"HOSTA LA VISTA BABY"

“Hosta la vista baby!”

Its official, I’ve reached “the falling years”. You ladies over 50 or so will possibly know what I mean. Standing in front of a full length mirror in the nude (sounds so much more rude than naked don’t you think?} takes all the courage I can muster. The 63 year old body reflected back at me always comes as a bit of a shock to put it mildly. Is that really me? How can this be? Where did the slim, supple, smooth skinned lass of even 20 years ago vanish to? I’ve gained about 25 lbs in those 20 years and before that I can hardly believe that in my twenties at 125lbs I thought I was plump! I know, there are some really fit, taut, lithe women in their 60’s out there, not to mention those who are trying to stem the relentless tide of the advancing years with Botox injections, liposuction, face lifts and tummy tucks that only prolong the agony for perhaps another 10 years. Have you seen some of those gargoyles that pass for mature women on television? Mind you, if I lost 20 lbs and kept up at my fitness and weight training classes and had just a tiny bit of surgery to tighten a sagging jaw line and maybe a wee shot of collagen injected into my ever thinning lips, then maybe, just maybe I might try a foray into the dating scene again.

Anyway, once again I seem to have strayed from my topic; “the falling years”. Apart from the obvious of falling chins, breasts and buttocks, there is the problem of physically falling down. I seem to be doing this more often than I can remember since I was five years old. A while ago I tried running lightly up the stairs to one of our Sky Train Stations, why I don’t know, they come every five minutes, only to trip on the top step and sprawl heavily to my knees in front of the hoards of people waiting to board an arriving train on one side of the platform and a departing one on the other. As I struggled to my feet, gathering my scattered belongings to me, not one single soul came to my aid or even to ask if I was alright. They studiously ignored my plight as they fought their way onto the trains and I slunk off to the side to lick my wounds and wait for the next one. Pretty much only my pride was injured on that occasion though I was quite shaken up.

Another time I was on my way to a doctors appointment and after parking my car, I crossed the road and fell up the kerb on the other side. I don’t know why, but I did. I put out both hands to save myself, spraining (or staving as we say in Scotland) my wrists in the process. I also scraped my knees and muddied my pants. I got up, brushed my self off and looked furtively around to see if anyone had witnessed this latest humiliation, no one in sight thank goodness so I carried on with my appointment. My doctor, who is an old Scotsman just looked at me over his glasses when I told him my story and tisk tisking at me said “Oh lassie, whit are we gaeing to dae wi’ ye?” I ached all over for a few days after that spill.

The most recent event occurred last week when I was pottering around my tiny garden, plucking a weed here, tweaking a recalcitrant plant there when I decided the bird bath needed my attention. I could have gone around behind it which would have been the sensible thing to do, but no, I stretched over my pots of hostas and the little wall of edging stones around the plot and endeavored to twist the bird bath to level it off a bit. Well of course I over balanced, tipped the bath over and fell among my hostas, knocking pots and gnomes flying in the process. I can only imagine how this must have appeared from behind had there been any witnesses!

Once I extricated myself from the plot, almost impaling myself on the pointed hat of a cheerfully smiling gnome in the process, I surveyed the damage both to my plants and my person. I righted the bird bath and noted the many broken and flattened leaves of my poor hostas. I had sustained a “staved” left wrist, a scraped right hand, two bruised knees, one which has since come up in a bump the size of a hens egg and also a big purple bruise which has appeared on my right inner thigh, I don’t remember how that got there although I suspect the gnome had something to do with it.

So here I am, sitting in the sun recuperating from the trauma of it all, Gin and Tonic at hand and I am hoping, dear readers, that I’m not suffering alone with this ghastly affliction and I look forward to hearing your “falling” stories soon too!

Cheers!

A Nana Over The Edge

New writing assignment

This is for my latest writing assignment from Mr. Sternberg and it was a hard one! We had to incorporate a quotation and then pick at least 10 words to change that must enrich the story and make it obvious what they were. I have taken a stab at it and if nothing else, it's good exercise for the old brain cells! Please excuse the grammar, I've forgotten all the rules around quotation marks but would appreciate any tips on editing!

