Did anyone else, other than Mark, not get their invite to the barbie?
Early indications are that the invitation for the Wilkes family went astray in the postal system somewhere near Godalming - on the eastern end of the Portsmouth Road. Even though Mark didn’t get his invite (which is a shame because I’d even included the timetables of buses that run between Perth and Stratford-Upon-Avon, not for the 197 service though; because that goes via Meadowhall.) which meant he didn’t make it to the party, there was a representative from my Huddersfield Uni* days who did turn up... and I’d not even asked him to come. Actually, that’s not strictly true, I did invite him - I just told him that the party was starting five hours later than it actually did... he didn’t fall for it though. Bartlett, or Simon as I am slowly getting used to calling him, was in fine form on the night regaling everyone with his stories of encounters with kangaroos, two metre-long tiger snakes, and pretty wildflowers. I wouldn’t mind but he’s only been in the country for five minutes and he’s already had adventures that put the rest of us to shame. So, Bartlett (he did have another nickname in College but I can’t really use it in polite company) was in charge of storytelling, and one of our neighbours was on cooking duties (he had quite rightly worked out that the choice was to take charge of the barbie or go hungry). I’d even managed to get out of the car-parking chores, by giving the job to George. I had provided him with all you need to be a car park attendant, namely: a high visibility vest; a limp, a chip on the shoulder; and a hatred of everyone else on the planet. He carried out his task with great gusto, in fact at one stage he tried to park someone on our driveway who was attempting to visit their friends who live three doors up from us. So, with all of my duties delegated elsewhere I was left free to mingle and socialise... okay I was left free to mingle and tut each time someone skipped one of the songs on my carefully crafted playlist. It was a good job that I’d prepared 30 hours worth of top notch music for our entertainment because several hours’ worth of material disappeared in the blink of an eye. Obviously I’m not really up on the rules of social etiquette (having the social skills of a brick), but surely even touching your hosts remote is a definite no, no (as well as being a feed line for a ‘Carry On’ style joke). Personally, I like to give a song more than a bar-and-a-half before deciding that none of the attending guests are going to like it... call me a bluff old traditionalist if you like. I’ll name that tune in... oh, no I can’t because we appear to have gone on to the next one already. (You may want to read this bit in a raised, slightly agitated voice, to get the desired effect).
Deep breaths... I’m calm now.
Next subject.
This weekend we split-up into boys’ and girls’ teams to do male/female bonding type things. I think we may have got the roles a bit mixed up though because Hattie and Wendy went off to tackle the elements and the great outdoors whilst George and I went shopping.
Perhaps it was hearing Simon’s tales of daring-do in the bush (more ‘Carry On’ feed lines anyone?) that spurred Wendy to want to go camping. I’m not sure that they were exactly roughing it in the back of beyond though. In fact they were on a campsite with all available amenities, although, in truth, they might have had to cope without a socket for the hairdryer.
In fact mine and George’s shopping trip should have been a bit more dangerous than that. We braved a CD sale run by RTR FM. Once a year they sell-off all of their promo CDs in order to raise some cash and make a bit of space in the office. The sale takes place in the back room of a pub, with very low lighting levels and all the CDs dumped into boxes, or lined-up in no discernable order. It has to be said that it wasn’t unlike Mark’s music filing system back in our Uni days – although, of course, it was cassettes back then; and at least the CDs at today’s event were in cases. The event was heer heaven; it took me back to the days of rummaging through the Woolies bargain bins. George loved it too. He spent a couple of week’s worth of pocket money but managed to pick-up some real bargains, one of which was by a band that he knows I dislike intensely... which is clearly a bonus.
Whilst driving to the record sale, we passed a sports oval where various teams were playing football. A little further along the road we passed a second sports oval where various teams were playing cricket. Still further along the route we passed another oval where various teams, of mixed gender and age, and bedecked in club colours were playing Frisbee. No, I didn’t believe it either, but they were still playing when we drove back again. I didn’t even know it was competitive, How do you win? I thought that you just threw the Frisbee in such a way that your mate had to go and pick it up from in front of the attractive lady in the bikini sat three doors up the beach from you. And then he would return the favour. But surely that’s a game where everyone wins.
Anyway I’m off. Next time I’ll tell you all about Harriet‘s ballet shoes, and how she took 7 seconds off her 50 metre freestyle PB. I might even to tell you about the Halloween ‘pool’ party that George attended
See you soon.
H
*okay, so technically it was a Polytechnic when I started there
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Double decker Elvis
Hello there.
It’s Saturday night and I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to play with so I thought I’d bore you instead. As Jean Paul Sartre once said (or was it John, Paul and Ringo?) ‘For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it’. So prepare to be recounted to. I should probably explain why I have no-one to play with: Harriet is barricaded in the lounge watching a Garfield movie; George has just left for another sleepover, his last words as he left were ‘we won’t be blowing anything up tonight’, which is reassuring; and Wendy has gone out for the evening – to a 9th birthday party? (That is a genuine question, not just the Aussie inflection infection).
