Boats and Planes, But No Trains

Monday, 28th July

Finally went on the boat trip. Troy, Xanthe and I sped out of Alymrida Bay, first to inspect some caves. Which looked much like caves always do, kind of cavey. And then there is the ‘can you see what it is yet’ moment, and it’s a…. face, always. We went to Vangelis the hermit’s cave. He built it himself, and lived there alone, with no electricity or running water, for 15 years. Occasionally he would scramble over rocks to the local village, to top up his supplies of cigarettes and raki. On one of these foraging trips he met an English girl. Two years ago he married her, and moved out. I bet he goes back when they’ve had a row, though. The intrepid, i.e.: not me, braved the rocky entrance, and, dodging the rocks thrown down by a disgruntled goat, clambered up to explore this twentieth century troglodyte’s abode. ‘Let me know what size plasma he’s got.’ I quipped, trying to conceal my fear of heights.

Back on the boat, Xanthe gave her verdict. ‘Surprisingly spacious.’ Suddenly everyone’s an estate agent. Soon everyone on the boat was at it – secluded location, marvelous beach views, blah, blah, blah. If it’s not got an en suite, I’m not interested. Off then to snorkel, the high spot of this being a bright yellow jellyfish, covered in purple spots. It was gently pulsating, and two tiny fish circled underneath, as though trapped in a jelly flavoured force field.

Later, with Perry, I asked Xanthe if the jellyfish was the highlight of the trip. He looked at her levelly, ‘Amy Winehouse,’ he said. Xanthe scowled, ‘I think Mummy said snork, not snort.’

Up to Elpis in Plaka for our last night. As usual terrible service, but great food.


Tuesday, 29th July

Got up early, watched Troy do all the hard work, stripped the beds to help a bit, swam for the last time, baked in the sun to dry out, had lunch, dragged the suitcases down to the Radio Taxi Shack. Yesterday, Costas had driven us up to Plaka, and I had booked for him, or Stelios, to take us to the airport, meeting at the Shack at 3.00pm. I even rang Stelios this morning to confirm. Had an absolute karma crisis when some chap with a broad Sunderland accent asked if he could have our taxi, as his hadn’t turned up. Obviously he approached me, as the woman of the outfit would clearly be the softer touch. Ker-wrong! Not when there’s children involved. But I did feel a bit guilty as I refused. But only a bit, it’s not my fault if he can’t work out the vagaries of Greek taxi driver-dom. Actually, now I’ve written it down, I don’t think I should be beating myself up too much.

On plane, in car, home.

From Aeraki to Earaki

Friday, 25th July

There was something odd going on at Aeraki last night. More than just the usual Thursday yia-yia's night out. This time granny was having a birthday, this involved much clucking dissatisfaction with the range of gifts and flowers, and glowering at the waiters. Who, by way of response, were even more effusive and chatty than usual. Oh, and completely pissed. Duplicate drinks arrived, random orders went back to the kitchen, and at one point the chef had to come out, and 'have words.' All of this was highly entertaining for those of us just outside the collateral damage zone. The kids missed most of this as they were on the pier with a net. The spoils included a fish no bigger than a whitebait, called Yabba-Yabba, and a substantially larger crab, inexplicably dubbed Randy.

Into Almyrida for lunch, as a break from the usual ham and cheese platter up at the house. A pretty decent chicken gyro (no, not chicken on the dole, but the Greek equivalent of shawarma) and an opportunity to people watch. Which was variably unpleasant. Helen Mirren might be able to bare all in a bikini at 62, but there are girls less than a third of her age who really shouldn’t. There is a fat Greek teenager, who has already lost his arches, and whose knees probably won’t see thirty, as they are already buckling under the strain. There are gaggles of English girls, giggly and kitted out in identical triangle bikinis, large sunnies, and hair parted improbably far to one side. Then there are the thin pasty families, who, like vampires, probably shouldn’t venture into the sunlight at all. They walk one way up the beach, skin like brand new white Egyptian cotton sheets, and by the time they walk back down, 20 minutes later, already like rashers of bacon. Everyone seems to have at least one tattoo, apart from the pasties, presumably scared that it would visible right through them. And who wrote the rule that says the any bloke wearing Speedo’s has to be at least 10kg overweight? Face it, even Cristiano Ronaldo looks ridiculous in them.

The top prize for looking an utter knob has to go to the young man sporting a back-combed bouffant ‘do,’ tied back into a small ponytail – like The Cat. Not Troy in goal, but the Red Dwarf character. This was offset by girlie hooky Gucci sunglasses, a blue Oxford button down, and a green bandana tied into a cravat. I hope to God he’s not English, just a poor parody.

My Mojito in Nikita’s tonight tasted suspiciously like the Margarita from the other evening. I reckon they have one cocktail mix, and just accessorise it with a different selection of fruit.

Saturday, 26th July

After what seems like years, but is probably only weeks, of nagging, we took Xanthe to get her ears pierced. That's her nagging us, not the other way round. I half thought she might chicken out when faced with the reality of it, but no. She chose small square zircons, with white gold plating, and sat patiently while her ears were swabbed, and the right position marked. She barely flinched with the first bang, and not at all with the second. I think we were all relieved at how pain free the whole thing was. She has to douse her ears in alcohol, and twiddle her earrings on a regular basis. Sounds a bit like Essex girls on a night out. We went and bought her a special jar of Raki for the job. Ear-Raki. For those of you who have not been to a Greek island, Raki is the eye-watering clear alcohol brought free with watermelon at the end of each meal. To refuse it would be considered rude, but it can be bad enough to warrant staying at home and cooking. However, it does have remarkable medicinal talents, from antisepsis, to eradicating the itch from mosquito bites.

