Around My Kitchen Table

Iodine and Germolene

This is an original Germolene tin. The cream is still being manufactured.

I have been thinking a lot about my late parents today. My better half and I were both blessed with brilliant parents and we were reminiscing about our childhoods last night. Not that our parents were the epitome of perfect parenthood. They had their moments! But we never doubted for one second their commitment to the family or their love for us.

Our conversation reminded me of an article I wrote for Devon Life magazine. It was written a while ago now so I'm sure everyone has forgotten it - they had probably forgotten it 10 minutes after reading it! So I'll reproduce part of it below:

Iodine and Germolene

TODAY my friend could only stay for a quick cup of coffee because one of her children was off school with a sickness bug.

Off school? The only reason my parents would let me miss school was if I had limbs amputated or was in quarantine with the Black Death.

This hardy pair had three remedies – Germolene, iodine and my father’s patent medicine. Germolene was for minor injuries. All cuts, grazes, rashes, burns and bites were cured by the liberal application of the smelly, pink antiseptic gloop.

Iodine was for more serious injuries; for example, when bones were visible. My father, a farmer and horse trainer, had the unshakeable belief that if it didn’t kill the horses, then it wouldn’t kill us. If iodine stopped a horse’s hoof from going septic, then it would certainly sort out a kid’s cut. Believe me, you do not know pain until you have had neat iodine poured over an open wound.

For colds, coughs, flu and diseases of the respiratory system, my father’s patent medicine was whisky and sugar topped up with boiling water. This remedy certainly cured my cold when I was seven; I was violently sick all night and forgot all about my runny nose. Projectile vomiting? Take a carrier bag to school with you.

No matter how serious an injury I picked up while playing outdoors – broken limbs, blinding, disembowelment by one of my brothers - it would only merit a scathing, “That’s nothing!” from my mother as I was shown the door. If both your feet were facing the right way, there was obviously nothing wrong with you.

The attitude was that if you ignored an illness, it would go away. If you fought it off without outside interference, you would end up tougher. If you allowed a bug to take its course, you would be immune to it next time round. It’s an attitude that has stayed with me into adulthood. My reaction to any affliction that strikes me is, “That’s nothing!” and I carry on.

The dearly beloved has a similar attitude. The day after he had taken the tops off two of his fingers and scraped the skin almost to the bone after a nasty accident with an electric planer (don't ask...), he was up on the roof of his factory workshop to replace tiles, protecting his mangled hand by wrapping it in a polythene bag with string around the wrist.

Instead of berating him with wifely concern, I nodded approvingly. I only wished I'd had a bottle of iodine with me.

* * * * * * *

Looking for a Christmas present for a cat lover? Here's one written by a cat who describes herself as a "prawn aficionado, diva, grumpy and rude! And she is definitely all of those things but very funny with it. Have a look here: http://bit.ly/wordsbytoffee

* * * * * * *

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
You really don't want to miss my next post. It could be my best one ever (or not... who knows)! Enter your email address top right and FeedBurner will tell you every time there's an update.

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Funny Tweets

It's an old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times." Well, we are certainly living in "interesting" times at the moment. So if any of you need a little light relief from all the doom and gloom, take a look at these Tweets. They made me laugh. I hope they make you laugh too.

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

John O'Groats to Land's End

Facebook recently reminded me of a 2016 post when my sister and great-niece arrived at Land's End after cycling from John O'Groats. To my friends from other countries, these are the northernmost and southernmost points in Britain, John O'Groats in Scotland and Land's End on the tip of Cornwall.

This in turn reminded me of an article I wrote at the time for our local magazine Devon Life. I include a slightly shortened account below:

Devon Life

I HAVE a sister who puts me to shame. Peggy is 73 and still competes in triathlons and has a host of medals to prove it.

As if that isn’t enough, a couple of months ago she and her grand-daughter Hannah, my great-niece, cycled from John O Groats to Land’s End. This 73-year-old and 13-year-old took on a journey of more than a thousand miles. I know the shortest road distance between the two points is just over 800 miles but, typical of my family, they had opted to take a guide book which detailed the scenic route. They cycled up mountains and down deep valleys and did detours to take in places of interest.

