Senior Moments - Quack Teacher?

This week I managed to get to my English class with the golden oldies about 10 minutes early, which was just as well, because I discovered that the coffee had leaked out of my thermos flask and onto my ring-binder file. I hurriedly wiped down the dripping edges of the file, dashed out to the loo to rinse out the  bag in the little wash basin and dry it with wads of paper towel.  I then returned to the classroom and stood the ring-binder, pages fanned-out, on the floor in front of the radiator. Luckily the class were still standing around and chatting, but I did notice one woman giving me a curious, yet resigned, look.
The lesson got started and I announced that we were actually going to use the course book this week for a change. About five minutes later, we were off on a tangent as usual, thanks to someone asking what is the difference between "must not" and "don't have to".  An especially interesting grammatical topic for my German students.
I had the brilliant idea to get the class to tell, in turn, what they had not been allowed to do as children. There were two anecdotes which I particularly liked. One was from A, who had not been allowed to play with boys, but did so secretly, because she was used to her three brothers and she was too rough with the girls. The second  was from R., who said that she was not allowed to ride her father's bicycle as it was as valuable as 'diamonds', as she put it, in those early post-war years.
Of course, as is the way with forbidden fruit, she could not resist taking the bike and going off for a ride. It was a bit awkward for her, being a man's bike, and she had to sit almost side saddle, as far as I could tell from the way she described it. This made it impossible for her to brake when she found herself careering directly towards a cart piled high with cattle dung, but at least the crash landing was a soft one.
Then there was "C", who told us that she wasn't allowed to steal apples as a child. A paradoxical statement, but we understood what she meant. "You stole plenty of apples during our walk last week", piped up her regular hiking companion.
Nearly all of them completed their accounts with, "... but I did it anyway".
 The second group are a pleasant bunch, but more demanding. One of them always has her dictionary at the ready and double-checks my answers to their questions, which can put a bit of a strain on my proceedings, depending how relaxed or not I am. Last week she gleefully informed me that there is a hyphen between 'back' and 'off' as in 'back-off'. I didn't burst her bubble by telling her that the hyphen is a capricious member of the punctuation dynasty, along with its sisters, cousins and aunts, and its insertion often depends purely on which way the wind is blowing.
R was insistent that another expression for "Back-off!" is, "Get off my cloud!". "Urm, not as far as I know", I said. "Yes, yes! The Rolling Stones even used it in a song", he insisted. I had to bite firmly on my tongue in order to stop myself retorting, "Yes indeed, and I could never figure out whether they were singing: 'Star fucker', or 'Fuck a star' ... what do YOU think?"
The most awkward moment for me today was when I handed a piece of paper to a relatively new member of the group and asked him to write down his phone number for me to add to my carefully-prepared class phone list. What could possibly go amiss there, you might well ask? Not a lot, except that this man's name is "Herr Quack". I kid you not. For the past few weeks since he joined the class I have managed to avoid addressing him in this way, having immediately established that we are all on first name terms here. I managed perfectly well with "Hans", thank you very much. Until today.
"What's this?", he asked, pointing accusingly at his name which I had hastily written on the budding telephone list. I peered at the incriminating piece of paper and there, written in an unusually neat hand (for administrative purposes) were the words: "Herr Duck". "Oh, you know," I babbled, "'quack - duck, duck - quack', a gal can get confused". Fortunately, the desire to prove his command of the English language to me took precedence over his indignation at my mistake. "I understand. I can tell my quacks from my ducks", he said proudly with a smile.
Well, not exactly.
But at least I'd managed to duck out of a tricky Senior Moment - and Herr Quack's briefly ruffled feathers had been smoothed.

Gangsta MuM

     In the wee hours of yesterday morning, my son was threatened via cell-phone by a hysterical Turk. It was a girl - related matter. The man screamed that he would come over here and: “... rape you in front of your mother. I know where you live!”

     What particularly interests me are the cultural implications of this threat. Why threaten to carry out this assault in front of the mother? What image does this young man have of a typical mum? Does he really think he can show up here and rape my 6 foot-something, well fit son in front of me while I cower under my headscarf and squeak in distress?

     I don’t doubt for a moment my son’s ability to defend himself but, given the chance, I would have this young Turk’s guts for garters, accessorized with his balls wrapped in a pretty cotton scarf.

Why Sit When You Can Stand Up For Yourself?

I'm still rattled after my brief exchange with a shop assistant this morning, regarding the potential acquisition of a second-hand sofa. I need another sofa in my sitting room.  This became clear to me last Sunday when I was confronted with the sight of my visitors sitting in a row on the one and only sofa I possess. They looked as though they were at the movies, waiting for the Coming Soons to end so that they could get stuck-in to the main feature. I felt sorely tempted to dash into the kitchen and rustle up some popcorn, but I don't have any. (Note to Self: must buy sofa and popcorn).


Having ascertained that my social life would come to a standstill unless I obtained a second sofa, I hied me to the local second-hand shop, deciding on the way that it would be a jolly good idea to suggest a trade-in: one sofa for an ugly and imposing old dining room dresser currently languishing in my garage.


My suggestion was met with a look of scorn and disbelief. "Make an ex ... chaaange?", exclaimed the shop assistant incredulously. He grinned at my obvious stupidity and looked around as though expecting a chorus of shoulder-shrugging fellow workers and shoppers to join in his triumphant disbelief. "Yes," I replied, undaunted. "I give you a perfectly good dresser, you give me a sofa". "We don't do that," he smirked, nastily. "Oh", I remarked, snippishly,     * "so you get the furniture for free, sell it and pocket the proceeds." He nodded in the affirmative, a supercilious smirk spreading across his weasly features. 


With nothing more than a slight sniff and a raised eyebrow, I admitted defeat graciously. Luckily I had recently subjected myself to a bout of tweaking, so the eyebrow-raising was effortless, though apparently not impressive. Before leaving I took what revenge I could by sauntering around the second-hand clothing section, rifling through the clothes and wearing an expression on my face which made it clear to anyone who might notice, that I wouldn't be seen dead, oops, passed-on in any of these garments. 


Buying clothes was not on my agenda anyway due to (1.) the fact that funds are low right now and (2.) I am trying to avoid buying anything which is not absolutely necessary. Another reason for not spending money on clothes, second hand or otherwise, is that I have gained a few (good old British understatement) pounds since giving up smoking last year. Quite a quandary. Can’t fit into my old clothes, can’t afford to buy new ones. This didn’t stop me from trying on a few sale items at a shop in town. I might have bought some of the items had the shop assistant not eyed me up and down and suggested that I try a LARGE size! Since when was a size 14 (British) considered to be LARGE?


