That was the weekend that was

It warms the cockles of my heart, it really does, to see how righteously irate my dear readers become in the presence of a misplaced apostrophe. I like to think that in an ideal world we could all get together at a carefully selected restaurant (the kind that describes its vegetables as "dew-picked"), get pleasantly tipsy and annihilate the menu with a red biro. That would be pretty darn close to a perfect social event in my book.

Rest assured I will bring to your attention any further massacres of the English language which I happen to spot. (Isabelle has already seen the photo I carry around in my phone of the maintenance department sign in my office which asks "Do you know of anything in the office that need's fixed?" I think I may have shoved said phone in her face when we were in the audience waiting for a Fringe show to start, such was my outrage.)

Anyway, how are you all? Did you have a nice weekend? For those of us in the UK, Sunday was Mothering Sunday - I don't think you North American types celebrate this until later in the year. I was awakened by two small boys and one slightly larger, bearded one, bearing a large mug of tea and a plate of buttered toast. Proper toast, thank you very much, allowed to cool slightly and then thickly buttered. I also received a card which, according to the hand-crafted labels on the envelope had been all over the place, including "Baron Fronkensteen's Castle", "Punxsutawney" and "Lionel Twain's Manor House". There may be some clues there as to which films we have been watching with our children recently.

I would write more but my laptop just freaked out as I attempted to beat XUP at Word Twist and this is a sure sign that it is time for bed. Night all.

Words fail me. Almost.

Just had to pop in to vent some spleen. I was driving home with FB this afternoon when we drew up alongside a van owned by one of those companies that walks your dog for you when you are at work. I can't remember its name, but I do remember its strapline:

"We can be their for your pet's when you can't"

Painted! On the van! By a (presumably) professional signwriter!

I am proud to say that I pointed this out to FB and he snorted in disgust. "A superfluous apostrophe! Those really annoy you, Mum".

Too right, son of mine. (He spotted the other error too, but his Superfluous Apostrophe Alarm had gone off first.)

Oh, and did I mention that Every Word Had A Capital Letter Too? Grrrrrrrr..............

Reassurance

Just in case you are worried that I am deliberately neglecting you, dear readers, I waft in to tell you that my Google reader currently has 442 unread entries. 442!!! I'll have to give up housework (that will save 2 minutes a day) and feeding my children to give myself enough time to work through those!

So sorry if I have not been round to yours to comment on your words of wisdom. I have been playing Petville on Facebook with my niece and nephew in Australia instead. Oh and removing dead and dying mice from my house. But that is another story.

I'm losing the knack of this blogging lark

I have meant to sit down and post about First Born's birthday, really I have but for some reason I just haven't. Not feeling very creative or communicative or something like that. Also, have been quite busy during the day when blog posts sort of crystallise (or congeal) in my brain as I wait for the boys to come out of school, or wait for buses.

So, what do I have to tell you about? Hmmm, let me think. Well, FB's birthday this year was a firmly Ghostbusters-themed event - he discovered the movies recently (if you are my age, don't work out how old they are - it will only depress you) and has been obsessed ever since. As a result, most of his birthday presents were Ghostbusters merchandise and came from Amazon-type suppliers. As a further result, I found myself at our local postal depot at 6am in the dark and cold two mornings running in order to pick up parcels which would not fit through our door. One of which turned out to be a keyring. A keyring, packed in a jiffy bag, then packed into a box too large to fit through our letterbox. I deserve mother of the year award, I really do. The ordeal was tempered somewhat when I stumbled into the little customer office and as I rang the bell for service, the postie jumped out from behind his door and went "Ta-da!!!!!" Nice to meet someone capable of humour at five past sparrow fart in the morning.

FB requested steak and chips for his birthday dinner last Thursday (for he is turning into a bloke) and then on Friday his friend came to stay and we took them all to the Mongolian Barbeque for dinner. This is the perfect dinner venue for small boys as it allows them to NOT stay seated and to mill about in the restaurant to their hearts' content as they collect a weird assortment of ingredients which are then cooked on a hotplate by a bloke in a big hat. Cooked WITH SWORDS. Small boy heaven. FB on his first trip to collect some food was examining the containers of raw meat (zebra! ostrich! springbok!) and wisely noted that we should be careful when handling it, as raw meat can give you semolina.

I had produced the requested Ghostbusters cake which the restaurant had kindly confirmed they would produce on cue with a sparkler in it. It turned up with something in it which looked for all the world like a distress flare - flames and sparks shooting all over the place. FB was entranced. He and his friend subsequently dismantled the corpse of the sparkler and spread "dead gunpowder" all over the table.

And then the weekend was over and we were back at work. A friend of mine has been unwell and in hospital so I popped in to see her a couple of times this week. I wasn't sure what to take in for her so settled for a carefully selected range of magazines including Woman's Weekly, People's Friend and - a lucky find - Margaret Thatcher: Her Life in Pictures. She nearly hit me with the last one.

And that's about it, really. Oh, apart from the fun moment yesterday at our big scary monthly meeting at work where I somehow managed to accidentally throw my pen across the table at the Chief Executive. He then got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the boardroom table to pick it up for me. I was too busy giggling to get it myself.

