Visiting the Houses of Parliament

We went to the Houses of Parliament. Very exciting. DBF works there and so he agreed to take me and sister (who is actually in the same country as me for a while) for a quick tour.

Trip started well with a train ride to London. Looking out of the window, just before Wandsworth Common, I saw a naked man. Something of a surprise. Not completely naked, he was wearing a short tee-shirt and striding through a park. Never seen that before. Wondered if we should call the police or something but felt it wasn’t exactly an emergency and by the time we got home he would be long gone, so we mentioned it to the guard on the train but did nothing else.

Rest of journey uneventful and we met DBF and daughter outside Parliament. Went through the gate, DBF showing his pass and us collecting visitor’s badges. DBF told us we had to be with him all the time and we were not allowed to take photographs inside. I saw this as something of a challenge, daughter informed me I had to behave (she can be scary at times, is rather like sister. I obeyed. Loosely.)

I was keen to see the tunnels where Guy Fawkes was arrested but DBF didn’t know where they were and neither did the random policeman who I asked. There were lots of random policemen. They were armed and checked everyone’s passes. Rather inhibiting in terms of taking surreptitious photos, though I DID see a man take a sneaky one of his wife on his phone. Considered telling policeman in case he got shot (added interest for blog report) but felt scary daughter would be cross.

Walked through some seriously ornate rooms – lots of red and gold and the sort of textured wallpaper that would be an absolute nightmare to hang. There were a few builders in places. DBF explained that due to the age of the building, lots of it is broken and in need of repair. Workmen are only allowed in at weekends. I bet they take photos.

Saw some of the statues of Prime Ministers that I have seen on the tele (the statues, not the Ministers.) Also stood in the lobby where journalists catch MPs for a statement on the News.

Went into the chamber, which is a lot smaller than it looks on tele, it must be bit of a squash when full. The green leather seats all have lots of microphones hanging above them, which I though a little creepy – you wouldn’t be able to whisper funny comments to the person next to you.

All the chairs had notices on them, telling you to not sit on them. Except for the Speaker’s chair. I did point this out to daughter but she was fairly sure I would be shot if I attempted to sit on it. Or thrown out.

Passed a postbox and a place to mail letters internally. Tempting to drop a note to David Cameron and give him a few pointers. There was also a writing desk with paper and envelopes for the Members to use.

Walked along corridors lined with shelves of bound volumes of Hansard. These contain everything that has ever been said in the chamber, named after Thomas Hansard (1776-1833) who was the first printer to print them. Hansard reporters sit in both the Commons and the Lords and write down everything that is said. It is published online the next day at 6am. You can read them back to Nov 1804 – should you be interested in reading an historical King’s speech. DBF told me that each reporter does a very short stint of scribing before they are replaced by the next one, so errors are rare. They are frequently referred to, because just like real life, people often misremember exactly what was said by whom. They would, I think, help to settle many marital arguments – though whether I would want someone recording all my conversations is another matter.

We visited the Commons library, where DBF spends some of his working day. No one else was in there but I was still not allowed to take photographs or walk into the part of the library reserved for Members (and no one would have known, so it seemed a waste.) Here there were lots of reference books and papers written by civil servants, so the Members can appear knowledgeable when discussing things in chambers. It was a nice place to work, with lovely views across the river and places where the Members could recharge their mobile phones.

We then walked across to Portcullis House, which has been described as being like the sixth form area of a school or a common room. It has a central part with cafes under a glass roof and lots of art on the surrounding corridors. Members can book rooms for debates. The art was interesting – I preferred it to the paintings in the main building, lots of portraits of members, all very different in style.

On the way there we passed the entrance to Westminster underground station. Did you know that MPs have their own private entrance to the station? I wonder what it looks like from the other side (the door was locked so we couldn’t go through to see.)

We also passed a plaque saying the foundation stone of the Speaker’s House was laid by the wife of the architect in 1840. That made me laugh, can you imagine that conversation?

“Who shall we invite to lay the foundation stone, Shall we ask the Prime Minister or someone royal?”
“Er, actually the architect says his wife is doing it.”
Ha, wonder how she wangled that one!

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Letters to a Sister :26

Posted by anneethompson

How was your week? Mine was okay but busy.

I had the kittens neutered. Of course, usually two of them live outside with the mothers (which is working well, by the way, I haven’t seen a rat around the pond in ages.) However, while they were recovering, they all had to be inside. Louise, the grumpy older cat, was not happy. Nor particularly was husband. There were, I must admit, way too many cats in the house. Especially as one (I think Mandy) was refusing to use the dirt tray. They are all outside again now. They are much happier. So am I.

