but not enough to prevent us sitting on the porch, drinking wheat beer and listening to the frog chorus from the lake by the cabin.

Saturday was spent retrieving tools and furniture and other assorted wind-blown objects, and in the evening we had a Jedi-style funeral pyre for three kittens who didn't make it through the storm.

Early Sunday morning, while talking to the Little Ducks across the Pond, I spotted wild turkeys over the ridge. Lizzie called to Andre, who set off after them with his gun in only his skimpy underpants, in his haste to bag a bird. The turkeys took one look and shot off before he could.

Voodoo Queen

Today we went to see Marie Laveau's tomb.

Oh, did I mention that I'm in New Orleans?

'I'm in New Orleans!'

Which is brilliant.

But my luggage isn't.

Which is not brilliant.

I have nothing. This is the third consecutive trip to the States where my stuff has gone awol. Twice before, it turned up the next day, so things weren't so bad. This time, they actually appear to have lost it. It's not turned up anywhere and is currently untraceable.

The worst of it is that I spent 3 hours shopping on Sunday for clothes to bring, as I have no clothes that fit me. 3 hours! And I HATE shopping. And, now, when I should be enjoying jambalaya, crawfish pie and filet gumbo, I have to do it all over again.

So far, I have managed to buy a T-shirt, a cowboy hat and moisturiser. Not exactly what a duck needs for an important conference.

I have even had to borrow a laptop for the evening - mine was in my luggage.

I am in the process of compiling a list of contents while it's still fresh in my mind. So far there are 3 things I am upset about.

My Mighty Sword aka my swiss army knife - a 30th birthday present from the Ginger One which I treasure.

The Cancer Research running vest with my name on, which I wore so proudly last weekend for the Great Manchester Run.

My favourite Guinness T-shirt.

Anyway, back to Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen.

Her tomb has a strange assortment of tributes and gifts in front of it and is covered in graffiti in groups of 3 crosses - like this - XXX. All the other tombs are pristine. The historic St Louis cemetary is bizarre, as all the tombs are built above ground. Because New Orleans is below sea level, you can't bury the dead underground as the graves flood.

There are a few shops with voodoo paraphernalia and XXX marks around the older parts of the city. But I was particularly amused to see one souvenir shop selling voodoo charms and figures. In the window was a sign that read '24 hour CCTV security surveillance on these premises'.

That doesn't exactly instill confidence in the powers of the merchandise, now does it?

Reasons to be Cheerful

Part I

I wasn't the only Duck pounding the streets of Manchester at the weekend. On Saturday JP and Tiddler ran in the Great Manchester Mini Run for 3-8 year olds. One mile around the City of Manchester stadium. No mean feat for a seven- and five-year-old.

They raised £160 for the new children's hospital, got T shirts and medals and better goody bags than we did on Sunday! I ask you. You run 10k and all you get is a packet of lemon-flavoured pine nuts and seeds, and a tube of extra strong mints!

Our fears over Tiddler's running were groundless. As soon as the race started, he set off like a mad eejit. He was buzzing and beat JP by a decent margin. I wonder where he gets it from?

Part II

Tiddler had his first football game on Sunday and I missed it. There was the small matter of the Run, so I do have a note.

They played another tiddler team from Bolton and won 4-0. Get in! Identical Twin's tiddler scored a hat-trick and has trials for the local League 1 side. We have a decent goalie, a boy who can throw in half the length of the pitch at 6, and an utterly brilliant, two-footed, pin-point corner-taking, fast, can-pick-any-spot-in-the-goal-and-put-the-ball-there midfielder. I want to adopt him. His dad's pension plan is a cert. Still, we have him on video, so in 10 years I can sell the footage to the Red Tops when he's playing for United and dating Apple Martin.

Mr Duck took the camcorder, so that I could have my very own Match of The Day, but then was so engrossed in the action, he forgot to follow it with the camera lens and I spent a frustrating time watching off the ball footage, while parents encouraged and Coach shouted instructions -

'TIDDLER, STOP SKIPPING!'

So despite the Mini Run, our little Michael Flatley is still at it, it seems. But he tackled like Wes Brown, defended like Nemanja Vidic and went forward like Patrice Evra when the opportunity arose.

Part III

Mr Duck has gone to St Andrews for a spot of golf, so I booked a babysitter and headed to the Local Pub for the small matter of the game last night. It wasn't the same as being there and I felt more than a pang of regret, but it came pretty damn close, as the passions rose and the faithful willed Van der Sar to save us. Which he did.

Que sera sera
Whatever will be, will be
In Moscow we made it three
Que sera sera

So I'm still grinning.

Hyper

Sunday was the big day. The Great Manchester Run.

I woke up, childishly excited at 4.45am. By 6am I was ironing my name onto my Cancer Research running vest and pinning on my number. By 7.30am, when Mr Duck Senior, a marathon veteran arrived, I was talking nineteen to the dozen and pacing.

I wasn't due to race till 11am! 'You have to calm down or you'll burn out before we even get there' - he counselled.

It was a perfect day for running - sunny but cool. Mr Duck Senior and JP went to watch from the Cheering Bus, while I headed for the Green start. My phone buzzed with good luck messages that warmed my heart.

I just couldn't stop grinning. It was brilliant. I fired up my iPod as I crossed the start gantry at my normal running pace, despite the temptation to set off like a rocket. The course is very flat, unlike my usual routes at home.

I grinned as I ran down Chester Road.

I grinned as I ran up to Old Trafford.

I sang Viva Ronaldo as I ran through the tunnels around my favourite place in the world.

I grinned as I headed towards the canal and the 5k sign.

I felt fantastic, full of energy and slow! So I abandoned my dad's advice and started to run like a mad eejit.

The spectators were calling my name and cheering. I couldn't believe so many people recognised me. Then it occurred to me, perhaps they were mistaking me for a celebrity presenter who shares my first name. They smiled and waved, so I waved and smiled back.

After 8k and a shower, I finally worked out that they were just reading the name that I'd ironed on at 6 that morning.

I waved at my personal support team on the Cheering Bus, who waved back with giant foam fingers.

I sprinted for the finish and posed for an 'after' photo - still grinning and amazed that my teeth weren't black with flies.

I donned my medal and almost headed back to the start. I felt like going round again.

I was hyper all day Sunday, and not much calmer yesterday. Normality was eventually restored today.

With just a hint of grinning, as I stare at the medal on my desk.

And For Dessert?

Now I don't want anyone to get the impression that Yummy Mummy and I are the kind of ladies that lunch all the time, but yesterday, with a last minute day off, we went for lunch again - SomewhereNormal this time, after last month's experience.

YM is bemoaning the pressures on the local Chlamydia Coordinator, in the current climate of public sector targets, not to mention what's expected of the Condom Coordinator*.

I am struggling with the very fact that these are real job titles and ponder the interesting conversation stoppers they could provide at dinner parties, when the inevitable 'and what line of work are you in?' question is raised.

Her work life is so much more interesting than mine, as I keep pointing out. The sexual universe of the under 25s is an utterly alien world, as becomes clearer every time we discuss this.

She then fishes in her handbag and hands me a small, bright orange tube. Now, I don't generally wear my glasses outside work, so I'm holding it aloft and peering closely to read the words on the side, when the waitress appears to clear our plates and then smiles.

At this point, the words 'Fresh Peach-flavoured Water-based Lubricating Gel' finally come into focus.



Hastily, I thrust the tube behind my back. 'God, you're behaving like a naughty schoolgirl,' - YM teases. 'It's perfectly normal'.

'There's 12 flavours including Bubblegum Blast, but that's in a pillow, not in a reusable tube, so it's not very environmentally friendly.'

'Yes, I can see why that would be important, with the Government's green agenda' - I reply, not actually seeing at all. In truth, I haven't yet gone beyond why there needs to be 12 flavours.

* Remind me to tell you one day about the Postman and the Trail of Condoms.

Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?

