Letters to a Sister : 31


We had a Christmas Fair at church last week. A bit early perhaps but I guess it avoids clashing with every other Christmas Fair/Fayre/Event that the whole world feels obligated to host.

I am actually not a great lover of Christmas Fairs (in case you didn’t guess that already.) I’m not sure if it’s my general dislike of shopping or some long buried forgotten experiences. I equate Christmas Fairs with over-crowded stuffy rooms, knitted peg-bags that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, cakes that have been thoroughly breathed on by every flu infected attendee and homemade Christmas decorations.

I could write at length about homemade Christmas decorations. They are not something I value. Not even the sticky offerings my own children produced (they tell me they are scarred by this. I can cope.) I like decorations that are pretty and sparkly and preferably made of glass. Like the baubles our parents owned that we weren’t allowed to touch, that our brother broke with a football one year and then was NOT locked in his bedroom for a week over. Which was grossly unfair.

Anyway, this Christmas fair was rather lovely. It served mull wine at the entrance, which helped. It also had a Rock Choir in the car park. They had to be in the car park because there were millions of them. Not sure if they were invited to boost numbers or for their music. Also not sure how they managed to sing – it was freezing cold and someone had helpfully positioned them down-wind of the fire pit (for roasting marshmallows) so when they took a breath it would be smoke filled. They did make for a cheery atmosphere though.

There was a bouncy castle and face painting for the children. Now, face painting is a weird idea. The child sits there, having chosen a design, while the adult attempts to copy the picture onto their face. The child cannot actually see the paint on their face, it could be anything. They just have to remember to not wipe their nose or scratch their face for the rest of the day. It does unfortunately tend to be children with nasty colds who have their faces painted. Perhaps the lines of snot could be incorporated into the design somehow – it never looks good on the tiger/flower/lion designs that are generally chosen. I know one of the ladies who was doing the face painting. I did offer to face paint her face, thought it would be good advertising. There was a part of me that was longing to paint a huge willy or rude slogan on her cheek – she wouldn’t have known until she went home and looked in the mirror and it would be hugely funny. But she refused to let me. Clearly doesn’t trust me. Seemed harsh.

There were the usual range of other stalls : soaps and candles, a range of knitted and crocheted items, which I would never be patient enough to make. Actually, I can knit. I am half way through a cardigan for my daughter. It is for a child aged 5 years and she is now 23, so I have been knitting it for a little while now. I am sure she wont even appreciate it when I do finally finish it. Maybe I should make a special effort for this Christmas. Or give it to a Fayre to sell. Though none of the other children’s cardigans were quite as asymmetrical as mine.

Do you remember when brother made some bath-salts? I think he got the recipe from Blue Peter (does that programme still exist? It was an intrinsic part of our childhood.) Anyway, these bath-salts were made from soda crystals and you then added perfume and colour. He used some second-hand lavender perfume that he had bought at a jumble sale. Lots of it. I think it had gone off. He then coloured them with food colouring. Blue food colouring. Lots of it. Food colouring stains things. Both me and the bath were blue tinged for weeks after that bath. It is one of the few times growing up that I heard Mum swear. I still feel ill when I smell lavender.

The church had made a huge effort for this fair. There was a nativity scene in the foyer – with a baby Jesus who looked like he was dressed as a spaceman, which was unusual. There were balloons everywhere – even hanging from the cross at the front of the church (which I feel might be a talking point at the next church meeting.) Loads of people came, which I think was the point, to let people in the area know that the church is there and actually exists today. Not something that should be assumed in the UK in 2015. I’m not sure if any of those people will ever come back, but I guess at least they now know the location – and that we aren’t overly precious about our icons.

Hope you have a good week.
Take care,
Anne x
PS, I have bought your Christmas gift, you will love it. It is to hang on your tree. And is knitted.

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Hate Came to Stay


Hate Came to Stay
by Anne E Thompson

IMG_3682

     Yesterday, Hate came to stay. Uninvited, he knocked on the door and when I opened it, to see who was calling, he burst in, pushing past me. I knew he had visited other houses, had caused damage and hurt and anger. But he had never visited me before. He came yesterday.

