The Great Panto Review: Cinderella at the Mercury Theatre, Colchester

The tickets for Cinderella were kindly provided by The Mercury Theatre Colchester as part of Have A Lovely Time's 'Great Panto Review 2009,  in aid of The National Alliance of Children's Cancer Parent Organisations (NACCPO), a charity that helps provide respite and support for families with children with cancer. I donated to the charity  in lieu of paying for the tickets.

Speeding along the A12 at a break neck speed to Colchester in time to catch The Mercury Theatre Production of Cinderella on Monday I heard a quavering voice from eh darkest depths of the back seat:
Him: Mum mum where are we going?
Me: To the Pantomime darling.
Him: What’s a Patantonine?
Me: A play on stage sweetheart.
Him after a very long pause as he clearly digested this piece of information: Why are we going to play? Why can’t we stay at home? I want to go home!
This didn’t bode well and I was momentarily stumped in my explanations as we careered off into Colchester and the act of driving safely superseded any attempts by me to head off an almighty strop courtesy of my youngest.
My eldest took up the baton, clearly relishing in his superior knowledge of these things: You’re going to really like it Bog Boy
Bog Boy: On no I won’t
The Boy: Oh yes you will
Bog Boy even more defiantly: Oh no I won’t!
I could see that the evening ahead could be interesting and I had visions of having to view the whole pantomime from outside the auditorium as I tried to placate an errant three year old for the duration
I need not have worried from the moment the lights dimmed and a translucent Fairy Godmother descended the stairs my littlest was transfixed.
Clearly aimed at the younger members of the audience this Cinderella performance written and direct by Janice Dunn is a belter of show jam packed with songs, jokes and so many double entendres that my sides ached. I particularly liked Dame Spatula’s homage to Bjork’s infamous Swan Dress!
Oh I do love a good old fashioned panto me, been a principal boy in me time and then bizarrely landed up a Dame – not quite sure how that translated but is was seriously good fun and that’s exactly what makes a great panto – it’s got to be fun.
In fact I often wonder whether it is the cast or the audience that gets the most out of a show – clearly in Colchester there was a lot mutual appreciation going on not least from my two boys, who went from being shy retiring little angels to Button’s worst nightmare before you could say: “Fairy Godmother!”
Just as a taster this Cinderella is set in a mountain top ski resort with Baron Hardup trying to make a go of things with the ancestral home as a deluxe hotel but failing due burdensome taxes. Ella, his beautiful daughter gamely helps keep it running despite possibly the worst step sisters in the world and a dipsomaniac ex-show girl of a step mother in Dame Spatula.

The Ugly sisters, Ratula and Flatula revel in being truly awful encouraging all the boos and hisses they can, they are a pair of Hogarthian grotesques and you definitely wouldn’t want to meet them on a dark night or in the daylight as a matter of fact. But the Boys loved it as only children can, it’s the thrill of witnessing something horrid and watching it being cut down to size that makes you feel safe for by the end Bog Boy crawled out of my lap and was shouting and a yelling and a booing and a hissing with the best of them. What a sense of empowerment!

Buttons was possibly the best, the kids adored him bouncing up and down in their seats with glee every time he got one over on the Uglies and they felt for him too when he realised Ella would never be his. His sheer energy and sense of fun shone through and made the two and a half hour show wiz by.
It is a great show and if this is the standard set then I am booking for next years’ show right now!
Tickets for Cinderella, priced from £9.75 to £19 (£8.00 for children at “A” performances), are available from the Box Office by phoning 01206 573948 or can be booked on-line at www.mercurytheatre.co.uk
Sign Language Interpreted: Tue 5 Jan 8:00pm
Audio Description: Sat 9 Jan 2:30pm
Mercury Theatre, Balkerne Gate, Colchester CO1 1PT
Tel: 01206 573948 Fax: 01206 769607Box Office opening hours Mon – Sat 10.00am – 8.00pm (Sun from 90 mins before a performance)

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House Hunting: When you have to play tough

It’s pitch black at past 9.30pm and there’s a farmer sitting in his cab on the tractor doing God knows what to the field outside merely by the light afforded from his headlamps.