The chickens were also annoying this week. There were no eggs. I wondered if something was getting them (or even, much worse, if the hens had started eating them) so I put a couple of bought eggs into the nesting boxes. They are still there, so that wasn’t the problem. I then wondered if perhaps they were laying elsewhere. During the day I open the hutch and they wander around the garden. They’re safe because Kia is often out there too (even a fox wont mess with a GSD.) So, I tried leaving them shut in all day. They were unhappy but I got eggs. Now I don’t know what to do – I like them wandering around but there’s no point having hens if I still have to buy eggs. Have discussed it with them, I’m sure that will help.

It was also my turn to cook for the oldies. I decided to give them chocolate brownie and ice cream for dessert. This was very popular. Lots of people have asked for the recipe, so I thought I would include it below. It’s modified from a Nigella Lawson recipe (I like her recipes – they always work) so do hope I am not breaching any copyrights. (I figure that she must have started with someone else’s recipe and changed it to suit her and I have done the same, so it’s kind of fair.)I do not look as sexy as Nigella when I cook and am a lot grumpier. But the brownies are nice.

The quantity is for ten old people, so to serve forty I had to do it four times. By the end I was in bit of a muddle, couldn’t remember if I had added salt and even forgot the buzzer – which is fatal. They were all edible, which is good.

It’s much nicer cooking with someone else. At Easter we always have a cream tea at our house, so I cook scones for about ninety people. Niece always comes in the morning to help me make the dough, so we help each other remember to add sugar and salt while I learn about her boyfriends and she ignores all my good advice. It’s a nice time.

But back to the brownies. I have included cup measures in case you make them in the US, where cooking is slightly less accurate but a whole lot easier. I have also included my own helpful comments, the sort of thing they never put in recipe books but you tell the children when they’re cooking. Enjoy:

Before you begin, put all animals out of the kitchen. And all teenaged boys. And if your mother is like ours, put her outside too. Then wipe the surfaces, wash your hands and find a clean apron.

Preheat the oven to 170℃.

200g chocolate (weight should be on the packet.) Be honest here, if you will eat some, buy extra. You can use any chocolate you like – milk, dark, white all work fine. I think orange might be too sweet.
200g butter (a little less than 1 cup.)
400g light brown sugar (2½ cups)
100g cocoa (¾ cup)
1⅓ teaspoons bicarbonate soda
200g flour (1¼ cups)
5 large eggs (if the hens haven’t laid them under a bush somewhere)
2 teaspoons vanilla essence (it’s expensive, so please don’t spill any.)

Grease a dish with sunflower oil. I use big lasagna dishes, 27cm squared. Put the chocolate into a freezer bag and bash with a rolling pin until it’s in chunks. Eat any extra.

Mix the eggs and vanilla with a fork.

Melt the butter and sugar. You need a very low heat and to stir all the time or it will burn. Bash out any lumps of sugar while you do it or they make horrid crunchy bits in the brownie.

Remove mixture from heat while you measure the dry ingredients. This is important. If it’s too hot when you add the eggs, they cook. You will then have brownie with cooked lumps of egg in them. Your husband tells you they are “interesting”, your parents-in-law politely remove the eggy lumps and leave them on the plate for you to find later and your children refuse to eat them after the first mouthful.

Add the flour, cocoa, bicarb and a little salt (pour it onto your hand first, you just need a pinch.)

Add the eggs. It’s easiest if you add them gradually. If you add them all at once you will need to beat the mixture really hard until it’s smooth, which is a good arm workout but hard work.

Add the chocolate chunks, then quickly, before they melt, scrape the mixture into the container and put it into the oven.

Set the timer for 25 minutes. It should look dry on top but not cooked underneath. If the top looks wet, give it another 5 minutes.

Leave in the dish to cool, serve warm with ice-cream or cold on a plate.

Wash up and wipe all surfaces.
Allow animals and family back into kitchen.

Take care,
Anne x

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Killing the kitchen roll. Again.

Guard duty.

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Letters to a Sister : 25

Posted by anneethompson

Is social media the new road rage? Do you ever feel a bit insulted by what your friends post?

I am often a bit shocked by being called rude names by my friends on social media and I wonder if it is a little like ‘road rage’. Now, I will admit, I often talk to other drivers when I am driving. I shout things like, “Hurry up, this is a 50 zone,” or “Get off my tail, idiot, you’ll hit me if a deer runs out.” However, I would not dream of saying those things if the other driver could hear me. Well, maybe the last one I might, but I would make it slightly more polite.

However, on social media, people often share links that are even more insulting. I read phrases like, “the morons who continue this game” (yes, that’s me) or “the selfish idiots who voted for that political party” (oh, sorry, I made the best choice I could given the information at hand) or “the self-absorbed murderers who support killing animals” (hmmm, I might fit into that category too given the topic it was discussing.) The difference to social media though, is that the people who are being insulted (me) can actually hear. And when I read some of these insults, I do actually find it a little upsetting.

The rational part of me knows that the person ‘sharing’ these posts would never dream of saying these things to my face. They are for the most part polite, caring people. Some of them are, I believe, even fond of me. However, when I read these posts, I am still a little shocked. It can feel like a smack in the face, especially if I have logged on for a quick look before breakfast, a bit of mindless entertainment before my brain is in gear.

