Hi Fay,
Congratulations on six months of being all clear. (Single fist pump, double bull horns with hands while spinning around, high fives, firm handshake).
This week I have been mostly listening to Christmas songs on the radio and thinking "it's not Christmas". This is mainly due to stores having Christmas decorations up here since the 1st of November so Christmas-is-coming has kind of blended into the normal. Then there's the fact that Sam's baby monitor currently says it's 29 degrees C in the bedroom. Seriously it's so wrong having Christmas when it's hot. You've got radio stations playing the sh*t out of every conceivable cover song of "Walking In A Winter Wonderland" and Bing Crosby dreaming of a white sodding Christmas and all these images of snowy Victorian London streets with big fat jolly Santas in them ho-ho-ho-ing at the snow and my subconscious is just saying "it's not Christmas, it's hot, it's still Summer". My subconscious is kind of a killjoy at the moment. I'm thinking of having it drowned in a keg of beer. I'm going to have to set a reminder on my phone for Christmas Eve otherwise I might miss Christmas all together.
Of course I'm joking but actually I'd love to be able to forget about it and really set a reminder on my phone because we've got so many Christmas presents to wrap for the kids that I'm going to be looking forward to Christmas Day like a marathon runner looks forward to the finishing line. I hate wrapping presents. It's miles and miles of crappy tissue thin commercial wrapping paper (ooh, twenty sheets for tuppence, bargain!) and great big industrial sized rolls of sellotape. Nothing says I'm wrapping serious stuff here than a roll of sellotape you can fit your your clenched fist through the hole. You have to find the end of the tape too, get a strip going, cut and then repeat, littering all the backs of chairs, tables and sideboards with as many pre-cut bits that you can possibly do without losing the will to live. You might need them all you might not, but it's really crappy if you get half way through a wrap and run out of pre-cut sellotape. And there's always one strip that says "I'm temporarily stuck to this chair am I? No half measures." and electromagnetically sucks itself onto the furniture leaving you to pick it off with your nail. The varnish always comes off with that strip too.
Then out comes the first present and I'm resentfully chopping the paper with the scissors so that the cut line isn't smooth and straight but jagged and ugly an industrial city skyline. I put the present on the paper and stick the first bit on and roll and stick and turn and complicated end fold and stick and turn and complicated end fold and finish. Hurrah! Now, what did I just wrap and was it for Sam or Eva? Sh*t. Repeat a thousand million billion times.
I'm just a bit worked up at the moment. First world problems I think they call them. You ever go to empty a dishwasher, open the drawer and find a glass has managed to work itself facing up so now it's full to the brim with brown dirty dishwasher water and you've got to empty it, swill it out and make a judgement call on whether to put it back in for the next go or give it a wipe down with the tea towel and put it away? When I find one of those I drop to my knees and shout "Noooooooo!" while raising both fists to the heavens.
Sam has become more and more increasingly willful about getting into his car seat. It's a good job we rarely have to go anywhere in the car. Oh, my mistake, we actually have to make three or four car trips a day. This means getting Sam in his car seat six to eight times in a day and it used to go like this; carry Sam to car, open door, pop him in seat, buckle up, go. Now it goes like this; convince Sam to get near car, lift Sam into car, Sam throw paddy about getting into the car himself, Sam gets into car seat, Sam gets into car seat, Sam gets into car seat (I'm not repeating myself, it just takes ages), Sam in car seat, buckle up and go. But he's taken to pretending to get into his car seat. How is this jolly jape achieved? He climbs up to the seats and then hunkers down in between his and Eva's car seats like a garden gnome. He'll then sit really, really still and narrow his eyes in the hope that I'll be fooled. Unfortunately I can't actually allow this and so we're back to reasoning with a two year old on the merits of car safety versus traffic laws every f*cking trip. It's hot and I just spend half the day sticking my head in the back seat of a car. You'd think he'd get it after the first dozen times. Exhausting.
Anyway, the news says it's the end of the world next week so I shouldn't complain. Maybe I'll put off the wrapping until after the 21st December in case we do all die? I think this is a reasonable way to go. I'll maybe put off emptying the dishwasher until then too.
Take care,
Love Mark xxx
Tackle each challenge with strength of purpose and an expectation to succeed
Email From My Brother : fighting kids and other things
Hi Fay,
How's it going? I hope your holiday from the drug trial is going well. I've got to say I don't know if I could hold up as well as you. Today I'm having a really bad day just being a stay-at-home dad. Both kids today were fighting over a plastic waste paper basket. Sam wanted to wear the basket on his head while Eva wanted to put a load of cut pieces of paper in it. She was clutching the balls of paper and screaming that Sam had to put the bin down while I asked her to put the paper in the main bin as it was being scattered all over the house. She of course refused, Sam refused to give the bin back and in the end I confiscated everything and pushed the wadded up balls of waste paper into my ears to block out the stereo crying.
Every morning at the moment is a lesson in hearing the word "no" from the kids. Getting dressed, brushing teeth, brushing hair, putting shoes on it's like every request I'm asking them to come over and let me poke them in the eye with peeled onions. All that I ask is for complete unwavering obedience, is that too much to ask? Juliette's M.O. is to make things "fun" and "distracting" so that brushing your teeth is game where by you're puppies being groomed for the big dog show or something. Can you imagine doing that every day of the week? Can you imagine coming up with some new roleplaying scenario just so the kids put their shoes on? It's Tuesday, you've got to come up with a new game tomorrow, that's exhausting as f*ck. I've decided they've got their soft as sh*te parent with their mum, so I'm going to be the parent that's harder than granite shot through the cold vacuum of space. My commands run like a computer programme; you will do A by the time B happens otherwise expect consequence C. Bam, bam, bam. I'm going to be the dad that when the kids are grown up they'll say "you always knew where you were with dad" and they'll respect that... or they'll cut me out their lives altogether and I'll never see my future grandchildren. At the moment it's a price worth paying just to get them to put their shoes on. Hell, if the Devil is listening I've got a soul I could let go pretty cheap some mornings.
Also I'm firmly not a believer in smacking. I never have smacked and I never will. It's also against the law to smack to child in New Zealand so there's that too. However I can see the attraction in smacking. On the one hand you've got to sit down and try to reason with a small child who's developing the ability to reason in the first place and although you've put forward a logical argument as to why they must or must not do something the child is exploring their boundaries and can illogically dig their heals in. So then there's giving them a quick smack and "that'll learn you". It's the real life police officer who has to take witness statements, fill out paperwork and follow procedure versus the Hollywood version who just ramps cars, shoots suspects and has a shouting match with his black police captain. Am I alone in being a parent who never would smack a child but thinks "You are being a little sh*t so this would be soooo much easier right here, right now if I just punched you in the knee"? I think it's the same for murder. I wouldn't murder someone I'm totally against murder but f*ck me lady, you had ample time in the checkout queue to get your purse out why are you only know with everything bagged and the pleading gaze of the checkout operator looking in your handbag? Wouldn't it be easier if I just murdered you with this here bag of frozen peas and I can purchase my shopping with some degree of reasonable expediency?
Okay, so changing the subject somewhat because I put some time in on Google and don't want to waste the research. One thing I learnt from The King of Torts by John Grisham (may not have been that book, it could have been something by Michael Crichton ... don't judge me) is that drug companies come up with names and trademark them before they have a drug. So I did some research on Sorenifeb. Did you know that Søren is a Danish and Norwegian given name originating from Latin Severinus, derived from severus which means "severe, strict, serious". So you may be taking a break from strictifeb or seriousifeb or severeifeb? Doesn't everything make sense now?
It's getting late here so I had written a bit about if you're into Harry Potter and dig the Latin link to Severinus think of it as having a break from Severus Snape from kicking you in the verjayjay. I know some people might be really into having Alan Rickman in a black wig and teachers cape kicking them in the crotch but luckily I deleted that from the e-mail because to reference that is frankly just plain weird and unnecessary.
Take care of yourself,
Love Mark xxx
How's it going? I hope your holiday from the drug trial is going well. I've got to say I don't know if I could hold up as well as you. Today I'm having a really bad day just being a stay-at-home dad. Both kids today were fighting over a plastic waste paper basket. Sam wanted to wear the basket on his head while Eva wanted to put a load of cut pieces of paper in it. She was clutching the balls of paper and screaming that Sam had to put the bin down while I asked her to put the paper in the main bin as it was being scattered all over the house. She of course refused, Sam refused to give the bin back and in the end I confiscated everything and pushed the wadded up balls of waste paper into my ears to block out the stereo crying.
Every morning at the moment is a lesson in hearing the word "no" from the kids. Getting dressed, brushing teeth, brushing hair, putting shoes on it's like every request I'm asking them to come over and let me poke them in the eye with peeled onions. All that I ask is for complete unwavering obedience, is that too much to ask? Juliette's M.O. is to make things "fun" and "distracting" so that brushing your teeth is game where by you're puppies being groomed for the big dog show or something. Can you imagine doing that every day of the week? Can you imagine coming up with some new roleplaying scenario just so the kids put their shoes on? It's Tuesday, you've got to come up with a new game tomorrow, that's exhausting as f*ck. I've decided they've got their soft as sh*te parent with their mum, so I'm going to be the parent that's harder than granite shot through the cold vacuum of space. My commands run like a computer programme; you will do A by the time B happens otherwise expect consequence C. Bam, bam, bam. I'm going to be the dad that when the kids are grown up they'll say "you always knew where you were with dad" and they'll respect that... or they'll cut me out their lives altogether and I'll never see my future grandchildren. At the moment it's a price worth paying just to get them to put their shoes on. Hell, if the Devil is listening I've got a soul I could let go pretty cheap some mornings.
Also I'm firmly not a believer in smacking. I never have smacked and I never will. It's also against the law to smack to child in New Zealand so there's that too. However I can see the attraction in smacking. On the one hand you've got to sit down and try to reason with a small child who's developing the ability to reason in the first place and although you've put forward a logical argument as to why they must or must not do something the child is exploring their boundaries and can illogically dig their heals in. So then there's giving them a quick smack and "that'll learn you". It's the real life police officer who has to take witness statements, fill out paperwork and follow procedure versus the Hollywood version who just ramps cars, shoots suspects and has a shouting match with his black police captain. Am I alone in being a parent who never would smack a child but thinks "You are being a little sh*t so this would be soooo much easier right here, right now if I just punched you in the knee"? I think it's the same for murder. I wouldn't murder someone I'm totally against murder but f*ck me lady, you had ample time in the checkout queue to get your purse out why are you only know with everything bagged and the pleading gaze of the checkout operator looking in your handbag? Wouldn't it be easier if I just murdered you with this here bag of frozen peas and I can purchase my shopping with some degree of reasonable expediency?
Okay, so changing the subject somewhat because I put some time in on Google and don't want to waste the research. One thing I learnt from The King of Torts by John Grisham (may not have been that book, it could have been something by Michael Crichton ... don't judge me) is that drug companies come up with names and trademark them before they have a drug. So I did some research on Sorenifeb. Did you know that Søren is a Danish and Norwegian given name originating from Latin Severinus, derived from severus which means "severe, strict, serious". So you may be taking a break from strictifeb or seriousifeb or severeifeb? Doesn't everything make sense now?
It's getting late here so I had written a bit about if you're into Harry Potter and dig the Latin link to Severinus think of it as having a break from Severus Snape from kicking you in the verjayjay. I know some people might be really into having Alan Rickman in a black wig and teachers cape kicking them in the crotch but luckily I deleted that from the e-mail because to reference that is frankly just plain weird and unnecessary.
Take care of yourself,
Love Mark xxx
Yippee!!!!!!
Today's another great day. Not only is it my beautiful and wonderful sister's birthday (a special one no less) but I've been given a six-month all clear!
I'm doing a little happy dance as I type. Imagine that in your head plus I'm wearing a wooly hat. Nice!
Role on the next three months, next deadline/milestone/all clear is 12th of March
I'm doing a little happy dance as I type. Imagine that in your head plus I'm wearing a wooly hat. Nice!
Role on the next three months, next deadline/milestone/all clear is 12th of March
Today's a Good Day
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| Image Credit |
I got into the room, some faces I knew, most I didn't. So I listened, nodded, made the right noises and then suddenly something clicked. I answered a question. My confidence grew, I heard myself taking part, asking questions, clarifying, contributing to the debate. I surprised myself. Not only did I actually sound like I knew what I was talking about, but I also felt it. No faking it, this was me, all me.