We went into Chania again this evening, to eat at The Well Of The Turk. We nearly didn’t make it, as the first taxi driver arrived with a passenger, no doubt expecting us to pay the full fare, while all four of us crammed into the back seat. The second drove like a mad man, denying all knowledge of the restaurant, or the road it was on. The North African food made a bit of a change from the selection of souvlaki, moussaka and chips. We then took the tiny harbour ferry on the two minute journey out to the Fortezza, for a drink. The views were good, but that is about all that can be said for it. Two minutes on the ferry back, and into Safran for the kids to have a pudding. Our taxi driver back was great, and spoke good English. A final glass of wine at Dimitri’s, and off to bed.

Sunday, 27th July

We have now been married one month and one day, and it’s going pretty well, so far. And no-one has got significantly sunburnt, which considering the entire family’s slightly cavalier attitude to sunscreen, is excellent. Xanthe is still admiring her ears at every opportunity.

I took a nicely reddened pomegranate off the tree today, and sliced it in half. No sign of the translucent red fruits developing, despite the colour on the outside. Then I had a thought, maybe this was some Cretan strain, which stayed yellow. I scooped out a handful of seeds and stuck them in my mouth. Ugh! No special local variety then.

Floating Down The Lazy River

Wednesday, 22nd July

It's now a twenty-eight shrine drive to the water-park. Every journey in Crete can be measured by the number of roadside tributes to the dead, and each year the number goes up. They vary from antique rusted tins, not unlike the post-boxes, but with a musty glass window, to marble Byzantine palaces, depending on the wealth of the deceased - or, at least, their relatives. They contain photos, gifts that represent the dead person's hobbies, and often a bottle of Coca Light, as refreshment for the journey to the afterlife. Mine would contain lip gloss, a mobile phone, a pair of Jimmy Choos, and a large Chards. Although some of these shrines are at the front gate, the vast majority are roadside, a terrifying reminder of the way that Greeks drive. Some are placed in clusters - perhaps a whole family wiped out in one fell swoop. Installing them must be hazardous in itself, given the lack of pavements, winding roads, and the locals' propensity for driving as close to the edge as possible. It can't be all that uncommon for a grieving relative to be taken out by a lorry, in the midst of refreshing the diet beverage.

In any event, the shrines are more frequent than the road signs, and represent one of the most potent reasons why I won't drive here any more. The only way to get through a car journey with any sanity, is to close your eyes, and keep a tight grip on the seat. So, in Crete, I leave the driving to the professionals, today Costas and Stelios, the taxi-driving twins whose parents presumably named them with as much Cretan irony as they could muster.

We got to Limnoupolis shortly before four. Despite Stelios’ reservations, and suggestion that we should go early, and spend the whole day there, it was the perfect time to go. The crowd of tourists had abated, and the queues were minimal, if present at all. The lifeguards were demob happy, and sailed down the slides clutching each other, without the benefit of a dinghy, and often head first. Two hours is more than long enough to spend in these God-forsaken places, although I have to admit that I was rather enjoying the Black Hole, until I pulled a muscle in my right calf. So I contented myself with floating repeatedly round the Lazy River, until it was time for the hair-raising journey home.

Troy was already at Nikita’s, with all the supplies we needed for the evening, just as Perry had predicted.


Thursday, 24th July

A relatively early start. The man from the boat trip called, to say that there was a weather warning, so he wouldn’t be taking the boat out today. The roof terrace was tolerable by late afternoon, especially with the wind that has sprung up over the last couple of days. And if you’ve got a roof terrace, who needs a cozzie?

Fifteen To One

Monday, 21st July

Fifteen to one, not so much a score, as a quiz show. The call from Dynamo Square came through late last night. That makes them league champions, even without the benefit of ‘The Cat’ in goal. This was a cause for celebration, and abandoning the stagnant game of Scrabble. Troy was way in the lead, as usual. I had promised never to play him again at Scrabble either, or backgammon, or tennis.

Xanthe’s head seems to have become magnetic to balls, whatever pool game we play, she gets clonked between the eyes with unfailing regularity, much to everyone else’s amusement. I had never realized how a thirteen year old boy, and ten year (oh, and seven months precisely, today) girl, could turn Piggy In The Middle into such a violent contact sport. But it was much more fun than the asinine version one plays with a toddler.

We were down to our last thirty euros as we went into Chania tonight. Or Xania as the Greeks spell it, with the result that almost every local number plate is personalized for Xanthe. This was a bit worrying, as the Almyrida ATM had not worked with any of our cards. We had enough money for a taxi there, and could put supper on the Switch, but no cash to get home again. Fortunately, the first machine we came to in Kalyves came up with the goods.

Chania is delightfully pretty, real jigsaw puzzle material. We had a pre-dinner drink at a bar in the harbor, and watched the glass bottomed boats go in and out. We had the best meal we have ever had in Crete, at a restaurant called Safran in the old harbour. Mind you, best meal isn’t saying a lot, but mashed potato and risotto made a welcome change from olive oil chips. Someone needs to teach the chef how to use a piping bag though. The last time I used one I got a very middle class injury, puréed celeriac burns.

