creative spayce

I'll clean him and drive him and call him George

2010-08-30T09:21:54Z

Meet George, he's been part of our family since 1998, the year before we got married. He took us around Europe on our honeymoon, and has been a staple part of camping holidays ever since. He's also been quietly rusting away and falling apart over the years which is a travesty brought on by lack of a secret money stash to throw at him.

Recently Mr Boxer Shorts did something we've never done before. He loaned George to a friend of his to go away on holiday in. It was a friend from a long time ago, reaquainted through the miracle that is facebook.

Try and wrap your head around the enormity of this. Would you lend your children to someone you didn't know?

Actually the answer to that (now that we're on the last week of the school summer holiday) is yes, when can you pick them up? But George on the other hand is a beast of great sentimental value. He predates the children by several years, and is both more and less robust at the same time.

Lending George to someone else required preparation - it meant compiling a litany of George's quirks and foibles. And to her credit - the person we leant him to did very well to manage, considering the first thing on the list.

Be careful when you slide this door closed, because if you don't do it right, the door's going to fall off.

Yep, the undertrack of the sliding side door has long since rusted away and fallen off. If you don't push the door in as you slide - which is something you have to do with a fair amount of inherent violence - then the whole door will continue going sideways, jump off its track and land on your foot. Then you need to try and lift and thread it back into the top bit while attempting not to swear in front of your 8 year old, and bleeding profusely. And it's heavy - a fact that your broken metatarsels can attest to.

Don't use the grill with the lid down, otherwise you'll burn down the van.

We didn't burn down the van, but we did burn the lid nicely. That was annoying. This one's not too hard to remember though, and if you forget - the nasty smell of toasting formica should alert you in time.

If people start waving at you to pull over, with a look of fear in their eyes, then your axle might be on fire.

This happened to us once - on the way to visit a friend. There was smoke and flame pouring out the back of George. And we just thought people were being happy and waving hello at us (because people DO that) until one driver caught up on the side and leant out his window to shout "you're on FIRE!" before careering into a ditch.

We stopped and leapt out, joined him in the ditch and lay there for a while - a slightly uncomfortable fivesome, until we realised the smoke had subsided. The RAC was called, and the prognosis was that actually it was a brake pads, which in a recent service had been tightened so much that they were in constant friction as we drove.

Actually, that probably wasn't going to happen this time, so I didn't mention it to her.

Steering is best done without looking. Feel the force. Only when you accept the impossible will you find reverse.

You can't get into gear unless you accept that the gearstick is in all reality a big pot of soup that you're stirring. And the thing on the top of the gear knob - the bit that says that reverse is to the left and up - is wrong. You'll find reverse to the left, out a bit around twice, up and down, push and then down again. There you are, it's easy when you know how.

Give him a break - George is nearly 40 years old. I'm over 40, and my bottom bits are threatening to fall off too.

Oh, and don't try to go over 60 on motorways, the wheels might fall off.

So I am told. Haven't tested that one yet.

George is very high tec - this bit here is the ipod connector. But if you don't unplug the fuses when you stop driving, the radio will stay on and drain the battery.

That's not too hard to do, right? There are two fuses hanging down from the radio, you have a 50/50 chance of picking the right one!

The little foibles of George come down to cupboards that need to be opened with a small stick, as the plastic catches have long since broken, and no-one makes them anymore, and hatches that are held shut with fancy ikea hooks because they fit nicely through the gaps at the top.

Details like: Don't put clothes in the storage under the seats and then drive through puddles, or you'll be squelching for days. Don't leave anything at all on any surface when you're driving, or you'll be wearing crab souffle on the back of your head.

Don't put your elbows on the table - it's rude, and you might end up with the table on your knees when it breaks off the side joints.

The list goes on.

But George is part of our family, and we love him just like he is (although if I had the money, I'd have his door slider rebuilt!!)

The good points of George far outweight his "challenges".

We can just up and go anywhere in him. We can arrive in the pouring rain, and sit in him and make cappuccino.

The girls can both sleep across the back in comfort with us in the double bed if it's too cold too sleep in the annexe (this is something we discovered when camping in the new forest recently, it was a wonderful discovery at the time!).

Bacon sarnies simply taste better in George.

Other VW owners wave as we drive past. We look out for other Kombies (Campers) so that we can wave at them.

Once in Pilzen (Czech Republic) we turned up at a campsite, and immediately set up right beside the only other camper there. We spent the whole night around a campfire chatting them about where we'd all been and what we'd done, while their 15 year old kept going back to the bar to get a 2 litre sprite bottle refilled with "Pivo" (Beer).

He goes down the alps faster than he goes up.

Hello, IT support, how can I not help you?

2010-08-18T10:55:04Z

My father in law has recently been dragged kicking and screaming into the current century, by the tax department. He now owns a computer, and has "access to the interwebs". He had no choice but to buy a computer because - as an accountant - he was required by law to put his clients tax returns in online.

With any normal person, adapting to this new regime might be tricky, but would eventually become second nature. But we're not taking normal people here.