     He went into the kitchen and smashed all my plates. He over-turned chairs and tore my cushions. He punched my children and spat at my dog. When I went near he scratched me and made me bleed. The house was dark, he closed all the curtains. I was hurt, frightened and angry.

     But worse, worse than the pain and fear and broken china, was the slime. Every time I tried to stop him, to catch him, hurt him, trap him, he produced more slime. It came off him in silver trails, sticking to everything he touched, dirty, germ filled, slime. It made me change. I began to be like him. I wanted to punch him, cut him, hurt him.

     Others came to my door, friends and family and people needing help. I bolted it shut, refused to let them in. I glared at the world and felt dark thoughts from my hiding place under the bed. I too wanted to scratch and bite and smash.

     So I went to the window and I looked at the sun. I let the light brighten my mind, sear my eyes, burn off the slime.

     Then I turned to Hate. I made him tea but he threw it on the carpet. I gave him bandages for his wounds but he used them to tie up the cat. I made him a cake but he trampled it into the rug. I noticed the slime was disappearing, there was less of it. I read him stories but he put his fingers in his ears. I sang him songs but he swore at me. I danced for him but he threw stones at me. Hate would not accept love. But Love stopped the slime.

     Love made a cage. At last, when I was so tired I thought I would fall, Hate was trapped. The bright cage of Love enclosed Hate. There was no more slime. He couldn’t escape. I pushed the cage out of the door. Hate was gone.

I began to sweep up the broken glass.

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Letters to a Sister : 30


Bruges

     We went to Bruges. It smells of sweet waffles and warm Gluhwein. It has the metallic sound of horses hooves on cobble stones and the babble of mixed languages. It feels cold. Always. And sometimes wet. It tastes of blonde beer, chocolate and waffles. We saw Christmas lights, a skating rink, red brick buildings with staggered roofs. It was a good day.

It was also a cold wet day, but that can’t be helped.

We booked to travel with Oakhall Holidays because we’ve been with them before, it only costs about £30 and it’s really easy – you go to Sevenoaks and then sit on a coach. http://www.oakhall.co.uk

Following the attacks in Paris, I was slightly worried that there might be trouble or that security would be very tight. There was no trouble. There was also no security. None. Not until we came to re-enter England. Somewhat surprised. No one at all asked for photo i d or looked at our passports. If the Prime Minister is reading this (which I’m sure he does each week) then this is an area of security that you should perhaps look into. The tunnel seems a likely target to me.

When you arrive in Bruges, the coach parks a short walk from town and you are then free to wander where you want. Now, when we have been previously, we have had trouble finding a restaurant with free tables. (This time it was fine – the waiter told us that in the last week they have had 1500 cancellations due to the trouble in Paris. Mainly Japanese tour groups apparently.)

Anyway, IF you are with other people who really want to look around the Christmas markets and enjoy Bruges, then I would suggest booking a table. We went to Vivaldi, which is not far from the center. It had a lovely fireplace, nice food and clean toilets. I had the goats cheese and honey salad which was very good. Husband had fish and chips and mussels (also good.) The email is : vivaldibrugge@skynet.be

HOWEVER, if you are with the kind of people who are only there because you asked them to come, the kind of people who actually dislike Christmas markets and cold, wet weather, the kind of people who will get very comfortable next to the fire, drink several large beers and then have to be dragged from the restaurant and will spend the rest of the trip looking for somewhere dry to sit down, then DO NOT go there first. It will make the rest of the day much harder. (No further comment.)

There are a few things in Bruges that you really must do. You have to see the Christmas markets, which are small and a bit naff but you should see them anyway, the atmosphere is nice. You should drink beer (not too much).You should have a hot chocolate (which is served as a mug of hot milk. They then either give you a stick of solid chocolate to melt into it or a jug of melted chocolate to add. Delicious.) You should eat a waffle. You should visit a lace shop, even if just to admire the craft work. If you are of a robust disposition, you should go to the back of a chocolate shop. Here you will find chocolate moulded into every imaginable shape, much of it related to sexual organs. It is unusual and I cannot imagine how one eats it. I was going to take a photo for the blog but actually it was too rude, even for me.

