A right pickle

I got into a right pickle yesterday. What another fab phrase. I got all confused about some insurance I was taking out and the more confused I got the more mistakes I made and the deeper I dug my hole. But it wasn't a disastrous mess.

My son can't resist a pickled onion

It was a bit like my painting experiences where I get into a right pickle. It's a phrase that tells someone you have got yourself into a knot of mistakes but it's not the end of the world. You might be a bit hot under the collar but you could easily laugh yourself out of the pickle again.

I went for a walk with a friend the other day and we got into a right pickle in some mud. It has rained so much that the footpaths are just quagmires, get into the middle of the path and linger a moment and you start to sink. We felt a bit pickled.

Libraries no more

Remember back in March last year I lamented the demise of our local library? Well it's official now. Our library will disappear along with most of the other libraries in the borough. Of course, our local MP and local Councillors will say the libraries aren't going but just moving into a room in other pre-existing Council premises. But it's hard not to see 'moving to a room' as the beginning of the end.

It's hard to see how staff can maintain the level of service in a significantly smaller space with less money and presumably fewer of them. It's almost a self-perpetuating decline now. It's hard to see why numbers using the library will not just fall off because the service just won't be the excellent one it is now and then before we know it the Council won't be prepared to justify the time, effort and money to keep libraries going. Alas I don't think libraries have yet reached their nadir.

Call me cynical but it's funny isn't it that the report that sets out the future of libraries in my local borough was released just before Christmas. Funny isn't it that the local press and public haven't reacted much because they had other things to think about in the Christmas rush.

If you remember my local MP didn't seem that bothered about the threat to my library. I won't be writing another letter to my MP or Councillors because I don't trust them any more. Was it only about two years ago we were asked to vote on a number of options for the library service. We voted. And now the goalposts have changed once again. Libraries are the soft and easy target to save money. I just wish politicians would treat me as fairly intelligent and admit that the service will be poorer.

Over the last year or two my friends and I have continually lamented the end of libraries. We have even felt a rumble in the ground. Could it be that those 19th century philanthropists who gave money for the creation of places where people could learn are turning in their graves? Could it be that earlier generations of local councillors are heaving a sigh of relief that the destruction of libraries wasn't undertaken on their watch? Or is that all imagined?

Anyway let's jump forward 30 years - someone conjures up a new concept. A  revolutionary idea. A place where you can go to ask people about how to research local history and get information, borrow books, obtain support with your education, encourage children to read - all under one roof and not necessarily all on computer. What shall we call it?

Never watch children or animals

Went to see 'War Horse', the stage show, at the weekend and it was amazing. The puppetry is breath-taking. But I broke my golden rule: never watch films or plays with  children or animals in as it will only lead to profuse crying. It has a relatively happy ending and still I cried. I had mascara embarrassment in a public place.

Some of my friends may laugh at my reaction as I am not known for my overt fondness for pets or animals. Part of that may stem from the fact I am a farmer's daughter so I see animals in a more practical sense of either delivering milk or producing beef or laying eggs.  I also know the huge commitment that is involved in looking after any animal properly and kindly. But put them in a drama and I am a goner.

However, with a bit of self-psychoanalysis,  I actually think the tears all stem from watching the film, 'The Yearling', as a little child. Have you ever seen it? It stars Gregory Peck, playing a farmer in the old American pioneering days. I haven't seen it in decades but I remember it's about a young child having a young deer as a pet and basically having to shoot it because it eats the family's crops and damages fences. Cheerful, hey! Bambi has nothing on it.

I can remember crying and crying, watching it. Hence that's why I weep when I watch films about children and animals that involve even a teeny-itsy bit of sadness or cruelty plus I'm like my Dad and am a bit of a sentimental thing at heart. I suspect deep down I equate having a pet with ultimate sadness....ooh I'm into the self-analysis big time.

I certainly wouldn't survive the film of 'War Horse' especially as it's directed by Spielberg - I'd be a wreck. But don't let me put you off the stage production - it is awesome.

Charity update

Oh joy of joys last year Barnardo's in their infinite wisdom decided to open their first charity superstore not in London, as so often happens with big new initiatives, but just down the road from 88. Thank you, Barnardo's! I have two friends, S and J, and they are as charity shop obsessed as my good self....by the way, fear not I do have more than two friends...just.

Come a new season or if we feel down, we hop into the car and down the road we chug to see what gems the great Barnardo's superstore has to offer us. And oh what bounties.

The store is huge and offers up a cornucopia of different clothes, ranging from bog standard brands to designer labels. Pay anything from £2 to £30 and over for the more exclusive second hand labels. My friend, S, complains of arm ache after every visit due to the carriage of copious items of clothes on her arm in readiness for the great trying on. We should have our own engraved individual rails upon which to hang our potential buys.