I came up with a suggestion. Now those people were nodding in agreement with me, a role reversal. People who've been part of this project for longer than me, eight months longer than me. A senior manager picked it up, liked it. As a group we explored it more. I expanded on the idea, described how I saw it working. It looked good, it felt right and it's now going to happen.
So today was a good day. Today was a brilliant day. Today is the first of many. The day I found My Voice.
My Reason To Be Cheerful
Email from my brother: What's pooping in his cereal bowl?
Hi Fay,
How's it going? I hope you've got over the blip with having to come off your trial drug and are feeling happier. It's a funny thing happiness I reckon. Here I am in New Zealand and it's still technically spring however the days are hotter, the grass has been cut in the fields around us and turned into hay which is lovely, bumblebees the size of two penny pieces are drifting around, the baby chicks are getting bigger and fatter, Juliette got a new job she wanted, Eva is looking forward to Christmas with their six week summer holiday and Sam's just Sam the Toddler, ever ready for random hugs and kisses. But what am I preoccupied with? What is it that's taking a poop in my breakfast bowl? Well I'm glad you asked, it's dyeing a cloak the colour green.
I wanted to make a medieval cloak so that I can wrap it around myself on cold evening in front of the camp fire at SCA events. I found some woollen blankets at the local charity shop, sewed them together, lined them, put buttons on and button holes and then had to dye the finished cloak green. I did it in the old bathtub and the results are a bit lighter than what was expected. If I wear the cloak to an event I'm going to requests to lie down on the floor so folks can have a game of Subbuteo on me. It's was like the least medieval green ever. I could wear this cloak as a high visibility jacket. So we gave the kids a bath tonight and Juliette's like "Mark, what's all this brown stuff around the bath?" and I'm like "er, it's some coffee ...", and she's like "what the hell is coffee doing in the bath?" and I'm like, "er... me and Sam were dying some, er, cloth brown." In reality I was baristaring the f*ck up in that bathtub with litres of instant coffee to stain the cloak darker. I'll find out if it's worked tomorrow. It's a real worry for me I can tell you. So erm, how's your cancer going?
That reminds me, here's a puzzler about coffee. Am I the only one that if I buy a latte from a coffee shop or what ever and add loads of sugar from those little paper tube packets and stir it all to hell it's only the last mouthful at the end that is actually sweet? It is just me isn't it. I don't have much luck with coffee. At the indoor play area where I take the kids I always get a coffee in one of those lidded paper cups and it always drips onto my jeans. I try to clean the coffee spot up with a wet wipe and end up clearing a clean patch on my jeans around the brown stain. So then it looks like I've got some sort of dirty fried egg on my leg.
Last weekend we rented a bach and went to Waihi Beach. Just for a moment I'd like you to say how you think Waihi is pronounced. If you pronounced it "why-hi" go back and try again. If you pronounced it "why-he" you'd were spot on, well done. If you're wondering that the heck a bach is it's a New Zealand term that originally meant a small beach hut. If you're wondering why my jeans are so dirty that I can clean a patch with a wet wipe you have to go back in the e-mails about six months. However things with baches have moved on and we rented a two storey three bedroom full on house for about eighty quid per night that was still termed a bach and was better than the hut we live in for the rest of the year. One theory is that bach comes from bacheolor pad and I'd love to have lived in that house as a bacheolor. Five minutes walk over some sand dunes to miles of white beach on the shores of the Pacific Ocean (yes, I did pretend to be C3PO on Tatooine while walking over the dunes - "Don't get technical with me" I said to Eva at one point just for giggles). There can't have been more than twenty or thirty people on that beach all day and we had miles of the stuff to spread out on.
We shared the holiday with Juliette's sister, brother-in-law and kids and the rest of Juliette's family popped up for a sort of day trip too. One of the the highlight of the trip was when a pod of Orca whales swam by us off shore and you could see the wave crests created by their dorsal fins and tails. Of course another name for Orca whales is "killer whales" but "Hey kids, look, Orca Whales!" induces fewer nightmares than "Hey kids, look, Killer Whales!".
Juliette's dad brought up some cheap (less than $3) plastic kites and the son-in-laws had a go at trying to fly them in lieu of the kids not giving a f*ck about them. They only had one string and tended to spiral around and hit the sand unless you got them high enough. I can say with some pride that once I got mine high enough I managed to unravel all of the light weight twine and got my kite to fly what looked like about a gazzilion miles up. Felix Baumgartner would have said it was high up. It was aces and skill. The only thing that bothered me was the design on the kite which showed the sun wearing sun glasses. I couldn't help but wonder as I unwound the Atlantic spanning length of string why the sun would wear sunglasses. To protect it's eyes from itself? It dawned on me that the only reason why the sun would wear sunglasses would be to protect itself from the nearest star to our solar system way off in Alpha Centauri. I mean that's like a tiny pin prick of light. So then it dawned on me that the kite was taking the piss out of the sun. The kite was designed to taunt the sun. I was going to get the kite to fly as close to the sun as possible like some sort of kite flying 21st century Icarus. Game on! Then Sam shat his swimming trunks for the second time that day and Juliette made me reel the kite back in and put it away. So that didn't happen in the end.
Actually I've got to tell you that before I tried to taunt the sun I had offered everyone a chance to fly the kite (as in "look how awesomely high I've flown this $3 kite, want a go?") and Juliette's mum said she had never flown a kite ever. I passed her the plastic handle, she asked if she had to do anything, I said no and then we waited about five seconds and she passed the plastic handle back to me with a curt nod. Awesome.
After the holiday on the way back we men dropped the wives and kids off at the Goldfields Railway. This is a restored charitable railway which runs between Waihi and Waikino along the Ohinemuri River. We had to drop them off and pick them up at the other because we had the two cars and it was a one way journey. So we dropped them off at the Waihi station then in the car park we debated long and hard about doing a runner but eventually drove round to the Waikino station and picked them up at the other end. The kids loved it as this was the first time they had been on a railway train. I joked that at the other end I was then going to then show other old time stuff like a a vinyl record player, a VHS recorder, a cathode ray tube television set, a rotary dial telephone and corporal punishment. The looks I got seem to suggest I had suddenly morphed into Phil Harding from Time Team and had suggested we all do some flint knapping. Up in the Maungakawa Reserve by us is an old outbuilding that's had people graffiting it for the last hundred odd years. Some of it says stuff like "Dave and Sue, Sep 1994", but some is from 1947 and the like so you kind of respect it. My favourite quote on it is "Nothing is as old as yesterday." Think about that one for a moment... nothing is as old as yesterday. That is deep. I'm going up there later to add "except the day before yesterday obviously. Mark 2012".
It also occurs to me that nowadays you post something now on an internet forum or what ever and chances are there's some sort of ratings system for it. So every now and again you can't but help pop back and check out if anyone thought what you said was any good. Usually it's "Likes" or green thumbs up or red thumbs down but there's nothing like that for graffiti at all. From now on I'm going to go into public toilets and mark each statement with random green thumbs up and red thumbs down. So you'd see "I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, Only to be with you, Only to be with you. I have run, I have crawled, I have scaled these city walls, These city walls, Only to be with you. But I still haven't found what I'm looking for, but I still haven't found what I'm looking for." (add six green thumbs up, four red thumbs down.) And then underneath someone could have written: "Have you tried taking your sunglasses off before you look Bono?" (add five green thumbs up, one red thumb down).
I think I'm in bit of a funny mood because my hands are still dyed green from the cloak (gives self two green thumbs up) so I'll say cheery bye for now. Speak to you next week.
Love Mark xxx
How's it going? I hope you've got over the blip with having to come off your trial drug and are feeling happier. It's a funny thing happiness I reckon. Here I am in New Zealand and it's still technically spring however the days are hotter, the grass has been cut in the fields around us and turned into hay which is lovely, bumblebees the size of two penny pieces are drifting around, the baby chicks are getting bigger and fatter, Juliette got a new job she wanted, Eva is looking forward to Christmas with their six week summer holiday and Sam's just Sam the Toddler, ever ready for random hugs and kisses. But what am I preoccupied with? What is it that's taking a poop in my breakfast bowl? Well I'm glad you asked, it's dyeing a cloak the colour green.
I wanted to make a medieval cloak so that I can wrap it around myself on cold evening in front of the camp fire at SCA events. I found some woollen blankets at the local charity shop, sewed them together, lined them, put buttons on and button holes and then had to dye the finished cloak green. I did it in the old bathtub and the results are a bit lighter than what was expected. If I wear the cloak to an event I'm going to requests to lie down on the floor so folks can have a game of Subbuteo on me. It's was like the least medieval green ever. I could wear this cloak as a high visibility jacket. So we gave the kids a bath tonight and Juliette's like "Mark, what's all this brown stuff around the bath?" and I'm like "er, it's some coffee ...", and she's like "what the hell is coffee doing in the bath?" and I'm like, "er... me and Sam were dying some, er, cloth brown." In reality I was baristaring the f*ck up in that bathtub with litres of instant coffee to stain the cloak darker. I'll find out if it's worked tomorrow. It's a real worry for me I can tell you. So erm, how's your cancer going?
That reminds me, here's a puzzler about coffee. Am I the only one that if I buy a latte from a coffee shop or what ever and add loads of sugar from those little paper tube packets and stir it all to hell it's only the last mouthful at the end that is actually sweet? It is just me isn't it. I don't have much luck with coffee. At the indoor play area where I take the kids I always get a coffee in one of those lidded paper cups and it always drips onto my jeans. I try to clean the coffee spot up with a wet wipe and end up clearing a clean patch on my jeans around the brown stain. So then it looks like I've got some sort of dirty fried egg on my leg.
Last weekend we rented a bach and went to Waihi Beach. Just for a moment I'd like you to say how you think Waihi is pronounced. If you pronounced it "why-hi" go back and try again. If you pronounced it "why-he" you'd were spot on, well done. If you're wondering that the heck a bach is it's a New Zealand term that originally meant a small beach hut. If you're wondering why my jeans are so dirty that I can clean a patch with a wet wipe you have to go back in the e-mails about six months. However things with baches have moved on and we rented a two storey three bedroom full on house for about eighty quid per night that was still termed a bach and was better than the hut we live in for the rest of the year. One theory is that bach comes from bacheolor pad and I'd love to have lived in that house as a bacheolor. Five minutes walk over some sand dunes to miles of white beach on the shores of the Pacific Ocean (yes, I did pretend to be C3PO on Tatooine while walking over the dunes - "Don't get technical with me" I said to Eva at one point just for giggles). There can't have been more than twenty or thirty people on that beach all day and we had miles of the stuff to spread out on.
We shared the holiday with Juliette's sister, brother-in-law and kids and the rest of Juliette's family popped up for a sort of day trip too. One of the the highlight of the trip was when a pod of Orca whales swam by us off shore and you could see the wave crests created by their dorsal fins and tails. Of course another name for Orca whales is "killer whales" but "Hey kids, look, Orca Whales!" induces fewer nightmares than "Hey kids, look, Killer Whales!".
Juliette's dad brought up some cheap (less than $3) plastic kites and the son-in-laws had a go at trying to fly them in lieu of the kids not giving a f*ck about them. They only had one string and tended to spiral around and hit the sand unless you got them high enough. I can say with some pride that once I got mine high enough I managed to unravel all of the light weight twine and got my kite to fly what looked like about a gazzilion miles up. Felix Baumgartner would have said it was high up. It was aces and skill. The only thing that bothered me was the design on the kite which showed the sun wearing sun glasses. I couldn't help but wonder as I unwound the Atlantic spanning length of string why the sun would wear sunglasses. To protect it's eyes from itself? It dawned on me that the only reason why the sun would wear sunglasses would be to protect itself from the nearest star to our solar system way off in Alpha Centauri. I mean that's like a tiny pin prick of light. So then it dawned on me that the kite was taking the piss out of the sun. The kite was designed to taunt the sun. I was going to get the kite to fly as close to the sun as possible like some sort of kite flying 21st century Icarus. Game on! Then Sam shat his swimming trunks for the second time that day and Juliette made me reel the kite back in and put it away. So that didn't happen in the end.
Actually I've got to tell you that before I tried to taunt the sun I had offered everyone a chance to fly the kite (as in "look how awesomely high I've flown this $3 kite, want a go?") and Juliette's mum said she had never flown a kite ever. I passed her the plastic handle, she asked if she had to do anything, I said no and then we waited about five seconds and she passed the plastic handle back to me with a curt nod. Awesome.