Her long-suffering son Trevor (my nephew) drove the support vehicle (fancy name for a campervan) and was tearing his hair out at their sense (or rather lack) of direction. At one point they phoned him to say they thought they had missed a turning after he had given very detailed directions and instructions about the name of the crossway with the huge signpost.

“No, we haven’t seen it,” they declared. They eventually realised they must have ridden past it. Later in the evening after a large detour, my nephew looked at the photographs they had taken and there was a “selfie” of the two them, grinning inanely in front of that huge signpost. That lack of direction also saw them pushing their bikes through the centre of Glasgow, asking bemused Glaswegians how to get out of the city and back on track.

Thus, a distance of 800 miles quite easily becomes one of a 1,000 miles plus.

My part in the proceedings was to look after my sister’s polytunnel while she was away. As I have mentioned before, I am to gardening what Agent Orange is to jungle warfare. Even so, I don't think my mother and brother needed to have laughed quite so hard when I told them I was gardener-in-chief while Peggy was away.

I don't understand gardening and I have no affinity with plants unless they are steamed, buttered and on my plate. I have searched in vain for this fine line between insufficient watering (i.e. dead) and over-watering (i.e. dead). I’ve never found it and therefore find myself hovering between a rock and a hard place, watering-can in hand.

Day One was fine. It was sunny. The radio was on. I turned on the hose and fetched watering cans full of water. I was also charged with feeding the fish in the pond and feeding the birds. The fish seemed pleased to see me, swimming to the surface to eat up their pellets. Peggy has had trouble with herons swooping down and finding their dinner but the sky was heron-free. The birds too were happy as I replenished the feeders.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself. This “farming” business was a piece of cake.

A few days down the line and the leaves of the cucumber plants had started to turn yellow. A quick look on the internet and a trawl of friends’ opinions wasn’t much help. The problem could have been anything from over-watering, under-watering, spider mite, blight and a deficiency of magnesium in the soil. My solution to the problem was to pick off the yellow leaves and hide them in the compost heap.

Then there were the tomato plants which soon looked decidedly droopy. I was hoping they were weighed down with the promise of an abundant crop rather than burdened by the weight of my sister's expectations. Fat chance.

By the time Peggy returned home, everything seemed OK. However, the very next day, every single one of her tomato plants turned brown, withered and died. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. They had succumbed to an air-borne blight which completely wiped them out.

She was kind enough not to blame me for that but I couldn’t help noticing her casting worried glances towards the fishpond and bird tables.

I jokingly said: “Where’s that net? Those dead fish won’t remove themselves!” Sadly, she didn’t think I was very funny!

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself. The cat lovers among you may be interested in this book written by my cat (I know,,,,) Not So Sweet Toffee. It's had really good reviews - honest!

Living With Sir Rantsalot

The dearly beloved is not known for his reticence. He is pretty laid back and easy to live with on the whole but there is a long list of things that make him cross, from politics to celebrities and football to fashion (please don't mention ripped jeans within his hearing). Modern life in general tends to enrage him and he is not backward in coming forward, as my mother used to say.

It's best not to be in the same room when he's doing battle with his laptop. He's by no means a computer whizz kid - and patient he is not. And it's best not to be in the same county when he's reading the Sunday papers.

Coronavirus is, of course, saturating news coverage these days. He has no faith in anyone making the decisions.

"They are like effing school governors trying to run a tuck shop," he rants. (I didn't dare tell him that school tuck shops probably only exist at Hogwarts these days, because Harry Potter is another thing he hates).

Then there was the rant about a gambling website. Every Saturday he spends the grand total of £2 on something called the Scoop6. It's a bit like a lottery. You have to get all six winners in six selected races - practically impossible but it's a lot of money if you win. He always logs on expectantly every Saturday afternoon thinking that the six nags he has chosen have all romped home ahead of the field. Sadly, two hours after the races are over, a significant proportion of them are still running!

This Saturday he was up early to pick out his horses. He logged on to the site and the rants began. It seems he was a bit early and not everything had yet been posted. Sarcasm dripped from him as he moaned: "Oh no, they can't get it all done before 8am - too much effing trouble for them," was the only comment fit repeating for my readers of a delicate disposition.

When the information did finally arrive, it was not arranged to his liking. Cue another rant. "Is it too much to effing ask that all the races are laid out side by side with the form beside each horse so you can actually see what is effing going on?" In the end he got in the car, drove to the shop and came home with a newspaper where everything is organised the way he likes it.