Where once these 200-odd acres supported eight families now there is just one: a father and son set up (plus grandsons under 18) and this is not their only land holding. In fact they farm ten times as much – it’s no wonder none of Roger’s sons wanted to take on the tenancy from the family.

However, that did allow us to get our dream – although sometimes it can feel like a nightmare. In fact it chops and changes between the two with alarming regularity. After I made my dreadful gaffe and basically told the estate agent what we could afford, it was definitely nightmare time. Not least, because it was decided that the whole sale would be done by sealed bid.

There was only one word for it: “SH*T”

We’d been here before and lost.

It is very difficult to find a home when you have so many restrictions: Dear Charlie can be a little unrealistic at times. He wanted land; an attractive preferably old house with water, woods, out buildings, within a 10 minute drive of a station on the mainline to London and definitely not timber framed.

Now I don’t know if many of you know Suffolk but this is the land of timbered houses. Every house we looked at was timber framed. A point I laboured frequently in the nine months we searched.

Me: “So just tell me why you don’t like them??!!”

Him: “I just don’t.”

Me: “Then why pick this godforsaken county then – everything is timber framed.”

Him: “They’re scary.”

Oh god! It turned out as a child he had been sent to stay with a family who lived in a heavily timbered house full of spiders – something that clearly had affected him deeply. And, however much I tried, I could find no sympathy, as I was the one who had to keep looking and vetting and I was so desperate to stop. I was willing to compromise, buy any old house, just unpack and have my life back again.

We’d been married nearly two years and I still hadn’t opened all our wedding presents. In fact I hadn’t seen the majority of my things since before we were married as I had moved in to his house and there had been no room for my pictures, knick-knacks and furniture.

And of course there was one other thing, a little niggle which P kept reminding me about – babies. How could I possibly let myself get pregnant when we didn’t have a home?

So finding out that we had to go to sealed bids was bad, very, very bad.

So there we were in the kitchen just days after P had told me the good news – pissed off and pitiful.

P: “What do you want to do?”

Us: “Sod it say we won’t play.”

P: “That’s helpful… no in fact that IS helpful!”

Dear Charlie and I looked blank. Now I love P but I do find him just a little difficult to keep up with. Never have I known a person who has had so many businesses from Kites to the estate agencies, property development to hypnotherapy. So perhaps you can forgive us if we were a little bewildered.

The next thing we knew P had got on the blower and informed the agent that his clients would not be participating in the sealed bid and that the agent would be doing his client a huge disservice as P’s clients were quite obviously the ones who had the most cash.

Me: “But I thought you said we weren’t meant to tell them that on pain of death!”

Him: “Do you want the house?”

We nodded dumbly.

And I wish it had been that simple. We won battle but the war was far from over.

Review: Changing Sheets

Changing the sheets the other day I realised I had no idea where time had gone – not changing the sheets mind, that doesn’t take very long, unless of course, I am joined by the Boys or event the dogs.

No, I was looking at Dear Charlie’s sheets and duvet cover, well actually his duvet cover, and it dawned on me that he had had this self same cover for as long as I have known him – now we’ve been married ten years and I knew him a long time before that.

I know some may be shocked by the knowledge that I knew what his duvet cover looked like before we were married but I did help him move house long before I actually got engaged to him. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it – you never know who might be reading do you!)

Anyway his Duvet cover must be an antique by now. In fact it is so old, its blue and orange and red geometric design is bound to be fashionable again. It’s a very student boy duvet cover; really dark and well you just know it’s the type that his Mum sent him to University with, and then washed in the holidays, and between that day and they day she washed it, it is extremely unlikely to have been removed from his bed.

I came across a lot of duvet covers like it when I was still a gallivanting. I think it is the reason why I got my own accommodation as quickly as possible so I never had to go through the disappointment that you get when fuelled up by the moment you are swept in his arms and anticipation is at its peak and then you see his duvet cover. Well you know that moment? It’s gone, gone for good and suddenly you just don’t feel like it anymore. A lot of young men were crossed off my list for poor aesthetic taste in the bedroom department.

