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Nearly Naked

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Quick Trip to Cambridge

The wedding banns of our son were being read in Cambridge, which is very exciting! As a sort-of-Baptist (I attend an Anglican church but was raised a Baptist) I am a little fuzzy on some of the rituals/laws surrounding the Anglican Church. Apparently, if you marry in one of their churches, it is a legal requirement for banns to be read in advance (just in case someone wants to object to the marriage). They are read in the Parish of the ceremony, and in a church where you live (if that is different). Son lives in Cambridge. Lovely Daughter and SiL agreed to take mad dog for the weekend, so off we went.

Cambridge is always lovely (other than Fresher’s Week, when there is a lot of vomit). I love the history of the buildings, the river full of people having fun, the cows loose on the common. (Honestly, who couldn’t love a city that has cows wandering around?)

We had drinks on Saturday at The Pickering Inn. This was one of those ancient buildings blended with contemporary life that is commonplace in Cambridge. We sat under a ceiling built in the 1600’s, reading about ghosts, while the huge television showed the FA Cup Final. They had used old books to show reservations, and I started to read mine (because I don’t much enjoy football). A lovely way to spend an afternoon. Then we wandered back out into the sunshine, walked round the corner to an Italian restaurant, and I decided to forget about my low-cholesterol diet for an evening, so had a wonderful meal.

The following morning was church. We found the right church, and lots of friendly people came to ask who we were and welcomed us to the service. The church was quite full, and had a mix of ages, and the vicar had the same name as Husband. All was going well. There was a band, and the singing was good, and then they read the banns. I hadn’t realised that they would read out the full names, and they asked if anyone had a reason to object to the wedding (no one did) and then they prayed for the couple, and I felt unexpectedly emotional because it all felt very significant. Very serious. Very right.

The service continued to the usual formula of songs and readings and notices, and then there was a sermon. The sermon was about the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair, which was a pretty outrageous thing to do in those days, and not at all what people were expecting. Then, from the back of the church, there came a loud: ‘Can we have a round of applause?’ and down the aisle marched a large man wearing a towel. I think just a towel, knotted at the waist. I sat up, this was interesting, was there going to be a short sketch? A bit of drama to explain the text?

The man strode to the front, went to the lectern and started to speak into the microphone. The vicar moved quietly to his side, and pushed the mic away, explaining that it was time for the sermon, it wasn’t the right time for the man to speak. Was this a sketch? Two other leaders appeared at the man’s side, and suggested he might like to join them somewhere quiet, where they could listen to him.

‘Is this a sketch?’ I whispered to Son.

‘I don’t think so,’ he answered, staring at the scene, ‘I think this is real.’

My first instinct was that maybe I should help—which I dismissed pretty quickly because I have absolutely no experience with either mental health or spiritual oppression, and I would just get in the way. The men were moving to the side door now, very calmly, leading the man out of the church. My second thought was whether that towel would stay in place, and whether I would resist laughing loudly if it fell off—but fortunately it didn’t fall. The man left, the sermon continued.

At the end of the service, the senior vicar returned, and explained that the man was being helped by counsellors, and please could the congregation leave by the side door, so we didn’t disturb them. He prayed for the man, and the service ended. It was certainly not boring.

As we left, I noticed the man (still wearing his towel) talking with two men in the glass-fronted foyer. Sensible to remain in a public place, I thought, sort of private but not hidden. I was impressed with how the whole thing was handled actually. The man was treated with dignity, but also moved away from where he could potentially harm people. The church clearly has some good policies in place.

We had coffee and homemade cookies, and then went to the pub for lunch. We drove back, collected mad dog (tempting to leave her for a few more days) and went home. A lovely trip.

I hope you had a good weekend too. Thanks for reading.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

Family Holiday Diary continued…

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Near Porto, Portugal, July 2023

Tuesday

Went for a run, then a swim. People began to emerge at about 9, we left the house at 10:30.

Drove to Douro Valley, stopped in a little town (Pinhao) and parked somewhat haphazardly on a cobbled street. We found a nice little cafe: Princesa do Douro. Freshly made sandwiches, decent coffee, clean facilities and friendly service. We bought a Pastel de Nata which is a traditional tart, filled with something similar to egg custard. It was very tasty, wish we had bought more. Nice place to stop.

Tiles are a thing in Portugal.

After lunch we tried to wander around the town, but it was too hot and Husband was too antsy, so instead we went to the boat place. This was more complicated than it sounds, as there are several different boat companies and we had booked online. Found the name on a building and went inside. We sat in the company office while they looked for our reservation, enjoyed the air-conditioning, looked at their photos, downloaded their app—then discovered that we were in the wrong company office, so left very quickly! Hunted for the correct company. Found it eventually and waited in line at the little jetty. Worried that people from the arriving coaches might take our places, but all was fine. We boarded the little wooden boat, and sat under a shady awning, looking at the view.

