Airbeds at midnight

Surely one of the best things about having friends to stay is watching them trying to sort out their sleeping arrangements at midnight when everyone is shattered and has seen the wrong side of a couple of bottles of wine / port / Aldi's Booleys and whatever the mini-bar had to offer.

Last night was no exception. Tony is a practical kind of guy, so watching him trying to make a valve out of an old inner tube so that it would fit a rusty foot pump was a pleasure. He spent a good twenty minutes making his valve and was very pleased with himself. Then we spent another ten minutes trying to find the butter so that he could un-rust his foot pump - to the tune of his wife saying, "well, I told you not to leave it outside". Then we spent another twenty minutes giggling helplessly as he had to push and pull it two inches at a time with his hands (if you used your feet it would only push). It would have taken three days to pump up their de-luxe king size airbed.
Then he got so hacked off with our giggling and smug comments, that he dissapeared in a huff and went on to blow it up by mouth. After another 15 minutes, he had hyper-ventilated and fallen asleep. They spent an uncomfortable night lying on a slab of rubber.

A fine lunch at Llanafan's Red Lion followed, the best place to go for a good feed and a smug comment. (We went on Father's Day and the landlord, from his book of Landlord's Witticisms, said to Huw, "Christ, she hasn't told you that you're the father, has she?"). Charlotte went to the toilet fifteen times and Maude got ice cream headache from eating her pud too fast. So did Huw.

Then on to an Open Garden at Llysdinam, which shows how old I am becoming as I went by choice. Luckily, I know the head gardner, so she gave us lots of grapes from the vines and necatarines from the trees - I didn't like to tell her that I had already pinched enough for the week. It made me determined to get on with book number two as we'll never be able to afford a head gardener otherwise. I was quite sad when I got home and surveyed the woodland where our lawn used to be.


Lesson of the day has to be: sort your sleeping arrangements out before you drink three bottles of wine and eat enough to floor a horse.

Back fat and Llandrindod Wells

Hello! I didn't manage to get here last night as I had decided that I wouldn't be able to make it to Ron's Fitness Club in the village hall as I was unfit. I know that that is the whole point, but the thought of embarrassing myself in a pair of dusty Ron Hills and brilliant white trainers was more than I could take.

I felt ashamed as I have never not done anything before because I didn't feel fit enough, so I thought I would have a bath. It didn't really do the job as at the end, I thought that the water had gone out much quicker than usual until I went to stand up and gallons of the stuff that had got stuck in a resevoir behind my back fat poured out. In hindsight, I should have gone to Ron's.

Never mind, a day in Llandrindod reminded me that life was still good. We fed the ducks, Maude ate my luxury ice cream and indicated that I was allowed to eat her mini-milk instead, then went face first down the slide(that'll teach her).

We watched two trains come in, which killed another four hours, and then caught the bus home. Because Huw is away, we were allowed to eat mince for tea without having him retching in the background - although I still maintain that he'll have it cold in a sandwich one day...

Lorraine x

The Pain of being a techno-fool

It is quite sad really that with my sixth blog, I am still having to find my way around the process each time I start. I can never remember how to create a new post (perhaps someone is trying to tell me something) and always end up jumping to the sad git on the "next blog" who has always just released new photos of their hairy fiance. It's tedious being such a techno-fool.

But, the day is good in that my Observer piece is on the web for all those (Proberts) who are a bit short this week and didn't want to buy the paper - go to http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2008/aug/03/7 - unless of course you're from my family, in which case, why not check out the latest Jamie Oliver recipe?

I have been pimping myself to the WI and reading groups today in the quest for fruit cake and book sales. I haven't had any takers yet - perhaps word has got round about the quality of my sponge...

Also - there is a call for chapter headings for the next book please - I am looking for phrases that are about saving money to a ridiculous degree. For example "Stitch newspaper to the inside of your coat", or "cooking pasta in a thermos" (I used to do this, it worked! Although I did used to end up with one large slug of pasta to go with my sweetcorn). My favourite one is "harnessing the steam from your pi*ss" (perhaps a suggestion for a project for Glasu or Severn Wye Energy Agency?)
Any thoughts appreciated.

Best wishes,
Lorraine.

PS - I think that I am being really clever by putting Glasu and Severn Wye Energy Agency in my "Key words". That'll learn people for looking them up on the web...

Secret Breakfasts and a piece in The Observer

I've just spent an hour trying to compose my blog, but I am so tired my eyes can no longer see properly. I was trying to work in a witty and relevant way of saying that I have only had two lie-ins in three-and-a-bit years and one of those was last week.

I was supposed to be having another one this morning, but actually ended up doing an hour's sorting / making drinks / scraping a turd off the carpet (Huw will insist on sitting in the patch of sunshine at the top of the stairs) before I was allowed to sneak back into bed - and a lie-in after you have already been up, doesn't really count.

My point was that rather than the writing habits of the rich and successful, which always seem to revolve around muesli in the conservatory and walking the spaniels, I have to sneak mine in where it is possible. I am hopeful that this new Sunday morning lie-in pattern will continue, as I got a good old chaptersworth done of my new masterpiece. Sleeping through a lie-in seemed to be a bit of a waste really.

However, when I came downstairs and found everyone sat on the sofa in their pyjamas watching bloody Corra of all things with the carpet covered in cous cous as Charlotte had been making lasagne again, my writing bliss of earlier all disappeared into a haze.

But, the good thing about today was that I got into The Observer. I had written a piece for their My Crap Holiday slot, for which I will get a first aid kit! If anyone has today's Observer down the back of their sofa, see page ten of the Escape bit!

Anyone who has been on holiday with me, is probably suitably qualified to write about their crap holiday, so might be worth a shot. Apparently it's a good first aid kit...

More (and hopefully better) tomorrow good folks.

Huw's new business and Show Goers' poo

Today it’s Huw’s today! (isn’t it always?) Today Flomp started. Huw’s business, For Letting of Managed Property opened its doors today in Bristol and apparently they had a happy day drinking lots of tea and quality biscuits and doing lots of work. It’s been a good day for Huw Chance. Well done Huw.
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I, instead, spent a nice time on Builth’s swingy bridge with a friend and our girls throwing sticks into the water, until we were told by another passing friend that people from the nearby campsite had been using the same railings that we were leant on - and Maude was sucking - to sit on, hang their arses over the top of in order to discharge their Royal Welsh Show food into the river. As we wondered slowly away, we were then told that the handrail that we clung to as we walked down the steps, had been used to wipe backsides on and no doubt the sticks that we had thrown into the river had knocked off clinkers. The beautiful day lost its rainbow.

Anyway, it’s dawned on me today that I need to step up a gear in the book world. I’ve had too many weeks of writing nice articles that either do or don’t get published, and it’s too easy and comfy. I can sit in my pants with my vat of coffee and spiel out nonsense and nothing comes of it. I might as well go back to my obsessive cleaning routine, and at least the underside of the cooker will be sparkling again.

So, from here on, it’s hard core effective sales talk and stalking of the Guardian Review staff. It’s book clubs, WI talks and general prostitution. So if anyone knows of a little group of people anywhere who have exhausted their speakers on topics such as My Operation or Living with Clematis, and who might be able to offer a cup of tea and a piece of fruit cake to someone happy to talk for an hour about getting having their leg bitten off by a horsefly or saying Good Lettuce instead of Good Morning (it was really funny, honest), and maybe buy a few books on their way out – as otherwise, they won’t be GOING out – then please let me know.

In the meantime, I’ll just start by shifting rubble from the living room carpet.