Perhaps boys should take note here, the duvet cover you choose and they way you tend it, or not, as the case may be can have a direct correlation as to how successful you are on the, let’s call it, romantic front.

Suffice to say, Dear Charlie’s duvet cover has got to go but trying to find him a new one that’s the problem. (Some at this point might be wondering why Dear Charlie seems to have separate linen to me, well we take a pragmatic view in our household in that we both like to function in the morning and what with his snoring and my insomnia we have separate rooms thus we require separate linen. It also heightens that need for him to have linen that I like but that’s not too girly ‘cos face it both people have to be comfortable with the choice.)

Anyway I have been looking, and looking and looking. I’ve tried Next, The White Company, John Lewis, M&S and now I’ve found Dorma…I think I could have the answer to our dreams.

I am extremely fussy about my bed linen. Dear Charlie says it borders on paranoia. I cannot bear synthetic fibres and have an abhorrence of flannelette – however cosy and warm some may feel it to be. I prefer cotton and if pushed I will opt for silk as long as it is white ‘cos I still have ghastly associations of a water bed with black silk bed clothes. Suffice to say that was not a good night and the poor man I was with must have been so disappointed - I suffer terribly from motion sickness…

That aside, I am obsessed with thread count and where the cotton is sourced to make my bed linen – up until now it has had to be from Egypt and at least a 300 thread count making it nice and soft.

I’ve lost you on thread count haven’t I? Briefly thread count is the number of threads per square inch in both directions in the weave. The higher the thread count, the more luxurious the feel of a fabric and softer it is. But beware, as a higher thread count usually means that the threads are thinner and may not wear as well. Also the higher the thread count the more expensive it is and there’s the rub. I think I have expensive tastes. I love the White Company and it’s wonderfully grown up designs but unfortunately the items I like are usually just too expensive for me, John Lewis does some great Egyptian Cotton but here I personally have a problem with the designs – at present there are none I particularly like – unless of course they are very expensive. Now I have found Dorma – and it seems I may have hit the jackpot. A whole host of designs and seriously good prices. I am willing to take a closer look.

Some are just too fussy and I wonder at the embroidered ones, just how long will they last in my household with boys and dogs and well just the rough handling they’ll be expected to undergo?

But I’ve been given a sneak preview Dorma are launching a new co-ordinated range called Capri, available exclusively in Dunelm Mill, with blue and cream stripes and spots (a soft blue that appeals to the girl in me and is not so girly as to send Dear Charlie running for the hills). It meets my exacting criteria of 100 per cent cotton and it has a 300 thread count. Problem is I’m going to have to wait until the end of January 2010.

I suppose I’ll just have to be abstemious this holiday season – or perhaps I shall just send him an invite to come up and see me sometime…corridor creeping does add that extra frisson don’t you think?

Competition ( or why I'm going to have to take the long term view when he retires...)

The Lucky B*****d – or at least that’s the phrase I’ve  heard most over the last six months - because my husband has had a year that many only ever dream of – and no it has very little to do with the abundant and obvious charms of his wife.

He has for this one glorious summer, been paid to do nothing. He strolled into work in May and told them he had a new job. They thought about it and said: “How’s about staying here?” He thought about it and said he had really enjoyed working for them but the time was ripe to move on. They said: “OK.” He then said that he’d like to start at the new job ASAP. To with they replied: “Shucks, sorry, but you can clear your desk and have a great summer!”

I thought that was really cool until it dawned on me he wouldn’t be going away, he would be with me – all summer long. Do you know how long the summer lasts? However, ever resourceful I set about drawing up a list of things that needed to be done. Half an hour and five reams of paper later I had Charlie’s summer sorted.

It has been interesting having Charlie at home and one which The Boy and Bog Boy have taken to with whole hearted abandon. I mean cooked breakfasts each and every day, builders, paint, puppies, diggers, dumpers...Well,  a boys paradise really!

I just seemed to do a lot of clearing up.

And making coffee.

