Monthly Archives: July 2006

A cheery thought


Mort – meaning death

G(u)age – a measure

Thus, the fact that Only Husband and myself discussed the Mort Guage with Financial Advice Man today (no. 1276 in The Observer’s Guide to Super-ish Heroes) we have taken a step closer to our inevitable demise.

Actually, all poor wordplay aside, it is really quite exciting to think that we will soon be getting our own home together. Prayers for a low stress move please.

And hello to the other wibfolk I have noticed are to move soon. Enjoy! 😉


An excellent programme on Channel 5 with Hugh Laurie as a rugged and charmless, but somehow v attractive, medic.

What bingo players shout when they have crossed off all of their numbers

And what we are buying. Offer accepted today. Hurrah huzzah and bravo!

Btw, to all of my friends who know of my ‘criteria of agedness’, I admit that this indicates that I may actually be getting old now. Never truly be older than any of you, tho 😉

A word of thanks

Just typed a whole entry about how I enjoyed my training in Swansea as it enabled me to stay with Sienna and Ee, and catch up with British Standard and husband Wood, amongst others. Lost it. Gah!

Anyhow, it was basically thanking all concerned for a fabulous couple of days. So relaxing, in fact, that today felt like a Monday. A disorientating feeling, but a great one nonetheless.

Cheers to you all, most marvellous people!

You can’t rollerskate in a buffalo field…

…but you can be happy, if you put your mind to it.


That is a quote from the Muppet DVD I watched this evening, sung by the Jug Band Dudes (or whatever they are really called.) My ‘inner child’ (ack!) really benefitted from the fact the Sky box was playing up and so I played this Christmas present from my sister. I have often wondered what my musical influences were, given the nonsense I can produce on my guitar. That song, together with other one tonight where Rowlf the Dog questions why onions make him cry despite him never harming them, has given me a pretty big clue 🙂

Prescription: Take one dose of absolute silliness that made you happy as a kid.
Frequency: As required.
Also useful as a prophylactic.

Looking after myself: Part Three

OKay, in the light of a most banana shaped day (details not necessary, too blummin’ depressing/frustrating) I am going to indulge myself. At a ridiculously late time of night, when I should be going to bed, I am going to thumb my nose at the need to be awake at work tomorrow and re-visit my favourite place on the ‘Looking after myself’ week-end. Care to join me…?

On the Saturday evening, after a most relaxing day of nothing much, I decided to go for a walk. It was a balmy summer evening, with a gentle breeze, some remaining warmth and that beautiful quality of light that you get around 8pm in the mid-summer. I told Mum and Dad that I was off, that I had not got a watch and did not know when I would be back. Dad offered me his watch, to which I replied, "No thanks. I have my own one here, but I am deliberately not wearing it." This is a strategy I occasionally adopt as a way of saying to myself that, at this point, time doesn’t matter.

I headed up a familiar lane, which I walked many times when Nan (my Mum’s Mum) lived in the bungalow that my folks now inhabit. I crossed over the railway bridge and looked down on the line that the steam train runs along, remembering how I would walk along the cutting before they reinstated the line. Happily, I moved on.

Checking there was no-one around to wonder at the strange spectacle of a 30-something woman meandering to and fro, apparantly at random, I indulged my childhood passion – looking at things! Tiny flowers of orange and yellow, with a most amazing shape, nestling in the hedgerows, their understated beauty unnoticed by most. I noticed, and appreciated them. I even told them so! Fluffy seed heads of various grasses that I would delight in stripping as a child and any number of different shapes and sizes of leaves. And this was all before I climbed the stile into the field.

The footpath sign bore the destination Corfe Castleand it wasn’t lying. In the hazy distance the castle could be seen, standing proudly on the horizon. As I ventuted towards it, I revelled in the sight of the rolling fields before it and the backdrop of a gentle pink sunset. Such was my contentment that I did not bother to resist the infantile impulse to charge down the slope to my right. Wheeeeeeeeee! I think I even laughed out loud.

On arrival at the next stile, I climbed over and decided just to sit for a while. My feet had been bare for some time, having felt stifled in my trainers, and I revelled in the feel of the wood of the stile under their soles. I closed my eyes and simply listened for a while. Bees, birdsong, the gentle ‘moo’ of a distant cow and the sound of children laughing and playing not too far away. Even the occasional swoosh of a car on the road at the bottom of the valley did not spoil the resonance. I added my own contibution, too, in the form quietly singing to myself.

The song did not stop when I got up and walked on, it just became a little louder and more lively. I traversed the next field with a slight spring in my step. As I neared the far side, I heard a little voice crying a plaintive ‘Help!’ It was not distressed, more the sound of somebody having trouble crossing a stile. This was soon followed by the same voice shouting gleefully ‘Hooray! Hooray! I’m free!’ I turned to see a lass of no more than ten years old, skipping beside her mother with her arms outstretched. It made me smile. Alot.

