Some truths.

I feel it is my duty to set readers straight on a few facts in light of certain rumours flying around that deny simple science.

For example, it has been suggested that there is a substance which is more adhesive than a cornflake soaked in milk that has been left to dry out on a cereal bowl. Utterly ridiculous.

Nutritionists try to deny that there are zero calories in food that doesn't cost you any money, disputing even that if you purchase 8 cupcakes for the price of 6, 2 of those cupcakes are entirely calorie free. Furthermore, some so-called experts recently produced a report claiming that carrot cake is not a salad item.

There is nothing that can reach a greater temperature than a tomato heated inside a toasted sandwich. Reports of molten lava, or similar, being found to be at higher temperatures are unfounded. The only substances that come even slightly close in terms of burnability are hot beverages which have been reheated in the microwave.

While childbirth, serious injury, chronic diseases etc may cause some levels of pain, it cannot be ignored that a paper cut is the sorest infliction ever to happen to mankind, closely followed by a stubbed toe.

Rest assured that the truths are as you have always known.


Disclaimer: it wasn't me.

Well!

Blogpress will not publish a tedious monologue about the greatness of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food Frozen Yoghurt and why I need to win at Trivial Pursuit.

It would seem unnecessary to be censured by a piece of software.

So. Indeed. What's a girl to do?

Complain. Blame. Whine. Sleep.

(actually a full and frank analysis of a day in the life of a me).

Here goes posting this...

Poor me

No. Not interesting. I don't feel like being interesting. I feel like wallowing in self pity instead.

I have a (very) sore neck AND HAVE DONE FOR NEARLY ELEVEN MONTHS which is more than a little TEDIOUS.







Yes. I know.

Masterchef!!

Masterchef is back!
Dance of joy!! Happiness abounds!!
I've missed 4 episodes, that's how happy I am!!

Doh. I must get round to watching TV roughly when things are actually on. Iplayer has saved me and so I can catch up; one episode caught, three to go. Series link now set. Phe-yew.

Watching Masterchef brings out my inner chef. So much so that I have previously filled in an application to be on it - at the wrong time. Confusion arose as to the start of this series as last week I was invited to apply for the next series. Which I haven't because, well, what was I thinking?

Being on TV is pretty much the last thing I'd ever want to do - I don't even like having my photo taken, and I wouldn't actually want to be a professional chef. Hideous hours and immense hard work. No, I'd like to cook in a posh kitchen with posh ingredients for people who appreciated it - for fun. As a career, well, making lunches would be nice but possibly not exactly richmaking.

So why apply? It's a daydream. I have my Masterchef style menus planned in my head, and as I cook I imagine John and Greg asking me questions and my wondrously witty responses.i have perfected my canapé choices, and know exactly what I'd cook with certain mystery ingredients. My head is full of rehearsed snippets of "why I want to win Masterchef", none of which are true.

Then naturally, TV reviewers would be charmed by my marvellousness and I'd be able to read how great/lovely/talented I am.

Ahem. Yes. More vanity.

Not remotely in the real world because in the real world it would be me, the me that is terrified of speaking in front of a lecture theatre. Not the me in my head that does the perpetual imaginary cookery show in my kitchen.

So. Watching it on TV and having ridiculous flights of fancy is as good as it gets.

It has flaws. India Fisher is one, her narration is efficient but annoying. John Torode is another, he has single handedly undone any love for Australian accents with his nasal drone, and the way he tastes food as if he was capturing it off the spoon make me want to throw things.

But what he says is brilliant and despite the aforementioned, I love him. Greg Wallace is the good guy, he's the voice of niceness and positivity and is adorable when presented with a pudding.


I love Masterchef. I love it being on. There is something deliciously decadent about watching glorious food being prepared. I copy ideas and every single time they say something is hard to make, assuming it's something I eat, I have to try making it. Oh, chocolate fondants don't work, huh? MINE do. Scallops not cooked properly? MINE are divine.

Masterchef season is show off in the kitchen time.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to lie back and watch episode 2 on my phone - oh yes - before it disappears forever.

Something interesting and not me me tomorrow, promise.

iPhone stuff for UK people

Yes. IPhone. Yes. UK.
Sorry. You're reading it aren't you? Can't say you're unwarned.

