The Credit Crunch Crunches

We have had a reveiw of household finances and realised that we don't actually have any. Finances that is. So it's back to where I feel most comfortable - being a right skinflint. I have got a second kettle to put on top of the fire and spend most of my days carrying boiling kettles over the top of the children, back and fore between the fire in the sitting room and the kettle or sink in the kitchen, so that I don't have to use the hot water tank or heat the kettle from cold.

However, this is of course taking its toll on the carpets, so I have to factor in their wear and tear. So, I have done a calculation and found out that it is better for me to climb over the chairs instead as their wear is longer term, and therefore I am hopeful that by the time I have worn them out, the credit crunch will be over.

I have also moved back into my 1980s chinos for days when I am not being seen in public, instead of wearing out my only pair of jeans. Yes, the crunch is biting.

However, one good aspect of the credit crunch is hearing people talking about it. We had the plumber in today to look at a pipe that is on its way out (I swung on it, whilst trying to avoid standing on a rug). He had a cup of tea with Huw and they were joined by the plumber's boss, so they all had one. They all sat there saying how terrible it was and how difficult it was to make money in this climate. By the time I was about to pop my head round the door and remind them that making money whilst sat on one's a*rse would be difficult in any climate, Huw had beaten the plumber who worked for 25 hours a day, by having to try and make money from a cardboard box lined with broken glass in the middle of a motorway...

As for yesterday, I spent most of my productive hours trying to sort out a "replace all" command in my book text - I had decided that a bloke called Ron should actually be called Brian, but forgot that computers aren't THAT clever. I must have spent two hours trying to sort out all
the "wBriang"s and "StBriang"s and "fBriant"s that started out life as Wrongs, Strongs and Fronts...

Mainly getting wet

Exciting times as the Tricky Second Novel nears its completion. I have written it and am now going through it for a fresh look and so that I can remember how it starts and what I called the characters at the beginning of the book before I changed their names to Barack and Hilary.
I have checked with the publishers that they might want to consider it and they have said that they are waiting in excitement.

I am terrified for the following reasons:
It might be rubbish.
The first one might have been OK, but this one might be rubbish.
It might appeal to no-one.
It might not make anyone laugh at all.
I've had a number of people saying that they couldn't put the first one down, one even reading it as she walked upstairs - people might read the first chapter and put it down for good.
It might have no hooks, no-one fancying the main character (quite possible), no page-turning incidents.
It might just be crude, lewd, naff and grammatically incorrect.

And if this is the case:

I will no longer be an author and will have to look for a job at County Hall and wear a blouse again.
I will have spent all the money I could possibly have earned from the first one on the launch party.
I will have had my fifteen minutes and still didn't appear in Take-a-Break.
I'll have to go on Jeremy Kyle in his "when good authors go bad" programme.

I have accepted an invite to do a live talk in front of Rhayader's WI in April 2009 (yes, a bit excessive in their forward planning, eh?), but by that time I will probably be living in my car, drinking Mr Muscle and telling everyone how I used to be in the Brecon and Radnor...

Secrets of a messy house...

One of the great sadnesses in the constant battle to tidy a messy house with no cupboards is the struggle of sorting things out into piles on the bed to be put away. Nine times out of ten, I get dragged away before the piles are completely removed and hidden out of sight. Then as we all go to bed, the piles get scraped back onto the floor. In the excitement of greeting the next new day, they then get kicked around into one big pile again.
By the time I get ten minutes to sort them out again, they've been added to, taken from, stepped on and had a nappy stuffed within them. Et, voila, back to Stage One.

It's no wonder I have a face like a smacked ar*se at times.

The tin hat on the hottest day of the summer...

We were so excited. Yesterday was supposed to be the hottest day of the summer and the last day of the summer. So we decided that we had to do something. I stuck a bit more water in the paddling pool and we bought some burgers. However, by the time we had woken up it was cloudy and gloomy and the six loads of washing that I had put through the night before were looking like they might spend the next two weeks sat on clothes horses in doorways.

Depressed wasn't the word for it and as another day of Huw trying to teach me how to do everything that I have been doing for 38 years, his way, loomed we thought sod it and found a few old Marks and Spencers vouchers and headed for the concrete slab that is Hereford.

We got a wheelchair from Shopmobility, stuck the Little One in the pushchair and set off. Bigger One wanted to ride on the wheelchair, then Little One did, then Bigger One wanted to push it, then she wanted Little One to get out of the pushchair for her to get in. By this time, the heatwave had kicked in and I regretted my choice of thick jeans and woollen socks.

We'd once had a good experience in Marks and Spencers, so we decided to chance it again for lunch. Big Mistake. Someone had obviously been fiddling with the displays, so that not all of them were wide enough for a wheelchair to get through and we would go down dead-end after dead end, getting wedged beween sensible t-shirts and elasticated slacks. Eventually we got to the cafe bit, where all the assistants couldn't believe that we really existed and therefore no one would help. By this time, Bigger One had got off Huw's lap and was eyeing up a circuit round the room. Little One needed a stretch and I needed another four hands. It was a scoff everything down before it all goes too wrong and get out out out...

The upside of M&S is that Little One loves "silkies" - anything that is silky to the touch. Therefore for her, being pushed through the ladies' underwear dept was heaven and she would grab at nighties and bras as they brushed past - and managed to grab and chew a few as we got stuck in the dead ends. Bigger One just put the larger bras on her head for hats. So, if you have since bought a sticky nightie from Hereford M&S, sorry, but it is because they didn't provide any serviettes and the queue for toilet was too long.

The tin hat was found as we returned to the car and saw our parking ticket... I had forgotten to put Huw's blue badge, or the "Cripper" as it is known, on the car. Seventy blimmin quid. Can't pay that with M&S vouchers...

oh, and when we got home and decided to have our barbie and a "swim" in the paddling pool, we found that all the larvae had hatched in it and no matter how hard I tried to tell Charlotte that they and the dead bumble bees floating about were bits of leaf, it didn't work. I think it is time that the paddling pool goes back in the barn to get eaten by mice over the winter.

Village Fetes and shaving foam.

After having thought that there would be an easy blog following the village fete - lots of smug comments about people enjoying themselves whilst I looked down at them and sniggered - I actually had a great day and therefore feel both arrogant and humble.

No-one seemed to want to buy my home-made marmalade, no doubt having noticed that it was mainly in old gherkin jars that still smelt of vinegar, or Pataks curry jars, so that the marmalade had a cloudy turmeric tinge to it. But never mind as that means lots of Christmas presents taken care of. I was a little disappointed that I wasn't supported in my offer of organising a Sh*t the Penny game, as I am sure that that would have raised a fortune.

I managed to bribe Huw to come along to help on the helium balloon stand, for the promise of a bacon sandwich, but it all went a bit sour when he turned up just as the last bacon was being slapped in between some white sliced and handed to a fat bloke. But the balloon race was a success with about 80 kids standing in the middle of the field crying as their balloons flew up into the sky - apologies if anyone's cows are choking on the rubber at this time, but it will be in a good cause.

There will be prizes for the returns of the labels attached to the balloons - the winner being the one from furthest away. Huw is determined that his girls will win and is, as I type, driving up to John o'Groats to post Charlotte and Maude's labels. He will be gutted when he learns that the first prize is a copy of Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons...

oh and the shaving foam bit is just a game I played with Charlotte that got out of hand - like most of our games seem to. I'm just hoping that it doesn't strip car paint...