Now, I know that people will disagree on things. We do not all share the same politics or religious view and social media is a good way to express our thoughts, to perhaps have a rant about something we are passionate about. But I wish people would keep the reader in mind. We write because we expect, we hope, someone out there will read what we write. I do not think we usually intend to bash them over the head with a stick. There are nice ways of saying things. We can be fervent about our views without necessarily calling the other people idiots, without punching the nose of anyone who disagrees with us.

I do understand that when making an emotive argument, one technique is to exaggerate. I do realise that the people who write these things are making a case rather than actually expressing hate for the people who oppose them. However, I think sometimes this has been taken to extremes and is over used. Perhaps we have lost a little caution with what we post.

The trouble with social media is that it is so easy. You can read something, have an emotional reaction and fire off a quick reply in seconds. I have done it myself. I once wrote a reply to something as an emotional response, reread it and realised it sounded terribly rude, then spent an awful few minutes trying to work out how to delete it. I was lucky, the recipient never read it.

I also get things wrong sometimes when writing. I tend to let my family read things before I publish them (they seem to enjoy letting me know when I have got something wrong.) Sometimes they tell me to not publish something, they tell me it sounds racist or insulting or whatever, even though they know that that was not my intention. It is hard to self-moderate.

Of course, people in the media receive the most awful comments all the time. Is this okay? Should journalists write things for public viewing that they would never say to the person’s face? I don’t think so. Take Jeremy Corbyn (the one who looks like everyone’s favourite uncle.) Now, I disagree with almost everything I have read about his politics. But do I also want to criticise his dress sense? Do I care how he chooses to wear his hair? To me, that just seems bitchy and unnecessary. It also undermines the arguments of the author, reminds me of name-calling from the primary school playground.

As social media grows, as it replaces the village green where people meet for a chat, I think we need to be increasingly careful. We humans are fragile beings. What we read is what we hear and no one likes to be told they are stupid. Even if they are.

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Letters to a Sister : 24

Posted by anneethompson

When I packed for the flight from Bangkok to Singapore I decided to take some nice bubble-bath I had bought. I put my swimming costume next to it in the case, as it wouldn’t get ruined should bubble-bath leak. Then realised it was potentially embarrassing – I might be the lady swimming in the hotel pool followed by a trail of bubbles…..

Flight to Singapore uneventful. I was in economy, next to a man who twitched continually and behind a woman who pushed her seat right back as soon as we’d taken off and then kept stretching her arms up and putting her hand over the screen in front of me. Resisted urge to slap both of them.

Also resisted the meal: plastic scrambled eggs. I just ate the bread roll and dessert, which was garnished with a strange plastic looking fruit. I bit it. Think it really was plastic.

St. Regis hotel in Singapore pretty much exactly the same as the one in Bangkok. But the staff less ‘polite’ – in Bangkok everyone puts their hands together and does a little bow, which I kinda liked (though it’s hard to do when carrying stuff, I kept dropping things.)

I slept most of the afternoon. Then we got a taxi to the old part of town to an old colonial hotel, Raffles, famous for the cocktail Singapore Sling. Had one in the long bar – very traditional in a sort of Disney, pretend way. It was very pleasant, all clean and very atmospheric with lots of dark wood, ceiling fans, sacks of nuts on the table with nut husks all over the floor. The cocktail is tall and sticky with froth on top and served with a pineapple chunk and a cherry. Mine was sadly lacking in discernible alcohol.

There is currently a lot of air pollution in Singapore – a ‘haze’ as they call it (it looks misty all the time.) This is pretty bad and causes itchy eyes and breathing problems when it’s at its worst. It’s caused by people burning great swathes of land in Indonesia. They do this for a couple of reasons: it’s much cheaper to clear land for crop planting to burn stuff rather than to cut and clear it, it is also a way of attacking your neighbours when there are disputes over who owns land (a problem due to how forests cannot be registered) and also, peat bogs, when they dry out, are very flammable.

The people in Singapore and Malaysia are furious about this, especially as it happens every year. They have to close schools, cancel flights and avoid going outside when the pollution is at its worst. The Indonesian government are making plans to stop the problem but from reading the papers (which are in Singapore, so possibly a bit biased) they make plans but don’t actually change anything. This is a problem that seems to have occurred every year for about forty years. The funniest report I read was where a politician in Indonesia said that rather than complain, the people of Singapore should thank Indonesia for their clean air the other eleven months of the year. Not sure that helped relations much…..

On Monday I walked around the historical part of the city. I got a taxi to Raffles hotel, then walked past St Andrew’s cathedral – I could have been in England.

I arrived at the National Gallery but couldn’t work out the doors. They appeared to be bolted shut from top to bottom. The sign said the gallery was open but I tried pushing, pulling and sliding the glass doors – they did not move. I suspect this was my fault. However, peering through the glass, the gallery did look very empty, so perhaps other people had problems getting inside too. Seems to be bit of a design fault for a door to not open (is rather the defining point of a door, separates it from a wall.)

