Buon Complenno Nonna

On my last day of my holiday in Italy I dreamed in Italian. They say that you know you are properly fluent in a language when you dream in it. The problem is that apart from a few musical words, which although similar can have quite different meanings, I don't speak Italian at all. This resulted in a difficult night's sleep. I kept waking up feeling really confused.

In my dream I was racing around different places in Italy having passionate conversations with people in Italian. There was lots of gesticulating but only in the way Italians do when they are very excited by something; not in the way that the LSH does when asking for the menu or the bill in a restaurant to make himself understood. In the dream everybody understood me perfectly. Everyone except me, that is. There was a 'Letters to Juliette' quality to my dream. It was full of sparkling light, green vineyards and I was looking for someone.

Some of the words of my dream have stayed with me over the last few days. 

Di Nonna

Novanta

Uomo

Compleanno

Desiderare

Contento

I've looked the words up and they mean Grandmother ninety man birthday wish happy.

Oh, dear. It seems as though I was trying to find an Italian gigolo for my grandmother's ninetieth birthday! 

It's a shame it was only a dream and I failed because she would have loved it. 

Buon Complenno Nonna!

Emotions of a seven day holiday abroad

Day 1: Travelling. "It's about time someone invented something where you could just click your fingers and be there."

Day 2: Exhaustion. "We'll just stay by the pool today, shall we?"

Day 3: Tanning: "Am I going brown? I'm not sure but I might not be as day-glow white as before."

Day 4: Burning: "Don't touch me! Why have I burnt all around the edges of my bikini? I can't sit down."

Day 5: Ennui: "I don't think I can do this anymore. My waistline can't take any more pasta/Greek salad/food. I've read six books already and they are beginning to blend into one."

Day 6: Depression: "Why didn't we book two weeks? I don't want to go home. Can't we stay forever?"

Day 7: Travelling: "Seriously, why can't someone invent a travelling machine? Do we really have to leave our apartment at 10am?"

Day 8: Home: "Boy, it's cold here but the beds are lovely. Where shall we go next year?"

It's just routine

When we booked this holiday the Long Sufferring Husband was feeling a teeny bit stressed. "I need to sit in the sun with no pressures," he said, not unreasonably. I was a little less enthusiastic. The idea of an all inclusive round a pool holiday, watching parents who clearly resent their children because they need to be talked to occasionally, taking up valuable all you can drink boozing time didn't really appeal to me. So, we came to a compromise. "We are going to stay in a cottage in the middle of the Italian Countryside and you'll learn to relax," I threatened. You will learn how to live without a routine; you'll take things as they come and go with the flow. 

How is he doing? 

Better than me. I'm up at seven every morning, on the patio, reading my book and eating breakfast. I NEED (yes I did say need) to be covered in suntan lotion and sitting under the umbrella next to the pool by 10am. I read two chapters, swim 30 lengths and repeat until lunchtime. Any attempt to divert me away from my self imposed routine and I get twitchy. I'm out of the sun to eat lunch between 1 and 2.30 and then I have to rush back to the two chapters/30 lengths routine. I'm much more laid back about the evenings but they do have to involve anti-pasti, primi-plati, secondi and dolci. I know the guide books say you don't have to have every course but when they are so delicious how can a girl resist? 

The LSH is quite looking forward to getting home.

That's obviously not true. Can we stay forever?

Friendly

If you type, "owners who look like their dogs" into Google, the results are hilarious but I'm much more interested in the link between the personality of the dog and its owner. I meet a lady with a spaniel that rolls over and shows you its undercarriage as soon as it sees you. I used to wonder if this lady was a closet raver; a bit of a floozie with a mania for showing her bits off to strangers.  However, as I have bumped into her more often I have noticed that she is always complaining about how everyone at work takes advantage of her. I would like to tell her that she needs to stop rolling over and showing them her belly but I don't converse much past yes and no in the morning. How your dog behaves can tell you an awful lot about yourself and sometimes what it tells you really is awful.

When I'm out with my dog, the question I'm asked most often is, "Is he friendly?" to which I want to answer, "Not very." I know that they are actually asking if he bites, which he doesn't but I can't say that he's friendly either. Oh, don't get me wrong, he does an excellent job of pretending to be friendly. He runs up to people and other dogs, wagging his tail and smiling (honestly my dog does smile - a lot)  He looks cute, like a teddy bear, with his appealing black eyes. He might even show how clever he is by going into a perfect sit and stare lovingly into the eyes of the other dog or person. However, that is the limit to his friendliness. He is an expert at dodging a stroke or avoiding another dog's attempts at play. He is particularly keen on old men, who he will run across a field to look cute for, take a treat and avoid a pat from. Quite often he will drop the treat after he has taken it. 