It was the usual Sunday morning Match Of The Day ritual. JP commenting in a stream of factual yet inconsequential narrative and Tiddler gawping idiotically, with one hand down the front of his pyjamas.

JP plots, plans and exercises his rather scary intellect memorising the Periodic Table and remembering exactly what he has eaten for the past 7.5 years. Tiddler giggles when someone says the word fart and is fascinated with his willie.

'Who wants Flake icecream?' I asked yesterday. Tiddler's two hands shoot up.

JP then waves his legs in the air as well. 'I've got 4 legs up, so I want more than Tiddler'.

'I've got 5 up including my widgie', announces Tiddler, trumping JP and earning himself an extra scoop.

'They're Pinky and the Brain!' remarked Mr Duck in a perfect, revelatory moment of clarity.

Virginity #2

Losing your virginity has been covered by me before, and yesterday, I'm proud to say, was Tiddler's turn.

For the last home game of the season, Tiddler came with me to OT for his very first game. He has been going to see the Mersey Reds with Mr. Duck and JP of late and has been sporting a Gerrard shirt and singing 'Fernando Torres, Liverpool's number 9' in lieu of 'we all know that Johnny is going to score'.

This was effectively damning me to a life sentence of going to the Theatre of Dreams alone. Not exactly a stretch in Strangeways, I know, but sharing the experience with my son and not having to rely on Amazing Dave to take me when I'm an OAP, was something I have been dreaming of since JP and Tiddler were born. I grew up in a family of Mersey Reds and then married one. It couldn't be my misfortune to rear two as well, could it?

It was utterly brilliant. He pored over his programme, munched his way through a big picnic and it was my delight to thrust him aloft in his United shirt for each of the four goals. My fellow fans welcomed him, tousled his hair and shook his hand, as we marched imperiously towards retaining the Premiership crown.

I took him pitchside for the lap of honour. The proximity of the Great and the Good, smiling and waving just for us, or so it seemed, hopefully secured a corner of his Tiddler heart for the future. He may never share my passion and OT may never be the one place in the world where he feels truly alive, as I do, but as we walked back to the car, eating chips and gravy and singing Viva Ronaldo, I felt a small flicker of what I recognised as hope. Life is good.

Run Tiddler Run

The Great Manchester Run is now just over 2 weeks away. Cancer Relief have sent me a running vest, a plastic warm up top and some tattoos for the occasion. The running is going ok again, although my knee is a bit twingy today. I suspect it has a lot to do with me jumping up and down like a mad eejit, when Paul Scholes found the net last night.

He scores goals galore,
he scores goals.
Paul Scholes,
he scores goals.

The Good News - I have a ticket for Moscow

The Bad News - I can't go due to work commitments. Not kidding.

Tiddler's football training has moved back outside for the summer. He's coming along nicely as a defender and occasional keeper. The only problem is that he can't run. He does this skippy-dancy thing on tiptoes that makes him look like Michael Flatley, preparing to break into Riverdance at any moment.

This has to be sorted out if my pension plan is to bear fruit.

I hatched a plan to resolve this, by entering him and JP in the Great Manchester Mini Run, a one mile race for 3000 tiddlers, the day before the main event on the 18th*

We have been out training - the full one mile. This currently requires at least one rest stop and major league complaining by Tiddler; whereas running with JP is like having Motty with you - constant commentary, no substance.

I now know why I run alone, with just my iPod for company.

They have just been sent special T-shirts, running numbers and sponsor forms to raise money for the local children's hospital. JP has already taken £5 from his piggybank for the fund. It is starting to dawn on them that this is a big deal, and they are feeling proud.

As am I.

*BBC 5pm if you want to catch a glimpse of me collapsing over the finish line. They will also be showing highlights from the mini run.

Bodies and Bacteria

It being our Friday off, Yummy Mummy and I decided to lunch out. We were due for a treat so we went to a LittlePoshPlace in SomewherePosh.

Chocolate leather, marble tables and an unctious, slightly strange owner. It's a beard thing. It was too perfect, too trimmed, too softly-spoken-yet-utterly-mad-scientist-plotting-to-take-over-the-world.

From the black-clad waitress, Yummy ordered tap water, and I ordered sparkling, as I really know how to live.

We were tucking into scallops and calves' livers respectively, when we became aware that the wallpapered panels behind us were in fact collages of photographs of naked men.



I paused on my offal to look more closely. Yes - definitely buttocks and chests and hints of hairy crotches - albeit tastefully captured in sepia.

We chewed on in silence for a while.

Until Madbeard started a discourse on bacteria, when the couple at the next table ordered a bottle of still mineral water.

According to him, the bacterial levels in sparkling mineral water are only surpassed by the levels present in the still version. In drinking such poison, not only do you not cleanse your palate, but you coat it in bacteria, preventing you from the full enjoyment of food and more particularly wine. Tap water, by all accounts isn't very much better, due to chemicals. As he detailed one particularly vicious bacterium, I stole fearful glances at the bottle of Lowland Glen beside me.

Suddenly, the risotto breseola with parmesan crust seemed less appetising.

The couple trying to order still water nodded politely and hurried to the wine list.

'I always wash my mouth out with wine before I drink wine' - announced Madbeard.

I looked up, sharply. Had he really tossed that one in the air? Just put it up there to be shot down?

'So if you always drink wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine, what do you drink to wash your mouth out, before you drink the wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine? If it's wine, do you drink wine before you drink the wine, before you drink the wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine?' - I enquired.

He charged me £5 for the sparkling water.

Littering with Intent

Warning. Look away now if you are of a sensitive disposition.

Our local residential estates are linked by a network of ginnels, so you can reach school, park and friends without taking the car or using the main road. Going green in the suburbs! Yay.

I was heading up our ginnel to a PTA fundraiser at school, when some litter caught my eye. Propped up against a dandelion was a vacuum pack for a Finger Rabbit.

'What an unfortunate name for a child's toy', I thought - particularly after this misunderstanding.

Then I spotted the 'Ann Summers' label at the top.

Two yards on - discarded packaging for a Sex Pistol - and not a Johnny Rotten action figure*.

I carried on walking, only to encounter an empty package for Jumbo Jelly Thai Beads**.

After checking for hidden cameras to ensure I hadn't been set up, I set off once more for school. Without marigolds, and with no wombles in sight to admonish me, I was not a good citizen and could not bring myself to pick up the litter. (Although, on reflection, arriving at school carrying the items, greeting the committee with a cheery 'Everyone had a good weekend?', might have been worth it.)

Is it a little weird that I was secretly rather more impressed than shocked, as I reflected on the level of intent and preparation for the tryst en plein air that clearly had taken place?

Yes, you can pant 'Oh Good Thinking', as a condom is produced at the appropriate moment, when passions overtake reason and it's right here, right now, and hurry up about it!

But is a round of applause at minimum, or some judges' scorecards with 10 printed in bold in order, when the object of your desire produces not one, but three thoughtful gifts for your public-private party?***

Update - March 2009

Keith over at notKeith has done a brilliant cartoon to illustrate the post: Thank you Keith



* Spits and swears with a choice of nose rings.
** If you're thinking 'wtf' as I was, please don't google it. Trust me, let it lie. You'll thank me later.
*** No sign of condom detritus - perhaps they were the edible kind?

Star Struck

I have been lucky enough through work to meet some of my personal heroes over the years, but I still get star struck when confronted with a familar face off the TV, and god forbid I encounter United players, when I just become impossibly giggly and girly; or stand boggle-eyed and open-mouthed like a fish staring into the gaping maws of a deep fat fryer.

I came across Ian Botham on one of his charity runs once, pounding out the miles in pouring rain in Shropshire; just a single car following, no crowds or cameras. Bearing in mind that he has been a hero and heartthrob of mine since my early teens, I stopped the car ahead of him and waited to make a donation. My heart was thumping, as I held out my hand with some money and he ran up to me. He smiled, said thanks and ran on.