Finally, I have to tell you this quick story to illustrate one of the many reasons I married Husband: he was flicking through the channels and came to QVC. I wasn't looking at the time but knew it was QVC because he went "Eurgh!!!" and that's a noise he only really makes at QVC. They were selling a pair of teddies (horrid ones, naturally) called Rhubarb and Crumble. The annoying woman explained that they were so named because they were trying to think of names of things that went really well together.

"Gin and tonic!" I shouted.

"Arse and elbow!" shouted Husband. He wins.

In which I am distracted.

I settled down this evening with every intention of filling you in on this past week, including, as it did, First Born's 12th birthday bonanza. Unfortunately, Husband and I had the TV on and I was distracted by the latest advert to attract my scorn. So the proper bloggy update and celebration of the fact that we have managed to raise a human being to age 12 without killing or seriously maiming it will have to wait.

The advert that has me quivering with indignation is that one for Perle du Lait yogurt. Do you know the one I mean? The one where the plain, dowdy woman with no make-up and a couple of stainless steel clips stuck randomly in her hair grimaces her way through a pot of SOUR YOGURT OH THE HUMANITY! Her life is clearly devoid of joy and meaning.

Then she discovers Perle du Lait, a nice yogurt that is specially manufactured to be .........not sour, and she smiles her way through a pot. And lo! She is happy and content and all is right with her world through the miracle of coconut flavoured yogurt (incidentally: eugh. Yogurt should not be coconut flavoured. Ever). Or could it be because meantime someone has sneakily done her hair and make-up for her and improved the lighting and turned up the colour saturation? Do advertisers really think we are that dim? That we don't notice this stuff? Whatever they paid their advertising company, it was way too much.

Unless of course, eating this particular yogurt will indeed miraculously turn my hair into something worthy of the description "style" and apply make-up in the subtle and skillful way I have failed to learn over the last thirty-odd years. But I doubt it. I learned that lesson the hard way when I dutifully scoffed bowl after bowl of Ready Brek as a child and entirely failed to emit a warm orange glow on the way to school.

And frankly, if eating coconut flavoured yogurt is the price I would have to pay for perfect hair and make-up, then dishevelled and frumpy I shall remain.

A-a-a-a-nd they're out!

Harumble! The cats are "going" outside. I don't know where, exactly, and don't really care. I no longer have to deal with the litter tray and a slightly crunchy kitchen floor. I am content.

The cats have however learned a few new tricks. In particular, they have discovered how warm it is up on top of our fridge. We have one of those disgustingly indulgent American-style plumbed-into-the-mains-so-it-dispenses-ice-and-water-like-we-don't-have-TAPS-that-do-that fridges (which I love to distraction. It is huge, and I don't have to load our weekly shop into it with a crowbar like I did with our old fridge. When you have a dairy allergic son you have a minimum of two different kinds of milk, spread, cheese, yogurt etc, so a big fridge really helps.) Anyway, the cats have discovered they can climb up there via the washing machine and lurk. Scared the bejasus out of me the other night when I went in to top up my glass of water, didn't bother switching on the light (the water dispenser bit has a light of its own doncha know) and Zyra decided to swipe at my head in the dark. That got the old blood pressure dancing a bit.

I was also greeted the other morning by the two boys who had been down for breakfast while I came to in the shower. They breathlessly announced that Zyra was clearly missing her litter tray and had pooped on the dining table (not sure how they ascertained that it was the work of Zyra rather than Bellus. Some questions are better not asked.) "But we cleaned it up with kitchen roll and Febreze" they assured me.

"Are you sure it was poo?" I asked. "Cats, if they are going to do that, normally pick a secluded corner, not in full view on top of the dining table."

"We're sure. We checked. It smelled like poo."

I was skeptical and checked the kitchen bin when I went down. It was a fragment of steak pie from the boys' dinner the night before. So now I know (1) the boys are not being particularly scrupulous when they wipe the table down after they have eaten, and (2) I serve them steak pie that smells like poo.

Good to know.

More cat stuff and other stuff.

It seems like having two new cats around the house seriously interferes with one's blogging time. Partly this is due to the fact that I am again having to deal with The Litter Tray. Our old cat didn't use a litter tray - she was an outdoor girl and used a quiet corner of the garden. The new arrivals still prefer the fun of throwing gravel around my kitchen.

I don't know why, but the cats seem to consider watching me cleaning out their lavatorial facility to be the highest form of entertainment. I have only to start work with the scoop and both kitties appear as if by magic to watch. And to get in the way. And sometimes to climb into the tray for a REALLY GOOD LOOK while I am trying to remove.......stuff. Despite the fact that they produced said stuff themselves, it seems that everything must be thoroughly examined and approved before removal.

And then the clean litter tray, raked to the perfect, pristine precision of a Japanese Zen garden, must be christened. Immediately. Ideally before I have even managed to get the bag of litter back into the garage. The sooner we can persuade them that the great outdoors is a better location for such activities, the better.