We had a one-hour cruise down the river, looking up at the vineyards on the hillside. Very pretty. The boat had shade, but it was still hot (didn’t need my cardigan). There wasn’t a tour-guide, so we just looked. It was pleasant, but I was happy it wasn’t longer than an hour. Some people were on boats that had come from Porto, and I fear this would be very expensive, uncomfortable and hot. But perhaps I’m wrong.

Drove back. Lots of winding roads, which I don’t feel G particularly enjoyed. It felt like a long journey home. The Douro valley is pretty, and it’s ‘a thing’ so you sort of feel obliged to do it when you’re here, but to be honest, a quick drive would have been enough for me. It was fun to see the tiered vineyards, and to spot the giant signs, like Hollywood signs, marking the different port manufacturers.

I got my mark for my proposal (68). Husband ate a nectarine and then got straight into the pool (these statements are not linked). J and F shared a tiny dessert (we had more, they must have wanted 1 ½ teaspoons each).

Wednesday

We ran to a little chapel, set on rocks at the water’s edge. According to Google, it is open for visitors, but the doors were locked when we were there. As the sea is the Atlantic, which has big waves at the best of times, I can’t imagine how it survives storms.

As we drew close, there were lots of school children arriving, so we slowed down (I am exaggerating) and dodged them as we ran along the boardwalk. Sections of the beach were cordoned off with ropes, and there were little tents where they put their bags. School on the beach must be a thing in Porto. I didn’t see any toilets, but perhaps they have an arrangement with a nearby restaurant.

There were also little tents hired by elderly people. They sat on deckchairs, watching the sea. Much nicer than the ‘meat market’ arrangement that I have seen on Italian beaches, where loungers are laid out with a couple of feet between them and no shade.

The beach here is nice, though probably not great if you like sea swimming, as there are lots of rocks. The sand is fairly soft though, so lots of people use the beach for sunbathing or walking. It has a nice family feel to it. After running, I walked back along the beach, paddling in the sea. There was a lot of sea weed, and a few shells, and some huge black sea-slugs–the size of my shoe–which looked like giant fruitgums. The weather was warm, though most days there was a strong wind coming from the sea, so it never felt hot. Definitely a fun place to have a holiday.

Thanks for reading. Hope you have a good week.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com
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Family Holiday Diary continued…

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Portugal, near Porto, July 2023

Monday

Went for a run, then a swim. Felt very virtuous.

R woke with a headache, which was a shame as today was her choice of activity (port tour) combined with F’s (trip into Porto). She thought she would be okay, so after a slow get up, F and G ordered Ubers and off we went.

We were dropped at the cathedral. Porto reminds me of Rome—lots of pretty squares, old buildings, and music. The cathedral had various buskers, nice atmosphere. Husband suggested he could lead us on a walking tour. After following it for a few streets he was fired/resigned and F took over. We walked across the railway bridge (at the same time as trains, which I found as unnerving as the height of the thing) while M told us how fantastic it is (first ever bridge to double as both a suspension bridge on the lower deck and a sitting-on-a-support bridge on the upper level). It’s not pretty though.

Husband persuaded M to climb a wall, and he grazed his fingers. More blood than expected. I was more concerned than he was. We wandered down to the river, and F suggested a restaurant area, and J found a suitable restaurant on Google, and we sat down for lunch. Patched up M with plasters. Food was really good (I had a cod burger, very tasty). Used the washrooms (because this is often not easy in a city). There was a busker nearby who couldn’t sing, but thought he could. It was painful. G had bites on his hand (I assume a mosquito not R) and his whole hand was swelling. We offered sympathy, but no one had anything more helpful.

Went for a walk. It was hot. M wanted to post a postcard, so went into the Tourist Information to ask where to post it. We were directed to a tiny shop selling trinkets, who had a shoebox-sized box in the doorway. This, apparently, is the box for international mail. It will be amazing if the card ever reaches home.

Went to Calem Port place. Had a tour, which we all remembered from when we did it last time (though it’s actually very well done). Went into the port tasting room. As we are seven people, we asked a couple if they would move so we could sit together. They refused. I photographed them (but family were adamant that I should not post it on my blog). R took some aspirin, which didn’t bode well. However, it turns out that aspirin and port is good for headaches, perhaps I’ll try this next time I’m ill.

