43 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 would love to have a tattoo
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 deja 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. Today is my birthday





*Aka Swiss Army Knife

** which I will share with you soon

Quoting Cannonball

Update: (in case you were wondering)

We have just returned from our holiday in Devon where JP turned 7 and Mr Duck slightly more. Happy Birthday both. As the luckiest Ducks in the world, we had fabulous weather all week and it lasted long enough for me to renew my relationship with Swing Seat at the weekend. I am even sporting a mild tan.

Onwards:





The Cannonball Run was a defining film of my early 20's. A favourite with siblings and friends and oft quoted. Out of mischief one day, I made a Captain Chaos cape and mask for one of our gang who bore a close resemblance to 'Him'. Late that night - well after closing time as I recall, we crouched by the side of the main road and at the onset of approaching headlights, with no thought for his personal safety or the consequences for the mental health of the drivers, the Captain jumped out into the road crying 'Dan Dan Daaaaa', frightening the bejesus out of each passing motorist. It is a memory that has stuck with me for 20 years.

Prior to the holiday, I bought a copy of the DVD and was delighted to discover (in an obsessive and only slightly worryingly anal way) that I could still remember 90% of the script.

With only a few 'shits' and one 'mother' to worry the censor, I took a chance and let the Little Ducks watch - knowing how much Tiddler would enjoy the car chases - and he did.

They enjoyed it so much, they watched it again the next day.

Imagine my pride when after only two viewings, I overhear JP and Tiddler replaying the cop scene with Sammy Davis Jr, and Dean Martin.

Cop: 'Get out of the car, Shorty'

SDJ: 'Why'd he call me Shorty?'

DM: 'Because you're small, small, S M all.'


If you're chuckling with recognition right now, leave a comment.

And So We Begin Again

The Little Ducks are at Football School this week as part of a wide and varied programme of summer holiday activities.*

With Tiddler's football career in the balance, the intense skills training will come in handy. By 6.15 this morning the wake up question was 'which shinnies shall I wear?' and 'shall I take these goalie gloves or these?' In the early morning gloom I dispensed my sage advice.

'Whatever!'

The real excitement for me this week is the first home game of the season. A friendly against Inter Milan on Wednesday. The football drought is ended and the ritual begins again. I can't wait.

To celebrate, let's relive those glorious goals against Roma.


Click the play button in the bottom left corner.


*known in our house as 'WTF can we do with the kids this week?'

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #4

I hate shopping.

But with a conference looming and having lost a few pounds, Yummy Mummy talked me into going to the Trafford Centre. Fed up of using safety pins to keep my trousers up, I agreed to an evening trip - nothing on earth would induce me to a daytime or weekend visit*.

We are making our way along a two lane ringroad, when the rear door of a taxi, parked outside a pub, swings open into the busy road, at the exact moment we pass by. There is a cry from YM and a loud bang. We manage to pull over, some way past and survey the damage. Megane's wing mirror glass, now cracked, hangs sorrily down from its housing, attached only by some wires. Minimal. We clip the glass back into the mirror and reset the housing back into position.

We walk back to the taxi where the driver is shaking his head and looking at his rear offside door which is severely dented! Surveying this, I am now somewhat embarrassed to admit that my only damage is a cracked mirror glass - not even full-blown wing mirror devastation to report, which would seem only reasonable and fair, in light of the state of his door. (Although, at the same time, I am secretly in awe of the tank-like resilience of Megane and resolve to treat it to a wash and polish.)

We swap numbers and he is perfectly decent about paying for the damage.**

The woman who caused the accident is nowhere to be seen. She's paid her £2.80 fare and gone into the pub!


*well, maybe if Mr Palin was signing copies of his diaries in the bookshop, with a free pint of Guinness for every customer.

** which he does immediately, when I replace the glass two days later. Thank you Mr Azad.

Karaoke Pirates of the Universe

Tiddler went to a Pirate Party on Sunday - stripey britches, waistcoat, bandanna etc. etc. He doesn't like facepaints, but did agree to tattoos, so I duly painted a skull and crossbones, anchor, ship and cutlass on his forearms. And made a pretty good fist of it, if I do say so myself.

Not to be outdone, JP dresses up too and asks for his face to be painted. Eyepatch, beard, moustache, scar and dripping blood. The resemblance to Jack Sparrow more than passes muster.