In fact when I think about it this has been the summer of men and as the sole girl I really feel that perhaps I should have been feted somewhat more than I was – maybe I would have been once, but now I had competition. From my husband.

Not in that way. But in the: “Who’s the Top Dog?” sort of way. Where once I would have stopped to chat and crack jokes with the boys on the building site that was once my garden, he was in that position. Where once I would have been the first port of call for the boys after school, he was the one doing the pick up. Where once those that dropped by would have been lumped with me now there was a choice, one that had no other deadlines than his own. Charlie took to being a man of means with little responsibility like a duck to water and I hope enjoyed every bit of it.

I on the other hand, don’t take kindly to being relegated to the side lines but when faced with the inevitable, it is wise to take a long term view of things. Now some six months later with all back to normal, I am the proud possessor of a stunning new driveway, an immaculate set of painted barns, a landscaped vegetable plot and a husband with an extremely pert behind – I mean who could ask for more?

House Hunting: Down right Puck like impudence!

Have you ever met someone who is innocently mischevious other than a child of course? Someone the embodiment of Puck from a Midsummer Night's Dream? Well I did just over eight years ago and since then he has gleefully overseen my countryside education.  However, I fear that the temptation to get me to say things, which will make me seem foolish, is just too strong to resist. A bit like teaching a foreigner a few phrases to help them out. They think you are teaching them to say: “I would like two tickets please.” When in fact you teach them to say: “I would like you to call me Dilly and would you plant me in the ground.” Or something equally daft. Hilarious!!!!

As you might of guessed that at 65, Roger really hasn’t got enough to do. Not that A, his wife, isn’t trying to have some control over him but after 40 odd years – odd being the operative word – Roger has perfected the art of seemingly doing as he’s told but in reality pleasing himself. It’s only when A gets really cross, which I might say is a very rare occurrence, that Roger behaves for a few moments.

When Dear Charlie first met Roger to look over the house, Roger was at his most mischievous. I can hardly blame him.

The family farm was being sold following the death of Granny. It was she who had rented her farm to her son while keeping a firm hold over the family purse strings. Her death triggered the division of the spoils between Roger and his siblings. And as none of Roger’s children had been interested in taking on the farm he had decided to retire giving up his tenancy and at the same time as his home.

The farm, too small to be viable, was sold in lots land, farm buildings and house. And it was at this stage that we met him. On this particular day Roger must just have felt he’d test out the prospective buyers of his family home – not maliciously or anything maybe just sorting the wheat form the chaff.

He’d already dragged me through the undergrowth on my previous visit this time I was wised up and so was Dear Charles – I think Roger noticed and may have been a little disappointed but luck was to favour him again in the shape of McVitie, a Golden Guernsey Billy kid.

When Roger’s father  had given up farming, he agreed to share the house with Roger and his family. In order that the two wives could continue to rule their own respective roosts the family home was physically divided into two. Now, some 30 years later, Roger was showing the two halves to potential future owners and on this glorious Saturday morning was where McVitie comes in – literally.

You guessed it, McVitie decided to follow us about the garden and as we seemed friendly and happy to pet him he followed us into Granny's part of the house. Roger must have been quite delighted and I remember he actively encouraged the kid to come upstairs as he gleefully watched the expressions of deep worry and consternation that sped across our faces!

It was about this time when you could see Roger was encouraging McVitie to caper along the upstairs corridor that a sharp sounding voice that brooked no nonsense echoed up the stairs.

“ROGER!!!!!****”

The culprit raised his eyebrows and grinned as the goat was hastily shooed down the stairs and out into the garden. But any hint of contrition from Roger was never aired in our hearing despite being caught red-handed.

Over the years there is very little that surprises me about Roger – his reputation goes before him and he’s fully aware of it!

Despite that it is a privilege to know him and his wonderful family and and I think we get on, actually we have to, as he converted one of the barns and lives next door!