The Radio

I stood hesitantly uncertainly at the door of the old shop. I’d passed it by many times, glancing in the window as I hurried along on some errand, urgent or otherwise but today I had a reason to stop as firmly clutched in my arms was a parcel containing the pieces of my grandfather’s old Bakelite radio. The old boy had left it to me in his will, he had also left me a modest sum of money, his gold railroad watch and other sundry items but a letter to me, which accompanied the will, specifically told me to look after his old radio and mentioned that if I ever got it working, I would be in for quite a surprise.

So curiosity piqued, I found myself entering the old, dusty, musty electronics repair shop that I had walked by so many times before. Peering through the dust motes floating in the still warm air of the room, I could just make out the outline of piles of parts, wires, tubes and bits and pieces of miscellaneous assorted plastic littering the tables and counter tops.

“Hello” I called out tentatively uncertainly “is there anyone here?” I heard a noise from somewhere in the back of the gloom and a bent figure slowly shuffled into the faint light falling from a naked light bulb hanging in the middle of the room. “Yes, can I help you?” a thin voice like paper rustling reached towards me and drew me into the circle of light. The shop keeper, if you could call him that appeared very old, ancient really, well past his sell by date and retirement age as well. His few strands of wispy white hair were carefully combed over a bald, mottled pate and a pair of gold wire rimmed spectacles (one would not call them glasses!) magnified his blue, rheumy eyes which nonetheless sparkled with intelligence. He reminded me of an elderly cricket and he did move with a rather odd hopping gait which he proceeded to do quite suddenly, circling around me and making a small humming sound under his breath while he did so.

I remained transfixed for a few moments and then managed to stammer stutter out my request asking him to take a look at the radio and see if there was any hope of getting it in working order. He stopped his hopping and indicating to a relatively clear spot on his work bench with a gnarled, grubby finger, I set the parcel down there. He dragged a small stool over to the bench and perching on it, untied the string and opened the brown paper wrapping. He continued to make little sounds, tisking and tutting and humming while poking and picking up the various parts. “An old RCA Victor I see, model 66X3, 1940’s. They don’t make em’ like that anymore”. “Leave it with me, come back in two weeks and we’ll see what’s what”.

I was about to leave after jotting down my name and phone number for him, when I noticed he was looking at me rather oddly. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Oh nothing”, he replied, busying himself with his tools, “I was just wondering why you want this old thing fixed; some things are better left unmended”. “Did your grandfather not warn you about meddling interfering with things best left alone? Do you not wonder why this radio’s in so many pieces, almost as if it was deliberately smashed?” I hadn’t really given it much thought about how it came to be in so many bits but now I felt a chill running down my spine, in fact the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a few degrees since I had first come in. “No, I hadn’t” I replied, “my grandfather left it to me and suggested I try and get it fixed, that’s all”. “Okay” he said “it’s your funeral, see you in two weeks”.

It was only after I rather gratefully left the store and hurried back to my warm apartment that I realized I hadn’t actually told him how I had come by the radio, not until I was leaving that is. How did he know about my grandfather? I laughed at my foolishness silliness, he probably just guessed, judging by the age of the radio. I forgot all about it until nearly a month had passed and I was sitting studying for yet another exam when the phone rang. “Hello” I said, “Mark here”. A thin reedy voice wheezed into my ear, “the radio’s ready, come pick it up…..soon”. Before I could reply I heard the click of the receiver clattering down at the other end. I knew who it was of course and it was with a sense of uneasiness I realized I didn’t really want to collect the thing now anyway. Sighing I returned to my books, I’d call in at the shop tomorrow after class.