Surely every purveyor of women’s clothing should know that the L word should never, on no account, be uttered, no matter what size the customer may be. Even if the customer has just tried on a tent, it is the saleswoman’s duty to observe that it looks perfect, the colours complement madam’s eyes beautifully and it is the last size 8 left in the store. 


I handed back the few items I had tried to squeeze into, remarking that they looked better on the clothes hanger than on me. On the way home I decided that I would rather brave the supercilious sofa-seller than the totally tactless shop assistant. At least I wouldn’t have to try the sofas on.

* To be fair I indulged in poetic licentiousness here. In truth the shop is a charitable concern, providing employment for (downright snotty) people who would otherwise be out of work. 

Passing On

Since when did the past participle of "to die" morph into a dirty word? Nobody refers to someone as having "died" any more. No, they "pass on", or simply “pass”. Where to? In what condition? Have they actually expired, or have they just gone on a long hike? It is not as if the prospect and ultimate event of death is anything new; yet people tippy-toe around it as they might a mugging on the street.

Where does linguistic political correctness begin and end? Words such as "Bitch, Ho, Bum, Asshole", to name but a few, bombard us daily but when buckets are kicked, clogs popped and mortal coils shuffled, throats are nervously cleared, glances turn shifty and a universal conspiracy of allusions and awkwardness permeates the atmosphere.

There was a time when people passed "over", but this preposition has, in turn, been superseded. What did "to pass over" mean? Did this refer to the indubitable fact that those who had "passed" were over the hill to the point of no return? Has it become politically incorrect to infer that a person be fatally elevated above and beyond the peak of their earthly existence?

Why is it considered preferable to pass “on”, rather than “over”? In our materialistic world passing “on” fits better to the Zeitgeist of self-improvement and achievement, the goal being to move on to better things. Passing “over”, indicates an unearthly dimension. Spirituality is just about socially acceptable, within its fashionable limits, but there is so much on offer, from the sublime to the ridiculous, that it is still mainly regarded with suspicion as the property of New Age Whackos.

Will this “Urban Dictionary” type vocabulary-pimping stop at death? How about birth? Will babies be born in the future, or will they just materialize? Will women become pregnant, or will they simply gain a few pounds during the course of nine months?

"I have some good news, but I waited till I'd gained a few pounds before revealing my happy secret. I'm going to gain more weight before the next 6 months are up! “

"Wonderful news! You mean your earthly temple will compulsively and uncontrollably expel a red and wrinkled screaming entity at a future date?”

"No, no. My progeneration consultant has advised me to have a Cleopatrean”. (Caesarians will have been abolished for being sexist by association with their male namesake).

Then, the birth announcement: "Joe and Mary are proud to announce that little Jehoshaphat has successfully been expelled from his female parent's nether regions, weighing in at x pounds, xx ounces". (The exact weight will not be revealed for fear of offending the fashion industry who will most definitely turn in their future earthy plots in horror at the very idea of those extra ounces).

Arrest your ongoing motion for a few microscopic particles of an aeon! I am jumping the proverbial instrument for speedy emission of circumferentially-challenged metal orbs here. Let us rewind to the centrifugal episodes between compulsory expulsion into, dare I be succinct here? - Life, and the aforementioned inevitable outcome.

How will engagement and subsequent marriage be described? Future headlines might read: “Prince X of Whyland has set in motion the means whereby the tying of the knot to his Intended will be finalized on a mutually accorded date, at a well-known establishment of regal matrimonial forgery”.

Once the knot has been forged, headlines may well exclaim: “REGAL NUPTIAL NOOSE IRRETRIEVABLY TIGHTENED – TILL LIFE DOTH DEPART!” Sighs of relief all round. Until, perhaps one of the participants finds themselves compelled, as has been the wont of previous high-bred elitist entities, to pass the other one “over” in favor of a newer and more diverting model and pass “on” to fresh pastures. At least these days they get to keep their heads.

S.O.B.

Save Our Boobs!

I recently heard (from a reliable source) that "doctors" are seriously considering removing the breasts of all women over 30, as a preventive measure against breast cancer, regardless of whether or not they are at risk.

The ramifications of this are endless. I can already envisage the headlines: "Mature woman arrested for being in possession of illegal tits!".

These doctors should be castrated, in my humble female opinion. (I'm assuming they're male as I cannot imagine any self-respecting woman would agree to this).

Why not save a lot of time, bother, and money by doing as the Greeks did and leaving new born girls out on mountaintops to freeze, starve or be eaten to death by vultures? It took a few thousand years for their prescience and forethought to pay off. Just look at the current economic situation in Greece.

Phew ... got that off my "chest". Now I'm going to set-to and start designing knitted falsies in the hope of selling enough of them to finance my future hideout. "My bazooms are my weapons" ... and I refuse to allow anyone to disarm me!

Look out for those headlines.

When I was a little girl, I would go into town with my dad for the weekly shop. We had a set routine from which we never wavered. First stop was the big department store where I would regularly wander off and get lost while dad browsed the book section. It didn't take me long to discover that this had its advantages as he always found me, surrounded by a circle of kind ladies plying me with sweeties.

That was a safe environment for a small girl to get lost in.  Not so, the large market which I visited with my youngest son some years ago during a visit to my in-laws. Before you start to worry, this tale has a happy ending.

While negotiating my way through the madly thronging crowds, tightly clutching my son's hand, I noticed a small girl wandering alone, crying in distress. I approached her, carefully, and asked if she were lost. She gulped and nodded in the affirmative but was rightly suspicious at being approached by a stranger. I managed to walk beside her, not wanting to alarm her by taking her hand, keeping a careful but vigilant distance. We passed a group of people taking a rest on a bench.  They laughed at the sight of the weeping child: "Look at that little girl, crying", they grinned. I wanted to slap them but focused on keeping her in sight and staying as close to her as possible.

Eventually I dared proffer my hand, which she took, and I managed to get her to tell me where she had last been with her mother. We headed in that direction and I called out her mother's name, which she had been able to stammer out after some gentle probing. People stared, but I didn't care.  I pushed my way through, flanked by the two children, yelling this woman's name at the top of my voice.

