Blue Witch

Post haste

No time to write anything sensible today (too much to do etc, you know how it is) so I'll leave you with this wonderful old but still in use post box found down a country lane during a recent weekend trip to a village open gardens.

Open gardens must be the best Value summer day out there is. This weekend we did some local ones - £3.50 each for two afternoons of looking round 28 lovely gardens. Tea and home-made cake for 2: £2.50. Including, according to my in-house chocoholic, possibly the best chocolate cake ever. For which I have the recipe :)

The Friday Question

Reading on the toilet.

Yes or no?

It doesn't add up

I went into Local Small Town Boots to collect 212 colour prints late afternoon yesterday. 6p each in that quantity (there are slightly cheaper places but I don't rate the chances of their colours lasting 20 years without changing colour as the Boots ones do - or don't, depending how you look at it).

On the way out of the car park I noticed a woman getting out of her large black 4x4 with drug-dealer windows (that's what I call blacked out windows for those who hadn't worked it out). In a designated disabled parking space.

Still on my one Witch plus one GoodTwin, one grannypurple and one ambermoggie Campaign Against Inconsiderate Parking, I smiled at her (which wasn't what I felt like doing, but the nice tack oftern works before the nasty one is needed) and said, quite 'officially', "Excuse me, could you tell me why you've parked in a disabled space please?" She overly-feigned horror, and didn't even look around. "Oh gosh, I hadn't realised, I'll move straight away!" And she did! Tempted as I was to suggest that if she hadn't noticed the yellow outlining and blue paint on the space, she shouldn't actually be driving, I simply gave her a little wave and went on my way.

I had a voucher for 3 free prints. The pimply young lad on the photo counter looked worried and reached in a drawer for a calculator. "The prints are 6p each," I said, "and there are 3 of them. 18p." He looked even more worried. "Erm, are you sure?" "Three times six is eighteen," I confirmed. "I just need to work out how much that is then, because the till can't do it automatically." A woman with two kids in a local independent school uniform was queuing behind me. Instinct told me that the 9 or 10 year old would be able to take 18p from £12.72.

"Help the assistant out, would you?" I asked. "What is 72p minus 18p?" The answer came back quick as a flash. "54p!" "Well done you!" I said. His mum looked surpried. "I didn't know he could do that!" "That's what you pay lots of money every term for!" I laughed. And thought, to myself, "I'll bet you can't though!"

I turned back to the assistant. "So, we've worked it out for you...54p, plus twelve pounds, I owe you £12.54."

"But I still need to check it," he said. I watched him put into his calculator: [12.72 - 18]. "No, you're both wrong!" he announced triumphantly. "It's £5.28!"

I sighed inwardly. Actually, I think that sigh may have accidentally made itself audible. "See that little dash there?" I said, pointing. "Oh, that's a mark on the screen!" he said. "No, it isn't, that's a minus sign, showing that actually you've done the sum wrong. What you did was subtract 18 pounds from £12.72, rather than the required 18p. 18p, in pounds and pence, is zero point one eight. That's what you needed to put into your calculator. Or else do the whole lot in pennies, so 1272 minus 18."

Pimply assistant pulled a scared face and looked at the nine year old. "Do you think that's right?" "I think it's £12.54," he said. "Me too," I sighed again. "Perhaps I need to call a supervisor?" he suggested. I sighed even more loudly. "Not if you don't want to look even more of a plonker than you already do..." The woman behind me sniggered. "I did get a maths GCSE though..." he said. "What letter was after it on the certificate?" I enquired. "I suspect you'll find that it wasn't A, B or C." "I dunno, but I got it!" he said.

If that's true, then I'm even more very, very worried about falling standards than I was previously.

The rich get richer and the poor get poorer

Did you see that programme about Bill Gates on BBC 2's The Money Programme last Friday? (summary video here - may only work for UK residents)

Did you know that Gates is worth $58 billion and has been earning an average of $5 million a day since 1975? That he is rich enough to buy the entire population of the world a cheeseburger? That Microsoft has created three billionaires and 12,000 millionaires?

And now he's giving it all away.

Ah what a wonderful philanthropist they were saying.

Erm, no, I thought, what a wonderful rip-off merchant.

The money he is now so busily giving away is my money and your money. Or rather, was, before we had to give it away to buy the necessary product to stay connected to the modern world from his company. For most of us non-techies, we had no choice. The company charged whatever they thought they could get away with.

Even after paying silly money salaries to employees who just happened to be in the right place at the right time, Microsoft still makes a net profit of over 30% of its turnover.

I despise the central tenet of the world today: let's see how much profit we can make and still have people buying our stuff or using our services. It isn't necessary, and it's not fair.

Yes, I understand that this is the underpinning to capitalism, but, shouldn't there be an upper ceiling to the profit that can legitimately be made by companies? Market forces don't seem to be able to control the situation, because, depsite the existence of so-called regulators like the Competition Commission (which replaced the Monopolies and Mergers Commission in 1999), all the key players sew up the game between themselves. Look at the price of oil, look at the price of any commodity, or service. One person sets the price and others work within a small margin of it, because they can.

And is it fair that the people doing the real work in any company often earn only minimum wage while the top brass earn millions?

T£$co's boss earns £10 million a year. A checkout operator earns £5.86 an hour. My postie earns £5.96 an hour (plus overtime). The Royal Mail boss earns over £3 million. And look what a mess the boss has made of things! 2,500 closed post offices, mail strikes, unprofitable letter delivery services...

Bosses of companies that mess up still get their bonuses or huge payoffs (Marconi, BT and Northern Rock spring to mind, there are hundreds of others). Why?

How much do you earn? How much does your CEO earn? How much do the non-executive directors of your company earn (probably more than you, and they only turn up for a few days a year). How much profit does the company you work for make? Do you even know?

As I said at the top, in our world, despite all the wonderful advances, it is true that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The difference being that there are many more rich these days, and I suspect they care even less about those they exploit to make their fortunes.

I'm just a Concerned Citizen

I'm sick and tired of selfish and ignorant people who think that they have the right to bend the law to their own ends and inconvenience others.

Particularly when it comes to parking on double yelow lines, on the pavement, or in designated disabled or parent and child parking spaces.

As no-one else - including those officially paid to do so - seems to give a damn, I have decided to have a One Witch Campaign to challenge offenders.