So near and yet so far...(when opening your mouth without engaging your brain can lose you what you really want)

As a year comes rapidly to an end I start to reminisce, tonight I thought about the first time I saw this place; the first time I met Roger.
I love Roger – I think I did from the very beginning. When I picked up Charlie that evening, that golden summer evening you know the type; heavy and hazy and just full. Everything golden from grass to leaves to crops in the fields – OK so it was June but the fields were golden - full of OSR and my husband full of hay fever!
Welcome to the country! I picked him up from the train station and just drove him to the house; I couldn’t contain my excitement and we cruised past backwards and forwards.
We couldn’t wait to get a better look. P brought the details and there she was - pink. Very, very pink. With a red roof. Lots and lots of Georgian windows and large pottery Gloucester pig placed jauntily in front of an elegant wrought iron garden bench. All this framed by verdant foliage and an emerald green lawn – freshly cut.
But that’s where it stopped – where were the best bits? Where were the internal shots of the beautiful drawing rooms and large farmhouse kitchen; the dining room? In fact any room?

Just a bald statement:

The productive Residential and Arable Farm known as … with substantial 16th Century Farmhouse (Listed Grade II); Modern and Traditional Farm Buildings and 248 acres of Fertile Arable Land being of the Hanslope (411d), Ashley (572q) and Ragdale 1 (712g) Associations (MAFF Grades 2 AND 3).
For sale by private treaty as a whole or in 4 lots

Lot 1 was the farmhouse and 3.93 acres … “in need of some updating and modernisation”.
Dear Charlie wished me luck the next morning as he left to catch the train to London – I had a viewing and would tell him all about it when he got home that evening and say whether I thought it was worth him coming along the next time.
I don’t remember much about that viewing except meeting Roger. Before we knew it the agent and I were taken down the garden going through a seriously overgrown rose arch with more brambles than rose and down to the moat through the tallest nettles on the planet.
I trotted doggedly after Roger as he strode forth in shorts and open toed sandals, totally oblivious of the chin high nettles and brambles that made up the back paddock, through the encroaching trees to the moat where he bade us turn round to look at the house. All the time he chattered, smiling thorough his grisly grey beard, his bushy eyebrows dancing with ill concealed delight every time I flinched, jumped, and stumbled after being stung, scratched or being tripped up. The agent fared no better – I swear that Roger did it deliberately and, knowing him as I do now, I’m sure he did. He took us through the dirtiest, smelliest and most tangled way round that garden that he possibly could. I was in three quarter lengths and backless sandals, while the poor agent was in his very best suit and brand new loafers. Needless to say we were wrecked and we hadn’t even set foot indoors.
The next memory I have is of being in the spare room upstairs looking out over the moat and into the wood on the opposite side. The sun shining on the water and casting dimples of light all around the room I was in and I go and open my big mouth and do exactly what P had begged me not to – I asked how much and the agent replied and I so naively said that’s great we can go to X - a good £30,000 more than was being suggested. As soon as I did this I knew I was in trouble. I tried to backtrack but I could see the gleam in the agent’s eye – he knew it and I knew it; I was hooked and I was the very first person he had taken round – how many others would do the same?
Foolish girl.
I can’t explain how wonderful it felt to know this was the one and how terrible to know that we could lose it just because I couldn’t keep my trap shut. I couldn’t keep my enthusiasm under control. I couldn’t be cool.
It would not be long before Dear Charlie and I were told that the property would be sold via sealed bids…

Review: Falling For A Fly Called Mooch

There are children’s movies and then there are children’s movies, not all of them any good. But there again I’m an adult and what do I know? However, I have the opportunity to review DVD releases on a sporadic basis courtesy of Disney. Some releases that I have had the privilege to review have been great such as Bolt – a modern classic.

Others I’d rather not have to suffer a repeat performance; there again I’m not into Fairies and I’m afraid they aren’t my Boys thing either - though at one stage it was  touch and go with The Boy who announced proudly he wanted to grow up to be a Princess. He’s moved on from there and is taking inspiration from the likes of Spiderman, Merlin and Harry Potter.

And now, dare I say it, G-Force. G-Force isn’t anything to do with Action Man or some other Marvel comic book hero it’s the latest Disney Blue Ray/DVD and it’s all about Guinea Pigs. Oh was I relieved that we’d moved on from Fairies but Guinea Pigs just before Christmas – come on guys. Why do you do it to us parents?!!!