I was just about to give up and head for the local police station, when a highly distressed woman came flying towards me and swept her daughter into her arms. She was hugging me in gratitude when I heard a voice calling my name.  There stood an old friend who I hadn't seen for years. "Hang on a mo", I said. "Let me finish this embrace."

Hugs, tears and reunion over, I turned to greet Susanne. "This is amazing", she said. "I've been helping this woman look for her daughter."  "Amazing indeed," I replied.  Then she frowned: "But I wanted to be the one to find the little girl! Where did you spring from all of a sudden?"

She forgave me and we enjoyed a cup of coffee together before I announced that it was time for me to leave, reminding her that I had my duties to attend to: "Children to rescue, planets to save ... "  All in a day's work.

Cracked Mirrors and Raised Eyebrow(s)

While waiting for the lights  at the railway crossing to turn green I idly checked the rearview mirror.  My lipstick was still in place but I was surprised to discover that my eyebrows were decidedly bushy.  They had looked fine in the bathroom mirror that morning but here, in the rare beam of sunlight which critically scanned the waiting traffic like a laser, they were unquestionably taking on Groucho proportions.

This morning I remembered to take action but first I had to clean the magnifying mirror which swings out on one of those criss-cross extendable arms.  My sons use it for shaving and, as they are taller than me, I had to stand on tiptoe which was precarious to say the least.  Also, the mirror is broken, so I had to peer into whatever parts I could manoeuvre in my direction.  Having set it all up to my satisfaction, I went in search of the eyebrow tweezers which weren't in their usual place, of course.  I dug them out of my knitting basket, traipsed back up the stairs to the bathroom and set to work.

In spite of the brilliant morning sunshine beaming benevolently through the bathroom window, I could only clearly make out my right eyebrow, so I relied on guesswork to complete the one on the left. It occurred to me I might be more successful were I to remove myself to the car and make use of the rearview mirror.  But then I realised that I would have to drive to a quiet, unpopulated spot somewhere.  My neighbours are used to my antics, but the sight of me parked outside my house, plucking my eyebrows might just be pushing things a little too far.  Especially as they are all busy washing their cars, scrubbing their front doorsteps, mowing the lawn and indulging in the usual joyful neighbourhood Saturday morning activities.

I wondered if one could get arrested for parking and plucking one's eyebrows. What with all this wondering and cogitating I noticed that I had got carried away with the left one and was now sporting a permanently quizzical expression.  I resisted the temptation to even up its partner and downed tools before ending-up resembling a feisty elderly French dame from a Toulouse Lautrec poster.

This look could be useful, I decided.  People might assume that I possess a critical and inquiring mind.  Hopefully it will work to my advantage when I drive later to check the row of parked cars for a broken or cracked side mirror incurred by my having cut it a little too fine while driving my son to school yesterday.

I had heard a faint snapping sound as I eased by, but didn't register until my son said: "Mum, I think you hit someone's side mirror", thus scotching the thought that there were snipers operating in the hills of St. Wendel.  I must have temporarily blacked-out, like that time at the supermarket car park when a man accused me of driving into his car.  I truly and honestly had not noticed a thing, but apologised profusely.  Luckily, he forgave me and waved me off.  I'm still not convinced he wasn't making it up.

I did notice, that time I drove into the row of supermarket trolleys at the same car park, while becoming   aware of a man standing and staring in amazement.  "What's that guy staring at?, I muttered.  "Well," my long-suffering son replied drily, "he's probably never seen a woman drive into a row of trolleys before".

As I set off yesterday evening to visit a friend, the sight of a crack on the back of my wing mirror dragged up the suppressed memory of that morning.  Being a mature, grown woman (I know, I've mentioned this before and some might quip that the lady doth protest too much) I resolved to return to the scene of the crime the next morning, check the parked cars for damage, own up and cough-up. I could either tuck a polite note under the windscreen wipers or be really brave, march up to several front doors and search out my victims. Then again, I might get arrested for loitering with intent, or ringing doorbells and running away.

I think I will brazen it out and go for the direct approach. Who knows?  Maybe the unfortunate car owners will be so intimidated by my quizzical, inquiring eyebrow, they might find themselves overwhelmed by insecurity and assume it was their fault for parking so carelessly.

A Frisky Lass

I had been working for the BBC World Service as a news typist for a couple of weeks when, one evening during a quickly grabbed meal of standard Beeb fare, I was asked how I was settling in.  Don, who posed the question was the shift supervisor. A tall, gangly, Donald Sutherland lookalike who ruled the editors' desk in a bored,  laconical manner in between writing pithy plays which were performed in off-Shaftesbury Avenue productions. His cynical remarks could decimate and lacerate in a nanosecond.

Being new and nervous, I sputtered out a reply without thinking. And instantly regretted it.  "Well," I squeaked, in tones akin to Victoria Wood doing her hilarious "University Interview" sketch.  "Most people are nice and friendly, but some of the journalists are downright snotty!".  I felt my face reddening even before I came to the end of my brief outburst. Don leaned back into his chair, which was no mean feat considering his legs alone stretched half way across the canteen, and repeated my last words. He took his time, rolling them around in his mouth, enunciating in his London drawl:  "Down-right snotty - eh?", guttering out the Ts as vowels.

He gazed into the distance, not deigning to regard my squirming form.  Maybe he was being kind, sparing me even more mortification.  "Doooooooowwwwwwwwn-right snotty", he repeated slowly and thoughfully.  It seemed to take about a hundred years before the last "y" floated out across the room and disappeared.

He made no other comment. It wasn't necessary.

After a while, I did settle in and managed to get along with journalists, editors and fellow-typists alike, including Don who even came to one of our tightly packed, crowded parties in Muswell Hill. Actually it was East Finchley, but Muswell Hill was more upmarket and Sara, my flatmate, and I had no qualms about bending the truth when necessary.

Gradually I was able to relax and be comforted by the fact that I was not the only purveyor of odd expressions in this haven of carefully-chosen and endlessly edited words.  I emerged from the lift one day, to be complimented on my new dress by an older journalist.  "My, that's a fetching frock", he commented.  "Fetching frock, fetching frock", I murmered quietly as I made my way to my desk.  Hmmmn!".

My favourite was a warning comment this man made to my friend, Tony, with whom I enjoyed a harmlessly flirty friendship: "She's a frisky lass, and no mistake!". Nothing's changed in that respect, but I have never, ever again accused anyone of being "downright snotty".