We tasted 3 ports: a white, a rosé and a tawny. I preferred the rosé so gave my others away. M ended up with a row of tawnys, J did well with the whites. Husband chatted to the strangers next to him (of course he did). Nice afternoon. Ice creams, then ordered Ubers back to the villa. They arrived in about 5 minutes, it’s a really good service.

Within 3 minutes, at the most, of arriving home, Husband was persuading people into the pool to play  a game. ‘Keepy-Uppy.’ It’s a game that’s very noisy and lasts for about 6 hours. They seemed happy, though I fear Husband might have hyper-active tendencies. R and I tried to read, but it’s hard to concentrate with the noise coming from the pool. Sometimes I think nothing has changed in the last 20 years.

Thanks for reading, I’ll tell you more in my next blog.

Hope you have a fun week. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
Sign up below to follow my blog.
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Portugal 2023

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Family Holiday Diary

I am writing this in Portugal, in a rustic house near the coast of Porto. I can see a corner of the ocean as I write, a strip of blue glinting over the hedge between the trees and the house next door, and I can hear it, a steady sweep of waves over rocks providing a constant background to the dog barking, and the birds in the trees and the occasional car. In a nearby tree, a pigeon coos, and seagulls wheel over the garden in their screeching search for food, joined by the crow of a cockerel in a nearby garden.

We arrived yesterday afternoon. We should have arrived in the morning, as our plane landed soon after nine, but the owner had an electrician here (apparently) so it was not possible for us to arrive earlier—not even to drop our bags. After a 3:45 taxi, this was somewhat annoying, though everyone was polite (ish) when Husband told them the news. I noticed that he waited until we had landed before sharing.

It actually wasn’t too bad. We collected the hire cars—less hassle than usual, once we realised the system of getting seats in the shuttle bus before putting our luggage in the back, otherwise our luggage would leave without us (they need to rethink their logistics I feel). We drove (or to be exact, Husband and G drove, while J navigated despite his headache) to a fishing village near the villa. It was an exciting journey, with J doing his best to test G’s driving with lots of cobbled streets, and U-turns in narrow roads, and unexpected roundabout exits. (He claims it was due to closed roads and road works, and we believe him.)

We parked in a surprisingly convenient car park right next to the beach, which was guarded by an old woman under an umbrella who was collecting money for a saint. (Not quite sure which saint, or why the saint needed the money, but the old woman was diligent and shouted something foreign at us when we walked past without donating.) The car park was free. We knew this, because we very quickly ascertained that F speaks Portuguese that people here actually understand (unlike my Portuguese with is excellent but sometimes seems to confuse people) and we sent him off to read signs/ask random people whether there was a fee.

We left the cars and all our possessions except for the suitcase containing secret banking information that would cause the economy to crash if it got into the wrong hands, and walked along the prom.

The beach was wonderful—sand and rocks, fishing boats sheltering behind a sea wall while the waves crashed over it, green nets strewn over the sand, and a chimney way down the beach. No idea what the chimney was for—smoking fish? Alfresco dining?

It started to rain, which made things less pleasant. A friendly fish restaurant allowed us to shelter under their awning while they set up ready for a 12 o’clock opening. When they opened, we went inside. It all looked very nice, and possibly expensive, but it seemed we were eating there.

We had a round table between a display of very ugly fish arranged on ice, and a glass cabinet full of exciting-looking desserts. We were given English menus, and chose a variety of meals—sharing dishes between two was a thing, and they were priced differently. They brought bread and cheese while we ordered, and we gobbled it up pretty fast. The meals arrived in metal dishes, which the waiter served onto plates next to the table. Husband wondered if there were seconds (there were) and coped fairly well with having only a modest amount of food on his plate. Made it harder to plan mouthfuls I guess. I ate fried veg served with tomato rice—very tasty. Most people had fish in some form—J and F shared claws and legs and body parts of various sea creatures, which looked like a hassle to eat (one of them resorted to fingers before the end). We shared dessert and had coffee. F, being almost Portuguese, ordered a drink that sounded like Pingu, and he described as being a small white coffee, and it seemed to please the waiters (who probably get fed-up with inept tourists torturing their language).

We drove to the supermarket and parked. (This was not as easy as it sounds, we had a nice detour round the back of the shop.) I had a well-organised list, with difficult words translated into Portuguese, which I divided between the family. They all gave their list back to me, and told me they were going off to explore, so it was all just as chaotic as normal, with random things appearing in the trolley. I remembered to check the dishwasher tablets really were dishwasher tablets (because we washed crockery in de-scaler last year) and tried to look competent when weighing fruit and adding price stickers. M was very distracted by the stickers. We didn’t buy frozen stuff. We didn’t buy water (because the villa details said they had excellent drinking water).