If you knew my father in law you'd know how insane this situation sounds. Suggesting that he'd become familar with it soon enough is enough to induce death by hysteria.

My father in law has yet to fully understand mobile phones, and he's been using those for over a decade. One day he might yet learn how to send or read a text, but that day is not in the near future. He can make and take calls, but anything further than that is untrod territory.

It's not just an ineptitude with the technology, but a total incapacity to take care of the phones that astounds me. Every time he gets a new phone as part of his phone contract, he promptly breaks it, and then I have to dig up an old and forgotten phone from my phone graveyard and give him that to use. Luckily I had quite a long run with nokias in the days before phone recycling. And now I never recycle phones, knowing that he'll need one. He's out of the luck when he breaks his current phone though - the only phone I have sitting at home waiting for him is a pink motorola razr which I hated and replaced within a month!

He doesn't just break them, he anhialates them. If you could humiliate a phone, he'd do that. He treats them like dirt.

One of his phones went missing for a week, and was finally found - or to be more accurate, identified - as the lump of molten and mishapen plastic found in the ashes of the pot belly stove.

Another phone had one of those mini joysticks, which he snapped off after three days, making it impossible to select the menu, or do anything other than answer incoming calls and make puncture wounds in your thumb.

A compact phone that slid out to reveal the keypad became totally inoperable after so much soil from the allotment got wedged inside the sliding part, and a flip phone with nice big oversized keys which I chose specially for him had the screen smashed to pieces when he sat on it. At least, that's what he tells up happened to it. I've never seen a phone screen quite that destroyed, and I sit on my phone all the time.

So with this information about my father in law and technology, you'd hardly think that - having bought and set up a brand new PC for him - a single session with me teaching him how to use his new computer was going to produce an internet whizz, would you??

And of course it didn't! Was that the storyline you were expecting?

I gave him a crash course on how to use it, how to open a browser, and how to get to the tax office website. I set up his email and we wrote down the passwords so that he'd have them safely saved away. I tried to show him all the various things he needed to know. But I had to leave without connecting him to the internet, as we had to wait for the BT box to arrive, and that would be up to him to connect.

Then I had to go back home - 5 hours drive away - and wait for the call saying "help, how do I connect this damn thing?!" which of course came very quickly. And amazingly, it went smoothly, he got onto the internet, got to tax department website, inserted his ID and password, and got logged in.

It seemed like smooth sailing, but it didn't last very long. A few weeks later the next help call came though.

And this is where it gets funny, because despite my crash course with him, we had no common terminology to use in a phone conversation.

I said "ok, now in the window that is open right now..."

he interrupted with "the window's not open, I can't get to it."

"Why not? What's happening when you try?"

"The curtain is stuck under the computer's box thingy. Anyway, it's cold out there, why do I need the window open?"

Seriously, yes. We did have an interchange that was practically that. I had to start explaining - without the benefit of being there beside him - what a window on a computer was. I had to ask him to describe to me what he was seeing, and after 5 minutes of listening to the weirdest sounding description, I realise he's describing the background image.

Some things were easy to identify - like the windows start button at the bottom left. Others not quite so simple. Once we got onto the web pages that he needed to access I had no clue what he was seeing, as he was using his special tax ID to log in.

Eventually I gave up, called in some local help, in the form of a family friend who lived nearby, and was an IT whizz in comparison to my father in law. She got the problems ironed out, and astoundingly, he started putting tax forms in online with great success.

Other than the tax department, I didn't expect my father in law to dabble much in the other areas of the internet. I was pretty confident that I wouldn't find him uploading photos of his allotment to facebook any time soon.

The last time we went up, he'd just had a problem with the computer shutting down - it was stuck on the shutdown screen. He told me that he'd pulled the plug out, but when he put it back in, the computer was still stuck in shutting down. That was because he'd pulled the monitor's plug out, rather than the computers. By the time I saw the computer, it had successfully shut down anyway, so I just turned it back on. He thought I had fixed it by osmosis.

Everything seemed to go smoothly from that point on, although I don't think he ever once checked his emails.

Mr Boxer Shorts recently took the girls up for a school holiday visit, and reported the frankly unbelievable news that his dad had got a new router and set up wifi on it. All by himself. And apparently had been handing out technical advice on computers to his friends and neighbours.

He still can't send text messages though.

Photo credits: D G Burns, lucasrag

Rocky shore

2010-08-17T11:17:14Z

Aspiring to be average - a teaser

2010-08-09T07:31:08Z

Today is a first time milestone for me. I've made a blog posting in a location that's not my own blog. But listen, this is important. It's no ordinary blog.

The Blogger Body Calendar is a collaborative project, the outcome of which is calendar for 2010 which features 12 bloggers portraying their beautiful bodies as nature intended. And we're not talking photoshopped, retouched, anorexic models - we're looking at real women (and man).

Body image is a serious topic today, as more and more young people struggle to achieve a look that the media has defined for them. A look which is in some cases a false image, thanks to retouching. In most cases it's certainly not a healthy image.