If you have time, there are also horse and carriage rides, boat trips, windmills and museums. Many, many museums. I am not really a museum sort of person, so I cannot give any opinion at all, but there are lots.

We have been to Bruges in the Winter a few times. I always have a lovely time. A few blurry photos below…..

Great beer…..IMG_3647

Great waffles….IMG_3649

Great Gluhwein…..IMG_3664

Great hot chocolate….IMG_3680

Christmas Market :

IMG_3676 IMG_3675 IMG_3674 IMG_3673 IMG_3672 IMG_3671 IMG_3670

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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:

https://www.amazon.com/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549015525&sr=8-1&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

The India link is here:

https://www.amazon.in/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549015429&sr=8-1&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

The UK link is here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1549014970&sr=8-2&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

 

Prayer doesn’t work


I have to agree when people say, “Prayer doesn’t work.” It doesn’t. At least, not in the way that they usually mean it. When people pray, they are usually asking for something. They usually want God to change something. I’m not sure that this is what prayer is all about. At least, not entirely, not in the way that we are often told.

I can think of two examples of when I prayed very earnestly for something (I have prayed more than twice, in case you are wondering. I often pray. But these are good examples of what I mean.)

Prayer one was a few years ago when someone who I had grown up with, someone who I cared about, had a horrible accident and his son was killed. I knew that I should attend the funeral, I wanted to show my support for him, but I also knew it would be very hard. It would be hard seeing those who I loved, feeling hurt. It would also be hard because my son was the same age. The coffin would be the same size as my son. So I prayed. I asked my church group to pray too. I prayed that even in this nasty situation, I would feel the peace of God, that I would know his presence with me. It was an earnest, heartfelt prayer.

If I am honest (and there is no point writing this unless I AM honest, there are enough people who ‘say the right words’ already) God did not answer my prayer. I have never felt so alone, so abandoned, as I did at that funeral. I felt no peace, no comfort of God’s presence. I felt totally alone. Full of sorrow for the family but no peace. None. I don’t know if my church group had prayed for me – I suspect they forgot (it’s very easy to forget other people’s needs in the busyness of life.) In this instance, I can honestly say, prayer didn’t work. But we should still pray.

In many parts of the world, people are ill or starving and have no access to help. Many of them pray, call out to God for help. They are not bad people, they pray very earnestly. But their babies still die. There is still not enough food or health care or water. Prayer doesn’t work. But we should still pray.

So, what does it mean? Are we getting it wrong? Is prayer a waste of time? Well, our best way of knowing God is to explore the Bible a little. In the Bible, people prayed. Even Jesus prayed. Think of the famous prayer of Jesus before he died. He prayed asking God to, “…remove this cup from me.” He absolutely didn’t want to die. So, did God save him? Did he escape a horrible death nailed to a cross? Well, no actually. Both Bible accounts and secular historical records show that Jesus was crucified and died. His prayer didn’t work, not if we are measuring prayer by ‘getting what we want’.

In the Old Testament, we read that King David gave up food and sleep to pray that his son might live. But his son didn’t, he died. David’s pray didn’t work. You might not believe the Bible, you might not like what you read, but you have to admit it is honest. It hasn’t fancied things up at all. People prayed for things and God DIDN’T act. Not always. Often not in the way they intended. Prayer doesn’t work. But we are told to pray.

The Bible has many examples where people prayed and things changed. Today, people today tell me that they lost their car keys and prayed and God helped them find them. So what does it all mean? Are they lying?

Well, the more I examine it, the more I test it, the more convinced I am that prayer doesn’t work. At least, if we think that we can change God’s plan by praying. If we could, then God would be no more than a genie in a bottle, a lucky charm, a magic crystal. Of course, some people do ‘pray’ to those things, to lucky charms and sometimes their prayers are ‘answered’. Sometimes they find their car keys or their nephew gets well or the weather is sunny. But I think that is co-incidence. I personally don’t think a lucky charm can change anything. Do I think that praying for lost car keys helps us find them? Perhaps, but that too might be coincidence. And I don’t think our prayers change God. God is bigger than that. God is God.