Abandoned non-opening doors and walked to river, crossed a bridge to Fullerton Hotel. This has the absolutely best sculpture outside. Walked along quay. There are lots of tiny restaurants, the whole world in one lane. I passed English pubs, Spanish tavernas, Chinese restaurants (these had the biggest shellfish outside in great glass tanks). It was a little like being in the Epcot Centre at Disney. There were good views of the Marina Bay Hotel (which looks like it has a giant boat perched on its roof) but it was too hazy for a decent photo. Several people were wearing face masks to keep the pollution out.

I followed South Bridge Road up to China Town, passing Park Royal Hotel. This is opposite Hong Lim Park, but actually there was more stuff growing on the hotel than in the park – green blankets of plants spilling over every balcony. I passed tailors claiming they could make a suit in six hours, Chinese sign-painters with canaries singing in cages, a Hindu temple with shoes littering the street outside, stalls selling silk, beads, masks, key-rings, lots of street food.

There was a mosque with a big sign outside, declaring that Islam is a peaceful religion and should not be judged by the actions of a few terrorists. I thought that was rather sad.

It was hot and humid, so I walked back to the park and drank a Sprite before getting a taxi back to hotel. In Singapore you cannot hail taxis in the street (I spent a long time trying to do that on a previous visit. They ignore you.) You have to wait at a designated taxi stand, which is a lot like a bus stop. It’s easiest to just go to a hotel foyer and wait for one to arrive. Singapore has a lot of hotels.

Singapore is clean and safe and has lots to see that is interesting. I did not though feel that I had seen the ‘real’ Singapore, I have left with no impression of the people who live there. Perhaps it is harder in a more developed city to see how people live and work, to glimpse the real culture beneath what is presented to visitors. I wonder if the same could be said of London, I wonder what visitors see when they tour our tourist attractions.

Take care,
Anne xx

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Raffles Hotel

Fullerton Hotel

Marina Bay Sands

Lots of two storey buildings with shutters. Was like going back to the 19th century – until you looked up at the sky line.

Park Royal Hotel

Mosque

Hindu Temple

Buddhist Temple

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If you enjoyed this, you will love my new book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary.
I have always written a diary on holiday, so last Christmas, I decided to find all my old diaries and blogs, and make a book for my children. However, several other people also asked for a copy, so I have written a public version – it’s available on Amazon and has been described as “The Durrells meet Bill Bryson”!

Why not buy a copy today? I think it will make you laugh.

The US link is here:

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The UK link is here:

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Letters to a Sister :23

Posted by anneethompson

I went to Bangkok for a couple of days. Husband was working there, so I decided to tag along.

We arrived Thursday night, COMPLETELY exhausted. It was a bad moment, 10 hours into the flight to Singapore, when I thought, “Ah, two more hours and we’ll be there and I can get to the hotel and sleep…” then realised that we weren’t doing that and we were catching another flight after we landed. Felt awful. I was flying premium economy (on airmiles – which is why I went via Singapore, direct flights get booked up) so the seat wasn’t tiny but it was so noisy. Didn’t sleep at all.

Then the lady next to me fell asleep and I needed the loo but didn’t like to wake her. I figured the arm rests were pretty wide, I could stand on them and climb over her without waking her. I had forgotten that I was near the front of the plane and about 100 people would be watching me. Embarrassing.

Anyway, flight to Bangkok (2 hours) seemed completely insignificant, more like a taxi ride. Going through customs was okay but long.

There was a sign at passport control, telling people that Thailand is a Buddhist country and the things that are disrespectful/illegal (like wearing a tee shirt with a picture of Buddha on it, buying a Buddha head, having a tattoo of Buddha.) I thought it was a good idea – it’s easy to cause offence by mistake. Decided at that point to not get the tattoo after all, I know you’ll be disappointed but I didn’t want to offend anyone.

Hotel is lovely. Quite plain, but very clean and luxurious. We had a nap for a couple of hours, then went for a walk. It reminds me a lot of Xian, lots of people being busy, quite a dirty place but with an ‘honest’ feel to it – nothing pretentious. By the time we went to dinner, I had got over the long journey and had decided it WAS worth coming. Dinner was nice, just ate normal food in hotel restaurant – too tired to be adventurous.

Went to bed about 8pm, slept really well for two hours, rest of the night bit of a struggle. (I think we are 7 hours ahead of UK time.)

Friday morning, husband went to work early (was in the office at 7:30 am. ) I went back to sleep until 8:30. Then I decided to be brave and go to breakfast on my own. I hate doing stuff like that! I was standing in the lobby looking lost when a man asked if he could help. I said I just wanted a pastry and a coffee, not a full breakfast. He told me I could go and get a pastry from the buffet and he would bring me a take-out coffee. I sat in the drawing room – big comfy sofas, lots of dark wood – and ate my pastry. Much nicer than being in scary dining room on my own. I went to give nice man my room number but he said he didn’t really need it for just a pastry and a coffee. What a nice man! I like this hotel – St Regis, Bangkok.