On entering the next field, I checked there was no-one in sight. Then, tentatively at first, I experimented with the ‘Hooray! Hooray! I’m free!’ chant. It became louder, I became a little bolder and ventured to spread my arms expansively. This was successful, I did not feel TOO silly, so I skipped a little. Yes, you did read that correctly. I skipped. Hehehe! The chant then became a very simple song with some blatantly obvious rhymes and, by the time I had finished, I was giving it the whole ‘Sound of Music’ vibe. I would have died if anybody had seen me, but they didn’t, so I live to tell the tale. In full, glorious, tecnicolour embarrasing detail. Then again, how will anyone benefit if I am not honest? Go on, have a laugh at my daftness. You have my full permission. In fact, I give you permission to be daft yourself – be silly with a child to make it look legitimate if you would feel more comfortable that way (winks at Lanark), but, please, make time for Fun.

At the edge of this field was a campsite (poss containing a Smudgelet on manouevres?) so I took that as an opportunity to turn back. The return journey contained more nature appreciation, singing and general childlike glee. The headlong run was repeated, this time ending with my crashing into one of those cylindrical straw bales – just to see what it felt like. Quite soft, actually! (Okay, so I did that twice. First time with hands outstretched to break fall in case unpleasant. Having discovered bale to be surprisingly squishy, I did not bother with my hands on the second go. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpsquodge!)

The return route encompassed a little in the way of railway tresspassing – don’t do this at home children. Actually quite safe, worry not! After walking along the platform, smelling the roses and releasing the scent of the herbs by crushing them between finger and thumb, I ended up in the Village Hall field. This used to have a climbing frame, which was far too much of a challenge for a young Dith, and also a couple of swings. The old frame and swings are gone, but the far corner of the field is home to a little playground. My bum turned out not to be too wide for the slide, but I think friction was against me. The swing was fun tho. Did you know that if you lean right back you can see the horizon behind you, upside down, quickly followed by the one in front of you, the correct way up? Woooaaahh. Also discovered that I am a little to wide to effectively carry out the ‘twizzle the chain and untwirl’ manouevre any longer. Ah well, I certainly swung higher than I ever did as a kid. Never have mastered the jumping off trick, tho. Bottled it that time, as always 🙂

The Village Hall is next to the bungalow so, having swung sufficiently, I returned to the family. By that time, it was about 10pm. Around 2 hours of complete self-indulgent contentment. Not bad, eh?

See, TJ, all you need is time and space (and not necessarily in such vast quantities, a few mins here and there will do. What’s more, you have a kid, so you don’t have to make sure no-one is looking! 😉

An apology

The ‘Looking after myself’ series is slow in continuing due to the fact that the next entry planned is really the core of how I look after myself. I therefore really want to do it justice as it says so much about the whole ethos, and about me. When I have a decent swathe of time available to type it properly, you will get to see it.

I just hope it turns out to be worth the wait.

Another digression…

…in the form of a confession.

Okay, okay. I have something shameful to say:

"My name is Dith, and I have been watching the World Cup Final." Ack.

For one who has long made a big thing of the fact that I hate sport, this is truly terrible. Finding myself interested in the game in the first place was bad enough. I realised, however, that I was losing my former identity in a big way when the following happened. I had managed to tear myself away from the screen in order to make sossie sarnies for myself and Only Husband and I heard the commentator getting excited in a ‘this could be a goal’ kind of way. So what did Dith, former hater of sport, do? She dashed to the doorway of the lounge in case she missed something. What’s more, this happened not once, but twice.

What is happening to me? I don’t know who I am any more.

And Nessa, I am sorry, so so sorry for this terrible betrayal…I did try to warn you yesterday.

*Hangs head in abject shame*

Looking after myself: Part Two

Before I start, this is really an attempt to make sure that each day of my long week-end away contains a little of the ‘Looking after myself’ thread. So, in all honesty, it is a little contrived and really a means of sharing some good news.

As it was, on Friday evening I arrived in Dorset at the abode of my family. I had steeled myself against the possibility that Mum would be as she was when I last saw her, mainly a pale shadow her former self. As it turned out, I was pleasantly surprised. She was so much more like the Mum I remembered than I have seen her since the stroke. She was welcoming, cheerful, sparky and strong, with less frequent moments of the withdrawn and apparantly defeated person she had become. It was a complete gift.

So, I suppose the lesson of this ‘Looking after yourself’ entry is to remember that even if you expect the worst, it does not mean that it will actually happen.

Stay tuned for more pearls of wisdom from the annals of Dr. Von Dithausen.