Do you ever change your mind? I do (my husband would say too often.) What do we mean when we say that? We mean that we thought something in the past, then we decided that it was wrong, now we think something different. If you look at that sentence again, you will see there are lots of time-related words. That’s because we are on a timeline – we have a past, a present and a future. But God doesn’t, we read he is ‘omnipresent’ which means he is outside of time. Therefore God, simply because he is God, cannot change his mind. Not in the way that we mean when we say it anyway.

I believe that God created the world (this needs some explanation because yes, I do also believe that dinosaurs were real, things evolved. At some point I hope to write an article about creation. But for now, just accept that I believe God created the world.) When he did, he put certain rules in place, certain scientific principles. Like gravity. Now, God is God, God CAN break those rules (because he created them) but he doesn’t (except on very rare occasions. We call those miracles.) The world works best if the rules are in place.

So, if I drive my car as fast as I can, straight at a brick wall and pray really hard that God will save me, I doubt that he will. The laws of physics (which God put in place) show that both I and my car, will be smashed to bits.

A child may pray completely earnestly that Mt Everest might move to Germany, because that’s what he wrote in his test paper. But we wouldn’t expect God to move Everest. He could, he is God. But actually we would prefer that he didn’t, that our world remained stable.

Yet we frequently pray asking him, in our grown up way, to change the laws of physics/science. If I eat lots of junk food and rarely exercise, then however much I pray, it is likely that my heart will be trashed and I will die when I’m young. If we pollute the atmosphere, then global warming WILL happen. There will be floods in certain countries, crops will fail, people will die. If we choose to organise our societies so that we don’t pay a fair price for certain commodities, then some countries will be poor, there will be famine and disease.

We know what the ‘rules’ are, if we choose to flout them, then God doesn’t always intervene. Even tiny things, like germs, follow the rules of science. If water is contaminated, people get sick. If cells are subject to whatever causes cancer, then cancer will develop. It is like driving the car at a wall, perhaps without even knowing it but the conclusion will be the same.

So, is there any point to prayer? Well actually, I think yes, there is. Prayer doesn’t ‘work’ in that we cannot manipulate God by praying. But it is still effective. Since writing this I have worried about publishing it, that it might stop someone praying. Don’t stop. I know that prayer is important, I just want people to understand a little more about what it is not. It is important because of this: Prayer changes us. God wants us to pray because that is how we connect with him, that is how we include him in our lives and that is important.

When my children were tiny, I used to love when they sat on my knee and told me things. I remember my daughter sitting on my lap, swinging her legs and telling what she wanted for Christmas. It involved a lot of chocolate. That much chocolate would have made her ill, so I didn’t give it to her. But I loved that she told me, that she shared her hopes with me. My son wanted a crocodile – a real one. He didn’t get that either. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care, it was because I did. I knew things that they didn’t. But I wanted them to tell me, it helped to form a relationship, one that we still have now. They are grown up now but I still love when they tell me things and because they did when they were small, they continue to now they are grown. (My daughter still wants chocolate…)

God loves us like that. He wants us to bring ourselves to him. Not in the hope we can manipulate him, not for what we can ‘get’, but because he wants to share in our lives. Plus, as I said, praying changes us. We start to hear God, to change what we want so it is in line with his will. Praying changes us, it can also change others. Sometimes he does want us to pray for something physical to change, sometimes even a miracle, something that breaks those laws of science. If we aren’t used to talking to him, listening to him, we will never be changed to pray how he wants us to.