In the United States, as many as 10 million females and 1 million males are fighting a life and death battle with an eating disorder such as anorexia or bulimia. Millions more are struggling with binge eating disorder.

I have two little girls who are perfect in every way, and I hope that I can teach them to love their own bodies, and not allow themselves to be judged by the media or their peers. But working against the monopoly is hard.

The participants in the Blogger Body Project believe that a healthy body image is important. Young people are bombarded every day with messages that their self worth correlates to the size of their jeans or bra size. We do not believe in a society where worth is judged by individual beauty.

Proceeds raised from the sale of the calendar (after printing costs) will be donated to the National Eat‐ ing Disorders Association (NEDA). The calendar and the charity are both US based, but the problem of body image is world wide.

Please pop over to read my post - Aspiring to be average - at Blogger Body Calendar - and better yet, please consider ordering a copy of the calendar.

More gin, Brown Owl?

2010-08-04T13:09:33Z

After waiting for a year and a half after leaving Rainbows, my 8 (nearly 9) year old has finally got a place in Brownies. She'll have all of a year there before having to move up to Guides because the waiting list was so long - and I worry now if she'll be able to go smoothly from Brownies to Guides, or will there be another gap like this.

I realise why it's like this of course - my mother was a Guide leader, and eventually had to close down her Guide unit 10 years after she'd first wanted to retire. Simply because there were NO others willing to take it on and run it, despite wanting their girls to be involved.

I've grown up in a Guiding family - was in Brownies, Guides, Ranger Guides and then Rangers before I left Australia. I know the struggle to get parental help and involvement, so I was perfectly happy to get involved again here in the UK. When I let the district co-ordinator know that, she immediately asked me which night I wanted my Brownie Pack to meet on.

Er... overkill much?

I am happy to help out and run an existing one, but the idea of starting a whole new one up fresh seems slightly out of kilter. Aren't there experienced people for that? I may have a background in the system, but I've never been the leader of a group before. I'd rather the girls have a quality experience than suffer under my misguided (no pun intended!) tutelage. I'd probably turn to alcohol with a few medicinal G&Ts. That could go either way.

The Brownie pack that Miss Trouble Pants has joined is fairly small. Despite the long waiting list, the leader didn't get around to filling the increasing spaces until just recently. They also don't do a lot of badges, and after watching one round of games on the night she made her promise, I am thinking that the first aid badge - particularly how to handle broken bones might be an asset!

It seems a far cry from the Brownie pack I was part of as a child. The brown tunic with the leather belt and money bag and yellow crossing skarf with the badge pinning it in the centre are gone. The Brownie uniform today is a mish mash of t-shirts and leggings. I've got her a t-shirt, but I refuse to buy leggings on the grounds that they always look like you forgot to put your skirt on, no matter what your age. To illustrate my point, the girls who were wearing them that day all looked as if their knees and buttocks had been made with built in balloons, the leggings being saggy and shabby looking.

The traditional badges - footpath, roadway and highway are gone, with two new equivalents in their place - adventure and adventure on. The interest badges have changed shape, and are a massive diamond. Presumably so that girls can do even just one or two and still look like they've done something substantial. Or perhaps it's truly to discourage to the over achievers (like me) from making the rest feel bad, simply by making sure they can't fit many on.

I have bought her a sash for her badges, despite the fact that none of the other girls wear them. She's keen to do some of the badges - and I'm keen for her to do them too.

I was looking through many of the badges on offer now, and there are a vast amount of similarities. We woman's libbers joke about the sexist nature of a homemaker badge, and how folding napkins is a pointless art. And yet my daughter adored making a bishop's crown and a strange flaggy looking blog at her meeting.

Basic home skills are an excellent vehicle for confidence and further interest in different things.

The idea of my 8 (nearly 9) year old making a cup of tea, learning how to handle the stove and boiling water (we don't have an electric kettle) is actually very liberating for both of us. I can imagine the pride she'd feel on this accomplishment - a thing that to date has been branded "a bit too dangerous" for her. And obviously the liberation for me is when she successfully carries the tea up to me in bed... I may never get out again!

After she got into Brownies I had many forays into google, looking for information on what Guides is like back in Australia these days, and I was horrified to find that Brownies were abolished, and are now Junior Guides. No brown uniform, no brown owl, no brownie bells. But at the same time it did seem like the association was very modern in other respects. So much so that I couldn't understand the badge system at all - it appeared to be an enabling system that allowed the girls and their leaders to create their own badges - at which point it all started going over my head.

Here in the UK, Guides are celebrating their centenary - 100 years as the UK's largest voluntary organisation for girls. Girl Guides was formed in 1910, a year after they'd shown up at the first rally Boy Scouts held at Crystal Palace. They now have half a million members on their books, and 50,000 girls languishing on waiting lists - because there simply aren't enough adults.

I guess I need to get involved - I can't read those statistics and not feel guilty. They may have changed a lot since I was one, but it's still a fantastic thing for girls to be part of. I may have to start up that new Brownie Pack afterall! Pass the gin will you?

