On zombie books, and corpses in the garden.

The more I look at that title, the less sure I am that I even know how to write. Corpses. It looks wrong. It is a word - I checked on Google. I even looked up 'use corpses in a sentence', but I'm not convinced. It sounds like something that Gollum would say. I know the children at school have similar moments: a couple of days ago, the most intelligent girl in the class sat with her head in her hands, moaning that she'd forgotten how to spell 'when'. I know I'd fail the SATs grammar test our year 6s have just done. What the heck is 'past progressive', and why do you need to know when you're only 11 years old and struggle to put a comma in the correct place? I know that some schools use old SATs papers to test the intelligence of prospective teaching assistants. I would re-enact that scene from Shirley Valentine, where she rips her exam paper into little bits and throws it over her shoulder. Either that, or I'd creatively deface it. 'Tick one box in each row to show whether the word after is used as a subordinating conjunction or as a preposition.' I can think of an answer to that, but it wouldn't be one that would score me any points. I have nothing against learning grammar, but at age eleven surely you just need to be able to tell whether your sentence makes sense or not. Learn the finer points later. If you want to. 

Anyway. (And I know that's not grammatically correct, because a sentence needs a subject and a verb. Do I care?)

Going back to corpses (my little Hobbitses) - we have an assortment of dead animals in the back garden thanks to one of our cats, who has decided it is rabbit-hunting season once more. He uses our hammock as the roof of his outdoor eatery, which means that when the sun appears (ha ha), whoever wishes to bask has to clear up a little pile of rabbit ears and rejected hind legs. It's not pleasant. Especially when a major disembowelling is taking place when I'm trying to eat my breakfast. 

There are also a couple of skulls around, that Son Number One has found on his rounds as a Forest Ranger. I love my son's job title. It makes him sound like a character from Yogi Bear and gives us endless opportunities to take the piss and sing the Lumberjack Song from Monty Python. He found a roe deer skull some time ago, which we scrubbed with Jeyes Fluid and which now sits on a bookshelf. Because that was greeted with interested enthusiasm, he's also brought home a huge red deer skull and a fox skull, complete with jaw bone and rather wobbly teeth. The red deer was hard to identify as it came from an individual with deformed antlers, meaning we couldn't find it on any guide on the internet. So Son Number One took it to the Wildlife Rangers, who told us what is was. They've promised to show him around the whole wildlife department, and I'm wondering if I'll be allowed to go, too. (Apparently, they once had to shoot a crocodile.) We've become so used to having these skulls around, that they've faded into our surroundings, but we try to remember to put them outside when people visit, just in case they think they've found the headquarters of a Norfolk Satanic cult. I took the deer skulls to school a few weeks ago, because they'd been doing a bit of topic on types of teeth (but mainly because I knew they'd just like seeing some skulls). I drove the car to school that day, because the antlers stuck out the top of the bag, and I knew I'd get some funny looks. I don't get that some people think bones are disgusting or creepy. I'm with those children that stick their fingers in the brain cavity and go, 'Wow, this is where the spinal-stuff leads. Cool!' 

And on to zombies...
I was having an interesting book-chat with our school dyslexia lady yesterday. We discovered that we were in total agreement that there are such things as books for girls and books for boys - something that would get us lynched by the sexism brigade. (We agreed that we weren't saying that certain books should only be for boys or girls, by the way.) And that did link in with something I learnt from a book I mentioned a while ago: Invisible Ink, by Brian McDonald - the best book on writing that I've read. McDonald writes about what he calls the masculine and feminine aspects to a story - basically action vs emotional stuff - and how a good story will have a balance, but those without the balance tend to appeal to a particular gender. Anyway, the conversation got me looking at my bookshelves. I have realised that, in a literary way, I appear to be bisexual. Clive Cussler is sitting next to Jane Austen. Bridget Jones and Jack Reacher are sharing a shelf. Reading-wise, I have just ditched Sense and Sensibility for a zombie apocalypse novel. And, yes, it does seem to be because of the action. The most action in Sense and Sensibility seemed to be a group of people going for a stroll up a hill before someone had a headache and had to go home. I really want to send all my Jane Austens to a charity shop, and the fact that I haven't shows me up as being a raging book snob.