We were in Sydney last weekend – hence the short gap between blogs (what do you mean you should go more often?). We weren’t there for long, but the kids and I managed to get in two days of sightseeing and exploration of the city. We were staying at a beach resort several kilometres (or a few miles - if you prefer imperial measurements) from Sydney itself so we had to catch a train into the centre – which was great because the trains are double-decker (and yes, we did have to sit on the top deck). They’ve also got seats that you can adjust so that you can either face the way you are travelling or, if there’s a group of you (and you’re more sociable than me) you can have facing seats. Clearly this is a health and safety nightmare, having all those moving parts in the control of the general public but they appear to get away with it. Obviously, after such a fun-filled journey in to the city, it was always going to be difficult to maintain such high levels of excitement. I think I managed it though by taking them to a huge record shop. Well, there’s not that much else to see in Sydney–there’s this bridge thingy, and a bit of water, and this strange looking building made up of dairylea slices... I think it’s called the Oprah House - well, I guess it will be when, TV Queen, Ms Winfrey brings 300 of her closest friends over to film some shows here in December. I say here, but obviously she isn’t coming to Perth.
I have to say that my favourite part of Sydney is the bit of water – I love the harbour, even though we only saw a small portion of it. We had a ride on a ferry (George’s sea legs held out for the half-hour journey) which was excellent, a great way to see the World famous landmarks (no, not the filming of Aerobics Oz style). Whilst queuing for the boat we discovered that Elvis is, indeed, alive and well and waiting for a ferry to Parramatta. The refreshing thing was that, unlike your usual ‘King’ look-a-like, this one had gone for the Elvis circa 1959 look as opposed to the bloated, white jump-suited, Vegas years look favoured by most ‘did you know my middle name is Aaron’ wannabes.
Like I said earlier we found a huge record shop (I mean it was a big shop, not that it was selling oversized records). And yes, we may have spent a small amount of time in there but I was quite democratic, the kids got an equal amount of time to peruse the shops of their choice – although I think it’s fair to say that democracy ended when it came to allocating the spending money. George decided to spend his time torturing himself in the Adidas originals shop – his pocket money is hardly a match for the charging power of the German sportswear manufacturing giants. Harriet chose a shop whose walls were bedecked in pink taffeta, and was awash with bedazzling jewellery that sparkled and glittered, and said buy me Hattie, buy me! Harriet is attracted by all things shiny – she is almost magpie like in that respect. Which brings me seamlessly to my next point - we are now at the height of the swooping season. What on earth is the swooping season I hear you ask? Well bimbo, you know how Australia is the land where everything tries to hurt you, well come springtime even the magpies get in on the act. It’s called swooping but in essence it’s out-and-out GBH. For once I’m being serious - the main causes of injuries in spring are snake bites and magpie attacks. I say magpies, but they are a bit chunkier than the UK version - basically they are crows with a white shirt on. Swooping isn’t just confined to magpies however. It won’t surprise you to know that I have been swooped on several occasions, including once by a honey eater–which is a bird that resembles a thrush, but with a bigger nose.
As its spring, George has started playing cricket again. He’s still at the same club but is in a different team, in which all the parents have been allocated match-day roles. For instance next week my role is to nominate the team’s player of the day. As it’s a new team I don’t know who any of the lads are, but what I do know is that there are two Aarons (I blame Elvis), two Sams, two Blakes and a pair of twins. The thing is, now that George no longer wears glasses I can’t even pick him out on the field so I’ve got no chance of working out who’s who. So it’s going to be between the tall lad, the short lad, and the slightly rotund lad.
I’ve solved my sporting activity problem - we have managed to get the beach volleyball team back together. We’ve made a few, shrewd new signings, injected some fresh capital into the team, and changed the team’s name... we are now called ‘may contain nuts’ (yes, it was my idea, and as punishment the rest of the team have nominated me to be the one that has to tell the umpire what we are called each week). All these changes have brought instant results... we are yet to win a game, in fact we are yet to win a set. Despite this minor detail, or maybe because of it, it’s actually much more fun now.
We are having a Barbie next Saturday - invites are in the post. Obviously, if you’ve got a party trick or two you are much more likely to have been selected to attend. For this prestigious occasion, I have been putting together a playlist on i-tunes, so far I’ve got 30 hours of music – do you think that will be enough? (Bearing in mind we’ve invited Lindsay Lohan, Owen Wilson, Paris Hilton, Cliff Richard, and a bunch of accountants).
Anyway, have a great week
This week’s top 5 - The Airborne Toxic Event - Does This Mean You're Moving On?; The Jezabels - Violent Dream; Beck-Loser; Pink Floyd - See Emily Play; Paul Weller - No Tears To Cry.
Wot no Collins?