I stood once again outside the shop door, noting this time that there was actually no identifying name or number over the lintel or anywhere. Telling myself to ‘get a grip’, I opened the door firmly and went in. This time a bell tinkled, announcing my arrival, I glanced up at it, trembling shaking away as I passed through. I could see the old man waiting by the counter in the gloom, no difference there then, I thought. He waited patiently for me, his hands moving gently, almost lovingly over a small square brown radio gleaming softly in the dim light. It looked as good as new, it was actually a mottled brown and beige colour, with large clear dial numbers, a cloth grill and 3 large tuning buttons on the front, quite handsome really.

“Wow” I exclaimed, “it looks brand new”. He just smiled and turning to the wall, plugged the set in. The dial front lit up and as he tuned the station button, the soothing sounds of Glenn Miller’s “String of Pearls” flowed from the speaker. “That’s great” I said, thinking it must be one of those oldies stations. “Thank you very much, and what do I owe you?” He smiled again, turned off the radio, unplugged it and wrapped it carefully up in the same paper I had brought it in, knotting the string thoughtfully considerately into a carrying handle for me. “That will be twenty pounds” he said. “Are you sure?” I asked, it didn’t seem much for such a restoration job. “Yes” he replied, “quite enough, young man. Maybe even too high a price. Use it carefully” he added enigmatically mysteriously.

I took it home and after some revision and a take-out meal, I settled down to read a magazine and drink a beer, I felt I had earned that small pleasure. As I settled by the electric fire, my eye fell upon the radio, now sitting burnished and gleaming on my sideboard, a relic from my grandmother actually. I switched it on and the first words I heard were, “Who knows, the Shadow knows” and a commentator welcomed us to the Lux playhouse. I twiddled the tuner but kept coming up with nothing but really old plays, comedies, music and commercials selling cigarettes and cars and detergents from by gone days. What the heck is going on, I thought. Next the announcer was exhorting us to buy war bonds. This is nuts, am I going crazy or what. I switched on the TV, it was showing Star Trek reruns, which I found somewhat comforting. I turned it off and tried the radio again. This time it was a play with a young Orson Welles starring in it, a thriller, quite creepy actually. I left it on and returned to my chair, leaning back and letting his mellifluous honeyed tones draw me into the story. He was intoning “I see things in darkness that no one should see by light of day.” when I must have dozed off.

When I awoke, the first thing I noticed was that it was very quiet; I couldn’t hear the usual hubbub din of traffic outside. In fact everything was very dark, my room felt different somehow, all the lights were off except for the glow from the radio which was silent now. I stumbled to my feet, a newspaper spilling off my lap. I made my way to the light switch, even it felt different. The light came on revealing a very different room to the one I fell asleep in. I didn’t recognize anything in it except for the radio and the old sideboard it stood on, though even that looked bright and new. Dazedly numbly I went to my window, I pulled back the heavy dark curtains and tried to see out, the glass was criss-crossed with tape and the street below was in blackness, not a light to be seen, what few passersby there were, walked quickly by holding shielded flashlights pointing to the ground. I suddenly heard a loud whistle and a uniformed man yelled up at me “Turn your light off, don’t you know there’s a war on?”

I staggered back, letting the curtains fall back in place, somehow or another I had been transported back to the 1940’s, how could this be? I grabbed the paper and frantically looked for the date, there it was staring at me; January 21, 1944. Is this what my grandfather meant by my surprise? This is insane, I can’t stay here, I haven’t even been born yet. I ran across the room and grabbed the radio, raising it above my head I threw it to the floor, smashing shattering it to pieces once again. I must have fainted, when I came to, I was lying on the floor amid the wreckage of the radio but to my immense relief, I was staring at the same beer stained rug I had always had and I could hear the roar of the morning traffic outside my window.

I gathered the pieces of the radio together in a bin bag and dropped the lot in a garbage can by the main door on my way out. As I ran for the bus, I glanced across the street to look for the repair shop; there was no sign of it, only the launderette next door and a new doughnut franchise. Somehow, I was not at all surprised.

Incident at the Gym

Thank you all for your kind words about my April Fool misadventure. Unfortunately there seems to be no end of my embarrassing moments to share with you. Here is another one from my School Days. I hope you enjoy it!