Anyway, I must go. This guy's got a broken leg, forty days of food left, and is stuck in his London flat, watching the undead slowly wander past. Actually, someone did write a book called Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I may give that a go...

'Gardening' or 'How to drive The Husband mad'

It's raining hard. The Husband is, I think, very grateful for this, as I've been 'helping' him in the garden. As he is a gardener by trade, by the time he gets home in the evenings, he's had enough of turfing, pruning and landscaping. When I've offered to do bits in our garden, it's taken as nagging. Either that, or he knows I'm going to do a terrible job and can't bare to watch as the hedges get massacred by someone holding the very expensive loppers the wrong way. 

We have had a rather large pile of earth in the garden for about two years, ready to fill in the hole where Son Number One broke up the horrific crazy-paved patio. The pile of earth was meant to be leveled-out and turfed, but it's actually been covered by a large green tarpaulin and used as a look-out post by the cats. Every time The Daughter visited from Cornwall, or my parents came over, they would say, 'You've not done that garden yet, then?' But now it's just a given that half our garden looks like an abandoned building site. Anyway, today turned into the day to do something about it. While Son Number Two nervously took a girl on their first date and Son Number One headed to the cricket club, The Husband and I ripped up long grass, dug up brambles, pulled ivy out of trees and made a start on flattening the heap of earth. 

I suppose I should be honest here, and say that I was of some help, but there are so many things to distract you in a garden. For a start, some ants had made a massive home in the pile of earth. When I disturbed the nest and exposed some eggs, there was frenzied activity: hundreds of ants were racing around trying to take the eggs back underground. I stood and watched them for ages. I imagined mini air-raid sirens going off, and father ants shooing their families down underground tunnels to safety. 'Save yourselves!' they'd cry. 'I'm going back for the babies.' While I was engrossed in all this nonsense, The Husband cleared his throat and I was reminded of what I really should have been doing. Then there were ladybirds to be rescued from being dug into the earth, woodlice that appeared in their dozens from under stones, plants to ask the names of, and so on. It was only after a heavy sigh from The Husband, that I realised it must have been like working with a particularly irritating child. It is to his credit that he didn't tell me to be quiet and get on with it. Anyway, it started raining heavily, and The Husband is now watching Wimbledon and trying to think of excuses not to work with me again. 

Earlier this week, I got the results for my OU course on religious controversies. I managed to get a distinction, which means I'm guaranteed a first class degree, no matter how much I mess up my creative writing efforts. It's quite a relief because I think I may have already used up all of my ideas on my level 2 creative writing. And I've found that I'm not very good at writing fiction. Everything I did on my level 2 was based on fact. Even the story about the scarlet fever outbreak in our village was based on entries in our school log-book, and I killed off a couple of school children that were in my class at the time. The piece of work that I will very loosely call a 'poem' was about some oyster-catchers that I had watched at 6 am whilst on a school trip to the Lake District. 

                                            Merlin, helping me study

I'm not sure if I have enough experiences to write about for another 6 assignments. The Husband has been very supportive during my studies, and has often agreed to me buying £40 text books to help with essays, but I think he may draw the line on a round-the-world back-packing holiday just so I can write about it.

He who would cross the Bridge of Death...

We have a field at the back of our house, separated from our garden by a stream. The field seems to be the stamping ground for every neighbourhood cat. Almost every house along our row has a plank going from their garden to the field but, typically, the right cats never use the right bridges. There was obviously some cat function going on this morning. From my kitchen window, I could see five of them, secretly watching each other, then doing that slow walk which they think makes them invisible to other cats. Then one cat sat on the end of our bridge. Panic and confusion all round, as they all suddenly wanted to cross the bridge, but without getting beaten-up. I imagined a kind of cat Holy Grail situation: 'Tell me, young Scroggins, what is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?' 

Our biggest cat, Merlin, has recently started bringing home young rabbits from the field. The first one was alive; he was carrying it like a kitten and it hung from his jaws without protest until we persuaded Merlin to let it go. But the next two didn't fare so well. He brought them both home and dumped them by the back door. There's nothing that puts you off your breakfast as much as a cat ripping the innards out of a rabbit, I can tell you. 

A cat we had a few years ago used to be an expert rat-catcher. When my daughter was ill and drowsing on our sofa-bad, the cat came in and gently laid a dead rat next to her pillow. He really didn't understand the commotion it caused. Such a generous act, so cruelly scorned....

