During our trip to Greg and Deb’s last month we ate out at restaurants a lot. When we did Greg and I invariably found ourselves ordering the same things from the menu. Our similar taste in food was just one of the things we had in common, in fact there were so many similarities between us that it began to get slightly unnerving. We both shared the same senses of humor and political outlooks. Hell, I recently found out we both had diarrhea at the same time. The only difference between us it seems is that I am a youthful and sprightly 31, while he is an old and doddery 40.
But it’s not just Greg who I find myself having a lot in common with. Lee over at Quit Your Day Job writes humorously and eloquently about popular and pulp culture with an enthusiasm which reminds me very much of my own at one time. That was a time of course before parenthood forced me to lose touch with my inner geek and move my comic collection up to the attic. Still, Lee has the ability to awaken the sleeping fanboy in me, and for that I am grateful.
But now Lee has revealed he shares another one of my interests: trying to grow vegetables with very little prior skill or experience. He’s even started up another blog to chronicle his adventures in horticulture – Urban Cultivation (I strongly advise you to go and take a look, it’s full of drama and suspense – like a soap opera, except with lettuces).
I was half tempted to follow Lee’s lead and create my own separate blog to deal with my gardening efforts, but then I thought about how much work it would be and decided against it. And anyway, this blog was always intended to be a way of recording the growth of my family for posterity. I’m just going to expand my definition of family to include a few plastic pots full of dirt that’s all.
So – for the record. Out in the front garden at the moment there are pots of tomatoes, potatoes, runner beans, chives and strawberries, as well as assorted flowers I’ve stuck in because I liked the pictures on the packet. Inside the house on various windowsills are french beans, rosemary, and even more chives waiting untill they get big enough to plant out.
Of course all these plants look virtually identical because they are only about an inch high at the moment, but all the seeds were different shapes so I’m fairly confident they’ll look different eventually.
I’ll keep you updated. I bet you can hardly wait can you. Just be thankful I’m not on a redecorating kick at the moment, then you might have had to read through my riveting accounts of the paint drying process.
Over the last few years I have put on quite a bit of weight. This has been due to a combination of things: i.e. the difficulty finding time to prepare proper meals now we’ve got the kids and the lack of physical activity in my job. But mainly my weight gain has been due to my two favorite deadly sins – gluttony and sloth. I only have myself to blame.
As a result of my transformation into a fat bloater, only approximately 20% of my wardrobe actually fits me. Normally that isn’t too much of a problem as I just circulate the old favorites (plus I wear my underpants for several days in a row). However, when I am called on to wear particularly specific clothing (such as lederhosen or a kilt) I tend to come unstuck.
I am going to a funeral today. One of my colleague’s husband has passed away and, while I didn’t know him, I am going along to show my support for her. But I can’t find my white shirt. I know I have one, I wore it to a funeral last month. It’s a posh one that needs cufflinks and I’m never sure if I’ve done them properly.
We’re in the middle of a laundry meltdown at the moment at the Hughes household. We have piles of washing stacked up around our bedroom to the point that you almost can’t see out of the windows. We’ll get back on top of things eventually, but for the time being every time you want to get dressed you have to rummage through the heap like a contestant on the crystal maze.
So my white shirt is lost somewhere in the pile. I am loathe to disturb it to much in case the whole thing topples down on me. Left pinned under such an avalanche of dirty washing I would sustain myself only by sucking on damp socks and food stains on shirts, until eventually after five days I would be reported missing and dragged out by a mountain rescue St Bernard.
No, it’s not worth the risk. I think I’ll wear my grey shirt instead.
Not only am I a master carpenter, but I am also a master bricklayer. Is there no end to my talents? It’s a bloody good job that the garden is meant to be “rustic”, that’s all I can say.
There obviously will be more steps to join this one, but there is only so much stone you can
steal from walls find in one go. Plus I want to give the mortar time to set. I intend to plant alpines in all the cracks so hopefully it won’t look that bad when fully finished.