Another embarrassing moment in the life of Nana Crunch.

To set the scene we have to go back to the so-called good old days of the 1950’s when I attended High School in Edinburgh, Scotland. Back then you generally left school at age15 unless you passed your “Highers” and could go on until you were 18. We sat exams in elementary school grade 8 and these determined what ‘stream’ you would enter in High School. I fell into the category of “Commercial One” which meant I was going to be a short-hand typist whether I wanted to or not. Lower scores were sent to “Domestic” or “Commercial Two”, higher scores got “Languages” and thought they were way better than the rest of us plebs.

“Domestic” meant you were destined for the factory floor, or the service industry and “Commercial 2” meant you were taught some typing skills as well as cooking. The elevated “Languages” classes were taught Latin and German and didn’t have to work with their hands at all. As well as typing, short-hand and book-keeping, we also had English, History, Geography, French, Science, Math, Art, Music and Sewing. They didn’t seem to think we needed to know how to boil an egg but we had to be able to sew buttons on our husbands’ shirts! I also have the painful memory of being given the ‘belt’ by granny Ross, our vicious little sewing teacher, all because I didn’t put my lap-bag on fast enough, too busy talking. This was delivered in front of the class and the fact that I was a hulking 5’ 6” and she stood about four feet nothing did not deter her. I can still feel it! There were several boys in our class but instead of sewing, they were given the manly task of banging nails into bits of wood while we treadled our lives away. I’m sure there must be a place somewhere in another plane of existence where all those mismatched “what-knots” and lop-sided display shelves languish along with aprons, dirndl skirts and unwearable blouses.

That reminds me, we were also taught something called “R.I.”, Religious Instruction, from which the two Catholics in our class were always mysteriously excused, the rest of us being good Scottish Protestants of course. I rather enjoyed this class, it was more like an ancient history lesson and we got to draw interesting maps of the Holy Land. I remember I actually won a prize for an essay we had to write. It was to be a modern day parable and I chose “The Prodigal Son”. Something about him returning home on the Number One bus apparently struck a chord with the jury! The prize I picked was a book, “Animal Tales” by Blackwood, I still have it (my one and only school honour!)

The other class I was not very keen on was Gym. You have to picture the era, we didn’t wear shorts back then we just took off our skirts and ran around in our school blouses and navy knickers. These were made of thick durable navy cotton with elastic around the legs; some even had a pocket in them for a hanky. The classes were not co-ed though, thank goodness.
We would be made to do all the usual humiliating routines of trying to climb the ropes, balance on beams, hang upside down on the wall bars and on occasion, vault over a “horse” or “buck”.

Sadly, I was never very athletic but the Gym teacher, Miss N. always tried to inspire us to greater things. She was convinced this day that I could make it over the vaulting horse. She said we had to take a really good run at it, rebound off the launching ramp, slap our hands in the middle of the ‘horse’ and over we would fly. She assured us she would be there to catch us. So there we were, all lined up around the gym waiting our turn. My heart was pounding but I was determined to give it my best shot. I watched in some trepidation as the girl in front of me hurtled towards the ‘horse’ only to shy away at the last moment, almost taking Miss N. with her. I swallowed hard and gathering my courage prepared for take off. Miss N. was smiling encouragingly at me from beside the beast. “Come on M, I know you can do it!” she called. Taking a deep breath and running as hard as I could, I landed my feet squarely on the ramp with a satisfying thump, launched myself into the air, hands landing precisely as instructed in the centre of the ‘horse’ and then horror of horrors, the elastic in one leg of my “breeks” caught on a protrusion sticking up from the top of the ‘horse’. There was a loud ripping sound and I sailed on leaving most of my knickers hanging on the ‘horse’.