After the holiday on the way back we men dropped the wives and kids off at the Goldfields Railway. This is a restored charitable railway which runs between Waihi and Waikino along the Ohinemuri River. We had to drop them off and pick them up at the other because we had the two cars and it was a one way journey. So we dropped them off at the Waihi station then in the car park we debated long and hard about doing a runner but eventually drove round to the Waikino station and picked them up at the other end. The kids loved it as this was the first time they had been on a railway train. I joked that at the other end I was then going to then show other old time stuff like a a vinyl record player, a VHS recorder, a cathode ray tube television set, a rotary dial telephone and corporal punishment. The looks I got seem to suggest I had suddenly morphed into Phil Harding from Time Team and had suggested we all do some flint knapping. Up in the Maungakawa Reserve by us is an old outbuilding that's had people graffiting it for the last hundred odd years. Some of it says stuff like "Dave and Sue, Sep 1994", but some is from 1947 and the like so you kind of respect it. My favourite quote on it is "Nothing is as old as yesterday." Think about that one for a moment... nothing is as old as yesterday. That is deep. I'm going up there later to add "except the day before yesterday obviously. Mark 2012".
It also occurs to me that nowadays you post something now on an internet forum or what ever and chances are there's some sort of ratings system for it. So every now and again you can't but help pop back and check out if anyone thought what you said was any good. Usually it's "Likes" or green thumbs up or red thumbs down but there's nothing like that for graffiti at all. From now on I'm going to go into public toilets and mark each statement with random green thumbs up and red thumbs down. So you'd see "I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, Only to be with you, Only to be with you. I have run, I have crawled, I have scaled these city walls, These city walls, Only to be with you. But I still haven't found what I'm looking for, but I still haven't found what I'm looking for." (add six green thumbs up, four red thumbs down.) And then underneath someone could have written: "Have you tried taking your sunglasses off before you look Bono?" (add five green thumbs up, one red thumb down).
I think I'm in bit of a funny mood because my hands are still dyed green from the cloak (gives self two green thumbs up) so I'll say cheery bye for now. Speak to you next week.
Love Mark xxx
Turn it around, mix it up a bit and a new view
I've decided for this post to turn things around, examine the stuff going on and take a look at things from another point of view. Following my post about having to stop taking soranifeb (I'm on the Sorce drugs trial) for a couple of weeks, I thought it was only fair to flex my glass half full side of myself. The Me which reframe's and looks at the brighter side of situations.
If you don't know what's be going on you can take a look at the post by clicking here
- Firstly I've always known what a wonderful bunch of people I hang out with on Twitter and Facebook, but the positive comments, page views and tweets have blown me away. Sometimes I forget how absolutely fabulous you all are, and take you for granted. You really made a difference and made my feel so lucky and loved.
- I also got a chance to chuckle at the sensible, bizarre and funny comment from brother too (let me know what you think!)
- Okay, so I can't take the tablets for a couple of weeks, but there are benefits to that too! No need to stress about taking them out with me.
- They have to be taken on an empty stomach, so two hours after food or one hour before, as close to 12 hours apart as you can. Sounds so easy doesn't it? I love my food, I've found it hard. Say no more. But for the next two weeks, if I want a snack before bed, or a hot milky drink I can!
- No more alarms on my phone to remind me to take the morning dose at 11am. Excellent!
- Hopefully by giving my body a break from the drug, the side effects will subside too. My feet won't hurt anymore and I can go for a long walk. I enjoyed them so much when I was recuperating after my hysterectomy. The dog is going to love me again :)
- My swollen tummy will go down and trousers will fit again (just in time for the Christmas party too!)
- No more stomach grumbling noises and anxious looks to make sure the toilet is free.
- No more mad dashes to the loo at all times of the day. Maybe I can attend a whole meeting without excusing myself (the worst meeting I had to leave twice in hour)
- I can unpack my 'in an emergency replacement clothes' bag for a while too!
- Maybe my energy levels will increase; I can give the gym a visit or two and stay awake past 10.30pm
- Also the pins and needles in my feet at night will subside, no more wiggling to wake them up.
- I can post and link up with Michelle's reasons to be cheerful linky, I've missed you!
I'm angry; but I'm still Me
I had to visit the oncology department today and I'm pissed off and angry that I've been told to stop taking the trial drug for a while.
'A little break from the drug' they've said. 'A chance for your body to recuperate and recharge' they've said. 'Two weeks off and we'll review it when you come back for your CT scan results. You can have upto 3 weeks off at a time if needed, it's not a problem' they've said.
It all makes sense. My sore feet are very very bad apparently (I've gotten used to them) The dodgy tummy and constant diarrhea is a classic symptom of toxicity, but again something I've accepted and made a joke of.
But I still feel like I've failed.
My plan, my big scheme, my coping mechanism with all of this cancer crap, was to try my very best. To give the drugs trial my best shot and stay on it for as long as I could. To give myself the best chance of making it work. For me not to get a recurrence, for it not to come back. For me to help others in a similar situation by taking part, no matter how hard it was going to be. For there being something worthwhile and meaningful from getting and then fighting cancer. By taking part in the trial and maybe in the future, people, having this drug as a regular and normal therapy. You know, just to make a difference.
So being told I need a break from it feels like I've failed. It feels like my body has let me down. Again.
I'm coping mentally. I'm back at work and functioning well. My brain hasn't let me down. My sense of humour is still there. My go ahead attitude to it all is still intact and raring to go. Throw anything at me, you horrible nasty disease, I'm ready for you. My smile, which gets me through most things, is still there.
It's just my body which isn't coping. It's causing me to get infection after infection. Pain. Losing my hair.
It's let me down.
It's like Me, you know, the bit which makes me, Me, is striding confidently along to reach the destination with determination and a 'can do' attitude. And my body, the muscles, tendons, bones, heart, lungs, fingers and toes are cowering in a corner, whimpering saying 'leave me alone, I feel crap and you can't make me go with you'
But I suppose I'm thankful that the bits I have a conscious control over are co-operating and staying strong and positive.
The bits that are breaking down, I have no control over. I can't force my stomach by sheer willpower to stop developing a stomach ulcer. Or order my fingers and toes to stop suffering from nerve damage.
I know it's daft that I feel I'm letting myself down. I'm just thankful my will power is still intact and willing and able to fight on. Albeit when my pathetic body has had a little rest!
So although I'm angry about it, I am grateful for the small things. I'm still Me.
'A little break from the drug' they've said. 'A chance for your body to recuperate and recharge' they've said. 'Two weeks off and we'll review it when you come back for your CT scan results. You can have upto 3 weeks off at a time if needed, it's not a problem' they've said.
It all makes sense. My sore feet are very very bad apparently (I've gotten used to them) The dodgy tummy and constant diarrhea is a classic symptom of toxicity, but again something I've accepted and made a joke of.
But I still feel like I've failed.
My plan, my big scheme, my coping mechanism with all of this cancer crap, was to try my very best. To give the drugs trial my best shot and stay on it for as long as I could. To give myself the best chance of making it work. For me not to get a recurrence, for it not to come back. For me to help others in a similar situation by taking part, no matter how hard it was going to be. For there being something worthwhile and meaningful from getting and then fighting cancer. By taking part in the trial and maybe in the future, people, having this drug as a regular and normal therapy. You know, just to make a difference.
So being told I need a break from it feels like I've failed. It feels like my body has let me down. Again.
I'm coping mentally. I'm back at work and functioning well. My brain hasn't let me down. My sense of humour is still there. My go ahead attitude to it all is still intact and raring to go. Throw anything at me, you horrible nasty disease, I'm ready for you. My smile, which gets me through most things, is still there.
It's just my body which isn't coping. It's causing me to get infection after infection. Pain. Losing my hair.
It's let me down.
It's like Me, you know, the bit which makes me, Me, is striding confidently along to reach the destination with determination and a 'can do' attitude. And my body, the muscles, tendons, bones, heart, lungs, fingers and toes are cowering in a corner, whimpering saying 'leave me alone, I feel crap and you can't make me go with you'
But I suppose I'm thankful that the bits I have a conscious control over are co-operating and staying strong and positive.
The bits that are breaking down, I have no control over. I can't force my stomach by sheer willpower to stop developing a stomach ulcer. Or order my fingers and toes to stop suffering from nerve damage.
I know it's daft that I feel I'm letting myself down. I'm just thankful my will power is still intact and willing and able to fight on. Albeit when my pathetic body has had a little rest!
So although I'm angry about it, I am grateful for the small things. I'm still Me.
Meal Planning Monday w/c 26th November
Onto this week, which is going to be a little harder as I away for work and not back home until Thursday. So it's restaurant food for me.....eeeek! I'm taking breakfast with me (cereal and fruit) so I won't be tempted by the cooked in oil breakfast and will try and be good for lunch with baked potato to fill me up. Dinner will be the harder one, but will go for the healthier option of steak and salads. Wish me luck!
So the rest of the meals will be
Butternut squash soup with wholemeal roll (inspired by Nigel Slater)
Scotch eggs, wedges and salad (about 3 syns)
Ratatouile and spicy couscous (syn free)
Chicken thighs with roasted root vegetables
Lunches while at home will be left overs from the night before with a chunky salad.
For more inspiring weekly planners, go check out At Home with Mrs M, there are some amazing plans on there!
Will report back next week, with hopefully at least a pound lost
E-mail from my brother: Chickens and other dead things
Hi Fay,
How's it going?
This week I've been mostly thinking about our chickens. We've got new arrivals in the form of four new little chicks two white ones and two speckled grey ones- everyone say "awwwww". We didn't really want four new little chicks but with the ability for the chickens to go and hide anywhere when they go broody we've got to keep an eye out and obviously this time we failed. Those chicks should have been a decent omelette or two egg fried sandwiches, but no, Mother Nature has to thwart our culinary plans and deliver up four little cute chicks. You make me sick Mother Nature. So to cut a long story short we had a broody chicken that we needed to find out where she was and this explains why I went under the house.
Now our house is a hundred and two years old and made of wood. The method of construction was to simply put in load of pad stones down and then put posts on them to which the rest of the house could be nailed onto. You can (and some people do) move their houses by disconnecting the water and electricity, jacking the house up and moving it onto a giant flatbed truck leaving the pad stones in the ground. But what this also means is that you have to have a good skirting board around the bottom of your building to stop chickens, children, dogs, killer clowns and other miscreants from getting under there and laying eggs, getting stuck, pooping dog poop, jumping out to murder us in our sleep and other undesirable things. Our skirting boards are a bit patchy around the back (i.e. missing) and it's here where I believed the chicken had got in. I deduced this by watching the other chickens skipping in and out of the gap like they were a bunch of scallies and the hole was the entrance to an Iceland on the last shopping day before Christmas.
So I put on my overalls, got a torch and slide in under there like a Vietnam Tunnel Rat hunting Charlie. It's dark under there obviously, it's got cobwebs and it's got spiders, so it's not great to begin with. It's kind of like sliding under a bed in search of something you've dropped; it's claustrophobic, difficult to move and breathe and has the added psychological horror of being underneath a whole house rather than just a piece of furniture that if you get stuck under you're semi-confident you can shift it off yourself. So I'm under there for bit when I find the corpse of Sparkles, the speckled cockerel (father of the two grey chicks I'm sad to say). I have to admit I wasn't expecting that and may have uttered a naughty word. Normally I like my chicken coated in KFC batter but this one was rather inconsiderately coated in a thin film of chicken death and nightmare fuel. He was lopped over on his side, his two eyes milky white zombie style and staring at me, some bugs crawling over his feathers, basically pretty horrible. First thing I thought was could I leave him to decompose under there? Sure he'd start to stink but the smell would go after a month or so. Second thing I thought was that I was a man goddamit and I had to deal with this like a man. So I did. I crawled out, got some gardening gloves on, respirator, hard hat, goggles, sprayed on some Lynx and then got a metal rake just close enough to hook the corpse out without me being closer than four feet to ol' chicken-zombie-death . Once out I heaved the body over into a paddock and buried it where it fell. Well it happily fell into the ditch, so I didn't have to bury it at all. Result! It's almost as if I planned it that way.