I went for a walk to see some Buddhist stuff. Not quite brave enough to use train or taxi on my own, so just walked. Everyone here speaks Thai, which sounds like Mandarin but is completely different and the writing looks like squiggles. Weather is cloudy/rainy/hot and humid. Walked for hours, brilliantly interesting. Lots of small industry – people carving doors, welding, etc. Everyone very friendly, feels safe here. Found some Chinese people to talk to. Not many foreigners apart from in the tourist attractions.

It rained hard, more rain than I’ve ever seen before, was paddling as I walked, the water went right over my shoes, was glad I was wearing short trousers. I had an umbrella but it did very little to stop the rain, which gushed down the edges and splattered me as I walked. It was warm though, too hot for a coat. I rather liked it. Husband’s map disintegrated so I’ll have to try and find him another one before he finds it. There was a covered walkway, so some of the way was relatively dry.

There are lots of elephant statues everywhere. I went to Golden Mount, which is a man-made hill with a Buddhist temple on top. Had very good views of Bangkok. Also had a coffee shop near the top, it seemed slightly incongruous to see Buddhist monks in their orange robes, drinking in a coffee shop.

Saturday we got a taxi to a floating market (two hours out of Bangkok.) It was really interesting, so glad it didn’t rain. There were lots of stalls around the edge of the river. If you showed any interest in anything, they put out a hook and towed your boat in! There were also floating stalls and boats selling snacks. Not sure how they managed to deep fry dumplings on a boat, but they did!

It was really crowded, sometimes the boats got jammed and had to be pushed apart. Lots of colour and smells and noise. Everyone is meant to turn off their motor when they enter the market and use paddles but our boatman didn’t, which spoilt it a bit.

Afterwards we were offered the chance to go and ride on an elephant. It was very tempting, I would love to do that. I just had this feeling though that the elephants wouldn’t be kept very well and that possibly it was cruel. I felt I didn’t want to ride on an abused elephant. It would have been upsetting to see, I like elephants, so we declined.

Had lunch at hotel then decided to go to Royal Palace. Arrived just after it shut, tried to blag way inside, failed. Walked around a bit. Lots of big photos of royal family on various buildings. The Thai people are very patriotic, we saw several cars with “Long live the king” as bumper stickers. I also read that it’s a huge insult if foreigners don’t stand up for the national anthem when it’s played in cinemas.

Went to Wat Pho, the oldest and biggest temple in Bangkok. I expect if you had not recently been around several other temples, it would be rather spectacular. I’m afraid it just felt like ‘another museum’ for me. The art was amazing but I am a bit beyond being amazed by temple art now.

Tried to get water boat back to hotel but it was all a bit confusing and we were tired. Got a taxi. They all refused to do it by meter and wanted 300 baht to take us (always good to negotiate fares in Bangkok before a trip, especially the tuk-tuks, which are well known as rip-off men.) Decided that as 300 baht is only £6, we would take one anyway.

Sunday, early trip to airport. Seems like I arrived a week ago. I like Bangkok. The people were all friendly and smiled a lot and I felt very safe walking around on my own. I probably wouldn’t feel so comfortable with young children – you did have to be aware all the time. (I was nearly run over by a motorbike at one point. I was on the path and he came up behind me to avoid the traffic. He smiled and called “sorry, sorry” so I didn’t really mind, but I was glad I wasn’t walking with a child.)

Maybe I will try to come for longer next time….

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Letters to a Sister : 22

Posted by anneethompson

So, I was asked if I would consider helping with the Sunday School. Actually, it’s not called Sunday School, it’s called Boulders, but everyone knows what I mean if I give it the old fashioned title. If it happens, it will be hugely exciting. I did help with the group about a year ago, before I was ill. It was tremendous fun, I (and I think the kids) enjoyed it immensely. This might be my second chance.

When we were children, did you enjoy it? Mum and Dad dutifully sent us every week, but I think for me it was a bit too much like school. I did learn though, much of my Bible knowledge today is based on what I learnt as a child in those classes, despite my main aim being to kick off the shoe of the teacher when she crossed her legs. I remember one teacher who I loved because she let us draw stick-men instead of writing the story. We were simple souls.

Of course, if I am the teacher, I can be as imaginative as I want. Last year I taught about the plagues in Egypt, Moses, Pharaoh, God leading his people to the promised land. I was very keen that it shouldn’t be like school, a ‘sit down and write’ lesson. So I made it as real as I could. I felt it was important to source some of the plagues. Husband (somewhat reluctantly, I must say) helped with this.

