Show me the funny - O's comedy thang

It's Gallery time again over at Sticky Fingers and this week Tara's asking us to tickle her funny bone and spread the laughter throughout the internet. So without further ado, here's my funny, gurning, daft little O doing his comedy thang...

Wearing Great Gran's comedy teeth

The Egyptian

Mother and...gurn

Still smiling after throwing up in the maze and taking half an hour to find our way out...

Even his socks are funny...

Hot priest alert...

I'm finding myself flitting from one book to another lately. It's not like me. I tend to have two or three books on the go, but usually finish one off before getting immersed in the others. However, at the moment I am leaving a trail of unfinished books in my wake and it's starting to bother me. Am hoping it's a blip - I need to get my reading mojo back...

I've always been a retro reader - going back to old favourites again and again, but recently, I've been doing this more and more. Am not sure why - perhaps its comfort in the familiar or maybe I just need something simple. When I was in hospital with my fractured skull earlier in the year, there was a copy of Flowers in the Attic in the scabrous old patients' lounge. This book was one which I read over and over again when I was 15. It was a craze - all the girls in my year were crazy for the titillating tale of Cathy and Chris and their doomy incestuous attic-based loving. How wholesome. As I mouldered in the orthopaedic ward, I took a break from helping the nurses out with the old ladies and speed-read my way through the book, marvelling at the sheer wrongness of the whole thing. It was strange going back to it 20 years later and realising how much I still knew off by heart and how overwhelmingly emo I must have been during the teenage years...

I think it must have sparked sort of yearning in me. Last week I ordered a copy of The Thorn Birds off Amazon and am about to delve once more into its depths. Does anyone remember The Thorn Birds? Catholic priest, Father Ralph and his relationship with Meggie? Inappropriate, forbidden, hot loving? Oh, how I adored it. I remember when I was a little girl and mum was gooey-eyed over the mini-series back in the 80s. I recall the cringing as she swooned over Richard Chamberlain and reminisced over his glory days as Dr Kildare back in the 60s. I eventually got over this horror and read the book during the same emo teen phase as when I read Flowers in the Attic. And, true to form, I was captured by the same obsessive devotion to the paper Father Ralph as my dear mother was by the small screen version.

I had a look on YouTube for some clips of the mini-series based on the book and came up with a number of  steamy scenes. Inspired by ShitMummy and her pervular blog, I bring you one of the best. It appears I am my mother's daughter, as I now have a raging and disturbingly fierce crush on the gorgeous Richard Chamberlain and his smoky, sexy voice...



In celebration of this delightfully filthy video, I shall post my new badge, handed to me by ShitMummy..

Must go. Got a priest to seduce. I'll be in the barn if you need me...

The Gallery - the one she begged me not to post...

Hello! It's Gallery time once again and this time Tara's gone with 'A Smile'. Please do pop over to Tara's Sticky Fingers blog to check out the other entries.

I have loads of pictures of my smiling boy - although these days his smile looks like a broken dry stone wall as he's losing teeth on what seems like a weekly basis. I was so tempted to post one of his grinning chops.

Then I thought of the photo my darling little sister, K, hates with a passion. It is crying out to be posted. It is one from my mum and dad's 25th wedding anniversary party. From the brief, happy time when I was the thinner sister and she was a little chunkier than normal. How we have laughed over this picture...

It is fondly termed 'the Chinese picture' and has gone down in family lore, along with other seminal works:

• the one where the school photo lady combed K's hair and she looks like she been in a wind tunnel 
• the one where I have a Jackson 5 perm
• the one from 1971 where Dad is wearing purple swimming trunks - shudder...
• the one where we've both been forcibly sat in a tree and I'm smiling through ill-disguised tears

 I have just come off the phone from talking to my lovely little sister and have told her that this is going on the blog. I am sorry to report that she used offensive language which I cannot possibly print in a respectable family blog. I hope you all enjoy her picture and please, do comment freely. I will be happy to share your words with her when she next pops over...

Back to school - The Gallery

This is for the wonderful Tara Cain's Gallery. Please pop along and have a look at the treasures posted this week.

Two pictures. Thirty years apart. Two four year old children on the start of an educational journey.

This is me aged four in 1979. I loved school - loved the reading and the writing stories and playing with my friends. I didn't like being teased - that used to make me cry and retreat into my shell - a shell I still struggle to come out of on occasion. But I was a happy child and loved learning.