Arrived at the villa. Very pretty, full of rustic furniture with beautiful grounds. The owner told us the water was safe to drink, but in a way that clearly conveyed that she would not drink it herself! Husband went out to buy some water. We allocated rooms—no one was sure about the very pretty room with a balcony because it was lacking doors—though I think we were all tempted. J and F bravely took the murder suite/separate annex. M had no air-con, so kept the door to the hall open. R co-opted the spare upstairs bathroom as her private shower room.

We walked down to the pizza place on the beach. The view was stunning. I was going to photograph the restaurant afterwards, but it looked too much like a public toilet from the outside, so I will wait and take one inside. They were very friendly, and the meals were delicious, though needed more salt. The blokes mainly drank big beers (served in those tall glasses that have a waist so look bigger than they really are) and the rest of us drank sangria (which involved more choices—in Portuguese—than I was expecting). It was delicious, and I could have drunk the whole jug. Very nice evening.

Today, I woke at 6:30, and waited until 7:30 before waking sleepy Husband and dragging him out for a run. We ran along the boardwalk, past several fat men and fully made-up women exercising next to the sea. Very lovely.

After a quick shower, we played tennis, and I learned that Husband is now almost as rubbish as I am. We changed the game to simply trying to get the ball over the net as many times as possible. It was fun, and I rediscovered muscles I never knew I had. Gradually the rest of the family emerged from their rooms. R took up her post lying next to the pool in the sunshine. M swam round the pool for a very long time. G went for a lonesome walk. We waited (for a very long time) while J showered, and then went for a walk with him and F.

The main coast road is fairly busy, and they have painted the pavement red, which means bikes feel free to whiz along them, and pedestrians don’t really have anywhere safe to walk—which seems like a silly idea. Parallel with the road, across the dunes, is the boardwalk (which is probably where pedestrians are supposed to walk). We walked to look at Galo Petisqueira restaurant, then joined the boardwalk. The beach is very pretty, with big waves and lumps of rock (but probably not a great place to swim).

Stopped at the little shop (open on Sundays, which was a surprise). Husband wanted some fresh bread (fresher than the stuff we bought yesterday) and some more water. No one here seems to speak English—it’s not a place for foreign tourists. Luckily, we have F, our secret weapon, who speaks very good Portuguese. He managed to negotiate that there were bigger water bottles in the store room. He also helped out when the woman was confused by Husband’s mime that he wanted 15 bread rolls. (Hard to know what she thought he meant—5 or 10?)

Ate lunch in the dining room. All agreed that we like this villa. Tried to plan whether we should do any excursions—and did not all agree. M want to do expensive cruise down the Douro valley, R fancies a wine tour, F wants to spend time in the city, I want to drink sangria at a beach cafe, Husband wants to build a dam o a river on the beach. (No one understands Husband’s choice, apart from the boys, who also want to. Genes are a funny thing.)

Males played ‘Small World,’ I read, R sunbathed. Then we tried another game of tennis, this time with M and F. I think we need to change the name of the game to ‘Sorry!’ We were fairly equally matched, but this is not a good thing. Dinner was at the pizza place again. We asked to sit outside, and they thought it would be fine to use a table for six and add a seat on the end. It was cramped. But the view was fabulous. People seemed to enjoy their meals better this time—and F chose very well, so we all intend to copy him next time. Three of us shared sangria, and R was the only one able to pour it without spilling it everywhere. This is now the second time I have shared my drink inadvertently with J (but it’s hard to feel guilty given the history).

I will tell you more tomorrow, we had such a lovely time.

Thanks for reading. Have a fun week, and take care.
Love, Anne

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
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My Father

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Yesterday, it was Father’s Day in England.

My own father died in 2006. Recently, when I told someone this, they said: ‘Oh, about 20 years ago then,’ and I opened my mouth to tell them, ‘No, 2006, just a couple of years ago,’ and then I closed it again. It feels like just a couple of years ago. I wonder if it always will.

What are the strongest memories of your father? When I think of Dad, the memories come in a jumble. His smell: Old Spice aftershave and Extra Strong mints. Whenever I smell those, I am zapped back in time, I can almost feel him. Radio Four playing too loudly on the car radio. His great belly-laugh, which was rare, but reduced him to tears (I especially recall this laugh when our dog emerged from a river coated in black mud). His delight when cooking a tasty meal—especially his gravy. His huge hands. His wonderful singing voice. His loud piano playing, especially when he was angry. His smart appearance—he nearly always wore a shirt and tie, and kept his shoes shiny.