The issue is rather confused by the verses in the Bible that say things like, “Ask and you will receive,” and “whatever you ask in prayer you will receive.” Some people have used them to encourage people to pray for money, comfort, health. But they must be read in context. They are part of the whole and the whole says that God will only give us good things. Unlike us, God is outside of time, God sees the eternal picture. We might long for good health, but perhaps there are things that we can only learn if we are in pain. We might pray for a parking space but perhaps walking in the rain means we will meet and speak to someone who needs to be spoken to. We might pray for a life to be saved but God knows that that life will be safer with him, it is time for them to leave their body, to die. We might pray to be free from an addiction but perhaps God knows that constantly fighting that will help us to depend on him.

It is all about trust. Yes, we should ask, take all our desires to God. But to teach that God gives us what we ask for is misleading. Sometimes that is not what is best and God only gives what is best. I don’t write this lightly, I have lost people who I love, I know what it means to have constant pain. Trust is not easy. Life is not easy. Prayer makes it better.

Sometimes, God does act as we ask. As King David said, “Who knows whether the Lord will be gracious?” Whether this is because God, who is not restricted by time, knows from the beginning of time what our prayers will be or because he directs us to pray for what he intends to give, or because he listens and acts, I don’t know. I don’t need to know. We are just told to pray and to trust that God’s way is best. So much easier to write than to do…..

Of course, asking for things is only one kind of prayer. It’s easy to forget about the others. They take a bit of effort and we prefer to pretend that we don’t have time. Perhaps because we don’t really believe they will do any good, alter us in a meaningful way. Or perhaps because we’re just lazy (I know I am.)

We should thank God for things. Not because he needs to hear our thanks but because (again) it is good for us, reminds us that God is good and he made good things.

There is also praise – this one we ignore mostly. Praise isn’t saying thank you, it is saying what, who, God is. It forces us to recognise his God-ness. Again, God doesn’t need us to praise him – he already knows who he is, but it helps us to remember, heightens our awareness of the different aspects of God. It helps us to know God.

Then there is saying we are sorry, actually voicing the things we have done wrong. Bit awkward that one, we would so much rather just ignore all our misdemeanors, move on quickly when we realise we’ve been bitchy or nasty or jealous. But that’s not good for us. What is good for us is to recognise those things, to actually say them aloud and to ask God to forgive us. Then we can move on, hurry away and not look back. But the confessing is important.

I think there is also listening involved. Being still and thinking about God but not speaking. Pausing for a minute. I find it’s better if I actually physically kneel down for this one. Otherwise I start planning meals and writing shopping lists. It would be embarrassing if someone spotted me, so I try to avoid being near a window, have to pretend I’ve dropped something if someone comes into the room, but I find it helpful. It is not very British but maybe we should do it more often. God never forgets that we are physical, I don’t know why we behave like our bodies don’t affect what we are doing spiritually.

In the Bible, when Jesus’ friends asked him how to pray, he gave them the Lord’s prayer (the ‘Our Father who is in Heaven’ prayer – the one you probably learnt as a child.) It is very simple. I used to find that frustrating, I felt Jesus hadn’t really answered their question, he had just given a very simple example. But maybe that is what we need. All this ‘understanding how prayer works’ stuff is very complicated. It is too big for me. Perhaps it is beyond what we can hope to understand, perhaps we have to just trust and come to God with the simplicity of a child going to a parent, to just say what we feel, whether that’s anger, confusion or happiness.

The second example of when I prayed earnestly for something (you thought I had forgotten, didn’t you!) was when I had to have surgery. I was terrified and I wanted God to be with me. I asked other friends to pray. I know that they did because they told me they did. When I walked into that operating room, God was so near that I could have reached out and touched him. The whole time I was in hospital, I was aware of God like I never have been before. His presence was tangible, solid, real. Was he there because I prayed and if I hadn’t prayed I would have been lonely? Or would he have come anyway? I don’t know. I can only tell you that I prayed and God was there. God knows that we are better, happier, more complete, if we depend on him. Prayer is the beginning of learning how to do that.

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Letters to a Sister : 29


Do you think this is healthy? Every day when he gets home from work, Husband drinks a mug of tea (300ml) and adds 6 teaspoonfuls of sugar.