Photo credits - black and white unformed photo is from the uniforms in Guiding pdf, well worth having a look at! Find it on the History of Guiding page. Girls holding balloons is from the centenary website.

What goes on on holiday, stays on holiday.

2010-07-29T08:38:15Z

We've just spent a glorious week on holiday in Crete, nestled in a tiny village near the sea, in a house that was built by pirates, and rebuilt by honest men. It was like stepping into another world, with another set of values entirely, as I discovered when I inquired about the security facilities before we left.

The house was going to be home to not just us, but another couple upstairs, and two young girls downstairs. As I was taking my laptop, I wanted to ensure that the bedroom was lockable to keep it secure. As it turns out - the room could have been locked if we'd had a key, but we didn't. And didn't actually care either.

It really was another way of life altogether. Cars parked in the square could be seen with their keys in the ignition. The main doors of the house, and the doors from the courtyard to the street were almost never closed. We kept our bedroom door closed - but that was only to keep the local kittens out of it. My laptop was tucked away under a spare blanket in our room, and I didn't have the slightest concern about it despite being out and about all day.

In fact, the bigger concern I had was that the girls were sleeping in another room nearby, and if someone had decided to walk in, I might not have heard them. The first few nights I disentangled myself from the mosquito net and went and checked on them several times. But by the last night I slept soundly with no worries.

We are so bombarded by messages telling us that our children are not safe, our possessions are not safe, and our own lives are not safe unless we install 24 hour alarms and monitors, that we start to view the world through glasses with prison bars on them.

How liberating it was to stay somewhere where those messages aren't blasted at you from every headline.

It's almost as liberating as that holiday bikini that you put on and wander around in all day, or the tiny hisbsicus patterned shorts that you'd never consider walking down Beckenham High Street wearing.

There is a freedom that comes with a holiday that is stifled in your everyday life. It's not just clothing, it's an outlook on life.

One of the most joyous things about staying in a place that isn't tourist orientated is the fact that you don't get hit by tourist prices or tourist food. We found that our favourite place to eat was the local village cafe, where the lady who ran it spoke almost no english, and it was a combination of sign language and interventions by her 14 year old son that helped us communicate. The bill for a family of 4 came to about £20 each time, and each meal included a bottle of water, basket of bread, watermelon or greek yoghurt and honey and "Raki" (firewater!) on top of what we'd ordered.

The young lad could best be described as a greek adonis with a high voice. If I was 14 I'd have found him dishy. If my daughters were 14 I've have put blindfolds on them! Luckily neither was true.

The cafe was always busy with the men of the town sitting, drinking and talking. If any work was being done in that town, it was not being done in the heat of the day. With temperatures up to 37 degrees a few times, there was no way that any sensible person would be out in it unless they were a tourist!

Both girls settled on a favourite greek dish, and loved the greek salads we were eating. It was only when we went into Xania - a main town, and very touristy - that we saw such unpalettable fair as full english breakfasts, burgers or chicken nuggets on the menus. At twice the price.

There was another draw to the local cafe too - a family of 5 swallows - χελιδόνι (khelidhOni) - who came in to sleep on the chandelier and candlesticks every night. They'd fly around chirping and arguing with each other over who got to sleep where. The girls were delighted. I suspect Rula, the cafe owner not so - although on the last night we did have a conversation with a table of locals about them through broken English, which is how I found out what they are called in Greek.

I've decided that my new project is to train my grape vine over the top of a trellis in our backyard to recreate the shady greek verandah lifestyle.

The heat in London might not hit 37 degrees, but that's probably a blessing. What I loved most about Crete was the relaxed lifestyle during the hot months of summer, and the the sparkling water that was the perfect temperature to just immerse yourself in.

At the risk of massive sunburn, we spent a part of most days on a beach somewhere. The girls were both wearing UV shirts to protect their shoulders and a deeply peaked baseball cap. We managed to stave off most sun damage that way, with thick suncream smeared over every other exposed bit of skin. But in addition to beaches, we also did some exploring of ruined venetion forts and cities. (Crete has some of the largest venetian towns outside of Venice, due to the trading routes of the time.)

By the time we'd climbed up a mountain to visit the ruins, we were dripping with sweat, so the fact that most ruins were built above azure seas made the trek so much more enjoyable - just walking into the water when we reached the bottom.

So we're back now and the tiny hibiscus print shorts have been put back into the drawer for next summer. My thighs are slightly browner than the never seen skin of my buttocks, but they are still not ready to be paraded around my local area. The bikini will still get used at the local swimming pool, but no-where else. There isn't a beach in sight.

But hopefully the rest of our summer can be filled with an easy going grace, lots of greek salads, deep shade, hot sun, and some swallow watching.

And don't tell my insurance company about the laptop!

Black Betty the bee

2010-07-29T07:28:38Z

We found this black bee in the venetian ruins of Gramvousa. I'd never seen one before, and the colours were amazing.