First was blood – I did wonder about asking cousin the nurse if she could get me some but thought that maybe there would be health risks with using human blood. So we used food colouring and coloured some water red. It was more pink to be honest. Fear the children may now think all Jewish people were anaemic.

Next was frogs. I tried the local ponds but they were very hard to catch. Father-in-law came up trumps. Apparently his pond had too many and he needed to lose some. Gave me a tupperware box full of bouncing amphibians. I put them in the garage in a very big box covered in netting with a ‘pond’ in an empty ice cream container. Was getting excited now.

Flies were easier than you might think – my window sills had a good supply of dead ones that could be put into an envelope. The joys of living on farm land. I decided the smaller ones could double up as gnats.

Locusts were also easily sorted. The local ‘exotic pets’ shop sold them in boxes as food for the lizards and things. They were alive (apparently lizards and things do not like to eat dead things.) We put them into another big crate in the garage. You would be amazed by how much green stuff a locust can eat. We had about twenty of them. Husband then got rather enthusiastic. He ‘decorated’ the crate to make a nice environment for them. Lots of leaves and branches, areas of soil, etc.

The boils were lipstick spots with ‘tumours’ of lumps of cold porridge. The hail was crushed ice cubes. The dead animals were found in my daughter’s long forgotten farm set in the loft. The darkness was a big blanket everyone could hide under.

Death was harder, we had to just act that. Even I felt that using a corpse might be going too far. And be illegal. And damage the children beyond repair.

Anyway, we had a terrific time. We learned about the story, then made a short film, using mobile phones. It would probably win some Oscars if I released it. I will send you a copy.

Afterwards, the frogs went into my pond (still see them occasionally) and the rest of the stuff went back into cupboards.

The locusts were a problem. They had grown huge (we only had them a week) and husband had bonded with them. Super. Son 1 did suggest we could release them into crops next door but that was clearly wrong. Eventually we found someone with a big lizard thing which ate big locusts, so we gave them to him. Think husband was rather sad but we coped.

Am very much hoping it happens. Husband has banned me from teaching about Noah’s Ark. But I think it has potential.

Take care,
Anne x

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Letters to a Sister : 21

Posted by anneethompson

So, Mum took me for a ‘treat’ this week. We had lunch at Burswood, which is a lovely stately home. It is now used as a healing centre (unexpected.) I was told there would be a quick, half hour service, then we’d have lunch.

I didnt realise it is also a hospital, so we had coffee with people in pyjamas. Feeling somewhat awkward by this point, sipped my coffee and tried to look as if I was visiting a patient.

We went with an old lady who used to work there. Everyone greeted her and asked if she’d seen Daisy yet. She kept telling them that no, she hadn’t yet, but she would pop in before she left. Eventually, in the bookshop she saw Daisy and introduced me. Daisy is a stuffed sheep. It was that kind of day.

The service lasted one hour, fifteen minutes. At the end, everyone – absolutely everyone- went forward to be prayed for by the healers. I stayed in my pew feeling somewhat uncomfortable. Mum appeared to be asking her ‘healer’ for directions to somewhere. There was lots of arm waving.

We then had lunch, which was lovely. We came home ( after we had gone to say goodbye to Daisy).

The last treat mum took me on, we went to a cafe run by disabled people. We were the only customers and we drank coffee in an empty room while a man ( who I assume/hope was a patient) shouted at us. I have requested that we don’t have anymore treats for a while. I need recovery time.

We took the boys back to uni, I can hardly believe the Summer is over. I will miss them loads. Maybe not the relationship advice though. This was very evident even as we drove Son 2 back.
Husband remarked, “It’ll be just us tomorrow.”
I lovingly replied, “Yes, it will be nice to have some time together.”
Voice from back said, “She’s been practising that sentence all week: YES, it will be nice….. Yes, it WILL be nice……”

When we later had a slight disagreement over the route, there were sounds of son shooting himself on the back seat.

However, most of the trip went to plan. There was bit of delay when we realised that Son 1 had given us the wrong postcode, so we couldn’t find his new house to drop off his stuff. It then transpired that actually, he had given us the wrong road name as well. Easy mistake, apparently. We found each other eventually.

Another slight mishap was sorting bags of bedding. We thought all was finished when Son 2 phoned to say that we had left him with three duvets and no pillows. One was the duvet with no feathers, so perhaps that was not such a problem. More of a problem for Son 1 who was left with four pillows and no duvet. Did a quick shopping trip before we left him.

We then spent the night at Premier Inn before the long drive home. I really like Premier Inn. They are clean and have comfortable beds, the sort of food that you actually feel like eating and you don’t pay for a lot of stuff that you don’t want. Excellent idea by someone.

We got home to a calm house and happy animals – Mum had housesat for us. I have now moved the outside kittens to the garden. They have been free during the night (when there are practically no cars) but I’ve been keeping them secure during the day. Have decided they are probably big enough now to be free all the time. They have grown noticeably thicker coats than Mungo, who we’re keeping inside as a house cat.