Disciplinary Measures

The phone rang this morning, I answered, and found myself greeted by a friendly policewoman from the local police station.  "Oh, Hi!" I said. "What's up?  My son in trouble again?  Been caught wetting his pants again? (I didn't pose the last question, but only because I didn't think of it). "No", she giggled. Well, not quite a giggle but an approximation of a well-meaning policewomanly show of humour. She asked to speak to my ex-husband and I explained that he is away for the next ten days and could I help?  "Are you 'X's mother?", she asked, cautiously.  (I put the 'X' in because I don't want to risk being sued by any of my sons for exposing their antics publicly). "I bravely admitted that I am  indeed his mother and could I help?".

"We need to know what disciplinary measures you have taken regarding your son".  "Disciplinary what?".  I was about to ask her what that meant, when I realised this was not a prank call and that she was dead serious.  "He's already been down to the police station, accounted for his actions and a report has been sent to the relevant authorities. What more do you need?", I politely inquired.  "We need to know what disciplinary measures ..." she parroted again.

My brain switched to overtime as I thought up the kinds of pubertal punishments which would satisfy the authorities.  "Urm, well, we've docked his pocket money indefinitely, he's hardly ever allowed to go out and he has to do twice as many chores than usual and for twice as long."    "Does this mean he has to come home earlier than usual?", she prodded.  Damn! Hadn't thought of that.  "Urm, no. He's only allowed to go out six nights a week instead of seven." I didn't say that either, but I thought it. I told her that his going-out allowance was strictly limited (all the while hoping she wouldn't catch him wandering around town with his mates at some ungodly hour), but that we had not given him house arrest. You try giving a strong, well-built young man house arrest!  Again, thought but not spoken.

She was duly mollified and we bid each other farewell.

By now you may be asking yourself what was the crime?  If not, then you certainly deserve to have your pocket money docked and to stay home scrubbing the cellar for at least a week.

This young criminal stole a chair from a pub while out with his mates one Saturday night.  Now before you all throw up your hands in horror ...  hands-up all those who have never taken on a dare, or been tempted to do so.  Ha!  Gotcha.  I'm not condoning the unlawful acquisition of other peoples' property, whether it be a chair, a cheap trinket from Woollies or someone else's wife or husband.  We all know that stealing is wrong and should not be encouraged.  If in doubt, look to the tax man or, if he's not at home, a couple of world leaders for confirmation of this fact. 

Back to the stolen chair. Do any of these people seriously believe that a XX year old "yoof " was that interested in acquiring a grotty old pub chair, honestly or otherwise?  Do they really think he intended to drag it all the way home in order to furnish his bedroom  with that extra touch, thus satisfying his obsession with interior decoration?  It could also have occurred to them that, had he really wanted to steal, he might have been more clever about it.

He fully intended to return the chair, and would have done so if he hadn't been prematurely caught. His fault for being so careless, and I told him so. Teenage pranks I can forgive, within reason, but badly thought-out ones - No.  Which is why, having had time to rethink my hastily constructed punishment regime, I have decided to up the ante and make him do his own laundry, empty the dishwasher, cook his own meals and mow the lawn regularly.

On second thoughts, that's what he has to do in the normal run of things.  Hmmn. Who am I to talk about carefully thought-out plans? Or punishments, for that matter?

Making a Song and Dance

The Germans have an expression which, roughly translated, goes: "I think I'm in the wrong film".  I've been in situations where I felt exactly the same way. Caught up in an out-of-control situation, with no director in sight to call out "cut!" when things get unbearable. These occasions have been more than compensated for by the "Musical Moments".  Like the other evening when I went upstairs to ask my 19-year-old son to turn the music down. I knocked on his door, was granted admittance and within a few seconds, found myself joining him and his friend dancing, twisting and mashed potato-ing to the strains of "Shout".

My work was forgotten and my cares fled through the open window as I leaped around the room with these two young men singing and yelling, arms and legs flailing: "You make me wanna SHOUT ... yay-ay-ay-yeah - yay-ay-ay-yeah. Oh-woh-oh-woh-oh-woh-oh-woh!".  I spared a brief thought for the neighbours, but it wasn't that late, and they're used to our goings-on. "A little bit softer now, a little bit softer now ... a little bit louder now ...". I was glad to get to the little bit louder now part 'cos it hid the sound of my creaking kneecaps and, much as I was enjoying myself, I was about fit to combust.

As I made my way back downstairs, I remembered the time when my eldest son was still living with me and we spontaneously tangoed together.  Well, he tangoed, expertly, while I clung on bravely.  I was listening to my favourite tango c.d. and he suddenly swept into the room, grabbed me and dragged me around, mussing up the rugs, before practically dropping me to the floor (shades of John Belushi in The Blues Brothers) and returning to his room when the piece ended. Leaving me to rearrange the sitting room with a big smile on my face.

"The bit I like best when Martina comes to stay", said one of my sons some years ago, "is when you both dance around the kitchen, drumming on the pots and pans with wooden spoons and egg whisks".  Well, we can't always direct our lives, but we sure can make a Busby Berkley out of it when the mood takes us.

It's Enough To Make You Pee In Your Pants

Son number young(est) arrived home unexpectedly early at around 4 am having been thrown out of the club he frequents with his mates. I wasn't convinced by his claim that he hadn't done anything to provoke this but was too tired to prod further at this point.  Having previously experienced an unpleasant contretemps with the local bouncers myself, I was inclined to err on the side of my son for now.

It's a big deal for these kids to be able to to go to this club when they turn sixteen.  A rite of passage of sorts.  Sadly, the only kind that's on offer around here. Until they reach the giddy heights of eighteen, they have to present a pre-printed form signed by a parent and any eighteen year old they can persuade to add a second signature assuring that they take responsibility for the duration of the night - in theory. But it is generally accepted.  These clubs want to get their money, after all, and why pass up such a great opportunity to steal candy from "babes"?  Blind-eyes turned in all directions.

Finally my son told me what had happened in a surprised, "Oh, I thought I'd told you",  kind of way - shrugged shoulders akimbo. It transpired that he had spilt beer on his jeans and was on his way to repair the damage with some cold water.  Before he even got to the door of the restrooms he was grabbed by a couple of bouncers and thrown out ... for peeing in his pants??!!!!

I can confirm that if he reeked of Eau-de-anything on his return home, it was definitely beer and not pee. I was all for returning to the scene of the crime and presenting the beer-flavoured jeans as evidence, but my seemingly incontinent teen didn't want to risk causing offence (???) as well as permanent exclusion from this Bacchanalian (Beeranalian?) haven.