Rocket in the Veg-Table

2010-06-30T10:30:43Z

Basil brush bites back

2010-06-19T07:47:07Z

There has been a large furor lately about a fox attack that happened on two babies who were lying in their cot - in their house, on the third floor. Both babies were seriously injured, and while they are both home now, one of them may need plastic surgery throughout her life, due to the facial injuries.

Apparently 6 foxes have now been trapped in their backyard and put to death.

Nothing can lessen the horror of this event - particularly the fact that the fox had to travel up 2 flights of stairs to get at the girls. That they were not safe in their own bedroom.

What bites on me - however - is the reaction of people commenting on various news and blog reports of this event. Blame ranged from being laid on the parents for being stupid for leaving the back door of their house open, to suggesting that all urban foxes should be culled.

Many people also accused the couple of lying, and covering up for their family dog.

Why are people far quicker to lay abuse on a couple who are in shock at the terrible events and injuries on their babies, than offer support and love? Whatever the facts actually are, they will probably become clear later - and speculation by backyard pundits without the full facts is not only pointless, it's also hurtful.

I don't know the real facts. And I don't consider that sensationalistic journalism gives me a non biased overview of any event. But what I do know is that context is very important.

A fox is a wild animal. Whether it's living in the urban or rural environment, it's the same animal. Only a fool would think that a fox can be tamed by a few hand outs. Teaching a fox to take food from your hand is going to lead to the same animal trying to get food from other humans. It's going to give the animal a false sense of trust in human environments. And when cornered, that fox is going to react just like a normal wild animal.

Several commenters posted links to video "proof" that foxes come into homes. And some of those links lead to short films showing foxes being enticed into a home using meat. Others showed food being stored at floor level on open shelves, which the fox had been drawn to.

The latest update on the twins mauling was that it may have been a 4 month old cub. Fox expert John Bryant - who was initially skeptical about the liklihood of a fox being responsible - said "I think this will be remembered as an unprecedented and freak event. But it may serve as a warning that making pets of foxes, feeding them, getting them too used to people and going into houses is not a good idea." Source: The Sun

My neighbour used to feed the foxes. Throwing food leftovers and bones out into her backyard brought not only the foxes, but also more rats - which in turn brought more foxes. The council intervened after other neighbours complained, and she no longer does this. We still have a large population of foxes roaming up and down our back alley ways. They visit all of our backyards - jumping over fences between the houses, and spending a lot of time sitting on the various shed rooves, including ours.

You've probably noticed a few photos of my fox on this blog.

I like my fox.

Ferdi has now become Ferdi, Ferdi Junior and Foxy. They are independent foxes, although sometimes I see them playing together. In the middle of the night I hear them playing together, which involves screaming and noisy scrambling over fences.

I wish I could get some better (closer) photos of them, but they are very wary of me, and disappear in an instant if I come out the back door. And that's a good thing. I don't want my foxes to become complacent in the presence of humans. I don't want them to start approaching me or my children. I will never feed them, or try and entice them closer.

A pair of manly sandals belonging to Mr Boxer Shorts were recently ruined after being left outside overnight. That's annoying, but it's something we have to remember, and normally I tidy up the backyard in the evening and put things away for that exact reason. We've lost 3 pairs of children's trainers in the past in different houses to foxes.

Since the first report of this attack, I've done quite a bit of reading about foxes, and found some very useful websites. I've also found some even stupider people making baseless comments at times when they really should have kept quiet.

I've also found some questionable statements from journalists. Take Rory Knight Bruce, who states "From my own experience of life on a Devon farm, I know that it is impossible for the fox to live in easy harmony with man. My left hand still bears the scars of a bite from a vixen which I tried to rescue from an earth which had caved in." Source: Daily Mail

He's actually suggesting that the terrified and trapped vixen should have understood that he was trying to help it? His example of the "Vicious" fox isn't relevant to the arguement that he's presenting.

Worse though, was the projection of human emotions onto the animal.

Janice Turner writes "Is there a creature more sinister than the urban fox? It seems to embody one's darkest fear about dwelling in a city: that living among us, silent, watching and waiting for a lapse in our attention is a malignant, amoral force. If a fox took human form he'd be the burglar who broke in while you were on holiday and took a dump in your hallway" Source: The Times

A fox can be clever and cunning, but it can't be sly. It doesn't kill all your chickens out of spite or malice. It's not trying to make it personal. It will kill them all so that it can cache them - something it probably won't get the chance to do since you'll discover the carnage before it does. Is it irresponsible to suggest that the fox is so clever that it can plot, plan and carry out mass murder just to upset us when really it's just acting on instinct?

My cat is locked in and sleeps at night, generally retiring at midnight during summer. I set up this habit from kittenhood to protect nocternal animals from him, and him from traffic. I realise now it's also a protection for him from foxes. But I am not sure what risk that actually poses.

In the dusk and twilight hours I see him interacting with the foxes. At first I was nervous about that relationship, and worried that he might be hurt. It transpires that he's the dominant one, despite being almost half the size of the largest fox (Ferdi).