And then it happened, I just couldn't stop myself. 'I love you' - I shouted after him.

He didn't turn around.

Some old git pushed past me at Old Trafford the other week in the programme queue. I turned crossly to confront him, when I spotted that it was Bernard Hill. I couldn’t risk the headbutt or the assault with the Sword of Rohan that might have ensued, so I let it go and swung back round, only to accidentally punch Marlon from Emmerdale, who was following behind him.

I'm so the opposite of cool, there isn't even a word for it.

Meat and Two Veg

I have unearthed a new reason for not shopping and in particular for avoiding supermarkets.

I took the Little Ducks to the Local Pub for lunch - armed with our usual kit of A4 paper, washable felt tip pens, Dinky cars and Top Trumps.

We're working our way through the Top Gear Top Trumps, which basically involves handing JP all the cards as he systematically recalls the winning values for every card and also the order in which they are trumped, as you progress through the pack.

'594? - that's the bhp on the Zonda, which you won last round, so that means you've got the DB9 next, so I'll go 0-60 as your answer will be 4.9 seconds and I can beat that with 3.2'.

The only pack I have some chance on is the Star Wars Starfighters, which are mine and in which he has shown little interest thus far. When I find a way to harness this extraordinary talent and beat the casinos I'll let you all know by postcard from Monte Carlo.

Anyway, I'm down to about 6 cards, when the fact that the three old ladies sitting at the next table are talking about sex filters through to my brain. And once there, is impossible to ignore. They are mid 60's to 70's, stereotypical garish rinses in their thinning hair, eating fried fish and drinking double gins.

The Little Ducks are oblivious - 'price - £668,995'

The debate seems to centre on whether Morrisons offers a better supply of potential sex partners than ASDA. There seems to be absolute consensus on the men needing to be younger than them, with the words stamina and better sex drive being greeted with nods of agreement and approval.

'Top Speed - 245mph'

I try desperately to tune out when their voices get lower and they start to use mime and nudging to get their points across.

'Cool rating - 9'

On all levels I try to see this as a good thing. That sexually-active septuagenarians cruising the produce aisles, hungry for toy boys is a natural and beautiful part of growing old disgracefully.

Instead, all I can picture is three hags squeezing the melons and checking out the plums with lascivious smiles, stinking of gin and fish as they eye up the shelf stackers.

B'Dum Tsh

I am utterly rubbish at jokes. I am usually the last person to get them and I am even worse when it comes to April Fools. The word gullible could have been invented just for me. In fact, I think I'll edit the Wikipedia entry so it just reads

'Gullible (adj.) - See Duck'.

When I was about 17, April Fools' Day fell on the last day of term before Easter. In assembly, the headmaster advised the school that there would be a section of the school grounds cordoned off during the holidays, as botanists would be studying a rare strain of blue grass which had been found there.

I remember thinking 'how interesting', then thought no more about it.

Until 23 years later when an old school friend reminisced about the blue grass April Fool on Friends Reunited, scoffing at the Head for a pathetic attempt which hadn't fooled anyone. I didn't come clean. Perhaps I should contact the McWhirters? Surely this must be the Guinness world record for the longest running April Fool?

My record hasn't improved much over the years and I was caught out by Virgin Radio this year.

I spent the entire day outraged at the plan by Brussels to phase out pint glasses by the end of 2008 and introduce plastic half glasses with slogans in their stead, as a measure to curb binge drinking. I applauded the breakfast DJ who gave the Welsh Euro MP on the line a really hard time about it, although I was a little uncomfortable at how rude he was about him personally. But as I don't read the Daily Mail, I let it go with a few sad head shakes and barely audible tuts. Two days later I heard the DJ mocking all the listeners who'd bombarded the station with emails and texts protesting the ban. I took small comfort in not being alone in my naivete.

There are 3 jokes* which I totally get, so I stick to them when called upon to produce gems of humour.

The zebra, the horse in the bar and the newt joke. That's 3 jokes, not one joke about all 3. That wasn't an attempt at a joke either, the explanation about the 3 jokes not 1.

*I do know a really long one about a jockey and a boiled chicken, but I totally fail to deliver it without dissolving into premature giggles about halfway, frustrating the audience and slightly wetting myself on occasions.

Oh, and I went running yesterday for the first time since I hurt my knee back in February. Knee held up really well, so I'm back into training for the Great Manchester Run next month. I'm thinking of laying off the black stuff in preparation.

Happy To Oblige

Dear Customer,

Welcome to Picture of a Duck.

Thank you for searching Google for 'Mr. Duck Sex Toy'*

Your order will be dispatched as soon as the Plaster of Paris dries.

We are pleased to accept all major credit cards and Paypal.


Best wishes

Duck


*I kid you not. Full stop and everything.

Do Not Disturb

They are all ganging up on me.

Midnight - return from Local Pub. Look forward to good night's sleep. No work tomorrow.

Late O'Clock: 'Mummy, I've got a nosebleed'

Stupid O'Clock: creak thud thud thud, bang trickle trickle trickle bang, thud thud thud creak*

Really Stupid O'Clock: creak thud thud thud, bang trickle gush trickle drip cough cough bang, thud thud thud creak **

Ridiculously Early O'Clock: 'Mummy I've got another nosebleed'

What Passes for Morningtime in Tiddlerworld O'Clock: creak thud thud thud, bang trickle trickle trickle fart bang, thud thud thud, very loud creak, sniff ***

'Mummy...?'

1. 'You know that thing over the window' - 'The Curtain Pole?' - 'Yes. How does it work?'

2. 'Mummy. How did Daniel die? - 'Which Daniel?' - 'The baby off Emmerdale'

3. 'Mummy. When there's a derby game, do United and City get half the Derby players each?'

4. 'Mummy. My Spywatch is on Rio de Janerio time. Can you reset it?'

5. 'Mummy. Did you know carrots are good for you. They make you glow in the dark.'

6. 'Mummy, I ate some pineapple at school' - 'Really? (in disbelief. Tiddler doesn't do fruit and veg. or indeed, any food that isn't brown) - What colour was it?' - 'The same as all the other pineapples'.

7. 'Mummy, where do Toppenham Hopspurs play?

8. And Fulham?

9. And Barcelona?'

10. 'Mummy?' - 'Yes, Tiddler?' - 'Is it Morningtime?'

* JP
** Mr Duck
*** Tiddler

At The Third Stroke

I love it when we hit British Summertime.

It means the clock in my car will be telling the right time.

Until October.

That is.

I finally got my hands on the object of my desire the other day and I was not disappointed. He was as sexy in real life as in his pictures and when I stroked his face for the first time I knew he was the one for me.

Unfortunately, he belongs to someone else, and I reluctantly gave him up after one last caress.

But one day...

Glorious Mud

Sunday being a day of sunshine and inspired by Mister Ronaldo's sublime backheel, Tiddler and I took to the park for some 1 on 1 action.

'That Boy Ronaldo...'

Anyway, I digress.

To say it was muddy after Saturday's downpour is an understatement. The magnitude of which is in the order of applauding politely and saying 'Nice Shot, Cristiano', when screaming with joy and being lifted bodily into the air and swung round by the fireman standing next to you is much more appropriate.

JP and Tiddler are incapable of playing outdoors without getting completely caked in mud, and occasionally, in Tiddler's case, dogshit. So I was resigned to stripping him off on the doorstep and commiting his entire ensemble to the washing machine with a big dose of ACE after the game, before we had even left the house.

I hadn't banked on him recruiting another Tiddler in the park for our game, nor on him slide-tackling, pushing and generally kicking him until he was as filthy as Tiddler.

I also hadn't banked on Second Tiddler's chainsmoking, rottweiler of a frizzy-permed grandmother suddenly spotting his state of cleanliness, or rather lack of it.

She marched over.

I braced myself to bring my Dimac skills to my defence. I think it's perfectly reasonable to get your own Little Ducks dirty, but in hindsight, making other people's kids look like a 'before' shot in a Daz advert isn't so clever.