The sugar tax in a bid to cut down on childhood obesity was another issue that caught his eye. "Why should I pay tax on Coca Cola just because there's some stupid woman up the road drip-feeding it to her kids?"

Then there are his views on global warming, the "snowflake" generation, the education system, pathetic sitcoms on TV, the fact that manufacturers are making clothes smaller these days (yes, dear...), sport, other drivers and the internet, to name but a few.

He is so bad I have named him Sir Rantsalot. Not to his face obviously. Ha-ha.

The cat and I are used to his, shall we call them "strongly-held views?" and try to block our ears to them. We have sidled off to the other side of the house, his rants gradually fading to a distant rumble.

* * * * * * * *

If you are a cat lover - especially a lover of the grumpier members of the species, this is the book for you, written by Toffee who, despite her name, is the least sweet cat you can imagine. The world according to Toffee exists to serve her and woe betide anyone who forgets it. Paperback on left, Kindle version on right.

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.

A Visit To An Alien World

Tyre-fitter - or tire-fitter as my American friends write.

[Today I made my second trip in about four years to a tyre business to get a dodgy tyre replaced. I remembered writing about it at the time so I reproduce it below.]

Today I embarked on a hazardous trip to lands not previously explored (by me) with nothing to guide me save my trusty Sat Nav.

It was with some trepidation that I entered that mysterious land called Mid Devon Tyre Services. I looked around and saw I had achieved my object and tracked down an alien being called A Tyre Fitter.

I'm not used to this car business having been spoiled for years and years by having a company car. It was all done for me. A nice man came around at work and checked the tread. If a tyre needed replacing, it was replaced.

Since leaving the company, the dearly beloved has sorted out all my vehicle-related needs. Except today. He's too busy. He had done his usual check of my car and announced I needed a new tyre.

"But I've got three perfectly good tyres!" I tell him. He looks at me as if I have crawled out from under a stone wearing a hat with the label BIMBO in the brim.

"Yes, sweetheart, tell that to the nice policeman when he stops you and to the magistrates when they fine you £200 and put three penalty points on your licence." He can be VERY sarcastic when he wants to be.

So I drive into this tyre-fitting place. I don't want to appear as if I'm a know-nothing woman who they can rip off. Even though I AM a know-nothing woman who they could quite easily rip off.

So I nonchalantly walk up to the desk, put my arm across the counter and look the assistant in the eye and say, "New tyre, please."

"No problem, madam, what do you want?"

What does he mean, "what do I want"? I've just told him. I want a new tyre. He looks at my puzzled face and reels off a list of options. I still look puzzled and he says he'll send someone to look at my car and see what tyres are already on there, then they can fit the same type. I blame the dearly beloved for not arming me with sufficient information.

So that's all sorted and I settle down to wait. But I realise I am losing the "I know what I'm doing" game so I wander over to the coffee machine - then they will know I have some mechanical skills at least. I don't know what I did but the coffee machine resolutely refuses to produce a beverage. Nice man comes over from behind the desk, presses a few buttons and I have my coffee.

I go back to the bench to drink my coffee and read a magazine dated June, 2011.

I'm half way through the quiz, Are You a Tomboy or a Girly Girl? when I'm told my car is ready. Now I shall never know whether I should be wearing oil-stained jeans or a flowery, floaty dress.

Man behind counter tells me how much I have to pay - one arm and one leg, it sounds like. There are lots of extra things on the bill like balancing, alignment and VAT. I blink, wonder briefly if I should query anything - but it all looks official. There's nothing on there that says "know-nothing woman rates apply", so I pay up.

I leave the tyre-fitting place feeling strangely and misguidedly proud of myself. I have an alien world and emerged intact

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

* * * * * * * *

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Joys Of Getting Older

I am not yet a septuagenarian but I am a sexagenarian. The latter sounds like fun but don’t worry folks, I’m not going to regale you with risque tales of life with my old man!

I’m not that bothered about my age, not while I still have all my faculties. Well, most of them. I have near enough lost the ability to remember anybody’s name or even my own after a few glasses of wine and I grunt like a constipated pig every time I get out of a chair.

Apart from that, I feel pretty well, mentally and physically. But a quick poll of my friends revealed a litany of conditions that appear in old age, a few of which I already have and the rest I am galloping towards.