For several pounds you can purchase a book telling you such gems as to how to navigate the hugely complex app store and how to choose the apps that are right for you. Yes, really! You can get reviews of apps and general guidelines but to date these seem to be written by people with little concept for real life.

Ah yes. They're aimed at iPhone owners. I forgot.

Well, I have an iPhone too, a plebian 3G not a glittering 3GS but still... And I naturally have marvellous taste so here is (da da da da daaaa) my list of apps that are splendid for my iBaby. Some free, some paid, I can't remember which. They don't cost much.

Most importantly, games:

Flight Control.
You draw a line on the screen to guide the planes to their runways. Simple but great.

FallDown
Guide a ball down gaps in lines before the screen moves down and squashes the ball. Even simpler, still great.

Everest: The Hidden Expedition
Vague adventure guides you through various screens where you have to find various objects hidden amongst an array of miscellany. Short, but repeatable and enjoyable.

Yahtzee Adventure
Because Yahtzee is possible the greatest game on earth.

Moodpad
Not actually a game, just a thing to draw purdy pics. Mindless timewasting at it's mindleast.


Less important than games, but still important, utility type apps that make life easier:

Sleep Cycle
Put your phone next to you while you sleep and it monitors your movement. The alarm wakes you when you are in a phase of light sleep, which enables you to wake up refreshed. It also shows you a graph of your sleep phases and keeps track of how much sleep you've had. It does seem to work. Many reviews of this state that it can't work if you share a bed but luckily my husband spends little time on the far side of my pillow so it's ok. So far, I have woken easily with the alarm, but have discovered I don't sleep enough (really??!!) and that I have very little deep sleep.

Radio Times
It tells you what's on the TV.

Shopper
Because there's nothing that makes you look quite so much as a tosser as ticking off your shopping on your iPhone. But it works well, useful if you have a rapidly diminishing memory.

Blogpress
Allows blogging for those who are insane and/or who can't use a real computer. Not perfect, but pretty good and as Blogger Does Not Work (very well) via the usual website on iPhone, this is the best alternative to the real thing.

Tweetie
Good for using Twitter. Not that much use for anything else.

iPeriod
Keeps track of psychotic days.

Shazam
Ok, so everyone's already got that, I'm still impressed. Hear song, get told what it is, buy it. Just like that. I love.

Sky Sports Football
Keeps track of husband's psychotic days

Flixster
Surprisingly useful movies app. Facebook makes you get it.

Lego Photo
Turns any photo into a Lego picture. Why would anyone not want that?

The Weather Channel
Because the built in weather app is rubbish.

RAC Traffic
Load it up, tells you what traffic problems are in the area, which is knows via GPS. Brilliant. Some people say it's useless, I propose they get burnt at the stake.

Ikea UK
The entire Ikea catalogue on your phone. Yes. That's it.



Sadly it has been categorically proven that anyone who reviews apps is a moron, therefore I am a moron and all the above should be disregarded.

Seeing clearly

I don't like spectacles. A very small number of people who have huge noses or tiny eyes look much better with specs on. Other people look perfectly nice with specs on, they suit them and have nice enough rest-of-them to allow for the hiding of their eyes.

I am not one of those people. I look and feel yuk with specs on. Some specs are ok, they are relatively discreet and don't take over your head; they can look almost as nice as no specs. These type of specs are not currently fashionable. At all.

Specs in opticians at present are on first glance all pretty much of a muchness. And they all have a big corner on them. They are very much there and they make the place where your eyes are into one big display of Frame. They all look a little Eric Morecombe. While he was brilliant, I have never harboured a desire to look like him.

I discovered a secret last week though. There are specs that have the discreet ok-ness of old stylee specs, but still have the requisite styling to look like they weren't purchased last century. These are the ones that people that still look nice wear. They are not the £59 complete price ones. No. They are the designer ones. The most expensive designer ones.

They don't have a giant corner. They look Nice. They enhance the face instead of uglifying it.

They cost a LOT of money.

I have a pair of £59 complete price specs - the nicest of the whole range - giant corner and all. They were fine when I was a lardy lump and hid behind a huge cloud of hair. Now I have short hair and my face is on display, I have to choose between wearing these and seeing the fine detail of life, or not wearing them and looking relatively ok. Eyesight is not fantastic, but it's just detail. I can legally drive sans specs, but things are a bit soft focus and bland. Contact lenses are out due to having floating retina cells that are more than ready to float off again. Pah.