Tuesday, 22nd July

Been here a week, week to go.

Mosquito Madness

Saturday, 19th July

I have always been a mosquito magnet, but in recent years Troy has proved more appealing. Until this holiday. For some reason my left shoulder has proved a popular fly through fast bite joint. In fact I have attracted a particularly virulent bunch, leaving me, or at least my shoulder, as a pustulent, suppurating mass. I have Aspivenin’ed, Zanza-Click’ed, applied ammonia, and Raki, but today I can hardly lift my arm. This is not good in the swimming pool, so I caved in and started on the antibiotics. I went out to take some photos of the Olive Grove this morning, and the new camera started talking to me. It was only saying that I needed to charge the battery, in a sat-navvy tone, but think of the possibilities…

‘Just because you have a new camera, doesn’t make you David Bailey.’
‘If you put that on Facebook, there will be trouble.’
‘How many times do I have to remind you to take off the lens cap?’

On a mission to find cotton buds, as I have forgotten to pack any. Discover a brand specially designed to go in the ear - hooray, that’s a coup. But what is the point of a cotton bud, if you can’t put them in your ears. That’s like having your cake and not eating it. Pointless bloody cake. We go for a swim in the sea, for the first time this holiday. It’s warmer than the pool.
Apparently the reason the restaurants are so empty, is because all the hotels have gone over to all inclusive packages. This is good news, as all the restaurants have to keep their prices down. The knock-on effect is that food prices aren’t rocketing as much as everywhere else. In fact, when we unearthed Troy’s stash, a 2005 six-pack of Amstel was €4.10, now it is €3.95.

Troy has brought his special French double Café Crème tins along, to decant his smokes into. Tonight he reads the French health warning. It says, ‘Fumer peut diminiuer l’afflux sanguine et provoque l’impuissance.’ ‘Too right,’ I say, ‘common cause of impotence, smoking furs up the arteries to the penis.’ ‘If only I could get the ruddy thing lit,’ he said, thumbing the wheel of his zippo.

Sunday, 20th July

‘Rampant Inactivity’

We had a great meal last night up at Plaka, but took a slightly over-circuitous route home. At least it was all downhill, until we got to the beach and headed back up. Woke up this morning to more glorious sunshine. Almost at the ‘just another fucking day in paradise’ stage. I only know that it’s Sunday because my pill box tells me so. Found a flyer for a boat trip that seems a bit less traumatic than the usual – burn because there’s no cover for eight hours and eat a shit lunch - trip. Achieved precisely nothing today, which I suppose is the point of: (a) it being Sunday, and (b), being on holiday. Still doesn’t seem right though.

So now I know, it’s a weasel. Doesn’t sound as cute as a stoat, does it? Went for pizza last night, as we all needed a night off from the monotony of Greek Island food. Every single restaurant with the same menu, the only differences being which particular dish is ‘off’ tonight. Back to the house, only to be thrashed by Troy at Rummy, despite telling him, less than 24 hours ago, that I was never going to play him again.

He was up with the lark this morning, and headed out early for his internet fix, papers, and daily supplies. I played Bing Bong Bats with the kids, named after the ‘boiingg’ sound they make when you hit the ball. Laughed a lot as I tried to pretend that the children weren’t annoying me at all. I think I fooled them. Read nearly half of the latest book. I am supposed to be out here, writing, instead I am cheating by reading. I can’t use the laptop by the pool, for the reasons of (a) bright sunlight, and (b), the danger of it getting deluged by the amount of water flying about. So I take a book out, just to read by the pool, and, BAM!, I’m hooked.

Annoyed to discover, that all the work emails I sent yesterday, are still sitting in my outbox. I really don’t need to be dealing with cybercrap at eight on a Friday night. But deadlines is deadlines.

A Weasel's Weaselly Recognised, But A Stoat Is Stoatally Different

Will the good Lord please stop showering me with miracles? An ATM! In Almyrida – no more taxi trips to Kalyves to get cash. Of course if everywhere started taking debit cards then it wouldn’t be an issue. We ended up at the free WiFi spot last night, the whole family in a line, tapping away. So much for the simple life style, we were even communicating by MSN. Perry attracted a coterie of girls, who just had to keep walking past, and again, and again.

I woke up around six this morning with back ache and right sciatica. By eight I was in so much discomfort that I put on my swimsuit, and lay by the pool, hoping the heat would provide some relief. No such luck, so took the painkillers that Troy dissolved for me and went back to bed. Even the kids had a major league lie-in today, not surfacing until after twelve. When the shutters are closed the houses become so dark that it’s possible to sleep forever, almost. In fact, I woke them up because I was beginning to get a bit worried. A bite of breakfast, then straight into the pool to play water polo, water football, comedy jumps and fall out of the dinghy. Troy pumped up my ‘gin palace,’ a lilo with eighteen deep pockets to strengthen the construction, only for Xanthe to ask why it needed so many drinks holders.

I was alarmed to discover that I have become the sort of woman who moves a sun lounger around the pool, in order to get the best alignment with the sun. When the hell did that happen? My constant sun chasing is facilitated by the fact that we are the only people in The Olive Grove. It’s all pointless anyway, as I hardly tan at all. Troy somehow manages to sit in the shade all holiday, and still come home an impressive shade of brown.

