Rocketing up to Cloud Number 9

Learnt today my own mumma has been reading my twitterings on here and liked it! Brought a tear to my eye, I admit. Maybe because I assumed I'd kind of let her down by not becoming a teacher or an ecologist or a saviour of wilderbeasts.

But a writer I am and, as my beloved tells me often, while words leave my fingers like lightening, their vocal siblings sometimes get lost on their way out of the voicebox. So thank you mum. It really does mean alot.

Saying that, I'm almost finished building that rocket....

Through a stepdaughter's eyes

Off to Mumbai in three days and a new continent to discover.....

Glistening naked boys running along the laughing beach
of Mumbai,
sitting in the third class women’s carriage on the train,
oceans of miles
a snake charmer at the police chief’s birthday party
terrifying,
throngs gathering
when I get off a train,
geckos scurrying across
my bedroom walls,
monkeys at the screen windows,
water buffaloes, not friendly,
mimicking curious children to make them laugh,
a visit to a Maharaja’s palace,
white marble, glimmering in the sunlight
dozens of preening peacocks on the lawn, luminescent,
rickshaw rides, tonga rides, dusty scooter rides,
bacshish memsab, bacshish,
I give bacshish
though many disapprove
Air India, the stewardesses
in luminous saris,
Mumbai – Windsor
so many, many time zones away.

Donna Bamford

Taxman's on his way......

Good morrow. Funny old day really. Up and down like a teenage bride's nighty, to coin an uncle S-ism. Owen did his usual zone out before little one and I left for school and work in a fluster of wet hair, crumpled clothing and stale sandwiches. So, in true girl power fashion, turned on heel, muttered whatever and slammmmmeeedd the front door. Wrote him foot stamping email halfway through morning and he had the audacity to rudely interrupt on stanza 31. "Why haven't you called? Don't tell me you're busy?". "Actually I am," I managed, being way to busy writing his email to talk. 10 hours later? Yes alright. In love again. But it's his fault. Bugger.
Another evening of Lizzyisms and laughter. Mid arguement with Owen on the impossibility of calculating tax credits and dividing households bills fairly (yawn), Lizzy points to Tax Credit Form and says "T...A...X. Tax." Ok. First word I've ever seen her spell out followed by the word in its entirety and it's tax. On the day Blair officially stood down. Terrible omen perhaps? Bring it on Mr Brown. My daughter's got your number.

Summertime and kids are jumping

Summer's officially here. Well ok, its only May 1st but the sun in Blighty is blissfully warm way ahead of schedule. Twenty degrees and counting. Has been so for weeks now. Pubs across England are fearing the looming smoking ban and basking in global warming ('In an English Public Gaaarden'). Meanwhile in Oz, according to mum, kids are playing in car washes (as in Esso) to cool off as the drought continues to wreak havoc with the landscape.
Got the job with Proactive - you know, the cardy, the girl with the scraped back hair, sleepy eyes, fear of relaxation. It's tiring so I won't embellish here other than to say I'm sick to death of beans without even eating one. Cryptic.
Lizzy has been whirlwinding around the Black Country, Brum, Hinckley and London like Drew Barrymore but still manages to squeeze in time for Heather next door. Spotted them out the top window the other day jumping like jack rabbits on the enormous trampoline next door. "What you two doing," I fishwifed loudly. "Did you ask if you could go on there?". Guiltily, they looked up and my oh so sweet Snoop put me right. "Yes mumma, we asked the grown up in there and it said we could." Once again, the Snoop put it all into perspective.