Long time no blog!

I have finally found my nesting Mojo. Subsequent to the 11 binbags of clothes donated to charity, there have been about 50 DVDs, and I have found another 4 binbags and another 50 DVDs, as well as a couple of bits of furniture and various other odds and sods, and items of bric-a-brac.

I used to make tiaras as a cheeky sideline to earn myself some pocket money, and some of my earlier ones (which by my standards are not up to scratch now) have gone to the charity shop brand new as well, for them to sell. I figured I don't want to put my name to them, and someone out there might want one!

I cannot wait for the excavation of crap to be over. I have a few places to go yet - the understairs cupboard, the kitchen drawers, and the bedroom. So far I have done the nursery (formerly the spare room), and most of the dining room, and I have made a start on the sitting room. I have this week cleaned the bathroom (needed doing!) the kitchen (apart from the drawers), hoovered and brushed the stairs (the dimwits who did up this house used separate pieces of carpet for each step so the pile (cut pile, not loop pile) faces in 4 different directions, and traps dirt like you wouldn't believe), and hoovered and brushed the rug in the sitting room.

I am now totally cream crackered. Must remember to take it a bit easier though as I managed to get myself out of breath by hoovering the stairs and the rug.

Buddy has taken to sleeping upstairs during the day, in the nursery - either on the bed, or on the nice chinese rug in there. I think he thinks the room is his. Either that or it's a desperate plea to be involved in whatever is going on in that room, and by sleeping in there whenever possible is guaranteeing himself a slice of the action.

Don't worry, Buddy. We love you, and think you will make a great, hairy, older brother for Mal Jr. We would never leave you behind. You make us feel like a family, and our house feel like a home.

Numbers.

Eleven is the number of binbags of clothes I have donated to charity.

Four is the number of binbags of rubbish I have thrown out.

One is the number of wheelie-bins I have left to fill.

Two is the number of mad aunts/grandparents who seriously pissed me off on holiday.

Three is the number of steps my nephew has taken since being back from holiday.

Ninety is the number of minutes it will take me to get to the Mothership's house tomorrow.

Six is the number of dogs that will be waiting there for Buddy to play with (Grumpy Grandpa, Uncle Shadow, Womble-nosed Dad, Mum, and Yoda who are all the same breed as Buddy, and a lovely Keeshond who is two sizes of dog bigger.)

I shall post a family portrait if I manage to get one tomorrow.

What a way to start the day

Just a quick one before we go on "holiday" - got a text this morning saying our friends had turned their little girl into a big sister overnight. A whopper of a baby girl weighing 10 lbs arrived with minimal pain relief.

Congrats to D and J and big sister A.

I've got a bad feeling about this...

We're going on "holiday". I use the quotation marks as I think it's going to be 6 days of unadulterated torture. My mother turns 60 on Tuesday and has arranged for her side of the family plus hangers on to come up to a big house in Northumberland (Wife in the North territory). She has already started huffing about not everyone going for the whole week, people bailing at the last minute, arrangements for food... I think she might end up gagged and bound in the cellar of the house while everyone else enjoys the peace and quiet.

We're going via Wales though to spend some time with family friends (in fact, the people who own Buddy's parents) on Saturday - D is my most long-standing friend. Many, many years ago, Buddy's predecessor also came from this family, and we traipsed from the South coast all the way up to deepest, darkest Mid-Wales (mile and three-quarter long no-through road - they live at the end of it) in February half-term when there was snow everywhere and met this lovely warm, welcoming family in a paradise setting. D and I hit it off - her birthday is a few days after mine so we are the same age, apart from the fact that she only gets a birthday every 4 years. D's Mum turns 60 exactly a week after mine does. So they are doing the sensible thing of throwing a barbecue so everyone can turn up for it and then leave rather than having to be in a pressure cooker environment for 6 whole, long, painful excruciating days.

I sense that bad things will happen. As there is precious little chance of me getting near an internet connection for a week, like Mal, I will be very quiet for a week, but will no doubt have some emotional battle-scars for show and tell when we get back on Saturday.

Adieu!

Household objects of terror

Due to my penchant for fainting in hot weather, I have installed a desk fan in the sitting room to keep it bearable without the need to remove layers of clothes. It oscillates gently back and forth and keeps me nice and cool. Unfortunately, Buddy has taken exception to it, and refuses to believe that when he is not watching it, that it will not shed its mesh metal guards, and chase him around the room shaving off his coat. Heaven knows, in this weather, he'd probably be cooler with less fur.

He has to sneak past it, making sure it's not looking when he runs into the sitting room from the kitchen, and then dives to take cover from it on the sofa. Unfortunately, such is his fear of the fan, that when ordered "off" the sofa, he wets himself, as it involves being sent involuntarily into the jaws of the death fan. This renders the sofa un-sittable for humans. This human needs to sit down a lot, so I go and get the inflatable gym ball of certain dog-death.

For anyone who has seen that Indiana Jones film, I think he assumes it will start rolling at him, chasing him through the entire downstairs of the house, and he, the plucky hero will be forced to flee it movements by hiding in corners or gaps between kitchen cabinets. These large, blue, inflatable, 65cm diameter gym balls are not to be trusted. They are in league with the ironing board, don't you know!

The ironing board has been Buddy's arch-nemesis from the day we brought him home. Ironing boards are the scourge of small dogs, and a lesser known fact is that they feast entirely on a diet of dogs weighing under 4 kilos. Therefore a small dog must never walk under an ironing board lest it be snapped shut in the ironing board's legs and held until devoured (or at least, ironed flat) by the laundry aid.

There is no bounds to Buddy's nervousness. We've had him since he was a puppy, and we know his breeders very, very well. We can safely say that he's never had a "bad experience" where an ironing board, a desk fan, a gym ball or any other household appliance is concerned. If we had got him from a rescue centre, we would have assumed that he had been maltreated by gym balls, tortured with desk fans, and been shut in an ironing board.

The truth of the matter is that Buddy has a fertile imagination and an unhealthy nervousness of household objects. Lucky then, that he has a family who love him, and cherish him, and allow him his quirks, and coax him into not being scared any more with treats, honeyed words, and praise.

He's lying sprawled on Mal's half of the sofa, just next to me. He's enjoying the draft of the fan. It's not oscillating. We have reached a compromise. Baby steps.

Well that appears to be it then.

I went to the doctor's yesterday to see whether I should go back to work or not. He said that because I was still experiencing faint spells, that I should not be going back. I might seem ok to do things, but that is because I am managing my symptoms well at my own pace. If I went back to work, then I would not be able to do so, and would likely get worse again.

So, it looks like I don't have to work unless I want to before September 2009. Eeek.

There's a first time for everything...

Friday was a memorable day. It was the first time that I have ever seen the petrol pump go over the £40 mark to fill up the tank on my lovely economical car. Worrying times.

Buddy the dog went to stay at his sister's house, and we went to Dorking for a wedding at the weekend. Beautiful day, beautiful scenery, fantastic company, and a pair of very happy newlyweds. I have never seen my father-in-law so inebriated. He had a few too many wine gums and fell over whilst standing still. Quite amusing, but also shocking in itself as he is normally such a traditional, sensible person who exercises restraint and decorum in such situations.

We then went from Dorking to Wiltshire to collect Buddy, and then back home. I made a cake (hurriedly) and then we went out to hypnobirthing with said cake (it was someone's birthday and I had promised cake).

This week's session was all about falling in love with your baby. Which I have been doing, unless he's doing push ups under my ribs. I don't like him much at that point, but I still love him. He seems to like me singing to him. And he is starting to respond to touch too - if I prod him he often prods back.