There was a moment of complete silence then the whole room erupted. I can still see all the girls collapsing in hysterics against the wall bars, my best friend M absolutely doubled up with laughter. Miss N after she regained her composure grabbed me to herself and enfolding me in her thankfully wide skirts, marched me lock step to her office. The offending item of clothing was retrieved and I sat and sewed them together in quiet misery as best I could, the laughter of my class mates still ringing in my ears. Miss N, bless her, told me she hadn’t had such a good laugh in years and hoped I didn’t mind but she had just had to tell the next class about my misadventure. Of course it was all over the school by lunch time but I saw the funny side of it and whenever I get together with my Scottish friends we still talk and laugh about it. I’m glad this was well before the days of camera cell phones and You Tube, Britany Spears had nothing on me!

April Fool!

Well I promised I’d share my April Fools Day story with you and here it is:

Many years ago, I was enamored of a certain young man, quite a few years my junior. DD (darling daughter) and HDF (her dear friend) were not impressed with either him or me and were delighted when he moved to Calgary, hoping that would put an end to this disgusting, licentious relationship, in their view that is.

I was moping around the house like a love-sick fourteen year-old, much to their increasing disdain, so to amuse themselves; they concocted an evil prank to play on me that April 1 so long ago. Sigh.

HDF was staying over with us that weekend and they were both familiar with my Sunday morning routine which generally involved my making coffee and toast and taking it back to bed to read the papers while they giggled and carried on downstairs doing whatever it is teenage girls do.

Of course, I was not looking my best, bed-head, ratty nighty, scruffy slippers and scruffier robe at hand but I was happily ensconced in my boudoir slurping my java and enjoying reading about the latest Hollywood scandals when there was a loud knocking at the front door. I listened to see who it was, probably Jehovah Witnesses I thought. Then Kerry came running up the stairs; “Mum” she cried, “guess who’s here? It’s D! He’s just arrived from Calgary!”

Well, you can imagine my horror, I leapt out of bed and stage whispered to DD to keep him entertained downstairs while I freshened up. She departed and I ran to the bathroom in panic and tried to open the door, I couldn’t at first, the handle seemed all slippery. I managed to gain entrance, grabbed the taps, but couldn’t turn them on either, they were tightened right up and all slippery too!

Eventually after some panicked effort, I managed to wash my face, brush my teeth and hair, slip into jeans and a top, all the time trilling out loudly “I’m coming, I’ll be right down” and after composing myself went downstairs to greet my paramour. Well, you can guess that all that was awaiting me were two little faces staring at me innocently from the couch as I looked around in vain for D. It was about that moment that I realized I had been well and truly had and DD and HDF could contain themselves no longer and exploded in hysterical laughter, chorusing “April Fool!”

I’ll draw a veil over what happened next, suffice to say, like Queen Victoria, I was not amused and drawing what shreds of dignity about me that I could, stomped back up the stairs, the echoes of their laughter sounding in my ears. Of course, I did see the humour of it eventually though it did take them quite a while to remove all the cooking oil they had so liberally applied to all the fittings!

P.S. Names have been changed to protect the guilty!

Heh, heh. It was beautiful. She didn’t mention the simpery voice she used to call down that “She would be riiiiight there’ as she frantically yanked on those handles and taps! We nailed her good! I just know my mom soooo well.

Another time, HDF and I left our clothes laid out on the living room floor like something out of Star Trek…only the powdered orange juice left. Did I mention we were big nerds?

Thank you for your kind words

I would like to thank all who have commented so positively on my "Renewal" writing assignment. Your words give me the encouragement I need to keep putting pen to paper!

Renewal (A Writing Assignment)

Mr. Sternberg of House of Sternberg has an interesting writing assignment that I thought I would take a stab at.

Renewal

There always seems to be something in my home about to expire, including me. My driver’s license is due for renewal as is my passport, car insurance, library card, credit cards, and warranties on various household items which, as you know, always break down the day after expiry of said warranty.

I got to thinking, what if we had an expiry date, say once we reach our allotted three score years and ten and found ourselves in front of the court of last resort to plead our case for possible renewal. What would we say, how would we plead? What possibly reason could we give to justify another ten years of life or so on this wonderful, if somewhat damaged Earth?

