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One of the memes I picked up on a few weeks ago was the Personal Style Statement. Or words to that effect.

What I wear tends to be governed by its ability to meet the following tests:

1. Ability to flee from a falling building

This used to be 'run for a bus' but my paranoia has increased. I cycle to the station every day, so I like wearing things you can cycle in without being blown over. I have osteoarthritis in one of my toes, so I cannot wear heels now. Not even a bit. The solution is to wear flat boots with very chunky soles. Indeed, I have a wardrobe of army boots. I wear these with everything, especially skirts. I worried about this for a few days when I started work (because there are some women who wear extremely beautiful high heels and it can look a bit odd), and then I thought, fuck it.

2. Toasty comfort

No gaps. Scarves, woolly hats with pom poms, boots, warm padded jacket. Mostly comfort blankets scarves. I have the same blue and white scarf wrapped around me from September to April. Really need another one.

3. Primark aversion

I hate cheap clothes. I really, really hate scratchy, sweaty artificial fibres. I will put up with cuddly artificial fibres, at a push, but eww.

4. Flattering pt. 1 (Body Shape)

I am wee and curvy. The curvy part is more problematic than the rest, which is saying something. It is tricky trying to find reasonably flattering tops that show a bit of neck without exposing vast, terrifying billows of cleavage. Hence all that black jersey.

5. Flattering pt. 2 (Mutton Factor)

This is an odd one. Clothes fail on this if they are too young and thin, fashion-wise (frills, glitter leggings, Peter Pan collars, lace, milkmaid dresses). They also fail if they are horribly ageing (boxy jackets, shoulder-pads, tapered trousers, milkmaid dresses). You want a kind of ageless elegance. Arty is a reasonable solution although when that goes wrong it can be horribly menopausal.


I find shopping hard work, although when I find the right thing, I am liable to splurge.

Clothes shops that work: Fat Face (casual tops and jeans), Jigsaw (wrap dresses and cardigans at an enormous price), Pepperberry (special clothes for busty people), M&S (selectively), Laura Ashley*.

**Clothes shops that usually don't work but I don't know why: White Stuff (too casual, baggy and skin-revealing), Boden (yummy mummy), East (little old lady), Monsoon (decrepit bridesmaid), Gap (horrible fit), Next (trainee accounts clerk), Phase 8 (mother of the bride).

Mail order: No.

*Laura Ashley is a very odd shop. Lots of their clothes look absolutely hideous on the hanger, but quite nice on. Very much mutton territory, though. Needs care to rootle out the nice things from the dreadful mistakes.
**This is entirely personal and down to the effect when I put on their clothes. Other people look great. YMMV. Etc.

The current work uniform:

Random multicoloured skirt in corporate pattern, knee-length, slight flare
Black long-sleeve jersey top
Black opaque tights
Tackety boots

This is pretty much what I wore when freelancing. I used to call it the Bohemian Lady Researcher. It's not bad.

It remains very hard to find the right things for work. I've decided that the dominant look for senior managers is Power Casual. For men, this is the mass uniform of stripy shirts, dad jeans, and brown brogues. For senior women in Marketing, this translates into silky tops, Armani jeans and spike heels. This is many things but it is not casual. Women in IT: Little dresses. Women who are going nowhere: Mum jeans and a comfy top.

I think I sound very calculated when I write all this down but a) I am honestly fascinated and b) it's kind of fun to crack the code. I am working on the components of my Power Casual look right now, down in the fashion lab. What is the chunky flat-shoe equivalent of a spike heel? Is it even possible? Answers on a postcard.

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 So my fantasy of posting lots of interesting and erudite snippets during January has pretty much vanished in the mist. Working full-time is exhausting. I'm enjoying it (at least I think I am) but it essentially demands that I turn into a slightly different type of person - ideally someone quite loud who talks quite fast and goes to lots of meetings.

My boss did my 6 month review, where the conclusion seemed to be that I was absolutely lovely BUT possibly a bit leisurely in my approach to reinventing the next wave of whatever it is we do, so could I kindly speed up.

It's true (although frankly I suspect it's a standard line) It was 12 years since I'd set foot in an office, and even longer since I worked in a place that had any sense of urgency.

I'm still finding it alien, although now it's less about the superficiality of clothes, and more about deeper expectations. My boss basically never reads an email attachment. Initially I thought this was lamentable, but I've had so much to do in the last 3 weeks that now I don't read email attachments either. We are, I think, required to perform our jobs. I talk faster and louder (still not loudly enough). I am absolutely flat out. 