'Will you be here next week?' she asked.

I nodded slowly, wondering if she was planning to return with reinforcements from the cast of Shameless.

'L's had a brilliant time playing football with you and Tiddler. Can he play with you again?'

Perfect Shuffle Karma

Mr Duck's had a virus all week, so I volunteered to go to Tesco for some shopping, which, as you know, I hate.

Still, I had a relatively short list, so how bad could it be?

The problem is, I don't know where anything is, and there appears to be no logic to the store layout, whatsoever. When you get to the finger rolls and think, 'what shall we have on them?', you then have to retrace your steps about 5 aisles to get to the ham.

Any half-wit knows you start with the bread when you make a sandwich, not the filling! Every little doesn't bloody help, from where I'm standing.

I could just feel my blood starting to boil, when i remembered my iPod.

I love my iPod and today I had perfect shuffle karma.

You know what I mean.

When the lovely nano selects just the right tracks for your mood and you end up grinning like a mental and going 'Yes, Yes, Oh Yes', very loud as the random playlist unfolds, rather like Meg Ryan demonstrating her orgasm technique in that café in When Harry Met Sally, only louder, more realistically - and in a supermarket.

Here's what it conjured up today:

Duchess - Stranglers
All You Need is Love - The Beatles
She Bangs The Drums - Stone Roses
Misty Morning, Albert Bridge - Pogues
Ole Black 'N' Blue Eyes - Fratellis
Boatman - Levellers
Bankrobber - Clash
Konstantine - Something Corporate
Apologise - OneRepublic
Mrs Robinson - Simon and Garfunkel
How Soon Is Now - Smiths
At The River - Groove Armada
Bad Days - Space
Parklife - Blur
Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

Of course, it took me several months to figure out that the reason my iPod was clever and only picked music I liked on shuffle was because it only contains music I have uploaded and therefore, de facto, like.

But still, finding the appropriate tune for the setting and my ever-changing mood, can't just be guesswork, can it?

Crossed Wires

I don't like rabbits. I think they are evil creatures. Particularly Mrs Second Hand Car Dealer's house rabbit, who takes great delight in leaping out and scaring the crap out of me. It shoots out from behind a sofa, leaps into the air without warning and then suddenly changes direction. And they stare.

Long and hard with their beady eyes. You can't outstare a rabbit.

And they can bite through the sleeve of a denim jacket in seconds.

And they're everywhere*. The Second Hand Car Dealers have three, the Yummy Mummys have two, the Scots down the road have two.

But I don't let them get the better of me, oh no. I do my share of rodent sitting of a weekend, as required.

Sister in China is out-Borough and has no knowledge of the local fascination with the creatures.

So when he was emailed late one night by a friend to say that she had a date with a rabbit, he was somewhat shocked at her candour. Where he lives, this is what passes for a rabbit.

*Please show your gratitude in the usual way for the fact that I resisted the temptation to say they breed like rabbits.


Keeganwatch week 9

He has won a match. I have lost the will to post. Skybet has my roll of tenners. There will be no more on the subject.

Well, perhaps one final Keeganism

On winning against Fulham - 'It was a great result and it might stop people saying Newcastle have not won under Kevin Keegan.' Only 'might', Kevin?

Oeufs à la Neige

On Saturday, I spent hours in the icy and often snowy wind tidying the Purple Garden ready for the great Easter Egg Hunt on Sunday morning. With Easter being early, the garden is not really at its Spring best with the snowdrops gone and tulips still to appear. Mid April is much more convenient, if you're listening in the Vatican.

I needn't have bothered, as all Saturday's hard work was buried under 6 inches of snow on Sunday morning, which made concealing the eggs considerably more challenging than usual, with tell-tale footprints giving away all the locations. The Little Ducks and their friends still had a good time, pausing only to throw snowballs, in between searching for shiny eggs, chicks and bunnies. We watched from the kitchen and stuffed ourselves with sausage butties.

I did feel for residents in a nearby cul de sac, who woke to find a giant penis outlined in footprints in the snow outside their houses. I hope the culprit remembered to wipe the trail of prints leading to his front door!

Keeganwatch week 8

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 4
Goals Conceded 21
Days to Easter 3
SkyBet odds 3/1

The draw against Birmingham means Keegan is still without a win but he believes his players are starting to find some form.

"I thought Geremi was outstanding and Nicky Butt and Joey Barton in midfield gave us a bit of an engine room. They all put in a shift and if they keep doing that we will be all right."

Didn't the captain of the Titanic say something very similar as they left port?

Available With Subtitles

The Little Ducks are under strict instructions not to answer the front door, but to just check who is outside first and then tell a parent.

A sensible policy that meets health and safety guidelines. And foolproof, or so we thought.

Last night I was taking a bath, while JP and Tiddler played with their Match Attax cards and had their tea.

I was just pondering whether having your eyeballs licked was erotic or just plain weird when

Rat-a-tat-tat.

'Find out who it is and come up and tell me' - I yelled, from the comfort of the steaming depths.

Now is probably a good time to mention that Tiddler is slightly hard of hearing and it was he who went to the front door.

'Who is it please?' - I heard him shout through the letterbox.

No response.

The knocking continued, as did the letterbox interrogation.

For several minutes.

So I hauled myself out of the bath, grabbed a robe, headed downstairs.....




and let in the deaf/mute Tesco deliveryman with the week's shopping.

What are the odds?

Testing Testing

The Youth of the Borough are apparently rife with Chlamydia, because they are not making use of Yummy Mummy's condoms and are transmitting it willy nilly - so to speak.

As part of the R U Clear testing campaign, Yummy Mummy and her team have been out and about in local colleges and shops offering to test people. She even bought new jewellery to match her R U Clear promotional teeshirt and matching thong.

Now before you screw your faces up thinking of latex gloves and dropping your trousers, it's a simple pee test, which the Youth can do themselves.

But I'm intrigued as to how you would go about approaching people, without getting your face punched.

'Excuse me, you look like you sleep around, would you like to pee in this pot?'

It knocks those Clipboard Charlies in the street into a cocked hat.

I have given it some thought and have come up with Sniffer Dogs as the solution. If they can detect bombs, drugs and bodies then why not VD?

Bouncers in nightclubs could have one to check people as they entered and stamp the back of their hand with I AM Clear.

You could hire them out for speed dating events to sweep the room before the clock starts.

Club 18-30 could operate teams of dogs to patrol the beaches and pools - part of the all-inclusive package, to avoid the hidden extras.

There's millions to be made here.


Keeganwatch week 7

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 3
Goals Conceded 20
Days to Easter 12
SkyBet odds 3/1

Newcastle deny holding crisis talks with Kevin after the late defeat against Blackburn and the 3-0 thrashing by the Mersey Reds. 'The Board is 100% behind Kevin. There is no doubt or risk that he will walk away'. I agree absolutely. There is no doubt.

The Earth Stood Still

On Tuesday night, the earth moved for Yummy Mummy. Well it would, her being in the sex business and all.

The earth apparently moved for millions of people. But not for me.

I was totally Mrs. Smug in the morning, having heard and felt nothing at 12.55am.

I have always claimed I could sleep through an earthquake, a nuclear bomb or an alien invasion and now I’ve proved it.

On the first count at least.

Bring it on Ruskies.

Keeganwatch week 6

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 3
Goals Conceded 16
Days to Easter 24
SkyBet odds 7/1

Day 38 came and went. We held our breath and then had to let it out to laugh, as 5 goals sailed past Shay Given. 11-1 on aggregate. Kevin was just pipped to Pitiful Figure of the Week, by William Gallas and his post-match tears. As consolation, he still gets Keeganism of the week.

'I'm 110% committed to this club, and you can't get more committed than that' - Mmm. Try telling that to Paul Gascoigne.