Looking for a picture for this post, I found the one above, which reminded me of when we moved a cupboard from our kitchen (someone had given us a big bookshelf, and no-one argues with me over bookshelves...). We recovered numerous biros, bits of screwed-up foil, pilfered Halloween sweets, a highlighter we'd been looking for for ages, a felt mouse and a pad of post-its. One Christmas, I'd been given some bits and pieces by the school-children, and I decided to save a Lindt chocolate teddy for the next day. When I came downstairs in the morning, it was lying on the floor with cat teeth-marks in it. Merlin didn't like chocolate, it was just sitting there and had to be destroyed. My fault for leaving it in the open, I know, but... grrrrrrr!

(This post was meant to be about honesty, but that'll have to wait for another day. Yet again, the cats have taken over something that was not meant to be theirs.)

Packing for holiday: clothes or books?

We go to Cornwall on Saturday. The weather looks good for the coming week, and The Daughter says the sea is as warm as the Mediterranean, sending me a link to a local website in case I needed proof. Actually, last weekend's newspaper told us the weather was gorgeous and had photos of dolphins showing off to the tourists, so here's hoping...  

I have chosen The Holiday Book: The Dog Stars, by Peter Heller. It didn't take me long to choose - I was won over by the recommendation on the front cover: 'A dreamy, post-apocalyptic love letter to things of beauty.' My favourite genre, I am running out of bleak-but-hopeful books to read, so it was good to find a new one. Actually, just now looking at the book on Amazon, I've read through the 'people-who-bought-this-also-looked-at' bit, and have managed to add another dozen books to my Amazon wish-list.

There is just one problem - I have no will-power when it comes to books, and after promising myself I would save the book for holiday, I am now on page 93. So I'll also take Flight Behaviour, by Barbara Kingsolver and The Border Trilogy, by Cormac McCarthy with me. Rather thick books, they leave me room for not much more than a pair of jeans and a camera. 

I received the certificate for the RE course through the post yesterday. I keep all my certificates in a big file which I only tend to look through when I'm desperately hunting for lost birth/marriage certificates. Half the time I can't even remember doing the courses (did I really do that course on ADHD? I don't remember a word of it). My degree certificate will be different of course. I shall frame that so the last four years of slog will be worth something. Mind you, The Husband may just see it as the big hole in our bank account, so better not. 

So... getting ready for our holiday. We have a larger car this year, and less people to take (no girlfriends of sons or other hangers on), so the journey should be more comfortable. It's a fairly long journey (six hours driving, plus approximately two hours' queuing to get into Cornwall - usually resulting in cheers as we crawl past the county sign at five miles an hour). It necessitates a couple of stops at service stations which charge the earth for a cup of coffee, so we tend to fill the car with drinks, biscuits, packets of sweets and other healthy things. It's amazing how hungry you get, watching scenery and hankering after other peoples' cars. Son Number One usually manages to get just past Mildenhall before starting on his lunch, even though he's reminded that he only had breakfast twenty minutes earlier. And there's a limit to the number of Costa Coffee signs I can drive past without complaining. Really, it's a wonder The Husband doesn't just leave us on the side of the road. At least the children are past the age of needing the toilet every half hour. And being car sick - that was a joy of a phase: washing out children's t-shirts in the hand basins of the public toilets, or carrying a half-naked child through town so I could buy clothes to replace the ones I'd had to bin. Happy days...   

And now I will go back to constantly refreshing my OU webpage, in the hopes that my assignment has been marked. My tutor is moving house in a few days, she said, so aims to get all essays returned asap. Then it's just two more assignments to go, and that course is finished. I'm looking forward to the religion and controversy one. We've been told to keep a look out for when religious issues appear in the news. That'll be 24 hours a day, then. 

Enjoy your summer - I'm off to pack some books. 

Putting Christmas away and discovering some family history

I have an impatience, as soon as we hit the new year, to de-Christmasify everything, so the tree is down and the cards are off the shelves. Decorations have been returned to the loft, where I spent a pleasant hour playing 'What's in that box?' I found out that The Husband has been hoarding every lead from every defunct electrical device we've ever owned, and that I really need to say no when my mother offers me another pair of curtains. I did find useful things, too. Although, when I say 'useful', I mean things that will clutter up the house until I put them back in the loft next month. I found two cat beds, which I have brought down in the hope that the cats will prefer them to our sofas. Slim chance, I know. Both cats are, at the moment, spread across the top of Son Number One's radiator, toasting themselves.