I hope I get a good ‘brief’ as it will take some justifying on my part to allow me stick around a bit longer. On reviewing seventy years of living an average life, what could I say on my behalf? That I didn’t kill or maim any living creature? Well, not quite true, what about the countless spiders and miscellaneous creeping creatures that I have dispatched without too much thought over the intervening years? Not to mention all the lambs, calves, cows, chickens, fish and crustaceans that were sacrificed for my Sunday dinners. What contribution have I made to benefit the planet or even my own tiny living space? I married and had one child, thus adding to over-crowding by one soul. I have owned and driven four cars over my time thus polluting the atmosphere, I helped fill the landfills to overflowing before recycling finally kicked in. A point for me on that score.

I have tried to leave as small a footprint as possible. I have assisted my fellow-persons on my journey where I can, but then again, I have also walked heedlessly by the Salvation Army kettles on occasion and stepped over some unfortunate lying on the sidewalk, unless they had a dog with them. I can see the scales tipping the other way again.

Okay my life so far, no major crimes, not even a speeding ticket, parking tickets yes, but I always paid them on time. Contributions to society, did I build a better mouse-trap? No, I haven’t even come up with an original thought, if someone says something extremely witty; I’ll file it away so I can trot it out later, impressing those around me as to how funny and clever I am. The scales are dipping further.

Employment, nothing to help there I’m afraid. A lifetime of secretarial and administrative work has only resulted in the destruction of acres of rain forest. After 33 years of toil, my work was just consigned to the recycle bin; my desk cleared and refilled almost immediately by yet another office drone with not a sign that I had ever occupied that cubicle space. Well, there was a sign with my name on it and I took it with me. I’ll just pick out my wings now shall I?

Would I be missed? There is that to help balance the scales. I love my daughter dearly and she has given me two wonderful grand children, a boy and a girl, who are the light of my life. I am thankful that I have my health and can help out with baby sitting and that I am fit enough to join in their games. Watching them blossom and grow fills me with delight and I try to pass on to them the lessons I have learned from my mistakes.

I am also blessed with a circle of friends who put up with me quite happily. We all support one another in times of sadness and have shared many moments of laughter as well. In my remaining time, I will try harder to make myself useful and with spring around the corner, cherry blossoms peeking out, daffodils blooming there is a lot to live for.

I see the scales have tipped slightly again in my favour, life is good.

Well lads and lassies, sorry for my long absence, I have now fully recovered from that dreaded lurgie and feel much more like my old self. Thanks to crunchy junior for letting you all know that I'm still around!

I would have liked you to have been able to picture me laying draped artistically on my chaise, looking pale but interesting ala "Lady of the Camilias" but alas I would not have wished my appearance on anyone. It was more me sitting on said couch, feet resting on the coffee table while covered from head to toe with my electric "blankie" (which darling daughter thankfully gave me a few years ago) and wads of Kleenex tissue shoved up my red and streaming nostrils. Not a pretty sight. I also watched waaay too much TV during my recovery period. When I was with the cable company, I just paid for basic programming which went up to channel 28 here on the lower mainland. Recently, however, I switched to digital TV and had 3 months of what seemed to be hundreds of channels for free. Whoopee!

The only programs I got hooked on, however, were of the "How not to decorate" and "Sell this house" variety. I became fascinated with just what awful taste in decor the Brits appear to have! Wall to wall carpeting in the bathroom, three different wall paper patterns in the same room, clutter and junk everywhere! What fun the decorators had ripping these poor people's home's apart. Of course bad taste isn't restricted to the Brits, lots of room for improvement out here too!