I'm just like this, without the bizarre attraction to old men.

I don't go for after work drinks, although I have been known to say that I'll meet people there and not turn up. If I do go then I'm usually the first to leave (which is genuinely because I have to be somewhere else) or I sit watching people have a good time, not really joining in. I've noticed that people have stopped inviting me and I can't really blame them.

Even at home the dog is getting quite anti social. He will sit in the dining room, under the table, all alone wondering why no one has come to find him.

Maybe it's time, now that the school holidays have arrived to stop pretending to be friendly and actually go out and meet people or I could just join the dog under the table.

No you can't join me.  Go away and find your own spot! Pthhhhllllll!

Long Holidays

This morning, as many people start a long holiday, it's important to remember that if you are in a 9-5 job with 4 weeks annual leave you should be envious. That envy needs to be sharpened and honed into something poisonous. 

Luckily, journalists, who often don't even leave at 5 (especially on deadline day), are there to help us. They can write opinion pieces about just how lazy these people are. They can question their usefulness in society. They can suggest these people with long holidays are overpaid for the hours they actually do. Thank goodness the journalists are there. I was beginning to think that they deserved a long Summer break, after all those long late night meetings but the journalists reminded me that it's only the highly effective leaders who actually go to these meetings and we all know how few of those there are. Although, these skivers with the long holidays will tell us that they are still working in that holiday; it is a job that never lets you switch off completely; the press provides us with pictures. So, when we see the pictures from secluded private Italian Islands, or the edge of the yacht sailing around Corfu (what Greek crisis?) we know not to believe that old rhetoric.

Happy summer recess to all MPs. I really hope you enjoy your well earned seven week break.

Cheeky Little Thing

My friend laughed at me today.

That's not unusual, I'm used to people I know having a chuckle at my expense but I was a little surprised this time.

I've never been a car person. A box on wheels that gets you from A to B, is how I've always thought of it. I know I'm unusual and  most people see what they drive as an extension of their personality.

The Long Suffering Husband despairs of me. He is a design engineer for a large car company and buys a new car every 9 months. When we got married, my Dad hoped, in his speech, that the LSH kept a wife longer than he kept a car. Luckily, he is too busy changing his car to change his wife; he doesn't have the energy for too much variety. I am driving a Fiesta that he changed for something faster or bigger about 11 or 12 years ago. He keeps asking me if I think it's time for a new one but it still works, so why would I?

Today instead of driving my Fiesta that I call 'Apple' in a South African accent I had the LSHs car. This caused me several problems. The first of which, was that my friend laughed at me and asked where Ethel was. (I might need to work on my South African diction). Clearly, his car isn't a good extension of my personality. Although, I can't see much difference - they are both blue.

I couldn't go swimming or to the allotment in his car because my cossie was in the boot of my car and because I'm not allowed to get  mud in his.

Then, people were pulling up at traffic lights next to me and making weird signs. They pulled up, looked over, pointed at the lights, the road, grabbed the steering wheel and made 'vroom vroom' noises. I smiled and waved back and when the lights changed they sped away. At the next lights they always seemed very surprised. Occasionally, they would tap the window to get me to wind mine down. Then they asked me questions I didn't understand. "Is it an ST4?" No it's a car. "What's the engine size?" I have looked under the bonnet and can say it looks the same size as most cars. Then say say things like, "it's a cheeky little thing, isn't it."

They have no idea just how cheeky. This is my biggest problem with driving the LSH's car. It pinches your bum as you go along. It has Recaro seats that make getting in and out very difficult, with sides that hug you. These seats are definitely not built for comfort and you feel every tiny bump in the road. There is a groove on the part you sit on which opens and closes with the vibration of the car, as you go along; pinching your bum throughout the whole drive. 

Life is so much easier when you drive a car that no one is interested in.

Mizuno Clubs

Yesterday, was my daughter's graduation and I had a lovely day, sitting in the sunshine, walking, not having to think, or make any decisions or tell anyone what to do. In fact all I had to do all day was do what I was told, take photos and smile and talk to the people we were with, who I wished I'd met at the beginning of my daughter's time at college, rather than the end. My son got on famously with my daughter's best friend's grandad, which was lovely to see and apart from an awkward moment when I head butted my daughter's boyfriend's mother I think I managed to be normal for the day.