Fortunately we are all three different sizes and have slightly different tastes. This way we avoid huge fights on the shop floor, arguing over the bargains. In fact, we now know each other well enough that we can spot items for each other. A shout often goes out across the shop floor 'What about this top, S?' 'This is just you, J.'

By the way J and I are in no way  jealous of S who is tall, willowy and basically could wear a bin bag and look fab. We turn it to our advantage and enjoy dressing her in all the size 8 designer labels which J and I can only gaze longingly at. Having said that J (and I am sure she won't mind me saying) has been known to squeeze herself into a few smaller-sized labels quite successfully. The problem is getting her out again.

So we are three happy girls this morning, standing in front of our new wardrobes, wondering what to dazzle the world in today. Whatismore and to the point is we've recycled and we have helped an important charity.

Charity Items since last time:

H&M stripey top £3.99 (Barnardo's)
Coast skirt £6.99 (Barnardo's) - Christmas outfit sorted in plenty of time!
Betty Jackson skirt £9.99 (Barnardo's) - never had a designer name like Betty's before!
H&M Jacket £4.99 (Barnardo's) - wore last night to a course I'm on
Regatta boy's fleece £2.99 (British Red Cross) - my son has desperately needed a fleece for mucking about in.

What's a drip here, a drop there

My Mum in her heyday was very very self-sufficient and efficient. She would do all her own decorating and she would paint the house top to toe every year. I have a sneaking suspicion that if I had stood still on one of her painting days I would have got a first coat. Although she would cover furniture and other obstacles some things did get paint-splashed here and there. Indeed she was asking  the other day how my own house painting was going and located a little speck of paint on her cardigan from days gone by. How much she wishes with all her heart and being that she could still climb a ladder with paint brush in hand and transform a room in a day instead of sat in an elderly people's home, riddled with arthritis and memories.

Anyway I only serve to mention the above in letting you know the paint school to which I subscribe ie cover with sheets as little as possible and wipe up as you go along. I am a busy Mum with things to do and can't hang around over-prepping.

I have a lot of painting to do since our extension was finished. And I am amazed where paint can transport itself. Yes I swear it's alive and deliberately lands where it knows it should not. It creeps under newspapers and stains floors; it drips on covers and then I move the cover and it streaks the floor and my most novel accident: it drips onto a spear-like plant leaf and then drips off on to the floor. I thought I was making excellent smudge-free progress and then aah I saw the damage.

I'm not very good at preparation basically.  Look closely at the non-carpeted areas in our house and you will find faintly white cirrus formations in corners or along skirting boards where I have dripped and wiped but not very immediately nor successfully. Of course this is all my own fault. My painter's report would read: 'an impatient person with no attention to detail. Virginia will not go far in the professional paint world.'


At times over the last few months I've felt I've been appearing in my own Laurel and Hardy sketch or Norman Wisdom screwball escapade. I drip paint, I wipe it up, I drip paint, I wipe it up but I wipe it up with the cloth I've just wiped it up with and just put more paint onto the floor. Then the paint laden cloth contaminates my fingers and I open the door to get to the bit of arcitrave I can't get to and then swipe paint on the lovely glass door handle that I wanted to keep pristine and then I wipe it with the cloth forgetting it's covered in paint already. It's a joy.

But here's the thing, looked on as a whole (and as long as you are not a professional decorator) it's all just fine and progress is being made. Moreover I am thankful I can still paint and regret with all my heart that my Mum cannot.

I know you're out there!

Just thought my regular readers might be interested in finding a little more about other readers of Livingat88. By my calculations there are about 10 of you who regularly read my posts - yep I'm hitting the big time here. I'll settle for quality readers not necessarily a huge quantity of you.

And I think you are mainly British, Russian, and American with a German thrown in for good measure if I can decipher the stats correctly. I assume I know most of the Britishers (loyal family and friends presumably - although they often forget to read it, don't you, David!).

I thank you all and hope you'll keep reading. Try to get in touch please. I say 'try' as I know at least one of you would like to comment more but the means by which to do so is too technically complicated or something. Perhaps that's a good thing really. I live in hope anyway.

Are you thick or what?

I was reminded today of an expression that I hadn't used for a long time. One of those expressions that turns the normal meaning of a word upside down and encapsulates perfectly a feeling or concept. One that is full of subtleties. One where the meaning has just seeped into you over the years.

We were talking about two friends who are 'very thick'. And no...we didn't mean that they are a little dim or unintelligent. We meant that they are very good and close friends. Mates who are almost inseparable, have good times together, stick up for one another. It's often difficult for other friends to penetrate that 'thickness'.

I could go on but that's defeating the meaning of the word. When my friend said 'they are very thick', I knew what she meant and no more was said.