I am considering typing an addendum to the standard form: "I, the undersigned, hereby declare that my 16-year-old son/daughter is fully toilet-trained". 

The scene was indeed revisited by my son and his friend, but for another reason.  To search for his mobile phone which he lost while crouching in the bushes nearby ... to take a leak!

Catnapping

So there I was, minding my own business, pootling about and up to no good most likely, when I heard a cat meowling outside my window.  Took a peep outside and ascertained that the yowling was emanating from a cat box, carried by a man making soothing noises of the cat-calming variety. I thought nothing of it until I was suddenly struck by the conviction that it was my cat inside the box and that the man was being very clever in being so obvious, catnapping in broad daylight.  Who would suspect anything?  Me, of course.

I did what any sane, mildly manic middle-aged woman would do under the circumstances and leapt into my car in pursuit of this shameless criminal. At the end of the road I almost crashed, head-on, into the car of an acquaintance who I hadn't seen for a while.  What to do?  I didn't want to be rude and drive on without greeting her.  Neither did I want to admit that I was in a hurry to catch a cat thief.  I managed to scroll down the window, mumble something about it being lovely to see her, but no time, no time! - before screeching off in the direction of cat and criminal.

Not a sign of either of them. Not even the tiniest meow to be heard. Just the small voice of reason asking me what the hell I was doing? This didn't prevent me from performing a milder version of the Spanish Inquisition on my sons when I returned home:  "When did you last see our cat?".  All was resolved when she sashayed in a little while later with a look on her whiskers which assured me that no way would this cat ever be caught napping.

Fatuously and Ubiquitously Lazy

A throwaway comment when I was a teenager,  from an older woman I greatly admired, set the tone for my basic self image.  She had taken me to see "Cabaret" and, afterwards I sighed that I would love to be an actress and singer like Liza Minelli.  "You? - no chance!  You're far too lazy".  

Almost forty years later, I have started to question this assumption.  In fact, I have come to the conclusion that I might just as earnestly have taken on the comment from another admired older woman who exclaimed at how much weight I'd gained and was I pregnant?  I was about as much pregnant as I was lazy.   I hung on to the fat stamp, though.  "Fatness" is traditionally lumped together with laziness, isn't it?  Another myth. That one took years to sort out, too, but that's another story.

I first began to question my apparent slothfulness, in my late twenties, when challenged by my psychology lecturer during a class.  He was asking us how we saw ourselves, what we thought our weaknesses were.  While energetically and fervently lamenting my plight, I kicked the man next to me, who had all the while been unconsciously banging his foot against mine.  "Why did you just kick 'M'?".  "Because he was kicking me", I replied.  "Well then.  You're not lazy, are you? You took action."  That was a revelation and a relief, but was still not enough to convince me completely.

Only recently have I begun to see the truth in what was said.  I am not lazy.  Never was. 

It's more a matter of time-management.  During  maths lessons at primary school I expended lots of energy on finding new places to hide my books in order to avoid having to tackle the loathed subject.   No matter that my teacher saw right through me every time.  I could have saved myself a lot of stress by doing my piano theory homework in half an hour at home rather than hurriedly and in a state of panic, five minutes before my teacher arrived.

I've moved on since then. My therapist wanted me to do "homework" every week.  Keep a diary, make notes.  I laughed.  "I never bothered much with homework when I was a kid, and I'm not going to start now!".  Too lazy?  Not at all.  It took a lot of effort to stand up and be honest about myself.  Never mind that  I've been making up stories, songs and poems for as long as I can remember. Just try and stop me writing.   It would be superfluous to point out the irony in this, dear reader.  Add bolshy and stubborn to my list of failings why don't you.

I'm too busy for externally imposed assignments (and I enjoy provoking my therapist).  There are those daily tasks which I work so hard to put off until later, starting with my having to clear the kitchen sink at 6 a.m.before I can get to the tap to fill the kettle for my morning cup of tea.

Hours are spent looking for important pieces of paper which, had they been filed immediately, could also have been found tout de suite.  Adding insult to injury, there is the added expense of parking fines incurred because I couldn't be bothered to walk that little bit extra to get to my destination. The extra charges for delayed payment of mislaid bills.  All resulting in more searching and more work.  No lazy person would invest so much time and effort.

I try to use my laziness wisely.  I really do, but I'm far too taken up with deciding which project to tackle next.  B-J's socks, which I started knitting almost two years ago, that knitted square for the charity blanket, the sexy thongs for my photographer friend's website, and Mary's wrap.  This is just the tip of the iceberg.  Then there's the preparation for my English and French courses, the ubiquitous (I'm not sure what that word means, but I like it, so I'll use it) paperwork, the housework, the weeding, the phone calls which interrupt my cogitations as I try to decide whether to file this 'n that under A or Z?

As for the filing, nothing can be filed away before sections are created using coloured dividers.  Does this belong in the grammar or worksheet section?  Pink or red?  What to do?  Decisions decisions!  The file itself needs to be covered.  Not for me those dull,  grey eminences gracing the shelves. They must be adorned with pretty paper and coated with water (and tea and coffee) proof varnish.

Coloured clothes pegs have been banished from the washing line.  Plain wooden ones must suffice, otherwise hours are whiled away, colour-coordinating pegs and pegged.

Lazy - moi? Another word springs to mind, but I won't use it here.  Just call me "ubiquitous".  Not because it fits but because, as I said, I like it.  Should I file this word under "woody", or "titty"? (ref: Monty P).

Ho hum.  Back to work before I waste any more time blogging.  I should be so lucky.  Before I can even get started I have to rework the colour schemes.  Now, where did I file that quiche? ...

Lone Dancer

My father had two nicknames for me:  "Jettifer B", for the non-stop talker, and "Mouse", for the silent one.

Yesterday evening I forced myself to go alone to the annual three day summer fair. Jettifer B would have loved to have gone with a group of friends and chatted and danced the night away, but none were available that evening, so it was Mouse who ventured tentatively into the throng.  Jettifer provided a running commentary.

I have never had any difficulty establishing contact with people, but it was a challenge to go out alone and be among a crowd composed of groups of friends, couples and local inhabitants who feel at home amongst each other.  Having eschewed the joys of alcohol, I didn't have the usual crutch to soothe and uninhibit.