Solution: squint and see the world in soft focus.

I tried on the really expensive glasses. They do look nice, I want want want them, I want to see properly. But, I have to be bought them due to lack of any money at all. I would be bought them, my husband is not a monster, but I have to demonstrate that I would actually wear them before money will be parted with. I have, I suppose, pout, had a FEW pairs of MOSTLY unworn specs over the years.

So I have to wear the monstrous specs of hideousness.

Don't get me wrong, the look is quite ok. If my hair is done properly, I look sort of trendy and cool; you wouldn't mess with me. It suits the sarcastic element of my personality.

But they don't make me look...erm, er, how to say this without sounding ridiculous... pretty. At all. It's not like I go around normally thinking I'm gorgeous, but it's reassuring to feel a bit nice, get flirted with occasionally, feel feminine. And these specs of doom make me asexual: I don't register on anyone's radar and women are nice to me. My "thing" is my eyes and they are hidden behind frames of gigantic cornerness.

Yes. I am extraordinarily vain. So shoot me.

I hate them. Hate hate hate hate. But I like to see properly and so I need to "earn" nice specs.

Sigh. It's a hard life.

Dangerous topic

I have learned not to ever express any opinion whatsoever on the topic of politics. People never agree, whatever you say, always decide your loyalties lie somewhere iffy and it's all generally more hassle than it's worth.

So. Here goes. Misunderstand at will.

This upcoming election. Where I live, which so happens to be Gordon Brown's constituency, is pretty much Labour's safest seat. So the result here is a given, unless the people that never vote get off their ample posteriors and vote, in which case a glorious victory for Liberal/SNP would knock the world off its axis.

But as to most other places, the dedicated media hatred for Mr Brown would seem to have stamped home a message that it would not be A Good Thing if Labour were to stay in.
Which generally means the other guys get in. The other guys in this case being the Tories and *we* would bag ourselves a Tory government, who would presumably implement Tory policies.

Tory may not all be "Tory", and all Tories don't share the same views (bigoted, in other words) but they're still Tory, so they'll be Tory. No? They're not secretly Tory, they're perfectly willing to admit they're Tory, they are presenting themselves as the Tory Party.

Which all appears to be stating the obvious, and displaying excessive usage of the word "Tory" (Conservative way too long to type 56 times) but to be frank, it's a bit tedious that the shouty types don't occasionally think of the future, rather than shouting a lot about what's in existence, voting it out and shouting equally about its replacement. After the joyous ejection of the current hated ones and the deification of the incomers, the faults of the new guys - generally being what they are and doing what they are expected to do - just goes round and round in one boring circle and the beloved get the blame (for whatever happens at the time that whoever is in charge just bumble their way through) and become the devil's minions.

So, having grown up hearing all the shouty types shouting about the "terrible, terrible, awful pure dead evil" things that the previous Tory government did, it's a bit galling to look forward to the shouty types shouting about how much they hate any future Tory policies that would be unleashed on the public that appear poised to vote them in.

But what do I know? I've never been effectively brainwashed.

Groupiedom

Not for the first time, I have been today referred to as a groupie. (Or posing as a groupie, which is a concept too bizarre to contemplate). This is the first time however that such a reference to myself has not been made by myself. Furthermore bizarrement was the indication that being a groupie was in fact harmless and nice.

Self confessed groupieness stems from a tendency to become obsessive about people to the extent that I talk about little else. People to whom I form a groupie-esque attachment become oracles of all truths. Should a God-of-the-moment (very fickle, me) say something is so, then that is Fact. (Charlie Brooker is my current Oracle). The most potent incidence of groupie-age in myself was an obsession with Bernard Butler, but that can be dismissed as I was pregnant at the time and all women (as well as some canny men) know that hormones can be blamed for EVERYTHING.

So. Casual bandyage (possible question as to the existence of the previous word) of the word "groupie" and the context in which I was (immodestly) called a groupie today would seem to be of the same meaning: ardent admirer.