 I also remember the feel of my dad. He was a great hugger, and I remember his hugs engulfing me. I also remember when I was little, pretending to be asleep in the back of the car so he would carry me upstairs to my bed. I think my sister did the same, and sometimes, as his heavy steps plodded upstairs with us, one of us would giggle, so I suspect that he knew we were pretending, but he did it anyway. Perhaps he liked carrying us as much as we loved to be carried. I never thought about that before.

When I shut my eyes, I see him in his white butcher’s coat. This is an odd memory, as he sold the business when his father died (I guess about 1979) and went to Bible College, and then was a Baptist minister until he retired. But mostly, to me, my father was a butcher. When we were little, we would sometimes ‘go to work’ with him. He had sandwiches and a flask of coffee, and he let us deliver orders to the homes where we would get tips, which was very exciting.

I also think of his carpentry skills. He liked making things, but if I’m honest, I was never too impressed with the outcome (I was a tough audience). He made fitted cupboards for me and my sister. It had a dressing-table area, and we left heated curling-tongs plugged in, and nearly burnt the whole thing down! (Not on purpose.) He also made toys for my brother, and he would sneak me into the shed before Christmas to show me what he was making, which made me feel very grown-up, and part of the surprise. When I had my own children, he made toys for them too—a platform for the train set is the main thing I remember because it was huge, and heavy, and impossible to tidy away in a cupboard. (Still a tough audience.) He helped one of my sons to make a wooden sewing box for me, which I still use today.

My father was a good talker. He spoke to everyone, and he gave good advice. One of the more serious conversations I remember with him was in the wedding car, on the way to my wedding. He asked me if I was completely sure that I wanted to get married, because afterwards, if it didn’t work out, I wouldn’t be welcome at home again. I mainly remember this because it was such bad advice!

I think most brides are stressed/over-tired/not rational by the time they arrive at the day of the wedding. Absolutely the wrong time to make a life-changing decision—especially one that would deeply hurt another person. No one deserves to be jilted at the altar. Better to stick with the decision made months before, when you are sane, and if things have changed, then sort it out afterwards and quietly get an annulment. But I understand why Dad said it. He was feeling protective, and wanted to say the right thing, and I suspect emotion took over, and he said what he thought he ought to say, rather than what was sensible. Which is another of my father’s traits—speaking from emotion. Mostly it was good, and I knew I was loved, even when we disagreed on almost everything through my teenaged years.

Finally, I think of my father as a grandparent. He delighted in his grandchildren, and gave them all the time that he didn’t have when we were young. I have never seen anyone as besotted with another person as when I watched my father playing with my babies. His pleasure was tangible.

I had a good man for my father. I still cannot quite believe that he is no longer here. I hope that you have, or are building, happy memories of your own dad. Life is short, and time moves quickly.
Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson
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anneethompson.com
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Gifts for Men

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Absolutely no idea what to buy for the man in your life? Join the club!

It’s Husband’s birthday, and I struggle every year to find a gift that I think/hope/pray he will like. (I blame my mother-in-law for having a baby so near to Christmas.) It’s impossible. Anything that he might need, he has either bought for himself, or has recently received at Christmas; which leaves me with nothing. Literally, nothing.

I know that some couples don’t buy gifts for each other, but we do—it’s one of the ways we express our love. Husband is extremely good at this in reverse, and I have over the years received many thoughtful gifts.

This year is worse than ever, because I cannot even think of little things to buy for him. I know that he already has a stash of chocolates and shortbread and men-magazines to read. (I should clarify, by men-magazines I mean magazines about cars, not naked women.) In desperation, I searched online shops under the ‘gifts for men’ tab. This is what I discovered:

Alcohol related gifts. These seem to be popular (but he already has these from Christmas). Men, it seems, like craft beers, whiskey, and (way down the list) gin-making kits. There are many variations on this, including beer mats/towels/tee-shirts, and appropriately shaped glasses and openers. Plus, of course, the actual drinks. A good idea if not buying right after Christmas, when the cupboards are full of half-full bottles of alcohol.

Curry related gifts. Strangely, this appears as the next popular choice. Clearly men in England eat a lot of curry. Many of the related gifts involve growing chillies, or sets of spices, or aprons. Do men also enjoy cooking curry? This has not been my experience.

Coffee is third on the list. Maybe after cooking curry and drinking beers/whiskey/gin, the man in your life likes to settle down with an exotic coffee? Unfortunately, Husband has settled on Ily coffee made in a cafetiere, and in his mind, nothing else compares in terms of flavour and ease—so not for him.