One I have noticed myself is the realisation that the middle-aged person walking towards me is that young person I used to baby-sit. The young whippersnapper is now a grandparent. How on earth did that happen?

The first time I realised I wasn’t getting any younger was back in my 40s. I had always prided myself on my excellent eyesight. Then suddenly my arms were too short to read my book. But lots of young people wear glasses, so I wasn’t that bothered. These days, though, I have reading glasses all over the house because as soon as I’ve put down a pair, I’ve lost them, although most of the time they’re pushed up onto my head.

One friend told me she now dreads invitations to late night events. So do I. After midnight I turn into a grumpy old Cinderella with one eye on the clock and a deep desire to get out of my shoes and put my slippers on. But I’ve always been like that as I’m a lark rather than an owl. Except in my teens and 20s when I could party all night - and frequently did.

Another thing I will admit to is the constant harping back to “the good old days” when everyone had more commonsense and was more self-sufficient. I’m always getting told off by the younger generation for my politically incorrect comments.

A friend joked that he took an age to climb a ladder and when he got to the top invariably found it was propped against the wrong wall. I took that one with a pinch of salt. That’s never happened to me, but I rarely climb ladders, leaving all that kind of thing to the old man!

I was hoping my friends would put a positive spin on ageing - you know, like being more wise, becoming more patient and getting more respect. Yeah, right… they all said.

Their long list of what I have to look forward to once I slip into septuagenarianism, included your back going out more than you do, your ears becoming hairier while your head becomes balder (that was a man friend - I sincerely hope he wasn’t referring to women!)and you and your teeth spending the night in separate rooms.

And I was sooo happy to learn that one of things I have to look forward to is peeing when I laugh or sneeze. That should be fun.

* * * * * * *

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.

Those Confusing Pixies

I AM feeling a bit pixilated. I don’t mean a photograph of me has broken out into fuzzy squares – although many people would consider that an improvement – but I have been touched by the pixies and am feeling somewhat confused and bemused – no change there then.

I suppose I ought, in the interests of accuracy, to point out the slightly different spellings – I am pixilated whereas my photograph would be pixelated. (I'm sorry, once a sub-editor, always a sub-editor.)

I'm not sure if my non-British friends know what pixies are. They are little sprites that live in Devon and Cornwall in the South West of England and they get up to all kinds of mischievous s activities.

I was brought up on stories about the Dartmoor pixies. I was told to be careful because pixies disguise themselves and try to lure children away from home. That was one way, I suppose, of stopping your child going off with a stranger. Of course it’s a “fact” that pixies love singing and dancing and ride about on Dartmoor ponies.

They are often helpful but sometimes mischievous, and can confuse you in the blink of an eye. If you don’t know whether you are coming or going, if you start feeling dizzy and strange and feel compelled to wander about aimlessly, you could well have been touched by the pixies. But fear not, the antidote to being pixie-led is to turn your coat inside-out. That’ll do it.

The better half often claims to be pixie-led, usually when he’s late home from the pub. If only he remembered to turn his coat inside-out.

* * * * * * * *

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Remedy For All the Ills of the World

I know there is no cure as yet for this coronavirus thingy that is sweeping the world but I'm sure if my parents were alive they would have all manner of remedies to keep the family safe. None of them would have worked...but they would have given it their best shot!

When I was growing up this hardy pair basically had three treatments for all illnesses and complaints, which I wrote about here.

To give you an example of their tender ministrations let me tell you about the time when at the age of seven I succumbed to a bad cold. My parents felt my hot forehead, crushed up an aspirin in a spoonful of jam and sent me to bed. The next morning it was off to school as normal as nothing was allowed to keep us away apart from being in a coma on life support or possibly, depending on the severity, having multiple fractures.

I was still suffering by the time I returned home from school. My father again felt my fevered brow, shook his head and decided there was nothing for it but to give me his “patent cure-all”. Mother tried to persuade him it wasn’t a good idea but he was determined.

So out came the whisky bottle. To a generous shot of best Johnny Walker was added boiling water and a spoonful of sugar. I was ordered to glug it down. It was not unpleasant and it certainly helped me get to sleep. But…in the middle of the night I was violently sick. Now, in addition to having a bad cold I was projectile vomiting and my mother was shouting at my father, “I told you not to give her whisky!”