More interesting than cat beds, I found an album of postcards that was packed up with a load of children's picture books for some reason. They are written in German and, fittingly, send Christmas and New Year wishes. The first is dated 1st January 1919, and had been sent to Birmingham from Zurich. Others were sent to Lille. From the names on the back, they were sent to my paternal Grandmother from her family in Switzerland. I need to find out more about my family history, but this is what my father's cousin has to say about my Grandmother's parents:

'Joseph was captured in Oct 1914 at the first battle of Ypres, 3 weeks after landing in France. He was Royal Welsh Fusilier 1st Battalion, attached to 22nd Brigade 7th division. He escaped, swam Lake Constance, met Marthe Buser whilst interned in Meiringan and married in the Anglican Church in Lausanne and possibly Bern, on release in Aug 1918, they stayed at Croix d'Ouchy Hotel in Lausanne. 

Marthe was born in Sainte Croix a small village north of Lausanne. Marthe was actually working at St John Moore Barracks, Shorncliffe in Folkestone in 1911 before the war.

Marie (seated, and Marthe’s mother) was born in 1862 in St Gallen.'

This is my Grandmother, also called Marthe, (bottom left) 

with her sister, father and step-mother. 

I really must learn more about my Grandmother's history - I think it was a pretty interesting one. I know my father said she'd caught one of the last trains out of France at the beginning of the war. Apparently a stranger asked her to carry some papers out of the country and deliver them to someone in London. Goodness knows what she was responsible for...

Killer kats

I like cats. Not enough to be a crazy cat lady, but I just like one or two that wander around and make me feel needed by shouting at me when it's dinner time. What I don't like, though, is the pile of dead wildlife that turns up on the door step. I know they're meant to be presents from the cats: 'Hi, I like you, have a mangled rodent.' But today, Merlin left a tiny, beautiful little shrew for me to find. And it wasn't dead. Perhaps he thought he was being nice to me: 'I'll leave her a half-dead animal that she can enjoy killing.' My grandmother would be horrified, but I like mice and rats and associated mammals, so seeing this squirming little animal made me want to kill the cat.  

I know Mother Nature is supposedly red in tooth and claw, but sometimes She pushes my patience. Scooping this fragment of life into an old Chinese takeaway tub, I tried to pluck up the courage to kill it quickly, but failed. Instead, I watched helplessly as it twisted and gasped before it finally curled up into a little ball and died. As an adoring fan of Terry Pratchett, I then imagined the Death of Rats turning up, complete with robe and scythe, to send the little soul on its way. The murderous cat, being let outside again, sniffed around the patio as if to say, 'I'm sure I left a shrew around here somewhere....'

I remember when The Daughter was ill, several years ago, she was lying on our sofa-bed with a raging temperature. Our cat, Parker (short for Nosy Parker) thought she needed looking after and kindly killed a rat for her, laying it gently next to her pillow. So kind. (Ironically, as I'm writing this, Son Number Two has come to inform me that Merlin has a dead rat hanging from his jaws.) Bloody animals, they're worse than infants. My friend's cat once brought in a live squirrel, depositing it in her dining room, where it raced up the bookshelves and disappeared into a big vase. 

I would actually like a dog. Well, I like the idea of having a dog, which is very different. We were loaned a friend's labradoodle while they were on holiday, a couple of years ago. It was called Dory, after the Finding Nemo character, and it was most apt, as I've never met a dafter dog. Its joy in life was chasing tennis balls and walking for miles and miles (and miles...) through the forest. When it saw me, it went completely goofy and would leap around and act like an idiot. As a dog, it was a bit of an embarrassment. Its tongue would hang out of the side of its mouth, and I wanted to tell it to pull itself together and have a bit of pride. If we met other dog-walkers in the forest, I would quickly explain that this was not actually our dog, it belonged to a friend, to save people thinking that we would own such a lunatic.