I've made that sound much worse than it was. You see, in my attempt to be normal I thought this was just the kind of social occasion that requires kissing strangers on the cheek. So, on meeting her for the first time I took her hand and leaned in to do the social kissing thing. She, being a lovely, kind caring woman, who had read or been told about my Kissing Cousins blog Kissing Cousins Blog, tried to make my life easier by pulling away, which caused me to bash my head into hers, quite violently. I do hope it didn't hurt too much.

Graduations are funny events. They are bitter-sweet moments that both celebrate and commiserate. There is pomp and ceremony, photographs and speeches but it is really all about saying goodbye. It's like a wedding with a funeral at the end, rather than a party. 

Like many weddings (and possibly funerals) there is an invited guest that no one is quite sure why they are there. When I graduated, I remember being quite upset that someone (I can't remember who) had been given a degree without even working for it. At this graduation, however, Una Stubbs, receiving her honorary degree was met with all round approval. This blog is actually meant to be about her but I need to finish describing the day, so I'll come back to it.

I've been to a few graduations and mostly they have been very serious affairs, where you are stuck on a hard seat, behind a pillar in a cold cathedral, doomed to only being able to see the bits the cameraman picks up on the screen. I think for my graduation my parents were actually in a different room. This graduation was in the Curve theatre, which is an amazing space, with comfortable seats and no pillar, although I was expecting something a little more camp. The Vice Chancellor of the university is not only a Bnoc (big name on campus) he is also a Bnot (big name on Twitter) and he comes across as a camp, left wing, football loving, fun loving person. He wasn't there on the day (probably because it was Saturday and he had football to watch) but somehow I was expecting pink glitter to be fired out of cannons at the end, while the Take That song was played and everybody cheered. 

Anyway, back to Una Stubbs. The head of the media school gave a long speech about her life and achievements. He referred to her, always, as Ms Una Stubbs and slightly mispronounced Una as Oono. The Long Suffering Husband kept getting excited as he heard 'MsOonoStubbs

' and thought the speech was now about something he could relate to: his favourite brand of golf clubs. 

After the speech it was Una's turn to speak. I instantly fell in love with her. I can relate to a woman who starts a speech with a joke that wanders around a room like tumbleweed, leaving the audience wondering if the speaker is a batty old woman who has finally lost her marbles. She said, "It's great to be here in Liverpool today," with a wry smile and a chuckle. "Do you think she knows she's in Leicester?" the man next to me asked his wife. When she realised the joke hadn't worked she thanked the man for the speech apologised for its length and said, "I'm sorry I've lived such a long time." The audience laughed. Phew. Batty old woman forgiven.

The reason it was a long speech was entirely down to how amazing Una Stubbs has been in her life and how under rated. She started her career as a teenager, when she became the cover girl for Rowntree chocolates and danced as part of the Palladium chorus at the age of 16.  She was Sandy in Summer Holiday with Cliff Richard, Rita in Til Death do us part, Aunt Sally in Worzel Gummidge, Miss Bat in The Worst Witch, Mrs Hudson in Sherlock. She was on loads of game shows like Give us a Clue and presented things like The Big Painting Challenge. She is a serious theatre actress, with credits including La Cage aux Follies and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time.

She was thrilled to receive her honorary degree. She had the whole audience captivated.  Even the students waiting to collect their own degrees, stopped worrying about whether they were going to trip or remember how to doff their cap and hung off every word. She told funny stories, gave good advice and said, "I've never been given an award, except for my three boys," 

How is that possible? She should have something. In fact, I think we need to start a campaign to get this hard working, funny, humble, invisible woman an OBE or an Oscar. 

Biscuits

What do you call your private parts?

The answer to this question should tell you two things. The first is whether you are male or female and the second is whether you want to read the rest of this blog post. 

Many years ago, a teacher I knew explained to parents after a sex education video that the reason their children needed to know the word clitoris was because if you ever had a medical problem you would have to tell the doctor about it.  A woman stood up adopted a pose worthy of Les Dawson's Cissie character and said, "That's not true. Last year I had to see the doctor because it hurt like hell down there. I said, "It hurts like fuck down there." She mouthed the words down there and pointed but swore loudly and proudly.  "He said I had a Bartholin cyst, I tell you, it was the worst pain ever, worse than having my Billy. He told me to soak it in warm salty water for three or four days. That didn't help so I had to have a biopsy and antibiotics and Fred had to have antibiotics, as well but I never had to use that word."

