alisongardiner1

…would be a perfect excuse for a certain amount of mental malfunction recently. The only minor inconvenience is that I don’t possess a dog.

The children long ago came to realise that when I’m slightly distracted bad things happen. Very distracted: worse. Although generally I can manage to keep 5 things on my mind while doing three others, when the 6th cuts in, the available space inside my brain is inadequate. Inevitably an idea falls out and gets temporarily mislaid. On an everyday basis this usually manifests itself in the cooking becoming quite deeply brown. This was lowlighted on my daughter’s 21st birthday. I had produced a plethora of completely normal looking puddings. Bar one. My godson Alex peered at the small area of excessive browness in a sea of golden crumble topping and muttered, “I bet I can guess who made that one.”

Apart from the culinary lapses, I thought I was getting away with these tiny mental lacunae until recently when my 13-year-old son asked me to buy some batteries of a slightly strange size. Not only did he text me to say that it was LR 44s he wanted, but he sent two photographs to my phone. One was an aerial view of the battery and the second a profile. Not slow to recognise such heavy prompting, I arrived home triumphantly brandishing the LR 44s.  He looked at them sadly. “I got it right,” I pointed out. “Yes. But I asked for three.” So buoyed up by my efficiency in buying batteries which looked exactly the same as the aerial and profile views, I had neglected the tiny numbers fact, the fatal flaw, which means that his little machine still doesn’t work.

I can hardly hide behind the term senior moment as this has been happening for years. I used to play Real Tennis on a regular basis with brilliant, organised Felicity. In this game you have to note where the ball bounces for the second time if you fail to get to it. This is called a chase. So if it lands on the 4 yards line it would be announced as ‘chase 4’. Or if it bounced on the line between 4 and 5 it would be ‘chase 4 and 5.’ Simple enough, you’d be forgiven for believing. Players only need to remember the chase for a handful of minutes until after changing ends they immediately replay the point. This is critical to the game; therefore being of importance should help it to remain stored in our brains. Wrong again. If the chase had ever made it as far as being stored, it resisted all attempts at retrieval.

We tried various methods of provoking recall, including writing on a small chalkboard at the midpoint of the court, but this became tedious. We then wore T-shirts with blackboard paint on them but it’s difficult to store a piece of chalk while playing. In celebration of our failings Felicity had two T-shirts printed. Hers read ‘Chase 4 and 5.’ Mine read ‘I thought it was 5 and 6.’ Eventually we settled on having a default chase so that after a few minutes of amnesia, we played chase 4. Since the score was generally arrived at by tenuous recall, inventing a chase made little difference to the flow of the game nor the outcome. Or maybe it did, but neither of us can remember.

Sometimes disaster is averted by a combination of good fortune and forward planning. The children are currently playing in a weekend squash tournament which is only three streets away. Yesterday, tourni day 1, we arrived at the court 40 min before Sophie’s match, to discover that they were playing miles across town. The result was a zoom to the correct courts, screeching in with seconds to spare. It’s lucky that my mini has got used to these situations and doesn’t even sigh as she’s wrenched around corners and scrambled along country roads. This latest life lapse could realistically be blamed on the court location being written on the team sheet in the tiniest of fonts, perhaps only a 12 or 14.

So at the moment I have to stick to my fallback excuse of tiredness or overwork. All of this brain sag would immediately be resolved if the children took a step backwards into the Victorian era and worked as house serfs, with substantially more plugging in and significantly less bugging out. Repeated discussions on the subject appear to have had little effect. So I have just ordered my copy of Brainwashing for Beginners and I expect to be starting the program soon, soon, soon, very soon. Feeling sleepy yet?

While you fall under my hypnotic spell I’m going to go and watch the kids play in the tournament finals. Luckily it won’t take long to get there as it’s only three streets away.

Tomato  hurling.  Chucking  tomatoes  at  your  nearest  and  dearest  or,  if  your  throwing  arm  is  good  enough,  at  your  furthest  and  worstest,  or  indeed  complete  strangers.  Covering  everyone  and  everything  in  sight  with  squishy  red  pulp  and  sticky  scarlet  juice.  Such  is  the  Tomatina  festival  held  annually  in Bunal, Valencia.  This  effectively  dyes  the  populace,  streets  and  all  surroundings  a  brilliant  red.

The  festival  is  kicked  off  with  the  polo  jabon  in  which  participants  attempt  to  dislodge  a  ham  from  the  top  of  a  greasy  pole.  In  the  meanwhile,  non-pole  climbers  are  singing  and  dancing  whilst  being  hosed  down  with  water.    As  soon  as  the  ham  is  dislodged,  a  shot  rings  out  signalling  the  start  of  the  sixty  minute  battle.    This  is  not,  however,  as  completely  disorganised  as  a  fruit  frenzy  could  potentially  be.  Tons  of  tomatoes  are  specially  supplied  by  the  city  council  (open  minded  lot,  the  Italians).    Participants  must  throw  tomatoes  by  hand,  not  catapults,  as  enthusiastically  used  in  the  past.  Goggles  are  recommended.  The  tomato  must  be  squeezed  before  being  flung,  to  make  them  softer.    Amazing  to  think  that  rules  are  needed  to  luzz  a  tomato  or  two  (million).  A  second  shot  signals  the  end  of  vegetarian  vengeance.  The  throwers,  victims  and  any  innocent  bystanders  are  then  washed  down  with  fire  hoses,  along  with  the  town  square,  which  amazingly  looks  better  than  before,  owing  to  the  acidity  of  tomatoes.  This  is  clearly  such  a  brilliant  municipal  cleaning  tip  that  similar  events  are  held  in  Chile,  Nevada,  China  and  Costa  Rica.