It’s Saturday night and I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to play with so I thought I’d bore you instead. As Jean Paul Sartre once said (or was it John, Paul and Ringo?) ‘For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it’. So prepare to be recounted to. I should probably explain why I have no-one to play with: Harriet is barricaded in the lounge watching a Garfield movie; George has just left for another sleepover, his last words as he left were ‘we won’t be blowing anything up tonight’, which is reassuring; and Wendy has gone out for the evening – to a 9th birthday party? (That is a genuine question, not just the Aussie inflection infection).
We were in Sydney last weekend – hence the short gap between blogs (what do you mean you should go more often?). We weren’t there for long, but the kids and I managed to get in two days of sightseeing and exploration of the city. We were staying at a beach resort several kilometres (or a few miles - if you prefer imperial measurements) from Sydney itself so we had to catch a train into the centre – which was great because the trains are double-decker (and yes, we did have to sit on the top deck). They’ve also got seats that you can adjust so that you can either face the way you are travelling or, if there’s a group of you (and you’re more sociable than me) you can have facing seats. Clearly this is a health and safety nightmare, having all those moving parts in the control of the general public but they appear to get away with it. Obviously, after such a fun-filled journey in to the city, it was always going to be difficult to maintain such high levels of excitement. I think I managed it though by taking them to a huge record shop. Well, there’s not that much else to see in Sydney–there’s this bridge thingy, and a bit of water, and this strange looking building made up of dairylea slices... I think it’s called the Oprah House - well, I guess it will be when, TV Queen, Ms Winfrey brings 300 of her closest friends over to film some shows here in December. I say here, but obviously she isn’t coming to Perth.
I have to say that my favourite part of Sydney is the bit of water – I love the harbour, even though we only saw a small portion of it. We had a ride on a ferry (George’s sea legs held out for the half-hour journey) which was excellent, a great way to see the World famous landmarks (no, not the filming of Aerobics Oz style). Whilst queuing for the boat we discovered that Elvis is, indeed, alive and well and waiting for a ferry to Parramatta. The refreshing thing was that, unlike your usual ‘King’ look-a-like, this one had gone for the Elvis circa 1959 look as opposed to the bloated, white jump-suited, Vegas years look favoured by most ‘did you know my middle name is Aaron’ wannabes.
Like I said earlier we found a huge record shop (I mean it was a big shop, not that it was selling oversized records). And yes, we may have spent a small amount of time in there but I was quite democratic, the kids got an equal amount of time to peruse the shops of their choice – although I think it’s fair to say that democracy ended when it came to allocating the spending money. George decided to spend his time torturing himself in the Adidas originals shop – his pocket money is hardly a match for the charging power of the German sportswear manufacturing giants. Harriet chose a shop whose walls were bedecked in pink taffeta, and was awash with bedazzling jewellery that sparkled and glittered, and said buy me Hattie, buy me! Harriet is attracted by all things shiny – she is almost magpie like in that respect. Which brings me seamlessly to my next point - we are now at the height of the swooping season. What on earth is the swooping season I hear you ask? Well bimbo, you know how Australia is the land where everything tries to hurt you, well come springtime even the magpies get in on the act. It’s called swooping but in essence it’s out-and-out GBH. For once I’m being serious - the main causes of injuries in spring are snake bites and magpie attacks. I say magpies, but they are a bit chunkier than the UK version - basically they are crows with a white shirt on. Swooping isn’t just confined to magpies however. It won’t surprise you to know that I have been swooped on several occasions, including once by a honey eater–which is a bird that resembles a thrush, but with a bigger nose.
As its spring, George has started playing cricket again. He’s still at the same club but is in a different team, in which all the parents have been allocated match-day roles. For instance next week my role is to nominate the team’s player of the day. As it’s a new team I don’t know who any of the lads are, but what I do know is that there are two Aarons (I blame Elvis), two Sams, two Blakes and a pair of twins. The thing is, now that George no longer wears glasses I can’t even pick him out on the field so I’ve got no chance of working out who’s who. So it’s going to be between the tall lad, the short lad, and the slightly rotund lad.
I’ve solved my sporting activity problem - we have managed to get the beach volleyball team back together. We’ve made a few, shrewd new signings, injected some fresh capital into the team, and changed the team’s name... we are now called ‘may contain nuts’ (yes, it was my idea, and as punishment the rest of the team have nominated me to be the one that has to tell the umpire what we are called each week). All these changes have brought instant results... we are yet to win a game, in fact we are yet to win a set. Despite this minor detail, or maybe because of it, it’s actually much more fun now.
We are having a Barbie next Saturday - invites are in the post. Obviously, if you’ve got a party trick or two you are much more likely to have been selected to attend. For this prestigious occasion, I have been putting together a playlist on i-tunes, so far I’ve got 30 hours of music – do you think that will be enough? (Bearing in mind we’ve invited Lindsay Lohan, Owen Wilson, Paris Hilton, Cliff Richard, and a bunch of accountants).
Anyway, have a great week
This week’s top 5 - The Airborne Toxic Event - Does This Mean You're Moving On?; The Jezabels - Violent Dream; Beck-Loser; Pink Floyd - See Emily Play; Paul Weller - No Tears To Cry.
Wot no Collins?
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