Rhythm and Blues

I have not been running for the last two weeks, thanks to a coughy coldy thing and a twingy knee due to wearing unfamiliar, blingy high heels to a party last week.

On Saturday I resolved to set aside all things coughy, coldy and twingy, to keep my training on schedule. I stretched as usual and decided to take it easy and to pull up if I couldn't run it off.

I'd only done about 3/4 mile when something gave. Not in a good, 'I want you to be fully satisfied before I even consider my own pleasure' kind of way. But 'oh, shit, how are you going to get home from here on one leg with no mobile and no access to Dylan'.

Two neighbours apparently saw me in distress (as I found out later in the weekend when they said 'oh, I saw you limping on the road yesterday, was everything all right?'), but didn't stop to see if I needed help.

Ice packs, support bandages, curry at Yummy Mummy's and some splendid sports results have all failed to lift my mood and things have worsened today.

I'm really not steady on my feet, so I have acquired a stick. The problem is, it doesn't come with instructions and I don't seem to be able to get any kind of coordination. I'm taking the Greg House approach at present - leaning heavily on the stick when I step on the right foot, but it's ending up more like Rolf Harris doing Jake the Peg.

Despite having medals for ballroom dancing, it turns out I have no rhythm. Clearly the skills required to perform with a walking stick outweigh anything Strictly Come Dancing demands.

So all I have to look forward to in my old age is sitting on the sidelines in the nursing home sipping Guinness through a straw, while the other old biddies in their silver shoes and polygripped dentures cop off at the tea dance.

Dylangram

Facebook is awash with applications and I'm bombarded with invites to find out what car I am, what drug I am, what kind of eyes I have and so on, ad nauseum.

But yesterday I discovered the one golden nugget that makes having applications worthwhile.

Bob Dylan Messaging.

There is a short excerpt from the Subterranean Homesick Blues video, but you get to choose the words on the cards and then send it.

So far I have used the medium of Dylan to ask my Great Manchester Run partner how her training is going and to find out from Yummy Mummy whether we're still on for a curry on Saturday night. Definitely an upgrade from mere texting.

Couldn't find a way to embed the video as it's in Facebook, but here's a still with some pretentious twaddle (leaving it as 'Bhuna or Biryani?' just looked plain wrong).



Keeganwatch week 5

No match for Kevin's boys this week as they are not involved in any cups. However, he cancels their Sunshine training trip to Dubai to concentrate on motivating them in the freezing cold of their home training ground. Tomorrow is day 38 in his current spell in charge, still looking for his first win - it's Newcastle United v Manchester United. The first time he was at St James' he walked out on day 38, (although they did talk him round).

*rubs hands in anticipation*

Fly Fishing

Doing the rounds of the home parties alongside Pampered Chef, Virgin Vie and Goody Two Shoes, is Venture - stylised photography cum art at outrageous prices.

Bait The Hook

At the party, you buy a voucher worth £165 for only £35. For this you get a professional photography session in the studio and a 10” by 8” photograph. Bargain.

Play the Line

In the empty white studio, you dance, run, jump and play with your kids, while the snapper shouts instructions and music plays in the background.

Reel Them In

A week later you return to choose your free photograph.

In the viewing room, with soft music and dimmed lights, a slide show of beautiful, airbrushed family images plays, while the consultant talks you through the albums, composites and sculptures you can upgrade to from your party voucher. Nothing under 3 figures. All major credit cards accepted.

In the past, Yummy Mummy and Mrs Second Hand Car Dealer have both fallen prey to this clever seduction. Mr Duck and I have held firm and chosen our single 10” by 8”, escaping with our wallets intact.

So, last week, clutching a £35 voucher, we went back for a second session, secure in the knowledge that we could hold firm. Little did we know that J R Hartley himself would be at work this time.

On Saturday we went to see the results. We chose a single, beautiful close up shot of JP and Tiddler hugging the Cuddly Huskies we bought in Lappland before Christmas and prepared to leave.

Then they hit us with the Big One. ‘Before you go, we’ve done a special composite for you to take a look at.’

The photographer had suggested bringing along a football and some kit to take a few themed shots at the session the previous week. Tiddler obliged with a fine display of chesting and shooting, and JP showed off his Cruyff turn.

Mr Hartley revealed a stunning piece of artwork – red, white and black with the Liverpool and United badges, our Little Ducks, a winter premier league ball and enough trick shots to keep John Virgo in exhibition games. Completely irresistible.

Hook, Line and Sinker

We emptied our wallets, re-mortgaged the house, sold a kidney and headed for home.

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #5

Amid the media hype and frankly offensive suggestions that anyone would mark the anniversary of the passing of 23 people with anything less than full respect, a city prepared to honour the memory of the finest team of players ever to grace the turf of Old Trafford on Sunday.

It was with some trepidation that I walked towards the ground in the warm Spring sunshine. The mood was subdued and the heartfelt sentiments scrawled on shirts, scarves and flowers laid before the concourse expressed the thoughts of thousands. An inscribed scarf and a replica programme from the 1958 game against Sheffield Wednesday were waiting on my seat – a gift from the club for each supporter, which I will treasure. Songs from 1958 replaced Iggy Pop on the PA, just for the day.

I was proud to stand silent, scarf aloft - stifled sobs from Fellow Fan beside me the only sound.

How galling then to hear that many of these priceless scarves were being offered on Ebay yesterday for mere money.


View from my seat. Photo courtesy of Fellow Fan.


Keeganwatch Week 4

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 2
Goals Conceded 11
Days to Easter 39
SkyBet odds 7/1

Aston Villa 4 Newcastle 1
It started well enough with a goal from the Poison Dwarf, but it seemed like the Dementors delivered the half-time talk in the away dressing room, as 11 strangers took to the field for the second forty five, with no memory of what they were there for. ‘Same 11 players, same numbers on the shirts’ says a crestfallen Keegan, shaking his head sadly after the game. A dark-suited Dennis Wise, looked on grimly from the Directors’ Box, like an undertaker mentally measuring up his client for a coffin.

Bloodbath

JP is prone to nosebleeds. Has been since tinyness.

We're used to it - as is he. He deals with them with no fuss - sitting out from football or snowball fights to sort it out. They come without warning, and not necessarily following a blow to the nose - that's a blow as in knock, not a blow as in Kleenex. Although a blow to the nose as in Kleenex can also set it off.

Sometimes it starts when he's asleep and he wakes up in the morning, dried blood all over his face and bedcovers like a scene from Taggart. As was the case this morning.

Unfortunately, it also happened when he had a friend over for a sleepover, whose parents had not warned us of their son's phobia about blood (- why would they, to be honest? - it's not something that comes up in everyday playground conversation)

We were disturbed by piercing screams from the bedroom. JP was sitting up in bed, bemused, but looking like roadkill and his traumatised playmate in the readybed was completely inconsolable and refused to stay another minute.

He's never been persuaded to come again and JP has never been invited back.

I'm thinking of renting him out for Hallowe'en.

Keeganwatch week 3

Matches Won 0
Goals Scored 1
Goals Conceded 7
Skybet Odds - 7/1

He Who Must Not be Named.
It's Groundhog Day. 3-0 to the Arsenal - again. Then yesterday, an offside goal sees two points dropped at St James Park after Owen jumps unfeasibly high to head a goal in. Has he borrowed Oscar Pistorius' carbon fibre feet? Curiously, no-one will utter Keegan's name in interviews, referring only to 'The New Manager' or 'since the Manager arrived'. Is he Voldemort in disguise?

Pirates v Ninjas

The Little Ducks used some Christmas money from Uncle Ginger One to buy themselves the Pirates of the Caribbean PS2 game. It's a 2 person game. Someone is Captain Jack and the other person is Will or Elizabeth depending on the level. You have to work together, and stay close on screen. I'm becoming quite adept with a sword in the Fighty Fighty bits as Tiddler calls them.