The idea started mid-morning on Wednesday last week when I was walking slowly back to my car in the Sainsbury's car park in Small Local Town. One of the local apes (shaved head, very overweight, wearing football kit and sporting lots of gold chains) pushed his trolley into my ankle. I turned round, expecting an apology, but he sneered, "Wot ya lookin' at?" I noticed that his equally delightful female accompanier was unlocking the door of a very beaten-up 25 year old red Fiesta. Parked in a parent and child space. I rubbed my ankle. "Did you realise you've just run into the back of my leg?" "And?" he said, beginning to unload his trolleyfull of biscuits, cakes, ready meals and lager. Four 24-packs of lager in fact.

"And," I said, realising there was no apology to be extracted, so deciding to take another tack, "you appear to have forgotten your child!" The woman butted in. "''e's at playgroup, we're just gowing to get 'im." "Liar!" I said, with force, and narrowing my eyes. "I bet you trot out that excuse every time you're challenged. Well, it won't wash with me, because, you see, I have eyes, and your car is full of junk, so there's no room for a child car seat, and no child seat. Plus, I know where all the playgroups in this town are, and there isn't one near here. And it's only quarter to 11." The pair of them looked deflated.

"Furthermore," I continued, "these parking spaces are for when you have your child with you. So don't bloody well park in them in future, right?" (I always speak to these types in their own language at some point as it seems to penetrate their thick skulls better than standard English). I glowered at them, and then limped off, happy that, in fair exchange for a sore achilles tendon, I had made my point, and they were too dim to come up with an answer.

There was a second opportunity to fulfil the terms of my One Witch Campaign Against Inconsiderate Parking last Saturday. Mr BW and I went to Not Very Local Market Town, because I'd lost a couple of the herbs I need for my spells, over the winter (African basil, lemon grass and pennyroyal), and there is an excellent specialist herbal plant stall in this town's Saturday market. I'd got too tired to walk back to the car, and we'd accumulated several large bags, so Mr BW left me sitting on the Waitrose car park wall while he went to fetch the car.

No sooner had Mr BW rounded the corner than one of those van-mounted platforms came into the narrow, yellow-lined road, which was a street of flats, and the main access to the car park, and parked. On the pavement, about 10 feet from the corner, and on the double yellow, "No waiting at any time," lines. The van was owned by Rise Hire from Over in Cambridge.

The two men in the van then proceeded to light-up, and the traffic started piling up behind them. At one point there were 22 cars waiting to turn into the car park road, obstructed by their (illegal on 3 counts) parking. Amazingly, no-one from the inconvenienced cars either hooted or shouted at them. I probably would have done. Instead I fixed them with a BW hard stare, but they didn't seem to notice. They were just finishing their cigarettes when 4 early-20s lads and ladettes came out of the car park in a silver car. They hooted and waved at the men in the van, wound down the windows, and started to have a loud and vulgar conversation.

This completely blocked the road, so there were now people trying to get out of, as well as into, the car park. Eventually, after a couple of minutes, the driver of the third car back (another skinhead, about 6' 6" and 25 stone) in the trying-to-exit-the-car-park-queue, got out of his car and told the youngsters in the silver car in no uncertain terms to move. To my amazement, they all shut up and complied. I guess that apes are hard-wired to respect bigger apes.

The van passenger then headed off in the direction of Waitrose, presumably to buy food or more cigarettes. I continued to stare pointedly at the driver, and shake my head slowly at the traffic chaos he was causing. He finally noticed.

"Wot ya lookin' at darlin'?" he jeered (I've noticed that this seems to be a favourite phrase of these types), flicking a fag butt, still alight, in my direction, in a highly derisory manner. I looked at my watch. "Do you realise how many people you have inconvenienced in the 12 minutes you've been illegally parked there?" I asked, pleasantly. "It ain't none of your fuckin' business!" came the reply. I wondered how much longer Mr BW was going to be.

"Ah, but it is," I said, very calmly, but loudly, "inconsiderate behaviour is everyone's business, it's just that no-one ever challenges those who think they are above the law, which is, of course, why you think you can get away with it." "Wot ya gonna do abowt it anyway?" he scoffed. Well, I said, waving my hand in an up-the-road direction, "I'm going to ask you nicely to move up there, where you will still be illegally parked, but won't be blocking the road." "And if I don't?" he manaced. "If you don't, I'll have no option but to call the police, and the people who've hired you this rig. If I have to do that, I'll also mention the illegal smoking in the cab of a company vehicle."

At that moment my phone rang. It's not very loud, my phone, and the driver couldn't have heard it as there was a passing car. All he'd have seen was me getting it out of my bag, and fumbling to answer it (it rings so infrequently that I still have to look where the red and green phones are as they are the opposite way round to every other phone I use). It was Mr BW, telling me he'd got lost in the unfamiliar one-way system and couldn't get back to me. I suggested he put the name of the road into the satnav and let it do the work. The signal was dropping in and out, and I ended up shouting the name of the road whre I was, and then spelling it.

Magically, before I'd even finished the call, the driver of the van had decided to move 30 yeards up the road, to where I'd suggested, beyond the car park entrance. I can only imagine that he thought I was talking to the police. Here's where he ended up:

And here's a picture of his face. Just in case Rise Hire (who are now part of the Lavendon Group) check their site stats (click the link a few times, would you please?) and are at all bothered by the behaviour of those to whom they hire equipment.

This crusade will continue. I'll keep you posted. Anybody want to join me?

I hate computers: Part n + 1

Why is it that technology always knows when you have important things to do with it, and chooses just that moment to refuse to work as it should?

I need to print stuff out, and while the printer photocopies perfectly, it is refusing to print anything, from any source, or in any format, from the PC, or, via the network, from the laptop. I've changed nothing, I've checked all the paths and plugs and settings. It all seems exactly as it has always been.

Last time it did that I fixed it by turning the printer and PC on and off in various combinations a few times but it hasn't worked this time, which is very annoying. Grrrr.

Summer was weeks ago, I told you then...

I was pondering the significance of it drizzling in a grey and tiresome way all day on Solstice Day.

Then I decided to check the time of it this year. Apparently it was one minute to midnight last night (20th). Which was a lovely evening with a glorious sunset. All's well with the world then. Except that maybe the times given are UTC, which appears to be GMT, and we are an hour ahead of that, so it may have been today after all. My brain is too small to cope.

I wonder what the weather will be on Midsummer's Day (24th)? Faites vos jeux...

(A seasonal Value note to gardeners in the UK - Woolies are currently selling off all their Mr Fothergill's seeds for 60p per packet, irrespective of original cost - expiry dates of 2010 or 2011. Plenty of herb, salad, and flower seeds left in my local branch. Stock up now!