By morning I was still suffering so I had a rare day off school. The following day the hand-on–forehead test showed I was better so it was off to school with strict instructions to say nothing to my teacher about the Johnny Walker.

But if giving whisky to a child is ill-advised and these days would be grounds for calling in social services, it’s not half as bad as some traditional Devonshire remedies I read about.

Here's how to cure whooping cough. Bring a donkey to the door of your house and thrust a slice of new bread into its mouth. Then pass the sick child three times over and under the animal’s body. Cured.

For a sore throat get someone to read you Psalm 8 seven times for three mornings in succession. With all that reading your helper will no doubt develop a sore throat but it’s OK, yours will be fine.

But I think this is my favourite remedy:

To Cure Zweemy-Headedness - wet the head with plenty of old rum; the back and face with sour wine; wear flannel next to the skin, and carry a packet of salt in the left-hand pocket.

Mercifully I don’t suffer from zweemy-headedness all that often but I wish I’d known about it the morning after I’d drunk my father’s patent cure-all medicine.

* * * * * * *

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Locked Down

We here in the UK are on "lockdown" at the moment, which means we can't go out except for essential tasks like shopping for basic necessities, a medical need and one form of exercise a day like walking, running or cycling. Everyone has been told to work from home if at all possible. Only people in essential occupations are allowed to go to work. Pubs, clubs, gyms etc have all closed.

As a consequence many people are stuck at home with kids and partners. These people they love but suddenly feel like throttling on a regular basis!

The better half and I are muddling along quite happily. He's got a workshop so works there most days all on his own. But I get the impression from some of my friends that all is not well in paradise!

Here's a video that is very British and is from 2010 so some of the issues are a bit obscure - but I think it's still relevant for everyone from all countries whose partner is driving them mad at the moment! For my non-British readers, Pam Ayres writes humorous poems and is something of a national treasure in the UK.

To all my readers, stay safe and stay strong. If you are ill, please get well soon. We will get through this.

* * * * * * *

If you are a cat lover - especially a lover of the grumpier members of the species, this is the book for you. Written by Toffee who, despite her name, is the least sweet cat you can imagine. The world according to Toffee exists to serve her and woe betide anyone who forgets it. Paperback on left, Kindle version on right.

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
You really don't want to miss my next post. It could be my best one ever (or not... who knows)! Enter your email address below and FeedBurner will tell you every time there's an update.

Life On The Ocean Wave

(This is updated, adapted and abridged from my regular column in Devon Life magazine)

Before this coronavirus thingy frightened the world half to death, the better half and I were turning our thoughts to holidays in sunny climes. Now our lives are to a certain extent on hold before the virus burns itself out and we can all get back to normal - but there's no harm in dreaming.

We don’t get abroad that often because of the ties of work but there he was enthusiastically reading out the details of a cruise advertised in the Sunday papers.

This trip went half way round the world and lasted over three months. The best cabins were a snip at around £50,000 ($60,000) per person. The word "cabin" is a bit misleading. It was in fact a 700sq ft suite and included, among a host of other facilities, a private veranda, a fully-stocked bar (ah, now I see why he was so interested), heated bathroom floor, personalised stationery and a butler and concierge on hand.

To be fair, if you were one of the cruising plebs you could get an inside cabin, a snip at about £15,000 ($18,000) per person. As the better half works full time and is self-employed I'm not sure how he thought he would be able to take three months off for this life on the ocean wave. And I refrained from raining on his parade, currently taking place in la-la land, to point out that we had slightly less than £60,000 to spend on a holiday, Slightly? I mean considerably, take two noughts off and you would be nearer the mark.

In any case I'm not sure I'm cut out for the high life. I showed little interest as he read out all the amenities on board this deluxe liner - 10 bars, casino, two theatres, restaurants, swimming pool, spa, nightly top class entertainment. Library.

My ears pricked up. "A library? How brilliant!"

"You sad person," the man said witheringly. "You may as well buy a tent and spend three months camping in Exeter Library." Sounds like heaven to me.

Maybe I am a sad person. I'm sure a high falutin' cruise would be just dandy. I have friends and family who have been on cruises and they have all loved the experience. Had I several thousand to spare, I might consider it. But, if truth were told, I don't think I could get that excited about being stuck on a floating hotel, no matter how plush, although I'd love the opportunity to be proved wrong.