Jettifer chatted, non-stop:  "How Sad can you be?  No boyfriend, no friends.  Aren't you embarrassed to be out, wandering around alone?".   I remembered once seeing one of my sons, walking alone around the playground at his new school, trying bravely to look as if he didn't care, as if he was part of things.  It hurt.

A year or two ago I would have been with a crowd.  I had many friends at the school where I was teaching - teachers, parents and pupils.  Now, nearly two years after having left the school, I am still in that limbo land between the old and the new.  Many of those old friends have gradually dropped away, along with the common ground of "shop" talk.

I haven't been easy company.  Crashing from crisis to crisis. Trying to re-weave the rug which I pulled out from under my feet. I am fascinated by the emerging warp, weft and colours which are now emerging after a time of self-imposed exile.

I run into an ex-colleague with whom I always got along well.   He seems sort of pleased to see me, but doesn't quite know how to relate.  "How are you doing?", he asks.  "Fine, great!",  I smile, clutching my alcohol-free beer.  "You here with the family?".  He nods vaguely and points to a group of kids before ambling away.  Not one of them belongs to him, but turn out to be my ex-pupils who greet me warmly, and I respond in turn.  The conversation is limited, too, although our pleasure at seeing each other is genuine.

I spot my youngest son, regarding the proceedings critically.  He was always torn between embarrassment and pleasure at my easy, friendly relationship with his schoolmates.  I try to make myself semi-invisible, but am distracted by his friend saying a loud, friendly "Hello!".  I helloooo back, making a jokey comment about my son along the lines of: "Do I know him?", and move on.

Bump into family guy and his mistress, who had also been a friend.  ("AhHa!" moment re: inquiry after family). I defuse any potential awkwardness by giving her a big hug and then stand with them a while, watching the band in which her son is playing.  Their love-child is being babysat by her ex-husband.  I know too much.  People tell me things, whether I want them to or not.  No matter that I keep them to myself.  I "know" and that's enough to put the kybosh on a friendship. 

"I'd rather be knitting", comment Jettifer and Mouse simultaneously.  I ignore them, busy creating t-shirt design in my head.  More warm hugs and greetings from my eldest son's friends who play together in a band and are good-looking, talented and coooooooool!  I admire and tickle  J's new beard and begin to relax and bask in the hugs and banter.

A tap on the shoulder startles me out of my reverie as I negotiate the crowds. My second son and his girlfriend.  Buy them drinks and chat for a while.  I don't want to cramp their style, so linger not.  Later, driving back from the hospital, he tells me I would have been welcome to join them.  I had forgotten that he is not, like his younger brother, ashamed to be seen with me in public.

I stand and watch a rather good band, my feet tapping, wishing I had the guts to dance alone (which I might have done had  I not been stone cold sober).  "Get out there girl!"  hisses Jettifer.  "You're always the Life and Soul of the party".  "You don't have to be", whispers Mouse.  My handbag would have been an incumbrance and I refuse - absolutely, to succumb to the "All Around My Handbag" dance routine, beloved of so many girls and women.

One more awkward encounter with an ex-colleague/friend puts the final stamp on my evening and I start to head homewards.  My mobile jingles.  "Mum ...", (son number two) "My girlfriend's mother has collapsed and has been taken to hospital".  "I'm on my way", I reply before he can continue.  A few more hugs, greetings and "where have you been hiding?"s) from ex-pupils as I run to my car.

I admit it.  Having ascertained that girlfriend's mother was alright and in good hands, I was relieved to have something useful to do with my evening.

Next challenge:  Get back out into the arena tonight, minus handbag, and dance.  Alone, if necessary.  Well, not quite.  Jettifer and Mouse will be with me.

Nailed?

My hands are hurting from being repeatedly sat upon in vain efforts to conceal them from curious onlookers.  I make an effort to appear clean and scrubbed, if not reasonably glamourous but venture beyond my wrists - and weep!  As I type, I glimpse my hands out of the corner of my eye. Scratches from battling the rose bush in the front garden, a plaster on the finger where the cat dug in with her claws when I rescued my knitting from her playful grasp, dry skin from washing dishes, a scar on my thumb from the screwdriver which slipped and as for my fingernails, I wash my hands of them!

I feel like Scarlett in that scene where Rhett grabs her hand and grins wickedly, frankly not fooled-a-damn, my deah, by her attempt to present herself as a Lady of Leisure.  Try, for example, to get through a whole job interview with your butt firmly placed on the offending instruments of God's work.  It's bad enough struggling to resist the impulse to scratch those impertinent itches which niggle in all sorts of awkward places but there is no way a contract can be signed with one's teeth or toes without attracting unfavourable attention. Unless the job opening is for an armless artist.

Fortunately for me, an almost illegible signature hastily scribbled before my hand returns to its sanctuary has not lost me a contract yet.  Neither have my wounded paws (never mind my wounded and scabby knees!) unduly offended any of my students as I point at the blackboard and gesticulate wildly in my attempts to illustrate various aspects of the English language.  This is most likely due to the fact that they are so dizzy from the speed with which I point and gesticulate, that they don't have time to notice anything unusual.

Unusual, you may ask?  Yes indeed.  I suspect I am one of the last women on this earth who has never been to a nail salon for a bit of buff and polish.  I dare not, for fear of being laughed at or, even worse, becoming an object of sympathy and being spoken to in the tone of a doctor who has to inform the patient that he/she is in for a bout of chemo.

How do they manage to do anything -  those women who sport long, perfect fingernails, adorned with sparkly bits, stars, and stripes?  I've taken to wearing dark glasses whenever I go shopping.  Not to avoid the sight of my chipped offerings, but to protect my eyes from being blinded by the laser beams of light which glance off the claws of the sales assistants.  I have to take several deep breaths before approaching the checkout at my local supermarket.  The sight of those dazzling, dexterous till-tapping fingers is too much to bear, so I chuck my groceries into the cart at lightening speed with the result that my eggs are already scrambled, and the cream whipped before I exit through the revolving doors.

Lately, I have begun to flirt mildly with the idea of casting myself out of my outcastedness and entering the hallowed portals of naildom.  This weakening of my integrity has partly been prompted by my confusing "M" with "N" on my worn out keyboard, resulting in my being regularly bombarded with links to "N"ail salons instead of Yahoo "M"ail.  I believe in signs and portents, and fear this might just be one.

