I found this in a charity shop today for the vast sum of £2! It’s a mint-condition-never-played-with copy of a Spears game called Misfits. The cards aren’t even separated. Somehow, it has survived intact since 1964!

Not for long! Going to have so much fun playing with this and Bub. I felt I needed to document it though, before I decimate it

Had a bit of a retro toy day today all round. We walked  around  town for about two hours trying to find a snap set (which will double as a memory game for now) in the rain, only to find that the snap cards available in Bury were clarted in Peppa  Pig. Now, whilst I don’t have anything against Peppa, per se, she’s not exactly my favourite fictional character for children. Dull, dull, dull. Also, the cards were enormous! I don’t get this thing about giving kids giant stuff to put  in their tiny hands… I guess it’s to avoid it being a choking hazard, but Bub can barely hold some of the toys she’s given. Anyways, some more searching took us to a really old-school toy shop and lo-and-behold, nursery rhyme snap for 75p! And they’re tiny cards!

She seems to have figured out the yelling and hitting part of snap, but not the bit where the cards have to match and that she shouldn’t look at them as she puts them down. We’ll get there.

In any case, the following article has restored my faith in mankind a little. Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope:

http://jezebel.com/5946643/reddit-users-attempt-to-shame-sikh-woman-get-righteously-schooled

It’s been a long time since he yelled it. In fact, it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten the Danish words he muttered before the tactical switch to English and confrontational squaring of shoulders. I was only just 21 and at 155cm on a good day, he dwarfed me in both age  and size.

He was a lawyer. One of the men appointed by the city to stand up for those who couldn’t afford justice. And he obviously spent too much time at the gym. I was kitchen  staff, working from 5am to 12 noon to pay the bills while my boyfriend finished university. I’d already completed my education by that point and had a good degree – specifically in the language of the country I was living in. I’d applied for all kinds of exciting post-graduate jobs when I arrived – and even a few boring things where the ‘working language’ was English.  But they were always looking for someone more vaguely hand-waving you know. And Danish. Even the jobs which advertised English as the daily business language told me that although my Danish was, “excellent – for a foreigner”, it wasn’t good enough for them. Eventually, I took a temp job washing dishes since it was the only thing I could get.

And don’t get me wrong, I met some really interesting people while I was there. But I also met the lawyer.

There was some kind of function – the firm had ordered my time and a giant pile of food in take-away containers. I warmed it up, set it out and cleared away the plates afterwards. Talking to the receptionist about the leftovers, she mentioned that the usual practice was to send out an email and see if anyone wanted the food that hadn’t been eated. I asked her if she would do the honours since I didn’t have a company computer account and she happily agreed.

For the next hour people trickled down to see me. Most of them were chatty and polite. They wrote their names on container lids and put them back in the fridge to collect at the end of the day. Finally, the Angry Man appeared. He began pawing through what was left, even poking at some things. He eventually started opening claimed trays of food. I intervened.

I was polite, I remember that much – told him that he was looking through what had already been taken. He muttered something, laughed at his hilarious witty remark, then – when I didn’t look to back down – he started with the English and  trying to look intimidating. I stood my ground, more through shock than any kind of design, and I told him – in Danish – that he could take from the pile on the left but to leave the rest alone. The receptionist had stood to watch at this point and having seen her there, he backed down and went back to work. I burst into tears.

The receptionist was kind and made me some tea. She asked where I was from and was genuinely surprised when I said I was British.

“But you should be in an office job,” she said, “You’ve got English as you native language. We all thought you were Polish.”

So it would have been reasonable for him to react like that if I had been brought up in Poland?

I said what I always did, “I wanted to work with Danish. I made the effort to learn the language so I want to use it.”

I went home and told my boyfriend. We decided to move to Britain when he was finished studying.

You see, that wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened. We’d been walking down the street and someone had yelled – in that sarcastic way morons do – ‘where’s your Burka?’ (having dark eyes and dark hair amongst a predominantly blonde population marked me as a devout Muslim, it would seem). And when it was convenient – say, if  I were complaining in a shop when something was faulty – I was repeatedly told that my accent made me impossible to understand, despite the fact I’d had an in depth conversation about the window display with the very same server a few days earlier.

When we came to Britain, I was so proud of the reception my now-husband received. I kid you not, he had work within three days of moving here. People who ask where he’s from have been genuinely interested, or have spoken to him about time they spent in his homeland. One woman at an antique stall even gave him a Royal Copenhagen cake plate because she thought it would be best if it ‘went home’.