It's a little disconcerting playing with Tiddler, though. We're busy blowing up walls and killing soldiers - he's Jack, I'm Will, but Tiddler insists on calling me Mummy instead of Will throughout. 'Come on mummy, this way'. 'Kill that bad guy, mummy'. Not exactly the script Johnny and Orlando were used to.

I have to say being a Pirate is very appealing and I'm thinking of switching sides on Pirates v Ninja on Facebook. I'm currently a Ninja trainee. Globally it's about even with 2 million on each side and similar battle results. There's no clear winner as yet.

Anyway I came across a debate using the tried and tested measure of google results on specific search terms. Here's what they found:

"killed by ninja" 18,900 results
"killed by pirates" 935
"killed by a ninja" 12,000
"killed by a pirate" 12,100
"killed by a raptor" 2,610*
"robbed by pirates" 1,950
"robbed by ninja" 3
"plundered by pirates" 3,300
"plundered by ninja" 0
"stolen by pirates" 643
"stolen by ninja" 9

Groups of ninja are much more dangerous than groups of pirates, a lone pirate is equally as dangerous as a lone ninja, both are more dangerous than a raptor*, but pirates do a lot more plundering, stealing and robbing.

Still too close to call. Your thoughts please, while I try to decide.

* threw that in for our little paleontologist, JP


Keeganwatch Week 2

Matches Won - 0
Goals scored - 0
Skybet odds - 7/1

So. 3-0 to the Arsenal and pipped by Spurs for Jonathan Woodgate. Turned down by Shearer, his hopes for the week rest on Joey Barton returning tonight. Ever the Pollyanna optimist, Keegan tells the BBC 'I think we'll see a new Joey Barton at the end of this'. Yes Kevin, the one in the suit with the arrows on.

Level Playing Field*

'Will I be able to play a real match when I'm 18?' asks Tiddler, while I wrestle with his shinnies before football training.

'You'll be able to play a real match when you're 7' - I am happy to explain. 'Instead of just training with your team, you'll be playing matches against other teams!'

'Can we play against Man. United?'

'I don't think it would be very fair. Ronnie and Rooney against 7-year olds.'

'Oh right.' - There is a pause as he thinks. Then asks

'What about Blackburn Rovers then?'


*This isn't turning into a football blog. I promise. It's just how the cards are dealt at the moment.

Rejected and Dejected

I am rejected.

Useless, old, unwanted.

I am the recipient of a Dear John, or in my case Dear Duck.

My blood count - whilst normal, is not good enough for platelet doning and I am doomed to the ranks of common blood doning for ever.

Excuse me while I go out and get roaring drunk.


I am dejected.

On top of this, after feeling supremely good for cracking 5 miles on the running front, I was brought down to earth with a bump in the Local Pub.

After informing a fellow drinker (Let's call him Banker, as my mother reads this) that the 5 miles was taking me just under an hour, when he enquired, he helpfully pointed out that we walk at 4 miles an hour, so this wasn't much to write home about.

Excuse me while I go out and get roaring drunk.


BTW I have been accepted for the Great Manchester Run in May - 10 kilometres round the city, including the Theatre of Dreams at Old Trafford. I have decided to run for Cancer Relief in memory of my Uncle who died in the Autumn. I will be aiming for an hour, so I spent the weekend trying to run faster (just couldn't let it lie). I managed to knock 7 minutes off the 5 miles yesterday!

So, excuse me while I go out and get roaring drunk!



Keeganwatch Week 1

Newcastle 0 Bolton 0

It was only 3 days into the job for the SB, so we think he can get away with a 0-0 in his first game. There are small signs of discontent, with some fans leaving early from St James Park and choruses of Cheer Up Kevin Keegan could be clearly heard at Reading on Saturday. 62 days till Easter and counting.

Love It

In the immortal words of Rhys Ifans, on encountering Julia Roberts in the bath, in Notting Hill -

'Thank you, God.'

I have been struggling for blog inspiration since Christmas, coupled with the return of Insomnia.

Even the fantastic performance on Saturday, Ronnie's first hat trick and numerous choruses of Cheer Up Alan Shearer couldn't bring me to the keyboard.

But nothing on earth could prevent me whooping for joy and rubbing my hands with glee at the news that Serial Bottler Kevin Keegan is returning to St James' Park. What a pity we're not playing them this week.

The odds on him quitting before the end of the season are 7/1, so I'm off to Sky Bet with a roll of tenners. I might see what they'll offer me on him not lasting until Easter.

Feel free to enjoy the famous rant about Fergie, while I'm gone.

Happy New Year

This year, as last, I have mostly been having 10 pints of Guinness

on my nails.



And also putting my foot in it. Again.

My niece turned 18 last weekend, so I took the Little Ducks over to Wales to take her present and to give her some money for Guinness. (Never too early to start on the black stuff in my opinion. Nor in hers, as she is already partial.)

She works in a local pub behind the bar, so we went along for lunch. After we'd eaten, I got chatting to the landlord, her boss, standing at the bar, who mentioned that his parents had been over from Liverpool for Christmas.

'Did you count the silver after they left?' I enquired - A perfectly reasonable Manc to Scouse response or so I thought. And after all, he did invite the punchline with that opening.

Exit Duck, pursued by a stony silence, but thankfully not by an angry niece clutching a P45.

Snap!

I am developing the opinion that twins should carry a health warning.

I know the whole concept offers endless comedic possibilities for Hollywood, and how we laughed at school over naming the German teacher's twin boys 'The Two Ronnies' on account of him being called Ronald.

But the whole mistaken identity thing is a total can of worms - and not in a good way.

One of the mothers of Tiddler's team mates at football is an identical twin. It came up in conversation one day, although I can't for the life of me remember how. She's also a City fan (although I'm glad to say her son is a Red, like mine).

Anyway, moving swiftly on. They live near us and I have spotted them over the top of my Guinness glass in the Local Pub from time to time.

Recently, I spotted Football Mum in the pub, but didn't recognise the man with her. I smiled and waved at her, but she didn't acknowledge me in return. In fact, she didn't look happy at all.

Aha - I deduced, in a flash of brilliance - the identical twin.

So at training last week, I mentioned to Football Dad that I'd seen Football Mum's twin in the pub with a man, and how funny it was that I waved, thinking it was her, but that she didn't recognise me. The whole hilarious, mistaken identity twin thing. Ha ha ha.

'But she doesn't go into pubs' he replied. 'It can't have been her.'

'Oh.' I said.

Followed by 'Ah'.

Just to punctuate the expanding silence.

Love Changes Everything

It's Fulham and I'm feeling vocal. As part of the ritual, Fellow Fans and I have greeted each other and the referee signals kick off with his whistle. Pete Boyle conducts the crowd.

U. N. I.
T. E. D.
United are the team for me
With a knick knack paddywhack
Give the dog a bone
Why don't City fu..


It's then that I notice it. Our block in the North Stand is strangely quiet. Mine is a lone voice.

Now this doesn't bother me per se, but I know my singing partner, two rows back is here.

He plays on the left
He plays on the ri-i-i-ght.
That boy Ronaldo
Makes England look shi..

Same again. Just me. I fish in my pockets for my blackcurrant Lockets. He must have a sore throat.

Then I spot it.

The reason.

He has brought a girl.

She is wearing a pink hat and scarf and is gazing at him, oblivious to the goings-on pitchside. He is sitting upright in his seat. Self-conscious. Knee to thigh intimacy is unavoidable in the packed stand. She snuggles into his shoulder.

A couple of times he forgets himself and sings the first few bars, only to tail off awkwardly.

In the second half, Ronaldo is denied a clear penalty, which could have seen his first hat trick for the club. 75,000 voice their disapproval of the referee in time-honoured fashion. Poor Fan. His dilemma is agonising.

Stay silent to impress the GF or be himself and let rip, risking what is clearly a new relationship.

I sing twice as loud to compensate and reflect on football and love.

They leave 10 minutes before the end - her leading him by the hand.

Somehow I don't think he'll bring her again.