One  best  spectated,not  participated  in  is  the  battle  of  the  oranges  in  Ivrea,  northern Italy.  Here  battle  is  drawn  between  nine  teams  of  Aranceri  (orange  handlers),  some  riding  in  carts,  others  on  foot.  Combat  occurs  over  three  days.    Luckily  as  a  visitor,  on  enlisting  into  a  team,  immunity  from  oranges  being  thrown  at  one  is  conferred  by  wearing  a  red  hat.    Oranges  seem  a  rather  bizarre/anachronistic  choice  of  weapons  as  oranges  do  not  grow  in  the  region  and  therefore  have  to  be  imported.    Previously  beans  were  thrown,  which  seems  a  less  painful  option  as  well  as  less  messy  and  more  economically  sound.

Less  painful  still  although  considerably  more  messy,  is  the  flower  throwing  festival  in  Galaxidi,  Greece,  in  which  tons  of  coloured  flour  is  thrown  on  locals  and  tourists  alike.    It  takes  place  on  the  day  that  marks  the  start  of  40  days  of  Lent,  known  as  Clean  Monday.

Throwing  things  during  festivals  dates  back  a  very  long  way.    Ovid  notes  that  in  ancient  Rome  they  had  the  Lemuria,  which  was  a  feast  to  perform  rites  to  exorcise  malevolent  ghosts  from  homes..    The  head  of  the  household  had  to  walk  around    at  midnight  barefoot  throwing  black  beans  over  his  shoulder.    Today  this  could  get  you  committed  to  a  secure  institution.

Less  throwing,  but  as  much  a  dig  at  life,  is  the  gloriously  named  King  Mango  Strut  in  Coconut  Grove,  the  motto  being  ‘putting  the  nut  in  Coconut  Grove’.    It  started  as  a  parody  of  the  annual  King  Orange  Jamboree  Parade,  humour  remaining  its  central  theme.    One  of  the  founders  appeared  in  it  the  year  after  he  died,  represented  by  an  urn  with  ashes  being  sprinkled  around  his  float.  Humour  over-rode  taste;  so  his  spirit  lived  on.

Intrigued  by  the  concept  of  the  Up  Helly  Aa,  I  am  tempted  to  whistle  up  to  Shetland.  This  torch  procession  is  one  of  a  series  of  fire  festivals.    The  spectacular  finale  is  setting  fire  to  a  replica  Viking  longship.    Seems  a  waste  of  a  perfectly  good  boat.    I’d  find  it  depressing  to  spend  months  working  on  building  one  then  find  myself  the  wrong  end  of  deliberate  nautical  arson.  However  if  somebody  is  happy  to  have  their  version  cremated,  I’d  be  happy  to  chuck  torches  with  the  best  of  them.  They  also  dress  up  in  costumes,  have  parties  and  perform  little  acts  or  skits,  so  what’s  not  to  like?    The  only  problem  is  remembering  where  on  earth  I  have  left  my  horned  helmet.  So  difficult  to  store  aren’t  they?

I’m  strangely  attracted  to  the  Dragging  of  the  Gut  Festival  in  Oregon  which  turns  out  to  be  a  cars  cruising  downtown,  pootling  along  in  the  classical  way.  Although  I  remain  concerned  that  this  is  just  vintage  curb  crawling.

Sometime  I  may  try  my  chances  at  becoming  the  Slug  Queen,  the  unofficial  ambassador  of  the  city  of  Eugene.    Slug  Queens  are  selected  on  the  basis  of  their  costume,  doubtless  on  how  sluglike  it  appears,  as  well  as  a  talent  competition,  presumably  showing  one’s  ability  to  crawl  through  slime.  Bribery  is  not  only  acceptable  but  encouraged.  In  a  wonderfully  supportive  move,  past  Slug  Queens  are  referred  to  as  ‘old’  not  ‘former’,  eventually  becoming  Very  Old  Queens  and  finally  Exquisitely  Old  Queens.    I  feel  therefore  that  my  being  significantly  over  21  would  doubtless  be  an  advantage.  Recent  Slug  Queens  included  Queen  Marie  Slugtoinette,  Queen  Frank  Slugnatra,  Queen  Anislugsia,  Queen  Glorious  Gastropause  and  Queen  Slugretha  Latifa  Uleafa  Gastropodia  Jackson.  I  might  be  only  a  ridiculous  name  away  from  fame.    Perhaps  I’ll  be  Queen  Slugg  and  wear  slouch  boots  at  all  times.