I was going to add an amusing comment but graaarghh aargh I need my bed. Will attempt to continue more stream of consciousness posting.

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Hello. I am not doing very well at the whole January talking thing, because, well, it demands talking and actually it's quite hard to do that after months of sitting at the edges of the internet and peering through.

I should have realised that early January is difficult. December-January in our house feels like one massive thing after another: Christmas, Young P's birthday and New Year all on top of each other; this year i took some leave before and after Christmas, to keep E. company. All very lovely but a tad overwhelming.

I'm back to the commute again. There was a blissful day last week when every right thinking person was still on holiday, yet all the trains ran to London on time, and I spent a peaceful day at my (hot) desk doing things for absent bosses.

Geoviki asked me about the north-south divide. I read this and laughed because of course I am Scottish and therefore north-north; but actually there really isn't a massive divide between, say, Glasgow and Manchester or Glasgow and Newcastle. Glasgow and London, though: wow.

I still find London strange. It's at once more cosmopolitan and parochial than anywhere else. The Glaswegian take on London is that it's full of cold posh Southerners. And, yes, I meet people in my new job who I would basically have to describe as London-unfriendly: it's a kind of bizarre negative energy that I don't think I would encounter back in Glasgow. It's people bundled on the Tube in a solid force-field of self-protectiveness. It's the unsmiling colleague who will sit at the next (hot) desk and never acknowledge you.

Glaswegians, on the other hand, tend to regard random strangers as people in need of entertaining and amusing. If there is one thing I miss more than anything, it is the cheerful, witty conversation that's offered to complete strangers right across the board.

My friend and I went to Glasgow on the train with our two dogs last year. We had to take a taxi from Queen Street station in Glasgow, out to the suburbs, and I was very worried that no taxi driver would let the dogs in their car ( taxi drivers round here probably wouldn't).

Me to taxi driver: 'Will you take the dogs?'
Taxi driver leans out, inspects the two mutts: 'Do they smoke? No? Well you're all right then, hop in...'

Glaswegians are brought up to talk to strangers. It's the polite thing to do. I have to kick myself sometimes to hold back my hilarious commentary, because 50 per cent of the time I will get that swivel-eyed look of incomprehension and mild fear.

It's not that the South is truly unfriendly - it's just a hell of a lot more reserved.
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It is no good, I have to throw my hat in the ring - I have way more stuff to read than usual and it is lovely.

Please can you hurl some questions at me to riff on during the month of January.

I do not have a date list, so just lob them in below.

If no one is reading (something I strongly suspect) then I might steal some of your prompts off you (cough desertislanddiscs cough) and see what happens.
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Happy Birthday Ruric!!

And hope to catch up with you soon.

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Back from Abruzzo where we spent 12 very happy days.

Dust is just settling, I've been reading LJ on my phone via agriturismo wi-fi.

I didn't read as much as in previous years, possibly because of trying to improve my Italian.

Wot I did read:

The Cuckoo's Calling  - which needs its own post, but basically I enjoyed it greatly
Gone Girl - sort of ditto, page-turning but at heart bloody annoying
Kiss Me First, by Lottie Moggach - about a somewhat Aspergers girl who agrees to impersonate someone online, to cover up their apparent suicide. Interesting and throws up some good stuff on the reality and unreality of online life
Brat Farrar, by Josephine Tey - I've meant to read this for years, since reading The Ivy Tree by Mary Stewart.
Three chapters of Harry Potter E La Pietra Filosofale, on the Kindle with the help of an online dictionary.

I also spent days time on Mumsnet, where I was consumed by various threads including one which has kept my gripped for the past few days. AIBU - parents of fictional children. 'Am I being unreasonable' is a Mumsnet area for, well, canvassing opinions. This particular thread has fictional parents canvassing opinions in Mumsnet style. The Chalet School features heavily. :o).

'AIBU to pick up three baby girls on my travels and give them to my great niece to bring up? Women like babies don't they? She can always put them on the stage to earn their keep.'

Am not quite ready to deal with reality, but the new job allegedly starts on Monday at 9 am. OMG OMG WTF.

*irons all the things*

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Heading to Italy.

I would say 'don't break the internet' but I don't my lovely f-list has that power.