I've watched him sit with feigned indifference as the fox darts around him, and on several times I've watched him turn and chase the fox away.

Recently I watched Toby and the fox playing in my neighbour's yard. Toby sat on a bench, while the fox cavorted around it. The fox was lowering its front haunches and waving its tail in the air. It kept rolling about, rubbing its face on the grass in front of my cat. It would leap up and dart away if the cat make a motion towards it, then leap back in, with the bowing motion and head rubbing.

I'm not an expert on animal behaviour, but the fox looked to be subservient to my cat.

I will continue to watch and enjoy my foxes from a distance. I will continue to ensure that toys and shoes are not left out, and that all rubbish is binned securely. I will certainly be more likely to close my back door early, rather than risk a curious fox approaching it while we're in another room.

The attack on the twins was a random and freak occurence, and I hope no other parents have to go through that. But for goodness sake, don't feed foxes, don't try and make friends with them. They are wild animals, and should be treated as such. Allowing them into our homes only leads to incidents like this happening. And don't blame them for being what they are.

----

More information on foxes:

The National Fox Welfare Society

The Fox Website

How common are fox attacks on humans? (BBC)

Photo credits:
fox cub photographed by Christopher Hall.

fox through the fence photographed by me.

Free range kids roll on

2010-05-30T10:30:04Z

Last Saturday was a day designated by Lenore Skenazy as "Take your kids to the park and leave them there" day. The goal behind this day was to encourage helicopter parents (those who hover) to give their kids a little free reign and let them learn to be independent. And we're talking 7 years old and up, not toddlers.

In the lead up to the actual day, I read the comments and reactions to the idea with interest. I expected people to express doubt and disagreement, there was no surprise there. What had me rather flummoxed was the notion that apparently some parents don't let their kids out of their sight - even in their own homes.

Maybe I should say "allegedly" rather than "apparently" - because I simply don't believe that it's true. It's just impossible to keep your hairy eyeball firmly planted on your child every minute of the day and still function as a human being. Unless that is - you have an army of servants who are hired to perform the things that you obviously can't achieve while you're busy supervising your children. Like cook dinner for example. Or take a dump.

From the age of about 4, both of my children could literally be anywhere in the house while I was cooking dinner. I would listen out for thumps and bumps or cries in case I was needed - and also a lengthy period of complete silence would have me calling up the stairs for confirmation of signs of life.

And this freedom includes the backyard, where life threatening things can be found in abundance. Both girls like to climb on the swing set, and I don't mean the parts made for climbing. I often look out the window to see one or other child perched on the top bar of the frame, legs dangling down while the other swings beneath.

I look forward to my oldest turning 10, because that is the point in time when I think she should walk to school by herself. Right now she's 8, and when we cross the road I let her take the lead to practise looking and declaring the road clear. Our roads are narrow and lined with parked cars that she's not tall enough to look over the top of, so it's more dangerous than the clear wide streets that I grew up on.

I have a feeling that my current 8 year old would be more attentive to the road than the 18 year old who crossed in front of my stopped car the other day, but didn't think to look for the traffic coming the other way - which was flowing freely. The older gentleman who managed to stop in time looked decidedly shocked and upset at what nearly happened. The girl in question - ear phone still in both ears tried to leap out of the way and ran on her way without a glance back.

So back to "Take your kids to the park and leave them there" day. We didn't do it. But the reason we didn't do it was because we were at a scout camp, on an activitiy day organised by our school PTA. We spent the day doing archery and rock climbing, with a BBQ dinner, then a campfire and sing-song with camping overnight.

The campsite covered a large area surrounded by woods, and many different groups were camping in different parts of it. After the BBQ and before the campfire we had a few hours sitting out chatting.

Our kids were no-where to be seen.

They had the ultimate in free range play - they were in the woods playing hide and seek, playing outside friend's tents, rolling down a handy hill, or creating wooden paths in the glades. Every now and then a passing child would walk near us, and I'd ask if they'd seen my children. The answer would be a variety of "yes, she's playing with Daniel" or "yes, she and Izzy are in the woods".

The kids knew to stay with friends and not wander off by themselves, and they also knew to seek out adults, should something happen to one of them. And the worst that did happen was a trip and fall that resulted in a bruised knee from a sharp rock.

There were other people using the campsite, but I wasn't worried about them. Not because I presumed that they were all "good" people, but because the potential for them to NOT be good people was pretty remote. And again, my children know not to go with strangers.

I was also pleased to see that despite the reactions of many people online, stating that they'd NEVER let their kids out of their site - this wasn't true for the parents we were camping with. all of our children were wandering and playing together. There wasn't anyone running around after their kids, feeling obliged to traipse through the woods and follow them. Even smaller children had freedom - with older children as chaperones.

All in all, a very good free range day, and a nice illustration that the majority of people are not crazy helicopter parents.

camping in the woods

2010-05-29T09:41:37Z

We spent Saturday of last weekend at a scout camp, doing organised activities, playing in the woods and camping. And also, snapping some photos.