The  festivals  I  will  not  be  attending  include  the  Vermont  Quilt  Festival,    True/False  Film  Festival,  Gilroy  Garlic  Festival,  Half  Moon  Bay  Art  and  Pumpkin  Festival  (in  case  they  start  throwing  pumpkins),  Schmeckfest  or  Yambilee  (I  have  no  idea  what  a  Schmeck  or  Yambilee  is,  but  I  don’t  want  to  spend  an  entire  festival  finding  out).  Although  I  am  attracted  by  the  Bumbershoot,  the  Gathering  of  the  Juggalos,  the  Bamboozle  and  the  Bonnaroo  Music  Festival.  FunnyFest  Calgary  has  got  to  be  done.

There  are  many  whose  titles  are  confusing.    What  is  a  Monolith  Festival?    Does  everyone  have  to  turn  up  with  a  single  stone?    How  about  the  Mucklewain?  Buzz  Bake Sale?  Featuring  bee  muffins  or  wasp  sponge?  Or  the  Nerdapalooza  or  Lollapalooza?  Both  dancing  festivals?    One  centred  on  nerds  know  the  other  on  lollipops?    The  Woollybear  Festival  has  gone  be  on  the  list;  presumably  bring  your  own  woolly  bear.

Or  maybe  I’ll  start  my  own.  Grape  throwing,  anyone?

January guilt has struck again. However, I’m beginning to feel that rather than giving up chocolate, cheese, alcohol and losing weight (that’s losing weight; not giving up losing weight ) I should give up guilt. Perhaps the same theory as the man who kept reading that smoking was bad for him so he gave up reading. Not only is the January weather grey and soggy, my brain feels the same after a blast of shopping/giving/receiving euphoria. Getting some enthusiasm going seems like trying to push a supertanker with a rowboat.

Nonetheless, too much negativity can be a bad thing, as I’m sure Norman Vincent would agree, and therefore, rather than wallowing in a bath of excuses and procrastination, I have decided to get on with it. So I am resolved. Probably.

I’ve discovered that the best bit about a health and fitness program is getting hold of the equipment. Many hours can happily be passed trotting from shop to shop looking for running shoes that appeal, fit exactly and don’t fall into the “Hang on, that’s half a mortgage!” price category. As a result of a green-eyed goddess attack, and feeling that resolutions should contain revolutions, I currently have my eye on a new hybrid bike. Blacky, shiny, very chic. And they say it functions well enough. I could have been cycling on it for the last 12 days but feel this decision should be made carefully. The end result is that the bike still sits unmuddied in the shop and I sit sweat-free at home.

Much to the amusement of the family, I decided I would swim every morning before work. I’ve stuck to this without fail, often walking to the sports club. I’ve switched to porridge every morning, cut down on alcohol and avoid cheese like the plague. The net result is that since 1st January my weight has changed by two pounds. Upwards. A disappointing result. Resisting going back to eating large amounts of Stilton, reaching for the Chablis and binning my bathing suit, I’ve adopted the Thomas Edison principal that at least I’ve managed to find one more method by which I don’t lose weight. A lightbulb moment.

Being on a health and fitness programme, the kids are half Nelsoned into it too. It’s only fair to share. So recently we all headed to the forest, swapping slothful slobbing for pedal power. Like a school trip we pedal in a ragged line; Crocodile DundAdam at the front, Charlie, Sophie, and yes, I’m last. The caboose. On the track, we met a flock of birdwatchers, all dressed in green waterproofs, clutching enormous cameras, binoculars and foldy stools. We stopped to have a word with them, not so much out of interest for their hobby, but because we bumped into them halfway up an extremely long hill.

We eventually, eventfully (cow blocking the track, horses that barked, stuck gears) made it to the pub. Here we found ourselves sitting near two elderly ladies, their hair neatly permed, dressed in twinsets and pearls, fashionably teamed with thick socks and thundering great hiking boots. Presumably their conversation ranged from the best type of baby knitting wool via ordnance survey maps to the best type of crampon.

Morris dancers had invaded The Slug and Bootlace. Dutifully they clicked finger cymbals, waved handkerchiefs, strutted their funky stuff and rang little bells. The road they were cavorting in was very narrow and had to be shared with cars, bicycles, dogs and walkers. It made for wonderful chaos which could have only been improved by the addition of a few runaway pigs or a couple of belligerent cows. We are able to watch their efforts with a degree of polite attention until we realised that the songs seemed to be almost identical: minor variations of Never Smile at a Crocodile. The dances didn’t seem to vary much either, unlike the dancers who were very assorted. I got the giggles. The kids were alternatively hissing, “Oh, Mother,” and singing along. Adam took the only sensible manly course of action and removed himself to the bar.