Now, I am not a dietician but this seems to me to be an unhealthy amount of sugar to be drinking every day. What do you think? Actually, I have mislead you slightly – he actually drinks the same sized glass of orange juice and doesn’t add any extra sugar. That much juice contains all that sugar as it is. I was REALLY surprised when he pointed this out to me. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s the cheap ‘store own’ brand or something you actually enjoy drinking, like Tropicana. That is a lot of sugar. For someone who doesn’t use up a lot of energy doing physical work or a sport, I think it’s too much. Not sure I was popular when I told him this. Discussions continue……

Another discussion point was his annual stressful event at work. No, not a performance appraisal but his need to bake something for the ‘Team Baking Competition’. The competition has rounds, so it’s quite a knack to find something that meets both his competitive need to not fail miserably but also not good enough to win and go through to the next round.

I absolutely refuse to do the cooking for him (I tell him it wouldn’t be morally right but actually I just don’t want to get lumbered with it every year.) This year he made flapjacks. I wrote out a ‘fool-proof’ recipe, the sort of thing I used to write for the children when they were very small. It was almost foolproof.

Small children (who I have trained) know things like “do not hold the cat when cooking, however much he mews for attention it is unhygienic.” Or, “if you weigh the syrup on one work surface and then carry the spoon to the saucepan on the cooker, you will leave a sticky trail on the floor.” Even the basics, like “wash your hands before you start” seemed to be a new idea. Though of course, if cooking while holding a cat there does seem very little point.

However, kitchen survived and I am hoping that cooking the flapjack will have killed all the germs (plus I will never meet the people who devised this activity in the first place) so I am hoping it’s all good. Husband informs me that ‘international business executives’ do not need to know how to bake flapjacks. Except clearly they do.

It is actually quite hard for husband to be careful about what he eats. His job often involves dinners : dinners with clients to improve relations, dinners with staff to show that he cares, dinners with partners from overseas to be a good host, etc. Last week he told me that he had four dinners arranged. I was disappointed, thinking that was four evenings when I would eat alone. Then he checked and told me that they were all scheduled for the same night. That’s good, I thought, he’ll only have to go to one of them. But no. Apparently it is possible to attend four dinners on the same night – starter at one, main course at the other. Reminded me of the ‘Vicar of Dibley’. Not quite sure which character he would be………

Take care,
Anne xx

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The Retelling of Tigers and Strawberries


Once upon a time, as all good stories begin, there was a man. The man was running. He ran and ran, his breath coming in fast gasps, his legs aching, his back sweaty. Every few seconds he glanced behind him. Behind him was a tiger.

The tiger was hungry. The tiger wanted to eat the man. So the man ran and ran and the tiger ran and ran. But the tiger was faster. Every time the man glanced behind, the tiger was a little nearer. He knew the tiger was hungry, he knew the tiger wanted to eat him, so he ran as fast as he could.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was nowhere to go.

The man had reached the edge of a cliff. He peered down. The cliff was very steep, down, down, down it fell. At the bottom, the man could see water. The water bubbled and splashed and boiled. The water was full of crocodiles, squirming and rolling. They were hungry.

The man glanced behind and saw the tiger was nearly upon him. He could see great white teeth glinting in the sunlight, a red tongue lolling, evil eyes gleaming with intent. The man had no place to go. He shut his eyes and jumped.

Down, down, down fell the man. Then he stopped.

Half way down the cliff, there was a bush. A bush with thorns. The man’s shirt had caught on the thorns and now he hung there, suspended against the cliff. The man looked up. Above him was the tiger, greedily looking down. The man looked down. Below him were the crocodiles, waiting to devour him. Next to him was the bush. He heard a sound.

There was a mouse, a tiny brown mouse. The mouse was hungry. The mouse was nibbling at the roots of the bush. The mouse’s teeth were sharp and white, they were biting through the roots of the bush and soon the bush would fall from the cliff, taking the man with it.

In his terror, the man looked around. The cliff was sheer, he could not climb up, he could not climb down. When the bush fell, the man would fall too, down to where the crocodiles waited.