See you on the flipside.
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I logged onto LJ on Sunday, read the remarkable fact that JKR has been outed as the writer of a crime novel, read the pre-reveal excerpts on Amazon, and ...ordered. I have now read screeds of newspaper comments (sorry, trying to break the habit) saying that it is a cynical ploy to boost sales or a desperate deception which is unfair to real ex-military writers. Because God forbid that the Sunday Times would ever really try to out a world-famous writer, that's simply not their style. Or indeed that a very famous author would get fed up of the hysterical reaction to anything she writes.

I have a feeling that nothing other than 20 years of pseudonyms would satisfy the commenters. And they are totally missing the point: the minute she was announced as the author, shedloads of those amateur critics wheel themselves out to demonstrate their incredible lack of prejudice by saying it's all a pile of shit co-ordinated by shady global publishing forces and they never liked The Prisoner of Azkaban anyway.

I did read The Casual Vacancy when it came out and I was sad to find that I didn't like it. I never finished it, because I don't have the stomach for those kinds of stories. Can't deal with those themes anywhere. It did occur to me that this might be a good technique for someone trying to move on from a megaseries: Hey, everyone, I've published a book! You'll hate it! No, really; then quietly going on to write something else.

Why did I order this one? Because the thought of a new book by a favourite writer is always too good to pass up. And ...crime fiction set in London? Let me at it.
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I keep putting off posting because I feel if we wait just a little bit longer, I'll have loads to say. Instead of being in between many worlds.

1. We had friends over last night for a takeaway and I am now suffering a nasty wee hangover. It's the sort where all you are good for is washing dishes and doing ironing slowly.

2. Young P. has finished his exams and in about three days has reverted to the hollowed-out X-box drone that he was about 4 months ago. I miss Exam Boy, who got up smartly and went to bed on time. He has spent much of the last couple of months camped out in the local library, with occasional forays to the 24-hour library of our local ex-poly. Hanging around in the library of one of Britain's worst universities (his description not mine) seems to also have had a galvanising effect. He is aiming for better. Actually, he now has some vague idea of cause (study) and effect (results) so that's all good. I think.

3. Young E. deserves a post of her own really but highlights include her first love.

4. The dog is all right in himself.

5. I have fallen down the arts-and-crafts rabbithole. I cannot knit, so Ravelry is dead to me, but I can sew very badly indeed. I am doing an evening class, dressmaking for beginners, and am nearly finished making a skirt. I have made a few things in the past but they've always been terrible. Our sewing teacher makes theatrical costumes for a living, and confessed that she has a very successful line in pirate jackets which she sells in some piratical boutique in the south-west.

6. News of my dressmaking capabilities has prompted acquaintances to ask if I can fix their clothing. This is an odd feature of being able to do something practical - silversmithing throws up an unconscionable number of people who want you to solder their earrings back together. I think it may reflect badly on my artistic reputation. Did Coco Chanel's sister-in-law ask her if she could do some invisible mending?

7. I may be going to Scotland in the near future - my elderly uncle has died at the age of 94. Another long story, but my stepmum has been visiting him regularly for the last few years, and looking after his affairs. He was estranged from his son - indeed, we don't know where his son is - and had no other visitors apart from K and her little band of friends. She is such a good person.

8. I hardly saw my uncle or the rest of his family after I was 18, and when I visited with K. a few times, I don't think he really knew who I was. But when I was about 10 or 11 he was a jolly man who would bring my cousins over for a Saturday afternoon play. So I will go and support K. and that memory.

9. This is actually quite a lot to say, really. But I think a hangover-busting bacon sandwich needs to made. More soon.
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My son (in throes of Biology revision for GCSE exams) confessed that he has been trolling commenting on anti-evolution message boards.

He has a robust attitude.

Commenter: "So where's the evidence that evolution is anything more than a theory?"
Young P: (lists multiple Biology GCSE-approved sources of evidence)"...Besides, where's your evidence that God created the world?"

Commenter: (moves to other tacks) "Anyway, if natural selection is right, how do you explain homosexuals?"
Young P:"They're not a fucking breed, you moron."

Yes, well, a bit more training before he's ready for Question Time.

Young P:"Besides, you have to think about it. It's not the homosexuals who are having all the gay babies, is it?"


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Various people have asked me to post more, and the only way this is going to happen is stream-of-consciousness, so sorry about that.