I'm thinking the ditch might be the best place to dispose of all our animals. Get some sort of air compressor and plastic pipe to shoot the guinea pig corpses into it when they die. Maybe I'll set fire to them as they leave the muzzle for some added wow-factor. Maybe I'll rig up some sort of collapsing ramp for the alpacas. Hell, I'd even get dumped in there, I don't mind. Actually I've given a lot of thought to how I want to go. Basically have you ever seen a sci-fi film where some team of explorers find a derilict space ship and when they get to the bridge they find a skeleton of the pilot still clad in his spacesuit, grinning into the void? See when I'm very very old (100 at least) and Juliette has (a) left me or (b) left me for dead, I'll have the house to myself. I'll set up some direct debits, dress the living room up to look like the bridge of a space ship, put on a space suit complete with helmet and then just sit in the captains chair and watch Deep Space Nine re-runs. Then two years later when someone comes round to ask if I want the grass cut as it's getting a bit long, they'll call out the police who'll break down the door, come into the living room and find my skeleton in the space suit grinning into the void. And they'll be like "What the f*ck!!?!?"
Maybe I can dress the rest of the house up too while I'm at it. Hang some WWII gas masks in the hallway instead of pictures, put some pickled eyeballs in jars and stack them in the bathroom, hang hundreds of baby boots up from the ceiling using 8mm film roll showing 50s holiday camp footage, build a little shrine to Tony Hart under the kitchen sink, you know, regular weird stuff. The new owners will thank me because then, and only then, will going under the house seem not quite so scary when old Foghorn Leghorn checks out under there.
Take care,
Love Mark xxx
How's it going?
This week I've been mostly thinking about our chickens. We've got new arrivals in the form of four new little chicks two white ones and two speckled grey ones- everyone say "awwwww". We didn't really want four new little chicks but with the ability for the chickens to go and hide anywhere when they go broody we've got to keep an eye out and obviously this time we failed. Those chicks should have been a decent omelette or two egg fried sandwiches, but no, Mother Nature has to thwart our culinary plans and deliver up four little cute chicks. You make me sick Mother Nature. So to cut a long story short we had a broody chicken that we needed to find out where she was and this explains why I went under the house.
Now our house is a hundred and two years old and made of wood. The method of construction was to simply put in load of pad stones down and then put posts on them to which the rest of the house could be nailed onto. You can (and some people do) move their houses by disconnecting the water and electricity, jacking the house up and moving it onto a giant flatbed truck leaving the pad stones in the ground. But what this also means is that you have to have a good skirting board around the bottom of your building to stop chickens, children, dogs, killer clowns and other miscreants from getting under there and laying eggs, getting stuck, pooping dog poop, jumping out to murder us in our sleep and other undesirable things. Our skirting boards are a bit patchy around the back (i.e. missing) and it's here where I believed the chicken had got in. I deduced this by watching the other chickens skipping in and out of the gap like they were a bunch of scallies and the hole was the entrance to an Iceland on the last shopping day before Christmas.
So I put on my overalls, got a torch and slide in under there like a Vietnam Tunnel Rat hunting Charlie. It's dark under there obviously, it's got cobwebs and it's got spiders, so it's not great to begin with. It's kind of like sliding under a bed in search of something you've dropped; it's claustrophobic, difficult to move and breathe and has the added psychological horror of being underneath a whole house rather than just a piece of furniture that if you get stuck under you're semi-confident you can shift it off yourself. So I'm under there for bit when I find the corpse of Sparkles, the speckled cockerel (father of the two grey chicks I'm sad to say). I have to admit I wasn't expecting that and may have uttered a naughty word. Normally I like my chicken coated in KFC batter but this one was rather inconsiderately coated in a thin film of chicken death and nightmare fuel. He was lopped over on his side, his two eyes milky white zombie style and staring at me, some bugs crawling over his feathers, basically pretty horrible. First thing I thought was could I leave him to decompose under there? Sure he'd start to stink but the smell would go after a month or so. Second thing I thought was that I was a man goddamit and I had to deal with this like a man. So I did. I crawled out, got some gardening gloves on, respirator, hard hat, goggles, sprayed on some Lynx and then got a metal rake just close enough to hook the corpse out without me being closer than four feet to ol' chicken-zombie-death . Once out I heaved the body over into a paddock and buried it where it fell. Well it happily fell into the ditch, so I didn't have to bury it at all. Result! It's almost as if I planned it that way.
I'm thinking the ditch might be the best place to dispose of all our animals. Get some sort of air compressor and plastic pipe to shoot the guinea pig corpses into it when they die. Maybe I'll set fire to them as they leave the muzzle for some added wow-factor. Maybe I'll rig up some sort of collapsing ramp for the alpacas. Hell, I'd even get dumped in there, I don't mind. Actually I've given a lot of thought to how I want to go. Basically have you ever seen a sci-fi film where some team of explorers find a derilict space ship and when they get to the bridge they find a skeleton of the pilot still clad in his spacesuit, grinning into the void? See when I'm very very old (100 at least) and Juliette has (a) left me or (b) left me for dead, I'll have the house to myself. I'll set up some direct debits, dress the living room up to look like the bridge of a space ship, put on a space suit complete with helmet and then just sit in the captains chair and watch Deep Space Nine re-runs. Then two years later when someone comes round to ask if I want the grass cut as it's getting a bit long, they'll call out the police who'll break down the door, come into the living room and find my skeleton in the space suit grinning into the void. And they'll be like "What the f*ck!!?!?"
Maybe I can dress the rest of the house up too while I'm at it. Hang some WWII gas masks in the hallway instead of pictures, put some pickled eyeballs in jars and stack them in the bathroom, hang hundreds of baby boots up from the ceiling using 8mm film roll showing 50s holiday camp footage, build a little shrine to Tony Hart under the kitchen sink, you know, regular weird stuff. The new owners will thank me because then, and only then, will going under the house seem not quite so scary when old Foghorn Leghorn checks out under there.
Take care,
Love Mark xxx
E-mail from my brother: Teddy bear hat and possible career change edition
Hi Fay,
How's it going? I very much liked the picture of you wearing a teddy bear hat. I reckon you should make a teddy bear balaclava so that your face looks like it's inside the teddy bear's open mouth. If you stitch some angry eyebrows onto the teddy bear's face you can make it look like it's swallowed you in an angry teddy bear wrathful way. Or you can make a balaclava that looks like a Batman mask. Or a Spider-man mask. I think that would be awesome. From the neck down, normal, from the neck up, Spider-man and/or Batman. Ironman balaclava could be a big hit too, or you could do a complete balaclava face mask that makes you look like Barack Obama, Jamie Oliver, Adolf Hitler or maybe something even more fun like Peggy Ollerenshaw from Hi-de-Hi. If I could knit I'd make one for you, but I can't. Sorry. It'd be in the post otherwise.
This week we had Sam's 2nd birthday and "naming ceremony". We felt sort of duty bound to do a naming ceremony because we did one for Eva. However everything in New Zealand is so less formal that getting dressed up and doing something like we did for Eva didn't fit right. So instead we ate vegetarian food and said a few words while we planted some trees. I insisted we shoot fire arrows into a bonfire to de-hippify the event a little. I think the event went well. Even when the father-in-law miss shot his fire arrow and nearly set alight his terylene action slacks. Oh how we laughed.
Last week we had the alpacas rounded up and taken away to have their winter fleeces cut off. It's been so long since we've had them in their harness' that it took me nearly an hour of them spitting and kicking before we got them ready to be taken away. The lady who sold them to us arranged the shearing and she popped by afterwards to see how things were. I told her about the problems with the kicking and spitting and to my surprise she said I should spit and kick back. Really? Apparently if they kick, you have to round house one of their legs from out beneath them. Brilliant! Someone walking over the hill gets to see me going all Chuck Norris with the alpacas in the paddock AND I get to spit in their faces on their way down too. I thought having alpacas would be boring but it's totally not true.
I did the Ohaupo Fireworks display last Saturday night. Basically it's a chance for our group to dress up in our medieval gear, demonstrate medieval fighting and shooting and charge the public for some have-a-go archery. The weather on the Saturday was pretty bad so the turn out was slow to begin with. This meant we could do some demonstration archery which is way more fun than trying to teach a six year old how to shoot. Seriously it's hard work sometimes. You have to start off by finding out whether the kid is left handed or right handed. I do this by asking the simple question "Which had do you draw with?". This is in case the child in question can't write yet and doesn't know if they're left or right handed. The number of blank stares I get like I've just asked them to name all of the seven dwarves in their ascending height order. Then I get kids who hold up their left hand and I say "okay, you're left handed" and they say, "oh no, I draw with this hand," and they hold up their right hand instead like they've just remembered that Christmas falls on a Tuesday this year and not a Sunday which is what they first thought. Or some say "I write with my right hand but I'm left handed." What the f....? My patience is pretty much all used up on my own kids so when it comes to other people's off spring I'm biting my lip and having violent Walter Mitty fantasies when dealing with them.
Get them with a bow in their hands, arrow nocked, bow drawn and ready to fly and you get kids that let go of the bow rather than the bow string (try to imagine that for a moment). Sometimes we get kids that let go of the string by letting it down so painfully slowly that the arrow drops at their feet (you've just got to pick it up and offer them another go). Then you get kids that just completely fail to let go of the string like they've got super glue on their fingers. They're at full draw, their arms are wobbling under the strain and they just can't let go. The advice of "Let go of the string!" soon wants to become a Gordon Ramseyesque "For the love of God, pull back on the string and then let the f*cker go! What's your f*cking problem? Let go of the f*cking string, it's not hard to f*cking do you arsehat! Let the f*cker go! Let it go! Stop f*cking clown dancing and let the f*cker go! Pretend it's red hot and let the string go!". Spit would be flying into their tiny face by now. "F*cksake you tiny mothef*cker I'm dying of old age! Are you f*cking with me? Are you f*cking with me? Get off the range, get off the f*cking range you useless sh*t. Go practice letting go of things. Try a rock first, pick one up and then drop it. Work yourself up to an apple or maybe an orange, progress to a tennis ball and then come back when you can drop a bag of shopping. Now f*ck off out of it YOU USELESS, USELESS, TW*T!"
But I'm not allowed to rant at them. Not after the last time anyway. Juliette has suggested I work as a classroom assistant but I've always said "no".
Actually the hardest part was during a demo shoot after we started shooting two or more arrows at the same time off the same string. You'd explain that archers did this to make it appear that there were double the number of archers on the field. After a while this kid came up to the barrier and caught my attention. You see I'd just shot two arrows at once and although they'd hit the target they weren't great shots. They never are because with two arrows you're splitting the energy from the bow and ... no, no, no come back, I'll stop being all "technical". So anyway this kid stares me straight in the eye, pauses and says "Better to succeed with one arrow than fail with two". I could totally see his point, I was of course new to this archery business what with having done it longer than he'd been alive, but on the other hand I just really wanted to say, and I mean this sincerely from the bottom of my heart, I really wanted to say "F*ck off, Yoda." But instead I smiled politely, tussled his hair and said "oh, you" in a fond way and then spun kicked his legs out from under him and spat on him like an alpaca. I didn't really of course. Not after the last time.
I'm not a nasty horrible person really, as I said sometimes you want to say or do something when you know you shouldn't. Anyway got to go, those alpaca goolies won't kick themselves black and blue on their own. Take care and speak to you next week. Hey, how about an alpaca balaclava? Awesome.
Love Mark xxx
How's it going? I very much liked the picture of you wearing a teddy bear hat. I reckon you should make a teddy bear balaclava so that your face looks like it's inside the teddy bear's open mouth. If you stitch some angry eyebrows onto the teddy bear's face you can make it look like it's swallowed you in an angry teddy bear wrathful way. Or you can make a balaclava that looks like a Batman mask. Or a Spider-man mask. I think that would be awesome. From the neck down, normal, from the neck up, Spider-man and/or Batman. Ironman balaclava could be a big hit too, or you could do a complete balaclava face mask that makes you look like Barack Obama, Jamie Oliver, Adolf Hitler or maybe something even more fun like Peggy Ollerenshaw from Hi-de-Hi. If I could knit I'd make one for you, but I can't. Sorry. It'd be in the post otherwise.
This week we had Sam's 2nd birthday and "naming ceremony". We felt sort of duty bound to do a naming ceremony because we did one for Eva. However everything in New Zealand is so less formal that getting dressed up and doing something like we did for Eva didn't fit right. So instead we ate vegetarian food and said a few words while we planted some trees. I insisted we shoot fire arrows into a bonfire to de-hippify the event a little. I think the event went well. Even when the father-in-law miss shot his fire arrow and nearly set alight his terylene action slacks. Oh how we laughed.