Come to think of it, we had carpeting in our bathroom in Scotland at one time too, there was no heater of course. To warm the room so DD (darling daughter) could have a bath, I ran the water as hot as I could to fill the place with steam and rush her in when it resembled a sauna. Meantime, I'd warm a towel by the wee gas fire (not like the models are now) then run in, wheech her out of the tub and back to the fire before she froze solid. Sigh, those were the days. No shower, no central heating, no dishwasher and a fridge the size of bread bin. In the depths of winter the frost made lovely patterns......on the inside of the windows! The three of us would huddle around the gas fire, vying for the warmest spot, That would be DD, the cat and me. The cat usually won. For years I had blotchy red marks on my legs from sitting too close to the fire while my back froze. I'm sure there are lots of you out there with similar memories, and that was only in the 70's in Edinburgh! When we arrived in Vancouver in 1981, we thought we had died and gone to heaven, constant hot water and a shower every day, what bliss!

Well, I've digressed a bit from where I started but will return with more stories and chit chat soon, time for a long, hot shower!

Where is Nana Crunch

I think my mom has a bit of writers block about this whole blogging thing.



I think she feels she must have something very pithy to say...when we all know that you can spout about anything going on in your brain....that is what it is all about.



She also hasn't been feeling to great lately.....cough that won't go away.



So I hope she blogs soon....



But be patient.



She has been working hard at feeling better AND rushing over to my house to help me out with my crazy children.



She also works part time and has a boatload of friends to keep up with.



She is an amazing and caring woman.



Anyway......I will come up with some more stories too.



There is a load of em.

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Happy Birthday Nana Crunch!

Today was my mom's birthday. I won't say which one!

Being that she has a yucky cold and we are all just starting to feel human again, it was a low key event.

But the kids painted her pictures and had gifts for her so we had a lovely little tea to celebrate.

She is a great Nana and a great mom and my great friend too. I don't know what I would do without her support AND laughter.

We are lucky to have her close by.

Here's to you Mum!

Now let ME tell you a story!!!!

My mom and I are pretty tight.
It has been the two of us against the world for a long time. Therefore we tend to share the same sense of humour and the same sense of absurdity. This can be a good thing, but it can also cause much tragedy.

Quite a few years ago now, tenish I am thinking, The King's Singers came to town. Being that we knew them from our life in Scotland, we thought it would be nice to go and see them. They were playing at the Orpheum Theatre, a beautiful concert hall in downtown Vancouver. Also home of the Vancouver Symphony and therefore filled with a heady breeze of class and pretentiousness.

Now we both actually DO enjoy choral music and they are an amazing group with stunning voices. We did enjoy their eclectic selection of new and old, medieval and baroque that they presented with such beauty. You really should hear them.

And their concert was lovely. Before each piece they would give us a little background on the music and the arrangement, we also found this very interesting, that is until they came to one song. One song that seemed to have the unfortunate name 'Lydia' or it was about a 'Lydia' anyway.

Well that was it. There was a crackle of energy between our twisted brains as we both thought the same thing and hummed the same thing in our heads at the exact same time.......


"Lydia, Oh Lydia,
Have you seen Lydia?
Lydia the tAhtooed lady!"

(if you don't know this little ditty, check out 'The Fisher King,' they sing it there, I believe)

Now we both knew that they were NOT going to be singing THAT Lydia, but the thought that they might struck us stupidly funny.

We could not look at each other.
We dared not. Because we both knew we were thinking it. And we both knew that we would take one look at each other and burst into hysterical laughter.

You do not burst into laughter at the King's Singers. You may politely chuckle at a clever English witisicm, but you do not guffaw or snigger like some demented prepubescent.

We really wanted to snigger like some demented prepubesents. We reeeeeeelly wanted to.

I could feel my mother's shoulders shaking with barely constrained hysterics. I was breaking out in a sweat. I think I wimpered.

We were starting to get 'looks' from the crowd around us. The season ticket matrons were NOT impressed.

Finally, my mom broke first. She let out this strangled 'Muhaharrrgghackcoughcough' and leaped out of her chair and fled out of the theatre, leaving me bent double and snorting into my coat.

Real mature.

We really should not be allowed out in public venues.