Which is why it came as such a shock when something akin to the following appeared on a ‘Mums selling in Bury St Edmunds’ facebook page (why I have a facebook account again is a story for another day):

“Just seen an Eastern European looking guy stroking my cat. Watch out – he left when he realised I was watching. Wearing a black hoodie and jeans.”

The correct spelling is my own embellishment. It was a ‘shared’ message – the woman posting had screenshotted a friend’s status.

I couldn’t help it. I commented. Yes, yes, I know:

But until someone stands up and says something, this is going to go on. These assumptions that we are somehow more entitled to respect as an individual than someone who didn’t happen to be born on our tiny rock of an island… well, they made me cry tonight. And when I spoke out, saying, “I don’t think you can tell where someone comes from by looking at them. His nationality isn’t important anyway. Maybe he left because he was uncomfortable being stared at,” the spate of  responses shocked me.

“Nationality is relevant when the fucking Eastern Europeans are robbing old women and children.”
“My friend called the police on him because he was being suspicious.”
“Them fuckers steal everything.”

All of these comments had ‘likes’.

At that point, I posted the above picture and reported the message – something I’ve never felt the  need to do before.

In response to that first comment theft is not a uniquely Eastern European concept. We were fairly good at it over here even before people began to move en masse.  Even Chaucer  speaks about it happening in Cambridge during the Reeve’s Tale. And some scholars think he stole that story from an Italian work called Decameron. So even old Geoff was at it and he’s about as British as they come.

People are people, wherever they’re from in the world. Humans do human things, like talk to cats and steal stuff. That anyone  can judge someone because they think they look like they’re from a different country is totally beyond any logic I can fathom.

It’s impossible to define a nation with a general sweeping statement. You can’t say that everyone in America likes red, white and blue, nor can you say that everyone in France loves baguettes. Not everyone in Britain likes tea. Yet somehow, some people seem to think that it’s fine to brand not only one country as thieves, but a massive geographical region.

I have only one thing to say to the women who made these slurs, “Go home, you fucking wankers.”*

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*I realise most of them are at home but… I like the whole ‘full circle’ sort of vibe in that sentence.

So, now I need to nominate 15 blogs (or I’ll try to – I don’t read as many as I used to) and then tell you seven things about me that you might not know.

1. http://www.rufflesandstuff.com/ I love this blog. Disney – yep, that’s her real name – has been wonderfully inspiring. Her chic thrifting and positivity are infectious. Even on days where I’m proper tired and down. 

2. http://bionicmamas.com/ I got into this blog at a point in my life that I’ll talk about below. It’s just really nice to watch this family grow and thrive and amazing to be part of the conversations which happen in the comments. I almost feel as though I know the ladies who write it. 

3. http://geekcrafts.com/ Does what it says in the address bar – it’s crafts. For geeks. Love.

4. http://stitchoneknittoo.blogspot.co.uk/ The crafty musings of a very dear lady who has counselled me wisely on many things.

5. http://walking-quite-fast.blogspot.co.uk/ The musings of an Aberdeenshire walker. 

6. http://iusedtobea.blogspot.co.uk/ No longer active, but a wealth of tutorial-y, upcycling-y goodness. 

7. http://inspireimaginationthroughcreation.blogspot.co.uk/ Awesome ideas for pre-school kids.

8. http://craftsmumship.com/ Crafty, cakey and beautiful.

9. http://jamahistory.wordpress.com/ Last, but certainly not least – the blog of the very clever Amelia.  

And, apparently, I don’t read more blogs than that. So, 7 things about me you didn’t know.

1. I was told I couldn’t have children – hence blog 2. I found it while reading about IVF and infertility. I am – needless to say – fine, in actuality. 

2. I have a secret need to be Zoe Bell. Or more specifically, Zoe Bell doubling for Jennifer Hale doing a film of Mass Effect. My obsession with that game is crazy unhealthy.

3. My favourite TV show is Adventure Time. I know it’s a cartoon for 14 year olds, but it cracks me up something rotten. 

4. I was rescued from a castle tower once. No shit. My boyfriend at the time got a ladder and rescued me and M- after we broke a 600 year old key, locking ourselves in. 

5. I don’t like nice chocolate. It’s got to be Cadbury, Milky Way or nothing.

6. I met Roger Clyne and he gave me and M- a bottle of Tequila. I love him even more now. 

7. I don’t like ice cream. 

It’s a bit lumpy. I’m wondering what a trip through the blender would do… Also, this moisturiser is so thick that you can stand things up in it. Like melamine spoons.