On the way home, we kept meeting strings of people on horseback. If moving in the same direction this wasn’t too much of a problem as we could cheerfully shout “Good morning,” as we sailed past. Meeting them heading in opposite directions proved to be socially more tricky. We fell into a routine that Adam, at the front of our line, would shout, “Good morning!” to the first rider. They would reply, “Lovely day” to Charlie in Adam’s wake. Sophie, by this time level with the front rider would agree that it was. They would then bid me goodbye. This system worked perfectly unless it was a very long string of riders in which case we had a series of “Good morning! Lovely day! Yes, it is, isn’t it? Bye,” on repeat loop. We must have sounded like a bizarre chorus of wheeled parrots striking up every time we met equine mounted parrots.

So one more cup of decaffeinated black coffee, then I’m off for another bike viewing. Then shoes. Loving this.

“Money please. I’d like something to drink and a llama,” announced my daughter.

Slightly startled, I immediately wondered if I had enough cash on me, as, having not been to the local market for years, I’m completely out of touch with livestock prices. My second thought was that there may have been a slight chance that I had misheard her.

“Pardon?”

“Could I have some money? I want to get something to drink and banana.”

Instant relief. Neither of us were going mad. The huge weight lifted from my mind was that we could now go home in the mini with roof up. I’d swiftly worked out that if we were going to get a llama in the car, it would have to travel in the front seat, belted in, with the roof down. As it was chucking down with rain, this would have been a disappointing start to our relationship. Driving along half-blinded with a soaked animal making llamay protest noises, filling my car with the smell of wet fur or worse, could have ruined several minutes of my day.

I assumed my hearing was defective again last night when Charlie asked me, “Do you sometimes have the impression that some things are turning to jelly, sort of random like?”

I thought this through carefully but absolutely couldn’t work out what he had really said. After getting him to repeat the whole phrase I realised that unfortunately I had heard him correctly. Since it was well past his bedtime, I chose the easy way out and replied “Not really. Except jelly.”

I have yet to tackle him about the concept of things turning to jelly in sort of in a random way. The problem is that this brings all sorts of bizarre images into my mind and I’m tempted to work through this as a potential idea for a story before I am faced with the dull reality of clarification.

Perhaps it is only the interaction between me and the kids that is faulty. About a week ago, coming up to a friend’s birthday, she asked me if I could sign a consent form, “because it’s a really boring party.”

“Why would you want to go, then?”

“Why not? As she’s one of my best friends?” I had the faint impression of hearing duh unspoken but threaded through her words.

“But if it’s going to be a really boring party?…” I tailed off, realising that somehow I had got it wrong again.

She looked at me pityingly. “Mother.  It’s a paintballing party. Not a really boring party. Do concentrate.”

I’ve not yet worked out whether it’s incipient deafness, inattention or whether there’s so much miscellaneous stuff crammed inside my head at any given moment that it’s not surprising that messages from outside simply can’t make it down my external auditory canals and penetrate into the grey stuff.

To keep my mind off my obvious failings, I went shopping with a friend yesterday. Nothing over exciting or mentally taxing, just groceries. Reading from the list in my hand I announced that I needed some bananas.

“Are you sure?” Kate replied, shocked. “Is your garden big enough?”

It’s annual family newsletters open season. Yet, because too much serious stuff brings me out in hives, ours is probably the only newsletter circulating that contains no substance at all. The tack taken is Oscar Wilde’s ethos (not his exact words, for you literary quoters out there) not to write anything until we have nothing to say. Far from being a gloat, it tends to romp through the spectacular cock-ups that we have perpetrated over the last year. The kids love helping as it’s a fantastic opportunity for them to point out another ghastly parental failure. So it’s a klutzagram, really. For the klutzagram we have variously been a Star Trek log, a gang of criminals, a holiday brochure as well as a newspaper with no news.

You either love or hate newsletters. Except me, I swither from pole to pole, neither wishy nor washy, just picky about my liking or loathing. Into a mental black hole go the two sides of A4, font size 10, containing either a list of astonishing achievements or gloom; by paragraph 3 I’ve lost the will to live. Perhaps the reply should be a discourse on gloatagram induced depression. Hang on, I remember: peace and harmony, goodwill to all men, even the ones who send Christmas letters on black edged paper. Nonetheless, the jolly ones, on white edged paper, ring my chimes.

Of course, the theory of Christmas cards or letters is sound; sending out a message of joy, goodwill and hope to the people you love the most. Or at least met once on holiday in Sardinia. The reality is sitting with an enormous stack of unwritten cards staring blankly back at you as you poke through coffee stained address books or throw teabags at the computer as it won’t print address labels. By the time they’ve all been stuffed in envelopes with a neatly folded klutzagram, hours will have been consumed which could have been much more usefully spent on hand-making bows for Christmas parcels. In fact, thinking about it, the avoidance of having to hand-make bows is probably the reason I write cards.