A seasonal Value note to wannabee gardeners in the UK - Woolies are now doing a 'WorthIt!" range of seeds - 6 small packs of veggie seeds (including radish, carrot, spring onion, cabbage, lettuce) for 99p - perfect for growing in tubs or for those just starting out).

Friday Question

Chocolate or cheese?

Inequality in the UK

Interesting debate in Westminster Hall yesterday. Derek Wyatt, Labour MP, said:

This debate has a simple theme. My constituents are living in a half-finished house that costs them money, and they are beginning to resent it. The half-finished house in our country—the United Kingdom—has, like so many historic houses, grown up over the centuries without a master plan and according to the needs or whims of successive owners. Nearly 90 years ago, after a long and bitter dispute, we gave the neighbouring property to its sitting tenants—although some preferred to go on living with us. We spent the next 70 years or so trying to improve our house to make it a better place in which to live and trying to protect it from outside attack. We made no changes to the structure of the house and all the rooms and facilities were shared among all the residents.

However, in the past 10 years, there has been some major remodelling of the property. We converted the upstairs into a separate flat for the Scots and created another flat with inferior facilities in the west wing for the Welsh. We then persuaded the Northern Irish to live in another flat in the orangery—although many of them wanted to live with their neighbours next door. All that remodelling failed to create any special space for the English. They went on living in the property, but the Scots, the Welsh and the Northern Irish were still free to walk in and help themselves to the fridge and the drinks cabinet. They could even make rules for the English that they themselves did not have to follow. Meanwhile, the English went on paying most of the household bills.

More and more of the English, including many of my constituents, are finding that an uncomfortable way to live. They put up with it when there was plenty of money coming into the house, but now that money is scarcer and outgoings are rising, they are beginning to question it. I propose some restructuring of the property so that we can all live in the way that we want to without imposing on one another. I am also calling for a fair and transparent system of meeting the household bills. That will entail replacing the Barnett formula, which, as we know, was intended to be a temporary expedient that would last six months. However, the formula still regulates the financial relationships between the separate devolved entities of the United Kingdom. Our household settles its accounts through arrangements that were set up in the 1970s for reasons that no one can remember and with results that no one can understand.

Our present constitutional settlement creates anomalies and inequalities. The people of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland have acquired distinct powers over key public services and other matters that are denied to the English. Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish MPs can vote for policies that apply only to the English and that they have never sought for their own constituents. Despite the recent reduction in the number of Scottish MPs, there are distinct disparities in the value of votes in general elections between different parts of the United Kingdom. The Library note on this debate points out that a Scottish elector's vote is worth 8 per cent. more than an English one, a Northern Irish vote is worth 13 per cent. more and a Welsh vote is worth 21 per cent. more. Where is the equity in that system?

The people of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland have used their new powers, particularly in health and education, to make their experience and entitlements notably different from those of the English. Those are funded by a complex and opaque system of financial transfers. To the English at least, it appears that the other parts of the United Kingdom are being shielded from the full financial consequences of their decisions, for example in relation to free personal care for the elderly. In the measured words of Professor James Mitchell of Strathclyde university:

"the current situation in which the Scottish Parliament provides more generous public policies than elsewhere without having to pay the additional cost is leading to a problem of legitimacy in England."

Let me unfold some of the figures. In 2007-08, identifiable per capita public expenditure for the UK was £7,790 per person. That works out at £7,535 for the English, £8,577 for the Welsh, £9,179 for the Scottish, and £9,789 for the Northern Irish. Out of all the English regions, the south-east does worst. Each of my constituents receives only £6,512 in identifiable public expenditure. My constituency has the fifth and sixth poorest wards in England. I should like an explanation of how it is that we pay the most tax and it is shifted around the regions but not spent in my constituency. That is undemocratic and unfair. To rub salt in the wound, the south-east region is also one of the most heavily taxed.

Other Hon. Members can dispute the calculations—although they come from the Library—but they explain why my constituents are becoming tired of living in a half-finished house. The time has come to finish the building and complete the billing arrangements for all the people who live there. All the peoples of the United Kingdom should have the same power to shape the laws and services that shape their lives, but they should also have the same responsibility for paying for them.

That is why I propose a new kind of Parliament...

Read more

Chip, chip, chip. Perhaps the message is beginning to get through. (via)

Event Review

No matter when we hold the Nice Ladies' Annual BBQ, the weather does its worst.

End of July, middle of July, end of June, middle of June, we've now tried them all.

With one rare exception (remembered by those Nice Ladies with better memories for such trivia than me - most of them then!) when they saw one of the spectacular Coven Sunsets that we seem to get on most other summer and autumn evenings that are not the evening of the Nice Ladies BBQ, it has been overcast, dismal, windy, cold and raining, in various permutations.

We didn't actually get the rain this year (that had been around at lunchtime), but it was so cold (11 degrees C, minus windchill - most unusual southerely wind of 22mph and gusting) that we decided to be kind to them and, for the first time, allow them to sit indoors to eat rather than huddle in gazebos outside. The year it rained we had 4 gazebos on the lawn and it was like some kind of makeshift refugee camp for OAPs. Complete with Dunkirk Spirit. Mostly contained in hip flasks hidden within handbags...

The G@rden Qwiz kept them busy for a long time (they had to hunt for pictures of the fruit we grow here - which turned out to be an amazing 29 different types when we had a count up, although I could only find pictures of 25 of them for the clue cards), write down the letter on each one and then work out the appropriate anagram.

They arrived just after 6.30pm and, as ever, no-one left until everything was cleared up, tidied up, and washed up, which this year was around 9.45pm. One silly billy brought her own knife and fork, rather than using those from the Nice Ladies' Stash like everyone else, and it got swept into a sink of washing up. Rather than waiting until it had all been washed and dried, she insisted on picking out items one by one until she found hers. How we laughed.

This is a from-the-balcony secret view of the very few brave/foolish souls outside.

Note how: the lady doing the raffle has provided herself with a red flask of hot tea; boys cannot keep away from outdoor cooking, despite thier being 3 Nice Lady designated cooks; Mr BW is wearing shorts and a t-shirt while everyone else has on thermals, scarves and fleeces; the smoke indicating how much fat there was in the sausages and burgers (even though they were "Finest" they came from that supermarket beginning with a T that we cannot mention on here, so, as I said, what do you expect?) and a few people hunting for clues in the shrubbery, determined to be the Qwiz winner.

This morning I inspected the rooms they'd been eating in and was amazed to find not one single crumb anywhere, let along mustard and tomato ketchup stains and the odd strand of coleslaw as I'd been expecting. They'd even plumped up the cushions in the chairs.