If you want to be a cool kid like me and make your own cosmetics, all you need is:

Some beeswax
Oil of your choice (I used rapeseed)
Essential oil (optional)
1 tbsp Glycerin (optional)

Weigh your beeswax. I had 100g, so I used 300g of oil. As long as you keep this ratio, you can make pretty much any quantity you like. Because it was next to me on the side and is good in soap, I threw in some glycerin and it hasn’t seemed to make the world explode so… I guess you could put in some essential oils too if you don’t like smelling of bee. Anyways, you throw everything together in a bain-marie and once the wax has melted, pour the lot into a tub. Mix this as it cools and you should end up with something that looks a bit like mayo.

The ingredients mean that this stuff can double as a non-toxic furniture polish and some sweet-tasting lip balm (the wax makes it taste of honey). So yeah… win.

Asda’s vegetable oil (which is pure rapeseed) costs 13.9p per 100mls, so 41.7p, plus 100g of beeswax pellets costing £2.19 (99p plus £1.20 p&p from ebay) makes this whole lot £2.61. For 400g of hand cream, that’s pretty bargainous when you consider that Asda Hand and Nail cream is £1.07 per 100mls.

Only what actually happened was that I acquired more hoodies. And I don’t know how I do it. I don’t go out intending to buy them – no one ever heads into town with the thought, “I really fancy treating myself to a brand new top that’ll make me look like I haven’t done any washing and am still in my pajamas ” Still, here we are, nearly two years since we moved, and my cupboard is bursting with the things. Coupled with the myriad of grotty teenage monstrosities lurking in the loft, I decided something had to be done.

So, without further ado, here is how to turn unused hoodies into baby trousers – and all you need to do is sew two seams!

Step 1. Find a hoodie.

Step 2:  Fold the hoodie in half so that the sleeves are on top of each other.

Step 3:  Draw around a pair of trousers which fit your child.

Step 4: Cut the shape out.

Step 5: Figure out where your seams are going to be.

Step 6: Sew the crotch seam.

Step 7: Measure your elastic (I pulled the elastic tight on the model trousers and cut the same length for mine).

Step 8: Sew your elastic in. (Other people can tell you how to do this in a professional way - I can not).

Step 9: Do this for as many hoodies as you have.

Step 10: Allow your toddler to adorn herself in her new finery. Inevitably, some will end up as a hat.

Awesome.

Or at least it would be if I didn’t HATE MY FREAKIN’ MAIN CHARACTER.

Seriously. If I could kill the bitch now, I totally would. I don’t get her. I don’t even want to get her. I just want to kill her off and be done with all of the whining back story that comes with her.

Damn plot-device of a woman!

I know some of you who read this are also writers – what do you do when this happens? I say when this happens, presuming this happens to other people. It’s a fairly common theme when I write. I start off totally in love with a girl, thinking she’s going the be the single most awesome protagonist since Femshep, or Faith from Buffy or… or… hell, at this point, I’d settle for the girl from Bulletstorm (whose name I can’t even remember and who is only awesome because she’s voiced by Jennifer Hale). In the end, they all come out of the same cookie-cutter mould and I waste my time typing about a soft, mewling creature I wouldn’t pour hydrochloric acid on if she was on fire. Oh yeah, we’re long past the point of piss here. And yes, hydrochloric acid is flammable but the sheer effort involved in picking up the bottle, unscrewing the cap, tilting the bottle… Who even cares? I can’t even be bothered finishing the damn sentence.

Point is. Fuck her.

So I’m stuck. I have an amazing tale I want to tell and some wonderful people I want to talk about, but in order for any of it to happen, I need this girl to be there. I don’t want to go back to the start quite yet because when the editing begins, the story-telling stops and then I end up – like I have so many times before – with a half-finished pile of wank. Which for some reason is worse than ploughing more hours of my life into writing about someone I hate.

Urgh. Rant over.

You know what else really bugs me about her? Aside from the fact that I hate her – because feeling any emotion for a fictional character is good, right? – its that she’s so non-descript I don’t have any right to hate her. She is as devoid of meaningful personality as my Tupperware boxes. You know what? Even the Tupperware has been with me long enough for me to care more about it than her. Even the lint from the dryer has more meaning to it in that it used to be my favourite clothes. Even the child’s nappy leavings are preferable since they came from my child.