Attempting to inject the festive spirit back into a task which might otherwise be a teeny bit dull, several of my girlfriends join me for a card writing evening, arriving clutching stacks of cards, yummy things and wine. During the snack-assisted evening, we manage to write a variable quantity of cards, ranging from one (Cindy, on a particularly hilarious evening) to about 30 (Bobby, who is much more organised than the rest of us). I benefitted from 100% of Cindy’s output; a compliment, methinks. The wearing of deeley boppers, reindeer horns, angel wing hats etc is of course compulsory. During the evening we shriek through enormous amounts of hilarious stories and Thai green curry. Cards written at the end of the evening generally contain misspellings (embarrassing if it’s your own name – or ‘Merry’), wiggly writing and have one or several children forgotten in the signature line. However, it does mean that every card is perfused with a little joy.

Christmas presents other interesting challenges. Recently, I bought my husband a bike for our 25th wedding anniversary, as I felt he deserved something for sticking it out this long. Very elegant, last year’s latest thing. Serious piece of kit. This Christmas, our 13-year-old son intends to buy him a cartoon character bicycle bell, while our 11-year-old daughter wants to purchase some pink streamers for the handlebars. Look out for him on the 26th Dec. He’ll be the one cycling athletically round the district ringing cheerfully, fluttering pinkly in the breeze. A great photo opportunity for next year’s klutzagram.

I have just returned from Greece. Having not been there for more than 20 years, it was a culture shock to find it entirely unchanged. In fact it was exactly as, with a bit of forethought, I could have expected other than with rather less women running through the olive groves singing Abba songs and being distinctly more expensive. Foolishly, I had believed that, since we have an incipient Euro crisis (or an impending drachma situation), that merchants would be fighting for business and prices would have dropped. Clearly, news of the meltdown hasn’t reached the more rural parts ofGreece, carrier pigeons being a bit slow in the summer.

The resort was due to close as we left, ours being the last week of the season. Clearly, the weather had deteriorated to such a point that no one would want to visit the area. Brilliant sunshine with temperatures of about 23°, cloudless, no rain and almost windless (the latter a degree disappointing as we were on a sailing holiday). In short, their unacceptably cold weather was rather better than the height of the British summer this year.

Being an all-inclusive holiday, the temptation was to try all of the multiple dishes available at lunch and dinner. The problem is that getting yourself on the outside of large volumes of food leads inevitably to an increase in avoirdupois. The same process applied to cruise liners is that one embarks as a passenger and disembarks as cargo. Mega-calories had overwhelmed several of the staff, including the gardener, Spyros (a big fat Greek weeding).

Had not there been 230 steps from the beach to our room, the weight explosion would have been potentially applicable to us. A forgotten pair of sunglasses became a morning workout. The lack of a book equated to roughly minus 115 cal. I tolerated this generally quite well, feeling that my cardiovascular system would thank me for this ultimately and that a round trip equalled a glass of wine. But one day, faced with two bodies but one towel on the beach, I shunned the bedroom tramp (does that sound quite polite?) and resorted to tearing my enormous beach towel in half. As the surprised people watching me rip probably also lived 230 steps away, I suspect had their sympathy.

The hotel sat on the mainland overlooking a tiny island. Swimming 200 m across to the beach on the island became a regular relaxation of mine. On one particularly warm day around lunchtime I made the happy discovery that I could swim across with four cans of beer inside my bathing suit: two up the side leg holes like lethal weapons, two bolstering the bust. Instant popularity as I emerged from the sea, wandering up the beach looking like a cross between Ursula Andress in Dr No and a packhorse. Probably more equine than feminine, remembering the food as above.

The holiday centred on water sports, including windsurfing, water skiing, sailing, paddle boarding and kayaking. Somehow, despite this, I seem to find myself in or under the water more often than on it. I decided it was my over enthusiasm that lead to multiple crashes. Less belief in this being the cause of my being made fish-food repeatedly was displayed by Adam as he muttered darkly about minimal skill levels whilst repeatedly dragging me out of the sea.

Robustly I declined cycling. It seemed unreasonable to climb up 90° inclines on a bike when I was on holiday, not a route march. Yet there were plenty of civilian SAS types who partook of the 8 am really extremely tough cycle (that was its technical name) before joining the above aquatics along with Zumba classes, tennis etc. I was torn between feeling envious at their stamina, amazed that they’d want to indulge in all that on their masico-holiday and smug as doubtless they would go home more exhausted than me.

In a final twist, a piece of Greek drama, our plane was cancelled by a serendipitous lightning strike, landing us inGreecefor an extra night.  The overnight hotel had obviously pre-empted the Euro crisis by becoming rundown before meltdown occurred. However, it’s easy to rise above the dirt, creaking beds and flush-free toilets when faced with another day of Mediterranean sunshine.

I’d thought we blended in rather well as we strolled along the harbour, tanned, smelling of coffee, olives and honey, greeting the locals with ‘good morning’ in Greek (hence using much of my vocabulary), until one boat owner spontaneously asked me when our plane was due to leave. My efforts to slide seamlessly in with the locals had clearly been doomed to failure from when I first opened my mouth and said “Kalimera.”