Last week we had the alpacas rounded up and taken away to have their winter fleeces cut off. It's been so long since we've had them in their harness' that it took me nearly an hour of them spitting and kicking before we got them ready to be taken away. The lady who sold them to us arranged the shearing and she popped by afterwards to see how things were. I told her about the problems with the kicking and spitting and to my surprise she said I should spit and kick back. Really? Apparently if they kick, you have to round house one of their legs from out beneath them. Brilliant! Someone walking over the hill gets to see me going all Chuck Norris with the alpacas in the paddock AND I get to spit in their faces on their way down too. I thought having alpacas would be boring but it's totally not true.
I did the Ohaupo Fireworks display last Saturday night. Basically it's a chance for our group to dress up in our medieval gear, demonstrate medieval fighting and shooting and charge the public for some have-a-go archery. The weather on the Saturday was pretty bad so the turn out was slow to begin with. This meant we could do some demonstration archery which is way more fun than trying to teach a six year old how to shoot. Seriously it's hard work sometimes. You have to start off by finding out whether the kid is left handed or right handed. I do this by asking the simple question "Which had do you draw with?". This is in case the child in question can't write yet and doesn't know if they're left or right handed. The number of blank stares I get like I've just asked them to name all of the seven dwarves in their ascending height order. Then I get kids who hold up their left hand and I say "okay, you're left handed" and they say, "oh no, I draw with this hand," and they hold up their right hand instead like they've just remembered that Christmas falls on a Tuesday this year and not a Sunday which is what they first thought. Or some say "I write with my right hand but I'm left handed." What the f....? My patience is pretty much all used up on my own kids so when it comes to other people's off spring I'm biting my lip and having violent Walter Mitty fantasies when dealing with them.
Get them with a bow in their hands, arrow nocked, bow drawn and ready to fly and you get kids that let go of the bow rather than the bow string (try to imagine that for a moment). Sometimes we get kids that let go of the string by letting it down so painfully slowly that the arrow drops at their feet (you've just got to pick it up and offer them another go). Then you get kids that just completely fail to let go of the string like they've got super glue on their fingers. They're at full draw, their arms are wobbling under the strain and they just can't let go. The advice of "Let go of the string!" soon wants to become a Gordon Ramseyesque "For the love of God, pull back on the string and then let the f*cker go! What's your f*cking problem? Let go of the f*cking string, it's not hard to f*cking do you arsehat! Let the f*cker go! Let it go! Stop f*cking clown dancing and let the f*cker go! Pretend it's red hot and let the string go!". Spit would be flying into their tiny face by now. "F*cksake you tiny mothef*cker I'm dying of old age! Are you f*cking with me? Are you f*cking with me? Get off the range, get off the f*cking range you useless sh*t. Go practice letting go of things. Try a rock first, pick one up and then drop it. Work yourself up to an apple or maybe an orange, progress to a tennis ball and then come back when you can drop a bag of shopping. Now f*ck off out of it YOU USELESS, USELESS, TW*T!"
But I'm not allowed to rant at them. Not after the last time anyway. Juliette has suggested I work as a classroom assistant but I've always said "no".
Actually the hardest part was during a demo shoot after we started shooting two or more arrows at the same time off the same string. You'd explain that archers did this to make it appear that there were double the number of archers on the field. After a while this kid came up to the barrier and caught my attention. You see I'd just shot two arrows at once and although they'd hit the target they weren't great shots. They never are because with two arrows you're splitting the energy from the bow and ... no, no, no come back, I'll stop being all "technical". So anyway this kid stares me straight in the eye, pauses and says "Better to succeed with one arrow than fail with two". I could totally see his point, I was of course new to this archery business what with having done it longer than he'd been alive, but on the other hand I just really wanted to say, and I mean this sincerely from the bottom of my heart, I really wanted to say "F*ck off, Yoda." But instead I smiled politely, tussled his hair and said "oh, you" in a fond way and then spun kicked his legs out from under him and spat on him like an alpaca. I didn't really of course. Not after the last time.
I'm not a nasty horrible person really, as I said sometimes you want to say or do something when you know you shouldn't. Anyway got to go, those alpaca goolies won't kick themselves black and blue on their own. Take care and speak to you next week. Hey, how about an alpaca balaclava? Awesome.
Love Mark xxx
Meal Planning Monday w/c 19th November 'I'm Back!'
My plan this week is to have porridge or weetabix with fruit (my healthy B), a good lunch like egg or mackerel salad with cous cous or pasta and as Syn free a dinner as possible. This will leave me Syns to play with which I can use for chocolate, my lifeline in times of stress. I've worked out one Milk Tray chocolate is 2.5 Syns each, so I can easily have four every day. Result!
Onto this week's meals, in no particular order
Ratatouille and roast chicken with spicy couscous (syn free)
Pasta bake with mozzarella (syn free, cheese healthy extra)
Sweet potato curry with rice and vegetables (syn free)
Cottage pie and vegetables (syn free)
Chili bean burgers, slimming world chips and salad (syn free)
Omelette and wedges and salad (syn free)
Baked potato, beans and cheese (syn free)
I've already cooked the ratatouille, pasta bake, curry and cottage pie. Everything's safely in the freezer so no reason to fail.
Do you think that's enough planning? Have you got any top tips I can use to make this a successful week?
Wish me luck and I will report back next week
Email from my brother: toddler wigs (don't ask, just read)
Hi Fay,
How is it going? I'm typing this while smelling a bit of sick. Not my sick, Sam's sick. I took the kids to an indoor play area after picking Eva up from school today and gave them both an apple in the car as a snack. That's an apple each of course, I couldn't ask them to share the same apple in the car any more than you could ask Ronald McDonald and Colonel Saunders to share a Burger King Quarter Pound Double Cheeseburger, at a Pizza Hut.
Anyway Sam has a tendency to get over excited after running around a lot and puke up and that's what he did on one of the indoor play area's bouncy castle/Krypton Factor assault course combos that seem popular these days. Of course normally I'd clean the puke up with one of the wet wipes from his change bag but for some reason Juliette transferred the contents of old unisex change bag into one of her old handbags. As a result I tend to leave the thing in the car as not even I have such a low level of self awareness that walking around carrying a handbag is something I'm comfortable with. So instead of being able to use a wet wipe I downed the last of my latte (one sugar please), popped open the lid on the cup, scooped up the apple chunks into the paper cup, threw it in the bin, wiped up the remaining mess clean with my sleeve and then rolled both my sleeves up. Tadaa! Juliette asked me why I didn't just ask management for a cloth but where's anecdote in that? Anyway I've still got my sleeves rolled up and I still smell of puke. It's appley with a faint hint of vomit.
I thought Sam might be extra tired tonight too what with all that running around but it took ages for Juliette to get him to sleep. I gave him no more that forty minutes for his day time nap as well so he was nice and knackered. When I woke him up at midday I tried to get him to stay awake by taking him to check the post (always a favourite). I popped him on my shoulders and he slumped over my head and fell asleep because he was still too tired. I thought I must have looked like a sidecurled Orthodox Jew but instead of ringlets hanging down over my ears I had toddler arms.
They've both woken up with nightmares lately so maybe it's something they've watched? Peppa Pig doesn't pull her punches when she's tackling those hard to stomach nitty gritty subjects I can tell you. "Mr Dinosaur is Lost", "Daddy Loses his Glasses", "Windy Autumn Day", "Traffic Jam", "George Catches a Cold", it's got more edgy story lines than Eastenders sometimes. Come to think of it maybe it was that time we watched Jaws.
This week I'm nearly close to finishing the modifications to my medieval gambeson. If you don't know what that is it's a padded jacket used as basic under protection for chainmail. I bought one ages ago and had to go for the XL size due to the room I need around my shoulders to draw my longbow. As a result the rest of the gambeson (i.e. the sleeves) were in proportion to the XL size which meant the sleeves were so long you couldn't see my hands and when I raised my arms up it lifted the shoulders up too and my head disappeared. Brilliant.
I took the sleeves off, tailored them to the correct size, put in spiral lace ups under the arms so that I can put my arms in and tighten them up and put lacing points inside the main garment so that I can remove the sleeves if need be in hot weather. Thing is it's all padded and quilted and has a gazillion bits that needed sewing but I can't run it through a sewing machine because it's too thick. So it's been painfully stitched by hand. Juliette's been looking at me doing this work and has casually wondered where that peg bag I promised to make her is. Her lips said "Where's my f*cking peg bag?" while her eyes said "Read my f*cking lips". That's an old joke, she didn't swear at me at all, it was just implied.
To be fair now it's been over a year that I promised to make her the peg bag and I actually did. However I ripped it adding some fancy stuff like a shoulder strap and a gizmo for keeping the bag open while taking pegs in and out and I couldn't be bothered to repair it. It's in the garage under a pile of rat sh*t. Still Christmas is coming up, so, peg bag ahoy ... It's the thought that counts I always believe.
Anyway, take care of yourself, I haven't included any mickey taking about being bald this letter for change as I thought you could do with a break.
Love,
Mark xxx
P.S. You can of course borrow Sam any time he's feeling sleepy.
How is it going? I'm typing this while smelling a bit of sick. Not my sick, Sam's sick. I took the kids to an indoor play area after picking Eva up from school today and gave them both an apple in the car as a snack. That's an apple each of course, I couldn't ask them to share the same apple in the car any more than you could ask Ronald McDonald and Colonel Saunders to share a Burger King Quarter Pound Double Cheeseburger, at a Pizza Hut.
Anyway Sam has a tendency to get over excited after running around a lot and puke up and that's what he did on one of the indoor play area's bouncy castle/Krypton Factor assault course combos that seem popular these days. Of course normally I'd clean the puke up with one of the wet wipes from his change bag but for some reason Juliette transferred the contents of old unisex change bag into one of her old handbags. As a result I tend to leave the thing in the car as not even I have such a low level of self awareness that walking around carrying a handbag is something I'm comfortable with. So instead of being able to use a wet wipe I downed the last of my latte (one sugar please), popped open the lid on the cup, scooped up the apple chunks into the paper cup, threw it in the bin, wiped up the remaining mess clean with my sleeve and then rolled both my sleeves up. Tadaa! Juliette asked me why I didn't just ask management for a cloth but where's anecdote in that? Anyway I've still got my sleeves rolled up and I still smell of puke. It's appley with a faint hint of vomit.
I thought Sam might be extra tired tonight too what with all that running around but it took ages for Juliette to get him to sleep. I gave him no more that forty minutes for his day time nap as well so he was nice and knackered. When I woke him up at midday I tried to get him to stay awake by taking him to check the post (always a favourite). I popped him on my shoulders and he slumped over my head and fell asleep because he was still too tired. I thought I must have looked like a sidecurled Orthodox Jew but instead of ringlets hanging down over my ears I had toddler arms.
They've both woken up with nightmares lately so maybe it's something they've watched? Peppa Pig doesn't pull her punches when she's tackling those hard to stomach nitty gritty subjects I can tell you. "Mr Dinosaur is Lost", "Daddy Loses his Glasses", "Windy Autumn Day", "Traffic Jam", "George Catches a Cold", it's got more edgy story lines than Eastenders sometimes. Come to think of it maybe it was that time we watched Jaws.
This week I'm nearly close to finishing the modifications to my medieval gambeson. If you don't know what that is it's a padded jacket used as basic under protection for chainmail. I bought one ages ago and had to go for the XL size due to the room I need around my shoulders to draw my longbow. As a result the rest of the gambeson (i.e. the sleeves) were in proportion to the XL size which meant the sleeves were so long you couldn't see my hands and when I raised my arms up it lifted the shoulders up too and my head disappeared. Brilliant.
I took the sleeves off, tailored them to the correct size, put in spiral lace ups under the arms so that I can put my arms in and tighten them up and put lacing points inside the main garment so that I can remove the sleeves if need be in hot weather. Thing is it's all padded and quilted and has a gazillion bits that needed sewing but I can't run it through a sewing machine because it's too thick. So it's been painfully stitched by hand. Juliette's been looking at me doing this work and has casually wondered where that peg bag I promised to make her is. Her lips said "Where's my f*cking peg bag?" while her eyes said "Read my f*cking lips". That's an old joke, she didn't swear at me at all, it was just implied.