This morning I had the obligatory phone call from work to ask when I was coming in today. This invariably happens when I am away, and I would probably feel a bit unwanted if it didn’t. Being without any internet access in the house is like having a limb cut off. Even for simple research, there is a small long bodied mammal living in the grove opposite. I know that this is either a stoat or a weasel. But I don’t know which or why, and I would like to. In any event the small rodent crunching mammal has a friend, a little finch that follows it everywhere, three feet behind, as though it is tied to its tail by a invisible string. Shame the kids are too old for a series of that kind of stories.

The pruned pomegranates are now sitting on the low front wall, waiting to ripen.

A Revelation

Never, in living memory, have I been at the beach at 10.00am. Well, perhaps not the beach, but a nice enough bar and breakfast joint, with free WiFi. Woohoo! And all of this before the kids are even up. Back home with the papers, and start on my labour of love. The project for the holiday is to arrange the wedding photos (over two thousand of them) into manageable folders. Rather surprisingly, I am finished before 5.oopm. Bugger, what am I going to do with the rest of the holiday? Also sunbathed, swam and puzzled. As in doing Sudoku, not wondering about life's mysteries.



Almyrida is almost empty compared to recent years. Whereas it was always tricky to find a beachside table, now you can have the joy of sea spray all over your food almost anywhere. Perhaps this is due to the credit crunch, or market crunch, as Xanthe calls it. Which sounds like an organic cereal bar, to me. Or it may be the result of the spate of local burglaries. We arrived yesterday to find our neighbours' house open, with the front glass smashed in. It seems the locals are too greedy to wait for the economic benefits of tourism, so are nicking visitors phones, laptops, ipods, and credit cards instead. The police here are so dead keen on suffocating this crime, that their response was to say that when the owners are next here, in August, they should file a report...



Otherwise, it is a return to a very simple existence. No car, no TV, even no radio. Eat and drink what we can manage to bring back from the village each day. We walked into town and had a lovely meal, accompanied by the sound of the waves crashing against the front wall of the restaurant.



As to the revelation. I can't tell you now, I can't tell you tomorrow...

French Letters

Monday, 14th July

‘French Letters’

A day of chaos and frustration. Got up early, for me at least, to ring the tax office in Draguignan, they should have been open, but no answer. Tried Fiducial Expertise in Lyon, same story. The tax office are after me for a couple of declarations for the last financial year, but I can’t for the life of me find out what they are. So I wrote letters and faxes, and left it at that. The next task was to find out check in times. The tickets said that check-in closed two hours before the flight. This struck me as a bit odd, so I rang up. No, that was a mistake, it opens then. Ah! While I had them on the phone I asked if it mattered that my ticket said Mr S Burnett? Yes it did, I would be denied boarding. With less than 20 hours to go before check-in this was far from good news. I checked the original itinerary with Expedia, and everything was correct. Clearly, as their ticketing system did not support the appellation ‘Dr,’ it had defaulted to Mr. Back on the phone, and they charged me £50 to change it, even though it was their fault. While looking at the itinerary, I realized that I had booked parking back in December. So the one I booked last week was pointless. Note to self to cancel the second one on my return.

Now late for my five patients, so I hurtle up to PG, only to find that in fact there are only two. One at 2.00, and one at 3.00, great. Hurtle home again, and ring Suzie to find out when the boys are back from Wales, only to find that Tommy was already home. Hurtle off to school an hour early to get Perry, to be told that he had decided to get home under his own steam. Hurtle home. Set up the 4 Ways pc to do some work, and check the original car booking. ‘Please call at least 24 hours in advance to arrange the meet and greet.’ SHIT! Back on the blower to the car parking people, only to be told that the company Expedia had booked us with in December, had folded in November, so there was no booking. No refund, as I would have to get that from Expedia. Aargh!

Was allocated far too much work, and they tried to send more. For once put my foot down, and said no. Off to Pizza Express for dinner, who cooks the night before a holiday? Home to meet Anita, who is keeping an eye on the house while we are away. Then over the pub for a quiet one, before the obligatory pre-travel early night.

Tuesday, 15th July

‘The Olive Grove’

The earth moved for me this morning, but not in a ‘nuff said’ kind of way. The radio alarm went off at 6.00 am, and the first words we heard were… ‘An overnight earthquake has devastated the Greek island of…. Rhodes.’ Phew, what a relief, but a hell of a wake-up call. Twelve hours in transit, OK that’s cheating a bit because of the time difference. But here we are, sitting in the Olive Grove, surrounded by bats and crickets, and watching out for shooting stars. The pomegranates are ripening, the mosquitoes are biting, and yet again, we’re home.

Troy is delighted to find his stash from three years ago. We have enough suncream to start a shop, although at 36 degrees we will probably need it. There’s condiments, beverages, water and wine. However, it has to be said that the beer was possibly past its prime.

Troy points out, over a glass of ouzo, that yesterday was Bastille Day - that would explain the need to resort to French Letters.

Saturday, 12th July

‘Here I Go Again’

I like, totally forgot, to tell you - High School Musical wasn’t as awful as I thought it was going to be. However, the number of grown-ups who’d forgotten to borrow a child, to validate their attendance, was staggering. We were right at the back of the circle for the first half, but noticed several empty seats further forward. So for the second half we sat right at the front of the circle. There were a few tuts, but if the seats are empty, what the hell?