After the party, they ask to go on the PS2. I have now advanced sufficiently to load the eye toy and Kinetic. So their 18th century pirate alter egos appear on TV, battling with virtual space bombs and missiles. Bizarre enough.

But things become surreal when they ask to switch to Singstar.

Pirates in space I can cope with, but Jack Sparrow and First Mate with microphones, gyrating along with Ricky Martin is just too much.

La Vida Loc-aha, Jim Lad.

Selection

Football training is suspended for 3 weeks. When they resume, Tiddler’s group is going to be split into two – by ability.

He’s only 4 and he’s to be pitted against 19 other tiddlers to make the first team squad, or sink into reserves oblivion, taking my dreams with him.

Instantly, I assess the competition in my head. Is Tiddler top ten material?* I try to size him up with an independent eye.

He shoots well.
He dribbles with both feet.
He can kick out of his hands
He doesn’t shy from tackles.
He’ll play the man if the ball has gone.

But

He’s a bit lazy
He’s not very fast
He shoots well, but only with one foot.
He’s a bit reluctant to head the ball
He’ll play the man if the ball has gone


It will be a long three weeks.


*I’d put him at about 7th if I’m honest

Sex Toy

Yummy Mummy babysat on Sunday, so that I could watch Mr Duck being presented with a large silver trophy and a prize from the Pastel Sports Jackets and Brylcreem Committee at the Golf Club. It joins the other trophies in the cabinet from a recent St. Andrews Golf Trip and Mr Duck’s handicap has been cut again. Well done, that man.

Yummy Mummy is in the sex business - educating the youth of the Borough in the ways of safe (and legal) practices. I raised my eyebrows the first time I saw a gross of condoms on her dining table, but anyone who travels in daylight with a laptop bag with DUREX emblazoned on the side in large letters, deserves admiration.

When we return from the golf club, she is busy packing something up on the rug.

‘I’ve been testing my new toy’ – she explains, pulling out a large, wobbly, transparent willie on a stand. ‘It even ejaculates’.*

Mr Duck instantly appears from the kitchen with Big Bertha and a smile on his face.

'You might at least have closed the curtains' - I admonish, as the sound of our names being scratched from party invitation lists resonates up and down the street.


*It’s a demonstration tool for practising putting condoms on. I don’t understand why it ejaculates. Perhaps it’s a novel ‘It’s A Knockout’ game against the clock?

Temptation II - Txt Message

11.02
Duck. Sun out. I’m waiting. Come now. :) SS xxx

11.14
Not much time. Hurry up :) SS xxx

11.25
I’m warming up nicely… :) SS x

11.38
Where are yu? :( SS


11.51
SS. F***ing London. D

Temptation

I would like to apologise to all for the dreadful weather we have been experiencing, which I fear, is all my fault, due to my committing the deadly sin of lust.

A couple of weeks ago, I treated myself to an early birthday present - a swing seat. Ever since I saw the Waltons swinging on their porch* in the 70s, I have craved one.

Mr Duck assembled it, and I ignored the mutterings about me being old and wanting a rocking chair**. I couldn't wait to get my hands on it.

It's beautiful, it's funky, it matches my garden furniture.

It's a 'glider seat' - I am reliably informed by JP - confirming my status as a 21st Century girl with cutting-edge gliding technology on my deck.

I position it carefully to catch the evening sun, open a bottle of beer and take my first glide.

For a few blissful minutes I dream of us spending long, lazy summer evenings together, moving gently back and forth.... until the first drop of rain splashes on my nose, rapidly followed by a second and then a deluge.

Two weeks have passed and I have yet to sit on it again. Oh, it's out there - enticing me into the storms - the gliding mechanism ever-responsive to the wind and rain. I am being seduced, but I am powerless to resist.

'Come to me' - it beckons, 'you know you want to'. I'm very tempted.

But still I sit here, gazing upon the object of my desire, waiting for the clouds to part.


*That's the wholesome TV series about a family in the Depression in the US, before you go looking on Youtube for juicy clips.
** Duly noted though - expect to hear about a cold dish sometime in the future.

Art Class

JP and Tiddler were rewarded with a KitKat* after eating all their tea last night. Assuming peace and goodwill to all men, I return to the kitchen to cook for Mr Duck and I.