Education for me has been an up and down experience. A bright, top of the class girl for most of it until I reached GCSEs and A-Levels. Then I messed about, didn't try and carried that on until my degree, when I didn't get my 2:1. It was a colossal wake-up call and when I did my Masters, I really gave it my all and did myself proud. I don't think I'm done with education, but the thought of studying again brings me out in a cold sweat. Never say never though...

I look at the little girl in this picture and I can remember the picture being taken. I loved that dress with the embroidered flowers on. Mum must have picked it especially. I look at her eyes - my eyes - and think where life has taken that little girl that was once me. It has been so hard since breast cancer, but I think life's still good. I wouldn't have picked this path I've found myself on, but I'm trying to kick my heels and dance the rumba once in a while as I trundle along it.

And what about this little man, pictured at the same age in 2008? (Love that Geoff Boycott side-smile). What does life hold for him? He's happy and enthusiastic and enjoying being a big boy of six at the moment. He's been through a lot in his short life already - when this Reception picture was taken he'd been through a very tough time. It's hard for a three and four year old to see Mummy bald and poorly and sobbing as she fights to beat breast cancer. But he's come though all that with the help and support of my wonderful M and my family and friends and is cheerful, kind and cheeky.

I look at this picture and I see the promise of my boy. I want so much for him, but most of all I want him to be happy and healthy and surrounded by love. Just like he is now.

I want more than anything to see the man he will become. When I'm laid in bed at night, thinking the bad thoughts, that is the thing that grips my heart with fear the most. The possibility that I might not make it to see him grow up. This is the reason for my blog. Just in case I don't make it, I hope the things that are written here will help.

*This post took on a life of its own - was not supposed to be this maudlin. I can only apologise!

Tonight, he's a rock 'n' roll star

Following on from the Gallery post I did about Oasis and Loch Lomond, O and I have been listening to the Oasis back catalogue in the car, as I relive those happy days. We love to sing along together, giving it our full 'Liam' as we drive to soft play places, the park, Granny's house, the supermarket - you name it, we're singing Oasis as we go there. He's particularly enamoured of 'Wonderwall' and 'Cigarettes and Alcohol' (bad mother alert) and really throws his heart and soul into the singing and rock and roll posturing.

I was a child who grew up in a music loving household. My dad was a lover of classical music, opera, rock and the blues. Music was all around us and I have fond memories of the Sunday dinners where Dad would slap a bit of 100 Ton Chicken, Rolling Stones, Maria Callas or Jimi Hendrix's 'Electric Ladyland' on the turntable as I tried to force the brussel sprouts down my reluctant throat. The music was amazing - the sprouts less so. 

Does anyone else remember that Hendrix fold-out LP sleeve with all the naked women on? It seemed so risque back then. I would creep to the hi-fi cupboard and sneakily peer at the saucy women while my little sister giggled in the background and threatened to tell on me. There was the Roxy Music album as well. Dad - I'm appalled!

I do feel so lucky now that I had the opportunity to experience all this different music, although that was not the always the case back in the old days. When Dad dug out the Emerson Lake and Palmer 'Pictures at an Exhibition' LP, my mum would protest vigorously, my sister and I would cover our ears and endure the prog rock stylings with a very bad grace and some terrible squealing until he took it off. Poor Dad...

It seems right to pass on this rich musical heritage to little O, especially as his daddy also loves music and has a splendid record collection going right back to the Swinging Sixties. O has inherited his Grandad's love of a good blues riff and a stonking guitar solo and loves to bash his mini drum kit in the style of Matty from the Arctic Monkeys who is his drumming hero.

When we're listening in the car, he knows that when I turn the music down and la-la-la over it that there are 'bad words' and happily accepts the need for the censorship. I am not sure how long this will be endured - but I'm hoping that it will be a while. I can do without him singing along to 'the band were f****** w*** and I'm not having a nice time' (Fake Tales of San Francisco, Arctic Monkeys).

This one's for you, O. Toniiiiiiight, you're a rock 'n' roll star!

Memories - Oasis and ice cream drinks...

Oh, something was needed to kickstart a slacker-blogger out of inertia. Thank goodness for Sticky Fingers' weekly photo Gallery from the lovely Tara. It's now Week 23 and the theme for this week is A Memory. Beautiful. So simple and yet so challenging. I've had a difficult couple of months and still trying to find my feet again, but things seem to be on the up. I was driving home from work on Monday and thinking about my poor barren blog when the light went on and my 'memory' was there. I couldn't wait to get back home and post - it's been weeks since I felt like that.