And I’m still here ranting.  I am using my evening – time in which I could be drinking – going on and on about how much I can’t stand her because my husband is so sick of hearing about it.

I really am done now. I promise.

If y’all care, I can post a tutorial about how to make cot duvet covers out of single bed sheets by sewing only 2 lines?

In my defense, I have been slowly going through my yarn stash as I crochet dishcloths and get involved in craft swaps, but for the most part, it’s been a bit of a struggle not to replenish what I’m using as I go. My natural inclination is to finish something up and go shopping for new supplies, so revisiting stuff I started ages ago is proving a challenge.

That said, it’s actually been really nice to get around to doing some of the things I promised myself I’d have a go at. I’m nearly finished the amazing First Law trilogy by Joe Abercrombie (despite having started reading it last year on the rail trip I took round Europe), and I’m  - very slowly – getting through my back-catalogue of stuff that was free on the PSN. I have also managed to get my current story to just past the 62000 word mark, so I’m absolutely thrilled with how that’s going and to try and keep me focused on it, I’ve been neglecting my beloved console a bit (also, I’m trying to forget all the Mass Effect I’ve played so that it’ll be new to me next time ).  And in craft news, I’m about a quarter of the way through two Christmas presents, half way through a cardigan for Bub and have just finished some storage bags for the backs of my dining chairs (which I’ll take pictures of tomorrow if someone reminds me to). I have some tutorial shots of how to change a single bed cover into cot sheets which I’ll post if anyone is interested too, as I’ve been doing a lot of that of late. *

Speaking of the child, she is going through something of an epic growth spurt just now so I’ve organised a clothes swapping session with some local ladies in the hopes that we’ll all end up with some nice new togs for our Littles, but I’ve never done anything even remotely like this before so we’ll see how it goes. The idea is that everyone brings the clothes they don’t want, swaps them for the clothes they do, eats a pile of cake and then goes home again. For those coming without any clothes to exchange, there’ll be a pot for donations and any money can be passed on to an elected charity. Sounds awesome in theory but chances are I’ll somehow make a total boob of myself

At the end of the day though, I’ve been buying second hand for years and doing that isn’t so much of a problem. I know that I should purchase used instead of new – the issue is that I’m purchasing things that I don’t even need. Take liquid soap for example – I’ve been buying that in despite having loads of bars of the stuff. All it took was a quick google search to find a recipe for turning soap bars into liquid soap and twenty minutes to actually make the gloop. Yet for some reason, I’d never thought to do this before.

My spending at the supermarket is also a personal bone of contention, so I resolved to try and stick to seasonal, British goods a bit more.   When I started this endeavour,  I really wanted to get the Tregothan tea that’s grown in Cornwall as it is by far the most local brew available, but I just can not afford it. I get that it’s more ethically sound and there’s only a tiny plantation worth of tea for each flush but… I think it’s priced itself out of the market for most consumers. So I settled on a local purveyor of teas called Butterworth & Son, who make the best hard water tea I have ever tried, so it’s not all bad.

And in amongst all this seemingly great saving? I spent £90 on a second hand Tula baby carrier, despite not selling one of the two slings it was supposed to be replacing. We’ve recarpeted both bedrooms in the house (with 100% wool, British carpets, mind you), and I smashed the front door so need to pay to have that one fixed.

My point is, there are many good things about living this way, but there are also many bad things. Namely, the lack of DLC I have for my favourite games and the fact my hair remains its natural colour.

_____

*Charity shops are full of single duvet covers. Why do they never have anything for cots?

Went to meet up with Mum and Dad in Darlington last weekend and handed over the keys to my beloved Charlie Micra. It’s been a week since I last drove him and it still feels weird.

It’s unexpected things I’m missing, mostly. I used to drive a 1 litre Polo – back in the day – so returning to a VW has been fairly natural, especially as S-’s car is simply the evolved version of my first set of wheels. I knew that whilst the turbo on his 1.4L diesel would make motorway driving/overtaking a whole lot easier, I was also prepared for the fact that from a standing start, I wouldn’t be able to go half the nipping into gaps I was used to doing in my Nissan. But as I said – I knew that I was going to have to change how I drive.