Here's a post for all the stabby people out there

2010-05-23T20:38:39Z

Have you had it up to here with rude pushy people?

Are you sick of people making demands of you all the time?

Do you hate it when self obsessed people yack on and on about themselves?

Is your day filled with annoying folk who don't know how stupid they are?

Does that slow little old lady meandering down the street in front of you make you want to scream?

Are you getting stabby?

Well, here's a post for you!

For fucks sake, CHEER UP!

I mean, sheesh! Why do people go looking for things get annoyed at? Why do they spend so much time using social networking to tell other people how pissed off they are?

My twitter stream is full of people getting stabby. Moaning about their lives, or telling us all that they are sick. And by sick - I don't mean the few people in my stream who really ARE sick, and whose health is actually of interest to me. I mean the people who have a cold.

Please, don't tell me about your snot, your sinuses or your spew. And while you're at it - I don't need to know when your kids are streaming green gargantuan boogers either. I'm just going to presume that they are doing that full time and we'll be fine, ok?

Now listen up. Every day I run out of time to properly finish things. Whether it's folding the clean washing, cleaning the bathroom, defleaing the cat or doing client work. I know - there are not enough hours in one day to get everything done. I never manage to clear my to-do list.

I often have a slight feeling of desperation as I think about what I didn't manage to finish. It makes me feel slightly on edge.

But we're all in the same boat.

Sometimes you need to vent. Sure thing - that's understandable. But if you find yourself venting ALL the time, maybe you should be doing something about it. Why are you always so angry? And why do you want to share your misery with the world? We don't need to keep on hearing about it.

I have a theory. It's not always right, but my theory is that if you pass a little happiness along to another person, they'll keep it going.

Sometimes the chain breaks, but it's never going to work at all if you don't start it off.

I like to test this theory out when I am driving, by letting other people out of side roads or giving way and letting others in when they're trying join heavy traffic. That might make them happy. My hope is that they'll go on to let someone else in, and that will make them happy too. They'll pass little gesture of kindness on.

Maybe that gesture will come back to you. Not immediately, but eventually. That's karma.

But bad feelings and angry words will do the same. Pass some angriness on to someone else, and they'll pass it on too. And eventually it will come back to you.

So if you're feeling stabby, why not make a concerted effort to dissolve that bad feeling and replace it with something better.

Make the world a better place, one kind thought at a time.

Or I'll come over there and stab you.*

* just kidding mum.

** I started writing this on the 19th, and ended up not publishing it until the 30th, so I compromised and set the date to the 23rd. Random.

in which I play with iphone apps

2010-05-17T19:54:41Z

I've been using a couple of iphone apps to adjust and edit my photos (just for a laugh) so here are the results!

In which I try, and fail to beat Pygmalion

2010-05-15T21:42:05Z

Before I moved to England, I was able to do a pretty impressive Scottish accent. And a not too shabby Irish one.

But then I stepped off the plane and arrived in Old Blighty and realised that what I thought was pretty amusing - wasn't. And that also - England is a land of absurdly complex and varied accents, which can't be generalised under the main headers of "posh toff" or "cockney herbert".

In the early days, when I still behaved like a tourist, and did silly things like going and getting really drunk at The Church - or worse, getting really drunk at somewhere NOT The Church because The Church was full, and we didn't get in - I often got into arguements with people who were insulted that I didn't recognise their accent.

Invariably, these people were - almost without fail - Welsh.

And really, I do a great Welsh accent. Although that could also be attributed to the fact that every single accent I try and do these days ends up as a bizarre mutation of Welsh and Pakistani. But - if you were both Welsh AND Pakistani, then my accent would be SPOT ON.

Also, I like to ensure that I insult people outside the united kingdom, it gives my blog a better international flavour.

But one of the accents I can't do at ALL is the Australian accent.

Which, considering I am Australian must sound very unlikely. But it's true.

When I grew up, I had no accent. You never do - to your own ears there is no burring or twanging at all. That fun is all for other people.

I arrived in the UK in 1996 with a rather heavy New Zealand accent. This was because I'd lived in Aukland for 18 months prior to travelling here, and the kiwi's are brutal to Australians. Every time I opened my mouth they'd point and laugh and ridicule me. So I set about aping them, and saying silly things like filum instead of film, and studying Rachel Hunter's terrible Pantene advert for accent tips.

"Ut wn't hippen overnert, bert ut woll hippen!"

After a lot of time and effort, I managed to pass for a kiwi, so then I promptly moved to the UK.

The thing about the UK is that no-one in this country can tell the difference between an Australian, New Zealand and South African accent. Strangely - they can isolate a unique Birmingham strain quicker than sort out the antiopodean differences.

It was only after I'd lived in England for about five years that my accent finally turned into that international British/Australian style accent that Kylie Minogue perfected. I feel that this obviously gives me celebrity connections, although so far nothing has come of that.