Massage devices. (Again, I will clarify: neck/feet massage kits, nothing dodgy!) I don’t know what Husband thinks about these, but he has never wanted a spa holiday, so I’m assuming he wouldn’t want to sit still long enough for something resembling a hairdryer to scratch his neck.

Toiletries, with various spicy smells. Do men want to smell like an Egyptian souq? I don’t think mine does. I think he would worry if I gave him a gift encouraging him to be cleaner.

Lego. This has proved popular in the past, and has provided many contented (and noisy) hours while watching telly with me, making various well-engineered vehicles. However, I think I have given too many of these recently. Also, it seems that once constructed, these intricate feats of engineering can never be dismantled, but must be displayed on a table or shelf. My life is too short to dust them (and no one else is going to) so they simply become dirty toys that are regularly smuggled by him into the sitting room (which I try to keep clean and tidy ready for unexpected guests/visits by the police) or, worse, on top of my kitchen units.

Multi-tools are also a thing that apparently, men desire. There are many varieties, and they resemble a grown-up version of a penknife, with a hammer, screw-driver, saw, all folded into one tool. I cannot believe this is ever useful. Either it would be too heavy to be fun, or the tools would be too flimsy for real work. But perhaps I need to do further research, maybe every man dreams of owning an all-in-one tool that he can produce from his pocket to save the world/fix the wobbly table at a moment’s notice. (If all else fails, this might have to be the gift this year.)

Lamps on heads are also a thing. You can buy them incorporated into a natty woolly hat, or on an headband. Maybe men all want to be coal miners really, and it makes them feel butch? Or perhaps the whole ‘torch held in the teeth’ thing happens more often than I think? But I don’t have the sort of husband who does much D.I.Y. in dark, inaccessible places, and I think it would be like buying me a mop—so I don’t want to encourage that sort of gift-giving.

Finally, there is a whole lot of tat which is either too sexual to mention here, or too useless to even bother with. Do men really want a structure to keep their bedside table tidy? Or an illuminated toilet seat? Or a pen that can bend into various shapes? A grow-your-own bonsai kit looks fun, but the sceptic in me feels it would never work. Therefore, I am stumped. Maybe I will dig out my knitting needles in the hope that a homemade gift will show that I care. Or maybe not. Please send help.

Hoping you find what you’re looking for this week.
Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com
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Wordle Scam

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Wordle Scam

Have you discovered Wordle yet? My sister mentioned it first, saying she had found a new game online. My brother then admitted he played it too, and they started to compare scores. Then my daughter joined the club, and started to reveal her score. My sons tried to beat her, failed, traded insults. This is my family. But then suddenly, both sons managed to get the highest score, every day. They told me they are magic (I guessed this was probably not true.)

Wordle is basically an empty grid and a keyboard. You write a word in the grid, it tells you which letters are in the ‘word of the day’ and which of those letters are in the correct place. You try again on the next line, and so on, trying to guess the word before you have filled all the lines. It’s fun, passes the time, and seems to bring out a competitive streak in my family.

I told my mother she ought to play, as it would help to keep her brain young. I often tell my mother things like this. In return, she tells me to eat less dairy food and to eat brazil nuts every day. We mostly ignore each other.

I was fascinated though that my sons were managing to guess the wordle word every day, first try. They told me they had hacked the system, discovered the algorithm. Tried to appear disapproving but was secretly very impressed. Such clever sons, so impossible to parent.

My brother then pointed out that if you change the time and date on your phone, you can complete Wordle in the future, thereby knowing the word when it appears in your real time zone. Not so clever. But hush, don’t tell them that I know…

Piet Mondrian was a Dutch painter who first played Wordle. Due to lack of internet, he painted his scores.

Anne E. Thompson
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Millthorpe is not The Peak District (though it tries).

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Family Holiday 2021 continued.


We packed up the house in the Lake District and left. Everyone felt slightly dirty due to water shortage/lack of showering ability. Our next holiday home was in the Peak District, and we hoped they had more water. The drive was busy, as Saturdays in July are full of people leaving and arriving on holiday, but we didn’t meet any major hold-ups. Our journey took us through the outskirts of Sheffield, and we began to wonder how near the city our Airbnb would be. The details had described it as being in the grounds of Carpenter House, in an area of beautiful countryside, but we were beginning to worry.

At the last minute, the roads turned away from the city, we drove through a few fields, and arrived at the little hamlet of Millthorpe. It was not exactly the Peak District, but was far enough from the city to not feel crowded. There were several fields of horses, and lots of the houses had stables attached—clearly an area for the horsey people of Sheffield to live.