Merlin has become an expert mole killer, which delights The Husband (he's a gardener, though you wouldn't know it from the state of our garden), but disgusts me. I do, however, like the opportunity to examine such wildlife at close-quarters. Although dead moles make me sad, I now know how amazing their fur is, in that it grows straight up, making it easier for the little animals to move which ever way they want to in their tunnels. Shrews have the tiniest little teeth you can imagine, and their noses are so long. Rats are not just grey - they are an amazing speckling of black and white, although their tails are a bit creepy. Mice have beautifully shaped faces, which make me wish I could draw. 

I completely understand a current year 6 girl who takes home decomposing hedgehogs and dead birds so she can cut them up and work out how they function. She comes to school and tells me how big a pigeon's brain is, and I share her fascination, while others pretend to be sick. 

She's either going to be a great surgeon, or a mass murderer. Watch this space....

Snow joking matter

We woke up to snow this morning. I got all excited about school being off, but then it stopped. There was just enough for me to leave the car at home (yes, you read that right, I walked) as, by the time I'd defrosted it, I could have got to school. Also, there was a pavement on the way that no-one had yet walked on, so I did the important job of leaving the first footprints. I know that sounds very childish, but I later found out that another teaching assistant, along with the school secretary, had run round and round the untouched playground for the same reason.

(photo on  1000 Awesome Things)

During a group reading session later, the children and I got to discussing footprints in the snow. (No, it had nothing to do with the book. I just get off the subject very easily. I think it's one of the reasons the children like me...) They were of the same opinion. One child said it was like marking his territory. I suppose I should just be grateful that he doesn't go around peeing up fences. Or maybe he does. Who am I to question? 

We do treat the children well at school, when there's snow about. They usually get extended breaks, to give them time to perfect the igloos and giant snowballs they've made. The only problem is when there's not enough snow. We get turf wars when they claim ownership of areas of snow and start arguing over it. We have children in tears because someone 'stole their snow', and we remember problems from past years and pray for it all to melt overnight. Also, the classroom isn't a pleasant place with steaming socks on all the radiators.

The cats hate the snow, too. They stick their heads out of the door, give me that 'yeah, right,' look, turn round and go back to bed. It's the one thing they agree on.

Anyway, we're due more snow overnight. We need about a foot of the stuff. Enough that the teaching staff can't get in from the varied places they live. Enough that I get that phone call at 7 tomorrow morning saying, 'Stay in bed.' Let me emphasise, this is not me breaking my New Year resolution and being a misery guts. This is me knowing that, not only will I get a lie-in, but there will be over a hundred happy children having fun and making snowmen. Fingers crossed....

I Know, I Know...

You'll have realised that the autumn theme has been and gone. That bright orange was making me feel sick, although that may have been all the left-over Halloween sweets I've been eating. I'd bought so much and we only had four callers. Probably because I was sitting in the dark, hoping they'd all go next-door instead. We used to 'do' Halloween, when my children were younger and I was less grumpy, but now I just sigh heavily every time the doorbell goes. Plus, this year, we're playing 'Musical Cats' every day. One cat in the kitchen, one has the run of the house. Merlin can't go outside yet, so there are regular screams of, 'The cat's coming! Shut the ******* door!' If Georgie wants to go out, Merlin has to be distracted, or blood is spilt. So every time someone visits, they're probably mystified by muffled shrieks and slammings of doors, especially as Merlin is determined to get out one way or another.

I have actually done some OU work this weekend. Really, real work. I've got a sort of idea for my next Creative Writing assignment (2200 words of fiction), too. I'll need to check our old school log books on Monday, as I know there was a time in the early 1900s when it was closed during a scarlet fever outbreak, and I need to kill off a character. I'm all heart. 

Anyway, I'm off before the children find the sweet stash...

Really, really important things...

That's half an hour of very important tinkering done. I decided that having an autumn feel to the blog was far more important than starting 'Treasure Island'. Actually, I have done some OU work this morning - I read some of the study guide over breakfast. That directed me to a chapter in a course book, which pointed me to 'Treasure Island', so there I stopped. To clarify, and so it doesn't look as though I'm totally lazy, I have read the book once, during the summer holidays (and enjoyed it hugely) and I will get my assignment done in time, I promise. I've often panicked, but never submitted my work with just two minutes to go before the cut-off time. It's been at least half an hour. If I was going to be very procrastinational (??) I could watch the four-hour Sky version of 'Treasure Island' and pretend it's helping me study. Shame I haven't got the Muppet film...