I was all set for something out of Alvin and the Chipmunks all cutesy and fluffy and enough to set my teeth on edge when we got to the opening sequence and I fell for a fly called Mooch.

I couldn’t say that I would ever think of flies as quite cool but this fly was and as for the cockroaches – inspired. Though I’m afraid if I saw them in my Kitchen or indeed anywhere else in the house I’d still kill them and ask questions later.

Back to the movie: it’s a kid’s movie with a bit of edge, some amazing if somewhat manic action sequences and of course cute flies. It’s live action along the lines of Babe – but boy has have special effects moved on since then - and is basically about the latest evolution of a covert government program to train animals to work in espionage – this time it’s an elite team of highly trained guinea pigs.

Armed with the latest high-tech spy equipment, these kick ass rodents discover that the fate of the world is in their paws but before they can do anything about it their programme is shut down. However, with the help of their human compatriots they escape determined to regroup and save the planet but first they need to escape from the local pet store.

It crossed my mind that I’d seen the movie before and I had, but not done with small rodents. But that’s cool, it’s comfortable and surprisingly entertaining on a wet Saturday afternoon you know what’s coming and you can knowingly smile at the nods to film classics that have gone before. It’s a tried and tested formula – a safe bet. And there’s nothing wrong with that. The Boys loved every minute and have now watched it three times. Luckily however, they don’t seem to be begging me for a Guinea Pig for Christmas and I won’t be prompting them either.

My rating for the film: 6 out of 10

Previous ratings, so you know where I’m coming from: Bolt 8 out of 10, Toy Story I and II: 9.5 out of 10, Shrek I and II: 9.5 out of 10

Stars in their Eyes

God bless the Little Children, each and every one but let’s face it not all of them are born for the stage.
It was the school Nativity Play this afternoon and King No 1 was outstanding, but then again I would say that wouldn’t I? The Boy was there in all his splendour balanced precariously on a gym bench belting out Christmas songs until he forgot the words, got bored and started to pick his nose. I promise he wasn’t the only one.
There was the little echo in the wings who repeated the whole play word for word just a line behind; the Captain of the Guards whose delivery was so fast and staccato, that he had the whole audience in stunned silence as we tried to work out what it was he had just said; the bashful narrators who held up their books so high no one could see their faces, the star who refused to dance and had to be cajoled off the stage so she wouldn’t be in the way of the rest of them, the exasperated Angel Gabriel whose younger brother refused to stand in the right place and say the right words causing said Arch Angel to bash him one to get him to concentrate.
Some you could see loathed the whole rigmarole and clearly felt they were far too old and sophisticated to deign to join in, yawning and fidgeting and then suddenly realising it was their line and having to be prompted.
Others were busy waving and making faces at their parents and younger siblings; although it must be said the parents and siblings were equally bad waving and blowing kisses to their little darlings at the moment jus.
Some voices were loud and strong, others barely above a whisper. Lines were delivered by rote and the relief on little faces as they were said without mishap was palatable.
And then there were the ones clearly born to perform. King Herod stomping in all his majestic fury demanding to know who this upstart baby Jesus was as he was King round here. Thrusting aside other bit players perhaps a tad to strongly as he swept off the stage. There was tiny little Joseph being equally imperious when Mary on her Donkey had the temerity to walk ahead of him, and of course Dear Little Mary herself imploring incredulously the immortal line: “How can I have a baby? I’m not even married yet?”
I swear these Nativity Plays get funnier and funnier every year but I wouldn’t miss them for the entire world!

The case of the Missing Prawns (or the wickedest whippet in the world strikes again...)