Went for a walk across the fields. More horses. I am very comfortable with all cows and sheep; horses make me nervous but we weren’t eaten or stampeded. Walked to the local Royal Oak for dinner. The pub was ancient, with low beams and a huge fireplace. The menu was limited unless you are a cheese-lover (everything had cheese, and fried cheeses made a very nice, if rather unhealthy, starter).


Sunday 25th July

The family voted to go paddle-boarding. They discovered you could hire boards and wet suits at Tittesworth Reservoir (with a name like that, I really hope they did a Google search for ‘paddle boarding’ and not something else!)

The drive took us through the Peak District, which is beautiful and very near to Millthorpe. The weather was less sunny than last week, but still warm. We arrived at the car park, and saw several families hiring wet suits, squeezing into the little changing cubicles, struggling to carry the unwieldy boards. I decided that paddle boarding was not something I wanted to do (I felt that complete lack of co-ordination, no ability to balance and not being a good swimmer would make it less fun). Went for a walk with Bea while the others pootled about on the water for an hour.

Paddle Boarding

Everyone seemed to have fun, and we discussed it (at length) in the pub afterwards. I had real trouble remembering that the term is ‘paddle-boarding’ and not ‘water-boarding’ so I kept asking them about their experience of torture.

Monday 26th July

We went for a walk to Lud’s Church. This is a cavern, tucked into the Peak District, and makes for a pretty walk. There are many stories and legends swirling around the cavern, and Emm assured me it was the spookiest place in the world.

We walked along a pretty footpath through the woods, the sun was shining, birds singing, ferns carpeted the floor. Hard to see why it was spooky. We arrived at the cavern, and the temperature dropped as we walked between the giant-sided rocks, taking care not to slip on the moss. It was easier to understand (slightly) why someone might think the cavern was haunted. It then transpired that he had visited at dusk, on Halloween, when all the trees were bare and everywhere was gloomy and cold—that would definitely be spooky.

Lud’s Church

We left the cavern and walked up to the Roaches, which are big rocks protruding from the hills. Great views of the valley.

The Roaches


Tuesday 27th July

Walked up Mam Tor, near Castleton. This is about as high as my knees can manage, but actually was very easy as there are paths all the way and no scary precipice to make me dizzy. It was a long walk, and I was pleased to reach the top. Asked Husband to take photo for blog. Family photo-bombed. I informed them the photo was for a blog, and I would  use it whatever they looked like. Posed for another photo. No better. Decided to use it anyway.

Unhelpful Family

In the afternoon, we visited Chatsworth House. But that will have to wait for another blog.

Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Family Holiday 2021

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Saturday 17th July
We drove to the Lake District, via Cambridge to collect Emm. Kia was safely installed in the boot, on a sort of doggy-throne so she was well-cushioned and could lie flat or look out of the window as she pleased. The rest of us squashed into the rest of the car with our luggage. The dog was very comfy.

We arrived at The Old Vicarage in Littletown in Newlands Valley. The house has a nice feel, with high ceilings and spacious rooms and views across the valley. Parking next to the house was a three-man activity, but we managed it without scraping the car. The neighbours came out to watch. Bea and Boyfriend arrived, and managed to park without as much shouting.

Beautiful Little Town.

We allocated rooms. Husband and I took the downstairs room attached to the still-being-converted barn. I thought it would be quiet (it was—but it was also a very long way from the upstairs bathrooms, which proved inconvenient). The rest of the family took the three upstairs bedrooms, and the dog took the kitchen and utility room, with sneaky excursions into the rest of the house when she thought no one was looking.

Kia deciding whether the kitchen is a suitable room.

We ate at The Royal Oak in Braithwaite. Husband booked it before we left home, and it’s lucky he did as the area was jam-packed with tourists and the pubs were full. As we drove to the pub, we saw a hedgehog, hurrying up the lane. We stopped to watch. Our house is opposite Little Town Farm, which was the setting for the Beatrix Potter book Mrs Tiggy Winkle, so it seemed appropriate. It’s rare to see hedgehogs today, as a child they were mainly of the squashed variety.

Sunday 18th July
I woke early and attempted to go for a run. Little Town is at the top of a hill, and I don’t run downhill (dodgy knees) so it wasn’t the most active run in the world. But the family didn’t know that, and they were all getting up when I returned, so I let them think I had run for miles.