I went for my tooth taking out this morning. It was much less of an ordeal than I had anticipated, just a few tugs, an unpleasant cracking noise, and then it was over. Looking at it siting in the silver bowl I was struck by how big it seemed and felt a little pang of regret that I hadn’t opted for the root canal.
Still, it’s out now. The dentist even uttered an involuntary “yuck” as she was pointing out the cavity in it to me. I now have to spend the next couple of days trying to resist the urge to probe the gap it left. My immediate mission however is to get through the next few hours until the anesthetic wears off without accidentally eating my tongue.
- Robert Browning
We’re having a bit of a mini heatwave this weekend, and very welcome it is too. Our new barometer I installed last week said it was 30Â°C (86Â°F), but I think that it was being a little over enthusiastic. The weather report stated it was about 21Â°C (70Â°F), which sounds more realistic. Whatever the numbers, it was nice and warm.
Of course I was stuck at work most of the day, but once I had finished we did manage to squeeze in a rather pleasant walk alongside the canal with my mum and my sister. I had to disappear into the undergrowth on a couple of occasions in order to retrieve Holly who had gone after some rabbits, but other than that it was most enjoyable.
I had intended to round of the day with a civilized jug of Pimms and lemonade in the front garden, but unfortunately none of the local off licenses stock it so I had to make do with beer instead.
Life’s pretty good all in all.
When Evan was born Amy kept trying to pick him up and carry him around the room.
â€œNo, donâ€™t do that!â€ Weâ€™d tell her â€œHeâ€™s too little for you to pick him upâ€
These days Amy still has the same desire to carry him around, but we now say:
â€œNo, donâ€™t do that! Heâ€™s too big for you to pick upâ€.
There once was a window of opportunity – February 7th between 1:35 and 3:15 in the morning. During that time he was just the perfect size for lifting, but Amy blew it by being asleep.
Those are the breaks I guess.
I have many irritating faults. I pretend Iâ€™m listening when Iâ€™m not, I sprinkle when I tinkle, and whenever I hear a car horn out in public I pretend that it was me farting. However the character flaw that probably annoys Kerry the most is my tendency to continually question conventional wisdom, especially when it comes to caring for babies.
We donâ€™t tend to have rows but we have definitely had mutual sulks about the efficacy of cough medicine, the need to discard boiled water left in an open container after 1 hour, and the ability of the medical profession to distinguish a coccyx from a humeroulnar joint.
I was out in the garden this morning shoveling a newly aquired heap of horse poo into my compost heap when I remembered another bugbear of mine.
As far as the senses go, newborn babies are pretty basic. They can only focus 18 inches directly infront of their face. They can distinguish between soft and loud sounds and high and low pitchs. They can tell the difference between sweet, sour, bitter, and salty tastes.
So why is it that everyone assumes that babies have some sort of superhuman sense of smell? Every time the baby is passed to one of itâ€™s parents and stops crying someone always pipes up with â€œOooo, they can smell itâ€™s their Mummy/Daddyâ€. Bits of old clothing are even left in the babyâ€™s cot so they will be fooled into thinking there parents are there.
Iâ€™m sorry, but if I put one of my stinky t-shirts in with Evan you would be completely justified in calling the child protection services. And while I concede that he might be able to tell Kerry and I apart by smell, I very much doubt he would be able to tell Kerry and freshly laundered clothes apart, or even me and a piece of mouldy damp carpet if it came to it.
Even Wikipedia are at it:
[a baby] within the first week of life can already distinguish [by smell] the differences between the mother’s own breast milk and the breast milk of another female.
How!? How can they possibly know that a 1 week old baby is making a distinction between two different milks!? What instrument did they use to measure that!? I pore score on the whole debarkle.
And donâ€™t bother responding with so called â€œfactsâ€, â€œevidenceâ€, and â€œmethodically scientific research papersâ€ in order to prove me wrong. Thatâ€™s just the sort of low down underhanded trick that Kerry would pull.