Last night the girl posse went to see Mamma Mia. This was the second night in a row that I had gone out with low expectations. How wrong could I have been. This was the best film I have seen in ages. We cried with laughter, we cried with, um, crying. Even Alison would have cried if her tear ducts hadn’t healed up years ago. We are definitely going to see it again. And sing along. In costumes. It’s set on a Greek island, which just brought home how soon we will be in Crete.

Then back to The Castle, and then here’s the mistake – we asked everyone back for a drink. Anita went to get her two pointers, and the miniature Yorkie who is staying with her. We very explicitly said, ‘Just one or maybe two,’ as I had to be up at a reasonable time to get Xanthe to Peter Jones for her uniform appointment. Coco the Yorkie was so cute, I had to wake Xanthe up, so she joined the party. All of a sudden it was 2.00am, and Alison and CJ rocked up. Lester followed, and tried to buy us a wedding present. And failed. He brought Barney, so there were now six dogs going ballistic. CJ and Ali left around 4.00am, leaving Troy and I to shoot the breeze, and finish the open bottle of wine. We went to sleep around the time the alarm goes off.

Three hours later and it’s uniform time! Back to the house for an hour’s kip. Then off to PC World to buy Fluff a laptop. I find the coolest gadget in the world, a portable mini printer, that you Bluetooth images to from your phone! Joined by Max and Harry, and the five of us head off to see ‘Journey To The Centre Of The Earth.’ IN 3-D! The 3-D is amazing, and clearly the producers thought that they didn’t need to bother with a decent script. Or character development. Or competent direction. Pizza Express for supper, then over to the pub, where Lauren and Steve were ‘evolving’ a cocktail. Yeugh! Home for a thoroughly good night’s sleep, after the excesses of the night, or rather morning, before.


Sunday, 13th July

'Journey To The Centre Of Peckham'

Up at sparrow’s fart, or at least what passes for, on a Sunday. 9.30am. Worked until we went out for Dim Sum, a good starchy lunch for Troy before the football this evening. Then we went on something of an adventure. A trip to Peckham… After reading Troy’s copy of Stuff the other evening, I was determined to score a – specific - new camcorder. The only problem was, the only shop that had it was, you guessed it… in Peckham. The sun got lower in the sky, and the temperature dropped, as we left London. I asked if he’d remembered the passports. As I reversed the wrong way up a one way street, I thought how very ‘Bonfire of the Vanities,’ it all was. We parked, made our purchases, and scuttled out of Currys.digital. Xanthe asked where we were going, ‘Back to the car, if it’s still there.’ I quipped. Strangely, the traffic leaving Peckham was far worse, than the queue of people waiting to get in. Figures.

Freecycling

Friday, 11th July

Round our house, it’s not foxes who go through our rubbish, it’s the neighbours. In the dead of night, locals trawl through the contents of our skip and bin bags to look for broken sinks, tap sets, Barbie missing one leg, almost anything. Pikeys go through the skip first, looking for scrap metal, which they can resell. From our bedroom window, we can see them drawing back the cover to reveal the miraculous contents of the big metal treasure chest. Sometimes we make bets on how quickly stuff will go. To save them the trouble of burrowing under the tarpaulin, Troy has taken to leaving the metal parts propped up on the outside of the skip. This is in case they hurt themselves stealing useless detritus, and try to sue us. There’s an expression up North, ‘Where’s there’s muck there’s brass’, and there seems to be a market in virtually anything. After all, look at the rubbish people will buy on eBay. However, I suspect one of our raiders was a bit disappointed with the contents of one designer shopping bag. We use them to put scooped poop in.

We have been trying to find space for the wedding presents, getting rid of huge piles of clutter, and almost invariably it soon finds a new home. A sort of freeBay, extreme urban recycling. Today, within five minutes, a large box of old electronic bits, was taken. Recently, the kids put out loads of old broken toys, books, broken luggage and board games with missing pieces. At 6.30, in the morning, a battered old white van appeared, and a battered old white man clambered out, and took the lot. Occasionally people will ring the doorbell and ask if they could take specific items, these tend to be the more middle class freecyclers. One afternoon the doorbell went and an elderly gentleman stood on the doorstep clutching a two foot tall, Art Deco, bronze nude male. ‘Can I really take this?’ he enquired. ‘I have a gay roofer friend who would love him.’ I reassured him that Stanley needed a new home. Now, Stanley has history. In France, due to the convoluted inheritance and property laws, homes often lie empty for years before they are sold. New owners find themselves lumbered with the entire dusty contents. Some friends bought such a house, and we went to stay last summer. Xanthe fell in love with the statue, christened him Stanley, and somehow managed to get him through airport security. But girls are fickle, and this summer she has moved on, and Stanley became redundant.

We are currently showcasing a broken glider, a broken abdominizer, a hamster cage and an inflatable pink chair. No takers yet, but the only thing that never got a new home was one of those dog head collars, designed to stop them scratching. I guess all the local dogs are in pretty good condition. Even broken electricals go. Perry’s computer conked out shortly before Christmas, so I put it out on the way to collect the kids from school. It was dark when we got back, and I parked the car by Battersea Square, so that we could all meet Troy for a drink. As we pulled up, a shifty looking guy was sneaking up the road. He had a huge grin on his face and a knackered PC under his arm. We had to stifle the giggles as he went past the car. Dirty Harry joined us for an early evening snifter. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I just seem a really smug looking bloke crossing the Square with a PC, do you think he nicked it?’ This time we fell about.