I made pancakes for brunch. As I had only packed pancake ingredients (Kia took up too much space) we then went to Keswick for supplies. Went to Boothes supermarket. If you are in the area, I suggest that you avoid Boothes unless you’re feeling rich. It is very expensive. It was also full of Christians, as we had unknowingly timed our trip to coincide with the Keswick Convention, which is a big deal in the Christian world. I have never attended, but can inform you that they have their own traffic lights so the Christians can cross the road, they have large white marquees, and the supermarkets fill up with polite people who smile at each other. It brought out the rebel in me, and I felt the need to buy way more alcohol than we’ll drink in a week. I also bought the most expensive tea-towel in the world, as the house didn’t provide them and I had forgotten to bring any. £8.99. For one tea towel. One. It’s not even pretty.

After lunch we went for a walk. I had ( as you might remember) bought waterproof coat, trousers and walking boots. It was a boiling hot day, so I left all the kit at the house and wore trainers. Felt weirdly disappointed. The walk turned out to be up a mountain (they often do when Husband is in charge). I don’t do mountains, so walked a different route with Bea. Drank Pimms in the garden (still lots left after rebellious shopping trip).

Monday 19th July
Morning walk in hills behind the house. So wonderfully pretty.

After lunch we drove to Moss Falls. There was another mountain to climb, so the males set off, and I walked a little way and then sat and read. Everywhere is so beautiful.

Moss Falls
Absolutely no idea who the bloke behind me is.

We ate at The Royal Oak in Braithwaite again. Our drive there takes us through a wood with signs warning us to look out for red squirrels. Son 2 informs me this is because they are known to attack cars (pretty sure he was lying). Bea declared she had never seen a red squirrel. We all stared through the windows. There was something reddish, dead, next to the road. Bea said this didn’t count. We did however see a hare, lolloping up the lane. Personally, I think a hare is as exciting as a red squirrel.

Hope you see something fun today. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

If you enjoyed this, why not read The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary.


https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary/dp/1790374235/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=The+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary+by+anne+e+thompson&qid=1627491559&sr=8-1

Family Chaos

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You can’t control animals (or children…or husbands!)

As you know, I am trying to revise for exams. The Hebrew one is finished (I smashed it!) but the more I revise Greek, the more I realise I have forgotten/never understood in the first place. I have a feeling of rising panic growing inside as the exam date moves relentlessly nearer.

Now, I thought that I had at least sorted all the animals so that I could devote my time fully to my studies. I had timed the hatching of the eggs in the incubator so the ducks would be fully-grown and on the pond, I stocked up on supplies of pet food, incorporated cleaning-out times in my schedule. I was prepared. Except I wasn’t.

Firstly, the local fox decided to produce cubs, which meant it began to visit my garden at odd times of the day to snatch a chicken. The only way to keep them safe is to keep them locked inside for a few weeks until my garden is no longer seen as an easy source of food. This means the chickens now need cleaning-out more often, and they kick dirt into their water, and generally make everything more work.

Then mother duck started to sit on another nest. I calculated the date, and sure enough, they hatched this week. Which means they are now in the pond-cage I was planning to put the fully-grown ‘ducklings’ in. Which means they have to stay confined in the big cage (because if I release them on the pond now, they will sleep on the bank, not return to the pond-cage, and greedy fox will eat them—see above.) Ducks mainly spend their day putting mud into their water, which means I have to keep refreshing it. Which takes time. The new ducklings are cute, but add to the workload as I have to keep checking one isn’t stuck somewhere, plus food and clean-up schedule.

Then grumpy-old-cat-who-hates-me has started to walk further afield. She is over 20, and can hardly walk, but has decided that she will visit the outside cats each morning. They hate each other, so I’m not sure why. But she tends to climb into places that she cannot then get out of, so I have to keep remembering to check where she is in case she needs rescuing. Which takes time.

It reminds me of when my children were young, and they didn’t fit neatly into a schedule either. I’m not quite sure how families manage when they both work. I worked fulltime for one year when my children were aged 4, 6, and 8—and I collapsed in a heap at the end of the year and switched to a part-time contract. Children do not save their crises for convenient times. They will be devastated because someone doesn’t want to be their friend, or lose one shoe (only ever one) or start vomiting on those days when you have a deadline and extra stress and really need everything to be calm.

Husbands can also be a challenge (though mine is lovely of course). Yesterday Husband kindly cooked the dinner, which was incredibly kind. We had fishcakes, and rocket (nicely garnished with a tomato) and chips—all of which were lovely. There was also a dressing to go on the salad. It was a new creation, and had a pleasant taste to start with, followed by bit of a kick and then a slow burn. I don’t believe it was from a recipe book. After much discussion, the ingredients were revealed as: oil, garlic, oregano, seasoning, garlic (lots of this I think) and whiskey (which explains the burn!) I will send the recipe on request.

Hope you have an organised week—or ride the chaos with a smile if not.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson
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