That's very nearly an armful!

I'm definitely getting geekier. Mention the word upgrade and my ears prick up.

So far I've resisted the temptation of the primary object of my affection - it's only a matter of time before I succumb.

But this week, after 25 years and many more pints, I have been invited to upgrade to Platelet Doning instead of your everyday Blood Doning.

They've buttered me up with flattery about my excellent veins and blood flow*, the shortage of A+ donors, so with my ego sufficiently boosted, I've agreed to a test. They're going to count my white cells and get back to me. I need a score of 220 for a pass.

Here's the deal.

You get a special bed at the blood centre.
You can play your iPod.
You get food, drink and 1.5 uninterrupted hours with Michael Palin**.
You don't have to avoid hazardous or strenuous activities or alcohol *** afterwards, as they pump the blood straight back in after taking the white bits.

Now I'm not saying I'm competitive, but I feel like I've taken an entrance exam for an exclusive club and now I'm desperate to be accepted. Watch this space.


*(7 minutes 11 seconds for a pint last week - a new PB)
** insert your choice of author here
*** I have always considered the lower blood:alcohol ratio when drinking after doning to be a perk.

Immortal

One of the Little Ducks' favourite authors is Julia Donaldson, who writes beautiful rhyming stories, with fantastic illustrations - The Gruffalo being her most famous.

Room on The Broom is our favourite with a witch and a dragon and an excuse to yell WHOOSH! on every page.

Her latest story is Tiddler - a tale of a small fish who invents the tallest of tall tales to explain his repeated lateness for school, then ends up in a scrape for real.

Our own Tiddler is always looking for reasons to miss school, despite his new-found good behaviour and a stream of recent party invitations.

This weekend he informed me that he has growing pains, which means he can't walk.

I did detect a small flaw in his argument, when he gyrated round the front room trying to copy Matt's salsa moves on Strictly Come Dancing.

10/10 for effort though.

Reebok, Now and Then

Nobody told me that running* would involve so much shopping.

As well as the swanky armband, I now have several sports bras, cycle shorts, capri tights and Guinness running socks (with pints and toucans).

I've been using aerobics trainers to pound the avenues and alleyways of East Lancs. My running shoes, carbon-dated to 1989 have no sole on the right shoe and have been worn for painting for many of the intervening years since I last did any running.



I decided I was due an upgrade, so I have treated myself to these**:



In an age where the aim of technology seems to be to make everything smaller, it's bizarre that trainers seem to be getting bigger. These dwarf my old ones! They cost about the same, which 18 years on means I was either ripped off then or have a great bargain now. I'm staying positive.

* Up to 4 miles now without stopping for oxygen. Even ran in the rain and cold yesterday - which felt brilliant and exhilirating. I-Pod running playlist now as follows: She Sells Sanctuary - Cult; Love is a Stranger - Eurythmics; Insomnia - Faithless; A Midnight's Summer Dream - Stranglers; Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division; The Passenger - Iggy Pop; Black and White - Upper Room; Laid - James; Obviously - McFly; Hey There Delilah - Plain White T's; It Means Nothing - Stereophonics; Waterfall - Stone Roses.
** And before you panic about putting new shoes on the table - I have already been out in them, so they're technically used now.

Speaking Words of Wisdom

ITV have been heavily trailing I'm Absolutely Not, By Any Stretch of the Imagination, Under Any Criteria You May Wish To Specify A Celebrity for the past week or so, which I will not be settling down to watch tonight. Frankly, I'd rather cut off my own arm with a PlayDoh scalpel.

JP has been studying the trailers and doing some thinking.

'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here?... Is that where celebrities have to survive in the jungle without straighteners?'

Nil By Mouth

Yummy Mummy had a Pampered Chef party on Tuesday. A host of kitchen gadgetry and gizmos, to solve culinary problems you never knew you had were demonstrated and a Boxing Day turkey leftover dish was prepared and cooked before our eyes.

All was well and dignified, until someone asked if one particular item was suitable for the bedroom as well as the kitchen. From that point on, we all looked at the equipment in a new light and the demonstrator struggled to keep Ann Summers from the door.

Order was eventually restored and with the sales pitch over, we switched to gossip.

Neighbour #1's daughter has been in early labour since Thursday last. This was a personal blow as JP and Tiddler were due to play with her Little Ducks on Friday. 'How bad is it?' I probed hopefully when she phoned to cancel the play date - having already made plans.

Naturally there were a range of Old Wives present with helpful suggestions about raspberry leaf tea, fresh pineapple and curries. It seems the Belaboured has tried pineapple, but is now pursuing a rather more energetic route, pouncing on her husband every time he walks through the door and marching him upstairs. He is now naked, sorry knackered.

'What is she doing with the pineapple?'

8 pairs of eyes turn to the speaker. 'When I was having my first, I made my mouth bleed eating fresh pineapple until the midwife told me I wasn't supposed to be eating it. The reason pineapple is promoted to induce labour is the presence of prostoglandin - also present in sperm, but it needs to make direct contact with the cervix....'

Luckily Pampered Chef has a gadget for dismembering pineapples and leaving a hard central core.

We decide to employ modern thinking and the discussion turns to acquiring battery power. Ann Summers is now well and truly in the room, sipping a glass of wine.

We send a text to the Belaboured, offering our suggestions and support, but stopping short of actual assistance.

Talking Amongst Myself

I have always talked to myself, right from childhood. Out loud, that is, as opposed to just thinking in my head, which everybody does - at least I assume they do*.

It has always seemed like a perfectly natural and normal thing to do. My brain engages, the tongue slips into gear and off we go. I could do it all day - and sometimes do.

Over time, I have learnt to restrict this to when I am alone or at home, as it does seem to generate strange looks in public. But this is not always possible when I have a lot on my mind and it can just spill out wherever I am. In which case I just stop, smile and try to pretend it isn't me. Anyway, to my mind, it's no worse than singing along with your iPod.

The Little Ducks are quite used to my solo conversations. Tiddler sings and talks to himself a lot - mostly singing, but has been known to just chatter away when the mood takes him. JP will occasionally seek confirmation - 'you are just talking to yourself aren't you, Mummy?' - just to check that no input is required from them.

During tea, at H and Em's, an argument breaks out when H wants to save a place for her invisible friend, so she can talk to her. JP is having none of it, despite the fact that we are guests and H is only 4. You can't keep a scientist down.

'There's no such thing as Invisible Friends'.

Seeing the tears welling in H's eyes, I try to smooth things over. 'I talk to myself all the time' - I tell her.

JP retorts -'Yes, but H's mad because she's got an invisible friend who doesn't exist, who she talks to. Mummy's not mad because she talks to herself and that's a real person.'

There's some logic in there somewhere.

* I don't read out loud though (unless I'm required to do so by the Little Ducks). That would be a bit mental.

Rocket Science

We are still getting round to playing with some of the presents from the Little Ducks' birthdays.

I have to admit when Tiddler tore the paper off a Rocket Launcher from the Science Museum, I was slightly worried that his classmate had mistaken the 5 on his birthday invitation for 25.

But on closer inspection, it appears to be Tiddler-proof. There is neither gunpowder, fuel nor detonators- just foam rockets, a foot pump and a launch pad. The Purple Garden becomes Cape Canaverel and we prepare for launch.

They're fantastic. They shoot up to 300 feet into the sky (according to the instructions). So, after retrieving them from neighbour #2's garden for the 5th time, we adjourn to the park.

We couldn't have been more popular if we'd hijacked a travelling circus, hitched an ice cream van to the back and kidnapped the cast of Harry Potter to hand out 99s with raspberry sauce.

Dozens of kids queued to stamp the foot pump, vying to see who could get the rockets the highest. Some could only stand and stare.

JP prepared himself Jonny Wilkinson-style for his turn -

pacing out his run up

controlling his breathing

in the zone...

The result is spectacular. I wonder if zoologists can be part-time rocket scientists?