Stopping by one particularly sleek boat, admiring the beauty of its lines, I made the unfortunate discovery that when discussing something without knowing the technical terms, it’s quite difficult not to sound disparaging. If I had, for example, been able to say, “That is a very fine gernhoofsplat you’ve got, clearly you must be equipped to cross theAtlantic,” I would have been saved from the embarrassment of “Why have you got that tall blobby extra bit on the top of such a relatively small boat? Doesn’t it make it unbalanced?”

So back to Blighty. My suntan is gradually turning to rust.Greeceis now confined to my memory banks and about 80 photographs. Yet I’m breathlessly awaiting the day when our holiday companion, who is a keen amateur photographer, downloads his contribution. Pruned by half, the file is about 2500 photos. More commitment shown by him than me in our week in the sun. Thank goodness the other 50% of my Greek vocabulary is efharisto. Thank you.

With four children it gets difficult to remember their names so they get called all sorts; each other’s, husband’s, cat’s, although generally not the grandparents. ‘GrandmaFrances’ to an 11 year old would be bizarre, even for me. People think that my husband and I are a very affectionate couple since I generally refer to him as dear or darling, which saves 20% of names to remember if you assume that I don’t talk to myself by name (which I don’t. I just start talking and listen if I feel inclined.)

When the first child was in utero, she was known as Freddie the Foetus. The second one became Oscar, but by the third baby we had reverted to Freddie. Even then we couldn’t remember more than one in utero name as well as two the other children’s.

In an attempt to overcome this block, all the children became Fred. But they started calling both of us Fred, which became unutterably confusing. The next attempt was numbering them Fred 1, Fred 2 etc. However by the time I’d remembered which Fred I was talking to, I might as well have had a crack at remember their proper name.

As Latin has a long and noble history for naming mammals as well as flowers, we felt it should do perfectly fine for re-naming the children. Prima didn’t mind and neither did Duobus, although he is so laid back that we could have called him Camembert Grobblebunce IV and he wouldn’t have cared one iota. Tertius was equally phlegmatic but Quadrimus objected strongly. Since she’s a girl we decided that Quadrimia might be better, but oddly enough, this didn’t seem to appease her much.

Duobus has just started at uni, which means there are less names to remember on a daily basis. My only problem is remembering whose address to find when I text him, although thankfully I only had to hit ‘reply’ yesterday for the following conversation:

D: I’m playing squash tomorrow. A proper match.   In Bangor….Wales……

Me: At least they speak the same language…sometimes.… Take a sheep…

D: Will do. Good opportunity to do so. You won’t believe how difficult sheep are to get rid of in everyday life.

M: I believe that sheep guts are useful for restringing squash rackets.

D: I’m actually behind the guy I keep beating though… It’s weird.

M: You’re in the A team?

D: The A team. I’mHannibal.

M:. You must have done something baaaaaaaad to be number two.

D: Oh God… You did not just do that… I’ll have to take a f-lanolin my luggage….see how it feels? J

M: Some things just have to be done. Would make sham poo jokes but Tertius not here. When do you cross theSevern?

D: It’ll be sometime between crossing the Sirx and the Eirght. Could be a looooong trip though.

M: Ewe have a good time

M: no reply? Lost your memory? Not enough ram?

D: You’re just fishing for laughs now. I should bee careful. I’ll have to chicken out and duck whenever the ball flies at me. My calves may end up hurting but I’ll have to grin and bear it. I’ll be back late, so may wake up my neigh-bear.

M: Shouldn’t beef. Raccoon I’ll go to bed now. Dog tired

Certain nomenclature situations can be neatly overcome, although occasionally we notch up a spectacular failure. A short while ago I realised that it was the birthday of a newly arrived student. Grabbing a cake, we made our way to her room and robustly settled into a chorus of Happy Birthday. A few lines in came the embarrassing crunch. Somehow ‘dear student’ didn’t quite hit the spot. The only song in the whole world where you have to know someone’s name to sing it and we had blasted straight in. Zounds. With the children birthdays are easy as, with a bit of practice beforehand, I usually manage to sing the right name. It’s then compulsory to launch into ‘For s/he’s a jolly good fellow and sausage all of us’; a hangover from when my sister was a child and had problems with words. Genetic, the whole business. The current student situation is relatively easy as we have two called Juan. Having explained to the children that this was pronounced Waan, Quadrimia pointed out that as one is excessively tall and the other one not, they are The Big Juan and The Little Juan.

Time to push off as I need to text Duobus to find out how his squash match went. Then Dear is taking me out cycling.