To be fair now it's been over a year that I promised to make her the peg bag and I actually did. However I ripped it adding some fancy stuff like a shoulder strap and a gizmo for keeping the bag open while taking pegs in and out and I couldn't be bothered to repair it. It's in the garage under a pile of rat sh*t. Still Christmas is coming up, so, peg bag ahoy ... It's the thought that counts I always believe.
Anyway, take care of yourself, I haven't included any mickey taking about being bald this letter for change as I thought you could do with a break.
Love,
Mark xxx
P.S. You can of course borrow Sam any time he's feeling sleepy.
Email from my brother: pirates, nether regions and lovely grapefruit
Hi Fay,
How is it going? I read that you've got a crease mark across your forehead from your scarf. Have you tried looking at some pirate websites? I mean actual pirates, not the ones that download illegal films and stuff? Because pirates wear a lot of bandanas so must have the same problem. Jack Sparrow for example never takes his head scarf off at all so he must have one hell of a crease. Just saying.
I started writing this e-mail in some discomfort. Due to the wet weather and lack of drying opportunities I'm down to my last pair of boxer shorts and those are the ones I received from Eva last Father's Day. They're gold with little rosettes and silver cups all over them. Inside each rosette is the legend "No.1!". Anyway the boxers are also about two sizes too small for me and so my nethers feel like they've been shrink wrapped. I've been wearing them all day, in some pain as I bent over and repeatedly stuffed all the washing into the tumble dryer so that I don't have to wear them again anytime soon. The boxers are so tight I feel like I've been flossing my bottom and all the rosettes on the back now say "No.2!".
This week Eva went back to school. Turns out they have four terms here instead of three so they have another ten more weeks before the big six week Summer/Christmas holiday. I'm trying to get back into the swing of making her packed lunches but to be honest I can't be bothered most of the time. I keep reading articles about super keen parents who make their kid's lunches up to look like characters from Seseame Street or Looney Tune characters. My solution is to make up a normal lunch and pop in a picture of Big Bird or something on top. You get the same effect right? Open lunchbox and see Road Runner, surprise! Eat lunch. She's five so will probably be just as happy. Tell me I'm wrong.
Sam got upset because his plastic grabber toy was found broken in the car. When he's strapped into his seat he likes to use it to grap the handle over the door but he can't grab anything now that one of the pincers has snapped off. I tried to explain that although he can't grab anything one pincer still works so he can still beckon things to come to him with it. He's just not happy with the concept for some reason while I'm astounded at the Zen'ness of the grabber vs broken grabber concept. There's a metaphor or something right there because the grabber is only a foot long where as your useful beckoning range is line of sight. I'm thinking I need more sleep. (Uses broken grabber in general direction of bed).
While I'm on the subject of Sam his new favourite word is "no". Or rather "nah". He babbles away and suddenly there's a clear as day "nah" like he's a bored teenager. "Do you want to read Postman Pat, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to read Peppa Pig, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to eat large amounts of unhealthy chocolate, Sam?", "Na....uh-hu.", "Well Sam ... NAH!". I don't know if it's the broken promise of chocolate that makes him cry or my doing a victory dance and chanting "Su-cker!" to the tune of The A-Team theme. When he learns to talk some more he can tell me.
We're back on the 5:2 diet where two days a week we limit our food intake to 600 calories. It's supposed to be healthier but the only thing that's healthy is my appetite. There's no weight loss either. The only thing I've lost is my will to live. We bought a book on the diet but it's been sat on the side unread for nearly two weeks now. It's like neither of us wants to read the book because if we do that we're going to find out we've been doing it wrong. Six hundred calories!? No, it should be five hundred. One calorie over and you might as well eat pies for all the good it'll do you. Six weeks of it now, brilliant.
I'm also currently brewing some grapefruit wine. It's going to be horrible, I know it, Sam knows it. He helped me pick the grapefruit from our grapefruit tree. No one likes grapefruit and yet it's the biggest fruit tree on the property. It must have a couple of hundred grapefruit alread hanging off it's unwanted branches. Anyway the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because Sam helped pick them. He's a short lad so he thought it might be easier to throw some in that he found on the floor. Some rotten ones got in, I know it, Sam knows it. I'll send you a bottle when it's ready, it'll take your mind off your forehead crease problem. Everyone's problems go away when you're sh*tting through the eye of needle. Also the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because it's made from f*cking grapefruit. QED.
Take care,
Love,
Mark xxx
How is it going? I read that you've got a crease mark across your forehead from your scarf. Have you tried looking at some pirate websites? I mean actual pirates, not the ones that download illegal films and stuff? Because pirates wear a lot of bandanas so must have the same problem. Jack Sparrow for example never takes his head scarf off at all so he must have one hell of a crease. Just saying.
I started writing this e-mail in some discomfort. Due to the wet weather and lack of drying opportunities I'm down to my last pair of boxer shorts and those are the ones I received from Eva last Father's Day. They're gold with little rosettes and silver cups all over them. Inside each rosette is the legend "No.1!". Anyway the boxers are also about two sizes too small for me and so my nethers feel like they've been shrink wrapped. I've been wearing them all day, in some pain as I bent over and repeatedly stuffed all the washing into the tumble dryer so that I don't have to wear them again anytime soon. The boxers are so tight I feel like I've been flossing my bottom and all the rosettes on the back now say "No.2!".
This week Eva went back to school. Turns out they have four terms here instead of three so they have another ten more weeks before the big six week Summer/Christmas holiday. I'm trying to get back into the swing of making her packed lunches but to be honest I can't be bothered most of the time. I keep reading articles about super keen parents who make their kid's lunches up to look like characters from Seseame Street or Looney Tune characters. My solution is to make up a normal lunch and pop in a picture of Big Bird or something on top. You get the same effect right? Open lunchbox and see Road Runner, surprise! Eat lunch. She's five so will probably be just as happy. Tell me I'm wrong.
Sam got upset because his plastic grabber toy was found broken in the car. When he's strapped into his seat he likes to use it to grap the handle over the door but he can't grab anything now that one of the pincers has snapped off. I tried to explain that although he can't grab anything one pincer still works so he can still beckon things to come to him with it. He's just not happy with the concept for some reason while I'm astounded at the Zen'ness of the grabber vs broken grabber concept. There's a metaphor or something right there because the grabber is only a foot long where as your useful beckoning range is line of sight. I'm thinking I need more sleep. (Uses broken grabber in general direction of bed).
While I'm on the subject of Sam his new favourite word is "no". Or rather "nah". He babbles away and suddenly there's a clear as day "nah" like he's a bored teenager. "Do you want to read Postman Pat, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to read Peppa Pig, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to eat large amounts of unhealthy chocolate, Sam?", "Na....uh-hu.", "Well Sam ... NAH!". I don't know if it's the broken promise of chocolate that makes him cry or my doing a victory dance and chanting "Su-cker!" to the tune of The A-Team theme. When he learns to talk some more he can tell me.
We're back on the 5:2 diet where two days a week we limit our food intake to 600 calories. It's supposed to be healthier but the only thing that's healthy is my appetite. There's no weight loss either. The only thing I've lost is my will to live. We bought a book on the diet but it's been sat on the side unread for nearly two weeks now. It's like neither of us wants to read the book because if we do that we're going to find out we've been doing it wrong. Six hundred calories!? No, it should be five hundred. One calorie over and you might as well eat pies for all the good it'll do you. Six weeks of it now, brilliant.
I'm also currently brewing some grapefruit wine. It's going to be horrible, I know it, Sam knows it. He helped me pick the grapefruit from our grapefruit tree. No one likes grapefruit and yet it's the biggest fruit tree on the property. It must have a couple of hundred grapefruit alread hanging off it's unwanted branches. Anyway the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because Sam helped pick them. He's a short lad so he thought it might be easier to throw some in that he found on the floor. Some rotten ones got in, I know it, Sam knows it. I'll send you a bottle when it's ready, it'll take your mind off your forehead crease problem. Everyone's problems go away when you're sh*tting through the eye of needle. Also the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because it's made from f*cking grapefruit. QED.
Take care,
Love,
Mark xxx
It's the little things
When was the last time you did something for someone else, just because you could. Just because it felt like the right thing to do?
I came back to my desk after a week working away to a package.
The note inside read
'Welcome back to Virgin Media from Hugo and the Legal Team'
And I giggled and then cried.
Late last week I'd taken a call from Hugo and rather than blag it, I'd confessed to have taken this particular project over after being off sick. I didn't know the answer to the question but would sort it out. This led (don't ask, it was a long chat) to us both saying a woolly hat makes all the difference when you're bald. Not something a year ago I thought I'd be empathising with a total stranger about.
And this lovely man, this guy I'd never met or even spoken to before, took the time, not to mention money, to send me a gift. His gift really touched me, it made me laugh, it made me cry. He'd really listened, connected and taken the time to do something. It made me feel a little bit special. Oh and very warm.
If you haven't already guessed it, I'm now the proud owner of a new hat, a Paul Smith woollen hat to be exact.
And I love it!
It's inspired me to keep my eyes and ears open, to be able to make a little difference to someone else. Because sometimes it is just the little things.
I came back to my desk after a week working away to a package.
The note inside read
'Welcome back to Virgin Media from Hugo and the Legal Team'
And I giggled and then cried.
Late last week I'd taken a call from Hugo and rather than blag it, I'd confessed to have taken this particular project over after being off sick. I didn't know the answer to the question but would sort it out. This led (don't ask, it was a long chat) to us both saying a woolly hat makes all the difference when you're bald. Not something a year ago I thought I'd be empathising with a total stranger about.
And this lovely man, this guy I'd never met or even spoken to before, took the time, not to mention money, to send me a gift. His gift really touched me, it made me laugh, it made me cry. He'd really listened, connected and taken the time to do something. It made me feel a little bit special. Oh and very warm.
If you haven't already guessed it, I'm now the proud owner of a new hat, a Paul Smith woollen hat to be exact.
And I love it!
It's inspired me to keep my eyes and ears open, to be able to make a little difference to someone else. Because sometimes it is just the little things.
Email from my brother: two in one day
So behind with these, I've decided to published two in one day! Post two of four for your delectation. Enjoy
------------------
Hi Fay,
How is it going? I read that you've got a crease mark across your forehead from your scarf. Have you tried looking at some pirate websites? I mean actual pirates, not the ones that download illegal films and stuff? Because pirates wear a lot of bandanas so must have the same problem. Jack Sparrow for example never takes his head scarf off at all so he must have one hell of a crease. Just saying.
I started writing this e-mail in some discomfort. Due to the wet weather and lack of drying opportunities I'm down to my last pair of boxer shorts and those are the ones I received from Eva last Father's Day. They're gold with little rosettes and silver cups all over them. Inside each rosette is the legend "No.1!". Anyway the boxers are also about two sizes too small for me and so my nethers feel like they've been shrink wrapped. I've been wearing them all day, in some pain as I bent over and repeatedly stuffed all the washing into the tumble dryer so that I don't have to wear them again anytime soon. The boxers are so tight I feel like I've been flossing my bottom and all the rosettes on the back now say "No.2!".
This week Eva went back to school. Turns out they have four terms here instead of three so they have another ten more weeks before the big six week Summer/Christmas holiday. I'm trying to get back into the swing of making her packed lunches but to be honest I can't be bothered most of the time. I keep reading articles about super keen parents who make their kid's lunches up to look like characters from Seseame Street or Looney Tune characters. My solution is to make up a normal lunch and pop in a picture of Big Bird or something on top. You get the same effect right? Open lunchbox and see Road Runner, surprise! Eat lunch. She's five so will probably be just as happy. Tell me I'm wrong.
Sam got upset because his plastic grabber toy was found broken in the car. When he's strapped into his seat he likes to use it to grap the handle over the door but he can't grab anything now that one of the pincers has snapped off. I tried to explain that although he can't grab anything one pincer still works so he can still beckon things to come to him with it. He's just not happy with the concept for some reason while I'm astounded at the Zen'ness of the grabber vs broken grabber concept. There's a metaphor or something right there because the grabber is only a foot long where as your useful beckoning range is line of sight. I'm thinking I need more sleep. (Uses broken grabber in general direction of bed).
While I'm on the subject of Sam his new favourite word is "no". Or rather "nah". He babbles away and suddenly there's a clear as day "nah" like he's a bored teenager. "Do you want to read Postman Pat, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to read Peppa Pig, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to eat large amounts of unhealthy chocolate, Sam?", "Na....uh-hu.", "Well Sam ... NAH!". I don't know if it's the broken promise of chocolate that makes him cry or my doing a victory dance and chanting "Su-cker!" to the tune of The A-Team theme. When he learns to talk some more he can tell me.