Next to the bush, growing on the tiny ledge of the cliff, was a wild strawberry plant. There were a few leaves and one, ripe, red strawberry. The man looked up, the tiger was waiting. The man looked down, the crocodiles were watching. The man looked at the bush, it would fall any second. So he reached out his hand and picked the strawberry and popped it into his mouth.

It was absolutely delicious.

xxx

I love this story. It is sometimes so hard to notice the strawberries in life.

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Letters to a Sister : 28


Did you do anything exciting for Bonfire Night? We didn’t on the 5th, although we did go to a parade on the Saturday. Edenbridge in Kent has an evening parade with flaming torches and small children wearing flammable costumes on floats. I watched with a mix of horrible fascination and fear. No one got hurt. It is actually very atmospheric, you stand in the dark High Street and watch as the flaming torches come nearer, the marching bands drumming, the children all waving frantically at everyone they know, the crowd shouting abuse when Guy Fawkes passes. (Bleary photos below. I am no photographer….)

They also each year burn an effigy of a generally disliked person, which I’m not quite sure about. One year it was Jimmy Savile, complete with ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ badge. This year it was Sepp Blatter (I am slightly unsure of the spelling here. On UK social media it’s spelt Seb, on foreign sites it’s Sepp. Apologies if it’s wrong. Though frankly, that seems less bad than burning him.)

When you think about it, it’s a rather bizarre festival. I didn’t give it much thought until we were living in the US and I explained to a friend how we commemorate the near blowing-up of Parliament in 1606 by Guy Fawkes by exploding fireworks and burning effigies of him. She just sort of looked at me, clearly wondering if I belonged to a sect similar to the KKK.

Do you remember when we were children and dressed up A, (younger cousin) as a guy and wheeled him to the shops? Actually, I think I wheeled him in your very special doll’s push-chair that I wasn’t allowed to touch, so possibly you didn’t know at the time. Anyway, he wore Dad’s old clothes and a wig and looked exactly like a real Guy and then every so often he would move and give old ladies a shock. Hugely funny and thankfully no one had a heart attack. Husband assures me that Disney probably didn’t copy our idea for all the ‘human statues’ that you now see in cities around the world, but I feel we were ahead of our time.

Had a pretty ordinary week this week. Saturday we went to the supermarket, which is always bit of an adventure. Especially now they have stopped giving away free bags. I love watching all the men (it is always men) trying to carry twenty-seven individual items without a bag. I think clothes with massive pockets are soon to make a come-back.

Animals all pretty stable. Hens are now kept in until midday, so I do actually get some eggs in their nesting boxes. They are then free to roam the garden until they take themselves back to their perch at dusk. It is the only good thing about changing the clocks – the chickens go to bed nice and early and I can shut the door to keep out the fox before I go out for the evening.
Mungo, the inside cat, escaped a few times. I found him having fun with the outside cats and felt too mean to keep him inside. So now he’s allowed out the cat-flap at night, when we have hardly any cars in the lane. He must party all night because he’s completely exhausted now in the daytime and mews very crossly if I disturb him by picking him up. Makes for a nice peaceful house. Kia, the GSD, is certainly grateful that the ‘chase a noisy plastic egg for hours non stop’ game seems to have ended.
I haven’t seen a rat at the pond for ages now. Not sure if they’ve moved on due to all the cats or if they hibernate. Will need to do a google search.
Still no duck eggs but they’re all getting a bit old now, plus ducks are moody and wont lay if the weather’s wrong.

I am enjoying some long evenings reading next to the fire before the whole Christmas rush starts.

Take care,
Anne xxx

 

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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.)

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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.

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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.

 

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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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If you enjoyed this, you will love my new book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary.
The book has been described as: “The Durrells meet Bill Bryson”! A laugh-out-loud diary about travelling the world with a family.

Available as a paperback or Kindle book (you can read it for free if you have a Kindle) buy a copy from an Amazon near you. UK link below:

Why not buy a copy today?

 

Letters to a Sister :26


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.

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Guard duty.

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Letters to a Sister : 25


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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