They can come again.

And the best thing - the garden looks wonderful (thanks to the supreme efforts of Mr BW in the last few weeks, and especially in the last few days when I haven't really been in the right frame of mind to concentrate reliably on anything much), and, having had to get it to such a condition this early in the year, it will now stay that way all summer. All the spare pots, sticks, plantlets and general garden clutter that accumulates untidily around the place is all hidden away in the potting area. One cannot actually get to the oil tank within that area, but, as the price of heating oil is now so high that it's nearly as cheap to burn whisky, I'm not too worried about that.

BW 1 : Young Man in Fast Car 0

I shouldn't have tempted fate at the end of my post yesterday.

An hour ago I nearly got run over by a youth of somewhat less than 21 in a black Audi TT with blacked out windows on a 08 plate (ie almost brand new). Very reminiscent of the barrow boy who won The Apprentice. My visual memory is bad, but I don't think it was him.

He came up the narrow back road cul-de-sac behind some shops in Small Local Town where I was walking back to my car (there are no pavements), travelling at 50mph minimum, did a handbrake turn in the turning end, screeched to a halt, leaving rubber on the road, and missing me by inches.

I stood in front of his car, blocking his path. He had the windows down, music blaring. I stared at him. He revved his engine. I stood my ground and flapped my hand up and down slowly. He turned off the music as I was suggesting.

I stared at him some more. I let some more seconds tick by. He looked as if he was about to run me over. I pointed in 3 directions. "3 CCTV cameras say you won't, sunshine!" I said, very calmly, but very forcibly. There were also several other respectable-looking middle-aged plus people around, taking a keen interest but, as ever in these situations, doing nothing to help.

"Now, do you have a dysfunctional dick, or do you have a low IQ?"

"Why?" he said.

Fundamental error.

"Because, anyone who drives like that has to have one of those two problems. There just is. No. Other. Reason. For. It."

He shrugged. I stepped aside to let him past. He drove off very gently at about 10mph, and even indicated which direction he was turning at the end of the road.

Mr BW says that young men have driven like this since time immemorial.

I think it's getting worse. Much worse.

How can one get them to understand the dangers of how they drive?

Huge insurance premiums don't seem to do it (they've all got rich mummies and daddies round here), but maybe traffic school is the answer? I haven't heard of it being used over here in this area, but maybe it is being used elsewhere?

Things are not going well

We're a bit busy preparing for the annual influx of Nice Ladies on Wednesday evening. The Grounds must all be tidied and deheaded, and everything made ready.

Saturday 6pm I poked myself in the eye with a phormium leaf. It hurt. Lots. Copious administration of Pimms, Brolene eye drops and Optrex eye wash dulled the pain slighty.

Sunday 5am I awoke feeling as if someone had fired a staple gun into my eye just above my iris. The sort of staple gun used for upholstery. I was convinced that a piece of phormium leaf tip had gone into my eye, dug in and broken off in my silicone band (the one necessitated by a detached retina).

I woke Mr BW. We briefly debated the lcoal A&E (5-6 miles) v Moorfields A&E (50-60 miles). Briefly, for about 1 millisecond. Specialist national eye facility or the idiot locals who couldn't recognise a broken bone if a child was presenting it to them (I know the child in question), and take an hour to triage you. We had a shower and packed a bag. Just in case. When I unpacked the bag earlier I found that Mr BW had this time put in a pair of socks and a pair of underpants. Unlike last time when he ended up wearing mine. And I ended up telling you all :)

We arrived at Moorfields just after 7am. There was no-one there and seemingly hundreds of Chinese nurses waiting to grab any incomers. Mine was laughing, hugely camp, and unintelligible, but he seemed to know his stuff. He drew a picture on a tissue of the large triangular imprint of the phormium end on my upper cornea. Mr BW tried to take a picture. It's a bit over-exposed. The movie is better (the UV is less bright, so you can see the shape), but I don't know how to capture a still from it.

He explained that there wasn't actually anything stuck in my eye, just that the rip on my cornea felt like it, and every time I moved my eye, it was like the two sides of a skin wound being torn apart.

A few minutes later, I got to see a doctor, who was more thorough in ensuring that there wasn't anything sticking in anywhere. He dispatched me with a small tube of strong antibiotic. 4 times a day for 7 days. Guaranteed to get all over your eyelashes and so all over the inside of your glasses and drive you to distraction. And no wearing contact lenses for 2 weeks. Horrors.

1 hour 10 minutes from entry to the hospital to exit, and three hours 10 minutes from door to door. We'd probably still be waiting to be seen in the local A&E department. Or they'd have amputated my eye...

Here's a picture of the power lines whose replacement necessitated yet another whole day of no power today. The thick middle one is the new one. The top 3 (installed when electricity came to this area in 1955) are those being replaced.

The three Irishmen invovled in the work today managed to drop the lines. Into the hedge. And onto a tree fern, a banana palm, a pittisporum, a eucalyptus and to within inches of 6 stripey buzzy familiars' homes.

I haven't had a good excuse for going ballistic for ages.

The site supervisor appeared within 90 seconds of me going ballistic. Fortunately for him he had the Irish gift of the gab, apologised enough that I didn't kill them all, and quickly sorted it out by directing his monkeys in cutting and lifting. There shouldn't be too much lasting damage to our plants (they grow quickly at this time of year), although there undoubtedly was to their ear drums.

It amused me that they'd apparently missed the fact that there were 6 B-Houses 20 feet below where they were working ("I couldn't see them from me platform boss, there was a tree in the way"), and that, even when it did become apparent, they didn't stop to do a risk assessment. I must have been a more petrifying prospect than the Health & Safety Officer.

I was taking photos of the damage, and the workmen. For onward transmission to the network supply company, with a suitably strongly worded covering letter. One protested that I wasn't allowed to take his photo. I told him I would do what the **** I liked from my own property, (particularly when they'd clearly been so busy shouting and swearing at each other from the poles above that they had failed to use the one braincell they possessed between them to think about what they were doing with the redundant lines) when his mate piped up with, "It's OK Sean, she doesn't know your name!" And I always thought that, "Don't tell him Pike!" was just the stuff of TV sitcom scripts...

I wonder what joys await me tomorrow?

"How would you define a dysfunctional family?"

That was the title of a 5000 word essay I was set in 1988 as part of my professional training.

I wrote it one night on my Amstrad PCW 8512 when I'd driven 3 hours / 150 miles to the university where I was studying, given a presentation, sat through a whole day of lectures and an individual tutorial, and driven the 3 hours / 150 miles home again. It didn't take me long. I even had time to get some sleep before setting off to the place I was doing my practical placement at 6.30am the next morning.