Arrghhh!
I thought I was being so clever this evening but she’s gone and done it again. My pesky whippet puppy has eaten all my prawns – and I hope she gets a very poorly tummy. Though saying that, if she does she will probably land up regurgitating the whole lot on my bed knowing my luck!
Oohhh!
I had been very indulgent and had bought - dare I say it? - a ready-made Chinese meal the other day. Beef and Black bean sauce, egg fried rice and crispy prawns with sweet chilli sauce courtesy of those goodly people at Waitrose. I was so looking forward to it, wrong we were both SO looking forward to it.
This evening I had it all sorted. Dear Charlie was soaking in a bath trying to warm up – poor chap is feeling a bit crook and awful cold. I was going to surprise him with a real treat, which we could eat in front of X Factor.
Everything was done for once and I was ahead of myself. The children were fed and in bed, chickens were all shut up for the night, laundry was done, table already laid for breakfast, washing up done. All I had to do was slam the dinner into the oven for 25 minutes and Bob’s your proverbial Uncle.
However, the prawns did not take as long as the sauce to cook. The idea being that you place the sauce in first then half way through place the prawns on a baking tray separately so they don’t go soggy.
So what to do with the prawns for the seven minutes before you place them in the oven? Of course, put them on a separate baking tray and leave them on the kitchen counter high enough, you think, to be out of reach of the dogs.
I hadn’t counted on EBJ’s tenacity had I? Nor on her ability to problem solve. In fact I keep forgetting she has a brain. I must admit it is not one of her most attractive qualities. The other whippets are blissfully brainless – that or they have better manners and/or are not quite so greedy.
However, I leave the kitchen for a few moments to check on Dear Charlie and tell him supper will only be ten minutes, and when I return everything seems fine. Nothing has moved, there are no tell tale marks to indicate anything is wrong. The baking tray is where I have left it but because I don’t go right up to it I fail to notice that there is nothing there until it is time to place the prawns in the oven and they are gone, not a crumb has been left. For a few moments I am bewildered. I question my actions and run through exactly what I did and come up with the conclusion that I must have put the prawns in the fridge. But they are not there. I am genuinely puzzled because there seems to be no way the dog could possibly have half inched those prawns without making an awful lot of fuss or else flying and I had heard nada, nothing, not a dicky bird. I only left the kitchen for two minutes - if that.
But as the Great Sherlock Holmes stated “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”.
All I can say is, I have no idea how she could have done it. She is not a cat and to have leapt up 90cms to land on top of the counter which is only 30cms in depth without breaking anything or pushing anything off is incredible.
By a process of elimination I can hazard a guess as to how she might have achieved it but the complexity of the solution seems a bit beyond a ten-month-old whippet.
However this is what I think she did: she walked away from the counter top to the other side of the table where there was a chair slightly pushed out. She climbed on the chair and jumped onto the tabletop. She then walked along the table and jumped about half a metre onto the counter the other side of the oven from where the prawns were sitting. She then walked back along the counter, jumped over the hob without knocking over any of the pans upon it and ate the prawns on the baking tray. Then she retraced her steps. And quietly curled up in her basket.
If it wasn’t for the fact that she happened to have a few tell tale crumbs round her muzzle and for once looked particularly guilty when I glared at her, I swear I would never have known.
I am afraid I reprimanded her for all of two seconds. She seemed so abjectly sorry and it is so out of character for her to show any remorse at all that she was swiftly forgiven.
Dear Charlie mutters that the dog is a serious weasel and is not to be trusted ever and that this is just another ruse to add to her repertoire. Needless to say I suspect he is right. But she’s so cute…

One almighty strop....

 

I love my boys very much and like most parents I would do anything for them but sometimes there is nothing I can do; they just have to work it out for themselves.

Downstairs now, Bog Boy is lying on the floor in one almighty strop punishing me for some transgression I have yet to work out that I did or said or in his case not did or not said – I don’t know which.

Being a parent can be very confusing…nay exhausting, emotionally as well as physically. And it feels like I blunder about it in all the wrong ways.

I mean where do you stand on discipline? How far do you take a threat? What about treats? And do you think you can ever praise enough? Can you priase too much or does it devalue your intent? The same goes for punishment - if you do it too much does it just become tsoemthing that Mum does?

And why oh why is it always me?

I shall potter downstairs now and give Bog Boy a cuddle and our tiff will be forgotten and forgiven just like that - would that the nagging doubts could be cleared aways so easily...