Little E has been off school most of this week with a coldy, fluey, chesty sort of bug. As she is very prone to chest infections, this means I get somewhat anxious and dose her up to the hilt. She is wilting on the sofa eating toasted crumpets. She was complaining about a sore tummy, but I have just calculated that she's eaten pretty much nothing for 2 days, and has been coughing in a hacking sort of way, so I think it's a case of not enough food and sore ribs. I am knackered though - she has woken in the middle of the night for the past few nights and so I have been making hot lemon at 3.30 am and trying to ignore the dog.

I finished my first ever jewellery commission, making some earrings for one of B.s colleagues. This has taken forever, while I buy glass and run test firings in the studio. Each firing takes about 10 hours to complete, so it's not exactly instant feedback. I ended up making some dangly two-tone earrings of garnet and black glass, suspended on a fine silver bail that I embedded in the earring before it was fired. Afterwards I shaped it and made some matching earwires, and the final effect was very nice.  The silver-embedding is a little bit hit-and-miss: it doesn't always work. The two-tone effect doesn't always work either so the whole damned thing is rather experimental right now.

(I would post a picture but Dreamwidth's photo settings confuse me, as do Flickr's. I have about 3 flickr accounts, tied to different iterations of my online self, but nothing that appears to link to the emails in my current computer of choice. Bah.)

I seem to have fallen in love with a craft that is really somewhat retro - precious few books, virtually no blogs, and supplies shops that feel as though they hit their peak in 1973 and have never quite recovered. Half of the stuff that I see people make is quite horrid, reminiscent of 1960s ashtrays. I wandered into a craft shop in town last week and they had loads of glass crafts, underpriced (£3 for a glass snowflake that will involve about an hour of cutting, glueing and swearing) or overpriced (£45 for a tile which required about 30p's worth of glass and a good deal of chutzpah).

Ok, yes you need photos.

Finally, corporate Christmas e-mails. I just sent out my own lovingly purchased Actual Cards, and today have received 3 emails with links to pictures of educational institutions in the snow. No. Just no.

Back to check on my small consumptive.
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This is pretty much the usual 'Not Dead' post after apparent absence.


1. I won a baking competition!! Very exciting. It was part of the slightly strange team-building activity surrounding a local conference and I now have a gold medal for services to baking. Raspberry and passion fruit muffins, if you're interested. And even if you're not :-)

2. I bought a kiln and in the time spent not-baking, I have begun to run small experiments in glassmaking. I even have my first commmission, to make some earrings for a stylish and demanding lady who is a colleague of B's, and to that end there is a small consignment of red and pink glass arriving tomorrow.  I also need to improve my photography skillz to try to record what I'm doing - I accidentally made some earrings and a pendant that look like pale acqua moonstone.* I am also mixing glass with silver, embedding beaten silver hoops in slices of glass.

My poor mother-in-law. Once again, this year's Christmas presents will involve wonky crafts.

3. Anyway I have basically turned into a craft bore and have nothing to say of any interest whatsoever. This is all pretty much an escape from Young P's life (avoiding GCSE preparation) and Not So Little E's (there are at least 4 posts I could write about her first term at secondary school - let's just say that we are all doing a awful lot of homework and she is being tested by an educational psychologist in January.

4. I went to a Book Group OMG on Friday and spent two hours discussing Wolf Hall, which was good going given that I'm only 200 pages in.  The Booker judges obviously didn't try to read it 5 pages at a time just before bed, when the stylistic habit of being vague about pronouns means that you end up reading the same 5 pages over and over again.

5. The dog is all right in himself.

*I am not sure you can accidentally make a pendant, but you know what I mean.
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My Livejournal blog has a photo post, and I haven't quite figured out the crossposting.

It is just a few pics of jewellery but you can go here if interested.

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So, in lieu of proper TV watching and book-reading, I have mostly been reading the Guardian online, and frothing at the mouth. The Guardian has finally mastered the Daily Mail style of trolling its readers with tosh written by (mostly) female columnnists.

In the past couple of days, the Grauniad has managed to make me froth about whether  'yummy mummies' with big pushchairs are really taking up too much space by meeting a bunch of friends in a cafe and yakking for hours while their toddlers run around and eat the newspapers.  This is of course highly disturbing to all the young men in black polo necks writing their novels in cafes on their MacBook Airs.