If you are a man, you have more choices of euphemism and you are happy to name it and talk about it. For a woman it's more complicated. For a start there are so many more bits to name. It's often the diagram of the inside of a woman's reproductive system that makes boys watching sex education videos go a little faint. A womb, Fallopian tubes, ovaries and all the eggs she'll ever have stored inside a girl from the moment she is born. It's all too much. And then when you factor in the bits you can see on the outside, vagina, vulva, clitoris, well, it's just overwhelming. Boys can name their penis but sometimes the best thing a girl can do is to vaguely point and refer to it as 'somewhere down there.' I can understand that boys find it overwhelming, especially when they discover that their precious Dick, John Thomas or Willy will one day venture into that unknown and complicated territory.

It doesn't help that the diagram looks rather like Satan's head. www.funkyjunk.com has a perfect picture if you don't believe me.

I could list all the names and euphemisms for male and female private parts but that would be rather boring and depressing because although women have more parts to name there are more names for the male member than for all the female intricacies. No wonder women still don't have equal parity of pay.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about a new euphemism that my friends and I heard recently. 

Biscuit.

That's right. Biscuit.

We weren't sure if it referred to male or female parts. We wondered if a male biscuit would be a chocolate finger and a female biscuit would be a party ring, or maybe a custard cream. You see there are even more choices of biscuit for female parts. We were all very convinced that a male biscuit would be a chocolate finger. The Long Suffering Husband suggested Garibaldi, which does make me worry slightly. Personally, I'm partial to a fig roll. The discovery of this has led to hysterical conversations with every cup of tea.

"Look, I'm dunking my biscuit!"

"Be careful otherwise it will go floppy"

"Oh my God! It's fallen off!"

On a more serious note (but not much more serious) I thought I'd better find out if this has become the latest trendy name. I need to know because biscuit is my dog's instant recall word. He knows that if I stand on the field, open my arms wide and shout,"BISCUIT," in a sing-song voice he has to stop what he is doing immediately and run to me. It works very well but I am reluctant to continue if I'm inadvertently inviting the whole world to my vagina.'

My children had never heard of it so I thought I was safe but then I discovered Honey Boo Boo, which sounds like a euphemism but is actually a TV programme about a little girl in America. Honey Boo Boo's mother uses the word biscuit and explains why.

“It’s called a biscuit because it looks like a biscuit, ya know, when it opens up, and ummmm… You know, it does. It looks like a biscuit. If you look at a biscuit, and if it’s cooked right, you know, like in, like a, like Hardee’s or something, you can . . . “

What?

Oh, I forgot. In America a biscuit is a scone that is served with a sloppy meat stew, called gravy, although it's often white, that you can eat for breakfast. That makes much more sense. 

No. It doesn't.

I'm quite good a visualising things and I just can't get it. All I can think of is yeast  infections.

Maybe, Mamma June's other euphemism would be better. Fruit loop!

"A fruit loop is your biscuit," she explains to her older girls, "your privatal area....it's called that because guys go loopy over it."

I'm off to do some baking now. I think my friends and I could have hours of endless fun with these.

Biscuits

What do you call your private parts?

The answer to this question should tell you two things. The first is whether you are male or female and the second is whether you want to read the rest of this blog post. 

Many years ago, a teacher I knew explained to parents after a sex education video that the reason their children needed to know the word clitoris was because if you ever had a medical problem you would have to tell the doctor about it.  A woman stood up adopted a pose worthy of Les Dawson's Cissie character and said, "That's not true. Last year I had to see the doctor because it hurt like hell down there. I said, "It hurts like fuck down there." She mouthed the words down there and pointed but swore loudly and proudly.  "He said I had a Bartholin cyst, I tell you, it was the worst pain ever, worse than having my Billy. He told me to soak it in warm salty water for three or four days. That didn't help so I had to have a biopsy and antibiotics and Fred had to have antibiotics, as well but I never had to use that word."

If you are a man, you have more choices of euphemism and you are happy to name it and talk about it. For a woman it's more complicated. For a start there are so many more bits to name. It's often the diagram of the inside of a woman's reproductive system that makes boys watching sex education videos go a little faint. A womb, Fallopian tubes, ovaries and all the eggs she'll ever have stored inside a girl from the moment she is born. It's all too much. And then when you factor in the bits you can see on the outside, vagina, vulva, clitoris, well, it's just overwhelming. Boys can name their penis but sometimes the best thing a girl can do is to vaguely point and refer to it as 'somewhere down there.' I can understand that boys find it overwhelming, especially when they discover that their precious Dick, John Thomas or Willy will one day venture into that unknown and complicated territory.