Things have gone downhill with the cats. One surprised the other, chased it through the house, and they ended up fighting on sleeping Son-Number-One, who was not happy. It wasn't lunchtime, and he had at least three hours of sleeping still to do. The cats are now banished to separate rooms and sulking, while Son-Number-One is moaning about the lack of antiseptic wipes. Come on, a few scars on the chest could be attractive to the girlfriend, stop complaining. At least you didn't get peed on. 

Well, it's twenty-past coffee time, so time to go. Then I'll do some work. I have started my assignment, by the way; I've underlined all the important bits in the guidance notes, and typed the title out. I've checked my word count, and that's thirteen words already.

But I Don't Want to...

It's half term, and I promised myself I'd get up to date with my OU work. Which I will do. A bit later. Because it's only Tuesday.

It's Wednesday?? Already??

Hmm. Well, I'm up to speed with re-reading Little Women. Almost. I've got those nice little pointy post-its ready on the table, with a pencil beside them. I've checked the facebook group several times, and have chatted with several other procrastinators. Yes, I'm well aware I have to finish 'Little Women' and 'Treasure Island' by this time next week. And write about depictions of fatherhood. And plan my next Creative Writing assignment (although that's not due in until January, so that can hang fire for a month or so). I'm kidding myself that blogging is Creative Writing preparation. I was going to write 'practice', but can't remember if it's spelt with a 'c' or 's' in this case, and after my previous blog on grammar, I'll skip that bit. Sorry, I know I'm rambling, but I'm only on here because I've run out of lives on Bubble Shooter.

Seriously, I must get on with my work - it's only reading at the moment, and I love reading. Except it's work-reading, not relaxation-reading, which is very different. I have to write in books, for example, which has taken me 18 months of studying to get used to. I feel like I'm going to get shouted at every time I do it, and I can never re-read the books afterwards. I keep all my ex-study books on their own bookshelf, where they can be looked down upon by other, unsullied volumes, who think they're spoilt and slutty.  

Umm...What else can I write about? Oh yes, the cats are kind of getting on. I've not had to wipe blood off the walls for a while, and they've stopped shouting and swearing at each other. They actually touched noses earlier today, without a claw in sight. The water-sprayer has been used a few times, but I have to be careful as the cats both like Son-Number-Two's bedroom to hide in, and that's full of electrical stuff (technical term, there). All of his money for the past few years has gone into guitar bits, and things with lots of wires, so I don't think he'll be best pleased if I blow it all up. 'Sorry, dear, but the cats were fighting...'

I honestly can't think of anything else to write, for which I know you're deeply grateful, so I suppose I'll have to get back to 'Little Women'. I'll just make a quick coffee and steal some biscuits out of the cupboard while no-one's looking.

I have a suspicion there'll be quite a few blog entries this week...

I really must learn to say 'No.'

We have a new cat called Merlin. He was adopted from a friend who was moving house, although I'm starting to wonder if that was just the best excuse she could think of. We were doing just fine with Georgie, our black and white cat-rescue, nose-in-the-air little lady, but I'm a sucker for a sob story, so said those fateful words, 'Oh, go on, then...' So far, Merlin has fallen in the washing basket, eaten my son's shoe laces and attacked Georgie at every opportunity. He's the greediest cat we've had, and he's only been here for a week. He climbed in the bin after old chips, hoovered under the chairs for crumbs (saves me a job, though...) and discovered a liking for croutons. When I came home from work today, the kitchen drawers were all open, including the one where we stash the take-away menus. I have a suspicion that, had he found my credit card, he'd have been halfway through a Dominoes pizza.

 

I'm just hoping that Merlin and Georgie learn to get on together. We're forced to keep them apart at the moment as they scream at each other and retreat only when they have mouthfuls of the opposition's fur. A bad mistake was made two nights into the settling-in process, when we let them share space. Not a wink of sleep was had, and I was left washing cat pee off the wall at four in the morning. It's amazing how much urine a small cat contains. Or doesn't contain, after it's all been frightened out of him.

I'm hoping that peace will reign by the time I next write. Sorry it's been a while, by the way. Two OU assignments and a throat-slittingly enjoyable Brownie camp got in the way. More on that later...