I could ignore this particular one, though.  I mean, how gullible can one be?  Signs and portents - huh!  Might as well believe my daily horoscope.  I play the piano, type, fiddle about with screwdrivers, and use good old soapsuds and water for household cleaning.   None of those ghastly chemical sprays and wipes for me.  I also abhor gloves of the rubber and gardening variety.  And when  I'm not busy shopping, scrubbing or gardening, I play the piano, type blog entries, e-mails and silly posts on Facebook, or knit.  It's bad enough having to wear my sunglasses every time I leave the house without having to wear ear muffs at home to drown out the incessant clackity-clack of perfect fingernails.

That's decided then.  And if that isn't enough, I will never forget a fellow pupil at the posh school I went to asking that girl with impossibly long fingernails:  "How do you manage to pick your nose without causing yourself a nasty injury?".

Savvy without a Navi

I am a grown-up, mature woman and mother to three just about grown-up sons.  I have negotiated the streets of London, New York, Paris, Lower Sodbury and Queen Camel in my time but can I get from A to B without near accident and incident?  Can I, bollocks!  The more carefully I plan ahead, consult internet Route Finders and avidly study Google Maps, the less chance I have of arriving anywhere on time, never mind at the right location, without a few distracting incidents en route to boot.

I possessed a Navigator for a time. Tom was his name.  I tried Jane for a while, but was irritated by her nasal, pseudo upper-class British voice.  Tom sounded more like James Bond.  We enjoyed a tempestuous relationship with lots of cursing, shouting, arguing and tears (me). I finally finished with him somewhere in Mannheim after having obediently turned left and left again until I nearly passed out with dizziness and realised I was going round in circles.  It might not have been so bad if I hadn't been negotiating a busy main street.  Before that, I had been yelled at for driving down a one way street, the wrong way.  This relationship was becoming abusive.  I wanted out!

I swear I later heard him sniggering that time I landed in the middle of a tram intersection, but I remained resolute and kept him switched off.

There are two main ways of getting lost, in my experience.  One is missing or not seeing the signs (I swear there are magic ones which disappear), confusing destination names or being distracted by a particular song or thought process.  The other is the "this road looks interesting, I wonder where it leads to", or the "I'm bored with this route, let's try this one" variation.  This can be educational and enlightening as long as no cul-de-sacs or rivers are involved.  I once almost drove directly into the river Rhein on the way to Koblenz, mistaking the narrow road for the turn-off  into the city.  My son made no comment and just rolled his eyes, which was the extent of his communication with me at that time, what with his being fourteen and me being a constant source of embarrassment, no matter what.

The last time we drove down to Provence the boys asked, carefully, if we could please avoid the diversion via Strasbourg this time.  The Navigator was briefly reconciled with the family during the long drive to Switzerland, last summer, at my sons' insistence. This time,  I argued with the "Navi" indirectly, through my son who kept insisting we refer to the damn thing.  "Oh, don't listen to him!  He's a liar and a cheat and hasn't got a clue".  I had to eat my words after ending-up on the wrong motorway, but otherwise I was in the right.  I think.

On the way back, we made an unintentional detour through  - Strasbourg.  There must be some magnetic attraction there.  My sons resigned themselves to the extended journey time and settled down to investigate Tom's language skills. I was just beginning to relax and join in, urging them to try the Japanese version, having gone through every variation on offer, when he finally fizzled out for good.

He still hasn't been replaced.  I need some more time and therapy to get over the grieving process.  Well, alright.  I can't be bothered to embark on a new relationship.  I can manage perfectly well on my own, thankyou, even if it does mean I automatically add an extra hour to every new, uncharted journey.  Like the one yesterday to an appointment in Saarbrücken.

Mind you, if one more person tells me I'll find the place easily, I shall get very cross!  Likewise if they exclaim:  "But what on earth are you doing, phoning from a gas station in Reykjavic?  I told you, take a half-right after crossing the busy, four-laned motorway bridge!".  What is a "half-right" when it's at home? Sounds like a jazz-dance step and I was never much good at taking directions in dance classes, either. 

The reason I was phoning from a gas station was that I had no money left on my mobile phone. I'm sure it was nicely topped-up before I left?!  In fact, as I was going out through the front door, a friend had sent me an SMS giving me a useful website address, relevant to the theme of my impending appointment  But I hardly registered it as I was anxious to get there on time.

After about an hour-and-a-half, (standard driving time to the centre of Saarbrücken - 40 minutes) having almost overtaken a tram before realising I was literally on the wrong track again; found myself driving homewards; crossed the four-lane bridge three times; viewed a few local sites of interest through my steaming car window and suffering from a stiff neck, I arrived at my destination. My neck was stiff from having been craned in all directions looking out and listening for police cars, with blaring sirens, all out to get me for multiple misuse and abuse of the Highway Code.

I was greeted with a forgiving and friendly handshake by my advisor: "Dr. I'll Get Your Business Plan Wrapped Up In No Time von Teabreak".  I threw in the "von Teabreak" bit because I very quickly got the impression that I was keeping him from just that.  He adeptly and professionally shuffled the pages of my plan, which I'd e-mailed to him in advance, and told me that it was impressive but needed some final details.  "Yees", I thought - "Which is why I am here, consulting you".  Then he swivelled his computer screen in my direction and informed me that I should check out the Website which he had called up.  I instantly recognised the link which my friend had SMS'd to me before I left.

WAS THIS IT?  The interview, which had taken about ten minutes, was over.  I felt cheated.  There was no way I was going to leave quietly after such an odyssey.   He was personally responsible for my wasted afternoon. "Half-right-turn" indeed! I regaled him with tales of previous navigational mishaps while he smiled politely, his feet and fingers tapping obtrusively. He was so hysterically relieved when I finally stood up to go, that he rashly invited me to come back next week when I had made the final adjustments to my proposal.  No thanks.  I'll send him a link to my blog and get my nails done instead.  Which leads tidily to my next blog entry.

COMING SOON!

Warning - This Film Contains Hats!

The other evening I watched a film in which Meryl Streep played a mother who was dying of cancer.  The title of the film eludes me.  Rene Zellweger was her daughter, and William Hurt, her egoistic husband.  I enjoyed the film.  The cancer and family themes were handled with minimum schmalz-effect.  Meryl and William can do no wrong, in my eyes, and I have yet to be disappointed by Rene Z.  I just love her name, for one thing.

I was reasonably gripped until Rene donned the cutest, darlingest hat.  Suddenly I was oblivious to dialogue and plot and lost the thread as I peered at the screen to get a closer look at the gorgeous embroidery (or was that border trim knitted?) and to study the shape for future reference.