A consultation with Wiki on the subject yields the following definition:

A groupie is a person who seeks emotional and sexual intimacy with a musician or other celebrity. "Groupie" is derived from group in reference to a musical group, but the word is also used in a more general sense, especially in casual conversation.

Yikes!

There is an overwhelming need to point out that I very rarely veer from casual conversation therefore the general sense is the one being referred to.

********

Readers may correctly deduce that I have no ideas of my own. I thus feel it is only fair to throw a subject out there for others to
steal, should they need to. But being unable to think of ideas, I shall ask me old matey Wiki again...

Nope. Can't even offer a stealable idea. Random does appear to be truly random.

BUT!
I did find a glorious reference to Scotland beating England which is ALWAYS fun.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1928_British_Home_Championship

Stop now.

Mr Men

A renewed love of the Mr Men, totally excluding the Little Misses, coincides with a vicious slur being recommenced over on It Is What It Is. Which I can't properly link to but I'm sure it's mentioned over there on your right.

Anyhoo.

The love, incidentally, does not extend to the rather bizarre Mr Men Show which is presently being shown. Nuh uh. Old school Mr Men all the way. The only benefit of this show is that Mr Men merchandise is available, except they all look wrong.

The Mr Men books are, in short, genius. Long have I adored them and have gifted them to many's a bemused adult. The reaction of the adult to the book cements my opinion of said adult.

The boys (ok, me) had a small collection going until the other day when a windfall, erm, fell.

Untold joy to discover that on that dark, dark day (at the age of 15) when all of my books were given away in error, every last book had not been lost to me forever. Some had survived, and included in this wondrous booty were all of my very own Mr Men books. Only a handful of duplicates and ok, my old books don't say "My Mr Men Library" along the spines if you have them all, but goodness! I had most of them! And now I once more have Mr Slow to ensure my translation of Monsieur Lent isn't too rusty. Sadly there is no English version of Monsieur Non, which is the greatest Mr Men story of them all.

Digress? Moi?

Tonight's bedtime story was the heartening tale of Mr Nosey. One of the green ones, incidentally, if you are interested in such things. Not as funny as others, but still a grand story to read. This copy cost 20p and suggested that if you enjoyed it you might also enjoy one of the other SIX Mr Men titles.

I am so old. Which probably explains why I don't fit into my sons' Mr Tickle costume.



Yes. Mr Tickle. The undisputed leader. Tickle power defeats all.

Meh

There are days when things, people and places are all meh.

This was one of them.

How to lose a kitchen appliance

Dishwasher was *fixed* on Monday. *Fixed* being: it was made to work by tipping some water out. Reason unestablished as to water - no leak found.

Wednesday: dishwasher software crashes at end of cycle. Engineer* called out again.

*Local Scottish Gas Homecare engineer, who comes out for free as part of a seemingly great scheme.
Engineer who has to date:
1) come to test the electrics and fused the fridge.
2) come to fix the fridge and broken the door off.
3) sawed the door in half so we could use the fridge while a new one was ordered. Ummm. Seal?
4) come to fix a leaky washing machine, found nothing and necessitated...
5) come to reattach the belt knocked off the washing machine.

And most recently:
6) not fixed the dishwasher.

So, the joy on seeing him arriving is immense.

Conclusion by him: dishwasher is leaking into base and activating float switch safety cut out.

Conflicting evidence:
The dishwasher isn't leaking.
The software is bonkers and has been iffy for months.

Suggestion by me that it may be software problem.

Ridiculed.

Two hours spent not finding a leak. Much bumbling done. Random parts ordered to fix the leak. The computer is contained in a replaceable unit with a massive crack in it. Replacement would seem rather obvious.

But I'm not a Scottish Gas engineer.

Thankfully.

Donations to the New Dishwasher fund welcome.

Bad programming

While I am quick to wax lyrical about the greatness of children's television, which incidentally was quite definitely NOT better in our day, there are many which cause great upset at their sheer awfulness.

Top of the list: In the Night Garden. Aaaaargh. Babies love this. Preschoolers and parents who have watched it for 4 years don't. They used to. They gradually went off the episodes with headache inducing noise clashes, then got fed up by constant repeats, then got mildly psychotic at the sight of any of it. Trippy, weird and more than immensely annoying, it's on every single day and has totally usurped Teletubbies which is superior in every way. Pah! Babies love it. Merchandise is expansive.