I was summonsed to see the Head of Department about it. He had piercingly blue eyes, and he stared straight at me across his large old desk.

"How long," he said, pushing my essay across the desk at me, "did you spend reading to produce the level of understanding you have demonstrated here? We're meant to be teaching you this stuff and you seem already to know it."

I shrugged. "I wrote it from personal experience, and then found a few supporting quotes in some of the journal articles on the reading list."

I looked down. A+++ it said. I heard, "Truly outstanding!" and "You could publish this!" I heard myself say, "Thank you," and scuttled from his office clutching it.

An hour later my Personal Tutor found me in the library. "BW, can you spare me 10 minutes?" I looked at my watch. I had a lot of information still to find for the week's work before I made my way home. "Would next week be OK?"

Personal Tutor was a practical professional, who had a 50/50 job-split real-world and academia. I liked him a lot. "Um, well... no, I think we need to talk now." I followed him up two flights of stairs, and into his office, where he motioned me to sit down in one comfortable chair, taking the other himself.

"The Head of Department has copied your essay to all the tutors of this course. They all think it's great. Except me." He paused and looked searchingly at me. I felt time ticking. I'm not sure how long it ticked for, but even now, twenty years on, recalling it, it seems like it was an eternity. "Me, I'm really worried about you."

I looked down. I could feel his eyes still looking at me. "How old are you?" he asked. I glanced up, not sure where this line of questioning was going. "Nearly 26... erm, why, what difference does it make?"

"26. And you understand what makes people tick like that?"

"Like what?" I was genuinely surprised. Personal Tutor picked up his copy of my essay. He flicked through a couple of pages. "Systems are only perceived as dysfunctional once people are aware that what happens to them in their lives is not what happens to other people." He flicked some more. "Not everyone who lives through events that professionals would describe as 'dysfunctional' will ever come to see, or indeed want to see, their own lives as such." "Dysfunction is all about perception; perception is personal, subjective, and changeable in the light of new knowledge that accumulates over a lifetime of experience."

There was lots more. This is my recollection. The original is somewhere where I could easily find it. Hell, I could type it all out if I chose. But I choose not to.

I work with dysfunctional systems. For twenty years now I have used the knowledge gained from growing up within a dysfunctional family to help me help and support other people grappling with dysfunctional schools, families and other systems. I've always been able to see sides to things others can't. It's what (I'm told) I do best. I am challenging, but, (again, I'm told; it's hard to judge these things) I'm supportively effective. People talk to me. I understand. I question. I reframe. I enable. They reframe. They move on. I move on.

However, nothing could have prepared me for the level of dysfunctionality I was to experience last Thursday night.

I haven't spoken much on here of my family. A quick flick through the archives has made me realise that (unless I've looked in totally the wrong places) I've written even less than I thought.

22nd December 2003 might have been the last time I wrote anything of significance. That was the last time I saw my parents anyway. The day my mother stormed out of our home in on a huff, and not for the first time.

I've spoken to them by telephone once since then, on l8th September 2006. That was the day I was told that Dad had gone to the doctor with backache and eventually been diagnosed with stage 4 pro5tate c@ncer. Despite no other signs at all, it had already spread through his bones and 1ymph n0des, and there was nothing that could be done. It was only a matter of time.

Mr BW has spoken to my mother since then, but got nowhere... she refused to let me see him. It's complicated. I don't want to try to unpack it here. It's enough to say that we'd been here before (see the previous link), and when she found that he'd been in touch with me without her knowledge (we have Golden Boy my brother to thank for that - and many other, I've since found - bit of stirring) she didn't speak to him for several weeks, and made his life hell. She's not a reasonable, or sane, or nice, person, my mother (see the previous link).

I've sent cards, and messages to Dad. But got no reply. No news. I've had to live with that. I've always known that one day That Phone Call would come.

My definition of 'dysfunctional family' had to be modified last Thursday night.

Golden Boy rang at 9pm to say that Dad had died.

12 days before.

And the funeral had been two days before.

Luckily I have Witchy Powers, and I already knew.
Golden Boy didn't like that I already knew.
But I did.

I've spoken to Dad a lot since then.
He keeps saying what he always said to me, "Ignore her. That's what I do. She hates being ignored."

I could never manage it. I always thought that if I tried hard enough, one day I'd get through to her, make her understand, impart some nugget of wisdom that would enable her to see things differently.

He's free of her at last.
Me too.

Friday question

Which, if any, of the following are your all time favourite robots? [Please choose up to 3 options]

1. Daleks (from Doctor Who)
2. The Terminator (Arnold Scharznegger in Terminator)
3. Johnny 5 (from Short Circuit)
4. Doctor Robotnik (from Sonic)
5. Solid Snake (from Metal Gear Solid)
6. R2 D2 (from Star Wars)
7. Max (from Flight of the Navigator)
8. Optimus Prime (from Transformers)
9. Data (from Star Trek: The Next Generation)
10. Bender (from Futurama)
11. Robby the Robot (from Forbidden Planet)
12. T-1000 (Robert Patrick in Terminator 2)
13. Cortana (from Halo)
14. C3PO (from Star Wars)
15. None of these
16. Don’t know

Courtesy of a YouGov survey (down to its usual standards of late I see) this week. They have come in useful for once. Twice :)

But... they missed K9. Unforgivable!!!
And the Daleks weren't robots. They were real. Weren't they?

More fuel protests

This time by Shell tanker drivers (who supply around 1 in 10 fuel forecourts) who plan to go on strike for 4 days from 6am tomorrow morning.

The 600 of them are apparently miffed that they only get paid £32,000 (before overtime) and want a 6.8% pay rise that would bring them in £39,000 (plus overtime) a year. Just for driving a lorry?

I am speechless. And suggest they take a look at these figures for average wages in the UK in 2007 (if you can't be bothered to click the link, it's around £24,000).

Powerless, again

Another day without power here at The Coven starts in 30 minutes.

For those who've been following carefully, you'll know this is the third such occurrence in as many months.

Today they are defacing the countryside skies by replacing 3 thin grey almost-invisible metal overhead lines with one three-core twisted shiny black-plastic coated 6" diameter 'rope'. Which is visually intrusive, to put it mildly. And, given that it hangs some 3 or 4 feet below the original lines, and droops markedly as it is so heavy (and that's before it's stretched over time), also more dangerous.