It doesn't help that the diagram looks rather like Satan's head. www.funkyjunk.com has a perfect picture if you don't believe me.

I could list all the names and euphemisms for male and female private parts but that would be rather boring and depressing because although women have more parts to name there are more names for the male member than for all the female intricacies. No wonder women still don't have equal parity of pay.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about a new euphuism that my friends and I heard recently. 

Biscuit.

That's right. Biscuit.

We weren't sure if it referred to male or female parts. We wondered if a male biscuit would be a chocolate finger and a female biscuit would be a party ring, or maybe a custard cream. You see there are even more choices of biscuit for female parts. We were all very convinced that a male biscuit would be a chocolate finger. The Long Suffering Husband suggested Garribaldi, which does make me worry slightly. Personally, I'm partial to a fig roll. The discovery of this has led to hysterical conversations with every cup of tea.

"Look, I'm dunking my biscuit!"

"Be careful otherwise it will go floppy"

"Oh my God! It's fallen off!"

On a more serious note (but not much more serious) I thought I'd better find out if this has become the latest trendy name. I need to know because biscuit is my dog's instant recall word. He knows that if I stand on the field, open my arms wide and shout,"BISCUIT," in a sing-song voice he has to stop what he is doing immediately and run to me. It works very well but I am reluctant to continue if I'm inadvertently inviting the whole world to my vagina.'

My children had never heard of it so I thought I was safe but then I discovered Honey Boo Boo, which sounds like a euphemism but is actually a TV programme about a little girl in America. Honey Boo Boo's mother uses the word biscuit and explains why.

“It’s called a biscuit because it looks like a biscuit, ya know, when it opens up, and ummmm… You know, it does. It looks like a biscuit. If you look at a biscuit, and if it’s cooked right, you know, like in, like a, like Hardee’s or something, you can . . . “

What?

Oh, I forgot. In America a biscuit is a scone that is served with a sloppy meat stew, called gravy, although it's often white, that you can eat for breakfast. That makes much more sense. 

No. It doesn't.

I'm quite good a visualising things and I just can't get it. All I can think ofis yeast  infections.

Maybe, Mamma June's other euphemism would be better. Fruit loop!

"A fruit loop is your biscuit," she explains to her older girls, "your privatal area....it's called that because guys go loopy over it."

I'm off to do some baking now. I think my friends and I could have hours of endless fun with these.

The Lost Rant

It's been a while since I've had a good rant, which is a surprise, as there is so much to rant about. I avoided getting ranty about the press coverage of the England football team or lack thereof. None of the silly things Nicky Morgan had said about how studying arts subjects limit choices were worth commenting on.  I didn't share my view of what a world with only engineers and mathmaticians would look like. The supposed double standards of the Hope Solo case (because no male footballer has got away with beating his girlfriend and still been treated like a hero, right?) didn't get me reaching for my pen (or more accurately keyboard). The Beyoncé video , similarly failed to draw me in although I would be very scared if I were her accountant. What is wrong with me? Where has all my rant gone?  It all started with the election, choosing the next Labour Party leader and with yesterday's budget I've decided that I'm just too sad about how selfish the world has become to comment. So instead I sing.

And I make everyone else sing.

The children I work with sing and make me want to burst with pride.

The Long Suffering Husband sings me bits of unidentifiable song and says, "you know that one?"

My son sings his way through his day. This morning he sang, "Two more days then two days off, two more days then two days off!" There is a particularly fetching dance that goes with this and anyone who knows me will know that I'm partial to choreographing songs.

Even the dog sings, although the least said about that, the better.

My misery has got so bad that I've even started making inanimate objects 

sing. The whole house is beginning to join in. No longer is it just the rhythmical click of the drain pipes as they cool from a day in the sun, or the toaster singing, "Toast, just a little piece of toast," when it pops. No longer content with oven contentedly humming, "I'm cooking your dinner and it's going to be great!" ; the tap percussively saying, "Drip, drop turn me off,"; the floorboards squeaking, "Help me, heeeeeelllllp meeeeee."; the toilet has now decided to join in. I've yet to work out exactly what the toilet is singing but I know it's not happy. It starts at a slightly flat Eb, which it finally manages to get in tune by a final modulation. It reminds me of the Lost Chord. 'Seated one day at my organ, I was weary and ill at ease.' The toilet is composing a protest song and who can blame it? The world needs more protest songs now, especially since my rant has gone missing.

I'm worried that I might be sounding even more bonkers than usual. Never mind.

It is only a few days until the end of term, isn't it?