I'm not sure what I expect of a posh cruise, my ideas of life on the high seas having been gleaned solely from films like Titanic, the Poseidon Adventure, Doctor at Sea and Carry On Cruising. I half expect to hit a iceberg upside down while shouting, "Oooo, matron!"

I imagine some nubile young lovely's bra pinging off as she plays quoits on deck while a Leslie Phillips-alike says: "I say, ding, dong ..." in a suggestive voice and I, with my rug tucked firmly around my legs, sit in a deckchair reading War and Peace which I have borrowed from the library, tut-tutting at the antics of the younger generation.

I imagine dinner at the captain's table, dressed up to the nines, kicking the better half under the table as he slurps his soup and saying things like, "Of course, at home we dine off Royal Doulton china every day and outside we have room for a pony."

Afterwards I expect to be herded with cattle prods to the ship's cabaret to listen to a balding man on an organ singing My Way very badly while a group of former members of Hot Gossip twirl and bedazzle us with their glittery costumes, sequins flying off at every angle.

In steerage will be the "common people" who are all living it up doing Irish jigs and drinking copious amounts of whisky while we posh people are treated to a lecture on The Danger of Streptococci In Pea Soup by James Robertson Justice.

I fear having to make a stampede for insufficient lifeboats while a man with a gun shouts, "Women and children first!" At least I know my better half wouldn't slip into my best frock and high heels in an attempt to jump the queue - not unless he was already in them..... (that was a joke, by the way. Cerise is just not his colour).

No, I'm not really bothered about a posh cruise.

Not unless there's a library.

* * * * * * *

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
You really don't want to miss my next post. It could be my best one ever (or not... who knows)! Enter your email address below and FeedBurner will tell you every time there's an update.

I'm Surveying The Situation

I think I must be caught up in some strange "cookie" world. I don't mean those rather nice sweet things we Brits call biscuits but those nefarious internet things that ensure I keep seeing adverts for weight loss products and wrinkle creams. I can cope with those by convincing myself they must have got me muddled up with someone else much older and fatter. Yes, that would be it...

But I also get links to lots of surveys. I'm not sure why. Maybe if I ignored them they wouldn't keep appearing but I can't resist seeing what piece of daft research has been occupying the best brains in society.

Ninety-nine per cent of them tell you something you already knew or something so obscure that you pray to get the five minutes of life back that you wasted on reading them. This week the ones that have been appearing have been mind-blowingly inconsequential.

First, there was the astonishing news that rock stars, on average, die younger than, say, chartered surveyors. You don't say.

Then I had one that told me that people tend to put on weight while on holiday. Really? And there was me under the impression that copious amounts of sangria or tequila slammers washing down five course dinners after a day spark out on the beach was slimming.

Then there was one that has discovered that if you feed kids crap, they'll feel like shit. Shovel vast quantities of additive-filled sugary or salty snacks into their ever-open little gobs, and they are going to behave badly.Well, I'll go the foot of our stairs. There's a surprise.

What I want to know is how much someone was paid to find out these blindingly obvious facts. They could have saved their money and come and asked me.

I'm going to write to Oxford University and suggest they set up a Stating The Bleeding Obvious research chair for me. I can envisage my day's work. Start at 9am with a brainstorming session with three comatose students.

"Well, guys and gals, what shall we research this week?"

"Duh, dunno."

"Thank you for that input, Wayne. Anyone else?"

"How 'bout finding out wevah if you drive blindfolded, right, you have, right, y'know, more accidents or sumfink?"

"Good idea, Chardonnay, but Cambridge University has already done that one."

Alfaromeo wipes the sleep from his eyes and pipes up: "Hey, I have a wizard idea. Let's find out, OK?, if you lie in the sun in Barbados, OK?, you get a tan quicker than if you, like, lie in the sun in Alaska in the winter. Yah?"

"Brilliant, Alf. You and I can do our research in Barbados for three months and Wayne and Chardonnay can hop over to Alaska."

Now that's sorted, I must go out and buy a new swimming cozzie in "large". I've heard you can put on weight while you're on holiday.

* * * * *

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
You really don't want to miss my next post. It could be my best one ever (or not... who knows)! Enter your email address below and FeedBurner will tell you every time there's an update.