Bild Von A Duck

I was checking out my sitemeter stats like a saddo, now we are a whole year old and came across something strange whilst browsing the entry page referrers.*

A German translation of POAD aka Bild Von A Duck. So I dusted off my O Level and started to read. All seems well, until you see what they do with the About Me blurb:

JP (7), USB-Stick (5), Herr Duck, und ich wohne in suburbanen Osten Lancs. Mein Leben ist ganz normal. Die Jungs sind außergewöhnlich, der Garten ist violett und Fußball ist meine Religion.

Tiddler is USB-Stick in German! I like it! I think we'll change his name by deed poll.

*For non-techies, the stats thingy at the bottom of the page that tells me who you are and when you visit, also tells me how you got here. A surprising number of you look for pictures of ducks on Yahoo or Google - hello and welcome. Kind of makes me wish I'd called it Picture of a Cock - I might get more traffic.

The Secret of Happiness - Part V

Gardening: Has a positive effect on your happiness which doesn't diminish over time.

So: The Secret of Happiness

If you want to be happy for a few hours - get drunk.
If you want to be happy for a few years - get married.
If you want to be happy for life - get a garden.

I thank you.

Oh, and while you're here, today is POAD's first birthday.

The Secret of Happiness - Part IV

Having Children: Contrary to what you'd expect, the graph is negative when they're very young. There are little happy spikes along the way*, but the effect on your overall happiness is bad**, until they start to develop into interesting individuals - like JP and Tiddler.


*beyond my graph-making capabilities
** no sleep, no social life, just endless pee, poo and puke.

The Secret of Happiness - Part III

Getting married: The bad news from the research is that the year in the run up to your wedding is the happiest! So if you're engaged right now - make the most of it.

Of course there are some gluttons for punishment...

The Secret of Happiness - Part II

Getting Drunk: A brief peak at the point of being roaring drunk, followed by the crash into hangover on the negative axis. Not sure if the hangover dip shouldn't be sharper than the happiness peak, but I suppose that depends how much Guinness has been consumed.

The Secret of Happiness - Part I

I told you on my birthday that I would share the secret of happiness with you and now the day has come.

The theory comes via Richard Reeves of Making Slough Happy fame.

If you're Salvadore Vincent, you can make genius diagrams of this. I will have an amateur go and make it last over a few days.

On the vertical axis you have degrees of happiness and on the horizontal axis you have elapsed time. The research asked people what made them happy and how long did it last and the results were then plotted.

You get graphs that look like this:



Winning the lottery: You get an initial uplift in happiness, but then it levels out and might even tail off. Money can't buy you happiness, but it can buy some of the things that will contribute.

More tomorrow.

Can you guess what it is yet?

To raise funds for the school, the PTA offers personalised coasters, t-shirts, placemats, mugs, mouse mats and so on, with pictures drawn by your children. The ideal gift for those hard-to-please grandparents.

This week, sample coasters have come home for our consideration.

JP has drawn a dog and a rabbit on a green hill, under a rainbow-filled blue sky. Perfect Wrinklie Ducks material - lots of aaah factor.

Tiddler has drawn a dog and a head sticking out of a large brown object floating in mid-air. The caption reads 'Tiddler and his dog practising for the sack race, 2007'.

Mmm.

a) to my knowledge the sack race is a solo event, not human/animal pairs

b) he has never seen, nor participated in a sack race

c) we don't have a dog.

I think he's sneaking cheese at night.

Virginity

Every now and again, it's good to help someone lose their virginity.

When they utter those words 'it's my first time', you stop in your tracks. You know you need to make it really special for them. An experience they'll remember for ever.

After all, it's not every day you get to take someone to Heaven and back. I got my latest opportunity last Saturday.

I have never forgotten my first time.

I was breathless with anticipation and my heart was pounding. I couldn't believe it was finally happening. We'd planned it for weeks and weeks and when the day finally came, I could barely contain my excitement. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, knowing that I would never be the same again. I chose my outfit with care. I wore red - but there was never any question really.

And it was Heaven. It was everything I had dreamed of and more.

We won 4-1.

On Saturday it was 4-0. I'm sure J will never forget his first visit to Old Trafford either.

Go As You Please

My uncle lost his battle with cancer recently, so family and friends gathered to celebrate.

Not his untimely death at 66, but the life of a fell-running, music-loving free spirit.

The day dawned with sunshine and clear skies. Two of my brothers*, my niece and I headed for Whitley Bay.

The funeral was organised by appropriately named Go As You Please.

The day was a genuine celebration of his life, rather than the mourning of his passing. His fellow members of 10th Avenue Band played, as we walked and danced from the sea front to the crematorium, flanked by the permanent and conformist reminders of the more usual face of death.



The band were dressed in their signature black and white costumes; ostrich feathers, hats, polka dots, checks and stripes making the monochrome display anything but sombre. My uncle himself would have probably worn an outrageous black and white kaftan, had he been walking and playing his flute or tenor saxophone, instead of being carried behind by his children.

The simple coffin was vibrant with flowers from his garden, woven into the wicker with ivy, by the family that morning.

Inside the building, his photographs watched us from the walls as one by one, friends and relatives stood up to share stories and memories. The building resonated with laughter and smiles and love.

As we left, Carl from Go As You Please, showed us the photographs they had taken of the procession - already printed out on sheets, to the delight of the family.

We proceeded to the wake to hear both 10th Avenue and later, one of his other bands - the Cradlewell Jazz Band - perform. We drank, ate, looked at countless pictures and news clippings, and shared more stories and tributes.

He would have loved it.




*sister in china and the ginger one - for interested commenters

Black, White and Bling...

... is the name we have settled on for the new Pink Palace.

It does exactly what it says on the tin. It is all black, white and silver and has sparkly bits in the polished, black floor tiles*. Even the Human Bacardi Breezer**, keeps it monochrome for work - apart from hair (pink) and flip flops (turquoise).

The polish has gone upmarket too. The house red is 'Merlot' here - in the PP it was 'Cranberry'.

Some things do stay the same though - like the tea and gossip with the regulars.

Yesterday, the conversation turned surprisingly to football. 'Guess who Blonde Salon Owner is dating?' asks HBB.

'A Manchester United player!' - she continues, without giving me a chance to rattle off a random list of contenders. (This still gives me 35 to choose from so the game is not over yet.)

I make my pitch.

I am wrong.

Several times over.

'Ooh' I rejoin - non-committally, when I fail to guess and the answer is revealed.

'But I'm not sure I believe him' - adds Blonde.

She lays the evidence before us. We are all ears.

1. He claims to be 27, but official sources put him at 23 (and I've checked this).
2. She has been to his house which has a waterfall in the garden and a Lamborghini in the garage, but thinks it might not be his.
3. He looks like the player, but his hair is longer than the current squad photo - but that was taken a while ago.
4. He complains of soreness in the place where this player is currently injured, but could be faking.
5. He does not have the accent of the country for whom he is a capped International, which is correct.

Now, I'm no Lazlo Woodbine, but I offer to help out. As I scrutinise him from my seat, watching the second-half demolition of Wigan with his injured team mates, I draw up my plans.....


* which BTW I'm giving serious consideration to laying in the kitchen
** formerly of the PP, who does my nails

Not To Do List

While Anna has been driving herself crazy with Lists of Things to Do over at Little Red Boat, I decided that as an antidote I would have an antilist. So here is my Not To Do list, so far.

1. Go shopping regularly

2. Run too far with my iPod*

3. Keep banging my head on the same shelf in the kitchen

4. Leave the pub before closing

5. Watch football quietly

6. Put the milk in before taking the Tea-Bag out


It's a work-in-progress, but has more more of a feel-good factor than a To Do list don't you think?

* Went out again without a swanky armband yesterday. Decided to action point 1 on the list and didn't buy one. Legs in working order though, (as far as I can tell). I must be forgiven. Switched the playlist order so Joy Division comes on during the big uphill. Inspired!