We did have one incident when Midge climbed a tree and couldn’t get down. It was really interesting to watch his Mum go up and get him. She kept going to him, then showing him which branches to jump onto to get down. She got very cross when he ignored her and went even higher – she chased up after him and told him off. There seemed to be a lot of biting of legs involved. Perhaps I should have tried that as a parenting technique.

Take care,
Anne x

PS. Mum has been told by the doctor to drink less tea. She has rationed herself to three cups per day. They are the biggest cups I have ever seen, I think she must have gone to a ‘super-size mug’ shop. Not sure that’s quite what the doctor meant. I will let you have that conversation with her. Ax

xxxxxxxxxxx

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Letters to a Sister :20

Posted by anneethompson

I finished writing my novel. This is big and very scary. It is actually my second one. The first I wrote years ago but was too scared to do anything with it so I put it in a filing cabinet. I found it again a year ago, read it, decided it was good and tried to get it published. This is when I discovered that trying to get a first book published when you are a normal, non-famous person, is rather hard. It is, I assume, like trying to be an actress or singer. The ability seems to be a minor factor, who you know (nobody in my case) and your ability to ‘sell’ seems much more important.

No publishers in the UK will take manuscripts from new writers, so first you have to find an agent. The initial approach is a covering letter. This involves a lot of sweat, tears, many rewrites while you try to adopt a casually witty style. I clearly never got it right because my first book remains in the filing cabinet. I was something of a literary snob. I felt that if my work was good enough, someone would pay me to publish it, there was no way I would self-publish. I am less of a snob now, I just want my book to be read. If no one likes my covering letter (and it does seem to be this rather than the actual book that is important) then I shall publish it myself. I will let you know how I get on.

On a completely unrelated topic, have you ever cooked with quinoa? I keep seeing it on tele but have never actually tried it. Am thinking of having a try. This fills my family with dread. I do tend to have passions for things in the kitchen. There was the time my mother-in-law gave me a rather nifty garlic press, the sort where you don’t do any peeling or chopping, you just squeeze the bulb through the grill. Immensely satisfying. We had garlic, a lot of it, with everything for a while. That phase did not get too many complaints. The next one did.

I discovered couscous. It was when I was teaching, had three children at different schools, was stressed and exhausted. The thought of a carbohydrate that required no peeling of potatoes or straining of rice was wonderful. There is after all a limit to how many frozen chips you can serve in a week. So I started adding couscous to most meals. The family complained, but they tend to complain a lot, so I ignored them. Looking back, I did perhaps over do it a bit.

The real low point was when it overlapped with my chilli phase. I grew little red chillies from seeds on my kitchen window sill. They were very pretty and I felt rather trendy adding them to dishes. Again, I did perhaps overdo it. Anyway, the meal which has gone down in family history was a chicken casserole, cooked on a day that had gone particularly badly. Teaching had been stressful, collecting the family from their respective schools had been a hassle, I was tired, had reports to write, just wanted dinner to be cooked, eaten and forgotten. It has never been forgotten.

I added too much chilli to the casserole, it was completely inedible. Never mind, I thought, I will add some couscous, that might dilute it a bit. It did not, it was now just burning hot and thick. My next brainwave, one that I really ought to copyright, was to add milk. Please don’t ask me why, but I had this idea that adding milk would neutralise the chilli. I think I was getting in a muddle with adding it to tomato sauce to neutralise the acid (which DOES work.) Anyway, I served the family a sort of hot chilli porridge. They say they can still remember the moment, my angry eyes flashing, them all trying to not say or do anything wrong and being faced with a plate of hot (in the spicy sense) porridge. As I said, a real low point in my culinary experience.

Of course, when I sat down and tried it I realised it was ghastly, impossible to eat and announced we were throwing it all away. Much to the relief of my children. I cannot remember now what we did eat that night but I don’t think any of them will ever forget that dish. I bet Mary Berry has never tried it. Maybe I will write a recipe book next.

Take care,
Anne x

Refugee Crisis

Posted by anneethompson

I admire all those kind people who are offering spare rooms or rental cottages to the refugees. We have all seen the pictures and I doubt anyone is unmoved. How can we ignore those families desperate enough to risk their lives to try and find somewhere safe to live? To see children who have drowned, children who look like my own boys did at that age, is too horrible for words. My heart weeps for them. But, I have a problem.

Whilst all the above is true, completely true, why do we find it so easy to ignore other people in dire need? Why have these immigrants touched us when so many others have not? Why am I moved almost to tears at a photograph of a small boy lying dead in the sea, when I have watched film after film of children in Africa who are wasting away for want of food and clean water? What is the difference?

These are not rhetorical questions, I really would like to know the answer. I am mystified by my reaction and yet I see it multiplied time and again in the media. Is it because these people have actually arrived at our door, are a step away from being in the UK? Is it because the children resemble so closely my own, so I can relate to them more easily than to those who look different? I do not know.