Musings on a winter day

The other snow day, the Crunch family were out frolicking in the snow (not frockiling as wee crunch said when she was 6 as in "Grandad, what does 'No frockiling in the pool mean?"). But I digress. Anway Adam, 41/2 going on 14 suddenly stops dead in his tracks and pointing at the pristine snow in front of him exclaimed; "Look Nana, snow nip nips!" And sure enough when I looked, there were two perfectly molded soft mounds of snow together, looking strangely enough like some unfortunate woman was laying under it. Adam then added "they look just like mummy's in her sweater! I'm going to look for more!". Spoken like a true male!

The icequeen cometh

Well, here I am back on line after a slight hiccup due to a variety of things I'll not test your patience with at this time. We are currently "enjoying" a period equal to a mini ice-age in our small corner of this benighted planet. I wish it would go away. But the icy state of our lanes and streets brings to mind an occasion that brought me into rather hard contact with the elements. It went something like this:

A number of years ago and before we had a car, I had stopped at the local shops for groceries on the way home from work. My darling daughter was in the house with her best friend Rebecca. The trails home were just sheet ice so picture me, coated and booted, toque firmly in place, scarf wound around my face with just my glasses and nose showing. I'm teetering along carefully balancing the heavy grocery bags in each hand when "wham", my feet shoot out from under me. Next thing, I'm flat on my back, head hitting the ice, arms flung wide out still clutching the damn groceries. I'm stunned for a few moments, no one in sight of course, and I can't get up, can't get any purchase on the ice. I sort of crawl to the side of the path and haul myself up by the trees and mustering what dignity I can, stagger to my house. I fling open the door, and stand there, hat askew, glasses steaming up and glare at my daughter and Rebecca who are tucked up in front of the telly, sipping hot chocolate or something equally warming. They look at me like I've arrived from outer space and chorus "what's wrong, are you alright"! I drag myself in, throw down the groceries (or 'messages' as we called them in Scotland for some strange reason lost in the mists of time) and practically in tears, tell them my sad story. They try very hard to be sympathetic, making soothing sounds as one went to put the kettle on and the other unwound my scarf and helped me off with my coat. They clucked and tutted and sat me down, gave me my tea and then they burst into hysterical laughter. I was still wittering on about my misadventure and they couldn’t hold it in any longer, little beasts! Years later, Rebecca even sent me a wee drawing she had done of me lying in the snow, a good likeness too! Oh well, I can laugh now, but it WASN'T FUNNY AT THE TIME!

My daughter will relish this story as I am never allowed to forget it. Hope it brightened your day, and yes I know, compared to other parts of the country we get off very lightly!

Life in Kielder Court

Life has been quite interesting here. Between wicked windstorms, snowstorms and my weird health issues, we have been dealing with new things almost every day.

Last night Adam was feeling awful. He always seems to get the sickest. This lovely picture was taken when he really needed his daddy to just be with him. Daddy stuck by his boy through his sickness, even helped him when he threw up. This is a quiet moment for them.

Thank goodness I am finished the majority of my medical tests and can be here in mind and body for my family again.



We are in another cold snap here and all the snow has turned to ice. Makes for beautiful if not chilly days. The 'find the black ice' game is a riot too!

'A guid New Year to ain and all!'

Well here we are in 2007 or 007 as I like to see it. Good movie by the way, just like the early ones with big Tam Connery playing Bond.

Well the tree's oot the back, the decorations all restored to their summer resting place and no doubt after I vacuum for the umpteenth time, I will finally sook up the last of the pine needles hiding in the carpet, waiting to stab an unwary bare toe. I have made no resolutions, no point, I never keep them but I have a cunning plan. Starting today, I will walk more, eat less, suffer withdrawal symptons from cutting back on TV, oh which reminds me, CBC have cancelled 'Emmerdale' and there are apparently at least 310 irrate fans across Canada now protesting it's loss. Petitions have been signed! E-mails sent! Of course no attention will be paid to us. They want more 'Canadian content' whatever that means. However, their latest new show starting next week is "Little Mosque on the Prairie". 'Nuff said.

Now where was I, oh no resolutions just a plan to lose 10lbs by April. Watch this space for my progress report! Meantime, I'm off to mind the grandbairns for a wee while.