With bolognese bubbling away, I enter the front room to find Tiddler rolling a KitKat finger between his hands like a boy scout trying to make fire.

'Look mummy, you can use the Kit Kat like a paint roller' - he informed me, 'for chocolate fingerpainting'.

I turn slowly to survey the scene behind me. Perfect replicas of Tiddler's hands wave cheerily from the wall, and the chair, and the bookcase.

I retreat to the kitchen and give the bolognese a stir.


* Not being vegetarians

Fatherless day

With Mr Duck off on a postponed Valentine's Day Golf trip and Mr Yummy Mummy and Used Car Dealer on a stag weekend, it falls to 3 mums and 6 kids to find something to do. So we set off in fine drizzle, for Formby; with waterproofs, a picnic and spare clothes.

Despite an early start* I am in happy mode after watching K-Pax** the night before, and agree to take 4 kids in my car. They spend the journey making up songs about poo and show-off sisters with dangly earrings and mini-skirts. I tune them out and hum along to Virgin Radio.

As we leave the West Pennines, the clouds fade to blue and I don sunglasses, grabbed hastily, yet optimistically at the last minute.

The National Trust park at Formby Point is a revelation. Child- and picnic-friendly woodlands full of the first red squirrels I have seen. My remorse for past grey squirrel roadkill recedes, as these enchanting creatures parade for nuts before us.

The paths get sandier and the kids race to climb up, and surf down the sun-washed sand dunes that rise unexpectedly at the edge of the woods and then drop to an unspoilt stretch of beach. Out at sea, wind turbines spin and we rue the fact that we packed for foul weather not fair, with neither swimming gear nor towels. No matter. The kids play happily and the mums enjoy the sun.

The day finishes splendidly with ‘having our tea out’ during which JP’s wobbly tooth finally exits to a rapt and delighted audience of 5, complete with minor bleeding.

I text the tooth fairy to put East Lancs. on tonight’s call sheet and head home with 4 sleeping, sandy little ducks – no doubt dreaming of poo and show-off sisters…

* 6.15am. Enter JP - 'Do birds have really good hearing, mummy?' 6.16am. Exit JP, pursued by a slipper.

** Fantastic book and great film with totally entertaining mad people.

Perfect Moment

Of course, the last thing you expect at a research conference is a wet T shirt contest.

The keynote speaker was talking about recognising that each of us is the star in our own lives and that we need to ensure that we play the roles to the full. To illustrate the point that we need to wake up, take control and live, he threw a succession of wet sponges into the audience - made up largely of academics and professionals. I was on the front row, so every sponge went over my head, soaking me in the process and changing the demure white top I was wearing into a stag party novelty show.

The homework was to identify who we would choose to play us in the movie of our lives. I decided to give it some thought.

The answer came to me last night when I watched The Wedding Singer for the nth time. Great movie and a brilliant soundtrack. My favourite scene is the one in the kitchen when Julia and Robbie kiss. In a stolen moment, with music playing in the background, Julia's other half is forgotten. They gaze into each other's eyes and as their lips meet in a perfect, soft kiss, they know that they are meant to be together.

So I pick the slightly geeky, square-jawed Drew Barrymore to play me. But opposite me wouldn't be Adam Sandler. I'm afraid I would pick the delicious John Cusack.

Sorry Adam.

Genocide

The ant farm is no more.

We have been able to piece together what happened from the black box recordings. Here is a transcript.

Adam: Tiddler's in the garden kicking a football at the house. Duck will go ballistic. He's already knocked over 3 sunflowers and smashed a terracotta planter this week.

Assist: The back door's half open, she'll hear him in a minute.

Adam: Attention. She's chopping an apple. Engine room, prepare for transfer to the kitchen counter.

Lubric: Roger that Adam.

*A minute later*

Adam: Engine room, damage report.

Lubric: Minor sandfall in the south tunnel but no need to evacuate. Lieuten and his crew will shore things up.

Assist: You get a much better view of the garden from down here. I like what she's done with the rhubarb.

Adam: What's that shadow on the open door? It looks like the Death Star. It seems to be getting bigger. It's almost as if something's heading straight fo...

ENDS

The Best Medicine

Yummy Mummy was at the end of her tether last night with daughters H and Em, who'd been banished to their bedrooms.