So - the memory. The photo is of (from left to right) Track, me, Wee and M, on 4 August 1996, up at Loch Lomond watching Oasis in concert. The photo is old and a bit blurry as I was holding the camera and M looks a bit distracted, but the joy of that weekend all floods back for me when I see it.

A wonderful two days, filled with friendship, drinking (but not too much as poor Wee was recovering from salmonella) and the joy of seeing Oasis live and lairy and full of Mancunian swagger. We danced and sang ourselves hoarse, I swooned at Liam's ape-like charms and we marvelled at the amazing fireworks at the end of the concert. Sod Knebworth - this was where it was at...

But the trip up to Scotland wasn't just about the Oasis concert, although that was the main reason for going. My mum's side of the family used to live not far away from Loch Lomond up in Gourock and I'd spent happy summer holidays up there staying with the family at my great-grandad's house.


They were such happy holidays. Great Grandad was gruff and old, funny and sarcastic and often a bit scary, but how I loved visiting him and playing in his garden where the wild raspberrries grew.  The last time we were leaving after another holiday, I remember waving goodbye to him through the car back window and suddenly my gran was crying and saying "I'll not see my dad again" and I felt a grip of terror. Such a vivid memory - it is as clear as a bell. She was right too - he died in July 1981.

So, a pilgrimage to Gourock seemed like the right thing to do whilst we were up there in 1996 and so on the Saturday before the concert, M & I drove through Port Glasgow, through Greenock and along to Gourock, following the River Clyde all the way.

Memory - such a powerful thing. In all my life I have never felt the rush of buried memories returning like I did as we drove through the main road through Gourock. It had been 16 years since I'd been there and the torrent of emotion and remembrance took my breath away. It was visceral and strange, but somehow exhilarating at the same time. I have never experienced anything remotely like it since.

Mum and Dad used to take me and my little sister for ice cream drinks when we were up visiting Great Grandad in the summer. I never had such luxurious delights at home and the glamour and magical taste of fizzy lemonade mixed with vanilla ice cream was something to be savoured (come on, it was the late seventies - times were hard!).

So when M and I were in Skipton with O last week on our wet caravan week in the Dales, I was delighted to see that the cafe we had picked for much needed refreshments served ice cream sodas. Hurray - ice cream drinks! It was O's first time.

The look on his face in this picture is priceless and I can feel the passing down of a special tradition has begun. The memory of the fabulous ice cream drink of my childhood is something shared and special and I can confirm that the Skipton 2010 is just as good as the Gourock 1979 vintage...

Camping with the NCT ninjas...

We had a fab, if slightly moist time up in Nether Wassdale on our NCT camping trip. It was so good to get back under the canvas with the gang and see the children rediscover their friendships and develop new ones. O was so happy that the 'little' boys were now able to play cool games like warrior ninjas and secret agents and spent ages running about with Laura's four year old and assisting in his muddy scab development. There were also endless games of cricket and football, played with verve by the secret agents. Here are several of the daring ninjas on the shores of Ennerdale.

One of the men of the party devised a child friendly two mile walk (with the help of Albert Wainwright), which in reality involved scary stepping stones and wading and a long, fairly tortuous slog up one of Scafell Pike's foothills. There was hardy walking, piteous weeping and domestic drama, but the children made it. Here's a picture of them celebrating their achievement. Even the cool teenagers are looking pleased with themselves in the background.

While we were on the shores of Ennerdale, I took some footage of the waves lapping against the stones with my phone. When I'd been ill I had some hypnotherapy and the sound of the water in the Lakes was the soundtrack of my 'special place'. I thought I'd capture this sound and drift off there again. Sadly, this footage is marred by the sound of Laura bellowing soothing entreaties to her children...



Other honourable mentions are:

The ladies toilets in the pub, with their pictorial and vaguely disturbing homage to the female bottom.

Our virgin camper, Solicitor Friend, getting down and dirty with the campers, but still bringing olives and hummous to the picnic table. After two days picnicking on curled-up cheese sandwiches we fell upon this bounty like campers possessed.

Peanut, the hapless and adorable hound, who endured gender confusion for the whole trip. "She's a SHE!" was the oft-repeated cry of the Drivers.

And finally, TFMo3 who entertained ten children for over an hour at bedtime with the power of songs and one chocolate biscuit each.

I can't wait for the next one...