There is the most bizarre air of misogyny disguised as rationalism in all these articles, where it is OK to hate the mums because they are rich (this is apparently why they are in cafes in the middle of the day), have big prams, and lack control of their toddlers. On the one hand, it certainly isn't relaxing to sit next to eight women and their assorted progeny when sipping one's latte & trying to write; on the other, well, suck it up, I've been one of those women and indeed the cafe next to my daughter's old school was pretty much kept going at 9 am by the yummy mummied masses yakking loudly about the latest affair that the teachers are having.

There, that's better.

Oh wait.

Tanya Gold in today's Guardian wrings her hands about the popularity of baking shows like The Great British Bake-Off infantilising women and turning the clock back 50, not sure I follow the logic but apparently British women are "seeking Betty-esque skills to fill the hours they used to spend working and earning and living autonomous lives."

I'm not quite sure which Betty's she's referring to there. Betty Friedan? Betty Crocker? No, apparently Betty Draper who is a character in Mad Men, which I've never seen.

Sometimes a cake is just a cake.

I am quite addicted to the Great British Bake Off but that is because I like reality shows and I like cake. I have bought Paul Hollywood's book on baking, and have been perfecting his shortbread recipe much to the joy of my 1950s-esque family. They are loving my present inability to live an automous life. I am waiting for a few feminist modern crafting types to show up on the Tanya Gold column and staple her arguments with a hot glue gun and a glitter embellishment, but we, I mean they, are probably too busy sketching retro Christmas ornaments to bother engaging.

On the other hand I have been watching Fresh Meat which is just hilarious and really quite modern, even if I have to watch it through my fingers. (Vod reviews Midnight's Children...). Vod now has a part-time job as a chambermaid, 'like a ninja with pillow chocolates'.

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OMG I have been duped into buying Trainspotting.
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Well. I have my copy of 'The Casual Vacancy' pre-ordered at Waterstones and will pick it up tomorrow sometime. I have not heard the slightest whisper of commentary in my usual online haunts.

Trying not to get spoiled on the story, although very tempted by various interviews/profiles with JKR going up now. The press seem to be mostly clutching their pearls in anticipation of all that swearing. The book itself sounds faintly Victorian (tapestry of small-town West Country passions etc). And that is the kind of thing I like.  Apart from Thomas Hardy. I've always enjoyed JKR's approach to characters so, what can I say, looking forward to it. *skips non-cynically*

I did read 'Busman's Honeymoon' by Dorothy L. Sayers, which is also set in a place called Pagford. I went on something of a Sayers bender when I was on holiday, re-reading all the ones with Harriet Vane in, plus 'Murder must advertise' which was totally fascinating - didn't really care about the murder, but loved the ad-agency setting.

In other news, E. and I are addicted to The Great British Bake-Off, and are planning fresh buns. Life on the edge.

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So far today, I have supervised young E. being sick, and taken the car to the garage to find out why there is an electricity warning light on.

Now the car is humming nicely, E. is propped up wanly on the sofa with Tracy Beaker on CBBC and I have retired to the studio to do some work.




One one side, there is someone trimming their fucking hedge with the world's noisiest set of hedgeclippers.

On the other, there is either a cat in the throes of passion or next door's new baby, wailing.


ETA: Two cats, according to E. 'One black and white, one black with white socks.'

*departs in search of painkillers*
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Back from holiday and weirdly poised between the glory of the summer holidays and the trainwreck that is likely to be the upcoming school year.


So first: 10 days in Italy, in our favourite agriturismo, lazing by the pool, enjoying fabulous weather and eating All The Things.

Not much to say there except perhaps to let out a gentle burp.

We went for dinner at the agroturismo rather more than usual. They know Young E by now and they are more than happy to cater for her. This means eggfree fresh pasta, eggfree things in eggfree batter, eggfree lasagne, eggfree apple danish, panna cotta, and (rather memorably) eggfree croissants, delivered to the apartment door as compensation for the fact that she couldn't eat her dad's specially made birthday fruit tart.

They are quite wonderful cooks and so very kind.

So, I have come home somewhat inspired, and in the last 2 days we have made fresh pasta (fie on you, Jamie Oliver, for leaving out some important instructions) and pizza margareta (all hail Maxine Clark's Italian Kitchen, which is a splendid cookbook). Upcoming: foccacia; our second go at fresh pasta, now with the proper flour; antipasti; possibly a vat of Limoncello. Also, I need to reinvent eggless ricotta-mascarpone cheesecake (layers of sponge, pale custardy cream, and a thin, set layer of apricot).