My 90 year old mother is turning into a fruitcake. Her memory is that of a butterfly, her reasoning seeming to rely on two neurones and a single synapse. Currently she lives in old people’s home close to the centre of town. As I arrived today to visit, she asked, “Did you come by horse, dear?”
“No, mother, hitching posts are so difficult to find at this time of the day.”
The nebulous clouds inside her brain have given birth to the idea that the retirement home was built by my father. She holds onto this concept with a tenacity approaching obsession. As she loudly discussed my father’s building prowess would, in the past I have been deeply embarrassed for her as the other people listening in the communal sitting-room would know that this patently wasn’t true. From long, occasionally painful, experience of locking horns with my mother I knew there was no point in directly contradicting her. Therefore I’d swing in with diversionary tactics.
“You must be thinking of our house in Oxford, mother.” No less of a whopper as my father hadn’t built that one either.
Then I took a closer look at the people I was saving her from. Most of them were deaf, several gaga and the rest asleep. So I started agreeing with her, admired how beautifully he had built the West Wing and agreed that the turrets he’d thoughtfully put in were a particularly fine feature. I mentioned that the dungeon might perhaps be considered a tad unnecessary, although of course when he built it the children had been fairly young.
“Quite, dear. Everything is so beautifully proportioned.” Presumably referring to the stretching rack and manacle room.
The fact that she has floated off her trolley would be sad, had it not been coming on for such a long period of time, so we’ve all become accustomed to it. Years ago, when Natasha was 10, she found her grandmother wandering around in the middle of the night.
”I’ve lost my spaceship. I must get to it immediately,” said the frail grey-haired old lady, the antithesis of a space traveller in her satin nightgown and fluffy pink slippers. Natasha, who even as a child had great presence of mind, said that she felt the spaceship wasn’t quite ready yet and that grandma should go back to bed until Natasha called her for countdown. The fact my mother remained in bed until the morning was a testament to the success of the operation, although I do feel sorry for the rest of the shuttle crew who clearly had needed to launch without her.
She can be a bit startling at times. I was rambling on recently about having supper out, as she was telling me that she really must get ready to go to work, when I mentioned something about anchovies.
“But you don’t like anchovies, dear.”
Absolutely right. But how did that little flash of normality slip out of the homogenous soup of bizarre which has become her thought pattern?
The other thing that saves the situation from pathos is that were my mother firing on all cylinders, she herself would find the situation hugely amusing. She once ran an old people’s home with great brio. The pair of us were often to be found hooting with laughter over yet another escapade of one of her gerries. Years ago a mysterious male voice rang up to inform her that there was a bomb on site and that the whole house would blow shortly. My mother took the only sensible course of action. She rang the police, then summoned all the oldies into the sitting-room.
“There’s a bomb in the boiler room,” she announced. “Anyone for sherry?”
They spent an extremely pleasant afternoon eating hot buttered muffins and putting away a schooner or three. Mother would have found an undignified scramble for the lawn hilarious but unnecessary.
Seepage of marbles from the brain can have a hereditary element. The children feel that I’m already a little strange, so it is difficult to imagine that there’ll be a precise borderline, a moment when I pass from off the wall into truly weird as I get older. It’s reassuring that they will hardly notice the transition until I ask them truly bizarre questions and start fruitcaking away myself. Knowing this, I have every intention of staying healthy, staving that moment off to a long way in the future.
So I must leave you now, as I’m off to the gym. Health and fitness programme. Natasha, where did I leave my horse?

Bizarre.  I’m being
offered Olympic tickets from all sorts of sources, all legit I think, when only
a few months ago my carefully filled in application was declined. Hours had
been poured into working out what dates and times we wanted, vetoing the most
popular options, cleverly avoiding the likely bottleneck for tickets. (In
hindsight, this was probably the reasoning of countless other applicants, hence
creating a rush for the less popular tickets. I should have let my husband apply
for beach volleyball after all.) Eventually, family conferences over, in hope
and anticipation we sent off a fat cheque. Nothing. Nix. Nada. Rien. Not even
an invitation to sell popcorn for them during the marathon.

Since then, I’ve started to wonder if I really wanted to
go at all. Maybe I was just sucked into the ‘once in a lifetime on your own
turf’ spirit. Or, as the closest event to be will be sailing at Weymouth, ‘on one’s own
water’. Somehow the latter doesn’t sound so great.

Problem being that I find most of the sports very dull. It
would of course be entirely different if my aerodynamically clad son intended
to cycle his way around the velodrome. Otherwise, the event singularly fails to
turn me on. As does running (yawn), jumping, rowing long distancezzzzzzz…

There are many sports which are recognised by the Olympic
Committee that sound much more fun than the current offerings. Who, for
example, could resist the draw of an energetic game of Bandy? Korfball could be
a major attraction. Wushu and sumo would doubtless have their interesting if
bizarre moments. Chess and bridge perhaps better remain in the shadows if
thrills are being sought.

Some other gripping sports which have been played in
previous Olympic Games, but have been removed. More’s the shame. Polo must have
been very exciting to watch; all those horse galloping (or swimming) around. Even
the tug-of-war, last competed for in 1904, might have been fairly exciting;
muscular men, mud, sweat, grunting. Plenty of falling over too, for the slapstick
lovers among us. (No, that’s people who love slapstick, not lovers whoperform
in a slapstich fashion. Eeuugh). Jeu de Paume was last contested in 1908; an
elegant, stately game, great, great-grandfather of lawn tennis, played indoors.
Perhaps it being dropped was due to the stadium architects vetoing it as they
couldn’t bear to face the difficulties in getting spectators around the courts,
as the lowest row of seats would have been about 6 metres off the ground. Chicken
hearts!