I didn’t realise that I would miss coming home to there being another car on the drive – a cheery signal that someone else was home and the kettle might well be on*. I also miss being able to spot my car from a mile off in the car park. I never thought that Coral Blue was too outlandish a colour until I started trying to pick out dark blue/green. I’d never even clocked that pretty much every other car on the road in Britain today is either grey, shiny grey (silver), black or dark blue.  Some very brave people drive white, or wine-bed cars, but none of them live in Bury and so I can’t use their outlandish vehicles as landmarks in the the short-stay carpark. Blasted conservative sort of town!** When I do come to own a vehicle again, some time in the future, it will either be a DeLorean or bright yellow.

I’m also missing the lack of meticulous planning I had to do whenever I left the house. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve only ever had to plan one drop off/collection so far, but that was more than my sleep-deprived brain could really handle. And I’m not looking forward to remembering to use the black pump when I go to fill up. A lifetime of glorious green will make the first few refuellings most confusing indeed.

But enough – I do like the Polo a great deal. She and I should get along well enough. Besides, no VW has ever done me wrong before.

I managed to get out in the garden today and after having a good think about what I want to plant, bought a load of weird sounding vegetable seeds from The Real Seed Catalogue. My theory in buying yellow beetroot and purple carrots is that I can get normal food anywhere. And as they say on the site, it’s important to preserve non-commercial varieties otherwise we’re going to lose them forever. These guys also tell you how to collect your seeds, meaning that I should have purple carrots, blue squashes and yellow beetroots forever! Hooray!

I’m planning on trying to freecycle a biggish tub/trough/old bath/whatever to fill with lettuce and/or strawberries on the patio. I’ve already been given lots of little pots which I intend to use for some tomato plants and to start things off on the window sill in the kitchen. The rhubarb and most of the herbs looked to have survived the snow, so that’s a start too. Now I’m on the hunt still for some interesting berry bushes and rarer herbs like borage, feverfew and root parsley.

Getting increasingly good at not buying things while I’m out, and am selling off bits and bobs we don’t need any more (or donating them to charity shops or the women’s shelter). What I’m still struggling with is eating lunch out. There are some awesomely delicious places to eat in Bury and it’s getting even harder now I’m on first name terms with the German sausage lady at the market…

NB: Homemade butter? Totally not worth the effort. Mine went off really quickly and took forever to do. AND S- preferred the taste of Sainsbury’s basics.

__

*Admittedly, 9 times out of 10, the rest of my household were in the car with me but seeing that happy blue bodywork shining (or not) on the driveway was a nice welcome back.

**I kid. I love Bury. It’s wonderfully fruity – just apparently not in the car department.

I’ve started making a reusable shopping bag from the stack of flimsy plastic ones everyone seems to accrue – where would I be without that crochet course?! – and I’ve made a list of all the food in my cupboard in an effort to eat what I have before buying more. Cue a few weeks of really odd meals! I’ve also started making a Vinegar Mother so that in future and wine that doesn’t get drunk (ha!) can be made into pickling vinegar. I also made my first sauerkraut from cabbage leftovers I would usually throw out, so a win there! All it takes is some salt and a jar – will definitely be doing that again in future, hopefully with my own cabbages. Despite saying I wasn’t going to branch into homemade dairy, I am now a convert to making my own yogurt (recipe courtesy of my crafty friend from Holland).  I am also – in bursts between typing – shaking some cream I found in my fridge in an attempt at butter… who needs a gym?

I did have to buy new underwear this month. Despite the champion item of my wardrobe being 17 years old* I decided that 7 years with a 1 year gap for pregnancy & feeding was probably pushing it for my 5 Euro H&M sale bra… What can I say – I’ve always hated shopping for clothes. I stuck to my plan though, buying from a local boutique and can honestly say I’m never looking back. I spent far more than I ever would have in cheapy chain stores, but my back feels miles better already and I’ve come away with clothing that I love and which was checked to fit me right. Plus, the ancient, grotty thing I had been wearing went into the shop’s bra bin, in aid of various good causes. So another plus there.

I’m also getting to grips with the idea of maintaining a good garden this year. I always plant things, but very rarely do I maintain to a decent standard. Fruit bushes have been kind to me in the past – especially strawberries – but I plan to plant some heritage seeds which I’ve ordered. I have a crafty plan for how to organise myself, but will reveal in due course…

I will be saying goodbye to the car on Saturday morning… looking forward to a last blast up the road blaring Florence but I reckon Sunday I will be a total state. Wish me luck!

____

*I still have a shirt I owned when I was 10. And my Doc Marten’s from when I was 13. I wear both regularly. The shirt has even been around long enough to look kind of stylish again!