*iz overambitious*


This week, Young E is at summer school, an interim programme like her. She is awesome at the moment. She now has all her school uniform (with fashion amendments), ready to go. She has a new mobile phone and has downloaded lots of music. At the weekend, we bought her a new bike to replace her tiny falling-apart bike, and so today she made her packed lunch and rode off to summer school by herself. She came back very happy, in the pouring rain without a coat, and let herself in with her new keys. OMG my baby. Mibble.

In another part of the forest Young P. is contemplating his GCSE year by joining 2 football clubs. I am really quite worried about this year, so I have decided to cook our way through it. 


Going to be an interesting year, I think.

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The last bout of megawork starts tomorrow.

Last week was a blur involving 5 am starts and one 7 am start when I slept in and had to be zoomed to the station by B. (still in his pyjamas).

This week:
- young P. has gone to Poland with the school
- little E goes to Norfolk on Friday

In the meantime, I have been sorting out the bloody Tenner Project aka Junior Apprentice. Children write Powerpoint presentations to beg for money. Children who get first stage funding get £10 each and are allowed to run their sales project. All profits to charity.

But first we must all learn what profit really means.

So I came back on Friday from a truly manic week of high-tech interviewing in London, to find myself Creative Director and Technical Consultant to three eleven year old girls who had decided to make jewellery as their Tenner Project.

Myself and the other 2 mums then spent half the weekend sorting out the details and making the motley collection of beads they had ordered off the internet into something that you wouldn't mind spending a cool £3 on, outside the school gates. (The school gate has a chilling effect upon the amount that anyone is ever willing to spend, ever. £3 outside school is like £10 anywhere else. Unless you are talking about cake). They had bought lots of random wooden beads and leather cord so I masterminded the creation of adjustable friendship bracelets (£1) and little necklaces (£3), and taught everybody how to make magic knots. I spent the Wimbledon Final making bracelets in my office with kids and mums, while we spilled flapjack over everything.

This week: the sales spree. Ten teams selling all sorts of things: brownies, baked goods, strawberries and cream, fresh lemonade, toasted sandwiches...and two stalls selling non-food, ourselves with wholesome necklaces featuring wooden beads in rainbow colours, and the opposition with plastic and nylon monstrosities. Also a miniature nail bar, selling wonky manicures in neon colours.

The kids have been like things possessed. Yesterday, they were hunting down teachers with known weaknesses for shiny things. Today they spied a new and valuable target audience: little girls coming out of Reception with their mums.  Tween sales technique: slip adjustable bracelet onto plump wrist of 5-year old girl. Admire it. Hold breath. Accept money.

£60 made so far and two days to go.

11-year old M: 'We've made £30 profit!!!'
Gloomy academic mum, A (not me). 'Well, as long as you don't count the costs of my labour.'
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You know what? I have too much work.

There. I actually thought I would never say that in my life ever again, but there you go. Famine turned into feast, and feast turned into Dionysian banquet with gold-plated vomitorium although by the and of July we shall probably be down to scraps again.

In between, there was a week at half term in Scotland, with a very wonderful farmhouse in mid-Argyll, and two friends, two kids and two dogs: hoping to get some proper photos soon and then I can write about it more. It was lovely. I spent the Jubilee bank holiday sitting on a white sand beach looking out to the Paps of Jura and wishing I'd brought some suntan lotion with me. Yes. And I saw some seals, a sea eagle and a minke whale. Still hearing this in my head as a furry cetacean (minky whale?).

Little E. got bullied and then hit them, and then told everyone, and vengeance was wrought by the various forces of school and afterschool club oh yes indeedy.

This week: work work work MEGAWORK work work FFS more work.

Tomorrow: back to Scotland for a long weekend visiting, er, my Alma Mater, whoever she is. I have booked myself and my friend into various scary-sounding college reunion events, but we mostly wish to rediscover the cake shops.

I have not packed but I have my train tickets and my toothbrush. If all else fails, I can buy some pants in Edinburgh.

After I come back I wish to hunt down Ruric and Ravurian, with my new found PAID INVOICES (hahahaha, that's still coming) and actually go out, or chase them. Or indeed anyone else out there. I have been reading faithfully but very briefly in between work work work aargh.

Back soon.


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At Home I'm A Tourist

February 2014

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