This was a pleasurable hat distraction.

Later, I became aware of my teeth gritting and my blood beginning to boil as Meryl was wheeled around wearing what looked like a badly-crocheted dishcloth on her balding head.  Who on earth did they assign to design the Chemo Caps for this film?  Was this just a bad, sloppy piece of handiwork, or a not-so-subtle indication of Meryl's increasing deterioration?  As if we hadn't noticed.

And why, when she was wheeled out for a perambulation through the snowy pre-Christmas neighbourhood, was she sporting a dashing knitted, red and reindeer number which she wanted to show off to all and sundry?  What was the message here?  Put on a brave hat in public, but make do with a ragged dishcloth at home?  I would rather wear a wet dishcloth than a badly crocheted imitation.

At the other extreme, I was again distracted by Uma Thurman's hats in "BeCool".  I am definitely going to copy the white, peaked cap with the chain.  I'll pass on the simpler knitted cap, although I was pleased to see her evident enjoyment in wearing it.

I am still bugged by Meryl's dishcloth and am playing with ideas for a "BeCool Cap" à la Urma, for myself, as well as for cancer patients.  Why discriminate?  The t-shirts say:  "Fuck Cancer".  My hats will scream:  "Cancer Ain't Cool, But I Am!".

Muffin Mail

Finally got to the post office to mail Jody's knitted muffin.  This time I decided not to risk parking on the "disabled" spot and waited, with unaccustomed patience, while observing an obviously sprightly woman park in the forbidden area.  SHE didn't get a 35€ fine.

My restraint paid-off and, after a few minutes, a child clambered into the disgustingly large, ecology-defying, automobile which was occupying two spaces. I caught a glimpse of the mother in my rearview mirror, fired-up the engine and revved a little, thereby warding off any wannabe takers of "my space".  Bristling with pride at my powers of endurance as well as having resisted the temptation to maim the offending vehicle without anyone noticing, I became aware of mounting aggression and competitiveness as I noticed a man waiting to move-in on my patch.

I revved again, flicked on the indicator, and manoeuvered my economically viable VW Polo into a position which left the man no doubt as to who was boss here.  No sign of mum, so I "killed" the engine.  At last, she appeared, tried the handle of the driver's door and ... it was locked.  Her little darling, who was hanging out of the car window, had whiled away the wait by playing with the central locking device.  Mum searched, and searched in the depths of her spacious handbag (Louis Vuitton, I bet!) for her car keys.

I couldn't be cross with her.  I can never find anything in my (cheap but cheerful) handbag.  I'm convinced it is inhabited by a mischevious spirit who takes great delight in hiding my mobile phone, lipstick and lighter.  I once tried to light a cigarette with my lipgloss and ended-up with a fetching smear of pink gloss gracing my chin.

Car keys were found.  Beautiful, well-dressed,  mum climbed into her Rich-Bitch Mobile and proceeded to reverse out of the two parking spaces, edge forward again, turn the wheel first this way, then that, reverse again, tentatively while I watched, fascinated.  Again I asked myself, "Why is it that these people who possess such huge cars do not know how to drive them???!!!".   I had to grip the edges of my seat in order to hold myself back from leaping out, grabbing her by the strap of her handbag, flinging her out of the way, and un-parking the damn thing myself.

"Patience!", I reminded myself.  Also, I hadn't forgotten the guy, poised, behind me and focused instead on keeping him at bay, all the while maintaining an air of nonchalance which belied the fact that I was even aware that he existed.  To prove my point, I reversed dangerously close to his car, at which he edged back, nervously.  I gave him a surprised?? yet friendly and casual wave.  Beautiful Bad Driver gave me a thankful wave as she drove off and I returned the greeting as I parked neatly and expertly on one of the two spaces.

"You'll have to write what's in this package for the customs", said the man at the post office counter.  "Gestrickte Torte", I responded.  He just shrugged and said, "You'd better write it in English".  So I wrote:  "Knitted Muffin" on the sticker provided, wondering whether the U.S. customs would translate that into "Hash Brownie".  Now there's an idea!

Things Have Come To A Pretty Pass ...

... when MuM is informed that she can have the night off, because her son wants to invite several friends to stay over in our small abode.  "You can go and spend the night with your boyfriend", he offers, magnanimously.  "Boyfriend?  What boyfriend?".  He is obviously keen to get me out of the way.

I admit, I have been complaining that I never get a break and muttering that I need to get away, but I was thinking more along the lines of ten days in the South of France, hanging out with Zoe, Clodagh, Kerry and other friends, old, new and yet to be discovered.

The thought of being practically ordered to go, and for one night only, made me feel slightly mutinous.  Until Kai pulled out his trump card.  "I'll clean the whole house, help you move that furniture you've been wanting to rearrange for ages, we won't eat ANYTHING! and Michael can come out with us for the evening.  "And", he added slyly, "you really don't  want to be disturbed by us when we finally come home in the early hours of the morning!".

"I'll think about it", I said,  not wanting to capitulate too easily.  Give them an inch and I'd end-up homeless.

Think, I did and it didn't take me long to acknowledge that it was too good a deal to pass up, but I wasn't going to tell him that.  I called my friend, Daggi, invited myself over for the evening and night and graciously informed Kai that I was prepared to concede to his wishes.

Not that I'll get much sleep at Daggi's.  Last time I stayed-over, we shared her bed (obliging hubby slept on the sofa) and her pre-teen daughter slept on a mattress on the floor.  She regaled us with imitations of her two grandmothers, causing fits of hysterical laughter.  Every time we tried to stop, one of us started-up again and off we went.   Finally we settled down to sleep.  At some point, Daggi's young son climbed into bed between us, as was his wont, not realising that I, and not his dad was snoring gently next to his mother.

It would have been no problem for me, but for the fact that I was sleeping "au naturel", having removed my pyjamas, due to the room being unaccustomedly warm.  I like to sleep with the window open, no matter what.  I could not sleep, so concerned was I not to wake this little boy and traumatise him.  The shock of realising I was not his accustomed dad would have been bad enough, but the discovery that he was sharing a bed with his sister's naked English teacher might just have pushed him over the edge.

Finally, I did fall asleep.  I know, because Daggi told me that her daughter asked her later if her 16-year-old male cousin had also stayed the night, 'cos nobody else snores as loudly as he does!???!

How Long Is One Day? - Correction

Paragraph 13:  "chosen".