We're back on the 5:2 diet where two days a week we limit our food intake to 600 calories. It's supposed to be healthier but the only thing that's healthy is my appetite. There's no weight loss either. The only thing I've lost is my will to live. We bought a book on the diet but it's been sat on the side unread for nearly two weeks now. It's like neither of us wants to read the book because if we do that we're going to find out we've been doing it wrong. Six hundred calories!? No, it should be five hundred. One calorie over and you might as well eat pies for all the good it'll do you. Six weeks of it now, brilliant.
I'm also currently brewing some grapefruit wine. It's going to be horrible, I know it, Sam knows it. He helped me pick the grapefruit from our grapefruit tree. No one likes grapefruit and yet it's the biggest fruit tree on the property. It must have a couple of hundred grapefruit alread hanging off it's unwanted branches. Anyway the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because Sam helped pick them. He's a short lad so he thought it might be easier to throw some in that he found on the floor. Some rotten ones got in, I know it, Sam knows it. I'll send you a bottle when it's ready, it'll take your mind off your forehead crease problem. Everyone's problems go away when you're sh*tting through the eye of needle. Also the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because it's made from f*cking grapefruit. QED.
Take care,
Love,
Mark xxx
------------------
Hi Fay,
How is it going? I read that you've got a crease mark across your forehead from your scarf. Have you tried looking at some pirate websites? I mean actual pirates, not the ones that download illegal films and stuff? Because pirates wear a lot of bandanas so must have the same problem. Jack Sparrow for example never takes his head scarf off at all so he must have one hell of a crease. Just saying.
I started writing this e-mail in some discomfort. Due to the wet weather and lack of drying opportunities I'm down to my last pair of boxer shorts and those are the ones I received from Eva last Father's Day. They're gold with little rosettes and silver cups all over them. Inside each rosette is the legend "No.1!". Anyway the boxers are also about two sizes too small for me and so my nethers feel like they've been shrink wrapped. I've been wearing them all day, in some pain as I bent over and repeatedly stuffed all the washing into the tumble dryer so that I don't have to wear them again anytime soon. The boxers are so tight I feel like I've been flossing my bottom and all the rosettes on the back now say "No.2!".
This week Eva went back to school. Turns out they have four terms here instead of three so they have another ten more weeks before the big six week Summer/Christmas holiday. I'm trying to get back into the swing of making her packed lunches but to be honest I can't be bothered most of the time. I keep reading articles about super keen parents who make their kid's lunches up to look like characters from Seseame Street or Looney Tune characters. My solution is to make up a normal lunch and pop in a picture of Big Bird or something on top. You get the same effect right? Open lunchbox and see Road Runner, surprise! Eat lunch. She's five so will probably be just as happy. Tell me I'm wrong.
Sam got upset because his plastic grabber toy was found broken in the car. When he's strapped into his seat he likes to use it to grap the handle over the door but he can't grab anything now that one of the pincers has snapped off. I tried to explain that although he can't grab anything one pincer still works so he can still beckon things to come to him with it. He's just not happy with the concept for some reason while I'm astounded at the Zen'ness of the grabber vs broken grabber concept. There's a metaphor or something right there because the grabber is only a foot long where as your useful beckoning range is line of sight. I'm thinking I need more sleep. (Uses broken grabber in general direction of bed).
While I'm on the subject of Sam his new favourite word is "no". Or rather "nah". He babbles away and suddenly there's a clear as day "nah" like he's a bored teenager. "Do you want to read Postman Pat, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to read Peppa Pig, Sam?", "Nah.", "Do you want to eat large amounts of unhealthy chocolate, Sam?", "Na....uh-hu.", "Well Sam ... NAH!". I don't know if it's the broken promise of chocolate that makes him cry or my doing a victory dance and chanting "Su-cker!" to the tune of The A-Team theme. When he learns to talk some more he can tell me.
We're back on the 5:2 diet where two days a week we limit our food intake to 600 calories. It's supposed to be healthier but the only thing that's healthy is my appetite. There's no weight loss either. The only thing I've lost is my will to live. We bought a book on the diet but it's been sat on the side unread for nearly two weeks now. It's like neither of us wants to read the book because if we do that we're going to find out we've been doing it wrong. Six hundred calories!? No, it should be five hundred. One calorie over and you might as well eat pies for all the good it'll do you. Six weeks of it now, brilliant.
I'm also currently brewing some grapefruit wine. It's going to be horrible, I know it, Sam knows it. He helped me pick the grapefruit from our grapefruit tree. No one likes grapefruit and yet it's the biggest fruit tree on the property. It must have a couple of hundred grapefruit alread hanging off it's unwanted branches. Anyway the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because Sam helped pick them. He's a short lad so he thought it might be easier to throw some in that he found on the floor. Some rotten ones got in, I know it, Sam knows it. I'll send you a bottle when it's ready, it'll take your mind off your forehead crease problem. Everyone's problems go away when you're sh*tting through the eye of needle. Also the grapefruit wine is going to be horrible because it's made from f*cking grapefruit. QED.
Take care,
Love,
Mark xxx
Email from my brother
I'm a bit behind with posting these, but I can't deprive you of them any longer. Here is number one of four.
----------------
Hi Fay,
How's it going? I checked your blog before writing this but don't know if anything extra is happening with you or that now you're back at work it means you're busy. Or that I've skimmed over your blog and missed something important. At this point I'm going with the first option.
I couldn't speak to mum and dad last week either because I was away on an SCA weekend (Society of Creative Anachronisms) at Pirongia and they let me know what's going on with the family. I managed to rope Paul (my nephew on Juliette's side) into coming along for the day on the Saturday at Pirongia. He's eight now so is enjoying things quite a bit. He managed to come second in his first ever contest for the junior archery and won a leather bracer (a leather arm protector that stops the string of the bow from hitting your arm). Only last month prior I signed him up as my fletchers apprentice on a Contract of Indenture where by I get first dibs on "anee wynnings from archeree tournaments, hastiludes and chance bets at the butts". I can actually spell but the contract was written in olde English and stained with tea to make it look really authentic. I believe my marriage certificate uses the same modus operandi.
The upshot is that I've always wanted another leather bracer and contracts are contracts, so... His contract lasts for "seven yers and one day" so I should be able to skim off his winnings until 2019 at least. Result!
I came joint second in the adult archery contest and managed to talk my way out of a shoot out for the first place. You see the core archers all practice on the third Sunday of the month and we belong to the (fictional) household of Geoffrey Wulf who is under the employ of the (fictional) constable of the Tower, Sir Alan de Boxhill. Sir Alan de Boxhill actually existed back in the 1370s but doesn't "exist" now so to speak. He's like a figurehead boss, the Colonel Saunders to our archery KFC.
So any win by a household archer is a feather in the cap for household, right? So after three separate rounds of speed shooting, distance shooting and animal target shooting the marshal in charge had three archers on equal points because we all won our rounds. However the first round was one by a household archer, the second round by a non-household archer and the last round was won by me the oldest household archer in town.
Because it was near lunch I said that rather than do a shoot out to decide the winner perhaps the winner should be the archer who among us scored highest in the rounds they did not win. I did this because I knew that the other household archer would definitely win this way because he shot really well in the second round. Following this? Don't worry, I didn't either and I'm seriously not kidding. I knew that if we did a last shoot out where winner takes all there was a possibility that the non-household archer could snatch victory from a lucky shot, so I angled it to make sure the household gained all the glory. Not me, the household. Understand? It was not about me.
Ha! Who am I kidding? What actually happened was that I thought we were shooting to decide the final third round placing because I thought I was out of the competition as a whole. It was only after lunch that I realised I had a chance at shooting for first place for the whole shooting match (if you pardon the pun) and talked the marshal out of it. However later on I did managed to pick up the prize "Resplendent Peacock award for best Light Combat (archer) or heraldic appearance" because of my kit. I take solace in this because if you're going to be a f*ckwit might as well look fabulous while doing it.
It's the last week of the school holidays here before they launch into term something or other. I have no idea how school terms work. I was told they got two weeks off for "half term" but two weeks sounds a bit much. I was also told that they have four terms rather than three. All I know is that next week things will get a whole lot easier with just Sam to look after. Don't get me wrong, Eva is lovely on her own and Sam is lovely on his own but put them together is like water and potassium, it's like the Incredible Hulk and Jack McGee, it's like Baileys and Lime Cordial. Those two do not get on and they can not get on for hours without a break. I don't know where they get it from. All I know is that without Tom and Jerry cartoons where I can sit them down for ten minutes, in silence I'd be ... hang on a minute.
Take care,
Love,
Mark xxx
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Hi Fay,
How's it going? I checked your blog before writing this but don't know if anything extra is happening with you or that now you're back at work it means you're busy. Or that I've skimmed over your blog and missed something important. At this point I'm going with the first option.
I couldn't speak to mum and dad last week either because I was away on an SCA weekend (Society of Creative Anachronisms) at Pirongia and they let me know what's going on with the family. I managed to rope Paul (my nephew on Juliette's side) into coming along for the day on the Saturday at Pirongia. He's eight now so is enjoying things quite a bit. He managed to come second in his first ever contest for the junior archery and won a leather bracer (a leather arm protector that stops the string of the bow from hitting your arm). Only last month prior I signed him up as my fletchers apprentice on a Contract of Indenture where by I get first dibs on "anee wynnings from archeree tournaments, hastiludes and chance bets at the butts". I can actually spell but the contract was written in olde English and stained with tea to make it look really authentic. I believe my marriage certificate uses the same modus operandi.
The upshot is that I've always wanted another leather bracer and contracts are contracts, so... His contract lasts for "seven yers and one day" so I should be able to skim off his winnings until 2019 at least. Result!
I came joint second in the adult archery contest and managed to talk my way out of a shoot out for the first place. You see the core archers all practice on the third Sunday of the month and we belong to the (fictional) household of Geoffrey Wulf who is under the employ of the (fictional) constable of the Tower, Sir Alan de Boxhill. Sir Alan de Boxhill actually existed back in the 1370s but doesn't "exist" now so to speak. He's like a figurehead boss, the Colonel Saunders to our archery KFC.
So any win by a household archer is a feather in the cap for household, right? So after three separate rounds of speed shooting, distance shooting and animal target shooting the marshal in charge had three archers on equal points because we all won our rounds. However the first round was one by a household archer, the second round by a non-household archer and the last round was won by me the oldest household archer in town.
Because it was near lunch I said that rather than do a shoot out to decide the winner perhaps the winner should be the archer who among us scored highest in the rounds they did not win. I did this because I knew that the other household archer would definitely win this way because he shot really well in the second round. Following this? Don't worry, I didn't either and I'm seriously not kidding. I knew that if we did a last shoot out where winner takes all there was a possibility that the non-household archer could snatch victory from a lucky shot, so I angled it to make sure the household gained all the glory. Not me, the household. Understand? It was not about me.
Ha! Who am I kidding? What actually happened was that I thought we were shooting to decide the final third round placing because I thought I was out of the competition as a whole. It was only after lunch that I realised I had a chance at shooting for first place for the whole shooting match (if you pardon the pun) and talked the marshal out of it. However later on I did managed to pick up the prize "Resplendent Peacock award for best Light Combat (archer) or heraldic appearance" because of my kit. I take solace in this because if you're going to be a f*ckwit might as well look fabulous while doing it.
It's the last week of the school holidays here before they launch into term something or other. I have no idea how school terms work. I was told they got two weeks off for "half term" but two weeks sounds a bit much. I was also told that they have four terms rather than three. All I know is that next week things will get a whole lot easier with just Sam to look after. Don't get me wrong, Eva is lovely on her own and Sam is lovely on his own but put them together is like water and potassium, it's like the Incredible Hulk and Jack McGee, it's like Baileys and Lime Cordial. Those two do not get on and they can not get on for hours without a break. I don't know where they get it from. All I know is that without Tom and Jerry cartoons where I can sit them down for ten minutes, in silence I'd be ... hang on a minute.
Take care,
Love,
Mark xxx
You're just tired, not exhausted
The Oxford online dictionary definition of exhaustion is
[ mass noun]
Mine is
I've been guilty of it, over exaggerating symptoms or how I feel. But I've been there now, I know the difference. I wont use the word exhaustion now unless it's warranted. But then again it's a long word to use when talking is an effort!