We went for Sunday roast in the pub last week. There, on the sofa with a bunch of guys, sat Stanley. I went over to meet his new owner, ‘Are you a roofer?’ I asked. He was quite taken aback. I drew the line at asking the other question.

There Is Such A Thing As A Free Lunch

Wednesday, 9th July

'Hug A Hoodie'
Less than 24 hours back from Iceland, and Perry heads to Welsh Wales for five days. Troy packed and repacked his rucksack and case, complete with 20 pairs of pants (Primark, £10 for the lot). Apparently this is because Perry may get wet on a regular basis. Given the weather today, this seems remarkable foresight, as London is drowned in rain, and flash floods are predicted for Central Wales. As the first activity is a gorge walk in the Brecons, this is not good news. Troy reassures me that school wouldn't let him do anything dangerous. Perry has got more affectionate since Saturday. He stood there in his fleece, looking a bit forlorn. 'Hug a hoodie, Mum.' It was a bit perfunctory, but still a hug. Troy and I dropped him off at school, and went to revise our wedding list.

This was a bit counterproductive. They were devoid of tips on how to get our final stragglers to stump up with a prezzie. As we reviewed the gifts we had chosen, we kept seeing extra things we'd quite like. 'Oooo, a matching cheese knife, how about a pair of Boris decanters? Come to think of it, we need a new throw,' that sort of thing. And no-one is going to be buying them but us!

'Xanthe Gets Philosophical'
If you commit a crime but you're not caught, are you technically a criminal? It's a good question. I answered it with another question. Is taking recycling bags, which technically belong to Wandsworth Council, off someone else's doorstep really a crime? She looked smugly furtive with her contraband sacks, and it saved me a trip to the library. Xanthe describes the strange weather as bipolar, which I think sums it up really well. It brings a whole new meaning to seasonal affective disorder.

Thursday, 10th July

A pretty busy day. I flew out of the front door at 9.15 to make it Broadcasting house in time for my appearance on Woman's Hour. Not until I was over Chelsea Bridge, did I realise that I had no money on me at all. This did not bode well for lunch. Then I took a huge mouthful of tea from the sippy cup, which Troy had made me, forgetting that it is so well insulated you have to give it at least two hours to cool down. Ouch! As usual the BBC got my name wrong, and my job. What an amateur outfit! The interview struck me as dull so God knows what the listeners thought.

On to King Edward VIIth, where, hallelujah, I remember that there is free lunch for staff. Take a hour to see two patients, then go up to the canteen. Have a chat with the girls while eating a passable veggie pancake. Just like people who are VOP, vegetarian on planes, and VAB, vegetarian at balls, I am VIC, veggie in canteens. I thought those who tackled the plaice stuffed with prawns extremely brave. And I fully anticipate not seeing them for the next few days. Next step, Princess Grace, and eight bone density scans.

Fourth port of call John and Lizzies, where only five patients take all afternoon. The first patient had been listening to Woman's Hour, and thought the interview was excellent. She wasn't just saying that, because owing to the BBC getting my name wrong, she hadn't realised it was me. Drive back home to report MRI's,and my tea is still warm. Then out to see High School Musical, don't ask.

Why am I telling you this? Well if I can manage this in one day then maybe the half term trip I am planning is actually doable. It goes like this. Saturday, Gatwick to Palermo, overnight in Palermo - tempted by a hotel called Cristal Palace, but relegated that idea - Sunday train to Milazzo. Hydrfoil from Milazzo to Salina. Two nights at the Hotel Signum. Tuesday ferry to Naples, overnight in Naples. Wednesday flight to Milan, train from Milan to Nice, pick up hire car and drive to our house. Three nights in Montauroux, then back to Nice to fly home. It's going to be great going on proper journey, slow travel with boats and trains.

Check back tomorrow to find out just how bad High School Musical actually was.

The Mysterious Case of The Dog in the Night

Last night we lost Reggie. She must have slipped out of the front door while bin bags were going out. Troy headed out to the park one way, shouting and whistling, and Xanthe and I set out in a pincer movement, having searched the house. Ten minutes running round Battersea, and no sign of her. Strategic phone calls were placed to friends she might have chosen to visit, all to no avail. Dinner was left to get cold as we searched high and low. Well, mostly low as she isn't very tall. I kept reassuring myself that she is chipped, and people are fundamentally honest, so someone may turn her in.

We returned home, appetites gone. We decided to search the house again, she wasn't stuck in a bedroom, or even in the cupboard under the stairs - a favourite haunt as the leads are kept in there. Eventually, my bladder got the better of my anxiety, and I opened the door of the downstairs lavvy. Out sauntered Reg, with a 'what's-up-with-you-lot?' look on her face. She must have heard us clattering about and shouting her name, and yet not a peep, woof or scratch. I wonder what we did to piss her off?

Perry was back from Iceland today, with that complete lack of enthusiasm for anything, that only a thirteen year old can manage. Blue Lagoon? Fine. Geysers? Fine. We went to the Big Easy, on the King's Road, for supper. On the way, we hear one of the LBC presenters describe how the Big Easy no longer has corn on the cob on the menu. Apparently it is now almost impossible to get. Our favourite side dish has gone from buttery fingers, to bio-fuel. Once we sit at our table, Xanthe starts hissing and mugging frantically. It turns out that her and Perry's old English teacher is sitting at the next table. He orders two beers, and a glass of red wine all at once, just for himself. And before 7pm, you can tell it's the end of term.