Does anyone know how many billions of pounds of profit the electricity supply company in London, the South-East and East Anglia made in the last year? And to think that the money that was spent wasted on the Millennium Dome would have been enough to put all the electric supply cables in this country underground (well, as I recall, that was what was being claimed at the time anyway).

Progress? No, cost saving so they can make even more profit. It shouldn't be allowed.

By spooky coincidence, this week's YouGov survey (has anyone ever got to the £50 level needed to get a payout I wonder?) included the following questions:

Which, if any, of the following statements do you agree with? [Please tick all that apply]

1. Access to the information that I can get from the Internet, wherever I am, would make my life easier
2. I miss the Internet more than I miss some friends when I can’t get access
3. I have previously been inconvenienced by not being able to get information when out and about (e.g. addresses/ contact details, store closing times)
4. I have sometimes felt frustrated or “disconnected� when I can’t get access to the Internet
5. The Internet is vital to organising my life
6. None of these
7. Don’t know

And, which, if any, of the following statements do you agree with? [Please tick all that apply]

1. Across a normal week, I probably spend more time on the Internet than with my family
2. The Internet is probably more important in people’s day to day lives than religion these days
3. I get stressed when I cant get on-line when I need to
4. Time on the Internet represents valuable “me� time
5. I have sometimes paid the Internet more attention than my partner
6. If I couldn’t get on-line, I don’t know how I would get much of the information I need day to day
7. The Internet influences people’s behaviour
8. If I had to choose between access to the Internet and exercise for a month, I’d choose the Internet
9. None of these
10. Don’t know

Reading those reassures me that I am less addicted than I might otherwise have thought.

Until 4pm then...

Food for thought

Synopsis:

Controversial psycho1ogist Oliver James believes that there is a direct causal relationship between mental health and affluence. He believes that the materialistic values that place having above being are a fundamental cause of mental illness.

In his outspoken RSA lecture, James argues that there is little significant genetic basis for mental illness and that most mental illness is a result of nurture and bad parenting. He makes the case that there is a positive correlation between those that value materialism highly with high rates of depression, anxiety, substance abuse and narcissistic personality disorders.

James cites various international examples of mental pathologies related to people who suffer from the "Affluenza Virus", when people place a high value on money, possessions, appearance, social status and fame.

Length: 60 minutes
Next showing on TV (Teachers' TV Channel): Thursday 12 June 22:00

Sky Guide 880
Virgin TV 240
Tiscali TV 845
Freesat 650
Freeview 88 (4-5pm) (?? this is as listed - so that's a fat lot of good to most of us, innit?)

Part 3: From beyond the blog grave... when London stops Calling...

The final part (for now; hopefully dave will continue to keep us updated on his New Life After Blog, and send more pics of Edward). It will make more sense if you read here and here first, if you haven't already.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, 2008 and my quest to be Tiler Of The Year.

By the time March rolled around I was having serious considerations about my choice of career. There were a number things bothering me but these were the main issues I was experiencing:

1. Despite spending a small fortune every month on advertising there were days when the phone didn’t ring at all. I have the type of personality that can’t handle this very well (i.e. I’m a worry cat).

2. I know everyone likes to get a bargain these days but I would say that only one in five of my estimates would result in a job. I sometimes quoted silly prices (i.e. very cheap) and would naturally get the job but this meant I was often working for £30-40 a day after my costs and materials were accounted for. We were given a full day of training doing estimates at tiling school and I thought I was very good at it.

3. There is a lot of competition locally. I can’t compete with Polish builders who deliver estimates for tiling a whole bathroom in 2 days and for £150 (I would take 4 days and charge £400 incl. grout and cement).

4. After 4 months I wasn’t really enjoying actually doing the work. I wouldn’t class myself as a lazy person but running your own business and tiling were physically demanding and I’m not really that keen on falling asleep over my dinner at 10pm. OK, maybe I am a little bit lazy. When I left London I promised myself that when I started working again I would do something I enjoy.

So, by the end of March I was guiltily searching the JobCentre website and scanning the local papers for interesting jobs. And I did feel guilty that I was looking at salaried positions after spending nearly £5000 on training in the past 12 months in order to be my own boss. However, at least I didn’t spend £30,000 on a plumbing franchise or £15,000 on a dog walking franchise (these were early front-runners in my quest for employment during my final months in my old job). And now that I’ve tried being my own boss I know that it would always have been something I would need to experience to cleanse my curiosity. Tried it, done it , didn’t like it, move on.

In the end I only applied for two jobs and I got them both. The first was as the PA for the head of the domestic abuse team in Blackpool. I’m good at organising, diary managing and minute taking but I did a crap interview (in my opinion) yet was still offered the job. I had to defer my answer to them by 24 hours as I had the medical for my 2nd job choice the next day.

Yes, the other job I applied for was as a bus driver! On The Buses had been my favourite show when I was a kid and schedules, timetables, bus depots and uniforms have always excited me so it seemed fairly natural that I apply for this one. I passed the medical and then had to make a decision regarding the two jobs: the 9-5 office job or the shift-work driving job with half the salary of the office job? No contest, I took the bus drivers job. I just knew I’d be happier as a bus driver than I would have been collating statistics on wife beaters of the North West.

During my induction week in early April at the bus depot myself and a few other newbies were asked if we would be interested in deferring our bus driving school until later in the year and instead drive Blackpool trams until the end of the Illuminations. We all said yes and two weeks later had passed all our exams and driving tests.

I now drive 100 year old trams up and down the prom from Starr Gate to Fleetwood and I’m very happy. It’s quite stressful (most folk have never seen a tram before and don’t understand it can’t swerve around them) but the views are great and the sunsets during my late shift can bring tears to the eyes.

BW writes: so, that's dave's latest.

I do get so tired of reading certain blogs where the same old, same old, moaning about the same old stuff that most of the world wouldn't even perceive as a problem is trotted out week after week, month after month, year after year. Actually, I don't deliberately read such blogs because I find them tedious, attention seeking, and it disturbs me that the writers are so busy viewing everything negatively and seeking positive affirmation from their readers that they fail to realise that the one person who can truly make a difference to how they feel is... well, themself. It's all a matter of perception. How one thinks is how one feels. To them I prescribe a trip through dave's archives :) (although, of course, they won't be reading here...)

Part 2: From beyond the blog grave... when London stops Calling...

Here are some clues to the "You'll never guess what happens to dave next" question (see below):

Friday Question

A couple of weeks ago a teenager asked me how many text messages I sent. "27!" I replied. "A day?" he said, "cool." "Erm, no, that was in the whole of last year..." I replied.