But the thing is now that I've smudged my accent with three different flavours - I can't "do" the Aussie accent at all. My efforts sound like a terrible parody which is being done by a very snobby english person who is trying to eat a small hamster at the time.

My children have very British accents, which I can't do much about unless I start playing Australian tapes to them in their sleep. But when they play - they start talking in yankee doodle talk. This was started by Miss Comic Relief, and I presume that she picked it up from television. Neither of them watch that much tv in the first place, but some of things that they have watched may have been both US and Canadian based.

I remember listening to her playact with the dollshouse, and was confused to hear her playing with a thick (and extremely accurate) midwest US accent. It started off cute, but these days I spend a lot of time telling them to stop doing it!

The worst accent though - is one of the british ones. I told Miss Trouble Pants off resoundly after she said "Bu^a" to me. Now, I obviously need to explain this one to you. Start by saying "Butter", and make sure that you make it sound more like "buttah" at the end. Then say it again, and this time take out both T's when you say it. It comes out like "Bu...uh". The missing T's aren't just missing though - they get replaced by a totally unheard throat contraction. You have to close the throat off between the two vowel sounds.

[update thanks to Michael: This habit of dropping the T sound is called a Glottal stop.]

It's the worst, most revolting bit of pronunciation that you can imagine. And when she said it to me, I went off my brain. I told her that only lazy, stupid, uneducated people spoke like that, and she wasn't to do it EVER again.

The next day, when her best friend knocked on the door, and we walked to school together, I was talking to her mother. And it dawned on me, with a cold horrifying clarity - exactly where she'd heard that pronunciation.

I spent the day worried that she'd tell her friend exactly what I'd said, and that I'd have to endure the icy stares of her furious mother. But luck was on my side.

I managed to add an edict to my previous statement later that day and thus prevent a schoolyard mum's bitchslap. Which is good, because she'd have won!

Meanwhile I think I should concentrate on my Welsh Pakistani accent, as that's certainly worth passing on to the kids.

The one in which I start a war with my neighbours. Or have sex with them.

2010-05-12T20:45:34Z

I start so many blog posts in my head, get to about the third paragraph, then forget the entire thing. Which is a real shame, because I am hugely witty in my head. Words flow very easily in my mind in a way that they don't necessarily do if I speak them out loud.

In my head I am very eloquent. But really, it's only relevant to an audience of one. If I can entertain myself, then job done! That's probably why when I'm alone I hold conversations with myself and monologue in silly voices.

But the trick is not knowing how to push your own buttons, but how to push those of other people.

The meaning behind words is a delicate balance, which is further tipped by the various interpretations that a reader might take from them. The nuances of a written word could have one reader feeling slighted, while another felt vindicated.

Which is why I have to go back one street tomorrow, find the 9th house down from the corner, knock on the door, and introduce myself to the owner - rather than write a note about the prunings that they've left in our back passage.

I have a fear - a big fear - that anything I might write will fail to straddle the razor thin line between passive agressive and condescending when I attempt to suggest that they surely did not INTENTIONALLY (but very carefully) lay their tree prunings all along the back access lane of three houses rather than actually bother to take them to the tip.

Of course it's ENTIRELY possible that those branches landed in that well adjusted and end to end position of their own accord as they were sawn from the tree. And it's totally reasonable to imagine that the three weeks that have past since that fateful day are just an oversight - perhaps the man who pruneth broke his leg and is waiting for the cast to come off before he clears up.

I am not sure that either of those eventualities are particularly likely. The latter perhaps, but the former I am sure would require some kind of cosmic intervention. Like our suburb rolling to the left suddenly. I am sure i'd have noticed that.

So you see my problem - I can't write a note addressing this thorny issue. It would end up with a very large dose of sark and a dollop of insult.

But the realistic thought of knocking on the door and saying "hello, are you the selfish twat breath who thought we wouldn't notice two trees worth of prunings underfoot when we try and wheel bicycles towards the road?" in a way that totally fails to incite a riot is a seriously daunting one.

The way it's going to play is probably going to involve a large amount of shrugging, ending sentences with a trailing "so... er..." and ending up suggesting that we wouldn't mind using it as decking perhaps - so maybe I could take a basket weaving course in order to achieve that.

Bugger that - if anyone should be weaving baskets with the stuff it's her.

And let's not forget that the mere act of pruning - with or without the dumping of the sticks - means that we now have a clear view through what was once a lovely big green privacy screen. As do they.

So I was standing at our bedroom window today, stark naked, when it occurred to me that perhaps the whole pruning thing is a farce - a ploy. Maybe they like to watch. Perhaps it was designed to make me come over there. All hot and flushed. Fired up with passion. What words might I fire out in the heat of the moment?

They've probably been planning it for months. peering through the semi dressed branches (oh God, now the tree is stripping) during the winter seasons. Catching glimpses of my softly sagging backside, my muffin tops and my mini tits.

The truth is frighteningly clear. Our neighbours are swingers.

Or they want to boil me up and eat me.

Perhaps I won't mention the tree. Come to think of it, the branches would make a nice lattice basket for a giant.