But what do you think? What exaggerations annoy you?
noun
Mine is
- Not having the energy to manipulate a crochet hook, something I always love to do.
- So tired you can't lift your arms to comb your hair (when you had some)
- The simple action of concentrating enough to watch a trashy TV show is beyond you
- Stringing a sensible sentence together or holding a basic conversation makes Kevin the teenager sound articulate
- When you're so tired even falling asleep seems like too much of an effort let alone getting actually into bed.
- Description would be your internal battery is totally drained, only the basic body functions are working, everything else shuts down.
I've been guilty of it, over exaggerating symptoms or how I feel. But I've been there now, I know the difference. I wont use the word exhaustion now unless it's warranted. But then again it's a long word to use when talking is an effort!
But what do you think? What exaggerations annoy you?
On my terms.... Why I'm unhappy with Beat Cancer campaign
To the lady in Tesco promoting Channel 4's Beat Cancer
Please think first.
I want to let you know why you got short shrift from me today. I know its your job to thrust a couple of Beat Cancer charity bags unexpectedly under my nose and ask me if I'd like to fill them. But did you not see that I've lost my hair? Was the scarf not a give away or the obvious lack of eyebrows (I really need to teach myself how to fake them soon) Did it never dawn on you that I might not appreciate your advances?
Were you surprised at my curt response or did you think I was going to be an easy target. 'She'll take a couple off my hands because she knows how it feels'
I'll be honest, I was surprised at my reaction. I felt sick, then angry with myself, which turned to tears. I was happily shopping and planning dinner, being normal, doing normal non cancer things and then you stepped in front of me and interrupted the day.
I don't want to be reminded and your action, your table at the end of an aisle caught me by surprise. I could have stepped round it, avoided reading the blurb, but you didn't let me.
At a very deep level I don't like to even think about it. I've noticed I avoid using the word and refuse to see myself as a sufferer. I talk about it but on my terms. I had a tumour, it was cancer. It may come back, shit happens
Ideally I want to go back to my old life and forget it ever happened. But that's not sensible or even possible. Taking part in the drugs trial doesn't allow me to forget for one thing. Managing side effects and keeping appointments and tests for example, having no hair helps remind me too! And after something like this you never get things back the way they were. But I'm working hard to get myself a new normal.
So although I want to forget, I can't. But I AM doing my bit to stick two fingers up to it, saying fuck off to it all, but ON MY TERMS not yours.
So I will choose when and what I'll do to play my part to beat cancer. If I want to support a charity or watch a TV programme I will.
And I'd thank you, Dear Promo Lady, to be more aware of who you approach in future. You have no idea what's going on in people's lives, so please think twice about your actions.
Please think first.
I want to let you know why you got short shrift from me today. I know its your job to thrust a couple of Beat Cancer charity bags unexpectedly under my nose and ask me if I'd like to fill them. But did you not see that I've lost my hair? Was the scarf not a give away or the obvious lack of eyebrows (I really need to teach myself how to fake them soon) Did it never dawn on you that I might not appreciate your advances?
Were you surprised at my curt response or did you think I was going to be an easy target. 'She'll take a couple off my hands because she knows how it feels'
I'll be honest, I was surprised at my reaction. I felt sick, then angry with myself, which turned to tears. I was happily shopping and planning dinner, being normal, doing normal non cancer things and then you stepped in front of me and interrupted the day.
I don't want to be reminded and your action, your table at the end of an aisle caught me by surprise. I could have stepped round it, avoided reading the blurb, but you didn't let me.
At a very deep level I don't like to even think about it. I've noticed I avoid using the word and refuse to see myself as a sufferer. I talk about it but on my terms. I had a tumour, it was cancer. It may come back, shit happens
Ideally I want to go back to my old life and forget it ever happened. But that's not sensible or even possible. Taking part in the drugs trial doesn't allow me to forget for one thing. Managing side effects and keeping appointments and tests for example, having no hair helps remind me too! And after something like this you never get things back the way they were. But I'm working hard to get myself a new normal.
So although I want to forget, I can't. But I AM doing my bit to stick two fingers up to it, saying fuck off to it all, but ON MY TERMS not yours.
So I will choose when and what I'll do to play my part to beat cancer. If I want to support a charity or watch a TV programme I will.
And I'd thank you, Dear Promo Lady, to be more aware of who you approach in future. You have no idea what's going on in people's lives, so please think twice about your actions.
Email from my brother: Question - what's the most popular colour for shower gel?
How is it going? Bet you’re saving a few bob on shampoo. Then there’s conditioner too. Yep, it all adds up. Kerching!
Just when Sam was born nearly two years ago I was working in local supermarket stacking shelves of an evening. Not because we needed the money but because stacking shelves is such great fun of course. The best bit was near the end of a shift you had to go down an aisle, bring all the produce to the front of the shelf and turn it so that all the labels faced the right way. That way in the morning it looked like the supermarket was fully stocked, neat and tidy. We all loved doing that especially when the store was still open and customers could reach in and destroy your work because they wanted a single tin of diced tomatoes and had the light delicate touch of the Incredible Hulk.
The supermarket chain I worked in was called “Countdown” and in New Zealand is on par with Asda. (In case you’re wondering I stopped making the Channel Four Countdown clock music to anyone who would listen to me about twenty minutes into my first shift.) I always wondered if at night with the name “Countdown” lit up in glowing letters on the front they had a special back up generator just for the letter “o” so as to avoid corporate embarrassment. Countd wn? No, I meant the other “o”.
Anyway the point was that I’ve put out a fair few packs of shampoo, conditioner and soap and they’re not cheap. Also I noticed that half of all shower gel is blue. Have you noticed that? Some are clear, some are green, some are creamy but around about half are blue. Now I like to soap myself up in blue and pretend I’m Mystique from the X-Men like most people but I can’t because where does the blue go? Think about all the colours in your shower products, they’re there in the bottle but as soon as it’s smeared properly across your flesh the colour disappears. They need to put that colour technology in ice lollies pronto because it’s high time eating a raspberry or orange flavoured iceblock didn’t make your mouth look like you’ve borrowed it from a Star Trek alien.
Anyway I’m just padding this e-mail because nothing much has happened this week. The only exciting thing for me was receiving a parcel in the mail from Germany containing some more medieval armour. They were leg greaves and knee cops (plate knee covers with lower leg plates like cricket pads) which Sam helped me clean all the grease off before I strapped them onto my legs to try them out. Sam then insisted on dragging me round the paddocks looking for chicken eggs while I clanked and tottered around like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz. I still retain enough self awareness that if anyone were to come to the house I'd look a proper weirdo.
Sam does that sort of stuff on purpose I reckon. Sometimes we’ll be watching TV with him on my knee and under my peripheral vision he’ll insert a bogey loaded chubby index finger into the corner of my mouth. Other times I’ll be peeing and he’ll dart around from behind me to push the toilet seat and lid down in one go. Slam! I’m pretty ripped in the pelvic muscle region by now. When it comes to ablutions and the such you don’t really get much privacy with little kids. The other day it was number twos, I was stood after the first wipe and was dropping the paper into the bowl and Sam appeared there like a miniature shopkeeper from Mr Ben. He was dipping the toilet brush into the bowl,both of his little arms were pumping away and he looked up at me with a crinkle nosed expression that said “I’ve got another sixteen bowls like this one before lunchtime, so can you hurry the f*ck up?”
Anyway, take care, hopefully something exciting will happen to me next week so I can write to you about it. Oh yes, it’s the first week of school holidays here next week and Eva and Sam get on like cats and dogs. I’m soooo looking forward to it.
Love Mark xxx
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Nothing interesting has happened and you can still make me laugh. You are a genius. As always I....
Leap to Normal
I am another step (maybe a big fat leap) to getting back to normal (whatever that looks like)
I'm back to work.
And it feels like I've never been away .
Okay, so there are faces I've never seen before, other faces who've moved on to pastures new, some faces with new roles and responsibilities. But all of them have had smiles and who doesn't like to see that.
I've been hugged and kissed, caught up on gossip, peeped to see under the scarf and gently teased.
I've laughed.
And no tears.
That means a lot to me because for a while I couldn't see a time without them.
Things have changed, things have stayed the same. It feels normal and special rolled into one.
I work for a simple brilliant company filled with amazing people who make that company what it is.
I love who I work for, I love my job and I love all the people who've helped me over the last couple of days make that leap to normal
Thank you
I'm back to work.
And it feels like I've never been away .
Okay, so there are faces I've never seen before, other faces who've moved on to pastures new, some faces with new roles and responsibilities. But all of them have had smiles and who doesn't like to see that.
I've been hugged and kissed, caught up on gossip, peeped to see under the scarf and gently teased.
I've laughed.
And no tears.
That means a lot to me because for a while I couldn't see a time without them.
Things have changed, things have stayed the same. It feels normal and special rolled into one.
I work for a simple brilliant company filled with amazing people who make that company what it is.
I love who I work for, I love my job and I love all the people who've helped me over the last couple of days make that leap to normal
Thank you
Email from my brother: Origins of the word bald and other important things
Hi Fay,
A teacher once told me that all it takes is a bit of reading to raise yourself up to a better class of person, so; did you know that the word “bald” comes from the Middle English “ballede” which meant “having a white spot” and that’s why the American Bald Eagle is so called without actually being a fully paid up member of the baldielocked slap head club?
No? Well I’m glad I can finally prove to that teacher what a classier person I am being able to tell you this now that you’ve had to shave the rest of your thinning hair off because of the cancer drugs.
This week I had to take Eva and some of her five year old school friends on a field trip around Cambridge. I’d been worried about it all week not because I was in charge of other people’s kids but because the three groups we were split into were called Tahi, Rua and Toru. These may or may not be Maori words but seeing as I’m not Maori, no one on the school trip was Maori and, for me at least, Maori words seem to have far too many vowels in them to comfortably pronounce, I for one was a little bit concerned that someone was expecting me to be able to say the group I was supposed to be in.
What group are you in? I’m in Roo-ah group. Roo-ah group? Oh you mean (rolled R’s) Row-ooh group. Doofus! Actually I just looked it up and Tahi, Rua, Toru is Maori for One, Two and Three. So I’m in Group Two am I? Brilliant. Why not call them Group One, Two & Three and take some of the stress out of the situation? I suppose now though that if ever I come across Maori-Ted-Rogers I know that I’m in danger of winning a Dusty Bin. Or as Maori-Ted-Rogers would call it, a Puehu Ipupara. Come on, I’ll have a consonant now please Carol. Or as Maori-Carol-Vordaman would say, an orokati. Okay, stop that now.
When they did the register in the morning I noticed the kids said the Maori word for “hello” when the teacher called their names; “kiora” (remember to roll your Rs in Maori and not tag on the end the fact that “it’s too orangey for crows”). All said kiora except a couple of kids, one of which was Eva, they instead said “good morning”
Damn right Eva!
We’re still pushing on with the calorie counting and the 5:2 diet despite it being the final week three of three. Juliette’s decided to go for a six week trial period so we’re back to being half way through. I’m a hundred percent sure that I’ve got a fifty fifty chance of deep sixing this diet before it knocks me for ten. It’s probably just my imagination but it feels like numbers are everywhere at the moment.
Juliette’s friend Helen is on the same diet and says she eats a Weight Watchers meal in the evenings and this seemed the ideal solution as what to cook for only 300 calories. I suppose the Weight Watcher meals are tasty enough, but when a grown man is left licking the plate clean I would say that the portion sizes are a little on the gerbil side. Juliette also swears by the filling up power of the low carb protein bar. I had one this week and while it was only 90 calories it had the consistency of hot tarmac. I made the mistake of stuffing half the bar in my mouth because I was looking after Sam and had that horrible panicked sensation of literally knowing that I had bitten off more than I could chew. I hadn’t had that sensation since the night before when I tried to eat six Pop Tarts in a Nutella sandwich. Still not lost any bloody weight on this diet.
If you have to keep shaving your head until the drug trial ends can I recommend another medieval factoid; some monks used to use to keep their tonsures groomed by rubbing the area with a pumice stone. I usually find the best way to remove hair is to gaffer tape the affected area and rip it off. Let me know how you get on.
Love Mark xxx
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An informative and entertaining email as usual. May give the gaffer tape a miss though
As always Mark, I ....
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