Half way through the meal and Helen and Sarah turn up. Clearly tonight, the Big Easy is on the golden string that holds the universe together. After all, there is no such thing as a coincidence.

Ribs, steak and chicken wings. Who needs salt-grilled bighand thornyhead (Jesus, I hope that's a fish) with vinegary water pepper sauce. Our meal may not have been G8, but it was Gr8!

Kung Fu Mummy

Sunday, 6th July, 2008

My literary plans for the day are confounded. Kung Fu Panda was amusing, but didn't spur any spin off jokes. The dogs aren't back, so can't go to the foot of our stairs, then bleat and whine about being allowed up.

A lot of people have asked why this blog isn't sexually explicit. But that's really not what I'm about. The purpose of the blog is to explore the middle-aged angst of a not-so-desperate housewife. But the day got off to a good start. Nuff said, Mrs Moore. We had a Spanish tribute lunch, chorizo tortilla, e pimientos de padron.


In truth, my adrenals are worn out by, what I reckon, was the best Wimbledon final I have ever seen. Scratch the best Wimbledon final, the best game of tennis - ever. The chipmunk eventually won, which made me happy. And possibly lots of other women. So that's why this post is a day late.

Monday, 7th July, 2008

I took my paperwork into the bank, to get my credit card and paying in book in my new name. How exciting is that?

Perry, Not His Mum,'s Gone To Iceland

My internal alarm kicked in at 6.15 am, shortly before Perry's infernal alarm went off at 6.20. I can't remember the last time I saw 6.15 on a Saturday morning, and I suspect I would have been coming at it from the other end. We got to Clapham Junction in ample time for his 7.00 am meeting, which isn't as clever as it sounds, as it is less than five minutes drive away. The ticket hall was full of hormonally charged thirteen year olds, and bewildered parents. It's funny how, even twenty-eight years after I left school, I can still spot a Geography teacher a mile off. I gave Perry the customary punch on the shoulder, that serves as the only public display of affection a teenager will tolerate, and went home, back to bed.

Four and a half hours later, while Perry is winging his way to Iceland, we are on the road to Kent. Off to the Hop Farm for the Mighty Boosh Music and Comedy festival. We parked the car in the obligatory trashed festival field, and found a spot to park our bottoms, not far in front of the music stage. We were surrounded by a remarkable panoply of Boosh freaks. There were fans dressed as favourites characters, the usual Noel Fielding groupies, and random fruitcakes. Everyone else seemed to be a fifteen year old Peaches Geldof lookalike. The air was full of bittersweet dope smoke. I would have to hold my breath for the entire day to be safe driving home.

Troy and Max decided to stay parked in front of the sound stage to see The Kills, while Xanthe and I went to the Velvet Onion Tent for the comedy. It was too packed to get in, so we stretched out in the glorious sunshine under the speakers. Xanthe asked me if the comedian was American, since the basis of the gag involved bears, and a shark painted pink to resemble a salmon, I thought he might be Canadian. I was right. We tittered at the concept that one only uses the living room as a last resort, when you can't justifiably use any other room in the house. But the set that had the premise that Jesus didn't contribute anything major to the world of carpentry, lacked something. Ah yes, jokes.

So we hauled our sorry grass-stained asses off the ground, and set off on a grand tour of the site. The drink and drugs seemed to be starting to take effect. Not on us, obviously. 'Don't look left, Mummy,' hissed Xanthe. There's a man with his thing out. And he's wearing a dress.' I pointed out that it was her who should be looking away, since I'd already seen hundreds. It was black and covered in sequins by the way. The dress, not the penis.

We found the boys again, and sat in the ever lengthening, late afternoon, shadows of the recycling bin. The other festival-goers got rowdier on constant trips to the cider tent, and Troy wondered whether they should be joining Bar-cotics Anonymous.

Gary Numan was brilliant, the first time I've seen him since I had a Geography teacher. He looked pretty fit for a forty-nine year old, and produced some rocked up versions of his old classics. Noel Fielding was side stage, dancing, and greeted Numan with a massive hug as he came off.

The kids in front of us, rocked and grooved, and man-wrestled with their shirts off. And if there's one message about drugs I would give to my children it's this - don't do them. They make you dance really, really badly.

Not Twenty, But Eight Days Later

I have a virus. Not the Rage Virus, as featured in the above movie, but more of a beige virus. At least if the colour of my phlegm is anything to go by. I didn't want to turn my colleagues into a tribe of snot-zombies, so I spent the day in a Lem-Sip and chicken noodle fug at home. The drawback of spending a day at home, and I am sure there are those of those of you who would do anything to be in my position - is that, NOTHING, funny -happens.

One of the great things about a career in medicine, is that you would normally get a bloody great laugh, or story, out of every day. Hide under the blankie, with a sinusitis headache, and you're probably not reaping great blog material. The dogs were cute, but not producing blog-worthy moments, and the kids were less than borderline cute. The good news is that, Guiseppe, the dog walker, has taken them to Blackpool for a couple of days, while we hit The Boosh Festival. So they should come up with some great Northern gags on their return. Eee, ecky woof.