'Come round later and we'll have some wine' - I suggested. 'Mr Duck can come round to watch the football at yours with Mr Yummy Mummy.'

Sometime later the text message alert bleeps on my phone:

Just cookin T. Both naked so thanks for offer but not 2night.

Delighted that she's found a way to relieve her frustrations I tap out a reply:

Sounds v interesting. Don't burn anything delicate.

Seconds later - a further missive:

Oops dyslexic moment. Supposed 2say knackered. At least now had belly laugh nd feelin slightly better.

End of an Era

After being my home-from-home for tea and gossip for three years and nearly 100 sets of sensational nails, the Pink Palace has been sold.

All customers were invited for a farewell drink yesterday at a nearby pub. I decided to wear shocking pink, in homage, and to match this week's cherryade nails.

'I don't imagine I'll be very long' - I advised Mr Duck, as I headed out the door with Yummy Mummy; anticipating a swift pint or two and hugs/air kisses as appropriate with a few, familiar faces.

The shocking pink turned out to be a wise decision as we entered the small pub, tucked at the end of some terraced two-up-two-downs.

Cowering in the corners of the bar were the regulars, clutching pints of mild and blinking uncertainly.

Setting up in the side room were one of the finest rock bands in the North West, friends of the departing Pink Palace owner's musician boyfriend - complete with tattoos, earrings and enough amplifiers and speakers to serve the borough, never mind a small pub.

Taking over the rest of the pub were dozens of PP customers like exotic birds in shades of pink, tangerine and lime - complete with highlighted, extended hair; stilettos to make Carrie Bradshaw green; and fake tans, nails and boobs aplenty.

The guinness flowed, the band rocked, the birds preened and fluttered and the Pink Palace got the send-off it deserved, albeit a very surreal one.

Sleeping to Three Decimal Places

Long ago and far away, I went on a school youth-hostelling trip to North Wales.

In the dormitories with narrow bunk beds and army issue blankets, seven 13th-year-old girls lay down to toss and turn and wake up freezing cold, in a tangle of thin cotton and coarse grey wool.

One 13th-year-old Duck woke up warm, refreshed and still tucked in perfectly smooth, hospital-cornered, matron-would-be-proud comfort.

'You pathetic little sandwich!' - my school friend exclaimed, rubbing the Tommy Nod from her eyes.

I can't help it! I wake up in exactly the same spot I went to sleep, covers intact, pillows barely dented. I always have.

I personally consider this a plus. I might put it on my CV - 'Makes excellent bedfellow, no duvet snatching or elbows in the back.'

I could stick it in the personals 'Guinness-drinking, blonde, United fan, colour-blind, GSOH, will not put cold feet on you in the night'. Who wouldn't be tempted?

I could advertise to share a burial plot on the same virtues.

JP slumbers with exactly the same mathematical precision. He gets into bed, removes his glasses, shuts his eyes, falls immediately to sleep* and doesn't stir until morning.

Unlike Tiddler, captured here in his nest last week. If you look really closely, you might just make out the garish, tangerine pyjamas behind the cement mixer. Bless.




*Seriously. You say 'close your eyes and go to sleep now' - and he takes it absolutely literally.

Superhero

We've all asked ourselves at some point which superhero we would prefer to be - given the opportunity. Masks, capes, tights, powers and so on. So many choices.

The Little Ducks get to try out for the roles in multiple, miniature, dressing up costumes.

How reassuring to find somewhere, where we can follow a logical and considered process to reveal the true answer.

Oh, and in case you're wondering about me. Tada

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #3

This week has been National Vegetarian Week. So today, in the town square, there were entertainers for the Saturday shoppers, and helpful leaflets.

The problem is, the entertainers were a trio of Native American Indians, dressed in furs and leather, complete with headdresses made of fox pelts - heads, tails, legs - the full corpse experience. Quite brilliant Council planning.

And all this on the back of the outing of Guinness, Snickers and Kitkats (the UK's bestselling chocolate bar) among others as being unsuitable for vegetarians, thanks to the swim bladders of fish in the former and rennet in the latter.

Still, all the more for me then, so it's not all bad news.

Cheers!

Pen!

I have a new pen.

:)

It is not a Zippo

:(

It does not make fire

:(

But it does this




:)

Que Sera Sera

Whatever will be, will be
I'm not going to Wemberley
Oh Poo!
:(