There have been several Olympic demonstration sports which
have never made it to approval, such as ballooning. Some have fabulous,
incomprehensible names such as Savate and Glima. It would have been difficult
to resist the thrill of competitive surf lifesaving, yet it never slid through
the hallowed portals. Dog- sled racing is another sad loss, especially as the spectators
would have had masses of exercise keeping up with the competitors.

Perhaps we should look further afield. The International King
of Sports seems to have had the right idea. This competition included the Under
Hurdles. Held on a normal 110 m track, the competitors had to go under hurdles
rather than the mundane ‘over’ method. Slower, but must have looked hilarious.
The Underwater Shot Put using a leather ball filled with sand should have been
a must watch, although presumably it could have been difficult to televise. The
Tennis Whack involved contestants hitting a tennis ball upwards with a tennis
racket, the winner having the ball in the air for the longest time. The Water Jump
had contestants leaping from a springboard over a horizontal pole, a close
relation of the high jump yet doubtless more dramatic as wall as splashier. The
one that attracts me most out of this group however, is the 10 G Human Slalom
in which competitors ran downhill between flags, like a normal giant slalom,
but with no snow. Or skis.  The top part
of the course was steep and tight, built to test agility, the lower flatter,
for speed. Oh, soooo well thought out.

There are sports which the Olympic committee has not
chosen to recognise. Cockroach racing is apparently popular in Australia. I
suspect they’ve not accepted it as mainstream as it would have to be televised
rather than watched live since the stadium would be very small, seating an estimated
six people.

I’m considering starting a campaign for more fun in
Olympic sports; laughter in leaping, pleasure in pedaling. Also, as campaigning
is widely practised by both sexes in at least 75 (for men) and 54 (for women)
countries on all four continents, presumably I could apply to have it
recognised as an Olympic sport. I was first to campaign; gold medal position. Someone
pass me a podium, please.

My random musings meandered recently to oats. I’m beginning to believe that this humble cereal may not be quite as dull as it seems from first glance. Mystery, an interesting present, an exotic past are attached to this tiny grain, not to mention the sexual connotations of getting one’s oats or sowing wild ones.
There are many varieties: domesticated, rolled (sex again), cultivated (who presumably wouldn’t dream of talking to their wild cousins), Avena byzantine, crimped, who are doubtless ready for a night out. Domesticated oats conjure up a vision of little bunches of them wandering around the house, or curled up on the sofa, perhaps by the fire. Purring, even.
But why always multiples? In common parlance; wheat, not wheats, rye, not ryes. But oats, not oat. Although technically correct to describe a single plant, e.g. a stray one in a field of corn, as ‘an oat’, or one tiny little husk, generally it’s not used. So who are these creatures that hunt in packs?
There could be a grain of truth in the concept that oats might have changed the course of history. Oatmeal caudle, a drink made with ale, oatmeal and spices was a favourite drink of Oliver Cromwell; doubtless made from cultivated oats, not the common kind. If his carotid arteries had not been kept so clear by this combination of alcohol and soluble fibre, might his brain have been less efficient, his leadership thus less powerful?
Important enough to appear in powerful, classical literature, the oat was used by Dickens to highlight, and thus alleviate, the sufferings of the Victorian poor. The workhouse that Oliver Twist lived in was supplied with small amounts of oatmeal, making up the groats that Oliver so famously asked for more of. Would the image have been as powerful, if, instead of his gruel bowl, he had held out an empty toast rack?
The common oat may be less notable than its cultivated cousin, but it goes by a very grand name: Avena sativa. There may be a conundrum here, because although sowing one’s wild oats is being free with one’s fancy, the ancestor of the Avena sativa is a wild oat called Avena sterilis. Perhaps sterilis is preferable, if in oat sowing mood. The American expression ‘feel your oats’ suggests great confidence in your abilities or importance; also an undoubted advantage if the dissemination of untamed artery-friendly cereal is on your evening agenda.
Containing more soluble fibre than any other grain, they’re extremely good for the heart. Is this where the concept of sowing one’s wild oats originated? Maybe the grain is good for the groin. Usually oats are sown in spring and early summer. However, wild oats are sown at any time, proving that they are truly unfettered by convention, untamed by nature.
Wild oats share fame with the cultivated genus. In the Jacobean era, John Fletcher wrote a play entitled Monsieur Thomas and used Wild-oats as a nickname for two of his characters. You’d have though it confusing to have two players with the same nickname, so either Fletcher was permanently drunk whilst bashing out the play or he thought the name so fabulous it must be used polytemporaneously (doubtless not a word, but nothing else seemed to do).
So here’s these frisky little fellows who are multi-talented, stars of literature, possible shapers of history. With strong heart health and sexual connotations they could claim to be more of an aphrodisiac than oysters. Perhaps in the future restaurants which now have tanks from which one can choose a live lobster will need to change to having tiny fields where you can choose your cereal plants. So my advice would be reject oysters; pick oats.