Perry is off to Iceland tomorrow. So hopefully he'll come back with a family 'BeeBeeCue' multipack of 14,723 items for four quid. That would be offal, come to think of it. Now there's a gag I missed, my offally wedded husband...

Seven Days Wed

Pink and green Wayfarers, pink and green French Soles. Arriving at work, I bumped into one of my consultant colleagues, and Troy's surgeon. He enquired after our well being, 'Great,' I said, 'we got married a week ago today.' He raised one eyebrow, subtly, 'And you're still married. Well done.' He smirked, not quite as subtly, as he strode off. That took the wind out of my newly wed sails a tad. I salvaged my idyllic status by setting up a looping slide show of wedding photos.

I saw three of my 'regulars' in the course of the day, which is always fun, but each one invariably takes longer than a patient you don't have to catch up with, socially. By four pm I was at my third hospital of the day, and desperately in need of a break, but no luck. Xanthe was singing at St Peter's, Eton Square at five, so once I finished my reporting, I decided to hit the Matches sale. There were a couple of DVF holiday dresses I had my trained observer's eye on. Or I mean, on which I had my trained observer's eye upon. Jesus, you can take the pedant out of the girl, but you can't...

Bugger, that so doesn't work.

When I went in last week, the girls complimented me on my shoes. 'M&S - £19.50' was my smug reply. This afternoon it was the turn of the sunnies. I explained their meagre provenance, and was rewarded with a sychronized eye roll. Much chit-chat and a glass of fizzy water later, and I am the proud owner of a seriously cleavage-enhancing Von Furstenburg halter. So much for my self delusional promises of cutting back after the wedding. But it's a holiday dress, and I need one. Seriously.

So I totally missed her singing, as her little muckers would say, and arrived just in time to pick her up. I swear she had been at the Communion wine, as she giggled uncontrollably all the way home. Must be de-mob happy, only three more days of school to go, and she's on to pastures new. Over a pre-dinner Chards, Troy tells me he has been getting rid of the defunct legal stuff. Shredding it, and it has taken all day. Tonight Matthew, I am going to be Roger Shredderer. Maybe the word 'be' is redundant in that last sentence.

It's Chi Chi Cone Carne doing Drag Bingo in the pub tonight, so we're giving it our usual Thursday swerve. Even got married on a Thursday night last week to miss it, so how bad can it be? We had eagerly anticipated a camp joke-fest, with rollocking innuendo for every number, what we got was a bloke in a frock with no gags. 66 - Clickety clix - what's wrong with 66 - two huge pricks? OK, the frock was cute, but the script sucked.

So I am breaking with tradition, and writing at home, full of Vietnamese chicken noodle soup and chilled Chardonnay. Oly and Reggie are curled up in the crooks of our knees on the sofa, and a soporific lavender candle is flickering, aromatically, in the background. And our romantic bedtime viewing is - Hitman.

We may only have been married for a week, but we have been together for five years and one week. Precisely.

Mrs Moore Gets A World Record...

...or at least I think I have. I reported 87 MRI scans today. The system roared back into life with a vengeance. Good job I was feeling better. No chance to prevaricate about anything. Troy decided that this was a great time to find my lost touch. I've just read that back, I mean my errant iPod Touch. I know we've been married a whole week - nearly, but things aren't yet that bad. I hope. By the time he had finished rummaging, we had loads more space in the cupboards. But the living room was full of crap. Old dog paraphernalia, ski wear, ten foot high piles of medical negligence paperwork, piles of software, random chargers, - the lot. Oly looked a sweetie in his baseball cap, and size zero Reg chillaxed in her lime green Ralph Lauren polo T. I am sure you think I am joking, let me assure you, that I am not.

So the day was spent in front of the computer bank, reporting, reporting, reporting. If only Norris McWhirter could have seen me. A little respite was to be had in the evening. While Murray blew his Gasquet, letting Nadal trample all over him, I went out to supper with Anna. We saw her husband at Wembley recently, sporting a bizarre cowboy hat. Mind you, if you're going to have a mid-life crisis, here are the options - buy a Harley and shag a twenty year old, or wear a hilarious hat. I know which I'd rather have my husband hanker after...

Mrs Moore is Unwell

My resolutions have repeatedly hit the net. Today in SW11 saw chipped nails, filthy hair, and mascara that's older than a mayfly. But my collection of dayglo wayfarers arrived, in time to hold my greasy hair off my forehead. The sort of torpor that you only get five days after a wedding has set in, and I feel a bit flat. However, it's not as bad as Boxing Day, the whole of February, or after late August Bank Holiday - when you realise there isn't another day off 'til Christmas. To cap it all my secure reporting system wasn't working, so I had nothing to distract me. I had no choice, I had to tackle the 'To Do Box Box.' No, not an anagram for Botox, or not unless I've been drinking heavily, but the box of red bills, old parking tickets and final demands that requires weekly debridement. I hate it when I can't prevaricate.

I wrote the last of the thank you letters. I paid my tax bill for July. I challenged a few PCNs, and I even put some wedding presents on eBay. I ignored multiple pointless emails from the ex. I added a couple of hundred cities I've visited on FB. I even considered doing some exercise. This was, in fact, Class A prevaricating, stopping me from starting my book. Well, I've started it, just as I've started loads of others. I just can't get past a thousand words.

Maybe tomorrow I'll hit two thousand and one.