An interesting element in all this is that we were told about these very same refugees months and months ago, when the war first broke out in Syria. I was invited by charities such as Tearfund and Save the Children to send money to help provide food and shelter for these same children. And I did, I dutifully sent off something to help. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t wonder if I could have a couple living in my spare room. What has changed?

Do you think it is the media attention? Am I just being manipulated into feeling things that otherwise would pass me by? I do not think so. I think it is good that their plight has been brought to our attention. It is easy to live in our cocoons of comfort and fail to notice those who need our help.

However, I do think that we need to use our brains here, to react emotionally but also to behave sensibly. Is it better to home refugees in the UK or to provide safe places in their own land? I do not know. I do know that there are several charities who have been working since the crisis began to try and do just that. It is easy to ignore them and to think that we know best, we know what to do.

I don’t have any answers here but I do think we all need to think about these questions. What actually makes a Syrian child touch us when an African one does not? Do we somehow value one over the other? I do hope not.

Letters to a Sister : 19

Posted by anneethompson

Have you seen on facebook that people often include a ‘past event’, “this day five years ago I was….” ? As you know, being an IT dinosaur, I only got fb fairly recently, so I don’t have any such gems to offer. It did make me start thinking though, about where I was a year ago.

A year ago, life was really rather difficult. I was a couple of months post op and everything was hard work. Did I ever tell you the details of my op? (Look away now if you’re squeamish!) They shaved my hair, cut a window into my skull, cut through my brain to the centre and took out the rather annoying cyst (which would have killed me if left alone.) They then patched me up with some titanium and stitches and sent me on my way. Pretty amazing really. Also amazing that I now look normal, have hair again and don’t sit in the corner dribbling (no more than I used to, anyway.)

The thing is, I look normal, but inside I am different. When I saw my first post op MRI, I asked what the black line was that went through my brain. I was told that was the gap, where the knife went. I did a bit of research. Apparently, as I understand it, scar tissue in the brain never heals, it just sits there, blocking the flow of neurons that allow us to think. However, the brain is pretty spectacular. It cannot use the same pathways, so it makes new ones. Gradually it learns to rethink, to redo all the things that it used to do.

When I say gradually, I mean gradually, very very slowly. Enough to pull out your hair (if you have enough left) slowly. The first time I tied shoe laces it was like being three years old again, I just could not make different hands do different things. While I was still in hospital, before they decided whether I was well enough to go home, they took me to a kitchen and asked me to cook a plate of pasta. It is, by far, the hardest thing I have ever cooked. Just filling the pan with enough water, remembering to light the hob, timing the pasta when it was boiling. Oh, the effort, the mental strain. It was exhausting, I slept deeply for an hour afterwards. But I did it, passed the test, was allowed home.

As time went on, everything improved. Now, a year later, most things are (roughly) back to normal. The point is (I do have a point, trust me) unless I used my brain, tried to do things like tying laces, kept going even though it was difficult, the brain would never make those new pathways. I had to attempt it before I could do it, the ability came second. Okay, hold that thought.

Now, quick subject change. I have been reading in the Bible about all the ‘gifts’, the things that Christians are meant to be good at. Things like forgiveness, self-control, patience. I have to admit, I’m pretty rubbish at all of them. Much nicer to have a quick shout at someone when they’re annoying or avoid the people who I think are nasty than do all that christian stuff. Plus, when I do pray, ask God to “help me to forgive Stacey because she’s a nasty piece of work and really I would like to slap her face,” I do not feel especially flooded with forgiveness. I still want to slap her face, so I avoid her.

However, it has been bothering me lately that actually, these behaviours are not optional extras. God does not say that when we are christians, if we feel like it, we should love and forgive the nice people we come across. It’s kinda in the sign-up sheet. If I claim to be a christian I have to be different, a better person than I would be if I weren’t one. So what to do?

Well, I have realised recently, that just like my brain had to start doing things to be able to do them (if you see what I mean) so I have to put these things into practice for them to be real. Sitting on my chair and asking God to ‘help me forgive’ and then waiting for me to feel like I had, just doesn’t work. I never felt like that. No, I had to ask God to help me, then trust that he had and actually start to behave and think like he had. I didn’t know if I could cook pasta until I did it. It was hard and I made some mistakes. Once I started behaving like I could, the skill caught up, now it’s easy. If I ask for the ability to forgive, then I have to start behaving like I have forgiven them, stop thinking about slapping them, start saying things that show I have forgiven them. Then the ability and the feelings, will catch up.

Okay, lecture over. But do you agree? Do you think that might be right?

Take care,
Anne x

Anne E Thompson

Author

Author: anneethompson

Visiting the Houses of Parliament

Letters to a Sister :26

Letters to a Sister : 24

Letters to a Sister :23

Letters to a Sister : 22

Letters to a Sister : 21

Letters to a Sister :20

Refugee Crisis

Letters to a Sister : 19

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