Balamory and Me Too!, which are the same programme with slight differences like the name and location. Intensely annoying and starring simpletons. Garish songs and most annoying of all, a hatable main character. Balamory has the perky and punchable Miss Hoolie; Me Too! has the abominable "come on in Honey Pie" 35 year old Granny Murray. Nauseous doesn't even begin to cover it.

The Wiggles: never have 4 perky Australians been so annoying. And Australian* children's presenters generally do a great line in being annoying and perky while singing twee songs. But the Wiggles do it worst, and add an additional element of campness to complete the joy. The only thing worse than the Wiggles is Barney and, thank the lord, that is not broadcast here.

*they may be Kiwi. While I normally care lots to find out, I can't stomach them long enough to suss the accent, and if I listened too hard I'd start fancying the Wiggles and that would be so so very wrong.

Imagination Movers is a cross between the Wiggles and the Monkees if you remove all elements that were good in the Monkees. I don't know/care what the story is but the gist is 4 men in overalls singing a lot accompanied by an annoying side cast.

Yo Gabba Gabba is what you would get if you took neon pink, green and orange, fed them too much Haribo and made them into a TV programme. Noise! Bright colours! Shouting! Ohmygodwhatisthis?!! It has a very bright! and jolly! man and his made up bright! and jolly! world with bright! and loud! toy things and it's so very bright! and shouty! and wheeeeee!!!!! and it gives you a headache. It is intravenous hyperactivity.

And of course there is the Cartoon Network in its entirety which is just A Noise interspersed with shouty adverts for crap things.

What's the story in Balamory? Nobody gives a toss.

Cheesy tip

The greatest cheese on earth has been discovered. It was previously believed to be, a still strong runner up, creamy gorgonzola, but this new entrant is the true holder of the title.

I give you:

Couer de Lion, Pié d' Angloys.

Which I am informed, and my French confirms (ish) means "feet of the English".

Heaven in a circular box.

It tells me on said circular box:

"Created by Cistercian Monks in the 14th century, Pié d'Angloys is an important part of French gastronomic tradition. Creamy and full bodied with a hint of honey, this unique cheese is a great addition to a cheeseboard or simply served with crusty bread"

Yum. In actual fact it tastes like a most palatable marriage of Brie and Dairylea. Yumptious.

Unlike most champion cheeses, this is not expensive and is available in the supermarket. Huzzah for magnificent cheeses and the discovery thereof!!

Wedding day

Today I attended a wedding. More of a "wedding" to be exact. This was the nursery wedding, for 3 and 4 year olds. Yes, you did read that correctly. One of the bizarrest things ever, but rather handy for boys who have a real wedding next month.

Some of the children were selected, and dressed up, to be the bride, groom, bridesmaids and best man. Very cute, but verrrrrry weird. And off they trooped, including a very small number of parents, to church. The minister explained all the elements of a wedding, without actually doing any of it, or referring to the God chap who is remaining a mystery for now.

And the photographer showed up and spent twice as long as the "ceremony" took taking photos for the local paper. Just like a real wedding!

For those of you who can, see this week's Fife Free Press for photos.

Valentines Day

Awww. Valentines Day is cute.
Valentines day is also a merchandising vomit fest of cutesie ick that costs a small fortune. But that aside, it's nice.

Yes, it is.

For couples, it's an excuse to spoil each other a little and find some couple time. Or just think about love and why you're together.

For singletons: it's an opportunity to tell the one you'd like to be with that you like them without (necessarily) looking like an idiot.

For those uninterested: spend time with other uninterested types and appreciate your mates.

For those really really uninterested: just ignore it, the way the motherless ignore mothers day, the fatherless ignore fathers day and the way non Christians ignore Christmas and Easter.

And everyone can stock up on cheap chocs (and ick) on 15 Feb.

Grrrr

Mightily grumpy.

Dishwasher has died. While this is not an undue disaster given that it is in fact possible to wash dishes by hand, not so true with most other appliances - and Scottish Gas will send their bloke to fix it for nothing - it is still Very Annoying. Not least because washing dishes by hand sort of requires a functioning neck and...