Valentine's Day Commandments

[This is a republished post from some years ago now. Sadly, NOTHING HAS CHANGED. 😂😂😂]

THIS evening my friends and I talked about Valentine's Day and how unromantic most of our "better" halves were. So here are my 10 commandments for my very own dearly beloved.

1. Thou shalt worship no other woman except me, even if she is 18 with the body of an athlete and her father owns a brewery.

2. Thou shalt not take my name in vain and will lie through your teeth in the pub to give the impression I am a softly-spoken goddess with the milk of human kindness running through my veins.

3. Thou shalt remember it's Valentine's Day and keep it holy with a multitude of sacrifices including chocolates, flowers, champagne and expensive jewellery.

4. Thou shalt honour my family and ignore the fact that half of them are barking mad.

5. Thou shalt remember the Sabbath and take me out to Sunday lunch so that I do not have to have to do unspeakable things to you with a roast parsnip.

6. Thou shalt not commit adultery unless thou desirest to spend the rest of your life talking in a high voice and wearing women's clothes.

7. Thou shalt not murder multitude pints of beer on a Saturday night and then come home and try to convince me you are sex on legs.

8. Thou shalt not steal my chocolate unless thou desirest to spend the rest of your life without hands.

9.Thou shalt not covet our neighbour's ass, even if it is half the size of mine and perched on top of endless legs

10. Thou shalt realise that even if I change my mind from one second to the next, I am always right and you are always wrong.

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.

You really don't want to miss my next post. It could be my best one ever (or not... who knows)! Enter your email address top right and FeedBurner will tell you every time there's an update.

Amazon's best kept secret

Food Glorious Food

Something unrecognisable in aspic

My friend and I were reminiscing about eating out when we were kids. Many moons ago when I was a child, the height of sophistication was a pub meal of chicken or scampi in a basket followed by rum baba. Does anyone these days serve anything in a basket? I've eaten food on slates and wooden slabs but I am no longer served anything in a basket.

Later every meal seemed to consist of prawn cocktail, rump steak and apple pie. Actually, I still love all those things!

The men downed beer, stout or whisky and the women drank port and lemon, Babycham or schooners of sherry. We kids had bottles of pop with straws. Few people drank wine then but by the end of the 1960s we were feeling very up-market, quaffing our Blue Nun, Chianti and Mateus Rosé in its distinctively-shaped bottle. I lost count of the number of parties I went to in the early 70s with candles stuck in the top of Mateus Rosé bottles.

The ubiquitous prawn cocktail

If we were taken to the big city of Exeter (big to us, smallish in anyone else's eyes) for a shopping trip, we visited a restaurant called Watty's. The waitresses were all impeccably dressed in black with white aprons and hats and there was strange cutlery like fish knives and soup spoons. It was the first place I ever saw, to my complete astonishment, chefs wearing those tall white hats called toques. I remember the shock as if it were yesterday. We always had whatever the roast dinner of the day was with thick slices of meat and even thicker gravy – hardly the “jus” of modern chefs.

Much later we visited a Chinese restaurant. Just the once because my father was appalled that they had the temerity to put some kind of spicy sauce on his pork chop. SPICY SAUCE! Everyone knew you only had pork chop with chips and peas and maybe a very plain gravy if Mum was pushing the boat out.

Mateus rosé bottles used as candleholders

In the 1970s, when we were feeling posh, we visited a Berni Inn where the meal was invariably rump steak with salad and chips or jacket potato, followed by cheese, ice cream or apple pie. In more upmarket restaurants chefs overdosed on aspic or set fire to the food.

Takeaways soon became a thing. There is now an endless variety of takeaway food from a Thai curry to a Turkish kebab...we never wavered from fish and chips.

Then in the 1980s there was nouvelle cuisine with its big plates and tiny portions, not exactly to the liking of our farming family. When the waiter removed the huge cloche covering the food, we expected to see a big slab of meat and oodles of sauce, not a few shreds and a smear. We looked around in vain for the rest of the food and ate cheese on toast when we got home.

All this talk of food is making me feel hungry so I'll finish now and go to the kitchen to make myself a nice prawn cocktail. I'm feeling nostalgic.

Amazon's Best Kept Secret - Thousands of discounted items

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
You really don't want to miss my next post. It could be my best one ever (or not... who knows)! Enter your email address below and FeedBurner will tell you every time there's an update.