Maybe because I've had a mobile phone since 1993, when they didn't come with anything more than the facility to make and receive calls (if you were lucky and in a suitable location); maybe it's because Mr BW and I have been together so long we don't need to send each other cutesy messages (and we're not that kind of people anyway) and we're always incredibly well organised (so don't need to check or change plans); maybe it's because I don't live in a city; maybe it's because my eyesight is so bad that I either need lots of light to see small print with my varifocal glasses, or reading glasses with my contact lenses and can't bear fiddly things; maybe it's because we don't have children or grandchildren.

Whichever, I just prefer ringing people to pressing little buttons. It's cheaper, it's quicker, and it leads to much less misunderstanding, and saves lots of time. If it can wait it's email. Except when I'm in towns, meeting people, which is pretty much the only time I use text messaging at all.

How many text messages do you send?

(for the sharp-eyed comment-boxers amongst you, recycling is what I do best, of course ;))

There's another Witch in the world!

Many congratulations to the Kitchen Witches who have now added a baby girl to their menagerie :)

From beyond the blog grave... when London stops Calling...

Ever wondered if there's life after blogging?

So, then, without further waffle from me, it's over to him:

Hiya!

*waves, wipes feet and sits down on Ronnie Corbett's chair*

Our delightful hostess has asked me to speak to you today about life at Spellcnut Towers (now relocated to the Fylde coast). But before we start here’s a quick reminder about the changes in 2007 that got us where we are today:

January: Voluntary redundancy scheme at work (high flying government department, can’t say anymore and if I do I will have to kill you) finally kicks-in and boots me out onto the streets.

February: I think I might become a plumber (stories of £60k a year too good to ignore) so sign up for City & Guilds 6129 in Plumbing Skills at training company in SX.

April: £3000 and 22 theory and practical exams (all passed!) later and I’m a plumber. Slightly downhearted on last day in school when told, “We’ve taught you about 10% of what you need to know to be a plumber, the rest can only be learnt on-the-job.� Great.

Incidentally, the training company went bust the day after my group graduated leaving 16 fellas who started a month after us half way through their course AND their fees paid up-front. Ouch.

May: Buy a Berlingo van in part ex for my lovely Kawasaki ER500.

Decide to add tiling skills to my plumbing skills. Well, they go together don’t they. Like coffee and rich teas or sag aloo and garlic naan.

Decide to sell our holiday home (5 bedroom ex-guest house) in Blackpool.

June: First two weeks of 4 week tiling course at training company in SX. Lunch is included in the course cost (£1000) and is not nasty, curly sandwiches but a choice of anything from the menu at the local Indian restaurant in the precinct. Result!

Decide to sell our London house (2 bedroom, east London cottage/shoe box).
This decision was easy following a viewing of a 3 bedroom detached bungalow with gardens in Lytham St Annes. We offered cash an hour after seeing it and the owners accepted.

July: After lots of viewings on our London house someone finally offers the asking price. Bingo! I seem to remember that what followed was two months of nightmares and headaches and utter worry regarding selling two houses and buying another. I seem to have forgotten most of that now but there is an entry in my diary for September that reads ‘Never EVER move again.’

All training and career preparations have been put on hold while ‘the big move’ is sorted out. Darren has been given permission to carry on with his job from our new Lancashire base so all the jigsaw pieces are now in the box and ready for assembling.

August:

3rd August…completion day. Hurrah! Oh no it’s not.

10th August…new completion day. Hurrah! Oh no it’s not.

17th August…new completion day. Hurrah! Oh no it’s not.

24th August…new completion day. Hurrah! Oh no it’s….actually happening! Cue hysterical panic and packing and… *faints with memory of how horrible that week was*.

September: Life in Lytham St Annes is good. It’s nice and quiet, the average age is 60 and the newspapers of choice are Daily Mail for the ladies and the Telegraph for the gents. Perfect. Blackpool is 5 miles up the road, Preston is 12 miles away and Manchester 25 miles.

October: Final two weeks of tiling course competed. Luckily for me the tiling training company have a branch in Warrington and were happy for me to transfer to that. No curry lunch though as they are on a trading estate in the middle of nowhere so it was the dreaded curly sandwiches for those two weeks. I got a certificate at the end of the course which confirms I’m a ‘Professional Tiler’ and the company didn’t go bust the next day!

November: After placing ads in the local papers I start work as a tiler. I enjoyed the tiling course so much that I’ve pushed my plumbing skills to the back of my mind and, for now, have decided to concentrate on that. Work trickles in and money starts to go into my bank account instead of out. I discover the middle classes of the Fylde are quite mean with their money (my estimates go down like a lead balloon with them) but the folk of Blackpool are much more free with their cash. My tiling course was so good that I finish most jobs unhappy with my work (I’m a perfectionist) but luckily for me the customers always seem happy.

December: Florida with Darren and my parents. Then Christmas. No work this month. Get back from holiday and put my blog to sleep after 5 years.

And that, my dears, is how 2007 ended. When I come back I’ll tell you all about the amazing changes so far in 2008.

*throws back dregs of Baileys, stands up gingerly and totters out of room*

Footnote from BW: And you'll NEVER guess what happens next...

Public Enemy Number 2

In the last few weeks a whole new lot of cameras have been attached to bridges over dual carriageways around here:

I can't find any info on what these new colour cameras are for?

Does anyone know?
Has anyone seen them elsewhere?

A few months back, someone had changed a 'Speed cameras' sign near here to read 'Greed cameras'. It was done so professionally that it was months before the powers that be altered it back - presumably because no-one noticed the sign had been altered. I kept meaning to take a photo...

To my way of thinking, driving without insurance and road tax, or driving dangrerously / inconsiderately is a much greater offence than driving 10mph over on a dual carraigeway or motorway.

Why then, is more effort not put into using all these cameras and the ANPR technology already around to catch these people? We have the highest rate of uninsured drivers in the country round here - up to 1 in 5 drivers apparently, according to whose statistics you trust. With tax and insurance details now automatically and instantly accessible via the DVLA database, I just do not understand why this continues to be the case.

Listening to tales of accidents that have happened to people I know lately, it is clear to me that more and more people lie about what happened to their insurance companies. Consequently, more and more claims are being settled 50/50 or knock for knock, so classed 'at fault'. Insurance companies don't seem to bother to ask for witness statements these days either.

I always carry a camera (and before that always carried disposable cameras in cars), but I'm beginning to think that making a video of any incident is now essential. I doubt it would be admissible evidence in court, but it might be enough to convince an insurance company of whose fault something was.