Neck is defunct. Driving to Edinburgh (30 miles away) and back is apparently too much to ask of a neck and mine is back to being useless and very sore, as opposed to very sore and sort of bearable with painkillers. Very Annoyed about this, it is MEANT to be getting BETTER.

Obsessions with Mario get a bit wearing when all waking child hours consist of talking about Nothing Else.

Back to dishwasher... One day it will be jolly pleasant to be in a financial position so as not to always have the cheapest of everything and to keep them all until they have been fixed to death. The thought of buying something new just for the sake of it and not because it's essential and the old one has completely broken is a luxury to be dreamed of.




Yes, I know. Poor me, life's so tough, bla bla bla. Aware of many blessings, doesn't mean things don't annoy.

Humble pie

Oh pah. I was all set to write a vicious rant about She magazine and to dissect one of their articles. Disarmingly, I received a professional and helpful email from the subscriptions manager, and so my displeasure has dissipated. I feel no animosity towards them.

Damned staff of women's magazines being Nice. How am I supposed to write a blog if everything's NICE? Nice is dull.

I have a rant based on the article I was going to dissect but that can wait for another day and be unrelated to She. Sigh.

Feel good and think

Asda have a wheen of books at the moment for £1. A lot of them are actually really good, most of them I have already read (low brow in other words) or own but haven't read (more high brow, and accounting for 99% of my books). But irresistible for merely one hundred pennies.

And so I found myself reading a book entitled "The Self Preservation Society" by Kate Harrison, which I was pleasantly surprised (dreadful cover) to really enjoy.

The protagonist is one Jo Morgan, who leads a very safe life, taking no risks and taking many, many precautions in case of the unthinkable. Until she almost dies in an unlikely accident and begins to realise how much of life she was missing out on by refusing to take any risks in any way.

The story of Jo's healing, and the people in her life helping or adapting to her changing perspectives, is an amusing, poignant and a thoroughly good read. It makes the reader consider their own life and for anyone who may be reluctant to take risks, or who live in fear of perceived risks, would quite possibly benefit from reading this.

Pop to Asda, or ask me for a loan of it if you know where to find me. And if you wait a wee while, I can report back on the second £1 book, The Brown Owl's Guide to Life by the same author.

100k

Today was a momentous day for a particular Vectra.

It got washed by hand for the first time ever. Which was remarkably easy and it turns out it doesn't have to always go to the carwash.

It achieved 100,000 miles, with an unnecessary 10.6 mile round trip to make it so.




I have a love/hate relationship
with this car. It was purchased on the rebound from the best car in the world - a Volvo V40 - and one of the main criteria for choosing it was, erm, the colour. And a fateful gravitation towards Vauxhall of course, my first car being a Corsa and ruining all decent cars for me forever. Clarkson would mock heavily, and yes, I would like his approval for entirely rubbish reasons.

Not my car, but the same:



Things I love about my car:

1) the colour
2) the bigness (except when parking)
3) how good it is to drive
4) it's fairly well specced
5) it's mine

Things I hate about my car:

1) it tried to kill me by skidding horribly - twice
2) it has rubbish seats/headrests which is why I got such bad whiplash
3) the driver's window sticks
4) it rattles rather a lot
5) the brakes never feel like they're working. I would prefer not to have to hold my breath every time I braked.

The hate should outweigh the love, the love is mostly shallow.
Except for "It's good to drive". Really, it's very, very good. Other cars just aren't a driveable. Rattle, squeak, skid, swerve... proper.

Conclusion: I need a new(er) Vauxhall. In Satin Red.

The eyes have it

Day 2 of a 2 day week. Children dispatched to nursery. (Or possibly despatched, confusion reigns). A very short time later, thoughts were being mulled as to what to do. Housework? Watch series 6? Sleep?

Nope. Answer phone, the school number ominously being displayed. Gloopy eye, suspected conjunctivitis, please collect both children immediately and get them to a chemist.

Nooooooooo.

Boots give away free stuff to chiddlers under the minor ailments thing. I registered the boys in 2006 and haven't been back since. Until yesterday, as is the joyous way of life, when I got some cream, and then today. Yes, me again. Different child today! More free stuff please! Ahem.

Eye drops working good, everyone is quite healthy, except for one member of the household who is VERRRRY nervous of eye infections and who therefore has the cleanest hands in Scotland.