Middle-aged, Gifted and Blue

People have been giving me things recently. Most unusually, and very generously.

So generously, in fact, that I have had more presents than on my last several FOTCR™s (Ha! got it in in June!) and WitchDays combined. I've had everything from kitchen sinks (a much-travelled but originally from Turkey one), to half of a plant from an eminent gardening journalist, to a1paca fleeces, a watering can, wine, terracotta pots, bright fabrics, and patterns for unusual things.

But the best one of all comes with an associated spooky story.

I've always loved colour, and, I can remember writing here, probably about 5 years ago, about how I 'painted' with flower colours in The Coven Grounds. But that was before I took up painting and texti1e work again. Now I can play with colours much more easily, although I still play with plant colours, probably more than ever, as Mr BW will attest (recent quietness due to ongoing seasonal overhaul, plus some sectional redesign of The Coven Grounds).

I've always been one of those people who naturally know what colours will look good together. I can carry colours in my head and can even match colours without having the other colour(s) present. Not bad for someone with a visual memory ability at the 2nd percentile, and proof that a different part of the brain processes colour to that responsible for processing images. I'm constantly amazed at how bad some people who do a lot of texti1e work, and even some of those who teach texti1es, are at knowing which colour from a selection of colours in a design to pick out for a background or a border. I've got a bit of a reputation now for saving failing projects before they've failed, just by suggesting that someone changes the colour of some part of a work, often only by a shade or two.

After I'd stopped being annoyed, I was recently flattered that another lady on a texti1e course insisted on buying the same 8 fabrics as I did (but after I'd left the shop), even though she said she didn't like the colours, because, "BW's projects always look better than mine!" Little did she know that the shopkeeper loves gossiping.

My favourite colour is...erm... blue, would you believe? Any shade, but particularly BW Blue, royal blue, and navy. My second favourite colour is magenta/fuchsia/cerise, and my third favourite paint colour is naples yellow (which isn't yellow at all), although my third favourite texti1e colour is a tie between purple, green and turquoise. Well, not a tie, as such, but a dead heat.

I used to dislike yellow, but I've tried hard to like it, and made an effort to plant more yellow or yellow-based flowers, and more lime-green (bright yellow-based) foliage plants, since I realised that my personal colour spectrum was unbalanced.

I'm a definite believer in colour making a big difference to how people feel and act. I often get Witchy Feelings about colours that certain people need at certain times, and have even been known to make unexpected proclamations to unexpecting people about colours that are lacking in their lives. I certainly don't subcribe to the lets-make-loads-of-money approaches under a couple of those links; I'd never pay for 'formal training' in the 'approach'; I'd never seek to take money from others for input; I like the theory, but I do it all intuitively, and enjoy sharing my 'skill'.

Sometimes I see combinations of colours that make me need to take a photos so that I can go "Wow!" again next time I look at it.

This pot at Chelsea a couple of weeks ago being a case in point (but why don't reds ever come out the same shade in photos? Digital is better than film used to be, but still a long way short of the original).

Colour-wise, I'm usually quite balanced, and when I'm not, I just listen to my body, and go with how I feel. I instinctively know what colour I need, just as I do when I am lacking certain substances from food.

This is how The Purple Period started a couple of weeks ago. I was feeling very unwell. One day I went to a class and used more purple than blue, and purple-y-blues:

And then I, quite unconsciously, bought some more purple fabric for another project. And then someone gave me another piece or purple material. And the spectrum was balanced again, so I started feeling better.

At a similar time, a speaker came to talk to the Nice Ladies about dressing by colour. Years ago, just before I nearly got married but then didn't (so, 21 years ago, to be more precise), my bridesmaid-to-be-who-never-was and I went off to be colour analysed, and came away with a handbag-sized book of little pieces of fabric in 'our' colours that have probably shaped our wardrobes (and probably our lives) more than we'd care to admit. At least neither of us have ever since bought anything in a colour that doesn't suit us.

And so it was that I ended up going to visit the speaker from the Nice Ladies last week to update my colour analysis. Things have changed in 21 years after all. But not very much. She was impressed that my hair is still 99.8% brown, even though I don't dye it (the dangers of the chemicals in hair dye would put more people off, if they knew... not for nothing do medics tell people undergoing chemotherapy to avoid hair dye), and told me that I had an amazing sense and understanding of colour, but should avoid wearing the more wishy-washy pastel colours as I got older. Hurrah! I never liked pale colours anyway. She also suggested that I use more purpley shades with my blues.

The colours above are my 'best' colours. Goodness me, what a surprise, all my favourite colours, that my wardrobe is already full of (undoubtedly thanks to the earlier analysis at an early age).

On coming home from that pampering session, there was a parcel on the doostep. My immediate thought was, "Oh dear, now what's Mr BW ordered for Mi1dred?"

But then I saw it was for me! I opened it and stared and then there were tears runing down my face when I saw what it was (and I'm not an emotional person over things like that normally)... a beautiful, gorgeously soft and fluffy shawl in exactly the 'right' colours. Now, this was very weird, because the companies that do colour analysis used to do scarves in people's personal colours. But, they apparently don't anymore, as I'd been disappointed to discover. Spooky.

As I saw the colours, I immediately recognised them from here, and the card enclosed confirmed that it was from the generous and lovely Amber Moggie, knitter extraordinaire. She had asked me for my address, saying she wanted to send me something, but I'd never imagined it would be something so magnificent! As I've told her, she is too kind.

There's no way the shawl is residing in a cupboard between wearings, so I have it over the back of the settee in The Studio, where it feels lovely and cuddly soft every time I sit down. Or will do, when I have the time to sit down. And, as I'm often cold in the evenings, even in summer, it will get lots of use, other than its intended use.

Neither the pictures on her blog, or mine, do justice to its real colour or texture.

And there was more... one of Amber's hand-crafted elementals jumped into the package too. Again, the photo doesn't do it justice, and it is the cool blue side of mauve, and not at all pink as the image suggests. I've got it sitting on my desk now, on a box of rubber bands. I don't know why she chose to sit there, she just did.

Amber tells me that she knew that I needed purple ("for spirit, hope and faith to name a few") as she was making the shawl, which is so weird, both in terms of what I knew instinctively, the colours I'd been using to make things recently, and what the colour lady said to me.

Thank you again Amber, and for your lovely words, of which I shall share your concluding papargraph: "Apart from that your blog inspires me and amuses and makes me think. I believe I may have just made my first award to a blog that keeps me reading:)) Oh could that be a new award series? ABTKMR." I am honoured.